Super Happy Fun Time Awesome

It Has Been Some Time

2009-04-08T10:36:00.004-05:00

It was not since January that I last wrote in this little box on the internet. It is no longer January; in fact, it is a few months beyond. Are you, the theoretical reader, interested in what has been going on in my intrepid little life? What have I been doing to wile away the precious hours of my ever-dwindling youth? It must be something incredibly exciting and resplendent to occupy my time such that I do not update this oft-abandoned blog, right?

I don't know. Maybe. I've been kind of unemployed, which means that I sit around the house looking for work and distract myself with the glittering pixels of television shows and the abundant flesh of internet pornography. By "kind of unemployed", I mean that while I don't have a job in the strictest sense, I am keeping busy and making money, of a sort. You know, sort of kind of a little maybe. There are a lot of research studies around these parts looking for candidates that fit my description: Young, healthy bored people with flexible schedules and a lack of prescription drug addictions. Basically, I get paid to take little white pills whose names are not revealed and then fill out papers which rank my anxiousness with a number between 1 and 10. Currently I am ensconced in the unemployed male fantasy job: As part of an alcohol study, I essentially drink beer for money. Why, just this Monday I sat in a room alone with beer, chips, a sandwich and a VHS copy of Jurassic Park. I wasn't sure what to do with myself afterward; usually I drink beer and watch movies from 1993 after work rather than during. I'm not entirely sure what the scientific reasoning for boozing me up in a laboratory where piles of entertainment magazines spill off of every table like ambrosia in heaven, but I can't question the methods of people who work at a place where ID cards are required to use the elevator.

Drinking has never seemed so official. Each day I have to mark down how much I drank, prompting a quick double take and fleeting moments of self-evaluation. Then every other week I am required to show up for an "alcohol session", wherein I basically drink some more. I think observations are made by smart people. Prior to the drinking, I have to smell glasses of beer and water and write down things about how I feel about this. Then I chug and eat a sandwich and watch a movie while I sober up. Science.

In addition to this, I've done a study where I had to get an MRI while hopped up on amphetamines, looking at pictures of kittens, tanks and scowling elderly gentlemen and expressing my feelings about them. Also, I had to play a simple game in which I blew up a balloon filled with money. The bigger I pumped it up, the more money I got (real actual money!), but if it got to big it would blow up and I would get nothing. Not to be immodest, but I kicked ass at this portion and cleaned up. It felt like my much-practiced Sega Genesis skills were actually coming in handy, after years of entirely wasted expertise. A couple of "How are you feeling at this exact moment, smily face or frowny face" forms filled out later and I had a few hondo slapped into my palm.

Yes, I went to college.

Hooplah and Heresy

2009-01-21T12:42:00.002-06:00

I am all up and graduated from a respectable institution. You may not realize this from the way that I have introduced this post, but I am now smart and have a piece of paper saying I will be mailed another piece of paper which says so (once I pay them their moneys). I graduated with an English major and I swear to you I can write better than what you've just seen. This is an informal representation of my untold mastery of the English language, one whose audience is not concerned with trivial things such as semi-colons nor asterisks. I am now in Providence, Rhode Island, living with my lady and looking for something to stave off starvation, if only for a little while.

Jobs are hard. Jobs are things you don't want to have and certainly don't want to look for. Jobs give you money in exchange for hurting you over and over again with kicks to the teeth and stomach. Jobs don't come up to you and go "Hey!", you have to go up to them and say "Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!" until they turn around, look you up and down, and walk away, at which point you have to hang onto the bumper of their car as they drive off, then you have to break into their window at night and inform them what is what. Not having a job allows me to come up with ridiculous sentences like the one you have just read. I'm not sure that not having a job is a good idea, because these kinds of sentences are terrible and harmful and we all hate them. I need to write sentences about other, more important things, like black presidents and why a band is not as good as they used to be. These are the sorts of sentences which make money, but as stated before, you can't just write them and hope someone throws some nickels at you. You have to be employed to write these sentences, which involves a big man with lots of money and two cigars dangling from his disheveled teeth who doles out checks saying something like "Boffo is kicks!" and giving a big thumbs up. Only then is what you write deemed worthy of money. Then you get employed. Employment is very important because it tells people around you that you have things to do and that you can afford to buy sandwiches. Until you become employed, you are unemployed. When you are unemployed, being on the internet or taking a nap are not acceptable because you have made no money nor collected any stories of idiots you met during the day. Without money or idiot stories, you have no licence to write silly sentences on the internet; you need to write important sentences with carefully chosen font sizes and they must be sent to people who could give you money if they wanted to. They never do.

Today is the first day of my post-graduation job hunt. I have experience in writing for actual things now, which I hope will help me find something nice and bullshitty, but I also have experience cramming bagels with awful things, which could help me find something where I have to wash my hands a lot. Providence has the worst unemployment rate in the country right now, which makes it difficult to find a word which equally expresses my combating feelings of sarcastic optimism and impending doom. I've heard all this talk about recession this and large corporation has to close all operations and fire 20 million people that and et cetera, and I can't help but let that make me feel a little nervous. I've already lost a gig due to the economy, unceremoniously cast aside like some boot at the end of a fishing line. Getting another gig may prove to be tricky. I will keep my head up, I suppose.

To get to Providence from Minnesota, my girlfriend and I took the train for two days. We were in DC briefly, standing in an ill-formed line with too many coats on for a few hours. We were unable to catch any of the inauguration or the following festivities, and instead experienced the joy that is barely-mitigated chaos in a major transit center. The train was mostly quite enjoyable, as I was expected to do nothing other than sit there and look out the window and eat on occasion, like a cat, if asked what its favorite activities were. I have had a rather hectic winter break and it is nice to do nothing once in a while.

The spell checker wants me to capitalize the word "internet". I refuse.

Smurfy Brown

2008-12-16T10:14:00.002-06:00

Sorry I haven't been writing in this thing. This little box begs for letters to be in it, I often don't comply with its wishes. But I have had many other boxes to fill with letters, so you, the non-existent backtalker in my head who I assume sits out there and yells every day that I don't update, you need to cut me some slack because I've been too busy to write for something that doesn't either provide me with earnings or work me further towards a piece of paper with the word "EDU-CATED" in crass sparkly gold letters. Besides, do I even have any readers anymore? I seem to scare them all away whenever I don't write anything. I guess my mom and grandpa read me for a while, which is great. Hi guys! We sure ate some turkey on Thanksgiving, huh? But they're not really my target audience here. I never really had a target audience, which actually was great because I could write about poop and some new clever euphemism for breasts I had come up with. Now I feel I have to watch my language, as I'll run into my mom later and she'll say something about that dirty word I wrote and I'll feel embarrassed. "I am disappointed in you, son. We didn't send you through college so you could use your English degree to bring more filth into this hellbound America!" Shame will fill me then and I will have no options but to break down and cry for the awful sins of language I've committed.

But I really like to commit those sins. I used to feel like I could write any old stupid shit in this little blog because no one read it and no one cared. The whole advantage to this is the fact that I could write without having a grade or a boss to tell me it was not kosher. Bah.

I started this blog about four and a half years ago, basically right when I started college. Tonight I have my final final of my final year, meaning by 6 PM tonight I will no longer be in college. Holy Christ Crap, I will be out of college. That's sort of a weird thing to try to wrap my mind around. This blog which was birthed from school-related boredom began to shape in the continuing years of homework avoidance. What'll it be without that influence? Will I begin tailoring it to whoever's reading, like I sort of already have (you'll notice few mentions of chronic masturbation so far... Has Jack gone soft, or at least part of him?)? Will I stop doing it altogether? There've been numerous points in this blog's history where I simply abandoned it for far longer than I ought to have. As soon as I started to get people reading, I said "flargbargulous" and forgot to do anything about it until the point where I started to feel guilty. All the readers disappeared, as they seem to have now.

Who gives a shit where this blog will go? I never had an end goal with it; this was not some writing sample I could show to employers. It'll probably just float around for a while and be here for whenever I feel like posting something. Audience is irrelevant anyway. This isn't a blog for the people, its for me. If people want to read it, they can, but mostly, I have it for the joy of writing it. And in that sense I don't need to update all the time. I can write whenever I feel like writing, dammit. That's the beauty of it. I'm half-heartedly trying to convince my friend to get a blog, as he's been wanting to do more writing. He's coming at it with the same stance I did initially, which is that blogs are stupid because blogs are stupid. Rational reasoning need not apply here, its a blog and it is something new and trendy and houses lots of writings from people who pretend they're cats who can type and therefore should be scorned outright. My perception has changed quite a bit. A blog is just a place for you to write, something to get you to actually sit down and put some words down. I can honestly say that having this blog has improved my writing, in that it actually got me interested in doing it. Until I got this blog, I only really wrote for school. I never really realized that I enjoyed the act of writing until this blog got me to do it a lot more. When I came at writing from a more personal level and without any real purpose, it began to dawn on me that the act itself is something that I actually liked. Spending so much time writing in this fashion got me interested in writing period, and since then I've expanded that into journalism and rapping. I believe my friend could benefit from one of these in the same way I have, except for the fact that he's a little stubborn bitch-turd who thinks coming off as some sort of cranky anti-modernist Luddite somehow gives him distinction from everyone else. (yeah, i said it, come get me) I'm attempting to move away from that rather adolescent ahem ahem mindset towards one that sees things as they are despite their connections. Having a blog has been helpful to me, I think it could be helpful to him.

This is not to say I'm all on Blogger's dick and shit now, no sir. There is still plenty of unnecessary and idiotic things associated with this little slice of internet bullshit. But in the end, its gotten me to write and that has been nothing but a benefit for me.

BOOBS FART

Yay

2008-11-05T20:12:00.002-06:00

After hearing McCain's concession speech last night, I could be sure that Obama had won the election. I was quite impressed with McCain's speech, which highlighted the historical importance of Obama's win as well as encouraged his supporters to get behind the new president and work together for change. To which everyone in his audience booed.

This made me sick. The man just lost an election and is trying to go out with some class, and you fucking boo the name of his opponent. There was disgusting negativity coming from that crowd, on the same level as when Sarah Palin called Obama out as a "community organizer". McCain urged for them to not boo, clearly uncomfortable with their reaction. I respect McCain for going out like this, gracefully and with no ill will toward his opponent. But I could feel the disrespect from his audience, whether or not he spurned it. I know McCain was displeased with his supporter's reactions, but, quite frankly, his campaign created this monster. The low tactics perpetrated by McCain and the republican party during this election were dispicable and specifically appealed to peoples fear and hatred. McCain ran on name calling, accusations, distractions and untruths. He instilled the venomous attitudes into his supporters, drumming up the us vs. them, red state vs. blue state, "real American" vs. "socialist/terrorist" rhetoric that will continue to follow him well beyond this election.

I voted for Obama. Never before have I seen the kind of excitement people have for our next president, and it's a real inspiration. I think he can do some real good for this country. Some of my steadfast contrarian friends remain skeptical. I don't blame them. Politics have been pretty disheartening over the past eight years, basically the entire part of my life where I have been actively concerned with politics. Everyone was feeling cynical and apathetic, myself among them. Part of me still feels that way. But I can't help but look upon Obama with genuine promise. The support for Obama has been astounding, and the reactions to his win have been overwhelmingly positive. I can't ignore the spirit that surrounds him and I can't help but feel optimistic about it.

I have been a cynical person most of my life, and I am trying my best to combat that. I know full well that Obama is not the messiah and that he is not going to be all that people expect from him. But, even if nothing else, Obama ran a great, positive and respectful campaign. His rhetoric of breaking down perceived barriers between the people in our nation is really something we needed to see said on this scale. Politics is so tied to fear and division that the people of this country have been at each other's throats throughout the Bush presidency. The Obama message is one I get behind wholeheartedly. The idea of human connection and concerns for the nation as one is a message we've needed. I refuse to fall into cynicism now, at a time when I actually feel some tinge of what has so often bandied about, hope.

Politics

2008-11-04T16:33:00.003-06:00

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Politics.

Dirty Words

2008-10-27T15:37:00.002-05:00

When I saw a video where a supporter carries a sign at a McCain rally comparing Obama to Charles Manson, I had to pause. It reminded me o how offended I was when Sarah Palin turned the term "community organizer" into an insult at the Republican National Convention. As she called Obama out as someone who attempt to make a positive difference in the community, the audience laughed and ridiculed him. Since then, McCain supporters have used "community organizer" as a dirty word. This technique of redefining the terms associated with your opponent and spinning them as insults is a continuing tradition among the ignorant and spiteful. McCain's and other right-wing individual's accusations of Obama's connection to "terrorism", "socialism", "wealth distribution", "anti-Americanism" are an attempt to hijack language for their own purposes.

In the era of Senator McCarthy's red scare witch hunt, the word "communist" was bandied about in an attempt to weed out the enemy within. Today, "terrorist" has replaced "communist" as the term which inspires fear in society. Right wing pundits attempt to add new words to this dirty word lexicon, including "socialist", "earmarker", and now "community organizer". Socialism as a political ideology is never actually discussed when they use the term, it is simply utilized as a smear. Obviously, socialism is evil and if you're a "socialist", you must be evil as well. Sarah Palin differentiates "real America" and, I guess, fake America? Michelle Bachmann calls for a investigation as to those in the US Senate who harbor "anti-American" sentiments. These terms are thrown around to drum up support or disdain in their strict good vs. evil dichotomy. No rational arguments are made, the words simply exist to taint those they are connected with. New words are tainted with these smear tactics all the time. Language is a powerful tool in controlling peoples perceptions.

I've met a number of women who hold feminist philosophies and attempt to promote feminist ideology, but they make sure to preface any statements made with "I'm not a feminist". Why is there this concern surrounding being a feminist? Feminism is, as the bumper sticker puts it so precisely, the radical notion that women are people. Feminism is not some crazy fringe anti-male movement, as many seem to think. It simply demands a respect for and equal recognition of women. Rush Limbaugh did some severe damage to the public perception of feminism by terming feminists "femi-nazis", hiding his hatred of women by blaming the victims. This reterming has caused many would-be feminists to avoid the label, afraid of seeming like the man-hating female fascists that don't actually exist. It's a shame that people buy into the rantings of Rush and others; I say people should be proud of their feminism and not allow Rush to steal the word away from who it truly belongs to.

Why do republicans flip their shit at the idea of "wealth distribution"? Because McCain likens it to robbery. Obama is going to steal money from your wallet and give it a deadbeat. Why is "community organizing" a joke at the RNC? Because the core of the republican ideology is individualistic, unconcerned with others and focused on self-interest. "Community" means "socialism", people sharing and helping out one another. How terrible!

Don't buy into this hijacking of language. Don't accept the definitions invented by those trying to appropiate labels for their own devices.

I Think I Have A Problem, Again

2008-10-17T15:49:00.003-05:00

Damn television. Now that I am at my parents house again, I find myself watching television on a regular basis once more, and it pains me. There really is nothing on television that's worth even turning it on, and yet I do. TV is a drug. It's much worse than any other drug available: It is easily accessible to everyone, it takes no effort to use, it is always available, and it is unrelentingly captivating. But, like other drugs, it at least gives me something to ponder. Here are my worthless opinions on the following strands of this drug I've been taking lately:

MALCOM IN THE MIDDLE

In a perfect world, Malcom in the Middle would be merely mediocre. The show is moderately funny, with manic performances and writing decent enough to continue watching. But it just doesn't strike me as brilliant or amazing, at least on its own. In comparison to other family sitcoms, however, this is Citizen god damn Kane. Certain elements can be hilarious, and when compared to other shows where I don't laugh once, Malcom in the Middle is automatically a classic. I guess.

FAMILY GUY

Why, Family Guy? Why you gotta? This show is not like other shows that aren't funny. Most bad TV shows are harmless, floating awash in a sea of shit but never actually making any difference here or there. Family Guy, however, has changed the course of television comedy, and a lot of comedy in general, and for the worse. You see Family Guy inspiration in a lot of terrible shows, and the climate of TV comedy is at one of the lowest points its ever been. Watching it hurts. It's not just "Oh, that wasn't really funny", it's "Wow, they took some real time and effort to make that not funny". Family Guy's rampant and near-disease-like use of pop culture references is so grating and lazy, and has inspired filth like "Epic Movie", comedy that thinks a reference in-and-of-itself is funny. So many jokes are not nearly worth their setup: There's a bit where Stewie is the King in Mr. Roger's Neighborhood of Make-Believe, and he makes a crack about how he must be in Mexico because the castle is right next to the trainyard. That's it. That's the joke that they bothered to film, rather than animate, with live-action puppets and scenery. The joke is throwawy at best, but took someone an awful lot of work to pull off just so Seth McFarlene can say that Mexico is poorer than the United States. The show winds up being a string of non-sequiturs, thrown out by Seth as he might at a party, then diligently animated by a team of workers who work a million times harder than the piss-poor writers. The format of using near-constant cutaways and pop culture references (which was directly stolen from The Simpsons, who incorporated these techniques into actual character development and plot lines) completely eliminates any semblance of story or connection to the characters, and the show suffers considerably. It's like watching a series of YouTube videos back to back: Hey! It's the theme song from some old 80's show! Ha ha! Hey, there's a guy getting kicked in the nuts again and again! Ha ha! It's joke after joke, but so many of the jokes take way too long to get across. I know Family Guy relies heavily on the "What The Fuck Factor" (the sole comedic element many of Adult Swim's shows), and often throws you curveballs with random events and overlong songs, but so many of these strike me more as time-wasters than legitimate comedic devices. When Peter clutches his leg and goes "Aaaaah!" for what feels like ten minutes, a show like South Park would have fit in ten or fifteen jokes instead of that single joke, which is only funny in the sense that you're confused as to why it's there. Once you're hit by the WTF Factor more than once, it becomes not so much funny as it is tiring. Also, the show relies very heavily on easy gags, like crazy characters who yell a lot in place of something clever. The writers really seem lazy to me, and often place some wacky character into a situation where better shows would put a legit joke.

Here's the abstract for all those with no attention span: Fuck Family Guy.

THE SIMPSONS

I am a long-time Simpsons fan, and so I shall remain until the day I die. At it's core period (Seasons 2-9, if anyone's counting), this is the most brilliant thing television has ever produced. The Simpsons has influenced so much of comedy and it is consistently hilarious at every viewing. It is the rare show that gets funnier and funnier the more you see it. Of course, after the big change-up of writersaround the 10th season, there became a difference between the Simpsons on TV and the Simpsons I refer to when I say I love the Simpsons. When I say that, I'm basically disregarding anything after the 9th season (with the exception of a few smatterings of quality), and other Simpsons fans recognize what I mean. There seems to be a pretty general consensus on where the run of the never-ending show's good times end.

But! The Simpsons Movie was fantastic. Yes, it was heralded by most of the original writers, but it inspired me to start watching the show again. I have come to a revelation: The Simpsons is good. It seems to me the show is in a third era, no longer in the good nor the post-good, but a an interesting subsequent period that is not as good as it ought to be but not as bad as you think it is. This designation may just be inspired by watching Family Guy in such close conjunction, but The Simpsons as it stands today really is an interesting bit of comedy in the bloated world of bland and craptacular television. It's humor is kind of surreal at times: It can be unorthodox without relying on the WTF factor, and tries decently hard to come up with some clever lines and situations. Cleverness is the key: So many shows can be funny, but what makes a show worth remembering is if its clever. The Simpsons, as it stands now, remains one of the only clever shows on television. It's still pretty hit and miss, but at least it has some hits. There was a time when I had abandoned this show, as many fans have. If you've turned your back on The Simpsons, give it another try. If you're in the right mood and you catch it on the right day, you just might find yourself laughing histarically despite yourself.

EVERYBODY LOVES RAYMOND

Okay, we all know this show sucks. But here is specifically why it sucks: Every episode of the show is exactly the same. There's some problem, the family finds out about it, they get neurotic and yell a lot. Roll credits. Every episode is a different problem, but it winds up the same exact way every time. The family is nuts and I guess we're supposed to think that's funny. More lazy writing. I'm sure every script is just "[something happens]; Ray's wife finds out; Wife: 'You idiot! You're a terrible husband!'; Ray: 'Well you don't let me have sex with you very much'; Ray's mother: 'I want to be involved!'; Ray's dad: 'Pork!'; Ray's brother: 'Here we go again'; [resolution]" Yes, it was a waste of time to discover why this show is awful, but there it is anyway.

Um, that is all.

Vice Versa

2008-10-11T14:57:00.001-05:00

The following is a fictional essay I turned in for class. It is bad. Enjoy it.
------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mel was currently on his third day without sleep. He was by no means an insomniac; no, he tried very hard to get to this point. Initially, not sleeping was a simple byproduct of Mel’s depression. He had just had a difficult breakup with his girlfriend, who left him rather unsubtly by engaging in phone sex with someone else in front of him during a night out at Denny‘s. Crushed, Mel sought solace in his best friend Andrew, who it turned out had left town with Mel’s checkbook and social security number, having used these years of trust to con him out of his money. Further crushed, Mel made his way to his parents house, who were each found dead in their armchairs watching The Price Is Right. Mel has been in their house ever since, unsure of where to go next and fearful he might bring further poor luck wherever he goes. Stationary in his parent’s house, Mel found it difficult to sleep most nights. Somewhere along the line, he decided he was going to simply forgo sleep from then on. How he came to this decision is not clear: He attempted to convince himself it was to give himself time to get his life together, to get over his loss, and to be productive for his future, but all this went out the window when he found himself listening to Bob Barker decry animals with genitals day in and day out. His motives no longer seemed to matter anyway. It was now his mission to remain awake, and that was simply that.
So here Mel was on his third day without sleeping. He drank far too much coffee and spent too many hours staring at the television. Or, to look at it another way, Mel gave his life a new direction by reconfiguring his dietary intake and gave his life focus by finding something to hold his attention. He had changed his thought process so that everything he did could be easily justified with a few simple vocabulary adjustments. He was starting to feel somewhat positive, actually. This is why I am doing this, he thought to himself. I need a change in my life, and any sort of change is invariably a good one. But when his hand began to shake uncontrollably, he struggled with a way to put a good spin on it. Equally difficult was making it seem like his sudden blurry vision and nausea were good things. And, as the room began to slowly spin around him, he no longer even made attempts at putting positive spins on anything because any more spinning and he would have thrown up. His head was swimming. His eyes began to feel like they were bleeding. He convulsed uncontrollably and finally collapsed onto the ground.
“Hey. Get up,”
“What?” Mel replied to the unknown voice. “Who said that?”
“If you want to get technical, you said that,” said the lamp. “I’m just a voice in your head, manifesting itself as a lamp. But let’s not get technical. My name is T. Lamp,”
“T. Lamp?”
“Yeah. The Lamp. I’m your lamp,”
“Huh. Tell me again why you’ve decided to start talking to me?”
“You’re hallucinating. It’s no big deal. This isn’t actually happening anyway, but for the time being, your lamp is talking to you,” said T. Lamp. Mel felt a bit confused. “You’re starting to feel the ill effects of sleep deprivation, Mel. It’s not terribly healthy to go without sleep,”
“Okay,” Mel timidly responded. His lamp had never really been so forward with him. Usually it was just on or off, depending on how Mel had configured the switch; it had never had too much to say before. “You got any bright ideas, T?”
“That’s not funny. I don’t think that’s funny at all,” Mel was afraid he had made T. Lamp upset. He had a lot of other puns relating to lamps stored away, but he decided to save them for later. “I’m not really here to advise you on anything. I don’t even know why I am here, really,”
“My parents always thought you looked nice on that table. I thought your shade conflicted with the wallpaper,” Mel replied.
“I would say that maybe it’s time for you to get some sleep,” said T. Lamp, and Mel realized this was probably sound advice. Mel crawled up to the couch and nestled amongst the cushions. Almost instantly, he was asleep.
Mel now saw he had been wrong to try to stay awake so long. Sleep was the answer! Rather than stay awake perpetually, being asleep at all times is a much better way to avoid dealing with your life. For a few brief moments, everything was dark. Then, Bam! On came an onslaught of subconscious memories, all jumbled into one cryptic and ridiculous package! The world was suddenly full of old junior high science teachers, family pets, movie stars he had recently seen on Entertainment Tonight!, spaceships, candy and unicorns! The sights he saw were pent up in his mind during his time awake, and they exploded into his brain like a firecracker. Mel could fly, he could jump higher than ten basketball players, he could eat more hot dogs than anyone in the world and he was adored by everyone. Dreamland is definitely the place to be, Mel concluded, and he was determined to remain asleep forever.
Just as Mel was about to enter a chocolate sauce factory with ten porn stars and a jumbo-sized bag of marshmallows, he was confronted by a floating television screen. On the screen was Bob Barker, again, and he did not seem pleased. “Mel, you conniving little worm!” screamed Bob, with a face of fury Mel did no imagine Barker had the energy to muster. “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?”
“Oh, um, I don’t know specifically,” Mel replied. “I just assumed this combination would result in a good time.”
“You’ve been asleep for the past week! That is no way to live a life! I tried so hard to make a difference in the world by informing people of actual retail prices of products they may desire purchasing and preventing the birth of litters and litters of illegitimate puppy children, and here you are, ignoring reality by staying asleep!” Bob yelled. “You can’t keep this up, Mel! I won’t allow it!”
“Hey, didn’t Drew Carey take your job? That must feel pretty low, huh?”
“DAMMIT, MEL, SO HELP ME, I WILL HAUNT YOUR DREAMS FOREVER!” Bob screamed, his face turning shades of purple. “You think staying asleep is just some grandiose walk in the picnic cake? Wait until I turn this dreamland into a nightmare… There will be no escape!”
Suddenly, the ground began to open up, as giant Plinko tiles fell from the heavens like so much God’s wrath. A cavalcade of brand new cars tore through the horizon, barreling down on Mel with unstoppable fury. Zombie Rod Roddy tore up through the earth in a shirt so expertly sequined it burned a hole in men’s souls. An army of cats and dogs, wild with rabid hunger and cursed with savage, unspayed genitalia spurned forth and descended upon the landscape. Chaos was all that remained. Mel began to realize the dangers of living in a fantasy world, and began to wish he could awaken to face reality. Escape from life’s ills was a faulty decision; in trying to either absorb himself in his misery or ignore it outright, Mel had found nothing to soothe the pain. With that, he awoke. Not entirely sure where his life was to head now, he ventured outside and began to walk. He was going to continue on in this life. Be there salvation or redemption ahead, it would have to come find him.

Garble Hey What

2008-10-09T15:13:00.004-05:00

I am working hard, people. This man is doing all sorts of things and actions, trying to make the most of this little muddle called life. Why are we here? Who put us here, and is he watching when we go to the bathroom? I do things in there I'd prefer he not see. I am being paid to write words, which is a first. For a while I was writing words, and not one of you pathetic audience members thought to say "Hey! Have some money." This disappointed me, because sometimes I need to have money if I want to either purchase something or continue having a place to live. Right now I live with my parents. Yes, I know what you're going to say: "Wasn't there a Matthew McConaughey movie where he did that?" I will say in response: "No! You're silly. Angels in the Outfield was much more of a paternal metaphor, the male father figure putting faith in arenas outside of reality and personal responsibility, relying on the outcome of a baseball team to determine his relationship with his son. This rather forgettable picture has little if anything to do with my current living situation." That's how it'll go down!

Basically, though, I don't have to spend money on rent right now. How about that, huh? That is not to say that I am suddenly Captain Moneybag, or perhaps that tycoon who adorns that Milton-Bradley game. Nay, I am as broke as ever. If you want to get technical, I have three jobs. How is it that I can have three jobs while the rest of this economy is tanking, leaving no jobs for anyone? I am selfish and greedy, and what's more, I hate America. Yes, I would like to see the American worker suffer, because they are so terrible and they always have ulcers when you don't want them to.

I am trying (feebly!) to push forward with music business. I am making (crappy!) music whenever I get the chance, and am trying to do more and more to keep up the momentum on that whole thing. Updates on that as they arise (arise!).

I have three blogs now. I get paid to do two of them, this one is for writing stupid inane shit like this, and soon I will be making one more with two colleagues of mine (when you are professional, you call your friends "colleagues", because then every time you get drunk together, it can be a business meeting!). I know this blog began with severe trepidation regarding succumbing to a popular internet phenomenon, but this no longer concerns me. The culture and bullshit which surround certain things I am involved in (blogs , mySpaASe, facebook, public universities) no longer even come into play; instead I like to look at things for their base merit. Before, when I heard the word "Blog" I said "ew. That's something that people have begun to talk about, and thus I must turn my head away in fear that I might succumb to the wiles of modern civilization." Now I'm saying: "Cha-ching! I can sit on the computer and take dumps in the monitor and suddenly people want to give me money! Fuck it, I don't care if blogging is lame! I'd much rather sell my soul doing something menial like this than shit bagels down your throat for a living!" So much of this post is dominated by imagined conversations; nothing in quotes is an actual quote.

Well, ugh. I've said something on here now, that oughta keep it alive for at least the next month or so.

They Are Finally Paying Me For This God-Awful Tripe

2008-09-19T15:23:00.003-05:00

I am getting paid to write blogs now. I write for The Wake and College On The Record, and they both give me actual money for writing some bullshit stuff about some bullshit things. This thing that I just kind of do is now just kind of making me some scratch, it is! Also, I just not ten minutes ago saved a bunch of time by turning in a previous blog post of mine instead of a paper for a class. Once, I said "Pfooie" to the blogs. That was before the blogs gave me things, like money, fancy titles like "Campus Editor", and an excuse to not do real work. Life is funny that way, you know? Ha ha, life! Good one!

The issue of course is that I'm on the damn computer all the time now. I have like fifteen (ed note: exaggeration) accounts and e-mail addresses to check and update now, and that keeps me on the computer often longer than I'd like to be. But fuck it, I'd rather do this job than cut open bagels any day. Even Tuesday.

So, I'm going to try to continue to be diligent in this blog and give you people who have all stopped reading some vaguely interesting things. Otherwise, you can read the other two blogs because they will definitely have things in them.

Bye.

Underappreciated Geniuses Of Low Humor

2008-09-15T16:23:00.005-05:00

First off, by low humor, I am not speaking of those highbrow, elitist comedic ventures like Grandma's Boy or Disaster Movie, those intellectual comedies reserved for the literati. No, I'm talking true lowest-denominator chuckles, those scrawled on bathroom walls and in high school textbooks. Here are but a few of the most brilliant of shit-heel comedy, true low humor for the masses:

1. "Push Butt"

Though it probably can't be attributed to a single individual, whoever first took their keys to the hand warmer in the bathroom, scratching out letters such that the directions ask for you to apply pressure to your anus to begin the hand drying process... genius. Pure genius. A simple removal of the O and the N in the word "Button" turns a once innocent finish to the hand washing process into a dirty little jest, a raunchy delve into a world that cares not for what society deems is acceptable. True pioneers of the "Push Butt" defacing go the extra mile and actually draw butt-cheeks on the diagram depicting ones finger activating the dryer, thereby changing it from an unnecessarily informative pictoral to a glimpse into the ass-fingering one has been re-instructed to do. My hope is that some eternally literal bathroom user out there has actually proceeded to push in his butt upon reading this delightfully ribald graffiti. Oh, such sublime filth.

2. The "bONEr" Dollar

With but a few strokes of a marker (and a few strokes of genius), any dollar bill can become a dirty joke, and a conversation piece sure to fill hours of time with no-brainer laughs. It says "Boner!" On money! George Washington would roll around in his grave if he knew what we were doing to this country, desecrating his name with talks of erections and such. Go pay for something with a boner! "Hey, you got change for a boner?" Another instance of simple but effective low humor. No one is going to look at that dollar bill and not understand. It says boner. I cannot stress that enough, the fact that it was not intended to refer to penises but now it does. Think about it, but not too hard.

3. "Road Head"

Orange paint and ingenuity can turn any "Road Work Ahead" into a call for dangerous fellatio. "Honey, I'm just doing what the sign says. Watch your teeth as we go over this bump." What makes these so smart is that they are precisely not smart at all. The words "Road Head" on their own do not constitute a joke. But look at it. It is a sign, and it says a dirty sexual act on it. What more do you want? That's the lowest of low comedy, a beautifully simplistic reminder of a sexual act we have heard of. There's no need for context or anybody to walk into a bar or anything, this is pure dumb bad words yuks. The fact that someone took the time and effort to deface a sign for no reason other than that oral sex is funny, that takes heart. I salute you.

Not all graffiti is worth mention. Not all of it is funny or clever. I find the above to be enjoyable because they are mindless yet they take a certain level of thought to find the stupid in the everyday. I do not support drawing dicks in peoples mouths on billboards and stuff like that. First off, it's too easy. Most people draw dicks like they've never seen one, all looking like a cocktail wiener, and just putting a dick near someones picture does not tap into that brilliant side of idiocy. Secondly, I can't get over the sexist and homophobic undertones. The word "Boner" on a dollar bill is great to me because it does not to say Boner on it, it was not intended to say Boner on it, but all of a sudden, there is a dirty word on it and that's hilarious. But dicks in mouths does not pull from the source or try to find something in what is already there, they are used to insult the recipient. Stick with the classic mustache and glasses if you intend to do that. I don't like the implication, either, that having a dick in your mouth is degrading or insulting somehow. I've known many upstanding, intelligent and truly excellent people who have had dicks in their mouth, and all that means is that they're a giving person. Anyway, I digress. Maybe I'm just more of a wordplay man. I respect those that can see the pointlessly dirty in the everyday, and you geniuses of low humor deserve to be endlessly praised. Godspeed, ye dastard delinquents of the Sharpie set. Take us forward to the next generation of brainless entertainment.

How Many People Had To Die Before They Invented The Yellow Light?

2008-09-09T11:39:00.002-05:00

I used to live very close to the 35W bridge which collapsed. This was annoying, because all the traffic was rerouted right in front of my apartment, meaning loud noises and near-collisions with cars basically all the time. People in cars don't seem to like to look for pedestrians or bikers. I'll admit watching the road while driving is a pretty big inconvenience, but so is picking someones scalp off your windshield. Most of the redirected cars are not used to having to look for people because they normally would be driving on the highway, so things like stop signs and bike riders are ignored. Every day I thought I was going to die on that intersection where the highway met my street. Literally not a day passed where there wasn't some near-miss from some old lady or some turd in a giant car. I hate giant cars. They're very large. At the speed that most people "stop" at stop signs, those cars could kill a human and vaporise a small animal. Typically, the people who buy big cars are also the ones who are less likely to look out for pedestrians. Most of the people who can afford such monstrosities live in the suburbs, where walking is not only unfashionable but impossible; there are no sidewalks, which baffles me to no end, and everyone is so far away from anything except houses that similar to theirs that driving becomes their only mode of doing anything. They forget that some people actually walk places, and anyone using other means of transportation are an inconvenience to them and are regarded as very inconsiderate for wishing to share the road.

After the bridge collapse, there's been a mad scramble to build a new one. I suspected they wanted to get it finished before the Republican National Convention which was hosted in St. Paul, my hometown, so that John McCain could stand in front of it and lie about how our country is actually not falling apart. The fucknuts came and left before the thing was done, but they're still going to make somewhere in the neighborhood of $20,000 for every day ahead of schedule they finish by. The project was pretty huge: There were loud noises and people in orange jackets all over my neighborhood, and they brought in a simply gigantic crane for constructing. This crane was massive. I'm talking big-ass crazy crane the size of something Superman would fight. The bridge is now almost complete. I worry about using something so rushed.

Other bridges all over the city are being renovated, because, hey, apparently you have to do that in order to keep them from falling down. Funny how we're just getting to it now; I feel like this is a trend in America. If a bridge collapses, we rush like crazy to build the new one and make sure it never happens again. But would we try to make sure it didn't happen in the first place? Someone always has to die in order for something to be looked into. Any drug or food recall, any unsafe substance or building threatening lives, none of it is dangerous enough to deal with until someone actually gets killed; suddenly, it's the most important thing. Think Bush would be visiting New Orleans (or, more precisely, Texas) to help with hurricane relief if he hadn't fucked up so publicly with Katrina? Of course not. The press associated with the disaster is more important than the devastation. The 35 W bridge is a sad example of the neglect this country has been receiving from our government thanks to this unjust war, petty squabbles over stem-cells and gay marriage, and plain-and-simple incompetence. I'm fucking tired of it.

For a while I thought I was without a doubt going to be killed by getting run over by a bus. I'm much more optimistic these days; instead, I just think I'm going to be badly injured by a car. I've already been hit by a car on my bike, the same way this shit always almost-happens: As I'm making my way down the sidewalk on a one-way street, a car attempts to turn off the highway, looking only for cars coming from the other direction, ignoring any pedestrians or bikers that might be going the opposite way on the sidewalk. This particular event has happened so frequently that I'm surprised I've only been hit once. Another situation I always get is cars trying to turn as I'm trying to walk through the crosswalk. They turn, assuming of course that you'll no longer be in their way by the time you get across the street. It winds up being like running into someone in a hallway, awkwardly dancing back and forth, unsure if you should go and let the other person past or if their trying to do the same for you. Only this time the other person weighs about 5000 pounds, has bumper stickers all over their ass and is made of metal. There's no winning in a awkward face-off with a car. They are very big. The best I can hope to do is take off their mirror or bend a windshield wiper as I go down, screaming and clenching my exposed bone.

In short: Boo cars! Boo!

Bagel Bargaining

2008-09-04T12:48:00.004-05:00

Oh man. I totally just quit my job. Two hours ago I was working at my job, and now I have quit my job. I don't have to work at that job now. Oh man. This is exciting. I'm excited, and this is exciting. I feel really good. This is great, like a high. I should just apply to a bunch of jobs so i can quit them right away and continue feeling like this all the time, cuz, man. Wow. If they could make a pill or some sort of leaf that could make you feel like you had just quit your job moments ago, I would be on that shit all the time. "Unemployatan", they could call it, or even something better than that. I don't care. Because I just quit my job. The telephone is really an amazing little device, as it has the unique ability to be used for calling someone, then telling them that you are quitting working for them. I like the telephone, I used it to quit my job. I also like the fact that I just quit my job. Oh man.

Well, I another job at a competing bagel place, so I didn't exactly quit working; I merely traded my current job for a better job. No more waking up at 4:30 AM to work for a measly 3 hours for a scrawny amount of money. Instead, I'm doing essentially the exact same thing I was doing, but with more convenient hours, no weekends, better pay and free meal options. Oh shit. I was planning on working at Bagel Place A (names changed to protect, um, I dunno) and picking up one or two shifts at Bagel Place B when I could, but when I went in today to talk to the boss at B, he offered me a better deal and I had to take it. I had no idea that job negotiation stuff like that took place at this level of employment, I thought you had to be some big shit Wall Street dink or work at a place that lets you sit down. Anybody can do my job, it's not terribly difficult. "Jack, you are such a natural talent at taking a bagel, cutting it open and then putting things on the bagel, that we just can't afford to lose you. Let's talk stock options." Uh, sure. So now I'm working less hours for the same amount of money, I get weekends free and I don't have take dumps all over myself worrying about the 2 hours of sleep I get every week. Oh man.

So, things are going swimmingly. I am relieved about the future, now that I have rearranged my situation. I was starting to feel burnt out with my schedule this semester, and it has only been the first week. That's usually a bad sign. Now I am happy, having quit my job. It won't even feel like it: I go straight to the new job from the old job with no breaks, but still. The act of quitting felt so good that it doesn't even matter that I still have a job. I smell terrible right now. Don't smell me.

Decidedly Decent Descent, Doesn't Dissapoint

2008-08-21T20:22:00.003-05:00

I'm feeling good. I'm in, mixing a beat while making a mix tape featuring "Beat It Loose". Tonight is Last of the Record Buyers, and I'm showing off beats I've made earlier this week. I wrote a song with Megacat. I am maybe playing a show on Friday? At 1:30. I sometimes despise early-type jobs, those being the type that require early attendance. Well, that is what I have to look forward to every day come September. And I do look forward to that schedule, actually. It'll keep me on a routine and I'll have every day completely free after 3:00 PM. I do not look forward to Eva leaving. That happens in September as well.

But I do look forward to tonight, the present future. Tonight I am spinning fresh beats, after a fashion.

I have started my blog at the Wake, with or without them. Here's my official "Wake Magazine" blog, (Check the title please, and, the url), written by Jack Spencer. Coming soon: Interviews with Mr. Cecil Otter and duo Big Quarters. Also coming soon: A paycheck (i hope). Please pay attention as the blog's creator ponders his own posture (poor) and checks his wallet (poor).

I did make 3 dollars in tips today at work though. It was, admittedly, a truly luminescent movement of the pre-sealed Hot Dog from the warmer into the customer's ready hands. One can scarcely recall the last time a 3 dollar tip was so warranted. There wasn't even a cup; this man broke a 20 to do it. Tonight's event is... guess how much?

I'm feeling good. Cue James Brown. Oh shit, I should put some James Brown on this mix tape. Excuse me.

I Wonder How Much Time He Spends Writing The Title

2008-08-17T19:14:00.002-05:00

Hello, all. I apologize, as I have been very busy and unable to write in here lately.

My friend is climbing a mountain.

Doesn't that sound epic as all hell?

Do you know how big mountains are?

They're called mountains. That's how big they are. Do you know they adjective mountainous? Use it in a sentence, then tell me that is not a big fucking thing. It's a mountain.

I am eating pretzels. I have eaten them before the date shown on the bag, hence they are of maximum freshness. They are called "Party Pretzels", the word "party" in neon block letters, reminiscent of the jovial events themselves. Eva and I had a party, and were eating Party Pretzels. You can't Party Pretzels elsewhere than a party. All must have been right with the world.

Soon I am moving back to the capital of this fair state, the state being Minnesota and the capital being St. Paul. Anyone who thought Minneapolis was the capital of Minnesota, you have failed your drivers test and must return within 3 business days. I am have unbridled, unwarranted optimism about the future. I am fast approaching the end of my time in college, whose beginning inspired me to start this blog. I am moving to Rhode Island with my girlfriend after my last semester. I have been rapping a lot lately. Things are happening to me, and I'm feeling good.

But my friend is climbing a mountain. Just how epic does that sound? It has a real ring to it. Mountain. Mountain. Say it with me.

The road lends itself to poetry and thoughts. I know little of the road. I've barely driven a car. One time I slipped on some ice outside of the Arbys parking lot and hit my head on the road. I have ridden in an armchair on top of a mini-van. I don't know if that counts for anything. And I have actually climbed a mountain as well. It isn't terribly epic, actually. At least when you're eight and full of sugar. Maybe you can't appreciate the magnitude of mountaineering at that young of an age. I used to imagine riding a giant magnet across the country, propelled towards another giant magnet somewhere in North America. The road is mysterious and I was a bored child. As a bored adult, the most road I get in my life is local road, that within the range of my apartment, job, and the liquor store. I have, however, been swimming in poetry and thoughts nonetheless.

Did I say mountain? Yes. I did.

Dine On Ego To Shine Like The Eagle Doth Fly

2008-08-11T12:01:00.002-05:00

That's me rapping at the Nomad Pub on August 2nd. Check my shit out if you have the time: http://www.myspace.com/djraygotprettychubbythisyear

A Look Into The Not-Too-Distant Future

2008-08-06T14:31:00.002-05:00

As a writer, which is clearly what I am, I will one day, after graduating from college with my pristine and immensely useful English degree, be writing words in exchange for money and/or services. Using my abilities as one who has heard of the English language, I will write and write and write and then people will pay me for it. This is how capitalism works: Immediately after college, I will find a well-paying job and move into a large house with gargoyles and pool attendants, because that's economics. I've been thinking lately about all the jobs that are available to writers and what kinds of things I could actually do with this degree. At my current job, which in no way reflects my talent at putting a word next to another word, we sell bagels to people who buy bagels. But this, of course, is not sufficient. We have to have an air about us, a personality which reflects our desire to serve our loyal customers, ie we need to invent terribly trite phrases to adorn each of our products in order to cover up the fact that we are sinister, bloodthirsty corporate vampires here to eat your finances and drive the poor out of their homes. It's fun! All the little dancing chefs have cute little hats and say things like "Bagels are #1... to eat!" and every time a new product is unveiled, some faceless copyist plops a delightful saying to go along with it: "Our new 'Awesome-Great-Yum-Time In The Sun' Chicken Sandwich will have you saying, 'Gee, I just spent a reasonable amount of money and have now eaten!'" And everyone smiles, because we all realize that this company is our friend, and they would never hurt us. All their products are our friends, and those smiling, carefree go-getters which prepare them for us are ready and willing to do whatever it takes for you to make the 2 minutes and 15 seconds you spend in their store the best 2 minutes and 15 seconds you've ever experienced. I started thinking about how someone in the company has to write all the little phrases adorning products and invent the corporate personality. That, one day, could be me:

BAGEL BONANZA CORPORATE HANDBOOK

by Petey the Bagel Platypus (as related to Jack Spencer)

Welcome to our team, cadet! You are now a proud member of BAGEL BONANZA, the nationally recognized and revered FUN place of FUN business! Here at B.B. (that's short for BAGEL BONANZA!), we have a simple philosophy: We sell bagels to customers in exchange for American dollars! We've lived by this humble belief since the first day T. M. S. Ribaldian-Bonanze opened his first BAGEL BONANZA in 1882. Remember forever these words, spoken by the man himself: "Cheese costs 79 cents extra". Chisel this sacred mantra into your mind as we have chiseled it into the side of each of our [insert current amount of locations] locations worldwide!

Rules are a funny thing. Some say they're meant to be broken. We couldn't agree more! That's why we here at BAGEL BONANZA have no rules, just simple guidelines! (Actions performed outside of guidelines are grounds for termination as well as violent removal from the premises). So here's our oh-so easy guidelines, which you shall read back to us after having committed them to memory:

REGULATION #1: Smile!

Put a smile on that puss! No frowns in Bagel Town! Our customers do not come to us to hear about how your alarm didn't go off or how your mother has cancer. Awful thoughts have no place in our sterile food kingdom! Be sure to project yourself in a way befitting of our founder, T. M. S. Ribaldian-Bonanze, who, in 1754, fell from six consecutive cliffs while bird-watching, piercing his face on the rocks below until they formed a disturbingly transfixed smile upon his battered and bloodied face! We strive to put make our own faces as positive as his, and have chiseled a picture of our founder into the walls of all of our locations, to remind everyone that sometimes all it takes to make this world a better place is to come into some restaurant and see people pretend they don't hate their job.

REGULATION #2: Conversate, conversate, conversate, and conversate!

This may look like four regulations at once, but its really just the same word written four times! We cannot over-stress the importance of engaging in inane, meaningless chatter with customers. They didn't just come in to our restaurant to eat, they want to chat with you about the weather and their co-workers! All of our customers are, at heart, lonely, sad little children yearning for menial exchanges of words to prevent them from taking their own lives. That's where we come in! When making someones bagel, try using one of our patented conversation-starters to get things going (directed for in-store use only, attempt to utilize the following for conversations out of work settings will be grounds for termination and severe shame within the community):

- "Gee, there sure is some weather out there today!"
- "Hey, your shirt reminds me of a brief and innocuous anecdote involving my pet and/or mother!"
- "Don't you think sports are just fantastic? I have watched them."
- "Yum! You've sure ordered a winner! What are your feelings?"
- "Some days the gun won't let me take it out of my mouth! I mean, hey, bagels."

It's easy! Not to mention FUN! Oh, no wait. But it is easy. We don't want people to leave our establishment thinking we've been ungracious hosts. Just put on a smile, a fresh face, a compliant attitude, say all the right things, and close your eyes and think of England!

---------------------
I could easily affect the voice of some warm, pleasant bagel aficionado, type up a couple hundred words and leave with corporate blood money. I could be the faceless representation for the company with little qualm, cuz I would be able to write the bullshit instead of have it sifted upon me. Then I wouldn't have to smile. "Here's your fucking copy boss. Growl growl growl." Someday somebody is going to give me money for doing this shit. Why can't it be now?

Oh yeah. Because my writing is as yet incapable of being without the sewage-like bile behind it that has made it what it is. Oh well. Maybe I can write CD reviews or something.

Avid Avoidance Of Every Event

2008-07-02T12:53:00.002-05:00

For the first month of summer, I was unemployed and now I am broke. In that time, I applied for many jobs and tried to pick up hours at the gas station and the golf course. I also took on more amino acid study business. Eventually I got a job at [a local bagel and coffee-ed drink distributor], but continued to have obligations to these other places. After being unemployed for a bit, I am now, how do you say, hyper-employed. I am such an employee, it is amazing. It'll be like, hey, Jack, what are you these days? and I'll be all, I am employed, that is what I am and who I am. Its great! I get to be employed right in front of people, every day! Often for several hours at a time! What a prospect. Oh shall the joyous days never cease.

I intended to complain about my very busy schedule lately, but I've been doing a lot of that in real life and am sure most people are tired of it. So I'll try to get it out quickly so that you can become informed of my plight but still have time in your busy day for Yahtzee or Backgammon:

gottafuckinggetupatgoddamn530inthemorningsincewhenisthatevenafuckingtimemyalarmdoesn'tevenplayaradiostationcuzitstoodamnearlyanditsnotontheairmygodthestaticofthestationisjustametaphorformysituationlikesomesymbolismmoviebullshitbullshitbullshitaaaaghmymindeverydayislikeabowlofcreamedcorni'veonlygottenlike4hoursofsleepeverynightcuzsomejerkwadwantsstupiddumbbagelsidon'tevengetanyfreebagelsfromthisfuckingplaceandi'mmakingonepissstainawayfromminimumwageitssortoflikewhenyourauntgivesyoulikeadollarforyourbirthdayitslike"ohthanksauntiecrackfuckforthemeaninglessgesturemaybeicanbuyablowpopandinvesttherestinmyfutureatMcDonaldscollege"thenihadtooballsuckingworkatthegasstationafterwardswhichisafuckinhourandahalfawayandihavetotakethebusiworkedfrom6inthemorningatbuttbagelsthenhoppedabustoclockinhoursatthegasstationafuckingcityawaygethomeatbloodfuckingmidnightcountthosehourshowmanyaretheretoofuckingmanygoddammitiamworkingonnosleepheeirightnowaminthemidstofa21dayperiodwithoutasingledayoffblahblahblahneedcoffeeandnapsshitjobspayexactlydicktooitslikeigottaworkalltheseshitballhoursjusttomakeituptonormalineverwanttoworktheseshitjobseveragaingoddammiti'mgonnagraduatesoonggetabetterjobandpissonallyoufuckerswithmycollegegraduateurineofpoweranddestructionhahahahahahahahahahahahahahaineedsleep

Okay, that'll do. All in all, I have no right to complain: Work sucks, that is a given. There are people in far worse situations than mine. Trust me, just as I feel I deserve to spout my bullshit about how shitty life is, so do everyone else. Everyone likes to play the "My Life Sucks More Than Yours" game, trying to one up one another during periods of high stress. Its one of the few joys that one can get out of being so busy and putting up with so much shit. If you can hang out with people and lament your shitty life in a convincing yet sympathetic manner, it doesn't quite make it worth it, but it is a pretty decent consolation prize. Unless someone wants to give me a toaster oven for it, that'll have to do.

Anyway, life really ain't as bad as all that right now. I've had a shitty week or two, but things are starting to slow down a bit, and I'm finally making some money. The reason I'm not getting much sleep is because I'm having fun doing summery things. I saw Wall-E last night; everyone should go see that movie. Speaking as a Pixar fan, it is without a doubt the best film they've made so far. I am going to Chicago soon to hang out with my friend who is about to move to France. I just released a CD of rap beats, some of which can be listened to here. I am a Pisces. I enjoy long walks on the sun and reminiscing about television. Please call me for massage and full release. No substitutions.

I am about to start a blog for the Wake, a paper and web site at the University of Minnesota. It'll be about local arts and entertainment in the Twin Cities, and will feature my brand of SNARK, WHIMSY, RIBALDRY, PISSANTISM, IRONICISTICALS, SARCASMATION, and TESTICLES. You can read it even if you don't live where I live, it is on the internet! This means you, Australia! You are so far away, and serve as a fabulous example of INTERNETS's ability to walk long distances! I will use too many exclamation points in my posts at that blog so you know I am serious. Since this will be a professional blog, I will post YouTube videos and draw googly eyes on Paris Hilton, also many dancing animated gifs will be there. I will keep this blog up for those of you who want behind-the-scenes-straight-dope-you-CAN't-see-in-my-other-blog-oh-shit! I am talking aloud, how am I mistaken for the silent? Run with it!

Signed, Jack

PS: whaat is this

Sublime, Unending Hobo Knife Fights

2008-06-14T10:39:00.004-05:00

So my friend and I are debating the possibilities of going hitchhiking this summer. I have always been interested in the idea and have wanted to have some sort of adventure while the days of my youth remain halcyon. Hell, I have one more semester left in school: Soon I will need a job. Like, an actual real style job where there are no bagels or irate customers. Something related to what I've been wasting my time on these past four years. Yikes. The prospect alone is pretty unnerving, and I want to have some sort of youth-defining experience before I turn 25 and am hence old, withered and useless. Hitchhiking seems like a pretty classic way of having some good old-fashioned American youth-driven adventurism. Lots of the older set that I know have hitchhiked at some point and got some interesting stories out of it. The moral of all these stories, however, always seems to be: "NEVER HITCHHIKE." They'll go on an on about how fun a trip they had and all their interesting experiences, but the main thing they want to stress is to NEVER EVER DO IT. It's apparently way too dangerous to even fathom doing, and that to stick one's thumb out near a road is liable to attract hordes of murderous psychos and bears with swords. There's this impression now that if you hitchhike, the only people who will be willing to pick you up are those who intend to chop you up into little pieces and keep you in the glove compartment. At the same time though, people who see a hitchhiker on the road will refuse to pick them up because the hitchhiker might also intend to do his share of disemboweling and the like. To me, this implies that there is a quantifiable section of the general population who are axe murderers, whose sole purpose in life is to kill random people for the joy and satisfaction it must bring. I don't really buy this claim that there are so many axe murderers just roaming around the roads waiting for their next victim. How can there possibly be so many of them out there? I feel like we would have seen some shifts in the policies of this country as axe murderers come out to vote if there were really so many of them. If they were to band together and organize, all the axe murderers that must be out there could really get some change done, such as making murder with an axe a misdemeanor or making it legal to conceal and carry axes into department stores and hair salons. I highly doubt there are that many people out there with such insatiable and random bloodlust, and I feel like the depiction of hitchhikers in movies and other media has really soured their image. Every hitchhiker in a movie is a bad dude. Its such a movie standard to have a sick psychopath want to get picked up to lop of some noggins in a rest area somewhere. But what about those of us who are actually trying to go someplace? And on the other end, people are so scared off by picking up hitchhikers that the only people who would be willing must also be axe murderers. This whole axe murder thing seems a bit ridiculous, and believe it or not I have a little better faith in humanity than that.

Regardless of whether the world is truly flooded with sadistic sickos, hitchhiking is still a dead art. No one does it because, well, no one does it. It seems that no one really can hitchhike anymore due to the lack of people willing to pick people up. Less people are willing to pick up hitchhikers because it has become less of a thing, ie there are less hitchhikers around to make it seem like a legitimate form of transportation. Chicken eats the egg or whatever: There's nobody to pick them up because there's nobody to pick up because there's nobody to pick them up. It seems like a difficult prospect even without the whole "mercilessly flung in a Hefty bag" thing. Without people to pick you up, the whole prospect is futile. You'd just be a dude with a sign, and dudes with signs get little to no respect in society. Plus, I don't know how long such a thing would take. I've heard different stories where someone was able to get halfway across the country in a short period of time, but with so few potential rides out there it seems like it might take upwards of a month to get anywhere. In order to do this I'd have to take time off from work, and since I don't know how much time I'd need this could be a clincher.

It seems like my friend is set to do it with or without me. I would like to go at some point in my life, but I don't know if this summer is the right time. But then again, if not now, when? Has anybody done this that can weigh in on the subject? I'd like to hear some perspectives on whether this is something I should do, if its worthwhile, or if its even possible anymore.

Jack's Professional Web-Blog of Proficient Professionalism

2008-06-08T21:29:00.002-05:00

So I haven't really written anything in a long time, as those of you who may be still out there may have realized. Given that my last post was about how much snow was on the ground, it may have seemed downright abandoned. But that's not something I want to do. I enjoy writing here, but I haven't had a chance or really taken the time to do it. I had a busy schedule and I was basically tired of writing after taking two writing-intensive classes which expected a couple of pages of writing every couple of days. My typical moments of boredom were often filled with homework or simply falling asleep. But I'm going to try to keep it up, as I'm about to start working as a blogger for the school paper and I want to be in the habit again. This summer I'm going to be doing an Arts and Entertainment type blog for The Wake magazine concerning the local scene in the Twin Cities. I'm going to try to keep this one up more consistently alongside the new one.

I am living with my girlfriend in a one bedroom apartment in Minneapolis. She is moving back to Rhode Island in the fall. I have one semester left of college and then I will go live with her in January. I am currently unemployed and have resorted to my old throwback ways to get paid: Working at the gas station and opening my veins for scary laboratory experiments. Tomorrow, once again, I will wake up very early and spill my precious life-fluids into giant vats for money. The next day I work at a gas station over in St. Paul. I am poor.

I have released three CDs recently; you can listen to songs here. One is a full-length electronic and hip-hop instrumental album, one that will be out soon is all rap beats I've been working on lately, and one is a 5 song EP of me rapping (under the H.A.R.V. moniker, for lack of a better MC name) with my partner in rhyme Kid Step. Harv and Kid Step rocked a basement show one time. Expect me to skyrocket to international fame very shortly.

I went abroad to Mexico over winter break. I had a great host family and I had a wonderful time down there. I did not get Montezuma's Revenge like I did last time I was there, but my stools were certainly not smooth going at all times. My roommate got it while there and had similar awful experiences. He returned with the same big-eyed expression of shame and disbelief I retained after witnessing the bowl covered in what looked like a crime scene where the weapon was Arby's chili. He was in bed much of the time, getting up every five minutes with disturbing regularity to go take a shit that must've felt like the devil punching his way out of hell. I pitied him not, for such is the nature of Montezuma the Mighty's terrible vengeance: There are no winners. The custom in Mexico was to wipe your ass and throw the toilet paper into the trash rather than flush it as it is not good for the plumbing. This often leads to piles of shit accumulating next to the toilet. I am glad this is not the custom in the United States as I rarely take out the garbage and I'm afraid some of my assorted dump leftovers will begin to feed on themselves and come to life. Don't ask me why the first things I think about coming home from a foreign country are both so shit-centric, I suppose I should be talking about mountains or something. Anyhow. Mexico. That is where I was for a little bit.

Uh, I don't know, I guess I worked at a bagel place. When you cut a bagel in half, stuff can go in it like cream cheese or eggs. Many people thought I should cut their bagels in half and apply cream cheese to both sides. That is often what I did, though other demands were not without their place. I also cashiered in the same cafeteria. It was so exciting I think I'm done writing about it.

It's summer now and I've done some fun things. I went rollerskating and also I think at some point I drank alcohol with people who thought it was a good idea if a bunch of people congregate and drink alcohol. Noise came out of a guitar I own. I saw some movies. I applied for jobs I didn't get. Oh! I cleaned the fucking house. I wrote lengthy papers about rap music. I made a little computer animation thing which I suppose could be put on that whole YouTube thing. Hmm. Yep. That sounds like a collection of things I did.

I don't know of what to write, as is often the case. I'll try to be better about writing in this thing and will come up with something to say eventually.

Much Snow

2007-12-04T15:00:00.001-06:00

Oh man there is quite the amount of white business out of doors oh damn ain't no thing unless you're me what lost his hat what ain't got mittens what has dual holes in pair of shoes allowing for snow to get sock/s wet snowballs all lodging in there making a little place for themselves uninvited styles stomping on wet balls all day white socks come back brown all nasty from gross snow what a truck done droved in also shoes get wet and stain socks ain't nothing as nasty as wet socks walking around in them yuck I realize that yeah I am white middle class college-age type who walks around and boo-hoo socks get wet whatever people dying in Africa also starvation at home and abroad wet socks ain't the worst what if I lost a limb or a kidney fell out my rectum all floating in the toilet but damn you know even some hungry Ethiopian would be all "Man wet socks, totally nasty" like, sure, he's all hungry but that doesn't mean his socks ain't wet hell of currently bothersome gotta walk around all day in that shit man and snow keeps falling also my jacket has a broken zipper so here I am all covered in flakes chilly and wet stepping in what feels like goldfish in bags why even bother wearing clean socks right like I used to be all "uh-oh need to wear clean socks people gonna think I'm am such as a slob would be all wearing socks with the previous days smell already emanating plus the oncoming smell of the current proceedings" but who even gives two shits of a damn anymore these socks will get to tossing point soon if i keep walking gonna throw away many pairs and buy new ones but hate to get brand new socks all groders like these might as well you know tough balls it out with nasty socks what get progressively nastier man winter equals BALLS.

I Would Like To Know From Whence You Acquired Your Sweater Vest

2007-11-13T15:06:00.000-06:00

Surprisingly, masturbating into a plastic tube in a hospital while reading old issues of Penthouse is not too terribly erotic. Who knew? I did like the way they still refer to them professionally as "reading material" and they come in this ominous white envelope. I didn't, however, like the implication that these very magazines had been utilized in the procurement of every sperm sample in the history of the hospital. Seeing Shannon Dougherty adorning the cover of Playboy was none too promising; a nude interview with the star of Heathers meant this had been used but a few scant years after I had been a sperm myself. I thought to myself ,"These women I am obliged to ogle are now likely at the point in their lives where the repercussions of this particular photo shoot are catching up with them. Maybe they have regrets, hell, maybe they have kids. Maybe one day their child will need to give a sperm sample, be given an ancient copy of Jugg-O-Mat and find their mother with a strange man's member overtly posed inside her mouth." My imagination started to get the best of me in the opposite way it was intended; I found it rather ironic that when I'm doing homework I find myself acutely distracted by thoughts of sex and my easy access to pornography, and yet here I am actually given the task of masturbating and my mind is anywhere but. I began to contemplate all the wrong things about the supposed work relationship between Krystal McBigSex and a detached phallus: How can this company possibly sustain itself if their employees are constantly fucking? Why on earth is there a shower in the middle of a boardroom? Most importantly, why do they insist on calling it a "member"? Is it part of some secret dick club I'm not aware of? How is that sexy at all? It makes the penis sound like a malignant tumor. Distracted by these unsexy contemplations, I realized duty calls, thus I soon found myself with a plastic tube filled with progress.

Afterwards, I sat in the conference eating complimentary Frosted Flakes while watching Sesame Street. Oddly enough, as the television turns on so does a radio, which switches stations as you switch TV channels. I don't know what it is exactly about hospitals or dentists offices and lite rock; I understand it's intended to be something soft and innocuous to put patients at ease, but I just get nervous and irritable when listening to it. I mean, come on, Cher's "Do You Believe In Life After Love?" I didn't know there was a place where that song still existed, but I certainly don't want it ringing in the ears of someone who's about to put a drill in my mouth. As I watched Count Van Count lip sync "I Can Feel It Coming in the Air Tonight" as a googly-eyed number 11 raced rampantly across the screen, I realized this was kind of an interesting day.

Adroitness In Frivolity

2007-11-10T10:37:00.000-06:00

I am currently part of another dietary study where they pay me money. I have to refrain from eating soy products so they can test some supplement thing on me and check my isoflavonitory-propoloids so that old people don't get cancer. Or something. I figured this was another opportunity at easy money, as my last stint as an amino-acid study participant proved to be quite profitable. I've been since keeping my eyes peeled for more opportunities and stumbled upon this Do-Soy project. I figured I'd eat some Toffutti Cuties, spit in a dixie cup and then express my feelings through interpretive dance and walk out of there $100 richer. What I failed to realize is that this one is actually more work than I expected. Here are the steps:

Abstain from soy products during the length of the study

Not really a huge deal for most people who are carniverous, but I started to realize that under this circumstance the previously obvious answer to "Do you want some motherfucking soy sauce???" is now "Uh, I guess I should refrain from injesting that" instead of the obvious "FUCK YEAH I DOES".

Keep a record of your diet during the study

Also, not a really big thing, but suddenly I'm faced with all these issues. How many cups of milk did I put on my Corn Chex? How do I accurately gauge the amount of fondu I ate last night? Will the doctors judge me for drinking seven beers while eating fried food? How will it feel to look back on this log and realize my eating habits are embarrassing enough to include those Hostess pink snowball things? What the hell are those called, anyway? Sno-Balls? How does taking away the W make this a new and engaging product? So many questions...

Take a supplement with food three times daily

I tend to distrust anything with more than three syllables. Once words get into that range, they get scary and unsettling. This supplement contains syllables outside of my comfort level. I have to put into my body something which sounds vaguely like the pseudo-science of the Spiderman animated series, and we've all seen the end results of much of the exploits of superheroic science. (Hint: Destruction on a large scale or total moral overhaul)
The question becomes not so much "Will I get cancer?" as "What kind of cancer will I get?" and "What parts of me will fall off?"

Piss in these big orange containers

I will have to collect my "voids", as they are so undemotically referred, for reference in the study. A 24 urine collection isn't too much work, per se, but to have to drag around a lunchbag full of refrigerated piss with me in public is going to be a bit odd. Knowing me, this whole thing will turn into some sort of zany Dane Cook movie involving pratfalls and mistaken orange juice. And someones grandma. Having cancer.

Give a sperm sample; refrain from ejaculation three days prior

This is the tough one. I knew there was going to be a sperm sample involved, one of those instances where they give you a magazine and wink at you and say "You know what to do!" and you share this sort of awkward look where the two of you realize that you will be jerking off within earshot. That's no big deal. But not ejaculating for three days? Starting on a Friday? My weekend is prime ejaculating time! That's when I get all my best ejaculating done! They scheduled this so poorly. If I had to stop ejaculating on Tuesday, this would not be a huge deal because I'm so distracted by my non-ejaculatory prospects. But the weekend was made for ejaculating! What do you think the Lord did on the seventh day after creating the universe? I know three days is really not that long, but I have to do it two weekends in a row. Though this will cramp my style, I guess it at least won't cramp my wrist.

Sample of prostatic fluid obtained

A dude will stick his fingers in my butt. The study attempted to waylay worries involved therein by stating that the man has 30 years experience sticking his fingers in peoples butts. I don't know exactly if that makes me feel more or less comfortable. I'm sure he'll be gentle, light a candle, put on some smooth jazz and remind me I'm the only one for him... Still, there always the thought of a hirsute truck driver syphening gas from an oil tanker... We'll have to see how this goes, but hopefully I can get a magazine for this too.

All this plus blood samples and getting up early in the morning... I'm starting to think this isn't worth $100. It's a lot of work, and I hate work. Since when do people work for money? Oh well, I'm just gonna stick it out and see what comes. Chances are they'll discover I've got a great prostate gland for taking samples, and suddenly every research assistant and amateur filmmaker in town is going to want some of the action. With luck, my ass could be a cash cow and I'll never have to lift a finger again; there'll be plenty lifted and prodding about for me.

I Have So Many Double A Batteries

2007-10-12T04:46:00.000-05:00

I have so many double A batteries. I have truly a large amount of double A batteries currently in my possession. This is absolutely uncanny, this amount. Oh my goodness, would you look at all of them, all of them over there in a pile together near one another. It is good. It is just so good to have that many double A batteries like that. And they all work. That is the beautiful. They all work, every one. Not a dud in the bunch, they are all brand new, several of them still in their box. How did I get so many double A batteries? Where did they come from? Is this where all the batteries that are not included wind up? I am Sold Separately Depot. I needed to use double A batteries for this thing that takes batteries just now, at this late hour of the night, and lo and wouldn't you know it I not only have some and some more but I have LOTS. So many double A batteries that it's almost a shame. Yes, a shame. I feel bad that I have so many double A batteries. It is not right for one man to have so many. There are remote controls and CD players and Christmas toys all across this great nation that are struck useless without batteries, and here I am having a lot. What business could I possibly have for all of them. But I did need some at this ungodly unholy demonic bewitching hour and that makes me happy inside that I have them, the double A batteries, because even though I have a lot it is sometimes good to have a lot because it would be better to have a lot and not need them than to have zero and need more than zero.

There is a saying where I come from. I don't remember it.

Gastral Weeks

2007-10-11T00:05:00.000-05:00

Query: Does anyone else out there get "faux-farts"? Those moments when you're taking a test or something that involves a room full of silent people and you suddenly feel an oncoming riot of escaped convicts in the Alcatraz of your ass; you try with all your might to hold in what is bound to be an explosive and rather embarrassing expulsion of gas; one that doesn't just make noise, it makes a statement; one that doesn't just smell, it makes people legitimately worried about your health... You successfully prevent the fart from leaving, but in doing so a strange little noise occurs. The fart feels as if it is making its way back up into the northern hemisphere of your body, but in doing so it still makes a rather bombastic noise? This happened to me on Tuesday, and I looked about the silent room embarrassed, but I could not tell if anyone had noticed or not. Maybe they were busy with the test, maybe they were glancing at each other with such secrecy I failed to notice, or maybe I was in the rare classroom where not a single person is put off by a large trumpeting from the rumpeting. Or maybe only I heard the sound. Could it be that because I internalized the fart I also internalized its noise? This is really bizarre to me; though I did not actually fart, it sounded, to me at least, exactly as though I had. I'm curious about this, medically. What the hell happened? Did the noise happen? Was it my imagination? Was any of this... real??? Where am I??? Is anything EVEN GOING ON?!?!?!?!?!?!?

...Anyways. Sorry about my lack of presence. I promise much more activity in upcoming days.

I Have Not Had The Internet

2007-09-18T14:33:00.000-05:00

The internet, she does not work. She does not work, you see. Oh on these tepid September days no light doth beacon me. Achewood and news I cannot check, nor e-mails can I proscribe. Pornography has left my reach, this blog has all but died. Homework, if I may opine, relies too much on web sites, has been a hassle and a hell as the net doth read its death rites. Luddite, I, and sympathizers rage against machines, yet who among us hasn't found a need for these retched fiends? I type to you today amidst librarians and students, cursing the name of the internet, my language at its crudest. It is now the third week sans this blasted technology; the Comcast guy's a dicklick and has yet to acknowledge me. Shit doth piss one the fuck off, I scream and rave and rant. I simply wish to look up the bus line, yet find I simply can't. I know at one time the whole world survived without computers, but this shit has become a drug and I've become a user.

So fuck the internet anyway, yeah, fuck it all to hell. I'll get by as best I can, I guess it's just as well.

Tan Horse Debacle

2007-09-07T10:29:00.000-05:00

Oh my. Oh geez. Oh boy. Once again I have proven myself quite the sluf-a-bed-a-bout by not posting on here for these lo fifteen years, six months, four days and nine hours. Oh my. This tends to happen to me over the summer, as this blog is intended primarily to distract me from my schoolwork, of which there is none for a good three months. I do my best to be diligent and find some dumb topic to be stupid about, but most of the time ain't nothing worthy of talking about comes up. I am quite bad at figuring out topics to write about, mainly because I refuse to pull a typical blogger plop of "This Is What I Done Be Did'd Today" and the like. For those of us who live maliciously uninteresting lives, I am often at a loss for words. People tend to ask me things like "How was your summer?" at the beginning of the school year and I find myself with little else to say other than "Uh... How was yours?" Perhaps this is the sign of a man who ought not to be blogging. Blaaaaawwwwggggging. There's too many G's in blogging. Maybe I've gone over that before.

Anyhow, I guess I moved into a nice apartment with my girlfriend. That's pretty nifty. I'm excited to live in this place and excited for the new year, but still finding myself at a trademark loss of words. I have a sort of strange approach to writing, I guess. I feel off writing Thank You notes, letters to grandparents, birthday cards and in yearbooks, the typical places most non-writers write, but I can spout your damn ear off about cereal or the sign above my apartment that squeaks. Though as of now I am in the mood to do neither. I also feel the need to entertain with this little space and thus far, I'm sure, I'm doing a pretty crappy job with this missive.

Maybe all I'll say for now is this is the beginning of my (hopefully) last year in college, I hope to have lots to say through this year, and I hope some semi-interesting things happen to me.

Okay.

Bantam Anthems

2007-07-10T22:22:00.000-05:00

My album Bantam Anthems drops July 12th. This is not me being fanciful and silly or rife with overwrought and unnecessary sarcasm. There is an actual CD, of music, made by me that will be availabe on the date mentioned mere sentences ago. There is no instances of me singing in it: I do not believe "The Blogger" as our kind has come to be known should ever speak or emit sounds from their mouths. Their purpose is to convey information solely through petty word creation on internet journals and the occassional sad lonely message board. We are not to ever interact verbally, even if it is for purposes other than to say how much/little sex/cereal/stress at work/opinions of American Idol/patience for waiting rooms/eyebrows/desire to ride unicorns on submarines we've had lately. Such is the cruse bestowed upon the blogging community, but we all will take it with pride knowing that we have chosen our mode of communication, and it is rife with banality, lies and typos. Huzzah and raise your glass you gentle souls.

Um.

Well, yes. I have music that I made. Check out some of it in the darkest depths of the intronweb. It is all sample-based (i.e. STOLEN AND SEVERELY LACKING IN SOUL), it is all done by me (with mastering done by my main man Hershey), and it is destined for failure.

Soon I might have a way for people to buy it, which would make this message actually mean something.

Lance Your Boils To The Sweet Sounds Of The Monty Gaxton Explosion Of Aural Variations

2007-07-07T20:48:00.000-05:00

Alright, I've holding this back for some time; I don't know how long exactly but several years at least. Jay Leno: SCREW-DLE YOU-DLE IN THE POOP POOP PLAZA. Ranting against Jay Leno as an individual, a concept or a chin is not new nor original. I do not care to accomplish such unnecessary feats here. I have been stewing about a particular joke he cracked during a monologue on his ill-deserved program a few years back:

"The band Megadeth broke up today. (pause for audience recognition; take time to shake chin, mug at guitar player, say "yeah, yeah, that's right") Yeah, turns out they ran through all the combinations of the three chords that they know." (audience laughs, they are not sure why as usual)

See, Jay, I know your staff writers write all your jokes and you just kind of garble them out, but this one should not have passed the rehearsal. You see, you are thinking of punk music, which is as a style stripped down, simple and focused on simple chord structures. Metal music, the type of music Megadeth plays as implied not only by the name but the drugs and hairstyles, is focused on virtuosity, skilled musicianship and varied, dramatized instrumentation. Punk music was spawned through a direct opposition to this style of music and is more akin to fit the profile of the joke you made than does Megadeth. Do not mistake: I have no affinity for Megadeth and I intend not to defend their honor here. This is a message to those who do not understand styles of music and the differences therein. Megadeth know more than three chords. They probably broke up for "artistic differences", bottles thrown to their extremities at concerts, losing a key member of the band to heart failure, drowning in vomit, or religion, Metallica-related lawsuit, or the collective realization that they were not a good band. They did not break up because of your oh-so-clever joke about unskilled musicianship. Piss on it, Jay Leno, for there is no ground for your barbs to be planted.

My Love Is Like A Beacon Of Love

2007-06-29T00:27:00.000-05:00

I have never really felt a faith in God. I remember back to when I had to learn all this and that business about a benevolent higher being who didn't want us to jack off or whistle near churches and how I always had a sort of blank reception to them, responding much like a poorly paid child actor with no lines in an action movie. I seem to recall half-hearted bouts of prayer, after which I felt the lack of a purpose or end to to them. Every time I went to confession, I lied and said "Uh, I think I swore once", knowing full well my hands were down my pants several times a day, not wanting either the priest nor the big invisible man in the sky to have anything to do with it. He's omnipotent, isn't he? He watches me masturbate every time, why describe it to Him? I tried, sort of, to believe, for my Mom's sake mostly. My Dad I sort of always knew was an atheist, despite being rather tight-lipped about it, except in arguments with the evangelists on TV. I guess I took after him unknowingly. When I told my Mom I didn't want to go to church anymore because I didn't believe in God, she was visibly disappointed and quite upset. She told me I had to until I was 18. On my 18th birthday, a Sunday, I slept in until my mother yelled at me to get out of bed, to which I responded, "It's my 18th birthday. I'm not going, now or ever again." She wasn't pleased.

"Atheist" as a term implies to me a direct opposition to theism, which I don't really have. I think it has fucked up lots of things in this world, but I am not too terribly adamant about trying to break down religions or convert people. It gets to a point in bitching about religion that you are what you hate the most: Someone screaming their belief system and trying to get others to change faiths to coincicde with theirs. Atheism is a religion in its own right: To not believe in God takes faith just much as to believe in Him. There is no proof either way, both sides are jumping to conclusions. I guess I'm an "agnostic", but I've never been terribly fond of that term. It sounds like "atheist lite" or "atheism for pussies". Why should I even need a term to describe it? Religion just doesn't really work for me and that's that.

I honestly think one of the main reasons for my coming to this final decision of not believing in God is my sheer love of the phrase "God dammit". I love to say God Dammit so goddamn much that I dropped out of Catholicism. Any God that doesn't want me to say God Dammit is not a God I want to endorse. I absolutely adore that phrase. "God Dammit". Say it with me now: GOD DAMMIT!!! Scream it to the heavens, so He can hear! Doesn't that feel wonderful? Isn't that one of the best pairs of words in the english language? I can't get enough of it, goddammit. What kind of an egotist Lord needs to decry speaking ill of His name anyhow? I never even considered "God Dammit" to be all that bad in that "name in vain" sense; you're really just asking God if he will kindly damn something for you. It's what He's good at. That whole lightning bolt from above business was his thing for a while, like when He was into floods or grunge music. God Dammit! I love to say that when I'm angry. It really expresses exactly what I feel. I also love it as an accentuation of certain sentences, like just a simple "Hey, it's a goddamn nice day out" or "Goddamn it all, if it isn't Burt, my mailman!". Everyone needs to love this phrase. If you need to forgo religion in order to say it, so be it. It's worth it, trust me. The void in your life from a lack of a benevolent higher being is easily replaced by casual obscenity.

God Dammit!

Thinly Veiled Sexual Reference

2007-06-09T13:23:00.000-05:00

There are few things that annoy me more than poorly timed shits. Oft I shall find myself in the situation of needing to take a dump right when I'm about to leave for work, attend a high-powered stockholders meeting, or give the toast at the wedding of the daughters of top-ranking government officials. Like an uninvited guest with a terrible odor, the turtle pokes his head out at terribly inopportune moments, and usually with a tenacity such that I am unable to ignore it. For most people this may not be a problem, as they can forever hold their peace or squeeze out that white whale of the "smooth shit" of which I am hardly acquainted. See, my bathroom procedures are a long process that cannot be simply resolved with a quick five minute trip to the shitter. It is a step-by-step involvement that rarely is pulled off smoothly:

1. Mental preperation (5 min)
2. Stretching, relaxation, confidence exercises (5-10 min)
3. Regulate breathing patterns (1 min)
4. Find something to read (1-6 min, depending on proximity of worthy material)
5. Bathroom status check: TP availability, soap for washing hands, toilet seat free of loose material and pubic hairs (3 min)
6. Sit, recall past experiences in head, sigh, tell self everything is going to be okay (1 min)
7. Release (5-25 min)
8. Excevate (2 min)
9. Wipe (varies, anywhere between 30 sec and 1 hour)
10. Check for corn, discoloration, internal organs in the bowl (1 min)
11. Flush (1 min, 7 if clog occurs)
12. Wash hands (4 min)
13. Smell hands (1 min)
14. Wash hands again (6 min)
15. Leave bathroom, think of loved ones, clouds, trees and harmony, remind self it'll be at least another day before you have to do that again, make list of things to discontinue eating (2 min)

Each step needn't be done every time; if I 'm in a hurry I'll cut corners here and there. But the problem is I can never gauge how long a shit is going to take, how smoothly it'll go and what outside issues I may have to deal with at the last minute (no TP, no plunger, sewer crocodiles). This unsure feeling of whether I have time to effectively make a poop transaction is seriously perturbing to me, and my body seems to know that, saving the feeling of having to go to the bathroom for the last possible and most inconvenient moment. Damn you, colon, you devilish dastard!

I was hoping one day to exhaust ways I could talk about shit, but it hasn't happened yet. Apologies to those eating.

Syndicated And Local Television Chronicles #4: GSN Is The Devils Workshop

2007-05-15T19:34:00.000-05:00

A fact I learned when I was a sick child staying home from school, relearned every summer vacation, and recently relearned again during my stints at the amino acid study is that daytime television is downright dismal. If you ever find yourself noticing that Walker, Texas Ranger is the most watchable thing on, it's time to turn off the god damn TV, but more than that, it will cause you to question the very medium as well as your worth as a human being. An abysmal sea of game shows, soap operas, trash talk shows, divorce courts, shitty movies and Tyra Banks, daytime TV is the televisions subtle way of telling you that you are pathetic and need to do something with yourself. With the prime demographics being the unemployed, the elderly and the constantly drunk, most networks cheaply bought reruns, over-commercialized game shows and prude, crude, right-wing-scare-tactic boot-camp shout-o-rama talk shows are shoved between the hours of fuck-it's-eight-o-clock-and-I'm-still-drunk and hey-sonny-boy-it's-4-PM-and-it's-almost-time-for-pills-bingo-and-depression. It's a strain to watch, but ultimately I think this is a good thing. You'll notice the commercials that air during daytime TV (aside from all the complacent-housewife Swiffer ads during the stories) are primarily for local colleges, elderly-mobility devices and car companies that give little to no shit about your credit. Basically, television is telling you that you are poor, lazy and ain't got dick going for you. If you're even watching daytime TV, it's good that someone you will actually listen to is telling you such things.

I saw a commercial on during daytime TV the other day that literally was just a man yelling at the viewer, telling them they were pathetic and should get their shit together. It was inspiring. It was for a local college, the theme was "what the fuck are you doing watching TV, do something with your fucking life". And instead of the old standard in infomercials of "But Wait...!", he responded to the queries that were sure to arise with "No, not next semester, not tomorrow, call right now, bitch!" The actual product or service he offered was not as important to me as the message: Do something. Just fucking do something. Daytime television seems like it's terrible for a reason: You should not be watching it. You can watch House when you get home from work if you want. But you gotta get a job first.

Syndicated And Local Television Chronicles #3: You're Not A Guy, Carhop Guy

2007-05-08T21:39:00.000-05:00

I have always hated commercials. I hate them beyond the typical armchair junkie who hates them simply for the fact that they interrupt his shitty program. I think they are evil and sick. I think advertising is the bane of the our culture and that they perfectly exemplify capitalisms death grip on the mind of our society. All this being said, I still hold a somewhat warm palce in my heart for local advertising. When you see a commercial for Pepsi with Jessica Simpson or whomever the fuck prancing around shitting in Coke bottles and laciviously pouring sticky Pepsi about her supple breasts, there is much more going on beyond product recognition: You know what Pepsi is. You knew a long time ago. No fucking Pepsi Challenge is going to turn you form one side of the petty soda wars to the other; you made your decision a long time ago, one that should have been "Fuck you, assholes". But local advertising gets back to the bare-bones purpose behind commericals: To tell you about a product. There is usually very little of a brainwashing element to local commercials, primarily because they simply don't have the budget for it. Empire Today doesn't have the money for a team of devil-worshipping psychologists who can spew mind-numbing filth and spread earworms of self-destruction into your brain. They just wanna tell you about some carpets. They're not big enough to be truly evil, and the scale they work on is not such that they can kill Columbians or poison lakes.

And sweet old Lynn Hauldren. Oh me oh my. An element of television truly died the day you were replaced by computer-generated pictures of yourself. More commonly known as the "Empire Carpet Man", Lynn has served as the icon of Empire Today since 1973, adding a sweet poor acting ability to the heart of the company. He even sang the infectuous jingle, one that has captured the hearts of millions. Hauldren is an example of A Guy. By this I mean simply that he is a character on television who is not an actor or otherwise a celebrity, but is recognized enough to be considered somewhat of a meme. Other Guys include Dick Enrico, the dude with jerry curls from all the Lickety Splits commercials, Eric the Bike Man, Dean and Umie (you smug sons of bitches), and, of course, this guy (hey hey, you heard me). There's something sort of sweet and delightful about the silly iconography of these individuals.

But Carhop Guy, you are not a Guy. You are trying really, really hard to become one of these local commercial icons and it is just not happening. You even call yourself the Carhop Guy! What kind of brass fucking balls do you have to declare yourself one of these Guys without the years of experience to back it up? The Carhop guy is the face of Carhop, cars and credit to go, but there is really nothing interesting or worthwhile about him. He never grabbed my attention other than to decry his self-proclaimed status as Local Guy. You're not up to that level, my friend. You've got to be silly or sweet or bizarre or something, you can't just yell at me and worm your way into my heart. It's a trust, man, one that you can't just take on a whim. You need to earn that status, and it is not one that is applied by anyone other than the audience. Yes, it seems like a difficult thing to break into, but that's because it is. No one who is at that level got there intentionally, it just happened. Do you think Sammy Stevens really had any idea his little rap about Flea Market Montgomery would take off the way that it did? No, it just happened. These things are somewhat random and are largely based on a sort of unknown set of factors. We can't always put our finger on why we grow attatched to something, and you can't force it. Besides, I would say most of the charm behind these Guys is that they are just sort of wacky figures who don't really think too much about it. Most of them just star in the commercials because they happened to be there at the time or were the least debilitatingly ugly person working at the company. Quit trying so fucking hard. You're not terribly likable or unique.

It takes a certain unsaid something to be a local icon. No one can really quantify what it is exactly, but whatever it may be, you ain't got it, jackass. Get your bald head off my teevee and quit yelling at me.

Come With Me To My Death Machine!

2007-05-01T18:05:00.000-05:00

Today I applied at a cereal bar that is about to open by my house. I began to question whether this was a compromising of my principles. I have previously been outspoken against the concept, and I still think it is a pretty dumb one. A restaurant that only serves cereal? Come on. When I first saw this concept on the Food Network a while ago, I was a little irked by its impetuous premise: All you do is pour fucking milk in a fucking bowl and I have to shill out 7 fucking dollars? Fuck. I saw it as a fad, another indication of hipster-elite non-restaurants that throw in our face how silly they are. It didn't seem to be devised by or tendered towards true cereal connoisseurs as it simply shills out your basic O's and flakes and wheats and whatnot. No surprises, no obscure brands, no real soul. Do you people really feel a cereal bar is something that ought to exist, or is this for the buck? There is no artisanship involved, no passion for the subject. Boo on cereal bars, basically.

On the other hand, I like cereal a lot, and the idea of being able to stop by after class and just get a bowl of Lucky Charms without having to buy the whole damn box is slightly appealing. It would seem silly if a bowl was comparable in price to an actual box, but who knows? I really just assumed gastronomical prices because I am one of those cynics who yells at TV. Also, cries of "you're not really doing anything for me I couldn't do myself" change their face when behind the counter. All of a sudden the place is simply a really easy job, one that is nearly impossible to fuck up, plus I'm sure I'll get to eat tons of cereal. I truly have a passion for cereal, one that has declined in my "grown-up" days (mainly just because it's out of my price range). I could talk your ear off about some pretty uninteresting things, and I have a true love of the confection. Cereal sort of deserves better recognition, there's nothing wrong with raising awareness. The issue I have is it seems these bars don't share my passion. But perhaps that could all change. If I worked there, I would talk cereal all day, eat cereal all day, discuss cereal with other cereal patrons and work over the history of cartoon figureheads who love to eat wheat despite being lions. I have a desire to change the industry, to turn it into a haven for other cereal-philosophers to come and find those rare cereals they can't get anywhere else. When I took a look at the menu, I was a little bothered. All real basic stuff, no real imagination involved. No Cracklin' Oat Bran? No Boo Berry? No King Vitamin? I could sneak into the dorm cafeterias and steal the same selection they have. I really would love to see them branch out and try some weird cereals that may find a niche market and open up new possibilities of what a cereal bar can be.

My hope is that my interview is simply me discussing how much I love cereal rather than "Can you pour two different things into a bowl also with a spoon oh and how about mopping is that a thing you do". Fuck that. Ask me my opinions on the Mikey commercials remakes, the rumor of the discontinuation of Wheaties, the tragic death of the other two Cinnamon Toast Crunch chefs, and the reprehensible change in focus of Cookie Crisps appalling dog-centric ads. You ought to have to write essays to work at this place. Every employee had better have a deep interest in the field, otherwise I believe I'm in for a big disappointment. But if I work there, I can perhaps be a driving force for change, and hopefully revolutionize the industry.

Basically, when it comes down to it, I don't believe applying there is a corruption of my principles because having a job in the first place goes against what I believe in. Corporations, money, and especially working dipshit jobs are all evil and wrong, but thats what living in a capitalist society is. I gotta eat, so I gotta get a job. Might as well be one I can eat cereal at all day.

Father Knows Best Is Only Above Walker, Texas Ranger Because Of Chronology

2007-04-29T11:16:00.000-05:00

At work the other day, Saran wrap had a real problem with me. It was not my best friend. It took me several tries to successfully wrap up old BBQ pork. Saran wrap was my enemy; I wrapped it up and tossed it in the trash several times as evidence of my hatred for it. Fuck you, Saran wrap. Fuck you a lot. I hate you, inanimate object. You ruin my life.

Actually, Saran wrap is not out to get me. This is really just an example of an already apparent general issue I have with myself: I fail at things that you should not be able to fail at. Who the fuck thinks twice about Saran wrap? It is a boring subject, not to be thought about twice. You wrap your shit up and move on. There really ought not to be a thought process involved. But I'm me, and being me, I fail at the little aspects of life to a ridiculous degree. I can't cook. I can't drive. I can't relay directions to another. I can't unlock my door in less than five minutes. When I was a kid it took me what seemed like my whole life to ride a bike. All the real basic things a human being should simply know how to do and not have to think about, I am awful at. I get embarrassed when around other human beings, because they all know how to do basic shit and they don't comprehend another human being who doesn't. I am a beautiful anamoly, a man of basic intelligence who is barely self-reliant.

I hate myself. This is not new. I've never been a fan of myself. When you hang out with the same guy for 21 years, he starts to get on your nerves. Every time I look in the mirror I see that guy who I suppose represents me to the world. Fuck that guy.

I, like those who live with having lost an arm or something, live with it. I am depressed and have poor self-esteem. There it is, you're gonna have to live a life. It's something that is always on the backburner, but I try my best to not bring it to the forefront. These little failures help remind me of how much I dislike this fellow that I am. Yes, you are a failure. Here's proof. You can't ignore it any longer. I get so pissed off at little shit like Saran wrap and when my CD player skips and dumb shit like that because it represents a larger picture of self-loathing. What I really despise is when people call me on it, a "You don't know how to [blank]" or "Haven't you ever [blanked] before?". My roommate last year was insufferable to this regard, and so have been several assholes I've encountered. Thanks for telling me what I already know.

My sadness and anger at myself only helps make me more sad because I know it's dumb. Why are so down on yourself, idiot? If Saran wrap is the worst of my problems, I'm doing pretty well. It's such an American, privleged thing to draw attention to the insignificant like that. My problems are petty and unimportant, which only serves to make me more pissed at myself about even drawing attention to them.

Whatever. Depression is the lamest thing in the world, and I'll try not to talk about it anymore.

Next time: Scatological humor! I promise!

Syndicated And Daily Television Chronicles #2: Dick Enrico Is Slowly Going Insane

2007-04-22T23:54:00.000-05:00

A decent enough proposal, to be sure: Really, why should one buy new when slightly used will do? What a novel concept. Suddenly I'm swayed forever: Dick Enrico, you have shown me the light. There is no reason to purchase new products when used products are just as damn good. Wow. Inspiring words from a quasi-inspiring man.

2nd Wind Exercises supposedly was built from the ground up, by one overweight man with nothing better to do (as all decent business operations ought to be). Someone who knows the simple reality of exercise equipment: Nobody uses it. Tony Little can shove his ponytail up his likely-quaft asshole, thinking half the people who buy his shit are gonna act like a god-damn kangaroo on skis in order to get those tasty abs. So Mr. Enirco opens up a store to sell these used clothes hangers back to you for less price. Being only slightly used, they will do, and you will subsequently realize the futility and hubris of buying new. All's well and good, sure. Business picks up, things are getting more steady, you're needing to expand. You open up more stores and begin to shift your motto a little bit: "Why buy new when slightly used will do, (slight pause for dramatic effect, signifying a breach, if you will between the original saying and the tacked on second half), except when the deals are this good! Damn, nice. Stay true the character of the original but inform old hats and new skullies of the upgraded concept. I salute you, sir. Let it not be said you are not a skillful businessman. No question there.

However, suddenly you've got the need for an advertising campaign in the local area. In case I actually need to remind anyone, advertising is seething evil cancer set to destroy the human soul. Get it involved in anything and it will literally suck the humanity right form your bones. Dick, I don't blame you whatsoever for beginning to air local commercials. It was in your best interest. But you're playing with a petri dish my friend, one which could contain a DNA-destroying mechavirus. Careful.

It begins simple enough. Dick is a somewhat congenial character, personable and oddly genuine in his approach. It's always nice to actually see the head of the company tell you something. You can call them on their bullshit. You can see the yellow in their eyes and find how black their very heart is. Dick was one of us, it seemed, bringing the local-flavor aspect to it, working with low budgets rather than against. A simple bing-bang here's-what-we-do kinda approach. But again, you, Dick Enrico, were a character. It is never quite so simple once a camera is involved, is it? Suddenly we have a face to fit the... whatever the fuck. This man was 2nd Wind Exercising. Almost a local celebrity in a way.

Commercials became more and more Dick-centric. Dick-tagious, if you will. The iconic poofy hair and mustache became transposed in more and more new situations, culminating in what I consider to be one of the creepiest billboards I have ever seen. I got the most horrible feeling whenever I passed by it. I believe this is when I first noticed it: Dick Enrico must be going mad.

As you may be able to tell from this billboard chronology, 2nd Wind gradually got odder and odder marketing techniques. Beyond the creepy Hitler-child-abuse agenda was the reoccurence of skeletons in suits pushin tin from beyond the grave. I mean, come on. No bones about it? You went way out of your way to make a crappy pun there. It doesn't even make sense: Your store has nothing to with bones in any capacity. Where did you possibly come up with that? How that association was even realized... I shudder to think. Dick Enrico on the teevee seemed more and more in your face, like a polite guy trying way too hard to get your attention. But his appearance has a strange context for me now: Who is this sicko pushing babies on me asking me to "start 'em young"? What in gods name are you talking about? Don't you sell exercise equipment? Are you going to steal my child if I enter your store? Are you running a child labor scheme, or is this some sick psycho-sexual role-playing of hot Dick on Baby Dick action? Perhaps it was I going mad and not Dick.

The most recent "anniversary" commercial involves Dick Enrico's floating head transposed onto the members of a barbershop quartet, who yell at me with piano accompaniment for 30 seconds. Suddenly a Dick Enrico head on a bodybuilders body leaves me with a warped mind for the rest of the commercial break. This commercial is evidence of insanity. Dick Enrico went down a difficult road: Local commercials can afford a little bit of unprofessionalism and certainly quirkiness, but these recent efforts are a bit frightening. Maybe Mr. Enrico lost creative control, maybe he never had it. But he's got to be at least a little off his rocker to pose for and approve of pictures of him lording over an infant he has forced a fake mustache on. I hope this doesn't descend any further. Last thing we need is another Menards guy.

I'll Bet Hitler Got A Lot Of Bongs For Birthday Presents

2007-04-20T19:32:00.000-05:00

I am used to being dicked around at work. Lately it has seemed as though the sole purpose of having a job is so that one can be consistently and thoroughly dicked around. When I just today received news that my hours at the cafe at which I work, these hours currently grand-totalling the delightfully poignant example of prior moments of being dicked around at a walloping three, would have to be cut because they just weren't pulling in enough sales. Okay. So the pathetically insignificant three hours I was working is going to be downgraded to the literally-holds-no-significance total of zero? Bitchin'! I don't need money anyway! I've really been enjoying living off of stolen saltine packets these past few weeks! I mean, this would be tantamount to being fired had I not begun picking up hours at the golf course as well, which is under the same behemoth-like and archetypally incompetent management of the big-bitch known as University Dining Services. Rather, it is a simple but effective dick-around in the middle of my already stressful day.

I sometimes feel that beyond the obvious reasons for being dicked around at work, ie mismanagement, idiotic higher-ups, general spirit-crushing inherent in any job, that the people who do the dicking genuinely enjoy it. There seems to be an art to it, even. My boss at Northrop Auditorium went above and beyond the call of duty when it came to dicking me around. Beyond the simple berating and "can we talk?"'s (of which there were plenty), a slew of minute but obscenely effective dick-arounds were thrust upon me like so much green slime on Nickelodeon. Not that I didn't deserve what befell, me, heavens no; I was certainly not a model employee. I was fired on grounds of incompetence; though that specific word was not used exactly, it was danced around like so many swaddled swan-maidens. I am not trying to come off as some blameless victim in this case. Merely, I relate to you of how I got dicked around. Before second semester started, I set my schedule up so I could get more hours at work. I wanted to work a lot more than I was because I was (am, ever shall be) poor. So I took classes on Tuesday and Thursday primarily, leaving my Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays and weekends almost entirely open. I turn my schedule into my boss, who swiftly responds with "How would you like to work on Tuesdays and Thursdays?". Uh... I suppose... You know, I'll just be on campus from NINE O'CLOCK TO NINE O'CLOCK WITH A ONE HOUR BREAK AT FIVE PM is all. Yeah, no that works fine. I'll piss myself lazy on those FIVE FUCKING GOD DAMN DAYS I HAVE COMPLETELY AND TOTALLY OPEN while I shit myself stressed on the T days! Fine! Sure! Yeah! Great! Perfect! FUCKING DON'T WORRY BE HAPPY GONNA BE A BRIGHT SUNSHINY DAY LOLLIPOPS AND RAINBOWS I BELIEVE IN UNICORNS KEEBLER ELVES MAKE HAPPY YUM COOKIE BLAH BLAH PIXIES!!!!! My world is a god damned ray of sunlight dancing to the dew of spring! Fuck you! From there it was all snide talking to's and little "See me after works" until I finally caught on that I was the redheaded child of this office. On one schedule that went up, every other employee other than me was working a particular ballet show. I, uh, wasn't needed, or something. Fie. Eventually I began to feel the axe dangling above me, despite my best efforts to improve my performance. The ultimate slpa in my face was the day I was fired. The schedule for the next two weeks was put up and I was scheduled up through the end of it. Then I get the "Jack, come talk to me after work" schpiel. I got that feeling you get when your mom yells that at you from two floors below while you're watching internet porn. We talked, and I was "let go". Fine, your hands had been seeming awfully clammy lately anyhow. I didn't really mind being let go so much; I was pretty tired of being dicked around by those dicks that whole time. But what got me was the fact that they had me fill out a ten page personal workmanship review earlier in my shift. They knew I was getting fired at the end of that shift. Don't try to pretend like I wasn't. Everyone got these reviews to fill out, but everyone else kept their job after they walked out of there that day. I filled out this big long review for absolutely no reason, and they knew it. Assholes. That's some prime rib fuck you. Fuck 'em. Don't play house with bears with boners, that's what I always say.

The annoying thing is that these aren't even real jobs yet. All the jobs I've ever held have been the quintessential "you're in college or high school" jobs; once I start embarking upon the real, hardcore soul-crushing, suicide-rate increasing, deathly empty and depraving jobs of adulthood, I don't know that I'll have the stamina to make it out alive. Being dicked around sucks, being jerked around sucks, being pushed around will hurt, being sodomized around is a level I hope never to get to. But I will: The more "adult" and "actual" a job you have, the more cold-cocking penises there are going to be prodding you every direction until your very self is no more. I do not look forward to real life.

But! Fuck all that! I GET TO DRIVE A GOD DAMN GOLF CART WHILE LISTENING TO MASTODON. I couldn't possibly care less about any instances of being dicked around or how shitty my day is or how fucking bothersome all my customers are or any of that shit when I am blazing down the sidewalk at 15 miles per hour rocking out to the supple sounds of the boys from Atlanta. Oh my goodness. What a time. It's so synchonistic and pleasurable that I would dare to say all the piss I wind up taking in a day is worth it. I wonder if Mastodon knows they've crafted the perfect music to listen to while careening about in a golf cart (Perhaps I am not the best judge here; for me, Mastodon is like Sriracha: It goes with everything). What a beautiful, wonderful feeling. I have been wanting to steal a cart and go on a joyride around town with my boombox blasting Remission like you wouldn't believe. Somebody stop me, the joy is such that I would quit my job and shit on my clean record just for those precious minutes before I get mowed down by police. My god. I can't help but smile.

Please, find what makes you happy and do it. It almost makes this life worth the dick.

Syndicated And Daily Television Chronicles #1: John O'Hurley Ought To Stop Acting

2007-04-18T18:44:00.000-05:00

[Advance warning: This new series I plan to embark on, which will chronicle my thoughts on the rather uninteresting bits of local television, may not interest those not in the Twin Cities, or anyone for that manner. I hope that if I mention something about the Menards guy, people will either know who he is and what I'm talking about, or have some sort of local equivalent that is comprable. If not, my apologies for a potentially very lame series of posts. This is, however, preciesly what I find incredibly interesting, and I'm gonna write about it because, all in all, this blog is here to amuse me. Piss off.]

You know, there is no rule anywhere that says you have to stay an actor your whole life. When people get fired from the logging company, they don't necessarily go back into logging. It may be all you know, but I feel like in the case of acting it's more of a desire to stay famous as opposed to staying employed. Gary Coleman had the right idea. He is now a security guard, and is employed. To continue acting would seem foolish; all he'd ever get are guest spots on Family Guy mocking his previous efforts. You become a joke after a while in the business, why continue? Gary Coleman didn't ever seem like a classically trained Shakespearian actor who was so inspired by the craft that he couldn't imagine giving it up. Mr. Coleman, I'm going to tell you something that you may not have heard before: I respect you. Congratulations on your new vocation, I wish you the very best.

John O'Hurley, take note.

You had a pretty good thing going when Seinfeld was still on the air. You were a mere guest star, one of hundreds, keep in mind, who got popular enough to be brought back several times. You were in 25 episodes and were even incorporated into a few of the main storylines. You were a high point of the series, you added a very humorous element to the show with your unique voice and overly dramatic lines. Many of your phrases became especially memorable parts of the series, for which I'm sure you constantly get recognition from fans on the street. Kudos.

The thing is, though... Seinfeld is over. What was a blessing for many at one time appears to have been a curse in the aftermath. KKKramer is likely to never work again, every spin-off has failed (miserably I might add), and most of the major guest stars have but a ghost on the screen, appearing hear and there to a mostly "Wait, I recognize that guy" reaction. And from, what I've seen, you can't really play much else than Mr. Peterman. Which is fine, as it seems to have gotten you a few jobs from places that want that exact charecter. The issue is though, those people are mainly insurance companies or embarresingly piss-poor animated children's shows. You live off that while you can, but judging from your slow down in work it ain't terribly long. Patrick Wharburton got into voice acting but is able to pull it off because not only does he have a larger range than you do, but he doesn't feel the need to pepper it with on-screen appearances. He has accepted where he fits now, why can't you?

No ill will, obviously, everybody's gotta eat. But fucking Family Feud? Are you really terribly proud to be filling Louie god-damned Anderson's shoes? Jesus, man, hosting Family Feud is just about as sad as it gets. Why do that to yourself? I didn't even know that show was still on the air. You cavort about the screen playing J. Peterman to the umpteenth power, likely supressing your urge to slip a revolver between your tonsils after each episode. C'mon man, how does it feel really to get paid to ask people to name things that dogs can eat? If I ever had to say "Show me Mother-In-Laws!" or whatever the fuck on national television, I would slink home in shame every night to my new best friends, being Jack Daniels and valium. You weren't a big enough star to pull this "falling from the top" shit, man, you could've easily, much much more easily than Jason Alexander or Julia Louis-Dryfus can, simply disappeared into obscurity and never be seen again. Five years down the line from any big hit show, the main charecters get mocked on reference-dependent shows like Family Guy, while the smaller charecters can go on to either bigger and better things or a real job. Why cull up the same tired shit to keep in the public eye? Being on-screen isn't everything, especially if that means being where you are now.

Go get a new job. Do something else that interests you. If acting truly interests you, you can't possibly be interested in Family Feud. I know you're doing Spamalot and potentially fulfilling shit like that, but don't delude yourself. You're in the same boat as Gary: one-note. Accept it and move on. There's nothing wrong with not being in the industry anymore. You are not less of a man, nor does your early work suffer whatsoever, from changing occupations. You may find something new to be far more interesting than acting ever was. There's a world of options out there. Quit digging the fucking hole.

Cuz, come on, Family fucking Feud? Hosting that show causes impotence.

ZQFMGB

2007-04-01T11:52:00.000-05:00

So this person handed me some kinda slip of paper meant to signify some sort of something or whatever I dunno. I tend not to pay attention to shit people hand me on account of it is usually some ad for some bank or something. But this one had candy on it! A bribe! Yay! I dug into the Smarties with joy. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, thus it is always good to eat chalk-flavored sugar at 10 in the morning as your first meal.

The issue was that this candy was quite difficult to open as it it was taped to the slip of paper and the tape was covering the opening. I had to pry and rip and get angry. The candy was unsatisfying, and I didn't even eat the whole thing cuz I was frustrated with it.

This is a terrible business decision.

If you want folks to not ignore your little slip of paper, candy is a good attention getter. But in this case it backfired because you dickholes don't know shit about candy you bastards. Don't you know if that shit is taped shut it becomes damn near impossible to open up? Bastards just slapped that shit on without a thought. I deliberately ignored the little Free Taco or Credit Reports or Need More Spam In Your E-Mail? or whatever the fuck thing it was, ignored it with a vengeance. I was planning on just regularly ignoring it, but you forced my hand. This candy business was annoying, and thus I shall ignore with passion, an ignorance ten times more devastating than straight up not paying attention. Fuck you.

Lars Raars to The Maximum

2007-03-29T10:12:00.000-05:00

I got back from visiting the wonderful Eva Cohen yesterday with the necessary reminder that, yes, she exists. It feels sometimes like she is a voice on the phone, some words in a letter and a picture by my bed and nothing more. Without actual contact it's hard to see her as anything but a dream, and that is not pleasant. It's weird to think sometimes that maybe I just invented this girl, that she is just in my imagination. All that was tossed out the proverbial window when I arrived in Providence. I had an incredible time just spending time with her in the flesh. I can't think of anyone else I have so much fun with doing just anything, even if it be nothing.

We, by the way, are the most hardcore motherfuckers ever. I'd like to see any of you assholes last over 3 years together when a large chunk of that is not actually spent together. And through all that we've got nothing but stronger together, bitches, so you and your pid-diddly "we've been going out for almost fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive weeks" bullshit can step off. The cynic in me has turned its doubts from the futility of our love to the pettyness of yours, non-particular reader. Don't fuck with this. We're talking 80 year olds on the porch sippin' wine with a dozen cats kinda shit. We're talking romantic cruise where we run into the contestants of Shipmates and cold slap them in their lush faces. We're talking cinema-style happy endings where love conquers all and you secretly delight in the fact that everything sappily worked out in the end. We're talking cinema-style sex scenes, where hot button celebrities finally let a little nip show and where entire rooms shake by our sheer choreography. We're talking Shakespeare sonnets and shit, all iambic pentameter and shmancy-ass affluences. Our love is the final boss of Mushihimesama Futari: confident in victory, frustrating to geeks everywhere, and suffocatingly purple.

I Did Not Wanna Switch To The Google Account But The Bastards Made Me I Hate Them

2007-03-20T17:59:00.000-05:00

I began my amino acid study today. I am a guinea pig for Research now; this is where my inexorable lack of money has led me. Not really so bad, actually: I sit there on a bed for a couple hours as they take my blood and I read a book. Read and bleed, easy 200 clams. Pretty sweet actually.

So I walked in today kind of excited about the prospect. Not only will I be able to pay rent next month, but I'll be doing it with minimal effort on my part. I walk into the VA Medical Center this morning with the first positive outlook on my financial situation I've had in months.

First thing I see as I walk through the oversized revolving doors (which are presumably intended for hospital beds and ailing pacederms) is a picture of the 43rd President of the United States. The shit-eating grin and that empty gaze reminds me that, yes, this man is just as evil as we've always given him credit for. Suddenly I got nervous. But W's soulless smirk was just a precursor to the gigantic American flag I saw in the center of the building. This thing was ridiculous. It was literally 4 stories tall, cowering and lording over all like a dark cloud. This was the biggest flag I have ever seen and ever hope to see. A single star was probably as big as your average flag. This thing could've been its own damn country. Where was I? I understand this is a veterans hospital, but my God! Most of those veterans would break their neck simply trying to look to the top of this thing. Who knows, this is probably what sails at every H.U.B. down in Texas, adorns every freedom-loving gas station and 24 hour diner in Kentucky, serves as wall paper everywhere on t'other side o' the Mason-Dixie. My little Union heart was trembling at the sheer size of patriotisms artilery. Before, I wasn't the least bit nervous about getting my blood drawn every 10 minutes for 3 hours. But suddenly, fear and paranoia wafted over me like I was wrapped in the stars and bars: What were they actually doing this study for? Where was the cyborg-alien robot army that was going to be using my blood for nefarious secret operations in the Middle East? THE GOVERNMENT IS TAKING MY LIFE-FORCE!!!

I calmed down and told myself if the goverment wanted blood, they were going to get it somehow or another. I might as well get some cash out of this. But then I started to feel like I was selling myself out to the evil fascist government. Then I simply reminded myself: "You're 21 years old. You grew up on The X-Files and The Sex Pistols. Of course you're going to think that. Besides, do you really think the current administration is possibly smart enough to pull off the conspiracy shit to the extent you're imagining?" Actually, I mainly just reminded myself that there was money involved. I turned away from the flag and went to go read and bleed for cash. Blood money.

I admit I'm not actually that paranoid. Just, Jesus Christ, that was big ass flag. It actually frightened me. Why on Earth need it be that big? Is it really more patriotic if it's bigger? Is there a competition between this and some other veterans hospital? Is some sort of medal or large cake involved? I know what country I am currently in. I know who is president. The constant reminders are daunting and unnecessary. Besides, and perhaps I am looking at this from a different angle than most of the folks who will be chancing upon this flag, but that symbol does not evoke pride and patriotism. It represents for me war, death, lies, racism, slavery, religious zealots, homophobia, sexism, classism, and abhorrent nationalism. The larger it is, the more it serves to stand for America's overbearing desire for control and assimilation of other countries and its own people. It's sad, really, that the symbol of our nation conjurs up tinges of fear in me. I would love to be able to look at a flag of America and conjur some pride. But for what seems to be my entire life, it has been associated with scoundrels, crooks, evil men and women, THEM. Maybe I am paranoid. But, Christ, a flag that large just screams "fascism". We are large and powerful, we are right. I hope it brings a tear to the eye of veterans because I, as one who has not fought in a war, has not been through the depression, has not seen what many of these men have seen, get a little ill in its presence. I'm sure these folks would disagree vehemently with my judgement. But with what the red, white and blue have come to be associated, it's hard to look at sometimes.

Great Scott, Mediocre Andrew

2007-02-28T10:32:00.000-06:00

I realized the other day that every banal, insignificant comment or thought I've ever had can easily become more profound if I think of it as the opening sentence to a novel:

- Sadly, all my life, I have never been able to properly chop onions.

- He sure is taking a long time in the shower, I thought solemnly to myself.

- My mind raced as I desperately tried to coax the memories of who played the black guy on Matlock; by the end, I had given up all hope.

- When I came to, clothes scattered the ground and an unfamiliar stench wafted like a stiff breeze on a dead morning. My glasses had been placed in a rather unorthodox location. I had not a clue as to where, but my very sight was dependant upon their retrieval. This was it.

- Tossing, he tried to convince himself he could get away with hitting the snooze one more time. "This is the last time, I swear," begged his mind like a brother-in-law in need of quick cash. He'd heard that one before, though that did little to prevent him from slothfully reaching his left hand out from the covers and shutting off Hail To The Thief for another 6 minutes.

- As the naked women continued to bounce and sway on his laptop, suddenly Jack came to the realization that he should be searching for his backpack, not his towel.

- My last fart was truly tremendous, like a wave of foetor crying up for the heavens like so many lost souls. Bean burritoes tend to make me especially poetic, at least in the flatulence department.

Suddenly, my life is a book with an intricate and exciting plot that needn't actually go anywhere, so long as there is the implication it goes somewhere. Who knows, playing Tetris could lead to some gigantic and interesting misadventure, so long as it's phrased correctly.

Precociousness Is The Female Taint

2007-02-26T14:20:00.000-06:00

When I was a kid, I used to imagine the entire world was just one big, incredibly well-animated cartoon. The photorealistic drawings were drawn by hand, frame by frame, by a series of skilled artists, whose attention to detail was such that this cartoon was entirely indistinguishable from real life. The show was about me, seen through my eyes and following my life 24 hours a day. The egoist ramblings of Truman Show style "the whole world revolves around me!" philosophies were yet to emerge, and my concept was different from this anyhow. I was not a real person trapped in a fake world; I myself was fake as well. This entire show of my life was invented by a team of creative animators, and I was simply a charecter as was everyone else. Several times I would specifically look at something visually arresting or detailed simply to give the animators a harder time. This was kind of an odd and muddy concept, because even though I was a charecter being driven by the animators, I somehow had complete control over what I did. I could not control the world around me, that was to the animators discretion. Instead, I could simply go through my normal life as though it were a normal life, and it may as well have been as it was entirely indistinguishable from whatever the "real world" was. If you were to look at a single cel of the animation, it would look like a photograph, but it was a drawing, one done so realistically that it was impossible to seperate as a drawing. Often I would look around me and simply be impressed by the skill of those who were drawing my life.

Something that always struck me as odd, however, was the fact that the show revolved around me. I would have days which were not particularly interesting but must have still demanded an intense amount of work to produce. A day where I sit around playing video games is not going to appear very interesting onscreen, and yet painstaking amounts of time must've gone into creating this rather dull episode. Each day was an episode, and some were frankly not that great. Why would anyone even watch a show about me? If these folks had the ability to draw this well and create such an amazing product, why on Earth wouldn't they pick a subject that garnered more interest? Who greenlighted this thing anyway? It must cost a fortune.

This led me to thinking about the audience: If I was merely an animated program, there must be some sort of viewer of this. How does that work? How does someone watch me? To be a fictional charecter and still exist was kind of a strange notion: I could still feel, taste, smell, hear. I knew that I must be alive, but how could I be if I was invented? One theory I had was that the audience hooks themselves up to what essentially would be a VR machine and they not only see what I see but feel what I feel. This whole project seemed absolutely fascinating to me. Was I, then, myself? Was I someone watching the program? Could I feel what this charecter felt so fully that I became lost inside them? Am I not myself, essentially? Some voice actor was playing my voice in some studio in Hollywood, no doubt, while each of my friends and family and everyone I came into contact with were simply supporting roles. The people I met on a day to day basis were all created and designed by some artist somewhere, probably after a series of rough sketches. Even if I never saw them again, the blip they made on my radar likely took a valiant effort to put forth. I never stopped respecting the amount of work put into this project. I felt true appreciation for all that went into making this life and all that I considered myself a part of. I and everything around me was art.

The fact that the writers would let me find out about this by allowing me to think about it left me curious but somewhat sure of my autonomy. I must be in control of my own life if I am even able to ponder this. However, I suppose that even if I figured out for certain that my life was simply an animated program, there wouldn't really be a damn thing I could do about it. Some staff writer with a philosophy degree likely introduced this concept into the show, dancing atop the fourth wall like an existential Humpty Dumpty. I could never prove consequentially, but the audience would see me playing with the concept and take interest in my Verfremdungseffekt. My show was a drama, a comedy, a romance, a life. The writers took on the daunting project of creating and following the life of a single individual, me, by not telling a story of something I've done or giving a history or cramming my biography into some 3 hour movie. Instead, for the past 20 years, every day has been documented and presented as is; no particular overarching theme, no twist endings, no plot devices. Simply my life, as I live it. Good, bad, interesting, uninteresting, arbitrary or meaningful, this is me. This is my life and how I've lived it. My personal moments of shame, angst, boredom, apathy, depression, lonliness, guilt, rolling on the floor in tears, even wiping my ass, all were on display for everyone to see. My 8 year old penis has been on some big screen somewhere, surely giving the anti-child pornography people something to go on about. This must be rated NC-17, or perhaps a new ratings system was invented. The thought of a rating made me think about how odd it is we even have ratings: this is a life and what has actually happened. It cannot be edited if it is to stay true to the concept, and in so you're going to see some things that may shock, offend or disgust. But that's life.

I came to realize my memories were essentially just reruns, my highs and lows were all probably during sweeps week, when I cried they knew, when I laughed they knew. When I was born was the first episode, the last episode I will die. I sometimes thought that this was the thought process of a child who watched too much television, that their entire life would be framed this way. Frankly, the thought made me appreciate life for what it is: complicated, detailed, interconnected, long. Most shows don't last 20 years, and mine doesn't have any sign of stopping anytime soon. Whether or not it even garners any more interest, it's still on, and that's what matters. Whenever I'm down on myself I like to go back and relive these memories of childhood, when I was amazed by life and how spectacular it could be sometimes. Just as there are downs there are going to be ups. At the very least, the sheer fact that I am alive and on this planet is, frankly, pretty amazing.

Oh Mine Futzging Gawrsh

2007-01-03T18:26:00.000-06:00

Sorry about the barrage of shit talking as of late. I'm starting to give the impression there is nothing in my life worth noting other than that which falls out of my behind. I oughta change the title of this to The Log Blog, write a book of comedic phrasings and get my own series on Comedy Central.

I've begun to get a trifle of spam in my e-mail, and out of curiosity (and the fact that I really don't get much regular mail) I began to read some of it. My, how spam has changed since the last time I really paid it any mind. Has anyone else noticed a rash of increasingly literary spam messages? Every e-mail I get seems like it was lifted from a novel, with the phrase "ass licking lesbians" conveniently replacing "the frail shell of humanity" or what have you. It of course makes no sense whatsoever, as it has no context, is filled to the brim with keywords and sex terms, and likely randomly generated.

"Stalwart, young Timothy exited the premises with a singular goal. As he hummed to himself the hymns of his forefathers, there was but a small spritely nature to his step, implying a renewed sense of UNDERAGE HORSECOCK UNDERAGE HORSECOCK UNDERAGE HORSECOCK jubilation at the thought of his new beginnings. His photographic mind displayed the evenings events in intense detail. His photographic mind displayed the evenings events in intense detail. His photographic mind displayed the evenings events in intense detail. His photographic mind displayed the evenings events in intense detail. His photographic mind displayed the evenings events in intense detail. Never would he forget the free blinking lite games office supplies click here to put your penis somewhere special argyle sweaters help me i'm lonely hit floating eminem for magic prize, lest he be remiss toward future UNDERAGE HORSECOCK UNDERAGE HORSECOCK BALLS THE SIZE OF NATIONAL MONUMENTS CAN BE YOURS $9.95. There was going to be quite the climax to this adventure, which was actually only a paragraph in length."

I don't quite get it; are they trying to make you think this an actual excerpt from a story? Are they trying to appeal to an upscale, more literature-laden contingent of hard double anal lesbian milf sex fans? Does anyone fall for this?

Now is the winter of our discon-PIERCEDCLITSIXFEETLONGORDERNOW-tent.

Beastiality Should Be Legal Tender

2006-12-16T10:13:00.000-06:00

I am quite adept at holding in urine. Some might call me The Urine Camel if they had the gusto, wherewithal and costume to do so. Can't go fifteen minutes on a bus without eating something, but pissing? I can hold in yellow thunder from here to Abu Dahbi. I don't mean to brag; someone will probably desire to challenge me. This I do not want because it sounds just arduous, but let me just say I would literally be able to hold my own.

Shitting is another story. Shitting always tends to be another story. Shit can barely be written about without being its own story; for this it will live on in the pantheon of literary discussion.

I discovered the lack of joy instilled with holding in a poop in a public location. At the Gogol Bordello show the other night, I had the inkling of a plop session, and the opening band sucked hairy nard-ball, so I decided this would be the time to make my first ever venture into the First Avenue bathroom. I have attended this concert venue for nigh onto 7 years and have never used the facilities as a throne. I had heard horror stories and was frankly a little put-off. But I really did not want to be in a crowd full of concert-goers holding Mother Nature back, so I figured now would be the time.

I walked into the stall. Not so bad. What was everybody griping about? Just your average john, silver bowl, water below nut-dipping level, plenty of T.P., no fuss, no muss. So on I sat, and the doo was decent enough. No complaints thus far.

Wiping! Wiping was an issue. The booths were way too short, I felt exposed. I felt like everyone was watching me, peering into my private technique and chortling amongst their hipster friends. I felt ashamed, exposed, belittled. These three feelings are not good to have when using paper to remove excess defecates from one's posterior. I prefer elation, relief, and maybe just a tinge of forbidden delight. But none were had as I had to stare into the eye of those that could see me wipe, hands out in the open and all knew just where they had been.

Upon completing my transaction, I glanced downward at the bowl and checked to make sure everything was kosher. No neon shits, no embryos or corn husks remaining in the flotsam. Good show. Not a bad shit, despite the accomodations. This place wasn't so horrid after all. How did it possibly get this reputation?

And then I found out.

The toilet clogged, leaving a bowl of my leavings and wads of T.P. for all the world to see. No plunger in sight, I felt there was little else I could do than walk away slowly and pretend it never happened. With the low stall doors, I'm sure had there been an investigation I would have been found out immedietly. I hate to leave behind evidence like that, but I couldn't risk spilling the bowl over had I flushed again. So I slinked away, tail between my knees, shame-faced and sullied, like a small child who made no-no in the kitchen corner.

And with that, I became That Guy. You know the one; the guy that everyone complains about but will never actually meet. "Aww! Some Guy plugged up the toilet with their POOP! Groders!" "That Guy is disgusting! How could That Guy do that?" I was He that is Him. It was a simple mistake, I was simply trying to empty up before show time! As a frequent victim of shart attacks, I know the dangers of holding something back and bouncing around to loud music. I understand the discomfort of trying to focus both on that awesome guitar solo and breach of bowel security. I didn't want to take any chances, and besides, the opening band sucked ass, so why not take the opportunity? I wasn't trying to hurt anybody, far from it. I just wanted to shit! Is that so wrong?

But here I stand before you, as That Guy, forcing some other poor individual to look into the stall and find the dreaded treasure chest of brown gold staring back at them, warning them not to go without fiber. I was one of many before me to help tarnish the reputation of that bathroom. It is people like me that make people not want to use that bathroom; I am the anecdote that drunkards chide. Here I sit before you, the one who may very well have created the story you are about to tell to your friends about how bad the First Avenue toilets are. All reputations gotta start somewhere; to continue, they simply need individuals like me. Individuals who shall become That Guy.

So, friends, I say unto you, be mindful of the fact that That Guy bears no malicious intent, no ill will, he means not to rile the blood and poison the tonsils. Merely, he is someone like you or me, just trying to take dumps in public places without the stings from his fellow man. How can you judge until you have shat a load in his pants? Chide ye not at the man who leaveth leftover stew, for there but for the grace of God shit thee.

Poop Stick!

2006-11-13T07:14:00.000-06:00

Good thing cigarettes cost money.

Used to be I'd judge the distance between two places by the music I'm listening to as I tragress. The walk from my house to my girlfriend's house is one Tool song long. The bike ride from here to campus is usually two to three Sims songs. The time it took for me to leave my house, hop on the bus and get onto the Megabus to Chicago was almost all of Blood Mountain. I can only get through a few Squarepusher songs before I have to dismount and lock my bike up when going across campus. I can squeeze a good seven Pig Destroyer songs into any distance I travel.

It's a decent system, as I can actually sort of plot the amount of time it's taken by knowing how long the song I just listened to is. Fuck miles and feet, tell me how many Massive Attack songs away my final destination is. The 12 hour bus ride (Christ almighty) from here to Chi-Town ate up essentially every album I brought with me. The walk home this morning was almost perfectly to the point in Check Your Head where the album begins to peter. What a great choice that was, by the way. I usually have to side with Ill Communication in the old Check Your Head vs. Ill Communication debate, but Check Your Head brought the perfect hardcore funk I needed to finish the trek. (I think I tend to side with Ill Communication simply for "Get It Together" with Q-Tip, which is perhaps a little unfair.)

However, that same walk is also just about 3 cigarettes long.

I thankfully managed to successfully light up just as he hits the words "Soul Fire!" which was timely as all hell. If the lighter had futzed on me as it had been before I left Chicago I would have missed that golden moment of synchronicity. And I must admit I feel oh so right jamming down the street with a Djarum Black in my mouth rockin' it old school at 6:25 in the morning.

I don't smoke. I'm one of those smokers that likes to tell themselves that as they spark. It's okay to have this cigarette, because I don't actually smoke. Logic! I never smoked in high school; it took me till my first year in college to have my very first cigarette. I was always a cigar man. Weed doesn't count. The old "Do you smoke?" question usually resulted in the quip "Well, not cigarettes" which garnered a couple of smirks and even a few inquiries of where to score. But recently I've found myself in situations where a cigarette is just perfect, typically during late night/early morning strolls with a specific end-point such as my home in mind. I've hardly ever bought a pack of cigarettes. The farthest I've ever really gone is to split a pack with friends, and even this I've done twice and both within this year. When I'm drunk I'll smoke like a damn chimney if offered, then I'll wake up hungover with that shit feeling in my lungs that I'm sure "real smokers" have on a far more consistent basis. Then I tend not to smoke a cigarette for about two months. It's somewhat of a loophole based system, one focused on "indulgences" as opposed to addiction. Or so I tell myself. I can decide at what point I would become a smoker, at what level of consistency in habit I would have to get to to suddenly define myself as such. I never defined myself as a stoner, but the amount of weed I intake could probably discount that.

So much of my attitude on drugs relies on self-definition: So long as I'm not an alcoholic, I can drink all I want. If people see me walking along smoking a cigarette, the assumption there is that I'm a smoker. But it doesn't matter what other people think so long as I know that their view is fallacious. But for all I know I could be lying to myself as opposed to lying to them.

Most of my access to cigarettes, despite my having been 18 for almost three years, is from friends or people I happen to be around. If I'm offered a cigarette, a good amount of times I will accept the generous offer because it's a nice gesture and, frankly, I sort of have a hankering. I do enjoy it. I never thought I could, because they tend to smell pretty fucking awful and they never seemed to have any purpose to me. Why would anyone smoke something that didn't get them high? I underappreciated the nicotine buzz, which can be a pretty strong one. I believe the point at which I become a smoker officially is when it is no longer about feeling that nice buzz and more about satiating a craving. Usually if I say to myself that I could really go for a cigarette, I don't have one because I don't want to fall into that trap. I allow myself a day or a weekend to smoke consistently, then drop it for a good period of time. They say it's still dangerous to smoke socially, which is primarily what I do, but it's not as though I don't recognize it as dangerous. I'm not lying to myself and saying these things aren't fucking horrible for me. I recognize that. But big fucking deal. I find it hard to change around my lifestyle based on what is healthy for me because I think a few vices here and there are necessary for humans. Before I ever smoked a cigarette, I didn't really understand them. I used to be of the mindset that so many people seem to be where I didn't even comprehend the idea of smoking cigarettes. Why would anyone do that to themselves? What's the point? I sort of have a grasp on why these nail coffins are so integral to some people's lives and how they can truly be enjoyed. As with most things, it came down to trying it myself.

I don't know that you can ever knock something without trying it. You have no real standpoint to come from if you don't understand the mindset of the individual. This is not to say "Jump off a bridge" or however you want to equate this; it simply means you're not looking at the full picture if you don't have any relation to the subject. I usually don't like how I feel after I've had a cigarette, and frankly I'm glad for that because it means I'm still capable of controlling my own actions. If ever I get to the point where I need a cigarette or can't get by without one, then I will consider it no longer an indulgence. Consistency is key too; I can turn down shit being offered to me with the knowledge that too much is simply too much. That's a good point to be at, I think, and without that willpower I probably would never have had a cigarette in the first place.

But god damn, I do enjoy them.

There's something just so nice about a few good drags during a late night walk that make the whole thing an experience I consider continuing. The atmosphere of the absence of people and the moon shining above is simply so appropiate for cigarette smoking. The occupation of your hands and mouth as you are walking is suddenly a fixation I can comprehend. Maybe to ween myself off cigarettes if I ever get too far gone is to give hand and blowjobs on my way to wherever I'm headed.

The issue though is now I have cigarettes, and access impedes control. Having them around will inspire me to even consider "Hey, I should have a smoke". This is why I am typically very generous with cigarettes if I ever have my hands on them. I hear of two-pack-a-dayers, which to me is completely insane, as I tend to run through a single pack in about two months, a good amount of them not even smoked by me but riddled among friends and hangers-on. Hit me up at the right time and I will be a homeless man's dream come true. It's such a social activity for me anyway, and social situations are what inspired even giving it a shot in the first place. Going out to the smokers circle and immedietly connecting with all these other people who are joining in the same activity feels like such a bonding experience. Stories are told galore, meeting people is encouraged, and conversations can be started with anyone with a simple "Got a light?". That's mainly the aspect I like about it, getting to share in this addictive society that has existed for generations. Not ever having smoked in high school or junior high, which was prime cigarette time in the "I'm doing something wrong" sense, I've sort of transgressed that whole aspect and stumbled instead upon a world where everyone has already been smoking for years. Or, they just started in college, like me (I guess), and there's a connection there immedietly. It's always funny to me to meet smokers because on the tip of everyone's tongue is "Yeah, I'm trying to quit", and they certainly have a funny way of showing it. We know it's bad for us going in. But we go in, dammit.

If I ever change over to using the cigarette system to judge distance, I've then lost the true nature of myself. Music has always been the most prevalent for me in almost any situation, and for that to lose out to some new jack rolled-up cancer stick would be frankly depressing. The issue being that such a changeover would be so subtle that I could hardly even lament the passing. But I feel as long as I'm paying attention to these signs, there's no way a subtlety can even occur. As long as I think way too fucking hard about everything, I can keep myself in check. Which, in doing so, will allow me to have a cigarette once in a while.

Because I'm not really a smoker. Honest.

Socks

2006-10-27T12:46:00.000-05:00

Shit. Gotta wake up. I should probably go to my next class. Man, this bed is comfortable and warm. Shit. If I hit that snooze one more time I'm gonna never get up. Can't go to class in these sweatpants... Damn. Should probably put on a new shirt. Shit. I'll wear the pants I wore yesterday, they're still good. Plus then I don't have to move all my stuff from one pocket to another. I'll wear this shirt I wore yesterday too, no one will notice. I had a sweater over it, if I don't wear the sweater this time it'll be like I'm wearing a new shirt. Fuck. Socks. All my pairs of socks are clean; I don't want to waste a whole pair of socks if all I'm doing is going to class. That wouldn't be worth it. I'll wear the socks I had yesterday. Passed the smell test: They won't drive people away. Plus they'll be in shoes anyway. And besides, feet stink, people need to learn to deal with that. I'm just doing my part. Shit, these socks don't match. Well, I've gotten away with wearing them the past few days and no one has noticed. Like I said, they're in shoes, who cares? No one looks at your socks anyway. Socks are inconsequential, they don't even count as part of your wardrobe. You see the very top of the sock, at most; I really don't know anybody on a personal enough level where I will be removing my shoes in front of them. Besides, they kinda match. Black and off-black. One has a red stripe thing on it, but who cares? They might as well be the same damn sock. Shit, this one is a lot thicker than this one. Shit, this one's actually sort of falling apart, holes and such. Ah, whatever, I'm going to class and then coming back here, I'm not fucking going to some hoighty-toighty ball where I will drink champaigne and dance with duchesses. Now I gotta decide which foot deserves to be warmer. This is actually a pretty tough decision; I don't necessarily have a preference towards either of my feet. I think the right foot oughta be the warm one today. It deserves it, I think, I've been putting a lot of extra weight on it by leaning on it lately, it could use a decent sock, even if it just for going to class and coming back. Shit. Class. Fuck. I'm like 10 minutes late already. God dammit. What CD do I want to listen to on the way there? Fuck. Aaagh, I don't wanna look through this big pile of CD's, but fuck if I'm listening to Minor Threat again today. This is important. Jesus. Why the fuck is this important if nothing else involving getting ready in the morning is important? Shit, I oughta shower. I don't even remember the last time I showered. I don't have time now. Whatever. It's just class, I don't care if any of these people think I smell bad or have shitty hair. Well, come to think of it, I really don't care if ANYBODY cares, in class or otherwise. Maybe that's why I never shower, wear the same clothes everyday, spend so much time in bed and jack off to ninternet porn every waking moment of my life. Shit. I wish I was jacking off right now. Maybe I won't go to class.

I promise I'll go next week. Maybe with a new pair of socks even.

Slovenly Borax

2006-10-24T12:55:00.001-05:00

I used to play this game when I was a kid. Every time I would take a poop, I would save my urine and stand up and pee on the logs. Here was my little mental scatological version of Space Invaders! It was my sworn duty as Piss Commander to take down the big evil brown alien ships that were set to invade. I had to break apart these giant ships in a full-on arial assault. This game was very difficult, as usually I had a very limited amount of urine at my disposal. It was like if you could run out of ammo in Space Invader and could never get it back. If you lost, you lost. The upside was there was no firing back from the evil ships; they simply laugh at your poor shooting. I suppose I always got the last laugh, flushing them all to oblivion, but there was still a little onset of disappointment seeing a big old log still in one piece. Ocassionally I'd kill a few and still have some left over for a Level 2, but rarely did I ever complete the game and kill all turds floating on screen.

Sometimes when I'd eaten and drank a whole bunch, it was like the Ultimate Edition or something. The ammo was doubled, the turds humongous. Taunting with their sheer girth, my shit cackled in it's delight at being a rim-hanger surronded by a pantheon of peon poops. This was the final boss; I call him Thanksgiving Chunk. Thanksgiving Chunk was a sight to behold: Here was a creature of such magnitude, there is no way my simple penis fleet could muster up the pee-pee power to take down such a brown behemoth. If I could only get together enough sheer hydro-power to fire hose my way through, but rarely did this happen in my pre-beer drinking days. Thanksgiving Chunk has never been taken down, and it stands to reason he never will. As I grew out of the game, I was less determined to even pay attention. Thanksgiving Chunk wins. He'll even refuse to be flushed sometimes, he was that hardcore. That was always the secret weapon you'd have to rely on if you ran out of ammo, but even that atom bomb of plumbing advancement would do no good. He would keep rearing his ugmo head despite my most intense efforts. Damn you to hell, Thanskgiving Chunk!

These days I don't play that silly game. I don't know how the fuck that shit came to me as a child; perhaps my inherent obsession with video games had to transfer even the most ridiculous concept into some sort of playable galactic pursuit. These days I primarily do a post-check on the bowl, like the Germans do, just to make sure everything is in order. But sometimes I get a sort of "I did some sick shit as a kid" flashback as I de ja vu my pee onto my poop. It's sort of wierd to think about today, and I don't know if this is something that will ever be represented in any sort of mainstream media. Where the hell did I come up with that, and, more importantly, why the fuck was it so much fun?

Thoughts That Entered My Mind While In Line At The Dresden Dolls

2006-10-19T02:44:00.000-05:00

- 18 year olds are as dumb to me now as 15 year olds were when I was 18.

- I want to shoot a cannon through the neon guitar advertising the Hard Rock Cafe.

- Did I masturbate today? I don't remember.

- I'm glad that I have a candy bar in my freezer at home. Maybe I'll eat it later tonight.

- I never ever want to hear the words "I was into Panic! before they got big" ever again.

- People really seem to take issue with people who ask for change and people in wheelchairs.

- I hope they don't put those fucking X's on my hand again. People keep thinking I'm straight edge. Maybe I should just carry around one of those giant legs of meat like in the Flintstones and gnosh on it every so often until they wash off.

- I wonder if that bouncer realizes my permit is expired.

- I really should have pooped before I left.

- Maybe it's time I got a haircut.

- I wanna have sex in an elevator.

- Why does my back hurt?

- Maybe I should type all this shit in my blog.

Hairy Asian Chode Stack

2006-09-21T20:39:00.000-05:00

I've been feeling sort of crappy this past week. I think I can place full blame on the weather. I absolutely abhor weather like this, that sort of cold, damp, grey, windy, drizzly shit that must mean God has PMS (She's a woman, you know). Which is why I was none too excited about National Talk Like A Pirate Day, a day that usually would brighten my spirits and improve my overall morale. I was reminded of this holiday the night before, which is way too short of notice. Plus it was a Tuesday. Essentially just a shit day that I felt no desire to go "Yarr" and shanty about. Too bad, because usually these are revered past times of mine. But I was totally not in the mood.

I realized on my birthday last year that I don't like holidays. Holidays sneak up on you and tell you what to do, and I'm uncomfortable with that. Here was a day that I'm supposed to be lively, surly, and pirate-like for the enjoyment and amusement of myself and those around me, and I could barely muster a piddly R. It was depressing. All I wanted to do that day was sit and be by myself. I would've been perfectly happy just being a sad sack in my room all night, but here I am invited to this party where I have to drink rum straight out of the bottle (which, for those of you who know me know that is my one weakness) and chortle with reckless abandon and glee. I was not feeling that at all. Much like on my birthday, where I felt like anti-celebrating: Here I was, 20 years old. The shitty, pointless birthday where you can't even drink your sorrows away. I did nothing that night, which was exactly what I wanted to do. I was in the mood to hate the world, to mutter "Fuck" to myself as assholes passed by outside. I wanted to be a damn recluse who was hated by all. I wanted to wallow in my sadness. I did. It made me think of Christmas, Thanksgiving, Halloween, Easter, New Years Eve, all the holidays that once excited me at the mere prospect. I would get giddy as a child waiting for Halloween, preparing a costume long in advance, excited for candy. No more. Now holidays seem to creep up on me, conjoling me into celebrating when I don't want to. Last Halloween I sat on the computer, sick as a fucking dog, waiting for children to come to my door and get candy. One family did and that was it. I surfed the internet, ate some candy and went to sleep. It might as well have been any other day. And I wasn't even really disappointed in the lackluster day; frankly, I was somewhat releived that I didn't have to go expend energy on doing things. I don't know when this blase feeling towards holidays began; I guess it was so depressingly subtle I never noticed.

I've always been a proponent of not being guided by the day but guiding the day. If you want to talk like a pirate, don't let some punk-ass day sneak up on you and tell you when. Wake up one morning, dress to the nines in pirate gear, and Yaarr at every motherfucker that passes your way. Steal a bag of chocolate gold coins from the local convenience store at sword-point and ride away on a stolen skateboard with a sail, cackling all the way to your wenches shore. No need to do it on Talk Like A Pirate Day. Do it when you feel like it. What right does a holiday have to tell you what to do?

So my attitude on Tuesday was quite poor. I was thinking to myself I wanted nothing to do with pirates, drinking, or anything of the like. I was fully prepared to sit in and be bummed all night. I certainly had gotten used to that last year. But I went to the party anyway. Good to stop in and say "Hi" to the folks there. Except there was no one there. It was just me, my friend Skippy and a handle of Captains. I didn't want to drink that night, because, as I had been advised, Depressants + Depression = Rocky Shores Ahead. So I had a little bit (I can never completely turn down free booze. Come on now). Eventually my roomates and our friend Nathan showed up, and we just drank and talked. Ocassionally we'd Yaar. I eventually stepped up and drank straight from the bottle. We reminisced about good times in the past, ate Loaded Spud chips, and generally had a merry time. We all left ridiculously drunk. I had had a wonderful time, completely unexpectedly.

I got to thinking that night that holidays can't possibly be so bad if I had so much fun. I don't like being forced into anything, even if it's having a good time, but sometimes I need to. Part of me, a part that was for so long very prominent, always wants to sit alone, do nothing, and give into my sorrow and laziness. It is incredibly nice to have the ocassional push in the right direction to let me know life is not the shit-hole I've made it out to be, it's not over, and I shouldn't resign myself to any negative feelings. So I now understand and appreciate holidays, perhaps even better than I ever did as a child. Christmas used to be about presents, Halloween used to be about candy. And they still are, and always will be. But now I can go in seeing them as reasons for life being worth living.

Thank God Talk Like A Pirate Day happened in September. I would've missed out on a lot.

Hegemony Man Twists His Yarbos

2006-09-20T17:06:00.000-05:00

God dammit. Class today pissed me the fuck off. I'm not going to go into why, but I will say it made me want to be fucking ran over by Shriners so I would flip and land face-first on the concrete. I wanted to throw myself out a fucking window of a four-hundred story building and land on a porcupine party held on a cactus. I wanted to rip my fucking skull open so I could pour the entire contents of Morton's salt factories in there and walk around on the sun. I wanted to shove a radiator up my ass then have an uncomfortable Thanksgiving dinner with my grandparents. I wanted the country of China to land on my foot. I wanted to pry my fingernails off my fingers with a rusty pick and then eat them. Actually, i think more than any of this I wanted every motherfucker in there to shut their fuck the shit up so I wouldn't have to go through all that as a distraction. God DAMMIT it's the fucking beginning of the year and I hate this god damn motherfucking asslicking condom-smoking urine-infested scum machine to fucking burn in eternal hellfire.

Well, okay, not really. Might be perhaps I overact.

Oh, I'm back, by the way, if you couldn't tell.

Bear Herpes

2006-06-12T21:24:00.000-05:00

I am home now. That is where I am. I had a successful flight home, the success is in that I am alive and this is not New Scranton. However there were failures abound as well, as I missed my initial flight and wound up spending like 10 fucking hours in the airport waiting to get on another flight. Not the most fun thing in the world to do. It's up there, but not the most, certainly.

You ever see them slogan shirts the kids today are wearing by the barrelfull? Like those slogan shirts that have nothing but an immensely witty piece of text in some sort of brazen font, something along the lines of "No You Shut Up", "Your Mom Whom I've Never Met Is A Bad Person Due To My Dislike Of Your Superficial Charecteristics", "I Don't Have An Attitude Problem... You're Ugly!!", etc. Sometimes there's a Looney Tunes charecter on them, with hip-hop themed clothing on them, despite the fact that such charecters wear no clothes, have no inclination of hip-hop, aren't associated otherwise with pissy-yet-meaningless diatribes taken from day calendars or crossing their arms, and have never had anything to do with Nascar. Usually they're off some website who only sells plain t-shirts with some stupid phrase from a movie that everyone secretly hates but can't admit to their friends for $25 when shouting the phrase aloud not only costs less, will make you look like a bigger dick, and you're already doing it. Why do people buy these fucking things? They can at the MOST be funny for the period of time it takes your eyes to move from one end of the phrase to the other, after that all you can think about is how this is just a god damn shirt with stupid letters in the way. Do they make you seem more clever, perhaps? A little nugget of witticism that can be falsely attributed to you because you had the foresight to click the "Check-Out" button on http://www.assholeshirts4less&sum4more.com? No, it must be a healthy distraction, a way to divert eyes and attention from your poor social skills, engorged ego and iPod unadorned with covers of mutliple colors. Or maybe you think it's funny and think everyone else will too. They're popular enough, it stands to reason that some people still find the "Your Mom Goes To College" line to have any semblance of humor or tact. People like to make a statement, but they also like to make sure that statement is made by someone else, pre-approved by his peers, and cost shipping and handling at the expense of Vietnamese child workers. Some guy types "Work = Dumb; Lesbians = :})" into Photoshop in 72 font, suddenly puke-stained jock-straps line up by the hundreds to jerk-off their pride in stock clothing and mongoloid attitudes. Bah.

I only bring it up cuz sometimes I see these shirts and attribute their message to myself, as though the person was speaking this line directly to me, asking me to vote for Pedro or some shit. This guy at the airport during my shitty day was walking around in a shirt that said "Who cares? It's Friday!" To others, the shirt may have represented a carefree attitude toward life, a happy-go-lucky moment of solidarity in which people learn to relax, enjoy life and become better people. To me, it was an uninvited bout of sarcastic mockery, pissing on my personal space by rubbing into my tits the fact that I would be stuck in this hell-hole for another forever. Fuck you for wearing that shirt. "i is in kolledge" pissed me off less. See, these shirts basically act as a device to let you go around and say the same thing to everyone you will see throughout the course of the day. Some people might care that you are able to successfully recount a line from a movie endlessly for a 24 hour period, others like myself will take this as a personal offense and hate you without even knowing you. Damn you all to hell.

And perhaps I get too worked up over these dumb little shirts. Who really cares if some bent dick buys a $30 plain white shirt that has a pun on it? I just seem to see these phrase shirts as someone trying to talk to me, and I really, really, don't want to listen.

Though His Novel Is Unsubstantial, His Unsubstantiability Is Quite Novel

2006-05-22T22:47:00.000-05:00

I had ketchup today. On french fries.

Ketchup on french fries.

I normally don't have ketchup on french fries. I eat them with salt. I was never a fan of ketchup. One of my favorite things about Chicago hot dogs is they have everything on them except ketchup. But here we are. I had ate the rest of someones fries a few moons ago that had ketchup on them. I can't turn down free leftover food being offered up, no matter what it is. I scavenge. That's why I get drunk so easily, and also why I often drink the beer that has been used as an ashtray (if it's Old Style, I usually can't tell anyway). So I scavenged these fries with ketchup on them, and suddenly I had kind of a taste for them. So I had ketchup today. On french fries. And it was pretty good actually. It's going to be a step up to get comfortable with putting them on hashbrowns, but I hear that's the business as well. Wish me luck.

I used to not like strawberries when I was a kid. Now I do. Come to think of it, I don't know that I ever really disliked them, I think I just told myself I didn't like them. Early on I was convinced I was not a fan of strawberries and thus never ate them. See, I didn't like them, so why should I try them to see if I liked them? That is BACKWARDS logic, it is logic in REVERSE. Silly. I don't know where along the line I decided to like strawberries, but it definitely came upon me eating one. Wow, hey. This thing isn't so much the rotting pile of piss-death my mind somehow conjured up. And suddenly I wished this whole time that I had truned down strawberries because I didn't like them that I had fucked that particular notion and downed one anyway. The revelation would have come far earlier and I could've enjoyed the succulence for a longer amount of time.

I don't really hate any foods, and I haven't really, all my life. Growing up I was not finnicky, especially in comparison to my sister, who to this day refuses to eat spaghetti sauce. I think I almost made it a point to try new things and like all manner of food as a sort of competition. "What, she won't eat that? I'll eat it, MOOOOOOOM, and I'll liiiiiiiiiike it too ha ha ha ha" I'm glad I took this posturing. And this ketchup business is maybe my last stitch to get over. I never really hated ketchup. I just wasn't a fan. I didn't wear a t-shirt I bought from Ketchup's CafePress account for $24 that said "To(mato) Or Not To B(Catsup)e" nor did I splash ketchup on a foam finger and get beat up at a hockey game for yelling my love. So here I gave it a shit-shot and bucked the biddle. Man. French fries are kind of good with ketchup. What the fuck have I been missing.

I don't think this is a metaphor for anything really.

Naming Your Penis After Clint Eastwood Movies

2006-05-21T14:59:00.000-05:00

Damn Sean Johns. Fucking bunchy crotch. Making me all self-conscious. Here I am walking the streets with busticated ear-bud headphones used to string up my pantaloons, and the fucking crotch area looks like I have testicles that demand attention. Freak baby born with eight balls and a simply furious chode. Man walks around Chicago with dead animal in his pants, news at 11. Bonch for days. Unfriendly looks from old ladies.

I sometimes think old ladies have no purpose on this Earth than to look at me in shock. Don't tell me you ladies never had the appearance of having some major sack when you were young. Isn't that the beauty and delight of youth? Major sack?

I don't even know what I'm talking about anymore.

I do know headphones sound like peanuts when you step on them.

Hay D00D How Come Is It U Doesn't Do Blahwwwg No More

2006-05-16T12:46:00.000-05:00

So I haven't posted in nearly a month. Check the date of this post and also the date of my previous post and you will be able to affirm this testimony. Why, you ask? I mean, you are asking me why, right? You do care that I haven't been around, don't you? It tears you up inside, right, not to able to read my words every day, full of brim and full of smile? Huh? Your breath has been baited, I hope? A worm is dangling from your breath in hopes that a fish will find the worm delicious and sensual and be attracted towards eating it and thus trap itself in its own foolheadedness, giving it ample time to reflect on the ultimate existential perils of its own greed and desire? You're seeing it hopefully as like when ABC plays another god damned clip-show/this-is-what-happened-the-past-season of Lost; ie you're freaking the fuck out, tearing open pillows and rodents in a fervor of anitcipation? Come on! I know you, fellow readers, you've been leaving loads upon loads of comments on my previous post stating how you're sending out search parties to find my body and that dying children with cancer are counting on me to get angry at a computer or line at a convenience store. You've just got to know what's happening in my life lately, right? Huh? Your pants have filled with urine out of an uncontrollable need to live vicariously through my words. Many have never even met me and this is your only connection to my life; for me to take that away from you is like me not to Sunday brunch on Easter. The eggs are rotting and the bunnies have long since melted as your tears plummet and mix smoothly with the Hollandaise of sorrow. Well, for this I apologise. You deserve to hear all about the petty insignificant things that may or may not have occured in or around my life. You deserve it, and dag-gum, you're gonna get it. Prepare thyself.

As usual, nothing really has happened to me. I moved. I now rest my head a couple of blocks away from where my head previously rested. I think the rest of my body came with it too. As I will be moving home after this semester, I sent all my shit back home and now have but a sleeping bag, clothes, and a box of miscellania to my name. I live in a corner. I use my dirty clothes as a couch. How awesome am I. I'm squatting, essentially (except that I'm paying rent), for a month and a half as this is a two bedroom place and I'm boutsta biggity boo anywho. I figure I should probably take on a heroin addiction if I'm going to live up to my status as a smelly corner-dwelling bum taking up space in some dudes place. It'll be grand: needles and tubing lying scattered on the floor, plain white t-shirts with yellow pit-stains and blood spots hanging from cieling lights and ovens, hair to my ankles, attitude to the MAXimum. Scabies in my armpits and fungal infections galore(ious!); man, what a time to be alive.

I guess in reality all I'm really doing is the same I've always done: Sleep, scrounge, laze, waste, excrete. Nothing more, nothing less. So other than my back pains and lack of privacy, nothing is terribly different. Which really just makes me all the more itchy to spring forth the fuck outta here. I cannot cannot cannot wait for summer. (Thank God this ain't no fuckin' MS Word or some balls as there would be two squiggly red lines staring me angrily in the face. Red. The color of fire. The color of passion.) I am enjoying my classes, at least, and the roommate situation is becoming tolerable at least. One is being more old school and friendly, the other is confining himself mainly to his room. I am doing some cool things, and mainly I am doing some lame things, such as staying in the apartment on weekends and... sitting on a pile of clothes. There isn't much to write about; I wish my absence had been due to some Amazonian adventure involving wine, women and some sort of monster with gigantic teeth that when you think about it would make you go "that [noun] ought not to have gigantic teeth like it has there, it ought not,", but no, I just ain't been up to the task of introtroning about my lame life.

Whatever! Laughing out loud.

I ain't even wallowy anymore; wallowing is for when you've got a comfortable bed or a tub full of chocolate syrup. Instead I am resigned, I have accepted, and just basically ready to move on. I am so prepared to leave that if you told me I had to ship out in an hour to an off-shore oil rig for the safety of mankind, I could and would.

Have fun you kids! And WEAR A CONDOM!

All Talkin' 'Bout Commas Like Ya'll Boutta Make A List Or Sumpin

2006-04-20T16:19:00.000-05:00

My roommate just bought a couch. He is going to paint his room red too.

We are moving in a week.

...

I guess I don't understand the motives.

To Put A Can On A Coaster Is Simply Too Much Coaster

2006-04-18T00:31:00.000-05:00

So I never discovered the origin of the puddle. But I don't think it was my roommates. So, apologies to them for all the words I had yesterday, though likely they will never be read. It was in all likelihood the cieling dripping, on account of it is squishy and holey like a sponge cake, but it still seems like a shit-ton of water, and underneath my blankets no less. Who the hell knows how it got there. Either way I had a shitty night last night and it made for a shitty day today. Shitty Mondays lead to shitty weeks. Shitty weeks extend to shitty months, which eventually through a series of terms of ever-growing amounts of time, my life will suck forever and I'll have to leap off a building while slitting my wrists with a shotgun. If somewhere along the line someone buys me a Fudge Round all of this can be averted.

So I went about today with a scowl on my jowls and bowels and was happy to hate the world. But I bought a ticket to see Jim Gaffigan earlier in the month and that was tonight. Bad timing, as I usually am not teribly receptive to comedy in a pissy state. But he cut through and got plenty o' chuckles outta me. I just wish I could have been a better audience member for him. On a good day, I would have given him much more laughs and he would have felt so much better about himself. But I did my best, and cracked up several times. My mind always acts confused when I'm having a bad day and something good happens. "What... laughter? Cut that out, your supposed to be wallowing! You call this sulking? How are you ever going to remain angry for days after the origin has become irrelevant at this rate? Damn you Jack." Yeah, well.

I hate going to things like this by myself, but I'm pretty much getting used to doing everything by myself nowadays. It was odd at a comedy show, because here I am, just some dude sitting alone laughing. Just all chortling and making silly noises all by himself. I dunno. It was a little odd. I was just a guy there, laughing away. Just laughing is all. Just by himself and laughing. That. Just a guy. There. That was me.

But also the seating was uncomfortable. Bleachers, dogg. Bleachers. What is that about. I felt like I was in high school again at some function such as a pep ralley or perhaps a principal telling us how our generation had failed the one previous. But instead I was actually at a function I wanted to be at. What was that about. Bleachers suck cuz how the hell do you sit in them is the question. There's no back. There's no place to put your legs/feet. Spine all bent forward, legs all scrunched or in someones way. And I don't know but you, but I needs to lean when I sit. I'm a leaner (I took the name of the thing I like to do and turned it into an adjective as a representation of what I am jus there, did you see that). But there's no logical way to lean or even sit regular on a bleacher. The best I could do was scrunch my pelvis into the Tetris game of the foot area and like put my feet upwards, using the seat behind me as a back (I don't know if I'm explaining this well). This sort of works except for the fact that it basically equates to grabbing your testicles and slamming them in a door then keeping it closed. Other than that it was... wel, still pretty uncomfortable. But anywho. He did the Hot Pocket bit and that is what people like to hear from him. I think maybe he did other jokes too. But I laughed and all was well. Here's to better days.

I Missed My Stop At Hullaballoo Station

2006-04-17T02:14:00.000-05:00

I swear to fucking Christ, if it was one of you motherfuckers that live with me that did this I am going to take a fucking Mexican-food dump on your brand-new couch and spread it around with the stream of my urine. Then I will get Tammy Faye to fucking menstrual bleed in your mouth while you sleep. You flabby bastard cunts.

I can't officially blame my roommates I guess, but I'm going to. Here I am, 2 in the morning, I'm fucking tired as hell seeing as how I have slept very little this past week. I planned to slip under the covers, nice and warm, read my book and gently drift off to sleep. It was going to be glorious.

BUT THERE IS A GIGANTIC FUCKING PUDDLE IN THE MIDDLE OF MY BED.

All caps is not a highly looked-upon way to write text, I understand, but this is how I am saying these words. FUCK. It doesn't smell like urine, and I certainly didn't even have a chance to pee in my bed since last time I was in it. I some fucking racehorse needed a place to rest between laps he could've used my roommates fucking mothers vag. I don't need this shit.

It rained. Maybe it is spill-over from the rain, he says in his head. Yeah fucking right, rain poured in through the window, underneath three sets of blankets and managed to get nowhere else but on the bed. This shit seems deliberate. I am pissed. Feel my vein.

I fucking hate the world right now, especially since I can see the laughter in my god damn asshole roommates face as he tells me it was him and fucking proud of his little joke was. Well, let me tell you something, cock: Pranks such as these can be funny to those WHO ARE FRIENDS. We are not friends anymore. Any semblance of good attitude I had toward you is now officially out the fucking window along with your fucking ball sack if I hear you laughing about your exploits in the morning. Fuck you with all my heart and soul. Sincerily.

I'm not saying my roommates did it officially or even what the fuck it is, but no matter what I am fucking pissed as your geriatric cooter, and if these assholes think this shit is funny I am going to chop their fucking faces off and feed them to their assholes. I am not amused and you are not my friends. FUCK YOU.

(If you didn't do it, apologies. But I'm saying fuck you anyway because I am in hate with the Earth right now and want to watch it burn. Am I overreacting? Fuck you too.)

Run Off Of A Cliff And Say Fuck

2006-04-07T01:10:00.000-05:00

I hate my body. It sucks. And I don't mean in that bullshit 9th grade girl bullemic throw-up-cuz-mommy-wouldn't-buy-me-fakey-boobies self-pity trip one has after watching VH1 for 6 days straight. I mean sections of my body rebel against the whole and I hate them. I yell at them. I don't know what they're trying to do, take over my body, piss off the mind to a level of disrepair, or just have a good time because they don't get the same attention as some parts of my body (sorry lymph nodes, you can NEVER be testicles. Try as you might, testicles are so much more fun), but no matter what the reason, it happens and often. I hate my shoulder. I hate my big toenail on my right foot. I ocassionally hate my neck. I hate my anus. I hate my gastro-intestinal system. I hate how I choke all the god damn time. Hate! These parts of me are always acting up. God damn them. Yes, they deserve to die, and I hope they burn in hell. They are seperate parts of me that I can personify and yell at, and do. Anyone who has watched me climb a tree can attest. I assume other people have issues with their bodies too (again, not a "oh boo hoo my butt is too fat in these jeans someone buy me new pants and tell me I'm pretty in front of my Mom so she knows she was wrong" kind of issues) and I would love to hear about what parts of you you hate. Rap with me. Let's bitch about bones and blood, your issues with tissues and that fucking pinky toe that keeps getting chopped off. Zamf.

Too Much Bonch

2006-04-04T01:35:00.000-05:00

I have felt unusually empty through this school year. I have nothing really going for me and nothing to give me a sense of well-being. I am nada. This is why I am leaving. I am giving up on trying to tough out this shit and am banking on the hopes that this is caused externally and not internally. Over this week that I have been back, I have continued to prove to myself that this is a good decision. Roommate interactions are as awkward as ever. Social interactions remain relatively stagnant. I hear the good fortune of others and immedietly see it as a reference point for a lack in my life. I am eating less. I am poor. And nothing happens to me. A saddening imprint of my ass on the couch when I get up to go to the bathroom is evidence of a wasted life. I'm too cheap to do drugs; if I weren't there'd at least be a pit stop on the way to depression.

But on Sunday I watched a movie with a group of friends like old times. We drank beer and ate too much crappy candy. Inappropiate sexual comments were flung about. It rained like God was angry and I got soaking wet.

Earlier that evening I stood up to use the bathroom after having sat down for some time. Once in the bathroom, I woke up on the floor with my face directly in front of the bowl and a slight pain in my skull. Apparantly I had passed out for a second and did a faceplant directly into the porcelain of an open toilet bowl. Luckily I was not peeing at the time (I've been down that road before, it is not a pretty site). There is now a cut in between my eyebrows and a lump that feels pain when I look down. I often have trouble with passing out for a quick second after standing up to fast, or something, but this has not happened to me in some time, and never to the point where I smash into a toilet bowl I-Ate-The-Worm style.

Today I had a friendly conversation with my roommate. This does not happen anymore, and I was delighted and surprised that any comments I spoke to him did not elicit a "Mmm" followed by leaving the room or a subtle ignorance of response or emotion, but instead with follow-up statements and rebuttals, even laughs and agreements. We were watching "The Simpsons", a long-time point of comradry between us, revelling in the joy of early episodes and the bane of post-9th-season blasphemy. We had not conversed as such in some time; even earlier in the day he flat-out ignored my comment on how my animation teacher works on The Venture Bros., a current favorite of both of ours and what I assumed would be a sure-fire conversation starter (I was saving it for just the right moment to spring this information on him, perhaps I picked the wrong time). Our light, yet brief, period in which we spoke reminded me that we were once friends and used to talk like this all the time.

I also met a man while walking down Armitage who interested me. I am not sure why he decided I was worthy of talking with, but he struck up a conversation with me on my way to walk around aimlessly about town. He asked if I liked rock and roll. He told me of an old boombox he had which was decrepid and falling apart but still worked. He asked if I got high. The conversation was brief and mostly muffled by the train passing by, but I learned that he had a 22 year old son whom he had never met and that his "Good Book" was written by Alcoholics Anonymous. Perhaps he was trying to tell me not to do drugs. He told me of Hindu spiritualism as the best high there is. He made an analogy about standing in the middle of traffic that I didn't quite understand. Perhaps he thought I was his son. He told me, should I ever need him again, to stick out my right hand and stroke my chin and he will appear. We shook hands and he left. This Lynchian introduction to a man most would've said "I don't have any change" and moved on caught my interest, as nothing else had really happened to me today. Looking into a sea of people in a city of names, you forget sometimes that some of these people are interesting.

None of these events deserve the name "events". If I hadn't just written them all down I'd have forgotten them by the end of the week. Essentially, nothing really happened, as nothing really came of any of these. But maybe that's where I'm wrong about nothing happening in my life. Just because they are of no consequence does not mean they didn't happen. Therein lies their consequence: They were significant enough to me for me to have remembered them after they happened. I am under the impression that a happy life is that in which interesting things happen to you at such a degree that events like these will not even register for me. But perhaps if I reach that level I'll be missing out on these little events, passing over their meaning in favor of something that affects me deeper. So maybe I'm not happy now. But things are happening. I can't forget that.

The Piece Of Matter Is Kicking The Pill

2006-03-31T12:10:00.000-06:00

Ten years from now I will be ten years older than I am now. This is a disheartening thought, as even a week from now I will be a week older than I am now. What is this about? Aging? All I really do is waste my time, but I don't know how to do anything else. I have often thought to myself that what I am currently doing is a waste of time, but cannot think of anything that would be not a waste of time. How exactly does one use their time appropiately? Is there a point at which I'll have to live, you know, like actual life? I kinda just wanna coast forever. I wanna build a raft out of what is left of my dreams and sail to an island of coconuts. The coconuts will represent something, metaphorically and such, but I haven't decided what yet. I think someone once said "Twenty is the age in which you don't what the hell you're talking about and don't know what the fuck you're doing." Maybe that man was Mark Twain. Maybe I just made it up and applied it to someone who will get more respectability than I. What was I talking about again? I think I might be hungry. I ought to be, but I don't know that I am.

My Walls Look Like Cake

2006-03-16T21:55:00.001-06:00

I can no longer sit idly by and watch as some dickholes type blog while pretending they are pets or babies. If you are typing, you are not a pet or a baby. Putting a picture of a pet or a baby in your profile does not make you said pet or baby. I know full well that I am not Bob, and I am comfortable with this. Be comfortable with you are. If you want to let little Junior who is six seconds old type a blog, have him do it. Let him flail lifelessly on the fucking keyboard until he squeals in agony and see if that agony translates well into the "NDAIJBNDOI0GWEAJKSNJSJNHDUHR3R7Ihui&uzhHIASKKAKABS DIASHDCIASSJAN8a*nubnIUBibvuyagvuyedb" he'd be typing up, rather than this "I am but a child of three, I mean free, cuz that is how little kids talk and also type I guess! Mommy fed me today, and has no issues with my behavior! Also, I am intelligent enough to type coherently and in logical English, but not enough to dress myself or prevent feces from dropping out of me at inopportune times! Oh, and ga ga and also goo goo for good measure and a reminder that I am a baby" bullshit you sicko parents letch out. Typing "I chase mice and cough up hairballs" does not make you a cat, your cat hates you for the misrepresentation and would claw your eyes out if you didn't need them to feed it. "My owner says..." You are the owner, dipple-shit. Get over yourself. This whole "I'm typing as a cat" business is just so you have an excuse to write in the third person, isn't it? Fuck you. Your sweet home-town values needn't be projected through LIES AND MANIPULATION. Keep babies and pets off the internet, dammit. Their input is not needed on news items or as a voice of what quaint things are happening around your house. You want to talk about your pets or babies, be my guest. It's the lying that gets to me. Are these values you want to teach your children/dogs? That forgery and false identification are not only okay, but encouraged? Go away.

"junior took a dookie in the fishbowl and i have to clean it up"

Don't Step To Me With Silliness Cuz I'm Bound To Rant Ridiculous

2006-03-15T01:42:00.000-06:00

Oh glorious nothing. Spring. Music, music. Eating too much. Dirty socks, belittle me not lest thy self undermined. Why is it that decimals are not counted among Sesame Street patrons? Discrimination. Poison, poison. Gremlin in my fireplace. Gremlin in my fireplace. Porridge in my mind, orange in my stride. I am about to walk around the city with too little warmth and you will look at me but I will look at you different.

Judgement, judgement.

How could they take the flag away from me. I never used it but I didn't make sausages either. Membrane, membrane. Potbellied pigs; faster than a speeding bullock and for that I am unallowed, Rembrandt, Rembrandt. These questions will never be answered because they will never be asked. My finger is my brain; children, children. Protude and poke with the mighty swagger of a thousand dead armies. You are their death. You are their pancake breakfast, singed with the skies of altruism. Frequency.

Take what you will. I am here to pillage the rest.

This Title Is An Inside Joke That Only I And Maybe One Other Person Will Get, To The Rest It Will Seem Random And Confusing

2006-03-07T19:26:00.000-06:00

I haven't written in a while, have I. And the last ones I did write were silly and made no damn sense. What does this say to you? Analyze my situation, type up a 1200 word essay, send it to me and I will take note.

To me, it says I'm bored. At first I use the boredom to come up with silliness that is likely amusing only to myself. Then the boredom prevents me from having anything to write at all. There's no way I would burden you people with the potential crappy entries I could've spewed out. No. So instead I say nothing.

Yesterday was my birthday. Everyone forgot, even me. Birthdays never really meant a whole lot to me, plus the 19th and 20th birthdays are just lumps of shit to jump on on the way to the other side of the toilet of manhood. I didn't do anything special for my birthday. I didn't even eat cake. (I had a Zebra Cake, I don't know if that counts. There were no candles on it.) You know what I did? Same thing I do every day. Watch television and play Earthworm Jim. I am a waste of life.

All my friends are busy with finals. I am not. Maybe I should be. I really don't have much to do. Studying has never really been a terribly amount of trouble for me, at least not to the extent that others have. I have no qualms staying up all night the night before a test, neither do I have qualms not reading the material. I do well. I am awesome.

Even if my friends were not busy with finals I would not see myself doing anything. It is a handy excuse that they are all busy because I can tell myself it is their fault I am alone and not mine. I have trouble calling other people to do things because I never have anything to do. None of my relationships with anyone here is particularly strong; there is no implied hanging out and I rarely receive a call from anyone.

I am leaving here soon. This summer I am going home to Minnesota, and I am staying there. I love Chicago, but I never felt right here. This is not where I belong. My friend last year had a moment similar to this where she realized she could no longer go to this school and had to return home. I didn't understand it at the time. I had no particular issue with the school or the city or anyone I spent time with. I did not get why she felt like she felt. Now I feel the same. She was my best friend here. She left. Our group lost a staple. I didn't feel the same connection to any of my friends from last year. I can't assign blame to any particular thing to how I feel now, but this year has been quite different from last year. I hardly go out. I go to concerts alone. My assumed weekend activites are no longer getting drunk and acting a fool but rather sleeping in a little later and maybe getting a sandwich at a local eatery alone. This is not the friend who left's fault, it is mine. Upon her absence I was suddenly faced with the challenge of making social connections with people without any sort of buffer or fall-back, and I didn't put forth the effort. I didn't care. I hated people. I wanted to sit alone, ignore my roommates and clack on the computer. Past tense is unneccesary here as I am still feeling this.

I have friends back home. Back home I will hang out with my buddies from high school. Back home I will feel more comfortable in my social situation, I will be more productive, creative and stable. Back home I will see all the same things I've been seeing my whole life. Friends will call me and I will call them. I will feel better about myself and will feel better about life. Back home I will still be depressed. Back home I will hide it better. The people around me will like me rather than tolerate me. I will watch less TV. I will read more books. I will do better in school. I will have a job and pay less money. Back home I will be back home.

I love Chicago. I love it like a woman I've been married to for 20 years. It has a lot to offer me and we've had a lot of fun early on, but now I don't see the same things in her. I come home from work and watch television while Chicago cooks in the kitchen, unappreciated. I love Minnesota. Minnesota is the high school flame, full of highs, lows, fond memories and broken hearts. Chicago has shown me many good times, but the passion is gone. I would prefer to be depressed in Minnesota than blase in Chicago.

I didn't make an effort. Would things have different if I had? Would I like this city better? What if my friend didn't leave last year? Would I instead have better social situations here and want to stay? Would my options for things to do be wider? Does this situation happen on its own, did I bring it on myself or is it someone elses fault? Does is even matter? I'm skipping out. I'm ditching all these people I sort of know and going back to someplace comfortable. Back home.

My roommates are getting a different place. I never felt I really connected with them, even though one of them was my friend from, you guessed it, back home. He was in my band. I've known him longer than I've known some of my other friends. What the hell happened? We chat, we hang out, we shoot the shit and get drunk. But things are different now. We sort of avoid each other, subconsciously, and don't do anything together. My roommates and I hardly go out to eat as a group. We hardly do anything together. Hell, we hardly do anything, period. Did they bring me into this? Did I bring them into this? Did we bring each other? Are we friends, or do we just live together? What if I move in with another of my friends and the same thing happens? What if it's all in my head? If I'm inventing this distance between us in my mind, I am likely also feeding it by acting on this perceived notion that may not have existed.

So I am 20. As a friend pointed out, in many countries I would be considered a full-grown man. I am not a man. I might as well still be 17 years old. All that's changed in the last 3 years is I've gotten more depressed. I've also gotten more happy. Certain points of my life have been the happiest I've ever experienced, others have been the lowest. This year has been neither. This is quite possibly the most bored I've ever been. I feel nothing. Is it the age? The school? The city? The people around me? What the fuck, mang?

Who cares. I'm going back home. I turn my back on this place. Things will be better. Things will be the same. Things will be worse. But things will be, dammit, and that's all that I'm looking for.

Fictional Conversations #2

2006-02-23T17:29:00.000-06:00

cock_and_also_balls: dunny lets get sumthin a eat

jesusdeathcar69: i dont wanna

cock_and_also_balls: man how come why is it you never wanaa get nuthing to eat with me ever huh

jesusdeathcar69: my mother abused me

cock_and_also_balls: what dude

cock_and_also_balls: i aint no psycianalyst here so i dont know what that has to do with anything even though i am sorry

jesusdeathcar69: she abused me by not letting me suckle at her delicious teat

cock_and_also_balls: oh dude i dont know that i needed to hear that

jesusdeathcar69: why mother all i desire is your bosom and its juices

jesusdeathcar69: i hunger

cock_and_also_balls: enough dude, you are not funny

jesusdeathcar69: i hunger for your teat

jesusdeathcar69: teeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeat

cock_and_also_balls has signed off.

jesusdeathcar69: teeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeat teat teat

*** User cock_and_also_balls is not available.

jesusdeathcar69: trick or teat

*** User cock_and_also_balls is not available.

jesusdeathcar69: my sole wish is to ween upon thy incestuous nipple oh giver of my birth

*** User cock_and_also_balls is not available.

jesusdeathcar69: teat

*** User cock_and_also_balls is not available.

Fictional Conversations #1

2006-02-22T18:30:00.000-06:00

jesusdeathcar69: aiight d00d dogg check this out yo: so i'm all on the johnny boy taking the deuce train to smellsville and you know i'm ploppin' like catholic babies and all so it gets clogged and i'm pissed right cuz if there's one thing i hate it be a clogged toiler boiler so i'm all goin at the tube with a plunger like i'm tryin to give it a baby and taint nuthin werkin and im all BALLS BALLS BALLS yellin aloud and whatbut you know really it aint a huge deal cuz my shit clogs tubes like every day you know how im talkin but what really took my gears and grinded was the fact that the plunger like inverted, ya know? like it popped backwards and like you can't really pop it back without it splashin poojuieice at you and it DID AND I'M ALL ANGRY GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!

eliebowitz1: um my name is edgar and i am a pharmacist; not only do i not know you but i don't think my skills in pharmaceuticals can really help you sir

jesusdeathcar69: i aint even need help so muchh i just need to yell in CAPITAL LETTERS RAAAAR ARRRRG EXCLAMATION POINT GRRR

Auto response from eliebowitz1: I am away from my computer right now.

jesusdeathcar69: dammit edgar what in hell damn you for leaving me

jesusdeathcar69: just dammit and damn you

jesusdeathcar69: you lousy pile of piss

jesusdeathcar69: you remind me of the pile of piss that splashed at me from the toilet

jesusdeathcar69: dammit edgar

eliebowitz1 has signed off

Fux Innernets

2006-02-15T14:48:00.000-06:00

There is a young couple sitting together at a candlelit dinner inside a circus tent, staring blankly at each other, a smile on both faces. A dog sits in the corner, staring at the couple; every so often the couple throws the dog a treat. When the dog eats it, a red heart floats above his head, likely expressing his love for the treat. A heart of equal size and color floats above the heads of the couple, likely expressing their love for one another; though each one of these hearts are essentially the same, it is unlikely that the love the dog feels for the treat is of equal value to the love the couple feels for one another (I think Socrates would have a thing or two to say about this situation).

Also, Arnold Schwartnegger (sic!) can bench press more than George W. Bush can, evidenced by Arnold's muscular physique and beaming smile and Bush's potbelly, flimsy arms and large frown. We can help George W. Bush improve if we desire, but I don't really think we do.

There is a pig of an amazing length and girth who has the two letter abbreviation of each of the fifty states carved into his left side. The pig seems to be content with this situation; he is netiher bleeding nor frowning, a smile stays with him forever. I personally hope if he was going to have this sort of horrid ordeal happen to him that at the very least someone got some bacon strips with state names on them, but this remains to be seen.

Elsewhere, if we can shoot Eminem we can win a thousand dollars*, or perhaps a free iPod*. The bounty hunter who hired us is as of yet unnamed, but we've learned in our experience not to ask questions.

What the hell, people.

But I Forgot To Include The Bit About The Deadly Sea Creatures

2006-02-14T22:23:00.000-06:00

Typing on the internet is killing intelligence. No one on Earth seems to know which "your" to use, ever. Why would someone type "you're macaroni was hella tasty"? People like to abbreviate, I understand, but in this case using the wrong "your" means typing more than you would have to originally.

But I also hate people who complain about this, because it is dumb and a waste of time. Everyone's response to arguments made on the internet is "You spelled this thing wrong, therefore your argument is completely invalid." Fuck that.

I kind of steer clear of any kind of typing on the internet, because people gain the ability to be as much of a jackass as they've always wanted to because everyone is anonymous.

Yell at me for every single grammatical, spelling and punctuation error in this missive. Do it.

Oh, also, I guess it is Valentine's Day. Go hug something.

Yes, Our Plans Were To Plot A Crime So We Could Meet You, Batman

2006-02-13T18:49:00.000-06:00

My roommate makes a specific differentiation between "lesbians" and "dykes". See, see, lesbians are hot, whereas dykes aren't. Lesbians are attractive young women with long hair and luscious breasts, whereas dykes have short hair, motorcycles, flannel and beat up men in bars. Basically, you're allowed to like lesbians but you're not allowed to like dykes. I think the term is "lipstick lesbians" for many people. A neat little compromise homophobics can make to say that they enjoy watching women make out, but not enough to stop hating homosexuals.

Then of course there are those with integrity. Those who stick by their convictions and don't make exceptions like that. "I hate people who say 'I hate homosexuals, but I loooove lesbians'," they say, "I make no differentiation. I hate lesbians too." Good for them! That is true hatred, ladies and gentlemen. Glad to see there are still people out there with strength in their ideals.

I think the whole concept of lipstick lesbians to be bullshit. It's a way for straight men to become comfortable with the fact that they like homosexuality. Because, come on, who doesn't like to see two girls make out? But then again, that may mean I have to start accepting them as people! Oh no! The differentiation between "lesbians" and "dykes" allows for a neat little categorization of people so you can be sure to hate the right people and still be comfortable with the fact that seeing some long haired blonde bimbo splashing into fun-time water park makes Captain Happy make a trip for Alaska. It just seems insulting to me to group people into "likable" and "hateable" based on one's hatred for homosexuality peppered with one's love for unrealistic porno situations. Besides, people aren't as easily defined anyway. I've noticed most of these "lesbians" my roommate speaks of are really just the Maxim-magazine, experimenting college girls who delves into bisexuality out of trend and attention from men. And he's one of these men that is so susceptable.

Most of the lesbians I know cannot be lumped into either category. None of them are your typical Playboy-centerfold-straddling-a-stuffed-beaver supermodel (I hate all those people anyway), but none of them sit around in dyke bars ranting about how much they hate men over Australian-sized beers and army boots. People aren't these stereotypes, and I've never really understood where people get these ideas that they are (television!!!). I honestly believe people get all of their sociological understanding of people from Mad TV and porno (I've ranted many times against Maxim magazine, maybe I'll give them a rest; besides, I can't claim I don't enjoy oggling the cover girls whilst on the johnny boy). I tend to look at people as people and not lump them into groups (or at the very least I have a much broader and more specific spectrum of groups that I mentally group people in). Aren't I just so damned benevolent, huh?

And you know. I'm a straight man, I like to see girls make out. Lesbians are hot. No doubt about that. So hot, in fact, that perhaps straight men are starting to come around as far as the whole acceptance and tolerance thing goes. The only problem is the ideal is purely a fantastic one, and typically unrealistic. Guys don't like lesbians, they really just want straight girls to touch each other. Basically, my question is: Is this love of lesbianism a step in the right direction, or just further falling into homophobia?

Like Two Carl Buddigs Tied To A Coconut Flapping In The Wind

2006-02-10T04:38:00.000-06:00

I think I'm only writing this to see the little time stamp at the bottom staring back at me, reminding me the fact that I am still the fuck awake. I got some mad insomnia, quite unnecessary too. I feel like this is insomnia I could get over if I wanted to, but I clearly don't. I stay up late doing nothing, and I'm not talking "watched a movie with some friends/had a few beers/walked around the lake" type nothing. I'm talking full on nothing. Actual nothing. Like I can't even remember what it is that took up all this time because it was just that unremarkable. I ate an Arby's roast beef sandwich and watched an episode of Freakazoid!, I also spent much time tooling around on this here internet. I always feel like maybe if I do things on the sinkhole known as the interenet I will be bored eventually and the tired will hit, but that certainly hasn't been happening. Doing nothing only fuels my ability to stay awake. So here I am writing, writing nothing really, to try to eat up time before I can pass out. I still have a homework assignment to do, but I am always very slack when it comes to that shit. Slack yo. Slack.

There is nothing better than staying up real late and seeing someone else in the same state. You could do something as hat as watch TV with somebody you see every day, but set it at 4:30 am and suddenly it's an event. For me at least. I get kind of a religious experience out of staying up late. Maybe it's a leftover romanticism of it from childhood. I remember a time when I had to struggle to make it to midnight on New Years. Now I can't remember a night in the past 5 years where I went to sleep before 12. Telelvision is funnier at this late of a night. That must be why Jack Van Impe is on at 1130 pm on Sundays. Seeing another person up at the same time as you sets up an immediate connection between the two of you. We are both up this late. We share something. I have positive memories of my mother coming down to the kitchen at 1:30 in the morning for a midnight snack to see me watching telelvision; we shared snacks and stories. Then she slept and I stayed up. It was such a nothing experience, but for some reason there was something to it for me.

I tend to look at things in a different light when I'm up this late. I'm generally happy when I am. Things seem exciting and interesting, especially if they vehemently are not so. I don't know if anyone else understands; if they did, they'd be up eating a sandwich with me.

Here's to you people that are now asleep: I eat this sandwich for the two of us. Rock the natural world, I'll sit alone in my blurry-eyed daze and watch life hide it's blemishes.

The Heartland Mafucker, Sippin' Whole Milk Mafucker

2006-02-07T14:24:00.000-06:00

Name: John Spencer
Age: 19
Location: Chicago, Illinois
Occupation: Time-wasting
Interests: 1. Backwards signs reflected in mirrors so that they appear the right way.
2. Outward corners are evil, inward corners are beautiful.
3. Making my cuticles hurt.
4. Collecting eyebrow dandruff and eyelashes on a blank piece of paper.
5. Doing somersaults at inappropiate times.
6. Public urination from tall heights.
7. Public television.
8. Ruining my life.

And piss-off.

Pictured With Either Alcohol Or Sadness

2006-02-05T01:09:00.000-06:00

My sleep schedule is mad fucked right now. Basically I haven't slept since 9 am Thursday morning, other than a few choice naps interspersed, never exceeding more than three hours in length. These naps always occur around 4 pm and last to 7ish, and I then basically stay up all night. I kind of shot myself into a schedule of poor sleeping since winter break, and now I have sort of entered a second stage, if you will. I never feel tired, except at certain times in the day and once those hit I basically pass out, wake up a few hours later and move on. Time holds no meaning anymore; I literally could not tell if it was 10 am or pm earlier tonight, I had to look out a window. I know this probably isn't healthy, but frankly, I'm feeling great. Can't wait til this catches up with me, because then I'll have something interesting going on.

Family Hug!

2006-02-02T12:40:00.000-06:00

Man, what a SCAMOLA! Or maybe even a SCAM-O-MANIA! Super giant scam spelled in the angriest font, emboldened and italicized, then underlined for emphasis, and also in large capital letters! LIKE THIS! THIS IS WHAT CAPITAL LETTERS ARE AND LOOK LIKE! Oh, and I'll follow it up with several exclamation points, and maybe a 1 at the end, either as an accident or as a joke about those who accidentally put 1's at the end of a series of !'s (but you'll never know which, I'm slick like that).

It is Arby's, the restaurant. They. I recieved 4 gift certificates to Arby's restaurant, each worth $5 of Arby food. Which, you know, I'm all "Cool, I get to eat today". So I all totally go to the damned restaurant, that mind you I would not have gone to at all if I did not have the gift certificates, and take a quick overview of their fine menu. I get the Beef 'N Cheddar combo, because I want not just a roast beef sandwhich, but one that looks like a very sick dog took a yellowy crap on it. Yum. So I order the medium, which by the way is the smallest size they had which SCAM DOESN'T MAKE ANY SENSE SCAM SCAM, and they're all telling me the price. $5.87. Word, whatever, I got like $20 of Funn Buxx to spend here and here only. SO I fork over two of my $5 tickets, cuz it went it slightly over $5 so I gotta use a second ticket, right? No big deal, right? Like this whole transaction is not like anything even, that's how little of a deal this all is! But then WHAM BAM SCAM THEY HIT ME WITH THE INFO. I apparantly don't get any money back on the second ticket! If I were to use it, it'd be $4.13 of Arby money flushed down the Arby toilet! Just straight up flushed! So I pay with A REAL DOLLAR BILL. Did you see those four words? They were big, I don't know how you missed 'em. A REAL DOLLAR BILL. One that could be spent somewhere OTHER THAN ARBY'S. This is a dollar bill that I would not have spent at Arby's otherwise. If I hadn't had these gift certificates, I would've not even enter the place and stayed in my bed with my dollar bill, kissing it and rolling around in joy. But no, they squeezed REAL ACTUAL MONEY out of me. And, like, you know, it's their perogative to not hand out real time money or even a lowered gift certificate as change, policy and shit, but ALL OF THEIR ITEMS ARE SLIGHTLY OVER $5. Just enough to make you pay actual money that you wouldn't have paid otherwise, because the gift certificates are for $5, not $5.87. THEY HAD THIS ALL FIGURED OUT.

SCAM SCAMMITY SCAMMER SCAMBOTRONIC SCIZZLE BIZZLE ON THE BUSINESS OF A SCAM SANDWHICH AKA SCAMWHICH WHICH IS A SCAM SCAM SCAM.

I air my grievances, essentially.

Sure, He Slipped In Apple Juice, But If You Call It Pee It Becomes So Much Funnier

2006-01-27T02:02:00.000-06:00

Man, here I am, 2 am and studying for a damn test in damn Human Sexuality. I hadn't cracked the book until this point, relying on my general cocky attitude toward tests that I know everything I'll ever need to know about the subject without even thinking about it. But after unsuccessfully describing the perenium, I figured I'd better hit the books. After hitting them, I realized I knew what a perenium was already. But nobody calls it a perenium. I'll bet even doctors don't call it that. It's about time we kick out all these medical terminologies and replace them with our modern slang. Of course, this might mean that the vagina is labelled without clitoris and there is no wrong answer to the name of the shaft. "I suppose you could call it 'Philolligaggle' if you really wanted; wouldn't be my first choice..."

But no, I gotta get damned technical and learn all these things that really give me no insight into human sexuality, other than restressing in my mind just how gross naughty bits are, and I learned that in 2nd grade (but don't ask me how). I ain't gotta see no ramen-noodle looking bosack or the inner workings of the vulva. There are colors and textures I attempt not to associate with sex, such as uncooked-cow-red and yellow-pussy-and-bubblicious. I ain't need to know what nasty things my penis is talking to once inside a vagina. I don't ask, it doesn't tell. I don't need to be able to point out where a Cowper's gland is. Yes, Cowper, I appreciate your contribution to the field by feeling around inside your butt and discovering this fun little guy that turns your penis into a waterpark, but it isn't entirely necessary to my overall well-being to see where it hangs out and who it's friends are. I know where the clitoris is, and what else is really needed, huh? I know where all the fun stuff is, the rest of this is just the people at the party that I don't know very well and who don't make very interesting conversation. Everybody wants to be best friends with a glans, but everybody ignores that creepy loser the Fimbrae. I heard Fimbrae still lives with his mom. His favorite band is Kraftwerk and he won't shut up about it. Plus, he's blue, and that color is very not in season right now.

When I took this class I was expecting it to be more of a psychology class, because it was labelled as such. Silly me, believing what I'm told again. No, this really turned out more like a high school health class, except slightly less giggles and slightly more videos of sex-change operations. Damn this horny brain of mine, believing every single thing that has the word "sex" in it is going to be by nature fascinating and give me stiffies to no end. I have had not a single stiffy in that class; I want my money back. All these tubes and pouches and piles of meat and bloody concoctions don't do it for me. Plus then they go into all these dick diseases that make my penis go all Tonglen and my testicles start to feel heartburn. Testicular Torsion? I really, really didn't need to hear about the possibility of my testes twisting on themselves. I also don't want to hear detailed accounts of priapism or Peyronies disease, my trouser Bowser just feels all these horrid tingling sensations, like an inverse erection. These stories make my dick never want to have sex again and hide in the corner for eternity, which is going to be difficult on me because then I gotta face that same corner, and really there's not a whole lot to look at there. It's just a whole lot of wall.

Maybe it's just the stress of being unprepared for a test I have to take in a few hours and being really fucking tired. Maybe all this stuff is supremely important and all these ladies will be all over me once I can tell them how common Klinefelter's syndrome is (1 out of every 700 births, ladies, come get it), but seeing as how that ain't happening and neither is my becoming either a doctor or a creepy psychiatrist who writes his notes using his tongue and a giant vat of pudding, I don't see myself needing any of this information other thant to pass this test. And than after that, what's the point? I'll forget it seconds after taking the test, if I bother to retain it beforehand in the first place. I'm used to staying up late and looking at vaginas, but this is the least sexy session I've ever had. I hope I don't imagine all these arrows pointing to every vagina I see from now on, telling me where everything is and it's function, nor do I want the image of a cross-sectioned penis in my head every time I masturbate.

God damn I'm tired. Fuck this shit.

I'm So Confused Anymore

2006-01-24T22:28:00.000-06:00

Most of the memories I have of myself from when I was younger are of me acting dumb. And I mean at every age. Yeah, I was dumb as a kid, all saying naive comments that made all the growned people laugh and take in the simple innocence of youth. But later on when I was a teenager I was dumb too. Because teenagers nature is to be dumb, to think more highly of themselves than they deserve. You get a little older and you start to realize how you've grown since then, how you've become a more mature and intelligent person. You think of the things you did and said and enjoyed and felt and think how far you've come along. But you haven't really. Another 5 years from now I'll look back at what I've got written here and say to myself, "Wow, the old me was so foolish! I'm glad I've moved on to the smart, upstanding individual I am." This will likely be followed by me running into a wall and falling to my death off of the highest cliff, in true ironic fashion.

Essentially, then, no matter how smart we are or think we are, we are always fools in retrospect, and hence always fools. If my present self is an idiot to my future self, then my present self has no right to feel superior to my past self for my past self's idiocy. All work I've ever done has looked poor in comparison to work I'm doing now, which in time will be loads of shit. Maybe I'm looking at progression and growth backwards; I should instead be viewing it as an ascent from the past instead of a descent from the future.

But I'm a pessimist, people, you knew that.

Honky-Tonk Rodeo Clown Seeks Same For Ovulation And General Good Timery

2006-01-22T11:20:00.000-06:00

Have you ever taken a shit and then gone to wash your hands and had chocolate stains all over your shirt? I tell you, it is an odd duck of an experience. Because you know you just ate a candy bar and you know you didn't juggle your leavings this time, but something in the back of your mind still tells you these awful, awful things. Looking at the man in the mirror, he is not yourself, just some wierd fellah with brown stains on his shirt. You start to contemplate how you became this charecter you see before you, until you decide to switch shirts. The difficulty, of course, is switching shirts without anyone noticing. Thankfully this has not really been an issue yet because when it happened last night everyone else had gone to sleep. I had to put up with no embarresing questions or accusations, which tends to happen when you give men beer and chicken wings. They accuse, crack wise, belch. But they do not tolerate chocolate on your shirt. This cannot be tolerated.

I can't eat candy for a week now, anyway; it is Chinese New Year and that is bad news bears to do so. I am neither Chinese nor a member of the Carrot Patrol, but I'll go along with my roommates reques because I ain't want no shit from him if he sees me riding the Kit Kat pony, plus it couldn't hurt to forgo the sweet stuff for a week. I'm not religious, supersticious or traditional by many means, but I tend to go along with things out of a "Whatever" outlook on life, followed closely by a non-commital shrug ofthe shoulders. If you plan to shrug, don't make it look too obvious that you prepared your thought process in advance and have several sheets of notebook paper plotting the angle, trajectory, impact and timing of the shrug lining the walls of your bathroom. Nay, make it look nonchalant, like you shrug all the time and this is just one of those times that you are doing it. I promise you, little questions will be asked if you play it smooth. You can do this. Anyhow, yeah. I figure it don't matter much either way on the candy issue so I might as well adhere to the customs of our Communist brothers, right? Plus I basically just do what other people tell me to anyway; it is easier than having to write lists or buy Post-It notes.

I was eating what I thought was an innocent candy bar, one that causes not a lot of trouble, but I guess this one had a vendetta. Plus I had like 10 beers. A seemingly harmless Snickers bar (though it could have been the Kit Kat bar I had too, maybe the two in conjunction, the sneaky bastards) seemed to have found bits of it's chocolate onto my shirt prior to my using the restroom. It was only after my deuce that I realized this. This caused the confusion, as I figured it had to be the candy bar, yet I still was racking my brain trying to figure out ways that it might have been shit.

1. Did I lose my watch in the bowl?
2. Did I black out for a second and do a faceplant into the small civilization I just conjured up?
3. Did I feel the shirt was missing key elements of brown coloration and used my quick thinking skills to utilize the tools I had around me?
4. Maybe that wasn't toilet paper.
5. Maybe the me from the mirror dimension has some issues he ought to see a specialist about.

No, none of these seemed as plausible as the candy bar. But the fact that it was a Snickers got me. I expect this from Carmello, maybe even Twix, but overall Snickers tends to be one of the goodguys when it comes to hand smudges. I usually eat it while still partially wrapped, too. But, I guess this kind of thing happens to the best of candy bars, we all just have to deal with it at some point. It was just unfortunate the timing had to be as it was.

It is the year of the dog coming up, and all.

Judge My Emotions Based On What I Wrote Below

2006-01-18T00:06:00.000-06:00

I wish they had a disclaimer on each movie that let you know ahead of time if it will be lame after multiple viewings, like having a number to tell you how many viewings it'd be good for.

Anchorman - 25 (less if you have roommates who repeat the lines constantly)
Serenity - 2
Crash - 1.5
Encino Man - 0 but that's okay
Soul Plane - Come on, I think you know already

Also, a disclaimer about which movies hold up after you are no longer a child. If a movie you saw as a child doesn't hold up as an adult, it should let you know so you can never watch it again and forever keep that nostalgia in your head. I wish I could once again be one of those 20 somethings who still thinks Darkwing Duck is the shit, but unfortunantly, I just can't.

Oh, and sort of related, I am angry with someones online profile. They stated, incorrectly, that Bart Vs. the Space Mutants was the best Simpsons video game of all time. This is simply not true. In the long line of Simpsons related video games throughout history, Bart Vs. the Space Mutants may be a contender, but is by no means the best ever. I believe you only say this to prove that you are an old-school gamer and are aware of moderately obscure video games. These things are an absolute necessity to make the online community aware of, true, but to make faulty claims is simply not excusable. Shallow individuals like yourself will respect your insipid name-dropping, but anyone who has played Bart's Homework will certainly be forced to rush to their little online journals and vent incessantly on the comparison. With heavy-hitters in the Simpsons line, including Virtual Bart, the Simpsons arcade game, and even the newcomer Hit and Run (won't earn you any old-school points but a realist will see this was a decent game), one can easily see that Bart Vs. the Space Mutants, though a good game, certainly, was simply an early attempt to convey the adventures of Bart Simpson in the early stages of video gamery. It is respectable, by all means, but to put it above the other obviously superior games (Krusty's Super Fun House being my personal favorite) comes from an attempt at internet egoism and not hard facts. (Oh and I know how silly this all is cuz I don't even remember the site this guys profile was on nor does it matter even but I felt it needed to be said so thank you thank you for your time good day)

That Dog's Ridiculousness Quotiant Just Went Up Like A Million Percent, And I Dare You To Argue

2006-01-16T19:15:00.000-06:00

Am I bitter? Am I surly? If I were a biscuit, would you eat me? How long would I sit in the pantry before you threw me away? I feel like I hate a lot more than I used to, and quite frankly, I hate it. I feel that my blogging persona is this cranky little warthog who has nothing to do with his time but nip at your heels and steal your livestock. What do I do with the livestock? I don't know; it's a simile, dude, shut up. I wonder if people percieve me as just an angry loner who's only slightly cleverand deservant of mention, and then I wonder if maybe that perception is correct. My last post made me feel like I'm bitter and pissy all the time, but it was pretty representative of my other posts. Is it representative of my actual personality? I feel like I'm a happier, more fun person in real life. But I don't know if this is accurate. Someone help me.

On a related note, if anyone ever wears a shirt that says "Punk Sounds Better On Vinyl" I will punch them in the gut.

Long, Flowing Locks Descending From Your Taint

2006-01-11T17:18:00.000-06:00

So I suppose I ought to write something here, huh. That's like what people do here, is write shit. Write. Like, words and such. Series of words all placed in a row, meant to, I dunno, what is this meant to do? What is this for? Learning? Laughing? Loving? I never know what to write, so more often than not I simply don't. I really am not one to put down the things that happen in my ever-so-exciting daily life. That shit is dull.

"I saw my friend Eric on the street as I was walking to class. I had my headphones on, so I believe he said 'Hello" but I honestly can't be 100% sure. Either way, I said 'Hello' in return, then I had to get to class. I was five minutes late already because I took a shit before class and it went a little longer than expected. It was good though, no recipricol issues and not a whole lot of leftovers. All in all, what a great day I had today. All the things I did today add up to a hearty bowl of soup known as life. And I lived it. Bam."

But that's what people do on blogs. You just write about shit that happened to you during the day, every day, for no real reason. Nobody cares. What you did was not as interesting as you think it was, and you don't even find it that interesting, trust me. On top of that, even if something exciting happened, I feel lame as fuck rushing back from it, excitement dripping from my pores, ready to shit it out into words so all can know the amazing thing I did.

"I went to a concert! Oh man, and there was music at this concert, and people performing the music! Oh, the fun that was had. If you were there you would know. You totally would know what I was talking about la la la! The music was music I liked, and I liked it! Quick, look up the artist name on Google so you can leave a comment that sounds like you know what I'm talking about!"

Again, that's all people do here. And I've never been a diary type person who catalouges events in their lives; it's depressing. I don't need a list of things I wasted my time on. Plus, even if I was having a good time, writing it here seems so... empty. Meaningless.

So what else do people write about? News events. But I've never felt the need to be a middleman to some news item you were already aware of. There are people for that, I'm not one of them. I hardly ever put links on my posts because it just doesn't feel right to act as a conduit for the diaper known as the internet. I hate the internet. Fuck you Facebook and fuck you MySpace and fuck you pornography (sorry sorry sorry, porn, I promise I'll come back around very soon) and fuck you everyone who spends their life sitting in front of a fucking screen (and yes that includes me).

So what does that leave me to write about? What I always write about: stupid shit. Silly observations and bitch-sessions, parodies and primevals. And sentences I like the sound of. Poetry and philosophy, comedy and anger. All at once. But often I have none of the above, so I go days stagnant. Should I feel compelled to write here? No. But I do. Why? Because it is one of the few things in life I actually enjoy doing.

And I don't have to get up to do it.

From A Hundred

2006-01-03T14:51:00.000-06:00

This modern age you and I live in has updated and modified the way our teachers convey information to us. No longer are we tied down by the shackles of chalkboards; rather we use Power Point and other such computer programs to show students the Pythagorean Therum. A chalkboard may never break down in the middle of a class, but can the text from subsection A smoothly flow into the text of subsection B with circling formations and twinkly lights? Maybe, but it would involve a lot of running.

Every time I see a teacher attempt to lecture us on something using a display from a computer, I secretly hope that somehow, some way, pornography magically appears on the screen in front of everyone in the most embarresing way possible. A student opens up their e-mail to do their presentation on Parkinson's disease, and accidentally opens "pissmamas003.mpeg", shocking the class and letting us into the secret world they live after school is out. I guess I just immedietly associate computers with porn, as my computer is laced with evidence, so much so that I'm always wary about school assignments or even letting someone use my computer. But I do think it would be a glee to watch an entire class squirm from watching a teachers private butt-fuck sessions on a giant screen. At least it'd wake people up.

Things I Learned At Work #3

2005-12-19T16:25:00.000-06:00

"Shnit" is the most ridiculous fake swear word ever.

With A Dick Like Mine, I'm Peeing Marbles All The Time

2005-12-12T15:56:00.000-06:00

I realized man has five fingers on each hand for the purpose of picking at various popular orifices. The most commonplace picked-at areas on the body are the nose, the ears, the teeth, the eyes and the butt. The importance of having five fingers is so that each finger can be designated a certain picking area so there is no overlap. It is quite unsanitary to pick away the eye boogers of rest with the finger used previously to idly pick at your butt. It also would not please many to discard a popcorn kernel lodged in between teeth with the same finger used to clear away waxy buildup of the ear. With five fingers, however, each individual finger can be assigned a part of the body to pick at, so that each finger covers the necessary ground. Typically people tend not to pick at areas other then the aforementioned five; if they do they must prepare for overlap, or perhaps migrate to the other hand for extended picking purposes. So long as each finger is given a specific area, there need not be concern for cross-pollinization of fluids, as each finger is carefully seperated by the one next to it by a bit of space and a tinge of webbing. If we stick to the designated areas, our picked areas need never be in direct conflict with one another.

And be sure to wash your hands early and often.

Things I Learned At Work #2

2005-12-05T14:49:00.000-06:00

It is remarkably easy to exaggerate how badly you have to go to the bathroom to those around you.

Things I Learned At Work #1

2005-12-01T15:13:00.000-06:00

From an appropiate distance, if you cross your eyes, the letters R and K look exactly the same. This makes staring at the word "Jerky" immensely interesting, as it comes out like an fluid blur of letters; does it say "Jerry"? Who is Jerry and why is his name on that box of meat? Does it say "Jekky"? What does Jekky mean, what is this box attempting to convey? "Jekry?" Sounds like the name of a mongoloid's cat. Is this stick of meat made from mongoloid cat? I'd eat it. Sounds interesting.

The mind can wander on this R K business for quite some time.

If These Walls Could Talk, They'd Say "There's Dried Semen All Over Me"

2005-11-30T12:53:00.000-06:00

Out of all the letters the internet people could've picked to start every website, they had to pick a series of three W's. Why W? Sure, it stands for World Wide Web, which makes sense in this context because that is what it is, but they could've come up with some other phrase to abbreviate that wouldn't be so lunky. I mean, having to say "WWW DOT" in a real-time conversation is a hefty bitch, a garbage truck of awkward. Just listen to the letter: DUH-BULL-YOO. That is an ugly fucking letter. It is gross. No other letters have three syllables, all the rest are neatly confined to a single, easy to remember syllable. Remember singing the alphabet song? Now I know my A B C's and all that crap? Like two measures of that song are devoted to the behemoth that is W! It threw off the whole rhythm, tossing in a beast of a letter like W. W is like a sentence. Saying three sentences before even getting to the name of the web site is too much, dammit, too much. Sure, pairing three of the same letter together is easy to remember and in the long run mquite beneficial, but W? From all the letters in the alphabet they choose the one with all the emotional baggage. Nay on a tidy M, and nix that comforting S. Bah!

I tend to think people who refer to themselves being "happily married" as sneaky and up to something.

Sometimes when I read a typo, I like to go back and look at the misspelled word and read it again and again in an attempt to decipher its true meaning. Sometimes I look deeply at where the letters on the keyboard are located to try to figure out how someone would make such a typo. If the letter accidentally put into a word is seated aaaaaall the way at the other end of the keyboard, I know something is up. No way did they accidentally put the letter Z into the word "plum". That Z could not have simply snuck in, it was invited, and yes, even encouraged. I like to assume all typos are completely intentional and that they refer to a word that I've never seen before. "Iot" can't mean "It", that's too obvious. No, "Iot" must be some new word I haven't discovered yet, possibly slang or robot talk. Even though "It" would make the sentence make total sense, this must be a new rare word that changes the meaning of the sentence completely.

Cats dump in boxes. Its a fact.

Christmas is a horrid sham that makes everyone hate each other, but we all love it. Especially Burl Ives.

The Episode Entitled "TV Personality Martha Stewart" Features TV Personality Martha Stewart

2005-11-18T11:29:00.000-06:00

I suddenly got a strange urge to pick up a 3/4 full bottle of whiskey and chuck it at a brick wall. I don't know where this bizarre desire came from; maybe from the brick wall and 3/4 full bottle of whiskey I've been staring at. For some reason I feel this bottle must be thrown into this wall. I don't know if it stems from animosity towards the wall or the bottle, or maybe it isn't animosity at all. Maybe I just really want to see the image of the glass shattering and the sweet brown nectar slwoly dripping to the base of the floor. Then I get the urge to strip naked and rub up against the brick wall, letting the whiskey spill all over my tender areas and down my waiting tongue. That urge surprised me a little.

Trust me, I am not an alcoholic, but if I were, I'd be one of the fun kind. The kind that pours scotch in his Wheaties and is always yelling "Party" at the TV, not the kind that my nephews are warned to stay away from and whose pubic hairs have prematurely become infested with termites.

Sometimes I get silly little urges like this, and depending on their sillyness I may or may not fulfill them. I don't think I'll fulfill this one, because it isn't my whiskey, and people are still asleep. The day isn't over, though; we'll see how I feel about it come 8 PM.

Tats Nutting We Can Tok Abt Now

2005-11-17T13:43:00.000-06:00

I am almost through with school this quarter. Soon it will be time for dancing; time for cookies with peanut butter in the middle; time for hills; time for falling from large heights; time to rejoice loudly and vocally; time to decide in the middle of a night to venture into the abandoned woods and get eaten alive by Jiminy Cricket, the famed and alleged bear that roams the woods and, legend has it, ate thrity children in one lonely, dark afternoon; time for lists; time for music and whistling poorly; time for silly away messages that refer to a television program I watched recently; time to eat a large bag of potato chips and regret it soon after; time to trip on my shoelaces; time to not actually ever leave the house; time for love and time for hate; time for joy and time for sorrow; time for throwing CDs with free AOL at cars we're not particularly fond of;time for snowball fights and bloody retinas; time for intervening police and questionably dubious ideas; time for bad movies and Little Debbie; time to reflect; time to Jazzercize and, time permitting, Mousercize; time to discover all the letters on the keyboard and what they actually mean, not only in the English language but as they pertain to my life and my choices; time for Yoga mats, but not for Yoga; time for boring video games and boring web sites and boring television and boring boars (not really, but that totally had to be there, and soon you will understand why); time to write "Wash Me" on someone's car in the frost, even though frost does not imply a dirty car, simply a frost-ridden one (the true statement should be "Scrape Me" or something to that effect, but "Wash Me" is the foremost message written on cars, I imagine, and thus is the first thing that comes to my mind, dusty or not); time for spitting; time for somersaults; time to spin; time to throw Belgian waffles in the air and catch them in my mouth; time for chocolate syrup and imagination; time for fireplaces and rhubarb; time for semi-colons; time to enhance my blanket-wearing abilities; time to chortle; time to shoot bugs out my nose; time to realize the error of not only my ways, but yours as well; time for passion; time for exhiliration; time to eat something other than Top Ramen; time to work on my knuckle-cracking; time to expound, far too much; time for reading books and learning songs and smiling from this ear to this ear; time to get into all sorts of mischief and make Old Farmhand McLellan shake his fist full of porkchop at me and say "One o' these days, by cracky!" then have a heart attack; time for multiple chins - one ain't never enough!; time for over-used punctuation and under-used asterixes; time to read comics and play board games; time to invent a new kind of frosting - Frost-O-Awesome-FrockingFrost! - and put it on all manner of cakes, unbeknownst to the masses; time to expand my knowledge and to get a brain transplant; time to make boistrous untrue statements at the top of my lungs with my fingers pointing in all directions; time to get secretly angry at my door but never tell it; time for me to sleep for a really long time and wake up a magician; time for lawlessness and dapper outfits; time to give back to the community that which I find myself taking again and again (and again); time to get a job and make some god damn mother fucking piece of shit ass-munch hole-in-side-of-buttocks tinkle-berry la la lucy fuck-fuck-on-a-fuck-fuck money to keep my sullen ass from being broke; time for water-skis, not to use, just to sit there; time to rekindle my love affair with sneaking around on my tip-toes; time to roll myself up in a carpet and jump off a bridge; time for drugs, alcohol and corners of rooms; time for happy!

Actually, it's likely time for me to do what I've been doing all this time: Shit.

There's A Reason They Don't Put Rhetorical Questions In Cat Nip, You Shrewd Customer You

2005-11-15T12:03:00.000-06:00

This boy seemed to have a real problem with those pants what say terms on the buttocks that have grown so popular these days. There seemed to be no origin to his tirade; no one was wearing them and the current topic had nothing to do with pants, asses or words. His jumping point must've been solely in his head. Either he had seen some earlier that day and was all set to come into class and start talking loudly to other people about his peeve, or this had been something his mind has been fixated on for a long time and he had just finished memorizing his draft he had been writing and rewriting for all this time. I couldn't tell if he was truly performing holy war against the term-clad clothing or if he just wanted to have something of interest to say so that the people eavesdropping on him would think he was clever. There were two girls in our group; girls change everything. In what may well have been a vague attempt to improve his appearance in front of the two females, his petty annoyance of the pants became rather a rant, a personal essay, a magazine article, a stand-up comedy bit.

And not a very good one.

See, I've noticed a lot of people have tendencies like I have to go on unrelenting rants against meaningless targets such as fashion, media and the otherwise ridiculous. But mine are better. Dammit. I'm more clever than you are when you hate things, and that is that. The most controversial thing he had to say about these pants was to "shoot them into the sun". I figured I'd add my two cents: "Those pants that say 'Juicy' on the ass always make me think something in there is dripping." This got a rise out of people, and I easily could've continued, but I had no personal vendetta about the pants. I tend to rant only when I feel a particular hostility towards something, and the pants had really not bothered me much lately. The pants and I could probably have had a conversation in the corner of a cocktail party without it feeling too awkward. But this boy became a low-rent, second-rate me when it came to this cultural phenomenon, and people seemed to like him for it. They don't see through the hidden motives. He's not saying that because he truly feels the pants should be shot into the sun, oh no. He wants desperately for someone to say to their friends later in the day "Oh my God, this kid in my class said the craziest thing about those 'Juicy' pants!" He wants someone to think he's funny and invite him to do things and incur further conversations, with further viewpoints on society and culture. He wants to be heard.

And who doesn't want to be heard? I'd like to be heard. But I also don't care. I rant in a blog, an inconsequential piece of nothing occupying space on a non-existance cyber realm. No girls are going to invite me to lunch because I wrote some snarky comment about Paris Hilton in my online journal. And, frankly, I wouldn't want them to. Because if they can be entertained by something innocuous like this boys sub-par conversation, let them have him. I'm fine being alone and more interesting than other people.

Carpooling You To Shame With Timmy Tinkles In The Back Seat

2005-11-13T18:49:00.000-06:00

This child today was trying to convince his mother he was a moose, I think, with the simplistic tactic of placing his thumbs to his temples and extending the rest of his fingers outwards at the sky. I can't speak for the mother, but he certainly wasn't fooling me. He looked nothing like a moose, save perhaps for the brown t-shirt and groaning noises eminating from his mouth. I was incredibly tempted to stop him and tell him in plain English: "You, sir, are not a moose! Hands at your head do not a moose make, son! Not only did your hands not win me over as antlers, but your body type and hind-leg walkery have such a disresemblence of the moose type that I feel bad for moose everywhere for your tarnishing of their good name." He was gone far too quickly for me to do anything of the sort. I hope someday he gets over this moose fixation. It can't be healthy in the long run.

Someone decided to grafitto-tag the side of a building downtown with their MySpace adress. Though my rate of walking did not change, I did crane my neck as I passed it by so as to fully take in the fact that some fool done put a directive to go to their depressing web site, likely riddled with Green Day music videos and messages from 168 people who he'll never meet but all like the movie Old School (instant classik!!!). I found this remarkably ridiculous, as though they actually thought someone would stop, pull out a pen and jot down the site, itching to return home so they can find out just what this MySpace business is all about. Is silly.

Plot Thickens Like Peanut Butter

2005-11-12T15:19:00.000-06:00

So Jason Bateman is dragging me up a sand dune in the middle of the desert, when suddenly the dune turns into the Paramount Pictures logo, the one with the mountain, and all the silver stars begin to circle the top of the dune. But then the stars turn into alien spacecrafts and begin to fly towards Jason Bateman and I and attacking us.

I Hope My Loud Rock And Roll Music Offends Your Sensibilities

2005-11-10T17:15:00.000-06:00

I'm too young for my dreams to be crushed. I'm supposed to come to the realization that my life is shit when I'm 44, lying in my bed next to my frigid wife, dog Scruffers, three kids all named some variant of "Annabell" in their quaint beds down the hall, Chevy with a quarter tank in the garage, unfulfilling desk job, alcoholism, secret porn stash hidden in the babies playpen, dark circles under every part of my body that circles logically grow under, pubic hair in grey knots. I'm supposed to wake up and realize none of my dreams will be fulfilled and satiate this with a new car and an affair with my secretary. Does having a mid life crisis when I'm 19 mean I'll be dead at 38?

All these half-baked dreams of becoming an artist or a musician or a writer or anything but a pitiful sad sack of a man living alone and cursing the world aren't supposed to hit me as dead until I get older. Why can't I continue to lie to myself and say I'm good at anything? Life is supposed to crash down on me at least at a quarter life crisis... I ain't even old enough to legally be an alcoholic yet. I have to go through a friend in order to buy alcohol so I can drink my sorrows of not having any friends away.

I know all about the self-fulfilling prophetics of depression: If you telly ourself you're not good at something, it shall be so. So in order to kick this feeling sorry for myself bullshit I've got to stop telling myself I'm bad at everything. But come on. I don't want to lie to myself. I think I'd much rather have my dreams pre-crushed then to go through life inspired to do something and then have it all crash down on me. I'll give up hope now, save myself the time. I can catch up on all the reruns I'd miss if I had potential.

I feel like my brain is a negative influence on me. One of the keys to overcoming depression is to quite simply stop being depressed. But once you get into the habit, you're too depressed to have the willpower to get out. And I ain't even depressed, really, just bummed. Bummed that I'm alone, bummed that I got nothing to do, bummed that what I once called my hobbies no longer excite me. All the things I should feel after living a little while longer. This time in my life is supposed to be the time where I look back twenty years from now and call these "the days". The days, ha! If these are "the days", my real mid-life crisis is gonna hit hard, causing me to be immobile and incontinent, which I'm not far from now.

I've been depressed to some degree as far back as I can remember. But I always live by the same simple credo: No matter how sad you get, there is no excuse to listen to emo.

Forty-Five Pounds Of Nipple Scraping Mayhem

2005-11-02T19:47:00.000-06:00

Oh man oh man oh man how I would love to be a journalist at a local free entertainment digest! It would be so damn easy! All I'd have to is pump some dumb shit out onto a piece of paper six minutes before the deadline and go on my merry way, paycheck in hand! What I've noticed in my time as a (shudder) "blogger" is that most of the people who write for free are actually much better than those who get paid! Seriously, get that kid who loves My Chemical Romance and types lIKe ThiS% , get them a good editor and they could be writing front page material! The main stories on these rags are whatever the topic around the office is, and most of the material is quotes from other people or opinions picked from Ed in accounting; fill in a few blanks, punctuate punctuate punctuate, end on a high note saying something larger about society, and you got yourself a story! It's beautiful! I would do just great as an in-depth reporter in a free entertainment digest:

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THE ARTIST WARMER-LY KNOWN AS GLOBAL
by Jack Spencer

You can't walk a few steps without hearing about it: Global Warming. There it is, on the tips of everyone's tongue. But is this current phenomena just a theory, or could it affect your life? "Global warming is definitely real, and it is changing the world around us," says Guy Calhoun, someone I found on the street a couple seconds ago, wearing a black Germs T-Shirt. "Pollution and littering, now this. Holes in the ozone layer." So how has this "global warming" issue changed the way we see the planet? I took a stroll down Armitage yesterday as part of my in-depth field study. I noticed I was crunching leaves, a past-time of mine since I was a child. I also noticed I was not wearing a sweater. Here I was, in a short-sleeved shirt, doing what I had always done in more layers. If that's not proof enough for you, here's a scientist I contacted by phone. "What?" questioned Dr. Lydia Barney, PhD. "Who is this? What are you calling about?" Wake up and smell the Global Warming, doctor. It smells like change. Change for America, and the hometown that this paper is written in. Go Sox. So the next time you are rolling down your window to throw a smokestack out of your moving car, think of me, walking these lone streets, crunching leaves in a shirt. I hope then, maybe, you'll see the terror of your ways.
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Or! Or! I could be the guy on the front page, the coloumnist or whomever, the guy who has the word "humor" next to him but you feel uncomfortable calling him that because he sounds like Paul Reiser on an off day! That guy's probably got the best job of all, basically just blogging for money. "Johnson! Write a 75 word essay on what you think about anti-bacterial soap!" Man. That'd be sweet.

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GOD, IT JUST REALLY PISSES ME OFF
by Jack Spencer

Do you ever get on the subway and you see that guy? You know, that guy, the one with all those annoying habits that I'll mention in just a bit? God! That guy! It's like he's sitting there, making out with his girlfriend, when all of a sudden his phone rings, and his ringtone is the theme from Bosom Buddies! Then he answers it, and he's all yelling about his personal life! Just yelling away, like there was noooooooooooooobody else on the train or something! God! Then like this microwave dings and his mini-pizzas are ready, and he's all eating them really loud, with big smacks and dripping all over his suit! God! He doesn't even ask me if I wanted any! I didn't even, but he could've thought to ask! No, but he'd probably all yell it in my face, then go on about his dying grandmother! God! If I have to hear the words "terminal cancer" one more time, I'm going to upchuck (they won't let me say anything worse than that...)! God, and he's like just being really loud an obnoxious for like the whole twenty-five minutes that I've been staring at him intently, like he has no social skills at all! Like, where did you grow up, Dingus-berry-town? The town for Dingus-Berries to live? What the heck darn shoot? I almost wanted to get my hand out of my pants and walk out at the next stop I was so annoyed, I totally should've, I totally should've. God, this guy!

But I learned something that day: Don't judge a book by its cover. The end.

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Also a big fan of "the list guy", the guy who makes a top ten list of something and writes a little unclever blurb about each one.

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TOP TEN ENTERTAINMENT NEWS TIDBITS
by Jack "Sleuth-Mo-Graph!" Spencer

10. KANYE WEST

He is currently popular. KANYE he keep it up? (Kanye, in this sentence is meant to stand for "Can yay", as in this is a joke. Go back and read it again.)

9. DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES

Yowza! Wouldn't mind borrowing some sugar from these ladies! Gonna make me the most bad-ass cake in the Earth!

8. MARY-KATE AND ASHLEY OLSON

Did someone order ribs??? (Sorry, David Spade, that shoulda been yours.)

7. BRADJENGELDINGJALINA

I'd tap that. Which one, you ask? Mystery....

6. MADONNA - QUEEN KABALLAH???

Looks like the Material Girl has a few choice words to say about the Material World! (I guess, like, it's ironic cuz she used to have this song, see...)

5. PARIS HILTON V. NICOLE RITCHIE

Remember that sex video Paris made? The green one? Get ready, I'm about to allude to it.

4. THE O.C.

A show about rich, white Californians? Fucking finally!!! (Sorry I swore, Mom, I think my boss might change it to "freakin'" or "friendly" in the final draft.)

3. BRUCE WILLIS ON THAT 70'S SHOW

Oh man, Mr. "Die Hard" is gonna "Try Hard" not to get jealous of his ex-lovers new boy toy, half his age! He'll have to use his Sixth Sense to not Apocolypse the Armaggedon Fifth Element Jackal Siege Bruno the Kid Whole Nine Yards Look Who's Talking Too!!!!!! WITH A VENGEANCE!!!!!!

2. ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT: THROAT TROUBLES

Wait, isn't that one show... that, like... I dunno.

1. REALITY TV

It is so awesome. It is so awesome.

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Or, actually, best of all is the little back page blurbs, the one paragraph no-effort pandering to advertisers quickies. I'll bet I'd make a mint on those, busting out fifty in a half hour.

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MOVE OVER, STARBUCKS!
by Jack Spencer

Burger King is now selling coffee, called "BK Joe". Is it good? Burger King says "Yes". We say "Listen to everything Burger King has to say".

AVIAN FLU: MOVE OVER, KFC!
by Jack Spencer

Uh, this might just kill us all. But did you read about Burger King and that coffee thing? Awesome, huh?

FROZEN SENATE: BRRR!
by Jack Spencer

The Senate held a secret meeting to investigate the intelligence of weapons inspectors. I think. Hope they make a couple BK pitstops, in case they get tired (see above).

MOVE OVER, HOLLYWOODPLACE!
by Jack Spencer

Talks of a movie! Someone, somewhere, gonna make one, and we'll probably watch it!

MOVE OVER, JACK SPENCER!
by Jack Spencer

I just lost my job. Hope we've had some fun, guys, be sure to read my journal on Xanga, and do yourself a favor and grab some BK Joe. I heard it was kinda good.

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Those of you who I'm mocking, you know who you are. Either give me a job or feel ashamed.

Smelly Buckets

2005-10-31T11:51:00.000-06:00

So, I guess I'm sick. I have like things that constantly project themselves from my nostrils, they're kind of basically in command now. My typing ability is waning: I almost spelled "kind" with a c. That would've been pretty pathetic, I'm sure all manner of people would jump all over me for that one. My head feels like it has mud in it. My eyes are tired. My arms are sore and I can hardly keep them straight. So, I guess I'm sick.

But I intend not to use this space simply to complain about the various ills that have surfaced in my life recently. No, blogs are in no way intended to be used for petty bitching and empty negativity. No, sir. Nuh-uh. A big bowl of "no" yogurt for that twiddling peon. Though as it stands during the writing of this particular entry, I am not feeling very keen on life, this does not mean that someday, along the line, I will all of a sudden switch sides and clamour for the simple joys of everything that is, was and ever shall be. When those days come, you'd better believe they will be chronicled here on this little cove of intro-netty space, oh yes! I shall rain down from the heavens good cheer, maybe a tiding or two, and mass amounts of self-aggrandizing statements which I may have picked up from other sources. So don't think of this particular entry as me being biased towards the meloncholy. I simply need to express that which is currently troubling my gentle soul so as to prepare myself for better sailing ahead.

FUCK!!!

I'm not feeling so great at all and fuck this. If I could sleep, coiled up in a ball in a blanket made of angel feathers, for all eternity and dream nothing but thoughts of dancing sugarplums and rampant, overwhelming nocturnal emissions, perhaps my days would be brightened, but as far as now goes, only anger, sadness and gross tissues full of mucus fill the hallways of my sullen life. I need to go lie down over there, a place that I am pointing at that you can't see because you are not where I am right now, watching me point with my finger in the direction of the place I need to go. It will not be grand but will at least give me the pleasure of pointing my nostrils in a direction that is not vertical so they have less a chance of sabotaging my entire operation. And maybe TV will be on, so I will watch it. Oh, Bill Cosby, if your manic take on upper-class family values aren't enough to satiate the wild beast inside, I am afraid nothing will, and tears of abundance shall spill from wherever tears decide they want to spill from as my unending determination for bed-ridden lonliness supercedes all else.

How many typos you count? I'm not going to count. Counting is unhealthy. Sorry if none of this made sense, I let my fingers do the talking. The bastards.

I Have Gaffed A Gaffer

2005-10-26T23:30:00.000-05:00

I guess a local team won some sort of sports game. Seems to be an increased amount of ruckusing about amongst the people within earshot. Yelling and shirtlessness abound; should I be interested, maybe? Should a lone eybrow be raised slowly and specifically above my left eye as I make some sort of high-toned questioning noise through my teeth? Should maybe I investigate further so that tomorrow, when asked if I saw the game, I can at the very least say "No!" with a sense of prior knowledge? So many purposeless yet distinctly probing questions pass through this mind of mine; I refuse to answer any of them. It would take power away from their asking. Can't have that.

The other day a guy on the other side of the train platform began to yell at us. "WHITE SOX!!!" he yelled. "WHITE SOX!!!" he yelled again. I think maybe he yelled a third time, possibly further. I didn't keep track, my notebook and pen used to write down the number of times someone did something were not on me at the time. His girlfriend yelled like a "WHOO!" or a "WHOOT!" or something (how many zeroes in "wh00t", by the way? I'm not good at math). The guy then shot back with some garbled sentence involving the word "Sex". It's really the only word I can pick out of garbled sentences, maybe that and "marshmallow-riffic", which isn't even a real word in our dictionary, so scratch whatever it was I just mumbled. I think he was saying something along the lines of "We had sex at the stadium!" I certainly hope they did: I always hope people are having entertaining sex lives so I have something to be jealous of. The chant quickly turned into simply "SEX!!!", disregarding any notice to the original baseball team in question. Well, sex is as good as anything else to cheer, I suppose. More valid than "I am incontinent and am a widower!!! WHOOO!!!".

Rain that falls dilligently from the sky on the bare-chested rapscallions what be running back and forth in celebration seems not to distract them from their ultimate goal: Being drunk and yelling about... something. Baseball, I guess. Maybe they won the lottery. Maybe that new Desperate Housewives episode was just really, really good. They're not really saying anything in particular, just yelling. Yelling and running. And running back. Then forth. Jumping. Arms being thrown in the air, I also believe they were relatively apathetic as to this particular action. I didn't watch the game, did they bring back your dead puppy from sixth grade at the end of it? It is the World Series, innit? I suppose they're justified. Local boys made good, everyone loves to see the team with the city they are currently in at the front of their name hit a ball well.

A solid fifteen minutes and cheering dies down. Cars have returned to hitting people in the middle of the street rather than honking in wistful comradarie. Legs got tired. Shirts realized they were way too wet. Refridgerators weeped at the lack of beer inside them. And all went quiet again. To one who didn't watch the game, it might as well have been a bunch of drunks I didn't know, yelling about how great of friends they were with everyone around them and how they can't remember the last time they jumped rope. I could've been asleep, oblivious to any event taking place, tossing sullenly as the assholes woke me from my sub-gentle slumber. Hell, I could've not even heard them and gone on with my life, completely unfettered by whatever it is that may have happened. To me it could've been no more than an empty bottle of Pabst sitting silently on my front porch, riddled with memories of the previous nights sport-inspired debauchery. Somewhere, someone's getting laid. Someone's "really fuggin' drunk, dude". Someone lost their bra and doesn't care. Maybe someone got hit by a bus or fell on third rail. And nothing worthy of mention will happen to me, other than an easily forgettable loudness eminating from outside, registering with me just enough that I will be able to forget it rather than ignore it. Would something happen to me if I were a White Sox fan? Would my life change drastically? For most, I'm sure this is just an excuse to party. But with that excuse comes an acceptance that yes, something will come of this. Your acknoledgement of the games existance and perceived importance will change your life, whether noticably or not. For me, the noise annoys and I go to sleep. I am unfettered, here's hoping you fetter more favorably.

Go Sox.

White Sox! Sex!

2005-10-24T12:05:00.000-05:00

It is this time of year again. The cold sets in mid-October after unseasonably warm months preceding it, as if to say "It's Sweeps Week in weather town, mother fucker, we have to surprise you or we lose our jobs. Up next: Is Mother Nature a he-she????". The apartment is full of subtle reminders of my current state of mind: radiators but no heat, fireplace but no fire, blankets but no one to cuddle with. Me, alone in my frigid room wearing a hoodie to bed, struggling under the quicksand quilts to drift into slumber where maybe I'll dream about somewhere where the chill does not creep through the bars on my window. This is the kind of weather that I am able to attribute an excuse to spending my Sunday in my Barrel o' Monkey pajamas watching Law and Order and eating Cheetos, it's too rainy and cold to do anything else. I of course know full well I would've done this very event under any circumstances. But it's nice to be able to tell someone you stayed inside all day and did nothing and have them respond, "Oh, yeah, it was really icky out wasn't it?" I don't have to make the excuse, weather does it for me.

I feel like I ought to be a mole or something, all curled into the smallest amount of space I can take up, burrowed underground and lying amongst my brethren, feeding off their natural warmth.

I have nothing to write. That which circles in my head is interesting to none and impossible and purposeless to attempt to communicate. End transmission.

Drunk POost@!!!!

2005-10-22T03:16:00.000-05:00

I am drunk and I'm posting. Girls are amazingly uscetible to douchy dude at a party... it's sad. I try my best but ulimately I respect women too much. WOmen are beaautiul and i LOVE THEM ESPECIIALY EeVARE BUT only her cuz othrer women suck. COlin is coom he holep-ed me byuy Cheetos they were so famdamn delicoisu I loved em all bits of em. Yummmmm mmm CH3eetos. He's plaiygn qith sa card now I c don'st know whT IST SIS Caps lock sucks it makes the drunk look stupid. I am typing a bout for serioushere. Make a move. A hundred times. Rubeber band is actually whwat he platys with ai used to do that in siexth gradee that swhit ewas he shit. AAAAAAGH. tHIS is thr only time you'll ever see me limket this i promise.

foprever///

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EDIT: Wow. Just wow. I think this is a work of art, I'm keeping it as is.

If You Have Love In You're Heart, There's No Need To Prepare For Christmas

2005-10-20T20:17:00.000-05:00

Four out of the past five times I've taken a shit there's been no toilet paper in the room. We have a whole batch of toilet paper, but all the way across the apartment in the second bathroom (that's right, ladies, two bathrooms, right next to the Lambourgini and the piles of golden-gilded coke, aww yeah). This requires either an awkward "Hey..." conversation through the creaked doorway with my pants around my ankles or an embaressing hobble across the hall with a careful attempt not to touch anything. Either way, I go through a few moments of solemn mental preperation before retrieving the necessary stash. "Oh, God..." I mumble, thinking to myself how I had promised last time I would never repeat this situation. Never again, I vow loudly, never again! But four out of five times. Four out of five times, people! Is this registering with you as much as it should? That's a huge amount of times I had to do a little waltz with shit still in my ass. I shouldn't have to tell you that that ain't fun.

I put toilet paper in the bathroom so hopefully this won't happen again. But as studies have shown, fate has something against me.

They Just Won't Let Tyson Go For That Whole Ear Thing

2005-10-19T22:41:00.000-05:00

So I attended a 24 hour horror movie marathon last weekend. But I had to go by myself because all my friends had other things to do. Somehow doing homework, seeing parents and going to concerts was more important than seeing Scanners, Return Of The Living Dead, and Demons BACK TO MOTHER FUCKING BACK, but that was their perogative I suppose. It is a movie theatre after all, tisn't impossible to have fun all by lonesome. Man, I can't rightly express to you how enjoyable it was to walk into the theatre at noon and leave at... noon. I felt like a member of elite horror fans, staying up through an entire rotation of the Earth and watching many people die or be turned into evil creatures. Such an intense amount of blood and gore, all on the big screen with a crowd that was of like mind and appreciation was a beautiful thing.

I don't know how many of you have heard of the film Aftermath by Nacho Cerda, but the US premiere screening was that very night, on account of it's being widely banned in basically everywhere in the world. There was all manner of build-up behind this movie, you know: Banned everywhere, first screening, audiences in a Toronto screening were left vomiting in the streets. So having heard all the tales about this film, I sort of took it as a personal challenge to make it through. The film begins, the doctor cuts into the body. The head is split open and the brain is removed, all manner of crunching noises. Now, I've seen quite a bit of gore in my day. But this was some of the most realistic I'd ever seen on film; I was debating with myself whether or not they incorporated a real body for the filming. About 10 minutes in, I started feeling the tingle. You know that tingle when you're about to throw up? That whole rising of what feels almost electric in your body, a strange vibrating numbness from the stomach up? I was thinking to myself "Oh shit, I'm actually going to throw up during this thing." I decided it was too much to bare and excused myself for the bathroom. I didn't feel like I was going to throw up, and decided to simply pee and let things work themselves out.

I dreamt. I don't know what I dreamt, but I think I was laughing. I dreamt whatever it was I dreamt the night previous, though I don't remember what that is either. But I think I was laughing.

I wake up on the floor, my penis still protuding over the top of my unzipped pants. A crowd of two is staring at me on the ground, one decides it may be a good idea to help me up.

"Are you alright man?"
"Yeah... Did I hit my head or anything?"
"No, you fell into me in the middle of my piss. I didn't know if you were on acid or something."
"I'm definitely not on acid."
"Um, I didn't finish my piss."

I let the man behind me get back to his dirty business and proceeded to pull up my pantaloons and wash my sullied hands. What the fuck just happened?

I had a seizure, I think. Maybe I just blacked out for a second. Either way, I passed out on the ground for the duration of about a second. Was this the movie that did this to me?

Idly joining the other few that had left the theatre area, I took a look at the movie, still in progress, through the windows of the entrance doors. Hmm. That guy is still doing an autopsy on that damn body. I didn't realize cutting the dick off the body then probing the hole you just made with blunt objects was standard procedure. Then again, I don't have a medical liscence. What do I know? Maybe you're supposed to climb on top and fuck the body after you've cut it open.

So the question then came to mind, as oft does in situations somewhat similar to this: Am I a pussy? I fucking passed out during a god damned horror movie, only pussies do that. This film was a personal challenge, an attempt to prove myself better than all the Torontons who blew their bagged lunches upon witnessing this film. I failed. I couldn't do it. Guy outside the theatre on his cell phone, talking with someone about the movie. "Yeah, I stepped out for a second. It was just so boring, you know?" Hmm. Boring. I talked with a friend of mine the next day, another avid horror man; said he'd thought the film was "pointless". Pointless. Boring. So it was essentially a presentation in 7th grade social studies class that caused me to writhe on the floor of the mens room? I must be a pussy. There's no two ways about this. There were tons of people still watching the film, all less of a pussy than you. What the hell, man, you couldn't sit through that? That was nothing. My grandma and I watched that on her 65th anniversary. We laughed then had tea. It was Earl Grey. She yawned. Oh, she said you're a pussy, too.

Upon post-examination of the film, it appears it is nothing but gory things happening, no real storyline or plot. I'm guessing here, I didn't stay for the whole thing. But that may be why so many found it "boring", they're used to the gore. It rolls right off their back, just like that guys kidneys did in the movie. I've never had a reaction to any movie like that before. It was really strange for me. I started to imagine what else it could have been, perhaps the 7+ Monster energy drinks I had over the past 2 hours. No, I was feeling fine. They had basically worn off, those things don't do much for me. They were free, who am I to turn down free shit? No other factors really came to mind. It seems like to big a coincidence for me to react that way after just hearing that this was a seemingly common reaction to it.

Which means I am nothing but a common pussy.

I later thought to myself that this was the wrong way to look at it. First off, I like horror movies, but they're not all I watch. I'm not completely desensitized to gore, I still sort of go "Oooooh" when the Yankee rolls around in the barrel of nails in 2000 Maniacs, tame as that may be by todays standards. I've never watched Faces Of Death, nor would be particularly interested to, because gore and death and blood and etcetera are not solely what I like horror for. I like the camp, the bad storylines, the suspense, the ridiculousness, the clever lines, the intrigue, the shadows, and, yes, the gore. I like still being senstive to gore; if I weren't, movies which are simply a gore-fest would be of no interest to me. I think gore is sick, funny, gruesome, interesting, and at times, overwhelming. But I don't really get squeamish at anything, which made me wonder about Aftermath. What was it exactly that hit me about that film over any other? How was it different? I could probably see things in it no one who is desensitized could, because for them it's nothing new. For me, I'm trying to discover how it's new.

This movie was,seen by many, I believe, including myself, as a kind of personal challenge. Prove your tolerance level. Part of my reaction may have been all the talk of feeling woozy afterwards; who knows how I would've felt had I not head anything about it. Part of it may have been one specific thing that got me; I think it may have been all the sounds of bone-cracking, that shit gets me, it seems. And, yes, part of it may simply be that I'm a pussy. But so what? Pussys get more out of the art of cinema than others. If people try to hold in their fears, tears or cheers in an attempt to "beat" the movie and not be a pussy, they missed something. If you cry during a movie, it is not that you are not a man. It is that the movie got to you in some way. It affected you. This is good. If we become so desensitized that we try to repress reaction to film, we'll get far less out of it than if we just let it out. I get giddy when I watch TV, I don't know about you. The whole episode of The X Files I watched today, I knew that shady guy in the long wig was Krycek, I fucking knew it. But I didn't say "Yeah, I knew it was him" upon revealing this fact. I waited til he showed up and jumped to the heavens in joy, after spending the entirity of the episode excited for the moment. Because I still feel when I partake in art.

And if that makes me a pussy, then so be it.

P.S. I plan on renting Aftermath and giving it another chance. I'm going to gauge my reaction and compare it to the other night, I'll keep you posted on my findings.

I Tend To Think Everyone Is Named Brian

2005-10-18T20:55:00.000-05:00

I have seemed to persistantly avoided this whole HaloScan business, and I am glad frankly. I don't need no new age techno bullshit plauging my airwaves with its "Take Me To Your Leader" cyborg bullshit. That's right, I said bullshit twice in one run on sentence. Sue me, go on. I can say bullshit as many times as I damn well please, typically in direct proportion to how much bullshit the topic at hand actually is. Bullshit.

But now they have this whole business of "Word Verification", wherein you gotta type like "bizpharma" or some non-existant word in order to prove you are a human being and capable of comprehending illogical words without having your head implode. I am considering taking this step in my comment options, simply to keep out you no-good robotics what want me to click some link and increase my penis size tenfold. Well, you know what? My penis is just fine and keep your grubby hands off of it. Though I did initially have a very slight amount of fun in pretending the robot spammers were real and responding to them as though they actually did bookmark my site and actually were going to check back often and actually did have important info on billiard ball watchgolden round table thing the, but that got tiresome very fast as their numbers did increase by the plenties. Now I got people named "jon" or "vinnie vinnie two hands" jocking on my grill touting their wares at inopportune times, all the time, like a clock with a coocoo on repeat. I want them to go away, and am thus considering selloing my soul to the Blog Satans and getting word verification. But do you people want to have to read some swivled word on acid just to tell me that the point I made is somewhat valid? You tell me. I get so few comments as it is, I don't want to drive those few who still read this teaming pile away.

Arr Mother Fucker I'm A Pirate/Gonna Take Your Treasure Bitch And Hide It

2005-10-14T21:52:00.000-05:00

Man, ya'll don't even know. Or even realize, even. I got mad secrets, dogg. Deep and dark, like a chasm, or like maybe a creepy closet or something, all in a haunted house's attic. There are things about me I can't express to anyone, not a soul. These feelings, they scare me, what with them being all deep and dark and all that. Here are some poems I have written to help me express the inexpressible:

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GOODNIGHT, MOON - CEPT THE EVIL VERSION AND I KILL THE MOON IN THE END

Bottle
There is the bottle.
I break the bottle. Half.
Half the bottle.
See it?
Kiss the bottle.
Make love unto the broken bottle which I have in my hands.
It is your enemy
Enemy
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SOME COLD AND LONELY

The corner of my bed is the only place for me to crawl. Can you watch me crawl to the corner of my bed? Because that

is where I am going.

Times are hard, like hundreds of nails glued together; cohesive piece.
Of nail.
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A SMART BOMB OF SADNESS TOURS MY CITY

we are but a dark endless night cannot this be the way unto heaven where is heaven anyway i don't know where it is. sometimes i think about the little ant and ponder it walking it walking it walking it walking build house little one let the community you thrive grow and let the man with shoe on destroy your souls underneath its sole its sole its sole its sole its sole can you understand

i cannot

help me to be there i long to be

lost amidst a carpet
lost but not adrift.
.
.
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THE KNIFE OF SADNESS

Grab the knife of sadness, grab, grab.
Stab into your gladness, stab, stab.
Strap your soul unto the table.
Strap it down, it is unable.
Grab the knife of sadness, grab, grab.
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HOW DO THEY DO IT - REPRISE

When I look outside sometimes I see the happy ones, the gazers, the chasers, the yearners and dreamers. Sometimes I see them all. When the one small child I see outside through my window disobeys his mother and runs into the park, I see it. I see it all.

That child is dead.

A hundred thousand daffodils cannot bring him back. And yet I see it all when I look outside sometimes.

That child is dead, and I am that child.
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FOREVER

forever is but a nightmare away
forever
forever come to me in my sleep and we shall dance the eternal dance
forever
forever
for there is no "ever" without "forever" and we cannot live on mullberries alone
forbearance is a gift we give the black knight of darkness upon retrieval of
...forever
forever...
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PILLAGE RAPE DESTROY

spinning in my head spinning in my head spinning in my head spinning in my head spinning in my head spinning in my head spinning in my head spinning in my head spinning in my head spinning in my head spinning in my head spinning in my head a hundred times over into infinity
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CONSEQUENCES

We cannot choose. We cannot know what it means. No one knows, no one chooses. These consequences are mine and mine alone, you can't have them, Mom and Dad. Never for they are mine alone and I alone shall eat them like souls.

Souls, mother.
Souls, father.
Souls, Grandpa Timmy, too.

We wish we could choose. We wish we could see. But all we get is nothingness.

Nothingness of everything.
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DESTROY EVERYTHING AND BLACK DARKNESS WRITHING CANNOT YOU SEE CANNOT YOU SEE CANNOT YOU SEE I FLY INTO FOREVER WHICH IS NIGHT AND THE SKY ABOVE IS BLEEDING RED WITH INNOCENSE QUESTIONS QUESTIONS FOREVER

he.
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THE

...................end.

Question mark?
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I'm sorry if maybe I've scared some of you away, but I need these demons released from my being, through literary means. The demon souls that haunt me and the dark place I go shall remain forever, but nothing helps the fear like not exposing it. Let not ye judge me.

Let not.