Hey!
Two things:
1) Its fucking cold out. Like space cold. And I'm home during the day and since I'm lame and live with my parents who work the heat isn't on. And I feel like a little leeching shit if I turn it on during the day even though I work from home and it's not like I don't have a job or anything. The thermostat in my house just has a picture of a middle finger on it. Also, my cats have reached the point in their lives where they piss on everything so a good number of our blankets smell like old hockey bags. And actually, as I think about it, the cats suck extra because they aren't even big enough to skin and make new blankets out of. Or even small area rug really. It would really add a lot to the decor: bear skin rug in the living room, cat skin mat in the front hall. And it would ward off intruding cats from encroaching on the property. And it would probably scare the shit out of little kids. Actually, the pros of this are greatly outmatching the cons. Something to think about for sure, especially with Christmas right around the corner.
2) I was originally going to write about the increasing tide of bizarre commercials (Old Spice, Troy Palomalu's Head and Shoulders stuff, etc.) but now I think I'll hold that off 'til after the Superbowl to see if it holds up. So to fill this space, I want to talk about how awesome 1920s style comedians were. Case in point. This originally caught my interest after watching Boardwalk Empire where they did an Eddie Cantor bit. I think I find it so funny because it is so radically out of context today. It's a dude in a porkpie hat with tons of stage makeup on just dropping bombs onstage. The weird part is that it was funny then because it was so fresh, and now it's fucking hysterical because it's so disjointed and alien. It's the kind of stuff all those absurd commercials are parodying, it's what Tim and Eric do on their show, it's definitely the essence of anti-comedy or absurdist comedy or whatever you want to call it. That said, I want to do a modern comedy show of observational comedy in the style of Eddie Cantor. Seinfeld-esque stuff, (although it seems like he's spun out of orbit too) but with that crazy cadence and with vaudeville songs and crazy powdery face makeup. I think it would be just top-notch. Get at me with donations.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Thursday, December 2, 2010
XVII
Well that worked well! Every Monday my ass.
This time I had a good excuse though. One of my compatriots and I decided to go out to a local watering hole to play some darts and steep in the local culture and things got a little carried away. I was under the impression that we were only going to take in a few beverages and watch the villagers play pool, drink, and fight in a slow orbit around our table, but I was clearly mistaken. As so often happens after a few drinks, the concept of tomorrow got more and more intangible, like trying to remember a dream at breakfast. We looked on through a haze of barley wine as men in leather jackets grabbed men in denim jackets for putting their hands on their lady's denim and leather clad asses. These same men, noticing us sitting in the corner avoiding eye contact (me especially, because I was wearing a navy blue and pink striped golf shirt in the land of flannel) came over to give us high fives and regale us with their life stories, many of which consisted of complaining about the government and arguing for the relative merit of domestic beer over imported. After about 11 o' clock most of the hardcore parlor game enthusiasts had left to make room for the creatures of the night. My friend and I, brash and brazen from inebriation, decided to make our move from the tabled fringe to barstool primacy. Still a bit wary of our surroundings we straddled the corner of the bar, our heads a'swivel. It didn't matter; out of the corner of our collective eye, we spotted a 60 something year old woman making her way for us, too late to do anything but brace for impact.
"Hey," she said, with the collected wear and tear of 52,000 cigarettes coming through, "can I buy you guys a pitcher a' beer?"
Baffled at this most recent development, my partner and I convened over the Megatouch machine.
"She's probably going to want something in return," my partner said, his voice hushed "and I don't think either of us are prepared to give her anything."
"Codswoddle!" I said, and then to her, "Thank you ma'am, we'd be much obliged."
"Call me Stella," she said with a cough and a wink.
Immediately regretting my decision, my hands started to shake as "Stella" ordered a pitcher of beer...and two tumblers of gin with lime. I don't drink gin, and I didn't plan on starting, so I politely said, "Oh no thanks, just the beer for me."
"Don't be an ass, they're both for me."
This response frightened me more than the prospect of her offering me the gin. Stella slid her stool next to me and my friend, placed her tumblers on the bar, pulled out a cigarette out of her purse and stuck in above her ear. "I'm gonna go out for a smoke, do me a favor and sneak me out this glass when the bartender isn't looking."
"A-alright ma'am, I'll try," spoke my mouth before I noticed what had happened. My friend was looking at me with mouth agape. My hand took the glass and moved it down to hip-level, my legs made a move for the door.
"Nuh uh honey, don't let Stella strongarm you like that," the female barmaid said, "she can wait 'til she gets back in." At this point, Stella stormed back in the bar.
"What? Did you get caught or something?" said Stella to me.
"You can't bring your drinks outside unless you have a plastic cup, which we don't have," answered the barmaid in my stead.
"If the owner wasn't so fucking cheap maybe you would!" said Stella, "Come on kid, come help me get some cups from my apartment!"
I looked at my friend, crossed myself, and followed this old crone into the blustery cold.
I'd like to end the story there to interject that this was the point in the night where I thought something really interesting might happen; something worth telling a story about. Maybe I would have seen a really big dog, or Stella would have given me a briefcase full of unmarked twenties and a bottle of sour mix. I really didn't know, but I was at the point, not really drunk but definitely not sober, where I felt as though nothing bad could possibly have come out of this. It was a fact finding mission, a curious investigation into a person that I would not have normally talked to. Unfortunately, nothing really exciting happened. Thus, this big buildup was ultimately for nothing. I really wanted something exciting to happen, like that time in Canada with Ed and his band of concubines, but I got nothing. She stumbled two doors down to where she lived, yelled upstairs at someone that I didn't see, and two cups flew down the stairs. They didn't even hit her in the head. She caught them and we walked back to the bar. She lost interest in me when I put a dollar in the jukebox and played this song, and the rest of the night was uneventful. I guess this was kind of a strange way to tell a story, but I think it is the most accurate (my film noir/Sherlock Holmes style phrasing notwithstanding). Also, I'm just trying to shake the rust off these writing fingers. I don't need "smooth transitions" or "actual endings" at this point, 'cause this is a fucking blog. See, there I felt like I was yelling into the abyss like a lunatic. This post feels disappointing for some reason. Well, so did that night. But hey, free pitcher of beer!
This time I had a good excuse though. One of my compatriots and I decided to go out to a local watering hole to play some darts and steep in the local culture and things got a little carried away. I was under the impression that we were only going to take in a few beverages and watch the villagers play pool, drink, and fight in a slow orbit around our table, but I was clearly mistaken. As so often happens after a few drinks, the concept of tomorrow got more and more intangible, like trying to remember a dream at breakfast. We looked on through a haze of barley wine as men in leather jackets grabbed men in denim jackets for putting their hands on their lady's denim and leather clad asses. These same men, noticing us sitting in the corner avoiding eye contact (me especially, because I was wearing a navy blue and pink striped golf shirt in the land of flannel) came over to give us high fives and regale us with their life stories, many of which consisted of complaining about the government and arguing for the relative merit of domestic beer over imported. After about 11 o' clock most of the hardcore parlor game enthusiasts had left to make room for the creatures of the night. My friend and I, brash and brazen from inebriation, decided to make our move from the tabled fringe to barstool primacy. Still a bit wary of our surroundings we straddled the corner of the bar, our heads a'swivel. It didn't matter; out of the corner of our collective eye, we spotted a 60 something year old woman making her way for us, too late to do anything but brace for impact.
"Hey," she said, with the collected wear and tear of 52,000 cigarettes coming through, "can I buy you guys a pitcher a' beer?"
Baffled at this most recent development, my partner and I convened over the Megatouch machine.
"She's probably going to want something in return," my partner said, his voice hushed "and I don't think either of us are prepared to give her anything."
"Codswoddle!" I said, and then to her, "Thank you ma'am, we'd be much obliged."
"Call me Stella," she said with a cough and a wink.
Immediately regretting my decision, my hands started to shake as "Stella" ordered a pitcher of beer...and two tumblers of gin with lime. I don't drink gin, and I didn't plan on starting, so I politely said, "Oh no thanks, just the beer for me."
"Don't be an ass, they're both for me."
This response frightened me more than the prospect of her offering me the gin. Stella slid her stool next to me and my friend, placed her tumblers on the bar, pulled out a cigarette out of her purse and stuck in above her ear. "I'm gonna go out for a smoke, do me a favor and sneak me out this glass when the bartender isn't looking."
"A-alright ma'am, I'll try," spoke my mouth before I noticed what had happened. My friend was looking at me with mouth agape. My hand took the glass and moved it down to hip-level, my legs made a move for the door.
"Nuh uh honey, don't let Stella strongarm you like that," the female barmaid said, "she can wait 'til she gets back in." At this point, Stella stormed back in the bar.
"What? Did you get caught or something?" said Stella to me.
"You can't bring your drinks outside unless you have a plastic cup, which we don't have," answered the barmaid in my stead.
"If the owner wasn't so fucking cheap maybe you would!" said Stella, "Come on kid, come help me get some cups from my apartment!"
I looked at my friend, crossed myself, and followed this old crone into the blustery cold.
I'd like to end the story there to interject that this was the point in the night where I thought something really interesting might happen; something worth telling a story about. Maybe I would have seen a really big dog, or Stella would have given me a briefcase full of unmarked twenties and a bottle of sour mix. I really didn't know, but I was at the point, not really drunk but definitely not sober, where I felt as though nothing bad could possibly have come out of this. It was a fact finding mission, a curious investigation into a person that I would not have normally talked to. Unfortunately, nothing really exciting happened. Thus, this big buildup was ultimately for nothing. I really wanted something exciting to happen, like that time in Canada with Ed and his band of concubines, but I got nothing. She stumbled two doors down to where she lived, yelled upstairs at someone that I didn't see, and two cups flew down the stairs. They didn't even hit her in the head. She caught them and we walked back to the bar. She lost interest in me when I put a dollar in the jukebox and played this song, and the rest of the night was uneventful. I guess this was kind of a strange way to tell a story, but I think it is the most accurate (my film noir/Sherlock Holmes style phrasing notwithstanding). Also, I'm just trying to shake the rust off these writing fingers. I don't need "smooth transitions" or "actual endings" at this point, 'cause this is a fucking blog. See, there I felt like I was yelling into the abyss like a lunatic. This post feels disappointing for some reason. Well, so did that night. But hey, free pitcher of beer!
Monday, November 22, 2010
XVI
Okay everybody (literally zero people), I think I've reached the point in my life where my idealism has died enough for me to come to terms with my own shortcomings and creative limits. It's become clear that I'm not good at updating this thing regularly, and I think that has to do with three main things.
One: I was under the assumption that whenever a particularly interesting or humorous idea popped into my head, I would make a note and then post it up here, hopefully having the wherewithal to extrapolate that mote of information into a diatribe long enough to warrant a blog post. This is impractical. I have tens of thousands of notebooks all over the place that are filled with fragments of thoughts that if found and read by the proper authorities, would most likely land me in Levenworth. Most recently, a list titled "White People Problems" with two bullets underneath it reading "ran out of cookie straws" and "addicted to oxycontin", and a page that just has the words "Pillow Technology" on it. I don't know where either of those ideas were going, and frankly I don't really want to. Point being for better or worse none of those things ended up on here.
Which brings me to point two: I'm a lethal combination of forgetful and self-conscious. Half the time I would just forget to post the stuff on here, and the other half I would wait too long, re-examine what I had written, and realize that it was stupid bullshit and who the fuck was I to assume that anyone would want to read it. I can't seem to get my head around the conceit that people want to read meaningless shit about other people's lives, even though I spend a lot of time reading meaningless shit about other people's lives. In fact a lot of writing in general falls under that umbrella, with the additional fact that most autobiographical writing is written by people who have had interesting lives (or at least can fake it). Actually, even non-autobiographical fiction (to the extent that it exists) deals with that conceit, in some ways even more so, because you're reading about the life of some character that doesn't even exist in the real world. Again though, that subject matter, regardless of how seemingly meaningless it is, is interesting when done well. I don't want to get into a one sided discussion about the importance of fiction, lest I begin to resemble the man that walks to the library by himself, muttering and carrying armfuls of books, so I will stop. To sum up: I forget that this conduit to the etherweb exists sometimes, and when I do remember, I often convince myself that I have nothing worthwhile to add.
Lastly, three: I'm pretty sure no one reads this, partly because of my chaotic posting regimen, and partly because the blog doesn't really cater to a specific interest. It's not a food blog, it's not a fashion blog, it's not a tech blog, it's not a travel blog, and it doesn't have porn on it, thus it is aimed at no one in particular. But it's also aimed at everyone in particular. But no one in particular seems to read it, save a few friends. So even though updating regularly is not hard work, screaming into the void about nothing in particular while hearing nothing back does resemble insanity (something I tend to shy away from).
Thus, I'm going to try to update every Monday. Sean is funny on Monday.
One: I was under the assumption that whenever a particularly interesting or humorous idea popped into my head, I would make a note and then post it up here, hopefully having the wherewithal to extrapolate that mote of information into a diatribe long enough to warrant a blog post. This is impractical. I have tens of thousands of notebooks all over the place that are filled with fragments of thoughts that if found and read by the proper authorities, would most likely land me in Levenworth. Most recently, a list titled "White People Problems" with two bullets underneath it reading "ran out of cookie straws" and "addicted to oxycontin", and a page that just has the words "Pillow Technology" on it. I don't know where either of those ideas were going, and frankly I don't really want to. Point being for better or worse none of those things ended up on here.
Which brings me to point two: I'm a lethal combination of forgetful and self-conscious. Half the time I would just forget to post the stuff on here, and the other half I would wait too long, re-examine what I had written, and realize that it was stupid bullshit and who the fuck was I to assume that anyone would want to read it. I can't seem to get my head around the conceit that people want to read meaningless shit about other people's lives, even though I spend a lot of time reading meaningless shit about other people's lives. In fact a lot of writing in general falls under that umbrella, with the additional fact that most autobiographical writing is written by people who have had interesting lives (or at least can fake it). Actually, even non-autobiographical fiction (to the extent that it exists) deals with that conceit, in some ways even more so, because you're reading about the life of some character that doesn't even exist in the real world. Again though, that subject matter, regardless of how seemingly meaningless it is, is interesting when done well. I don't want to get into a one sided discussion about the importance of fiction, lest I begin to resemble the man that walks to the library by himself, muttering and carrying armfuls of books, so I will stop. To sum up: I forget that this conduit to the etherweb exists sometimes, and when I do remember, I often convince myself that I have nothing worthwhile to add.
Lastly, three: I'm pretty sure no one reads this, partly because of my chaotic posting regimen, and partly because the blog doesn't really cater to a specific interest. It's not a food blog, it's not a fashion blog, it's not a tech blog, it's not a travel blog, and it doesn't have porn on it, thus it is aimed at no one in particular. But it's also aimed at everyone in particular. But no one in particular seems to read it, save a few friends. So even though updating regularly is not hard work, screaming into the void about nothing in particular while hearing nothing back does resemble insanity (something I tend to shy away from).
Thus, I'm going to try to update every Monday. Sean is funny on Monday.
Monday, March 29, 2010
XV
I started watching Jamie Oliver's Food Revolution on Hulu today, and after imbibing several glasses of 12 dollar red wine I figured I should tell everyone about what the show is about. Basically, after trying to make English school lunches healthy and practical he decided to try his hand at doing the same in the States. However, he chose Huntington, WV as his destination. This was his first mistake. Huntington, WV is considered the unhealthiest city in the nation, and it's located in the part of America that I like to call the "ignorant and proud of it" belt. Or to be more politically correct, the "mostly ignorant and proud of it" belt. The combination of these two things make this city horrifying to see on internet television, mainly 'cause of the ignorance and fat. I guess mostly 'cause of the fat. And the worst part is that in high school, I ate a bunch of the same stuff. Even though I usually brought my lunch, I definitely packed away a decent amount of breakfast sandwiches in my day at that institution. Packed up in foil, these cholesterol-bombs consisted of some kind of egg, a coaster shaped patty of sausage, a cheese square, wrapped up in a bagel or some kind of English muffin product. The weird thing was that these little guys tasted like a million blowjobs. I have a theory now that this had to do with the concentration of sugar and salt.
I don't want to summarize the whole show, because you should definitely watch it yourself, but these parents, and these lunchladies, and these administrators don't really know anything about what their kids are putting into their tiny fat bodies. Not to remove all blame from those little pigs. They didn't even know that french fries came from potatoes. Maybe instead of having this show about Huntington, WV we should just start using all of the people that live there as fuel for the country as a whole. Wind or solar power do seem like the most Earth conscious options, but I think that Southern energy really might have a shot. We'd have to start producing really big hamster wheels hooked up to turbines for these people to run on, but I don't think that production of goods is really a problem for our country. After we have all of the wheels connected to power plants, we would bring all of these people down and show them the set-up. Then we'd try to convince them to start running on the wheels in order to lose weight. If they refused, we'd burn them like coal. I really think that this option has potential. That might be the wine talking.
I feel like this post took a turn for the cruel at the end. Sorry.
I don't want to summarize the whole show, because you should definitely watch it yourself, but these parents, and these lunchladies, and these administrators don't really know anything about what their kids are putting into their tiny fat bodies. Not to remove all blame from those little pigs. They didn't even know that french fries came from potatoes. Maybe instead of having this show about Huntington, WV we should just start using all of the people that live there as fuel for the country as a whole. Wind or solar power do seem like the most Earth conscious options, but I think that Southern energy really might have a shot. We'd have to start producing really big hamster wheels hooked up to turbines for these people to run on, but I don't think that production of goods is really a problem for our country. After we have all of the wheels connected to power plants, we would bring all of these people down and show them the set-up. Then we'd try to convince them to start running on the wheels in order to lose weight. If they refused, we'd burn them like coal. I really think that this option has potential. That might be the wine talking.
I feel like this post took a turn for the cruel at the end. Sorry.
Monday, March 22, 2010
XIV
Fuck me blah blah blah, haven't updated this in a while blah blah blah, no one reads this blah blah blah. It's hard to keep this updated regularly when life consists of reading books, going to class, and drinking. Maybe I'm just a colossal pussy. Maybe a combination of those.
Anyways, my last post was November 9th, 2009 and I think I was writing about how the educational system is bullshit and further how the more we learn the more there is to know and so we can't actually know anything and then I figured out that it was almost impossible to jerk off while simultaneously typing so I stopped. Also, further on that point, summoning the will to jerk off is incredibly difficult while wallowing in abject nihilism. Shallow optimism however, very compatible with rationalizing internet pornography because hey, if it makes you happy why the hell not. Shallow optimism is also very compatible with Netflix, listening to Podcasts, using plastic bags at the supermarket even though you have reusable ones that you're just too stupid to remember to bring, playing the lottery, making lists of things that you intend to do but not actually making any tangible moves to attain those goals, and a whole host of other things that I like to engage in these days. As an offshoot of that, those Facebook fan groups that consist of a long, exceptionally vague sentence like "it gets awkward when you're watching a movie with your parents and a sex scene comes on" or "i've thought about punching you in the face so many times..." or "regretting something so much it makes you sick" or the host of other remarkably erudite slices of life are physically hurting me. Half of them are things that no one should reasonably be a fan of, and the others are things that people should be embarrassed for being fans of. You're a fan of watching sex scenes with your parents? Who are probably on Facebook now? Trying to connect with old friends from high school but more realistically getting a heaping helping of pictures of their progeny boozing, barfing on dicks, and passing out? Luckily opening up Facebook releases a chemical out of your computer speakers that immediately renders all people that were alive when Lyndon Baines Johnson was passing legislation completely unable to navigate the interweb. Honestly though, I think that the technology associated with social networking is incompatible with people that were born in the 50s. However, this inability on the part of the baby-boomers does result in less people joining those fucking fan pages. The movies that they watched with their parents didn't have sex scenes. They didn't even have fucking sound.
Also, looks like this hot piece of ass is insured until he is 26. Which is awesome. I haven't really had time to milk the system too much yet 'cause of this college thing, but once I graduate it's going to be easy street. Lipitor milkshakes, Chantix sundaes, and Viagra pancakes for this guy. Also, I'm going to start taking WebMD seriously and I'm going to encourage all of my friends to do the same. That mole on your arm? Cancer. That cough you have? Pneumonia. That scab on your knee? Leprosy. The government better fucking take down that god damn site or there's going to be negative two hundred flagillion dollars sucked out of health care. On a more serious note, conservative Republicans can go fucking choke on dicks. ABSOLUTELY ZERO FORESIGHT. Conservatives in general seem to be lacking in that respect. Really? Things are going to stay the same forever? Awesome, let me jump in my polio wagon and head down to the lynching. Fucking idiots. Gay marriage destroys the sanctity of the institution of marriage! Can you even imagine a modern country in the next 20 years not having gay marriage legal? It's laughable. And these (largely) white, (largely) old chodes think that they're going to stand resolutely against this coming "radicalism" forever? Let's kick their walkers out from under them and push them down some fucking escalators. Get out of the way, we're all gay Ecstasy junkies that know how use Facebook and are REALLY pissed about how you spent all of the money on fucking war.
Been reading: Kurt Vonnegut - Breakfast of Champions, Graham Swift - Shuttlecock
Been listening: Titus Andronicus - The Monitor, Free Energy - Stuck on Nothing
Been watching: Paul Newman movies, and anything but Tool Academy III
PS - This could've been longer, but I'm trying to save some chi for more writing
Anyways, my last post was November 9th, 2009 and I think I was writing about how the educational system is bullshit and further how the more we learn the more there is to know and so we can't actually know anything and then I figured out that it was almost impossible to jerk off while simultaneously typing so I stopped. Also, further on that point, summoning the will to jerk off is incredibly difficult while wallowing in abject nihilism. Shallow optimism however, very compatible with rationalizing internet pornography because hey, if it makes you happy why the hell not. Shallow optimism is also very compatible with Netflix, listening to Podcasts, using plastic bags at the supermarket even though you have reusable ones that you're just too stupid to remember to bring, playing the lottery, making lists of things that you intend to do but not actually making any tangible moves to attain those goals, and a whole host of other things that I like to engage in these days. As an offshoot of that, those Facebook fan groups that consist of a long, exceptionally vague sentence like "it gets awkward when you're watching a movie with your parents and a sex scene comes on" or "i've thought about punching you in the face so many times..." or "regretting something so much it makes you sick" or the host of other remarkably erudite slices of life are physically hurting me. Half of them are things that no one should reasonably be a fan of, and the others are things that people should be embarrassed for being fans of. You're a fan of watching sex scenes with your parents? Who are probably on Facebook now? Trying to connect with old friends from high school but more realistically getting a heaping helping of pictures of their progeny boozing, barfing on dicks, and passing out? Luckily opening up Facebook releases a chemical out of your computer speakers that immediately renders all people that were alive when Lyndon Baines Johnson was passing legislation completely unable to navigate the interweb. Honestly though, I think that the technology associated with social networking is incompatible with people that were born in the 50s. However, this inability on the part of the baby-boomers does result in less people joining those fucking fan pages. The movies that they watched with their parents didn't have sex scenes. They didn't even have fucking sound.
Also, looks like this hot piece of ass is insured until he is 26. Which is awesome. I haven't really had time to milk the system too much yet 'cause of this college thing, but once I graduate it's going to be easy street. Lipitor milkshakes, Chantix sundaes, and Viagra pancakes for this guy. Also, I'm going to start taking WebMD seriously and I'm going to encourage all of my friends to do the same. That mole on your arm? Cancer. That cough you have? Pneumonia. That scab on your knee? Leprosy. The government better fucking take down that god damn site or there's going to be negative two hundred flagillion dollars sucked out of health care. On a more serious note, conservative Republicans can go fucking choke on dicks. ABSOLUTELY ZERO FORESIGHT. Conservatives in general seem to be lacking in that respect. Really? Things are going to stay the same forever? Awesome, let me jump in my polio wagon and head down to the lynching. Fucking idiots. Gay marriage destroys the sanctity of the institution of marriage! Can you even imagine a modern country in the next 20 years not having gay marriage legal? It's laughable. And these (largely) white, (largely) old chodes think that they're going to stand resolutely against this coming "radicalism" forever? Let's kick their walkers out from under them and push them down some fucking escalators. Get out of the way, we're all gay Ecstasy junkies that know how use Facebook and are REALLY pissed about how you spent all of the money on fucking war.
Been reading: Kurt Vonnegut - Breakfast of Champions, Graham Swift - Shuttlecock
Been listening: Titus Andronicus - The Monitor, Free Energy - Stuck on Nothing
Been watching: Paul Newman movies, and anything but Tool Academy III
PS - This could've been longer, but I'm trying to save some chi for more writing
Monday, November 9, 2009
XIII
I think I've come to terms with the fact that this blog has been, and always will be solely for my own benefit.
Is the point of the modern school system to build up an enormous reservoir of knowledge, problem solving skills, and creative ability only to slowly undo all of that right before the end of the process? It certainly seems that way. All of the material that I picked up from grades 0-12 has been taken from me. Stolen. All of those tediously memorized historical facts, undercut by Howard Zinn. The basics of plot, character, setting, etc., excised by everyone that I started reading after senior year of high school. Postmodernism? Deconstructionism? Literally taking all of those things I learned and making them utterly obsolete. How do I know that Columbus discovered America? What makes the country that I live in "America"? Can a nation be anything but a group of people living together? Are any of the words I'm using right now actually representative of anything in the real world? Or do they just approach accuracy indefinitely, a decidedly phallic asymptote ramming its way directly up my ass, no doubt working its way towards my brain. There aren't enough pills in the world to combat the massive panic attack that will undoubtedly occur if any of those things are thought about for too long. It all ends in catatonia anyways. Either way you look at it you eventually think yourself into inaction, or at the very least, crippling apathy. You can start to avoid all forms of intellectualism, start drinking 40s and headbutting the sidewalk, but that's just a mess. You can start to fully embrace intellectualism, hoping that there's some sort of answer at the end, but eventually finding out that the more you know, the more there is to know (I think I said that in the last post), and thus leaving you even more fucked because the liquor store closes at nine and you wasted all your time learning.
Solutions:
Embrace chaos, and be as esoteric, strange, and against-the-grain as possible. It certainly seems more in line with the current mess of affairs than traditional learning and expression, and at the very least, it's fun. Watch Tim and Eric Awesome Show, Great Job.
Suicide? I think Camus said that the goal of absurdism was to establish whether or not suicide was justified in a God-less world. Work on that.
Note: be careful, as those two solutions are remarkably close. Also, I endorse the former over the latter. Because dead people cannot watch Beaver Boys. And thus cannot be happy.
If anyone read this, I would be more worried about a disclaimer.
Is the point of the modern school system to build up an enormous reservoir of knowledge, problem solving skills, and creative ability only to slowly undo all of that right before the end of the process? It certainly seems that way. All of the material that I picked up from grades 0-12 has been taken from me. Stolen. All of those tediously memorized historical facts, undercut by Howard Zinn. The basics of plot, character, setting, etc., excised by everyone that I started reading after senior year of high school. Postmodernism? Deconstructionism? Literally taking all of those things I learned and making them utterly obsolete. How do I know that Columbus discovered America? What makes the country that I live in "America"? Can a nation be anything but a group of people living together? Are any of the words I'm using right now actually representative of anything in the real world? Or do they just approach accuracy indefinitely, a decidedly phallic asymptote ramming its way directly up my ass, no doubt working its way towards my brain. There aren't enough pills in the world to combat the massive panic attack that will undoubtedly occur if any of those things are thought about for too long. It all ends in catatonia anyways. Either way you look at it you eventually think yourself into inaction, or at the very least, crippling apathy. You can start to avoid all forms of intellectualism, start drinking 40s and headbutting the sidewalk, but that's just a mess. You can start to fully embrace intellectualism, hoping that there's some sort of answer at the end, but eventually finding out that the more you know, the more there is to know (I think I said that in the last post), and thus leaving you even more fucked because the liquor store closes at nine and you wasted all your time learning.
Solutions:
Embrace chaos, and be as esoteric, strange, and against-the-grain as possible. It certainly seems more in line with the current mess of affairs than traditional learning and expression, and at the very least, it's fun. Watch Tim and Eric Awesome Show, Great Job.
Suicide? I think Camus said that the goal of absurdism was to establish whether or not suicide was justified in a God-less world. Work on that.
Note: be careful, as those two solutions are remarkably close. Also, I endorse the former over the latter. Because dead people cannot watch Beaver Boys. And thus cannot be happy.
If anyone read this, I would be more worried about a disclaimer.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
XII
I think I've come to terms with my limitations. I guess that comes with getting older and realizing that there are fewer and fewer things that you can really explore and experience without too much risk. I realize that sounds naive, me being 20 years old, but I think it's true. When I was a kid, I wanted to be hundreds of different things: a baseball player, a scientist, a writer, a kid with a smaller head, etc. I really didn't have any limitations, save for the head shrinking, and I could fool around with a whole bunch of different stuff. They say that the difference between primary school teachers and secondary school teachers is that the primary school teachers know a little about a lot and secondary school teachers know a lot about a little. Also, banging students is a little more frowned upon at the primary school level.
I think that narrowing of expertise is a reality of life today; in order to be a "productive member of society" you have to have a specific area of expertise. I don't think it necessarily is involved with the limitations of the human mind, people can learn almost infinite amounts of information, or limitations of time, we are around for a very long time and the brain is only useless when you're very young and very old (except for 14 year old males, whose brains become dedicated only to pornography, violence, and violent pornography for at least one calendar year), I think it has to do with limitations imposed by society, specifically American society.
America seems to be motivated, as well as controlled by work. One could argue that this work ethic gave us airplanes, automobiles, the moon landing, and those plastic things that go on the end of shoelaces (aglets). One could also argue that it made everyone in this country fucking boring. The work ethic back in the day led to the notion that getting up and going to work every morning at 9, doing something there, and getting back at 5 was an honorable and useful way to spend time, which I think is ridiculous. Have you ever pushed a pencil for 8 hours? Those things are REALLY tiny, and bending down to give them the business all day is really hard on the back. I guess you could say that the airplane, automobile, and aglet were all fantastic inventions and totally worth the work that was put into them. I'd actually have to agree with you on that. Which makes my examples very bad. I'm sort of getting away from my point.
Do you think that all of the modern conveniences we know and love would never have come along without the "American spirit" of toiling work? I think they would have. Eventually. I think my theory is pretty half-baked at this point, but there is something to it. I'll come back to this later, I'm too tired from working on schoolwork. Which actually was the impetus for this in the first place.
Here's a line from the best melodrama ever made:
"You want me to get a job on the line for the next 20 years til I’m granted leave with my gold-plated watch and my balls full of tumors because I surrendered the one thing that means shit to me? Well, you can just exhale because it’s not gonna happen, not in this lifetime."
I like the part about the watch. And the ball tumors. Fuuuck.
I think that narrowing of expertise is a reality of life today; in order to be a "productive member of society" you have to have a specific area of expertise. I don't think it necessarily is involved with the limitations of the human mind, people can learn almost infinite amounts of information, or limitations of time, we are around for a very long time and the brain is only useless when you're very young and very old (except for 14 year old males, whose brains become dedicated only to pornography, violence, and violent pornography for at least one calendar year), I think it has to do with limitations imposed by society, specifically American society.
America seems to be motivated, as well as controlled by work. One could argue that this work ethic gave us airplanes, automobiles, the moon landing, and those plastic things that go on the end of shoelaces (aglets). One could also argue that it made everyone in this country fucking boring. The work ethic back in the day led to the notion that getting up and going to work every morning at 9, doing something there, and getting back at 5 was an honorable and useful way to spend time, which I think is ridiculous. Have you ever pushed a pencil for 8 hours? Those things are REALLY tiny, and bending down to give them the business all day is really hard on the back. I guess you could say that the airplane, automobile, and aglet were all fantastic inventions and totally worth the work that was put into them. I'd actually have to agree with you on that. Which makes my examples very bad. I'm sort of getting away from my point.
Do you think that all of the modern conveniences we know and love would never have come along without the "American spirit" of toiling work? I think they would have. Eventually. I think my theory is pretty half-baked at this point, but there is something to it. I'll come back to this later, I'm too tired from working on schoolwork. Which actually was the impetus for this in the first place.
Here's a line from the best melodrama ever made:
"You want me to get a job on the line for the next 20 years til I’m granted leave with my gold-plated watch and my balls full of tumors because I surrendered the one thing that means shit to me? Well, you can just exhale because it’s not gonna happen, not in this lifetime."
I like the part about the watch. And the ball tumors. Fuuuck.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
XI
off. That's the Finnegan's Wake conclusion to my post on the 14th. I tried to think of something funny to put up on here to honor the title, but there was too much pressure. I considered everything from pictures of my genitalia to pictures of other people's genitalia. In hindsight, that probably would have been better to just put up both of those. Sort of like a compare and contrast thing.
I find myself working another blue-collar, manual labor, landscaping-cum-menial janitorial work job this summer, which brings up several points. The first being that I'm never going to work a job like that ever again. The inherent positive of no mental exercise is easily outweighed by the inherent negative of absolutely no mental exercise. If I have to argue about the achievements of Phil Jackson, how much rain sucks, the benefits of sex sans condom, or how expensive it costs to go to Darien Lake ever again, I'm probably going to drown myself. This may sound like a jaded, whiny perspective on work, and "I should be lucky I have a job", but fuck that, this shit is like Chinese water torture. My second point is the way the job was sold to me, and the way the job actually is. Sold to me: Working at a boat harbor, dealing with boats, helping out customers, and most importantly, hanging out with girls in skimpy clothing. Job actually is: mowing lawns. Where is the fucking disconnect there? Nothing that the job actually is was promised beforehand. This is another constant in summer temp work: It's never as good as it seems. Buuuuuuuut, I'm working outside and getting paid for it, so fuuuuuuuuuuck it.
On to point two. This past Memorial Day weekend, I met a man named Ed. I say 'met' in the loosest way possible, as it was more of an exposure. The story starts on the beach at a campfire, as so many fantastic stories do in my small, pale, social circle. It was very late (around 3) and the booze had taken the manic, energetic turn that it so often does around that time. The night was passing erratically, and the fire was dying down in the same fashion. Suddenly, to the west, a blazing salvo against the dying of the light: a man approaching with a girl under each arm. Then something happens, I'm assuming conversation, and then I find myself (with a dear, dear friend as my plus one) following one of the girls back to their beach house to 'take some shots'. We get to this very nice house, literally like two houses away from where we were before, and follow the girl inside. In the light of the kitchen, two things become clear to me: this girl has the dead-eyed look of a sex trade worker, and I'm completely barefoot. No matter. We follow the girl to the front driveway, where a limo is parked. To add to the 'sex trade' worker vibe, this limo is not a nice new model, but rather one of those extended town cars, white of course. A tad bit sketched out, my friend and I decline this girls invitation to "get in" the "limo" and "do" shots, fearing some sort of trap. Who does shots in a limo that isn't moving anyways? No one. She can't find the liquor anyways (definitely a trap) so we go back inside. It is at this point that I realize that she has been talking about this guy named Ed a lot, how great he is, how he really helps her out with her life, provides her liquor (imaginary or not), etc. I didn't think too much of it at the time. I should've thought more of it at the time. Inside, she pulls out some white wine and pours herself a glass, at which point the man we met earlier, with other girl still in tow, appear on the front porch. I realize that this other girl is wearing a trench coat, and like me, is not wearing anything on her feet. By the way, when I say 'realize', I mean barely remember the next day. We all go outside again, and this man starts pissing off the porch. I decide this man must be Ed. The trenchcoat clad girl begins to flash this man as he's pissing. She starts to slowly writhe and dance before him. I am now sure this is Ed. At this point, my friend and I are too confused to do anything but mouth words to eachother: "What the fuck is going on", "Should we leave?", and "Oh my word, these women are prostitutes" were all popular choices. We didn't leave however, and the original girl we came with pulled out some sort of illegal drug. Not being too familiar with that whole "culture", I couldn't be sure what it was. However, not being too familiar with my own sense of mortality at that point, I couldn't be sure that I wouldn't accept it. I in fact did, as did my friend. Ed had retired to his upstairs quarters at this point, and was either brutally breaking the trenchcoated girl into small pieces, or banging her Old Testament style. Probably both. We partake of the mysterious substance offered to us, feeling confident it came out of the ground and was thus relatively harmless. We however failed to realize that people often combine illicit substances to increase their potency. I'm pretty sure we floated home at that point. I'll leave it at that.
I left out the part of the story where the girl that brought us to Ed's was shamelessly flirting with both me and my friend. Both of us are idiots for not hooking up with a prostitute. Especially me, because my friend has a girlfriend. And I already have pretty much every STD known to man.
One last thing on that topic: Trojan makes a new condom called Ecstasy that supposedly feels like there's no piece of latex on your peen. I think it would be funny if the condoms were just cut into hollow tubes and Trojan moved all of their stock options into baby clothing companies.
I should be in marketing.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
IX
In an effort to keep this thing more current, I've decided to update it more regularly, which seems like a good place to start. However, the number of posts per week is going to be inversely proportional to their quality, so be ready for more scatological humor.
First things first: apparently local Rochester news coverage is incredibly racist.
Either there were no white people that went to that Popeyes that day, which seems incredibly improbable, or whoever was doing the news coverage decided that it would be appropriate to only film the black people. Who the fuck is running that news station that thought that that would be a good idea? Seriously, not one non-black person in the whole 2 minute segment? There were like a dozen people interviewed too. However, I will admit that the outrage that the people that were going through the drive-through exhibited was equally ridiculous. They were fucking livid. Especially the really big guy that said he needed to feed his "family". He was clearly alone in his car, and more clearly alone in his life. He was planning on dropping a ten-spot and getting 16 pieces of delicious, nutritious chicken, then promptly devouring them, bones and all before he left the parking lot. Keep in mind, that wasn't a racist joke, just a joke about fat people. Because people can control their weight. By not eating at Popeyes.
Waterboarding fetishes. That is the offensive thing of the day. 34 ggs.
As I write this, I can feel the swine flu coursing through my bloodstream. I am so sure that I am infected because of the enormous amount of pork I eat, especially in the last few days. Also, I've been asking people to cough in my mouth for a while now. Mostly Mexican pig farmers too, so I'm definitely fucked.
A sort of serious side-effect of this pandemic is definitely going to be a huuuuuuge negative backlash against Mexican immigrants. I'm pretty sure Rush Limbaugh's head might explode, if it hasn't already. People are going to simplify this thing to the point of infected Mexican pork-zombies slouching towards the border. And those people are going to be idiots.
I'm really tired, so sorry if this post doesn't have the panache that the other one's do.
Actually, fuck you, I'm not your puppet. I'll cough pig-death-disease all over your face.
Friday, April 17, 2009
VIII
So, I haven't updated this in three months. Big fucking deal. No one reads blogs anymore. I think it's all about vlogs now, but I've never been really gotten comfortable with webcams after the last time. I guess I'll have to stick with this.
I've been thinking about June 14th, and how even though the title of this blog has no real meaning and I got the sentence from Googlism, I'm really going to have to not forget to update over the summer. And I'm going to have to make that update really fucking funny. Or the consequences will be dire.
In fact, now that I look at it, it doesn't say anything about the blog specifically being funny, just me. So I'm going to have to be fucking hilarious on June 14th, which is nearly impossible. As most of my friends can attest, I've really lost it over the years. I mean nowadays I mostly just sit around listening to Bon Iver and deleted Smith singles, moping it up.
I did however find time to watch a marathon of The Hills. It was mostly accidental, as it was just on TV as I was doing work (read: I'm lying), but god damn that show is shitty. Shitty in the worst and most addictive way possible. It's like cheap crystal meth. Actually, they're all pretty rich and privileged on the show, so I guess it's more like Cristal meth. That is a hell of an idea for a drink: overpriced Champagne mixed with methamphetamines. "For the sophisticate who loves the taste of fine Champagne as well as the benefits of horrifying facial-scarring." That could go places. Anyway, if you didn't know, The Hills details the lives of like seventy horrible cum dumpsters and the horde of douchescabs that follow them around. From what I got, there are two camps, divided over the issue of how much one girl, we'll call her 'The Reason the Rest of the World Hates Us' doesn't like her ex-best friend's boyfriend, whom we'll call 'What the Fuck is That Awful Shit On Your Fa--Oh It's Your Beard'. I don't know why TRTROTWHU doesn't like WTFITASOYFOIYB, presumably because he's literally the biggest box of toolboxes on the face of the earth (note: tool=bad, toolbox=worse, box of toolboxes=worse than Scott Stapp's solo album). I don't know why Wattafitasoyfoibe (phonetic) doesn't like Tritrotwoo (phonetic), but it's probably because she scuffed his shoes once or something. There really isn't much plot to be had on the show, just lots of girls talking. And talking and talking and talking and talking and then there's a party on a boat and then a dude talks to a girl and she laughs but she wasn't really laughing at what he was saying she actually hates the guy so she talks to her friend behind the guys back about him and confesses that she wants to fuck him but doesn't really know if he's boyfriend material and then the other girl says something positive and supportive and then they both come to the conclusion that slavery wasn't actually that bad in that it supported the predominantly agrarian economic culture of the American South in the 19th century and that even though it was totes unfair that those people were viewed as property you can't expect an economic system as peculiar as the South's to just immediately stop what they're doing and change their way of life because that would be just as unfair. I'm pretty sure that's verbatim.
I've been trying to figure out what it is that makes things that are horribly inappropriate so funny and I just can't really grasp it. Simultaneously, I've been really trying to figure out the most offensive thing in the world, not because I'm a bad person or get any personal enjoyment out of it, but just because I think it is a thing that needs to be empirically defined, if only as a benchmark. I have a hunch there's a limit to offensive things, wherein you just get too abstract for stuff to make sense anymore, i.e Jewish mummies mungjumping Helen Keller's progeriac babies, isn't really that offensive. However, there is definitely a hierarchy of offensivity. For example, the Holocaust is certainly more offensive than fetal alcohol syndrome, but by how much? I propose a unit of measurement called the Allin, abbreviated gg, with something like 'kittens' and 'Valentines Day' measuring at 0 ggs, something like 'repeatedly punching someone with Krohns disease in the stomach' at around 50ggs, and stuff about Hitler, genocide, retarded people, elderly animal pornography, and gay and bisexual literature anywhere from 50gg to 99gg. But what is that absolute zero of offensivity? I ask you all, the two people that still know this exists, to give me some suggestions. Don't be afraid, the anonymity of the internet will protect you. I'll probably never be able to hold a teaching position if they ever find this, but that's why God invented fervent denial.
Some suggestions: Glenn Beck , and this abomination.
One of those is the cutest things in the world.
-FML
Monday, December 8, 2008
VII
First matter of business tonight, someone at Quaker Oats deserves a promotion. Why? For inventing Maple & Brown Sugar Life cereal. I don't know how long it's been on the market, but I found it today, and it's already changed my life. What a horrible pun. I've been a fan of Life for my entire life, specifically Cinnamon Life. However, after two decades, it had gotten pretty 0ld. Maple & Brown Sugar on the other hand, those two flavors had been consigned mostly to Pop-Tarts and oatmeal. I can remember several times in my youth when I would take a sleeve of those Brown Sugar Pop-Tarts (the only palatable flavor, short of the diabetic greatness of S'more) put them in a bowl, cover them with milk, and then break them up into small pieces, essentially creating a Pop-Tart cereal. I marveled at my gastronomic brilliance, and would often wonder why there never was a Pop-Tart cereal. Anyways, I believe that this Maple & Brown Sugar Life cereal is the closest I'll ever get, and thus I have purchased several thousand boxes. I consider it part of my portfolio.
Would it be considered ironic if you were a prisoner on death-row, and for your last meal you chose Life cereal? Someone should ask Alanis Morrisette. Someone should check if Alanis Morrisette is still alive.
I don't know what the big fuss about "Twilight" is. In fact, the only thing I do know about "Twilight" is that it's like fucking catnip to girls over the age of 13. I've also gathered that it's about vampires. And probably losing your virginity to vampires. It's like one of Jewel's poetry books if it was edited by Anne Rice. I think that's a fairly accurate interpretation of a book that I've never seen, read any reviews for, or really heard much about except that it's: "Totally awesome". I'm sure that it poses some interesting philosophical problems about growing up as a vampire. Do they have special retainers for people with huge vampire teeth? How can you make sure your Limited Too ensemble looks rockin' if you don't have a reflection? Are hickeys not only a badge of shame/pride, but an incredibly risky death-wish? What does vampire tween do when her friends go to the beach/tanning salon? Does getting your first period make you a little hungry? I'm sure the book answers almost none of those questions, and is probably like "One Tree Hill" with vampires. Which would be cool if the vampires rose up against the people in "One Tree Hill" and killed them all. Tell me you wouldn't watch Chad Michael Murray be drained of all his blood.
I'll try to update this more often.
Even though I just lost 98% of my readership with that "Twilight" bashing.
Would it be considered ironic if you were a prisoner on death-row, and for your last meal you chose Life cereal? Someone should ask Alanis Morrisette. Someone should check if Alanis Morrisette is still alive.
I don't know what the big fuss about "Twilight" is. In fact, the only thing I do know about "Twilight" is that it's like fucking catnip to girls over the age of 13. I've also gathered that it's about vampires. And probably losing your virginity to vampires. It's like one of Jewel's poetry books if it was edited by Anne Rice. I think that's a fairly accurate interpretation of a book that I've never seen, read any reviews for, or really heard much about except that it's: "Totally awesome". I'm sure that it poses some interesting philosophical problems about growing up as a vampire. Do they have special retainers for people with huge vampire teeth? How can you make sure your Limited Too ensemble looks rockin' if you don't have a reflection? Are hickeys not only a badge of shame/pride, but an incredibly risky death-wish? What does vampire tween do when her friends go to the beach/tanning salon? Does getting your first period make you a little hungry? I'm sure the book answers almost none of those questions, and is probably like "One Tree Hill" with vampires. Which would be cool if the vampires rose up against the people in "One Tree Hill" and killed them all. Tell me you wouldn't watch Chad Michael Murray be drained of all his blood.
I'll try to update this more often.
Even though I just lost 98% of my readership with that "Twilight" bashing.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
VI
A couple weeks ago, I was in my living room, watching the free music channels on Time Warner Cable, not the music video channels, just the straight up music channels (basically radio for blind people still in denial of the fact that they shouldn't own a television), drinking some sort of cran-apple-vodka-rum concoction when I decided that I should spill half of it directly on the laptop that was sitting in my lap. Unfortunately, this wasn't one of my roommates' laptops, it was mine. It immediately shut off. I know what you're thinking. This never would have happened if you were drinking Evan Williams like you should've been. For that I apologize. I opened the old girl up, dried 'er off, and put 'er up against a fan. I figured holy water would only exacerbate the problem, so I held off a final blessing. I awoke the next morning, slightly hungover, the memory of the cranputer still fresh in my head. Upon inspection, I found that my laptop still worked. Except for the sticky keys. I hate these sticky keys. My space bar has none of the youthful vigor it once did, lazily springing back to my thumb after every tap. My down arrow has lost its fucking mind, occasionally refusing to return to its upright position, throwing every scroll bar within reach to the dogs. And my shift key is just plain depressed. It sucks.
And yes, I have considered putting some Evan Williams in there to battle the evil clear liquor/cranberry juice combo, but I don't think even he has the heart for it anymore. Maybe the Blue Label.
That aside, I think that it is immoral and illogical to grade philosophy classes. If there is a class wherein half of the class period is righteously dedicated to discussing the existence of, and cause behind, a fucking chair, everyone should get A's. Seriously. Every fucking philosophy class I've been in has spent at least a little time on that god damned chair problem. What is the form of the chair? Does the chair exist? How did the chair come about? And even: What gives the chair its 'chair-ness'? What gives the chair its 'CHAIR-NESS'? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? It's a fucking piece of wood. If we can't get past that, we might as well just go sit in the corner and play with ourselves. The chair exists because someone in a factory made it. Out of wood, or metal, or some plastic conglamerate. Probably for more money than any philosopher makes, or will ever make discussing their own explanations of 'chair-ness'. Or better yet, how about the 'shoe-ness' of shoes? We can at least get the kids involved with that one; they gave the shoes their 'shoe-ness' working for 9 cents a week in some sweat-shop in Pakistan. Or the McCafe my professor brings into class every god damn morning. Does that have 'McCafe-ness'? Probably more like 'liqufied shit-ness'.
I wouldn't be complaining if I had a higher grade.
One more thing. Has anyone else noticed that Facebook tailors the ads on your page to your interests? If you say you like 'soccer', 'playing guitar', and 'hanging with the boys', your ads reflect that: FIFA, Guitar Center, NAMBLA, etc. To an extent it's extremely disturbing, as is usually par for the course with advertising, the fact that they think they know what you want to buy based on something you put in your Facebook interests. That's why I'm calling upon you, the two or three readers of this thing, to change your interests to something completely random, and see if it changes the ads you see on your page. Personally I will change mine to , 'covering my furniture in plastic', 'watching my grandkids eat', 'yelling at cars that go too fast', 'talking unabashedly about graphic health problems at dinner', and 'buying lottery tickets on my fixed income'. Hopefully this will result in a change in advertising from the shit they push on me now to things like: 'Fixodent', 'Depends', 'AARP Magazine', and 'Early Bird Specials at Denny's!'. I mean no disrespect to previous generations, just to advertising companies. Try it!
PS - "And my shift key is just plain depressed" is not a pun. That fucker is all Ian Curtis this and Elliot Smith that these days.
And yes, I have considered putting some Evan Williams in there to battle the evil clear liquor/cranberry juice combo, but I don't think even he has the heart for it anymore. Maybe the Blue Label.
That aside, I think that it is immoral and illogical to grade philosophy classes. If there is a class wherein half of the class period is righteously dedicated to discussing the existence of, and cause behind, a fucking chair, everyone should get A's. Seriously. Every fucking philosophy class I've been in has spent at least a little time on that god damned chair problem. What is the form of the chair? Does the chair exist? How did the chair come about? And even: What gives the chair its 'chair-ness'? What gives the chair its 'CHAIR-NESS'? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? It's a fucking piece of wood. If we can't get past that, we might as well just go sit in the corner and play with ourselves. The chair exists because someone in a factory made it. Out of wood, or metal, or some plastic conglamerate. Probably for more money than any philosopher makes, or will ever make discussing their own explanations of 'chair-ness'. Or better yet, how about the 'shoe-ness' of shoes? We can at least get the kids involved with that one; they gave the shoes their 'shoe-ness' working for 9 cents a week in some sweat-shop in Pakistan. Or the McCafe my professor brings into class every god damn morning. Does that have 'McCafe-ness'? Probably more like 'liqufied shit-ness'.
I wouldn't be complaining if I had a higher grade.
One more thing. Has anyone else noticed that Facebook tailors the ads on your page to your interests? If you say you like 'soccer', 'playing guitar', and 'hanging with the boys', your ads reflect that: FIFA, Guitar Center, NAMBLA, etc. To an extent it's extremely disturbing, as is usually par for the course with advertising, the fact that they think they know what you want to buy based on something you put in your Facebook interests. That's why I'm calling upon you, the two or three readers of this thing, to change your interests to something completely random, and see if it changes the ads you see on your page. Personally I will change mine to , 'covering my furniture in plastic', 'watching my grandkids eat', 'yelling at cars that go too fast', 'talking unabashedly about graphic health problems at dinner', and 'buying lottery tickets on my fixed income'. Hopefully this will result in a change in advertising from the shit they push on me now to things like: 'Fixodent', 'Depends', 'AARP Magazine', and 'Early Bird Specials at Denny's!'. I mean no disrespect to previous generations, just to advertising companies. Try it!
PS - "And my shift key is just plain depressed" is not a pun. That fucker is all Ian Curtis this and Elliot Smith that these days.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
V
Did anyone else take Type to Learn in elementary school? No one is going to answer that, because no one reads this, but I still feel it is an important question to lob into space. If you didn't take it, it was this typing program that taught you how to use a computer keyboard. At my particular school, they had these little table looking things that they'd put over your hands, so you were forced to look at the screen. In the game itself there were various copying exercises you would have to do, and at the end of them, you'd fight these asterisk looking motherfuckers called "Qwertys". Those fucks were probably the weakest things in the world. They didn't shoot anything, or have a cool forcefield, or do anything really. They had letters on their stupid asterisk chests, and when you typed the letter correctly, they'd disappear, making this cool ass sound as they did. That might be a bastardized version of what the program was actually like, but I haven't been in elementary school, with them knowing, in about 10 years. Without them knowing, I usually stop by at least once a week, just to watch the kids develop and such. Anyways, I heard through the grapevine that they don't teach with Type to Learn anymore, and I cannot figure out why. I think that Type to Learn was the most important thing I learned in elementary school, other than that shit about not eating dog-piss yellow snow. Who the fuck was eating yellow snow so much that Frank Zappa had to write a song about it? You know there was that one kid, in open defiance to the 90% of snow that was white, who sought out that one patch of disease-ridden piss-yellow snow and strapped on the feedbags. Those kids are now probably working in the food service industry. But in all seriousness, Type to Learn taught me to type superfast, which translated to me getting papers done much faster in both high school and college, saving more time for boozing. It's a travesty that some day, these ignorant kids who never learned how to type superfast will be staying in on Friday nights typing up a paper on the use of imagery in William Carlos Williams "The Red Wheelbarrow" when they could be out drinking themselves to death. The education system in this country is so fucked up.
Also, to change gears, I've begun to see a lot of people with those brushed-steel reusable water bottle shits, and in an open statement to those people, I'd like to say: "You should have been beaten more as a child." What fucking difference are you making, other than making the companies that produce those fucking water bottles very rich? Those shits go for 18.99. Do you not have fucking cups at your house? Or even a cheap plastic water bottle? Those are reusable too, you fucking hippies. Of course, those don't make the stunning fashion statement that the brushed-steel reusuable jugs make. Some 10 year old Asian kid probably cut his hand off trying to brush that god damned steel, so you can have a nice durable fucking water container. What happened to the Nalgene bottles? Where the fuck are they now? In the trash!? Yes, Nalgene bottles are out. These metal buttplugs are in. It's like fucking Uggs. Those are the ugliest piece of shit boots I've ever seen. But now to compliment your black/brown/maroon/child labor leggings, you need some nice comfortable Uggs, that just end up getting shit dirty when you walk through the inevitable salt and snow that winter brings. God dammit. What they should do is line the Uggs with metal and carry their water in their boots. Then hopefully they'll all get trenchfoot and die. YOU'RE NOT MAKING A DIFFERENCE WITH YOUR GOD DAMNED METAL WATER CONTAINERS. Stop feeling so god damned fake-guilty. Stop justifying your life through shopping for shit.
That sort of sounded like Maddox, and I apologize. I was just angry sitting in class today.
Also, prostitution and all drugs should be legal.
And gay marriage and abortion should stay legal.
Also, gay abortion and infant marriage should be legal.
Also, to change gears, I've begun to see a lot of people with those brushed-steel reusable water bottle shits, and in an open statement to those people, I'd like to say: "You should have been beaten more as a child." What fucking difference are you making, other than making the companies that produce those fucking water bottles very rich? Those shits go for 18.99. Do you not have fucking cups at your house? Or even a cheap plastic water bottle? Those are reusable too, you fucking hippies. Of course, those don't make the stunning fashion statement that the brushed-steel reusuable jugs make. Some 10 year old Asian kid probably cut his hand off trying to brush that god damned steel, so you can have a nice durable fucking water container. What happened to the Nalgene bottles? Where the fuck are they now? In the trash!? Yes, Nalgene bottles are out. These metal buttplugs are in. It's like fucking Uggs. Those are the ugliest piece of shit boots I've ever seen. But now to compliment your black/brown/maroon/child labor leggings, you need some nice comfortable Uggs, that just end up getting shit dirty when you walk through the inevitable salt and snow that winter brings. God dammit. What they should do is line the Uggs with metal and carry their water in their boots. Then hopefully they'll all get trenchfoot and die. YOU'RE NOT MAKING A DIFFERENCE WITH YOUR GOD DAMNED METAL WATER CONTAINERS. Stop feeling so god damned fake-guilty. Stop justifying your life through shopping for shit.
That sort of sounded like Maddox, and I apologize. I was just angry sitting in class today.
Also, prostitution and all drugs should be legal.
And gay marriage and abortion should stay legal.
Also, gay abortion and infant marriage should be legal.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
IV
Thank god. We needed a Republican president like I needed AIDS cancer.
To a new tomorrow, friends.
To a new tomorrow, friends.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
III
I don't know if you're familiar with VH1, but they have this show called "The Pickup Artist" where this date-rapist named Mystery convinces guys that they're essentially worthless, forces them to grow soul patches and apply eyebrow piercings, and then, in all of their awkward misguided testoterage marches them into clubs to seduce women. It's absolutely the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen on television, mainly because some of the women actually buy these moron's fucking double entendres and horrible, horrible pick-up lines about astronaut pants and fireman's poles. I've sold a lot of snake-oil in my time, but this is on a whole other level. That is why I'm pretty convinced that the show is a big stupid set-up by VH1, and the girls are paid to listen to these cockrings and pretend to be into them, and that this Mystery guy is blackmailing the fuck out of the network or some shit and they're just exploiting the hell out of him. Oh, this is what he looks like, in case you didn't know. He's wearing binoculars. I don't know who needs binoculars hung so nonchalantly around their neck, but apparently that was a demand that Mystery needed filled. Anyways, what started me writing this entry was what I found when I stumbled on Mystery's website. He sells training DVDs of his method for the low, low price of 68 dollars a piece. 68 dollars. Kids working for Nike have to work into their 70s for that kind of dough. And it's not like they're epic masterworks of cinema either. They're just hour long training videos. That's more than a dollar a minute to have this Mystery douche spout lies out of the television. I'm pretty sure even GHB is cheaper than that, which should really be a standard for instructional dating DVDs: if your product is more expensive than GHB, you really need cut some overhead or something. It's way easier to slip something in a Long Island Ice Tea than it is to make small talk.
I'm not quite done with VH1. Balancing out the sheer awkward toolishness of "The Pickup Artist" is a program called "Rock of Love: Charm School". I'm not sure if that colon is in the right place, but I'm not sure whether the colons of the women that appear on that show are in the right place either, given the way they whore themselves out to the random television watching public. In case you don't know, I'm implying that the women on the show willingly give themselves up to the beast of the brown, take a drive down Hershey highway, allow things up their butts. Basically the show is a misguided attempt to bring these dead-eyed rehab dropouts up to the social demands of the bottom rung of America. Not an unfathomable task, they merely need to follow some lax clothing standards, curb their filthy, filthy language, and fight the urge to "slap a bitch". Of course, these women do not rise to the challenge, and barely rise at all. They mill about the lavish house they are given to live in, drinking and trying to apply cover-up to the red in their necks. The worst part about the show is that people (namely, me) watch it. In fact, I'm positive that it is a fucking event south of the Mason-Dixon. Churchbells ring, schools let out early, businesses close, McCain rallies disband, all for the glory and magnificence of "Rock of Love: Charm School".
I remember when MTV first came on the air and played music videos. I remember when MTV started failing and VH1 picked up the slack. Now that VH1 is failing, where do I turn? FUSE? Are you fucking kidding me!? If I wanted to hear Saosin eight times on the hour, I'd still be...I'd be...fuck it, no one likes Saosin.
Final point: VH1 rearranged is H1V, which looks like HIV, which I'm POSITIVE everyone on "Rock of Love: Charm School" has.
I'm not quite done with VH1. Balancing out the sheer awkward toolishness of "The Pickup Artist" is a program called "Rock of Love: Charm School". I'm not sure if that colon is in the right place, but I'm not sure whether the colons of the women that appear on that show are in the right place either, given the way they whore themselves out to the random television watching public. In case you don't know, I'm implying that the women on the show willingly give themselves up to the beast of the brown, take a drive down Hershey highway, allow things up their butts. Basically the show is a misguided attempt to bring these dead-eyed rehab dropouts up to the social demands of the bottom rung of America. Not an unfathomable task, they merely need to follow some lax clothing standards, curb their filthy, filthy language, and fight the urge to "slap a bitch". Of course, these women do not rise to the challenge, and barely rise at all. They mill about the lavish house they are given to live in, drinking and trying to apply cover-up to the red in their necks. The worst part about the show is that people (namely, me) watch it. In fact, I'm positive that it is a fucking event south of the Mason-Dixon. Churchbells ring, schools let out early, businesses close, McCain rallies disband, all for the glory and magnificence of "Rock of Love: Charm School".
I remember when MTV first came on the air and played music videos. I remember when MTV started failing and VH1 picked up the slack. Now that VH1 is failing, where do I turn? FUSE? Are you fucking kidding me!? If I wanted to hear Saosin eight times on the hour, I'd still be...I'd be...fuck it, no one likes Saosin.
Final point: VH1 rearranged is H1V, which looks like HIV, which I'm POSITIVE everyone on "Rock of Love: Charm School" has.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
II
So I've watched Andy Samberg's impression of Mark Wahlberg about a dozen times. It doesn't get any funnier each time, I just become more and more incredulous. The fact that he could do such an impression is impressive enough, but the fact that he convinced the writers to let him talk to animals for five minutes? What the fuck? Does Mark Wahlberg really talk to animals? Does he really want to say hello to my mother for him? Is he saying my mother is an animal? Why was The Happening so terrible? Do the giant harpy devil-winged beasts in the Max Payne trailer constitute animals? I thought he was like a hitman in that game. I'm sure the movie won't be as good as the ninety second trailer, because I'm pretty sure he won't be talking to donkeys, which is the only way that I'll watch him on screen again after The Happening.
I'm not sure why I write in this, considering that I hate people that do. Especially when they have no purpose for it. Although this is America, and I can blast as much of my word semen on the face of the internet as I want to. People actually think this stuff should be regulated. And by people, I mean Bill O'Reilly. If the internet was regulated, I would have never been able to say "word semen". Actually, if the internet was properly regulated, they would've probably told me to hyphenate it. Word-semen. Charles Dickens is the Peter North of word-semen. I think that's actually a 300 level class at my college.
The girls downstairs play Disturbia by Rhianna on ultimate-max-volume all the time, and because I live in a shitty apartment, it leaks through my floor and into my head. I bang my cane as hard as I can on the shitty shag carpet, but they don't get the message. Hopefully one day I'll stomp the floor so hard that my foot will go through the termite-infested ripoff wood and lodge itself in their ceiling so tight that the firemen will need the jaws of life to cut it off and the bloody foothole will stay in the ceiling because the landlord is so cheap remaining as a disgusting memory for them to keep their music down on Wednesday nights.
I have no right to complain, because while playing "drinking games" down there, I pushed a glass off the table to break it, denied that fact completely, and then threw a glass of Evan Williams and coke allll over their kitchen. Later I read from Cosmopolitan magazine's list of dirty sex techniques in my best Pete Sampras voice.
But Disturbia?
I quote Coach Herman Boone: "If you drop the ball, you run a mile. If you miss a blocking assignment, you run a mile. If you play Disturbia ecstasy-rave party loud on a Wednesday, I will break my foot off in your John Brown hind-floor and leave a disgusting bloody memory-socket."
I'm not sure why I write in this, considering that I hate people that do. Especially when they have no purpose for it. Although this is America, and I can blast as much of my word semen on the face of the internet as I want to. People actually think this stuff should be regulated. And by people, I mean Bill O'Reilly. If the internet was regulated, I would have never been able to say "word semen". Actually, if the internet was properly regulated, they would've probably told me to hyphenate it. Word-semen. Charles Dickens is the Peter North of word-semen. I think that's actually a 300 level class at my college.
The girls downstairs play Disturbia by Rhianna on ultimate-max-volume all the time, and because I live in a shitty apartment, it leaks through my floor and into my head. I bang my cane as hard as I can on the shitty shag carpet, but they don't get the message. Hopefully one day I'll stomp the floor so hard that my foot will go through the termite-infested ripoff wood and lodge itself in their ceiling so tight that the firemen will need the jaws of life to cut it off and the bloody foothole will stay in the ceiling because the landlord is so cheap remaining as a disgusting memory for them to keep their music down on Wednesday nights.
I have no right to complain, because while playing "drinking games" down there, I pushed a glass off the table to break it, denied that fact completely, and then threw a glass of Evan Williams and coke allll over their kitchen. Later I read from Cosmopolitan magazine's list of dirty sex techniques in my best Pete Sampras voice.
But Disturbia?
I quote Coach Herman Boone: "If you drop the ball, you run a mile. If you miss a blocking assignment, you run a mile. If you play Disturbia ecstasy-rave party loud on a Wednesday, I will break my foot off in your John Brown hind-floor and leave a disgusting bloody memory-socket."
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
I
Disclaimer: None of this has any purpose. Just like every other blog.
I watched the Presidential debate last night, and I'm glad I did. For a while, I was worried about the direction this country was heading. My friends, my faith has been completely restored. My friends, it is clear that if we do not elect John McCain, my friends, we will descend into utter chaos. Penny-abortions given by the staff writers of the Times on every street corner! Terrorists using our public pools! Billions of dollars going to purchase freedom-killing telescopes in Chicago! Can you believe this, my friends? That we are this close to the brink?! My friends! John McCain is a maverick. You've seen Top Gun, right? You know who wins that movie? Tom Cruise. Fuck Val Kilmer. Val Kilmer is a Washington insider, spending your hard earned liberty-dollars on pork-barrel legislation as we sit and breathe. You're going to sit there and tell me that Barack Obama wasn't the cause of 9/11? His middle name is "Hitler". Barack "Hitler" Obama. That is unelectable. You know John McCain's middle name? "POW". Just the sound, "POW". That spells experience. America needs experience. America needs experience more than ever now. My friends, experience is the most important thing in the history of the planet. Not just experience the concept, but the tangible object. We need experience points. We need them. To level-up our country. You just cannot elect a mere Lvl. 47 Obama to run this country. He doesn't even know Flamethrower yet. A Lvl. 72 McCain however, that's power you can trust. He earned his levels fighting in the high-grass of Vietnam. Barack Obama rare-candied his way to the top. My friends, I'm running out of time. However, the only way you're going to red-light my ass off of this internet is if you pry this keyboard from my cold, dead, white, Conservative, Christian, veteran, ancient skeletal handclaws.
I am so sorry.
PS - Blogger recommends that I label this post. However, it's suggestions are: scooters, vacation, fall. Who the fuck is writing a post that includes those three things? I understand fall and vacation, but scooters? Who is that guy? "Well fuck my ass, Columbus day is comin' up again, better break out the Razor? What?
PPS - I'm that guy.
I watched the Presidential debate last night, and I'm glad I did. For a while, I was worried about the direction this country was heading. My friends, my faith has been completely restored. My friends, it is clear that if we do not elect John McCain, my friends, we will descend into utter chaos. Penny-abortions given by the staff writers of the Times on every street corner! Terrorists using our public pools! Billions of dollars going to purchase freedom-killing telescopes in Chicago! Can you believe this, my friends? That we are this close to the brink?! My friends! John McCain is a maverick. You've seen Top Gun, right? You know who wins that movie? Tom Cruise. Fuck Val Kilmer. Val Kilmer is a Washington insider, spending your hard earned liberty-dollars on pork-barrel legislation as we sit and breathe. You're going to sit there and tell me that Barack Obama wasn't the cause of 9/11? His middle name is "Hitler". Barack "Hitler" Obama. That is unelectable. You know John McCain's middle name? "POW". Just the sound, "POW". That spells experience. America needs experience. America needs experience more than ever now. My friends, experience is the most important thing in the history of the planet. Not just experience the concept, but the tangible object. We need experience points. We need them. To level-up our country. You just cannot elect a mere Lvl. 47 Obama to run this country. He doesn't even know Flamethrower yet. A Lvl. 72 McCain however, that's power you can trust. He earned his levels fighting in the high-grass of Vietnam. Barack Obama rare-candied his way to the top. My friends, I'm running out of time. However, the only way you're going to red-light my ass off of this internet is if you pry this keyboard from my cold, dead, white, Conservative, Christian, veteran, ancient skeletal handclaws.
I am so sorry.
PS - Blogger recommends that I label this post. However, it's suggestions are: scooters, vacation, fall. Who the fuck is writing a post that includes those three things? I understand fall and vacation, but scooters? Who is that guy? "Well fuck my ass, Columbus day is comin' up again, better break out the Razor? What?
PPS - I'm that guy.
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