Misanthrope, Inc.

Ode to New Years

2008-12-31T09:10:00.004-05:00

The following is a decade old, and hopefully comes across as a giant middle finger to Dick Clark, in its own inimitable way.

-----

The year winds down. The pulsating clicking ticking clock of time draws everyone one more year down the spiral of mortality. Everyone is happy, cheerful, and festive. They don't know what is to come, but it always has to be better than how it was.

So they say.

Screams of terror in the streets echo down back alleys while a shiver runs up the spine. The city is crawling with vermin. Somehow the rats deal with this 'humanity'. The gears are starting their halt as they grind further into each other. Sparks of hatred and rage begin to fly anew as every soul who yearns alone is stuck in their holding cell. The prison cell of society and conformity.

Grind away, gears of doom, as the pathetic degenerates wait for a reset on life. A chance to say things will change even though they won't. All lies are formed in the rotting heart of human nature. Nothing will change. All that remains is the reset. New faces gone just like the last ones. Death and Tragedy rear their ugly heads and grin with diabolic glee as they prepare to disembowel this new start.

The new year will be just like the last one: Dead from the beginning, and only going further down the spiral.

Mindbending Metalheads

2008-12-19T10:58:00.006-05:00

Greetings once again, citizens of the galaxy.

Yes, yes, I've been away, but lethargy and video game systems go hand in hand these days.

I had an experience this past Saturday that has given me pause, and I find the odd nature of the events forthcoming noteworthy.

A friend of mine is in a local metal band which is actually quite good. They're a find blend of Pantera, Metallica, Carcass, with a hint of Mercyful Fate thrown in. (See them at www.cynonyte.com.)This past weekend, they put on a show at a little hole in the wall about 45 minutes outside of town, and I deigned to enter the realm of underground metal.

Boy, was I in for a few shockers.

So tell me, please, which of the following seems most out of place. I can't decide.

Oddity #1:
A short, somewhat obese, nerdy black teenager wearing glasses and a 'Rancid' t-shirt. It's not that I'm trying to stereotype here, but it's just typically something one doesn't see at a metal show. Not in the south. And to further prove it's not a matter of race, Living Colour is one of the best metal bands to have existed, and they're ALL of African descent. Anyway, my point is it didn't quite fit, and she wasn't the only one. Most of the teens didn't fit. Come to think of it, did I dress that poorly as a teen? Ugh.

Oddity #2:
A woman talked to my friend so that she could hook her daughter up with him.

I'll let that sink in.

Oddity #3:
Here's the doozy. First, a blonde woman walks in. She is wearing a pink and yellow frill short-short-short skirt with mid-thigh stockings. Not the lacy kind, either. The ones that a dance instructor might where. She's also wearing a mini-jacket top (which matches that horrendous skirt, no less) over a t-shirt. Now, if this outfit had been black, it would have worked. It was not. It was pink, white, and yellow. Where is Hank Rollins when you need him.

Behind her enters, apparently, her 'man', though I do wish I could confirm he is a member of our species. He is wearing blue jeans, boots, and... get this... a 'Goodwrench' Dale Earnhardt jacket and a Dale Jr. hat. He is drinking beer and going "woooooooo". At a metal show. If the place had been full of more people, I may have stabbed him.

Yeah, I took my knives; it was a frickin' metal show.

So there you have it; an evening of pretty awesome music surrounded by thoroughly creepy people.

Just thinking about it, I feel the need to bathe.

A Message From The Front Lines

2008-11-10T09:01:00.004-05:00

Admittedly, I'm not just killing people these days on my trusty Xbox, but I am nevertheless enjoying the various tediousnesses of the proffered products related to said electronic marvel of social destruction.

So, I've been gone a while, and plenty has happened. Well, ok, one thing has happened.

Yes.
We.
Can.

Wooohooo!

Interestingly, I was at a political rally as a teen, attending a Clinton election night hoopla with my mother. I remember quite starkly that as he was announced as the elected official who would lead this nation, my mother began to weep.

Not until November Fourth did I understand why.

I called my grandmother that night. My grandmother has agreed with me that pessimism (and a healthy streak of agnosticism and atheism) runs in our family. So it was with great difficulty - through heavy sobs and unexpected though welcome tears - that I was able to explain to her that my mother, on some level, made so much more sense to me now.

It is a pleasingly heavy blow to the soul for those of us who see no hope to suddenly have a platter of it shoved down our reticent gullets.

Additionally, a great weight has been lifted off my shoulders; a burden that was not mine to carry has existed upon me for nigh on 8 years. It is only now that I see my venerable hatred as greatly fueled by the crimes and treasons of eight years of social and governmental idiocy.

Don't get me wrong, I'm still a misanthrope, but with the seeds of hope firmly planted at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, perhaps I can find a better outlet for my pent up rage and hostility.

One that won't scare women away.

So, anyway, to recap:

Xbox is fun. I cried when Obama won. I still hate people, but maybe - just maybe - there's hope for us yet.

All that being said, I should be posting more as well.

See you soon, citizens.

Anatomy Of A Killer...

2008-10-20T08:36:00.003-04:00

Well folks, I know I haven't been on lately, and here's why.

I've found an alternative to sublimate my inner anger. I play Call of Duty 4. A lot. Like, tons.

And people die. A lot. Like, tons.

So remember: Our economy is fucked, our government corrupt, McCain bad, Obama good, and I like Reese's. Who doesn't?

Off to kill. More to come at some point.

Thanks for your patience.

Just The Facts, 'Man

2008-10-09T13:35:00.010-04:00

For as long as I've been alive, the Dallas Cowboys have been considered "America's Team" for reasons I could not, for the life of me, comprehend.

Now, though, I get it.

The Dallas Cowboys are a microcosm of this country.

The Cowboys were founded in 1960, and joined the NFL in 1970. This country was founded in 1776, two years after the beginning of the Revolutionary War, but the Constitution wasn't ratified until 1789. So, we both started out as pieces of something else, and became part of a greater whole. Admittedly, Jerry Jones is a better owner than W. But that's neither here nor there.

The Cowboys, as much as I hate to admit it, do have a winning tradition, fighting out many hard slogs under inhumane duress, navigating through enemy territory and destroying the opposition. Sound familiar? It should.

Moreover, they have had many great leaders. So have we. But times change, you see, and microcosms don't always really hold true to the macrocosm it is influenced by. The Cowboys are still winning, actually. This country, however, is not.

As much as this is the only real facet that unscrews this whole theory, one need only look at two players on the team who exemplify the vileness of human nature, and how it is thoroughly representative of our culture in general.

Terrell Owens, while talented and an admittedly amazing physical specimen of homo sapien sapien, is an egotistical, greedy, self-absorbed dimwitted fool. This is not to suggest he is unintelligent; he obviously needs some brainpower to process the analysis of football games, but he is not nearly as smart as he believes. He thinks he is clever when he's not, witty when he is cocky, funny when he is sadly egocentric, and false when he most needs to be true.

Do any of these qualities remind you of some of the festering douchebags who need to be shot out of a cannon that you know?

Which brings us, of course, to our dear friend Pacman Jones. He asked to be called Adam, saying that his past was behind him, but fuck him, he's a thug and a punk, so lets just call him Pacman. Though who would name themselves for a golden pie that eats pills and sees ghosts...

Anyway... little wokka wokka was caught in an altercation, which makes it - hold on, I need to take my shoes off - 11 or 12 incidents involving legal problems since 2003, all but once since 2005. That's right folks. If it was you or me or any other non-rich person, after the 5th time they would have just locked us up for 30 years; we'd be considered a menace to society.

Again, the traits here are whats important: total disregard for sound law, blatant disrespect toward law enforcement, no consideration for his fellow man (or woman), bad decisions with no consequences (I don't count his suspension), and a violent nature that is compounded by (I'm guessing here) a belief that all of this is brought upon him because of racism, because no one understands what it means to be Black in America.

Which, of course, is utter bullshit. That's simply what it means to Be in America.

There is indeed a psychology to the criminal mind - just as there is a psychology to the mind of a competitor - no matter how developed or under-developed it is.

This country - like the Cowboys - is only as good as the people who make it up. It will only be as successful as its people, and will only function as a unit if everyone does their part, learns to grow, and comes together.

Make no mistake, this is not a matter of race. Never has been, never will be.

Unless, of course, we're talking the human race.

Which makes it a pathological condition.

We need a fucking shrink.

Blogging To The Beat Of A Different Drum?

2008-10-07T08:42:00.007-04:00

I've a confession.

I'm unsure where to take this blog next, as ranting and raving tends to become somewhat tedious and mildly repetitive. Not that it needs to go anywhere... but hear me out.

I suppose the novelty of this blog could surely where thin; how hard is it, really, to hate humans? And how hard is it for you to grasp that I hate them? Sure, I have some funny stories, wacky ideas, and amusing anecdotes of actual experience, but what of it?

Suffice it to say, I actually enjoy having this available, as it gives me a place to sound off as needed.

You may have noticed that with the exception of an occasional glancing blow, I've never really stated my personal political views, my opinion of the election process this year (or in general), or, really, anything of social substance that might come across as well-thought out and worthy of general journalism, even though I contend I could if I tried.

For the most part, I refrain from doing so because I have a very small readership and such wisdom and insight would ultimately be wasted, especially with Chez over at Deus Ex pretty much summing up my general feelings on most matters - and in a much more professionally presented way.

Ultimately, without readership, overt commentary is useless and pointless. Ranting and raving serves a lesser purpose - it lowers my blood pressure.

Admittedly, though, I really just want to write, and in lieu of my geeky Star Wars fan fiction obsession, I have other ideas I've tossed around for some time up in my brain that don't involve the aforementioned undiscussed.

So, I guess it comes to this: what do you, my readers, want from me. Fiction, fan fiction, poems and short stories (look out Poe and Lovecraft!)? Or just keep ranting away, supplying you with various kung-fu movie scenes and random humorous clips to keep your days a little less depressingly real.

I would appreciate some comments on this post concerning the matter.

Help me decide, because I'm too lazy to do so...
and the voices in my head can't agree on anything.

One Stop Comedy Shop

2008-10-02T11:06:00.006-04:00

And now for something completely different.

Squidbillies:

Robot Chicken:

Raise Your Hand If You're Sure

2008-10-01T09:36:00.005-04:00

Well, the poll for my fiction writing is over, and it was... resoundingly ambiguous and apparently mostly ignored. This of course presumes I have more than eight readers, and I probably don't.

The question, if you'll remember, was: Should I set up another blog and write SW fan-fiction?

Yes.	1 (14%)
No.	0 (0%)
You're a geek.	4 (57%)
The force is strong with this one.	3 (42%)

Apparently, half of you think I'm a geek, with a nominal amount probably granting that I'm a geek and attributing to me the powers I always wish I had.

So, since this is neither a confirmation nor a denial, I will either begin or not begin posting it.

How's that for some fucking ambiguity.

Bastards.

Transmission Interrupted

2008-09-30T09:41:00.008-04:00

In the fall of 2005, my transmission decided to die. I had it replaced by the national chain AAMCO, which apparently is a franchise-based business even though it's considered "national". When I had it replaced, I got a lifetime warranty, with the stipulation being that once a year, during the month in which it was replaced - in this case, September - I would get the tranny inspected to maintain the warranty.

There were, apparently, within a 50 mile radius of the shop at which my work was done another 4-5 AAMCO shops.

Anyway, it being the last day of the month, I thought it was a good time to go ahead and get that warranty secured for another year. I went to the shop yesterday after the posted hours, thinking to myself well, shit happens, I'll do it in the morning.

As I've mentioned before, I work third shift. So morning came, and off work I got to be, and thus I matriculated my car down the highway to the AAMCO where my tranny was fixed. It was not open. There were cars in the bays, signs on the inside, all the signs of this place being open, and yet, it was not.

So I walked down to the end of the little strip mall wherein the AAMCO was located and asked why they weren't open, only to be informed by the lady at the local non-tranny-mechanny that that particular shop is now closed. Goodbye. All gone.

Luckily for me, there was another one a mere 30 minutes (10 miles) away. Jesus Horatio Christ on a fucking pogo-stick, I hate morning traffic.

Upon my arrival, I explained to the manager working there my situation. I pointedly asked him why the other shop doesn't have some sort of sign posted indicating that the shop where my work was done is no longer available to serve their customers. Upon further discussion, he explains to me that my record of having my work done there is only on their computer, as they're a separate franchise.

Which begs a number of questions about why certain obvious technology wouldn't be used to create a "database" of "customers" for "national" use. But I digress...

Short story long, I got the fucker checked out and the warranty is good.
The interesting thing, to me, was the utterly insane conversation the manager and I had while my car was being checked out.

Naturally, it started as a benign "We're so fucked" discussion about the economy, and spun into a collective treatise on the failures of this country, its people, our government, and the myriad theories and facts involving all of these things and more - both past and present.

I found this odd because there are a disproportionate amount of stupid people around here, as I presume it is in any state. But here, the ignorance is combined with religious-based bigotry that's been handed down for over 200 years. It is WILLFUL ignorance. The worst kind. And of all the places I had this discussion, it was, essentially, a garage. I don't even have to explain that irony to you, do I?

I don't say the following lightly: It always makes me smile to know that other people in this hillbilly, inbred, redneck state have the will to read, the intelligence to filter out the crap from the substance, the knowledge base to put the pieces together, and the common sense to see that unless something drastic happens, we are all doomed.

It gives me a sliver of hope.

And I hate hope.

(Note: My editor and I had this discussion:

Mike: Hate hope???
Dave B: blind hope, yeah
Dave B: purposeful hope is one thing.
Dave B: but to hope for the enlightenment to hit the south is like hoping for ashley judd to lick my balls
Dave B: it's not going to fucking happen.

I hope this clarifies my stance on hating hope. - DB)

Wormhole Me Some Ike T., Bitch

2008-09-25T12:40:00.018-04:00

This post started as an Idea Vortex, but it's gone spiraling out of control.

I was thinking passively about tragedy on an epic scale and its relationship with how people perceive things as being the will of god, or that some scintilla of good can be perceived as the outcome of an omni-benevolent, omniscient, omnipotent being meddling in the deeds of evil men.

It occurred to me that I can actually put into words one of the reasons I loathe religion in all its forms:

I resent the implication that there is any justification for the heinous acts committed by man.

When I was younger, I went on this two week trip called The March of the Living. The first week consisted of traveling through Poland touring concentration camps, and the second week was spent in Israel, touring the countryside, celebrating the jewish new year, and explaining that this tract of land smaller than Rhode Island was their pitiful godly justification as the "good" that came out of the Holocaust.

When a man on death row for killing 25 people says he's found Jesus, most christians will tell you that he's going to heaven - at least by the standards their religion functions under.

Simple examples, sure. However, there is no legitimate justification for the actions that led to the creation of Israel, just as there is no justification for the actions taken by our mass murderer friend.

Personal and social responsibility, where hast thou gone.

Also, if you need a lecture on the nefarious workings of religion throughout the course of man, I encourage you to simply open a history book.

Thanks for playing.

Have a cookie.

One Stop Comedy Shop

2008-09-25T10:55:00.004-04:00

Oldies but goodies today.

Enjoy.

SNL's Samurai Delicatessen:

Groucho Marx in Take a Letter Jameson:

Harry Anderson (yes, that guy from Night Court):

Police Squad Montage:

Grand Theft Jedi

2008-09-24T09:01:00.006-04:00

My Force Unleashed thirst has been mostly sated; I don't have the abject compulsion of a heroin addict to sit down immediately and play.

For the most part, it's a fun game, I'll admit. The storyline was the focus, which is nice, but Assassin's Creed had much more in the way of freedom to act than this game; FU (hah, that's funny) has objective after objective with little in the realm of random tavern patrons to fling into walls.

Admittedly, that they made almost every single object in some way malleable to the effects of the Force, and that when you pick up stormtroopers they start screaming for help and grabbing on to shit, it really can be a lot of fun to the Jedi / Sith inside all of us.

It also bugs me that, when a lightsaber strike is successful, not only does that mortal being not become cloven in twain, but does not immediately die. At least Al-Tair could make people disappear with his hidden dagger.

Anyway, B+ on it. They didn't totally ruin it, but they sure as hell didn't hit a home run. Designers seem to forget that an inconceivable amount of their fan base is people old enough to be immune to the sight of flying limbs and severed heads. Just once I'd like to see a console game for adults based on this wacky universe.

Grand Theft Jedi... that has a certain ring to it.

Black fades to a Jedi in Mos Eisley cantina, ordering a drink, eying that sexy Twi'lek in the brass bikini. Her headtails twitch at him ever so slightly.

"Yo, what up bitch."

She smacks her lips at him. "Fuck you fool."

He whips out his lightsaber, cuts her in half. Two stormtroopers come in and he cuts them down, runs out of the cantina, hops on a dewback, and hoofs it across the streets of Eisley trying to evade further pursuit.

Fade to black. Black fades to a stolen Imperial Shuttle being chased by twelve TIE fighters. The ship is flying toward a Super Star Destroyer. The screen flashes to an image Vader. It flashes again into an image of Palpatine. It flashes again to a Jawa trying to sell himself bodily on a street corner.

"Utinni!"

The screen goes black. Fades to the main character Force lifting a guy out of his speeder.

"Gimme dat ride."

He hops in, runs over a stormtrooper, shouting "Man, get out of the way!" Then he guns it, the screen flashing through stop frames of Coronet spaceport, the Kashyyykian tree-cities, the bustling thoroughfares of Coruscant, stacks of imperial credits, squads of stormtroopers, Vader, the Emperor.

And one last time, the Jawa-whore.

Grand Theft Jedi
In stores December 2038

Sith Happens

2008-09-22T09:36:00.005-04:00

Mostly busy playing The Force Unleashed.

Posts may be delayed.

The Force is strong with this one.

It's so much fun to sling jawas around.
Creepy little bastards.

Push The Needle In

2008-09-19T09:33:00.004-04:00

I am totally addicted to Carlin on Politically Incorrect. Here's another clip for you.

He was a brutal man. I'd hate to piss him off.

Comedy Special

2008-09-18T10:32:00.003-04:00

I was perusing the Pryor clips on youtube and came across this doozy. It combines two of my favorite things: Pryor and Star Wars. The costumes used are the original ones from the movie, which adds to the overall ambiance and hilarity. Enjoy.

One Stop Comedy Shop

2008-09-18T09:46:00.005-04:00

Guest picks for today's comics. And excellent choices they are.

Richard Pryor interviews for a janitor position:

Carlin on Politically Incorrect:

And Part 2 of above:

Say What Now?

2008-09-17T09:43:00.007-04:00

First, Henry.

I want to add another little conundrum to the mix. If the FCC is ultimately a government entity - and while they may contend it's not, the "Federal" part of that shoots that particular argument right out the window - aren't they bound by a separation of church and state?

Even I can admit it's a fine line, but here's my argument.

If I am to be subject to shitty programming, I should be allowed to see nudity and intercourse at my leisure. I am not allowed, for it is considered "profane" and "obscene", but I would consider every American Idol and Jerry Springer episode as more profane and obscene than a smoking hot blonde being railed by a redhead with a strap-on.

Though I still contend it's a double-standard where violent vs. sexual programming is concerned, I won't get started on the violence aspect, because sometimes I like the violence - I need the violence.

And so do you.

Admit it.

Tool - Vicarious (Follow along with the lyrics here. That's an order, soldier. They are relevant.)

The Force Is Strong With This One

2008-09-17T09:23:00.001-04:00

Is it just me, or is this hilarious?

I Told You So.

2008-09-16T08:57:00.005-04:00

I've been trying to refrain from my typically charming Texas-bashing out of respect for Kurgs, since he seems to take umbrage with my sadistic calls for said state to be wiped out of our known universe. I gave it the old college try, but today I heard something that prevents me from keeping it in.

First of all: Thank you, Hurricane Ike.

We'll forget for a moment that the storm has left over 5 million people without power, and they should thank whatever pitiful deity they claim that summer is waning.

According to a September 13th AP report, 140,000 residents stayed in the path of the storm. I will grant that at least 10-20% of that number stayed because they had no options otherwise. Still, at the least, this leaves roughly 112,000 people. Admittedly, the report says about a million got the fuck out of dodge, which means, say, 12-15 percent stayed.

I submit to you an assumption that, if Katrina hadn't happened, no one would have left. The truth of the matter is that Katrina opened a lot of eyes to the pure devastation that can be incurred by Mother Nature's wrath (and a healthy dose of governmental incompetence). You see victims of "typhoons" and "monsoons" and you think to yourself "Thank god that's there and not here, we only get hurricanes!" or some such nonsense, but a storm by a different name doesn't mean it's a different storm.

To those of you who want to suggest that the 140,000 was the 10-20 percent who had no options, I will say you are wrong, because a good portion of those chose to stay. Also, in keeping with my previous assumption, I contend that even the marginally stupid could surmise that hurricane = bad and leave town, so the ones that stayed seemingly represent a level of intelligence right about even with a retarded lobster.

But wait, there's more. Just fucking read this and get back to me.

As for what I heard on the news, well, apparently some sort of epidemic might break out somewhere. I mean aside from the above article. No surprise really. (Editor's Note: I googled for an AP release on said epidemic, but failed to find one, and since I'm lazy, I give up. But the radio report reads AP briefs, so if it's AP, it's not some horseshit. It may be that it refers to the above article as well.)

And here is what I'm guessing:

Against the governmental warnings and common sense, people will start coming back too soon. They will try to rebuild, overtaxing the fragile infrastructure and ultimately collapsing it again.

They'll go for days and weeks without power and plumbing, without laundry and non-spoiled food. They'll trudge through a miasma of feces, mud, chemically choked water, disease laden sludge, and spread infectious, chemically altered mutagens throughout themselves and others.

And the epidemic will spread.

Since I was right when I suggested that something needed to be done about Texas, and we have ample evidence to prove it now, just remember one thing.

I told you so.

The Death Of The Hero

2008-09-15T08:31:00.013-04:00

I am going to try today to express a sadness in my soul without allowing my anger and penchant for malevolent wit and cutting jibs to take over. To be honest, this is something that has poked at my value system for some time, and I'm going to attempt to articulate it in such a way that you see - beyond a shadow of a doubt - that I'm right. It's part philosophy, part history, part modern society, part literary fiction, and all very unfortunately true.

The concept of a Hero has been killed.

I'm not really sure when it happened, to be honest. I've never studied the overall linguistic history of culture. It's just something I've seen in our culture that has become twisted and maimed and raped and murdered. The Hero doesn't exist anymore as such, but instead has become a tagline for people who endure something considered "out of the ordinary".

Heroism is now a cliche, and when something becomes a cliche, the real thing is no longer noticed. I'd like to say, for the record, I am not putting myself in this light; I am not a Hero. But I've known a few, at least, to my way of thinking. Shall we investigate this phenomenon?

Let us dissect what constitutes a Hero. Looking at criteria based on history and literary fiction, one would find the qualities of a Hero to be: loyalty, morality, selflessness, a discriminate willfulness to use lethal force, courage, bravery, intelligence - for when have you ever studied or read about a dumb Hero - cunning, devotion, camaraderie, truthfulness, honesty, a concept of - but not strict adherence to - duty, and a willingness to sacrifice oneself for the greater good, even if that greater good is misconstrued and is, in fact, a personal sacrifice.

The thing that really strips the concept of Heroism and the Hero of any real legitimacy in today's society is how those things are now attributed to people who in no way deserve them.

All one has to do is watch any news channel for longer than 20 minutes and one will see the abject perversion of the concept of a Hero. Henceforth, I shall give a number of examples of modern "heroism" and relegate them to their proper places. I intend to once and for all lay to rest any concept that doesn't adhere to the true concept of Heroism.

Please note, however, these are generalizations, and I may touch on points with which you might raise a point or two which I would gladly concede. I'm not intending to be offensive, I am merely going with the percentages.

Firstly, it's been said about people who die in a horrible fashion, usually unknowingly, and definitively tragically, that they are heroes. Two examples that come to mind are terminally ill people and the unfortunate people who were killed during the September 11th attacks (with one exception on the latter).

We've all heard it said that people who fight cancer to the very end (of their lives) are considered "heroic", and I will contend that the citizens of our country who downed their plane in Pennsylvania are Heroes, whereas the others were not, and I shall explain in simple terms.

These people are victims, not Heroes. Do not think me of being callous, I am not demeaning the tragedy involved in both situations. But let us not mince words. They are victims, one and all. That is not to say that a cancer patient doesn't view the finality of it all with a somewhat Heroic mindset, but ultimately that person is no Hero. Just a victim of an unfortunate disease.

In the case of people who die in accidents in any way similar to the 9/11 attacks, when a group of Israelis is wiped out by some Hamas fanatic, do we call those people Heroes? No, we call them dead, and we add a number so we know how many. In truth, if good comes of their deaths, they still are not Heroes, because their deaths started the change, they did not actively enable it; if they hadn't died, nothing would have changed.

The second group of people who typically are not - though are more than likely to be Heroes - are people bound by duty and duty alone. Our Officers of the Law and our Military men and women - may they be brought home soon - are bound to a duty, a duty that they undertook knowing the risks to themselves involved. Granted, one would consider this grounds for immediate Heroism tagging, but this is not the case.

Why?

Because they have "orders", and "quotas", and things of that nature to create an environment that ultimately runs like clockwork, and neither aspects of their real world lives - chasing criminals or fighting a war - run like clockwork.

Just because a cop gets killed in the line of duty does not make him Heroic. If he did it defending a citizen from harm, literally jumping in front of an armed gunman to protect someone - then yes, I'll concede he is a probably a Hero.

Moreover, a soldier is placed in a warzone and made to kill at the behest of his superiors. Sadly, in modern times, this means military use is strictly for political and financial game and gain, and thus disqualifies it on the basis of indiscriminate killing.

Again, don't get me wrong, I respect our soldiers, their sense of duty, their bravery, courage, and their willingness to throw their lives at our 'enemies', but this does not make them Heroes. It means they are doing their job, the one they chose, knowingly.

Typically, a warzone allows for more Heroic individuals to emerge, but that is what war does - it makes Heroes. Sadly, those who are Heroes in said environment don't always get labeled as such by the people who use the word so loosely, because the guy who saves a few fellow squadmates from certain doom isn't necessarily as good a story to air as the one about a guy who lost a few limbs, but since he got replacements and jogs a mile a day he's a Hero.

I could list dozens and dozens of Heroes from the realm of both fiction and history, but I won't. You know I'm right; you can think of - for yourself - embodiments of Heroism that truly fit the mold.

However, there is one Hero I knew well. My father was a Hero. It's a story for another time, but I watched him save a man's life. Not out of any sense of duty. Certainly not out of any fear for his own survival.

He accomplished what had to be done.

Because it was the right thing to do.

My Comment: No Comment

2008-09-11T09:51:00.003-04:00

Since everyone and their mother will likely be commenting on what today is, I am, for various reasons, refusing to do so.

The primary reason for this is that my cousin was one of the first of many volunteer firefighters to arrive at the scene and begin the process of cleaning it up, and since he has in his mind memories that will scar and haunt him far more than any of us regular jackoffs, I refuse to sully his anguish by commenting on something that I - or you, for that matter- arguably have no real experience with.

That being said, we now continue with our regularly scheduled programming.

Have a wonderful day.

One Stop Comedy Shop

2008-09-11T09:29:00.003-04:00

Today we have a special guest comedy picker outer, my brother from another mother, Mike.

It spawned in my head that since he and I are very different, though so much alike, that he could bless us with his favorite Monty Python sketches, and he heartily agreed to spare me the time and energy of figuring out which ones to post.

So, a special thanks to Mikey for his selections, and may we all share a healthy laugh.

Silly Job Interview:

The All-England Summarize Proust Competition:

Exploding Penguin:

Argument Clinic:

Slaying For Another Year

2008-09-10T08:53:00.012-04:00

Well, it's my birthday.

Now, before you get all pumped up about leaving me some birthday message, allow me to say that I am not fond of birthdays. Not in the least. That's not to say you can't. I cannot very well stop you. I don't use comment moderation.

Anyway...

I contend, in a fairly sarcastic, karmic, reincarnatative way, that I am paying for the crimes of the man executed the day I was born. It's not just that he was executed, but he was the last known public execution by guillotine. And let us be fair, if you had your head lopped off publicly, you had to have done something fairly vile.

And since I'm still fresh off the Metalocalypse season finale, I figured I'd provide you with the birthday song that was produced by the creator of the show. Lyrics below so you can follow along. Happy birthday. You're going to die.

Dethklok is fucking brutal metal in every sense of the word.

Mmm... brutal metal.

Ironically, this song DOES make me smile about it being my birthday.

Birthday Dethday:
Many years ago today something grew inside of your mother
That thing was you. You!
You you you you
Did she scream? Did she cry?
Only those that are born are the ones that get to die.

One more year closer to dying
Body organs ripping, grinding
Biological discordance
Birthday equals self-abhorrence

Years keep passing, aging always
Mutate into vapid slugs
Doctor gives a new prescription
Bullet in a fucking gun

One more year closer to dying
Plastic surgeons fuel the lying
You forget why you came in here
Your mind rots with every new year

Chorus(ish):
RSVP please
For the Death of thee
You have little time
And you're running out of life

Happy Birthday
You're going to die

Now you're old and full of hatred
Take a pill to masturbatred
Children point to you and scream
Because they will become that thing

One more year of further suffering
There's no point in fucking bluffing
Open up your Deathday present
It's a box of fucking nothing

Chorus-ish

Die Die Deathday
Birthday Deathday

Chorus-ish

Happy Birthday
You're going to die!

Editor's Note: I'm actually in a fairly splendid mood, despite that I'm lazily celebrating my parents ability to fuck.

Mordhaus Is Burning!

2008-09-09T10:38:00.005-04:00

The much-awaited (at least by me) season 2 finale of Metalocalypse is posted for all to behold on Adult Swim.

For those of you unfamiliar with the show, simply take every misconception about metal, every myth about its attachment to evil, and every global-control conspiracy theory and mix it up in a blender.

This episode is fantastic, but you should watch the entire series if you're unacquainted with the show.

In lieu of said familiarity, here are 2 clips that are from the very first episode, and, watched concurrently, form one large clip. Sadly, no good clips exist on youtube, and [as] seems fit to dice them up as much as possible.

I always laugh when that giant cube hits.

It never ceases to amuse me.

Addition Is Simple, Right?

2008-09-09T08:48:00.005-04:00

So, there's been something that's been eating at me for a while now, and it has to do with advertising. Now, my dear friend Mike's father is in advertising, so I will preface this tirade with that sole exception. None of this applies to him. In fact, it may not apply to advertising at all, but it seems to be the sort of hare-brained concoction these insolent whelps would come up with.

Since when do two people having quantitative years of experience in something equal a collective sum of the two separate experiences?

Case in point: There's an ad on the local talk radio station (which I listen to strictly for traffic and weather) that claims that two guys who run some brokerage firm have a collective 60 years of experience.

By this same logic, I can say:

A newborn and I have a 15 years of sexual experience.

My grandfather and my dog have 14 years of experience at being able to lick their own crotch.

The Kennedy family and a local bum have 70+ years experience at being rich white oligarchs.

Or, by contrast:

Darren McFadden and Adrian Peterson have 1 year of professional football experience.

The Olsen Twins have 30 years experience with drug addiction and bulimia.

John McCain and W. have 120+ years experience at being elitist douchebags.

Do you see how absurd this shit is? Even if the statements are technically true, they are ultimately misleading. (Well, except for the one about McCain and Bush... and even that... I'm sure McCain wasn't always a douchebag.) An addition of years of experience doesn't necessitate that the experience taught them anything or that they even know anything about the subject they're claiming experience.

I'd like to find the dimwitted fucknut who thought of this little ploy and have him experience a baseball bat in the crotch. For years. We could do it to their friend, too, so they could say they've got some sort of combined amount of knowledge concerning getting hit in the crotch with a baseball bat.

Wouldn't that make a lovely advert?

Or, moreover, we could start corralling all the people who use this duplicitous scheme to dupe people into believing that they have some sort of math-based qualifications into a conveyor belt-laden pen and feed them into an industrial woodchipper.

Then they can experience being mulch.

Indefinitely.

Weekend Update

2008-09-08T08:29:00.003-04:00

I had posted a couple things over the weekend, but I've since reconsidered them being on here for two primary reasons.

Firstly, they were an unnecessary delve into my decidedly fucked-up nature, and to either burden people with it or present it to a public of unknown quantity seemed less than prudent.

Second, it just didn't fucking belong here.

And so, all is well in love and war and blogging.

However, the following is most important:

I would like to extend a heart-felt thank you to Kurgan (of And You, Brutus?... see my blogroll). I mean all of this with sincere gratitude. Sometimes it takes a dispassionate, disassociated person to basically kick my psyche in the gonads to get my mind working in the proper direction. He has culled his opinion of my character strictly from my blog, and his assessment of my assessment was spot on.

Thank you sir. May your quickenings be many.

Yeah, some things just aren't meant for prying eyes, and sometimes my own mind is my worst enemy, and Kurgs rightfully pointed out, in his own inimitable way, that if you lose sight of who and or what you are or are striving to be, then there's no real point in any of it anyway.

So, my self-opinion relegated back to my own awesomeness, with some unexpected but much needed commentary and straightforwardness from a stranger, I am back in my usual form.

That said, more to come.

Thanks again, Boss.

Dr. Jung, Your Patient Is Ready

2008-09-04T16:52:00.013-04:00

Dreamlog #3:

I'm visiting Pittsburgh to see some old friends. I'm walking the streets watching the new students come in and randomly bumping into my friends to catch up to them. My ex-girlfriend (from here, not college) is there too. She informs me she's seeing someone.

Some normal interaction with my friends there takes place.

I start to leave the city on foot with a cadre of people, one of which ends up being the guy she is seeing. It is a black man named Louis that I work with. He says he's 25. I know he is not. He is dressed like a stereotypical 25 year old black man. He does not dress like this. (In fact, I'm curious, consciously, why it was him, but nevermind.)

As we are walking out of the city, the terrain turns somewhat woodsy. My friends and I marvel at the cheetahs, leopards, and lions stalking the woods of South Oakland. Some are feeding, some are hunting. We come to a building that marks the passage from civilization to pure animal-land.

Louis comes over to confront me about me being in touch with my ex. I explain to him we're friends, and everything between he and I are cool because there's nothing between her and me that he needs to worry about.

We pass through to the last exit of the building; some people head toward the right to another set of buildings. I see a male lion stalk closely. I climb a tree to see it, and take off running when it looks at me. A long, scary chase ensues. (Apparently, even getting chased by a lion in dreams is cause for panic - and who can argue.) I am the only one seemingly being chased by the lion. Everyone scatters and eventually I turn to where everyone else had fled.

I get back inside the last building I had exited. Louis and my dog, Ollie, are the only ones from the group there. It has much the same layout as my house, only it is one story. Louis leaves through the way that would take him back to Pittsburgh. A cheetah cub has made it inside with me. It gets along with my dog. They run around the area together.

I look out a window near the door I am to take to leave. A smaller male lion with a fairly full mane plops down outside of it, facing a gorge, with a leopards head in maw, drops it casually (which makes it land with a loud thud), and starts tearing at the neck flesh to eat.

I go get Ollie and the cheetah cub because Ollie and I need to go. I let the cub out and slam the door shut. The lock and latch of the handle don't catch completely. The lion gets up and forces the door open with one shoulder, sliding a massive leg and paw in like a housecat playing from behind a couch. I lean on it to force the door against the lions leg. He removes his paw and I try to get the door closed again.

While leaning with my back against the door, legs braced on the wall to keep the lion out, I text my ex to see if Louis told her about the lion chasing me.

Boom, I am awake.

And this one was way too weird to NOT document.

Poppa's Got A Brand New Quagmire

2008-09-04T10:58:00.011-04:00

Greetings, fellow travelers of the multiverse. I again bring tidings that bode not well for our earthly kin, which happen to make my heart valves flutter with anticipation and my brain try to calculate potential damage-related figures for my insurance company.

Hurricane season started some time ago, but it's now late in the 4th quarter and, as expected, the home team is galloping down the final stretch.

We had Gustav. Check. Hannah: on her way.

But wait sports fans, there's more.

See, Gustav was just a bunt. He reached first safely, much to the behest of the RNC. Hannah is at the plate, and she's swinging for at least a double - probably an off-the-green-monster pop-up. Ike is on deck, and weathergeeks are insinuating that if it follows the path of Hannah, it could very well be a triple, since Hannah will clear all but one base with her double: Gustav is clearly headed home.

So Ike will step to the plate and hit a hard liner, probably right at South Carolina and Georgia, right after Hannah gets done making The Atlantic her bitch. And behind Ike, batting clean-up, is Hurricane Josephine, which, if I'm not mistaken, is already a Class 3, or at the least, is expected to be a Class 4 when it hammers Jamaica.

And I can't wait.

I concede some of this may be factually 'off', as far as trajectories and impending landfalls and whatnot, but I'm doing this from memory with absolutely no desire to fact-check. It's late for me, and I'm tired, so I could be willfully misinformed, and I admit that; but I'm pretty sure I'm remembering it correctly. I'll not argue any factual corrections thrown at me, just don't be all fucking sanctimonious about it.

The point being, of course, is that Ma Nature is heading my way. And it's probably Karma. I admit it. It's ok.

I'm still rooting for the Cascadian Rift to win the game with a last-minute-in-regulation goal.

And now for something completely different:
Over my long weekend, in which my sleep schedule was un- and re-adjusted to my horrid work schedule, I happened to catch some very good, healthy sleep... for the most part. See, one night / day I was sleeping and ended up having a very prolonged (as far as I could tell) dream involving my father.

For those of you who don't know, which is most of you, my father died in March of 2000. He was a Vietnam Veteran who served in the Army Special Forces in Germany and 'Nam. He was honorably discharged and went to college where he ran track - setting school records - and majored in engineering in three and a half years. Smart, stern, and insightful; disciplined, loving and caring; sarcastic, quick-witted, and funny. He was all these things and more. (My, isn't that cliché.)

Anyway, it seemed to me as if the dream 'sequence' was going on for hours, but who can tell when you're asleep how much time is passing. I do know that during the time we were walking around in my little dreamland, we did nothing more than talk, catching up with each other as if we just hadn't seen each other in a while.

Which we haven't, of course.

And I found myself feeling very happy, consciously, while being asleep and dreaming subconsciously. So much so that when I felt the pangs of being awake, I consciously suppressed them and willed myself back into my dreamland in order to spend more time with him. Naturally, when I finally did wake, I felt a little hollow, sad, and alone.

Which makes me wonder a few things:
Is it possible for the dead to commune with the living in some sort of altered-consciousness state? If so, should we try to be aware of these instances? Should we document the dreams / events as much as possible? (I should have, but did not.) Should we seek to willfully attain these altered states if they do exist?

Someone find me Timothy Leary!

Moreover, personally speaking:
What does this say of my state of mind when spending time with my deceased father in dreamland is preferable to the waking world? Do I indeed have a desire to join him in the alternate-dimension that is post-vitae? Did I never really get over his loss? Will I ever?

And when is he going to stop by for another chat?

Inquiring minds want to know.

One Stop Comedy Shop

2008-09-04T08:55:00.004-04:00

Since I've got an actual post coming later today, your comedy dose is a small, yet powerful pill of hilarious reality.

Ladies and Gentlemen, the late, great, Bill Hicks:

Inertial Exertion

2008-09-03T10:19:00.008-04:00

So, just before I left and since I've been away from this moderately addictive contraption called the blogosphere, some wonderful things have happened.

For starters, 2-3 powerful, potentially cataclysmic hurricanes have either made landfall or are about to.

Gustav, as we now know, was not nearly as damaging as it could have been, though it did produce a fairly healthy amount of destruction. Thankfully, it did not have the jaw-dropping repercussions of Katrina, which is good, because I'm not fond of seeing our socially and economically underprivileged drowning for no reason. However, I sincerely hope - and am sure it did - kill some stupid motherfuckers that ignored the mandatory - and apparently well-heeded - evacuation.

Unfortunately, Gustav seemed to not want to make too much of an impression on Texas, which annoys the ever living fuck out of me. How many virgin sacrifices is it going to take for Mother Nature to once and for all wipe out that cesspool of needlessness.

Seriously. Fuck you, Texas.

Hurricane Hannah, our good friend, is predicted to make landfall by Friday along the South Carolina and Georgia coasts. This is a good thing.

Name something good from either state.

See? You can't do it either.

Interestingly, I once had to rent a car from Enterprise, and the black gentleman who worked there was named Darryl Hannah. I bet he never lived that down.

If I'm not mistaken there was a third storm, but its name eludes me; probably because it didn't wreck shop. Slack fucker.

What else? Ahh yes. McCain picked the perfect republican running mate. She's embraced in scandal, has an irresponsible child who is knocked up, has no experience, and views that are best described as "pipe-dreams of grandeur". Still, she's hot, and while I'd totally facial her, I don't think she's the right material for VP.

Maybe HPV, though.

So, there's the recap, as far as I can see. I'm sure I could indulge some of my mental state to you all and it would make for more entertaining reading, but this month will provide me with plenty of days to share my misery with you all, don't you fret!

That aside, I will confess my weekend wasn't totally horrible. My friend Mike was in town with his wife and the whole fam damnily. It's always good to spend time with him / them, no matter how personally frustrated it makes me feel. (Yes, that sounds odd, but Mike gets it, and he's the only one who reads this anyway.) They are an absolute joy to be around, in all seriousness, and not a lot of families can say that.

I also spent a LOT of time playing Call of Duty, because it's always nice to just murder indiscriminately.

It's a nice escape from real life.

Which sucks, for the most part.

Agreed?

Agreed.

After the fact thought: Good things in / from Georgia:
Adult Swim, Chuck D., Outkast.

Still at a loss for SC.

The End Of Something

2008-09-03T08:26:00.003-04:00

Well, my extended Labor Day vacation is in its final throes.

Along with some other things.

I'll have something else to post a little bit later today, maybe, but as of right now, just want you readers - all 13 of you - to know I'm not dead.

Not yet.

Goddamnit.

One Stop Comedy Shop

2008-08-28T10:10:00.002-04:00

Thursday again. Where does all the time go?

Enjoy.

Bill Cosby on Brain Damage:

Eddie Murphy on Male Imperatives:

Chris Rock on Married Life:

Kung Fu Theatre

2008-08-27T09:47:00.006-04:00

Once again I've nothing to offer you except some kickass martial arts.

I would like to point out that, while this is obviously overly-dramatic interpretations of the ability of legendary martial artists, arts like Tai Chi and Gung Fu are designed to teach you to channel the inherent energy (or chi / qi) within you and around you, and back then they did not have the distractions of technology or the poisons of industry to pollute them or their surroundings.

So it should make one wonder... how overly dramatic are these interpretations?

Food for thought, no?

Anyway, in this clip, Jet Li and his accomplices have apprehended a local dignitary, and dragged him to where the militia have decided to throw a barbecue. The Captain of the guard, Li's former comrade in arms, takes exception to the festivities when it is revealed that Jet forgot the potato salad.

Where To Today, Ms. Daisy?

2008-08-26T08:45:00.011-04:00

I have a theory working in my head. You get to experience its birth.

So, this is probably going to be very bloody and painful, and you may well crap your pants.

Smoke 'em if you got 'em.

Since I contend that the average human being ultimately has the intelligence of, say, a rabid moose, I find myself searching for understanding on how the apathetic, docile masses could be so... stupid. I realize of course that the uneducated tend to breed sooner, or more often - or both - than the intelligentsia, but one would think that the ability to reason, learn, and grow would be a major mover and shaker in an individual's existence, and thus we'd have more smart people.

How is this not so?

I think I may have found an answer. Mind you, I do not mean "the" answer; I don't contend to be right on this, thus my calling it a 'theory'. This pertains to one of the most basic of all things we sapiens do, day in, day out.

Driving.

Now, I have my pet peeves on driving. And I realize these pet peeves because I am or have at some time been prone to committing them myself. Except blinker use. ALWAYS use your blinkers. Always. No exceptions. I always use my blinkers, always, well before I'm going to turn so the fuckwit behind me knows I'm turning, giving the hamster in his head enough time to recognize he may have to slow down.

But, say, when a guy passes me just to take the next exit that was a whole 100 yards from us, I try to not get mad. I still do it from time to time. Slow drivers annoy the piss out of me, too, ya know.

Of course, I'm always going above the speed limit, but not at more than 7 above the limit. I'll speed, legally, thank you. So when someone does it to me, they're doing, oh, 85 or so. Still, to the grandma doing 50, my 71 probably looks just as freaky.

I loathe hypocrisy, so I try not to commit it.

However, there's a pattern that affects the species as a whole, aside from your general neanderlithic attitude and mindless pontification on nothingness, that stifles me so.

Why is it that when it rains, you all turn into retarded monkeys behind the wheel? In fact, it does not even have to be raining. It can just be fucking cloudy. And I don't mean 'can't see' cloudy. Regular cloudy. Hold the sugar.

I know why. I've figured it out. Again, you're welcome.

People, you are turning into plants.

You have become so vastly moronic through your reality tv infatuations, your simpleminded religious creeds, ineffective community system, corrupt government co-opting of...well, everything, your constant consumption of grease, fats, corn starch, corn syrup, cornbread, creamed corn, corn, and guacamole, that you've become sunlight sensitive and filled with artery-clogging chlorophyll cellulose concentrate.

Apparently, your ability to rationalize inside of a hurtling death trap is destroyed by the lack of that much needed item for photosynthesis to occur: the sun.

That infernal ball of gas disappears and you go into suicide-homicide mode. What the hell? I mean, it's kind of nice of you all to kill each other in high-speed collisions that make you feel like you were in that nascar race you watched Sunday. I'll concede that it's pleasant to know that some people who cannot safely navigate the travel lanes remove themselves from the species.

But you tend to take out some good ones too, and this is unacceptable. Stop it. Slit your wrists or something. It'll be safer for everyone. Remember, down, not across.

The second the sun disappears, or fails to appear as occurs in morning traffic, everyone becomes as dumb as a withered corn husk.

And corn husks, even in good health, cannot drive at all.

So please, plant-people. If the sun doesn't come out, do everyone a favor.

Call in sick.

Somnodisadvantagious Misgivings

2008-08-25T09:05:00.004-04:00

Sorry folks. I'm very, very tired, so the brain isn't working at full capacity.

Offhand though, I'll say in a belated review: The new Star Wars animated movie wasn't very good. The Tartakovski (Samurai Jack, Dexter's Lab) Clone Wars series for Cartoon Network was infinitely more inventive, impressive, and exciting to watch.

Come on, this movie didn't even have "I have a bad feeling about this" uttered in it. It's not a damn Star Wars movie without that line. Hell, even that fucking horrid Christmas Special at least makes you THINK it.

Anyhoo, I finally agree with the general consensus that Lucas needs to be removed from creative control, or at least made to focus on his self-approved literary lexicon that moves the universe forward, not backwards.

We get it. Clone Wars: bad juju. Oooooooh.

That, you know... and not hearing the 20th Century Fox Intro... just ruined it. How can you have a SW movie and not want to hear that telltale sound? What the fuck?

Seriously, just go see The Dark Knight again.

Anyway, I'm still on my Heinlein kick, so here's another great quote of his:

"Life lost some of its beauty when truth drugs replaced thumb screws and hot irons."

Gutten Nacht.

Idea Vortex

2008-08-21T10:13:00.003-04:00

One's capacity to believe in something dictates one's capacity to experience belief-based phenomenon.

And I bet you thought they'd all be silly thoughts.

One Stop Comedy Shop

2008-08-21T08:48:00.006-04:00

Well, it's Thursday again, and it's time for that time of the time of the week.

In lieu of stand up routines, I think I'm well overdue in giving mad props to our sketch comedy brethren, for they make us laugh just as much - if not sometimes more - than stand-uppers.

Enjoy.

Monty Python's Dr. Gumby Brain Specialist:

Sorry about the subtitles.

Spitting Image's I've Never Met A Nice South African:

Kids in the Hall's Car Bangers:

Monty Python's Attila the Hun Show and more:

Citizen Of The Galaxy

2008-08-20T09:25:00.009-04:00

Today I figure I'll go with a brief excerpt from the genius that is Robert A. Heinlein. I have just completed reading For Us, The Living, Heinlein's very first manuscript. For those of you familiar with the various works of his, it should come as no surprise to find out that this novel, subtitled "A Comedy of Customs", is the basic blueprint for all of his later-in-life novels. As such, it proves his career was a full-circle endeavor, not just a bunch of latter-day preachiness.

Interestingly, Heinlein foresees a number of things that actually DID happen in our society in this book, which was written somewhere between 1938 and 1939, like the unification of Europe and the standardization of their currency. Heinlein was also a well known advocate for moon exploration, writing what is considered the first Sci-Fi movie, Destination Moon.

If you've read To Sail Beyond The Sunset, The Cat Who Walks Through Walls, Stranger in a Strange Land, The Number of the Beast, or any of the various novels that came to be a part of the Heinlein Multi-verse lexicon, then you are somewhat familiar with the overall concepts, ideologies, and general disdain for the current system that Heinlein put forth.

Considering that For Us, The Living is the basis for all these latter works, it puts into a very keen perspective Heinlein's own words concerning this particular novel:

"[It was] entirely concerned with the origin of certain dominant human thought patters and how they might change if the changes in the economic and social matrix shifted the survival values of these dominant mores. It attempted to show that most ethical standards were relative - that the terms vice and virtue depended on the psychological matrices."

So, chew on that a bit.

In different Science Fiction related suggestions, I encourage you to read two series of books: The Paratwa Trilogy by Christopher Hinz and The Rifters Saga by Peter Watts. The authors are relatively unknown, but their writing is absolutely fantastic.

Sag-rimonious Brevity

2008-08-19T09:10:00.006-04:00

I had intended today to quote an extensive Heinlein passage of social commentary from the late 30s, but I don't feel like typing that much.

In a more interesting note, a local community has taken action to bring about a city-wide ban on "saggy pants".

I shit thee not.

Don't these people have more important shit to do than be passively racist?

That's rhetorical, by the way.

Dreamland Insanity

2008-08-18T15:29:00.004-04:00

What better place to lure you into my fucked up subconscious than to report to you weird dreams as I wake up from them:

I'm on a highway that supposed to be in Buffalo - or Pittsburgh - I'm not sure. All I know is I was supposed to call my Grandfather about something, but it could wait.

It's nighttime, and I'm on the side of the road, which is a luscious green-grassed hillside that has trails plowed into it. I'm racing a yellow RC car around the hills, though it always looks like a full-sized car. Two ATVs head up to me and stop.

A couple of girls hop off, and ask me what I'm doing out here. I inform them that I like to race my car from time to time. I point to the car at my feet. It's a regular sized yellow RC car. We start walking, and the plowed roads turn into a trail that seem to have some sort of hedonistic party happening.

A beautiful half-black half-mexican girl walks up to me and introduces herself as Tonya. I tell her she seems to look familiar, so I gently grab her chin and look her full in the face. I tell her I was mistaken, and no, I do not know her. We arrive at a bonfire.

The dream flashes forward to a morning-after-bonfire sequence. I 'awaken' in a sorority house. My friend Mike's wife is there and asks me why I'm still there. I inform her that I cannot find my car.

I cannot remember which car I drove there. I look for my Grandfather's car -which is not his real car, but work with me - and I look for my car. I go back to the plowed roads and look around, pass through tunneled wooded roads, arrive at an airport. No car(s).

I go back to the sorority house to find Tonya. She comes out of her room with a gun. The gun looks like a plastic frame of a toy gun. She has grown a moustache and her complexion is darker. Mike's wife and I both ask where my car is.

Her: "It's gone."

Me: "Where is it."

Her: "I said, it's gone. I needed the weed money. A little gin in me and I need to do that."

I charge her. She shoots me twice, once in the chest, once on the shoulder. I don't feel the gunshots, the gun is too small and wiry for anything. I snatch the gun, drag her to the ground, pinning her arms behind her - up, holding them at the wrist - and sit on her back. I tell Mike's Wife to call the cops.

I look at my shoulder. It's got a scratch on it like I cut it on glass.

My dog walks in the room and barks. I cough.

The wound over my heart starts seeping partially coagulated blood - it looks thick and viscus. Tonya laughs. I turn to Mike's wife and say "And call the paramedics."

I snap awake, sweating, teeth clenched, my right hand - gone numb - pressing into my chin.

I needed a smoke, and thought to jot this one down.

And Mike... sorry about dreaming about your wife.

Anyway, cig is done. Back to bed.

Karma Is A Cruel, Cunning, Well-Armed Mistress

2008-08-18T08:44:00.024-04:00

Caution: This may take a while.

I've tried to not go into too much detail of my personal life here, with the exception of the few entertaining stories I've found fit the general concept of this nonsensical conglomeration of hyper-intelligent hysteria. You may have noticed I try to respect the privacy of my friends where appropriate, and don't generally divulge enough information about myself that one can track me - or them - down.

However, yesterday was so exceptionally strange a day that I feel the need to just... get some shit off my chest, and what better way to do that than to share it with twenty-some people who read this pointlessness and the millions and billions of internet jackoffs who won't, but might.

Actually, this all happened Saturday, but seeing as I slept Sunday away, thus me losing a day, "yesterday" fits my actual consciousness timeline.

The day started off pretty good, I suppose. Had a decent breakfast with some friends, then played Call of Duty for three hours or so, and then went out on a coffee date. The woman I met on the date is smart, charming, funny, and quite sexy, if I do say so myself, and I do. We plan on getting together again. Things are good.

So after this, I headed home, played some more Call of Duty with my friends, and figured my evening would end without incident. The night was gonna be great, right?

Alas, this was not to be...

I ended up getting a call from my ex-girlfriend. Now, I still care for her as a friend - and a human being - simply because it's hard for me to share an extended amount of time with someone and not have some concern for their general welfare. It seemed she was having another moment of crisis, and as I did with my friend Jess, I proceeded to go to her aid. Sometimes you just need a friendly, familiar shoulder to cry on, right?

If only.

Apparently, for the second time since we've broken up, she has caught herself in a series of events concerning a relationship that left her wrecked and feeling miserable, used, and alone.

So, we'll dispense with the pleasantries, as Vader might say, and get to the root of her problem(s): She holds every man she dates to my standard. Or, more succinctly, every man she goes out with is compared to me and how I treated her.

I don't say the previous out of some false ego-based intention, those are her words; and anything else referring to my awesomeness from here on out is not in any way ego, either; it's just simple, mostly unmitigated fact.

So, to conclude the basics of the conversation, she says this, and that she not only still loves me, but is still in love with me. Color me seventeen shades of perplexed. I had not expected that answer, especially because the last time we talked was because tornadoes was ripping through the area. Natural disasters shouldn't be a reason to call someone you're not actively speaking to.

I'll also mention that she insisted that the primary thing for which I'm to be commended is my brutal, forthright honesty. Apparently she's become a very naive woman, since I was so truthful to her and didn't sugarcoat things, nor did I ever lie to her, and is finding this to be a very rare trait. Men are liars. Of course they're liars. They're scum. I'm not, but men are. Figure out that conundrum.

She also said that in all the things we argued about, I was right. This was stated clearly, without metaphor, simile, exaggeration, and with some reluctance. But she said it, so I didn't have to say "I told you so". Even though I did anyway.

And I knew I was right. I am always right. Mainly because I deal in facts. I am never wrong; if I am, it is merely because I am misinformed. Deal with it.

Now, I cannot say I do not love her. I do. (I subscribe to the following definition of this emotional phenomenon: "Love is that condition in which another persons happiness is essential to your own." -RA Heinlein) But I am not in love with her. I thought about it long and hard. There's just nothing like that there in me for her. I've come to terms with this.

I found myself feeling emotions I don't typically feel for people: sympathy and pity. I felt sorry for her that she was having no luck with other men, that she was still stuck on me, and pity that she was letting herself destroy herself with bad choices concerning alcohol consumption and grossly irresponsible sexual conduct.

Nothing like having to be a voice of fatherly reason to an ex-girlfriend, right?

Anyway, all this being said, I'm most confounded. This is not the first time an ex of mine has informed me that I've been the standard from which they've based all future relationships, and I - in my non-egocentric awesomeness - can certainly understand, and am somewhat humbled by, these admissions. I could go into all my amazing traits, but I won't.

Pride IS a deadly sin.

However, if I have become a prototype for male companionship to two or three women, I don't really think they've got much hope. Men are scum. They really, truly are. Especially my generation. Most of the Gen-Xers - and don't even get me started on all these kids today - wouldn't really have a clue how to be a general decent human being, much less an attentive and caring mate. If a guy can't hold a door open for a stranger, what use is he going to be to someone who wants and expects to be properly treated?

See, I am a misanthrope, through and through, but I was raised to be a generally decent chap, and that level of decency was smashed to pieces years ago, and the finely ground sand of its remnants is finally getting washed away into the sewers.

I'm reminded of another Heinlein quote, and since tomorrow I'm probably going to quote him extensively, well, why not:

"I am an almost extinct breed - an old-fashioned gentleman. And that means I can be a cast-iron son-of-a-bitch when it suits me."

Yes, ladies, chivalry is pretty much fuckin' smoked.

Sadly, we didn't have the nuts to just blow it to smithereens, we had to slowly bleed it so that the general scumbag populace could sucker you, hurt you, and make you jaded beyond belief.

Not that being told again that you were the perfect boyfriend - while being painfully single - won't do the same goddamn thing.

And you wonder why the good men are jaded too?

Hah.

I did have a good date, though.

Cyanide-Laced Broadcasting

2008-08-16T11:40:00.006-04:00

I live in the South.

I live in an area where people have clever bumper stickers that read "American by birth, Southern by the grace of god", "Heritage, not hate", and "Bush/Cheney '04".

The people here think that because they believe in god they are Republicans (a 5 year old told me so), where everyone who doesn't go to their church is going to hell, where ribbons adorn cars like herpes scars adorn a ten-dollar prostitute.

So as you may imagine, since the population is, generally speaking, about as intelligent as a rancid sack of festering dogshit, our local news outlets are full of dreck, drivel, and dumb motherfuckers doing stupid shit.

It wouldn't be so bad, I suppose, if they were capable of bringing us a piece of useful news every now and then, but if some Civil War veteran has a cat that gets stuck up a tree, that'll be far more important than whatever the School Board might be doing to make sure "intelligent design" gets in the classrooms.

But I think they've reached a new low.

Behold, WXII channel 12 news, a local Moron Affiliate, has done this:

Now, not only does this thoroughly trivialize the importance - for whoever, and in whatever fashion - of the Olympics, it makes you wonder how these little twig-brained imbeciles didn't end up as actual participants in the Special Olympics.

Maybe it's me, but the current games have kind of felt like the 1980 Olympics, where it was the US vs. Russia for global dominance in everything, only now it's China and there's too much useless media and not enough real journalism for these games to have the same impact.

That being said, I don't understand the necessity of little pieces like this when so much is going on in the world, and I can only hope that some lonely, psychopath intern runs through the studio of WXII and mows all these fuckers down.

It's an insult to ALL Olympic athletes, be they Special or Regular, and it's a complete disservice to the few members of the populace that don't really give a fuck if one of the 2000 churches in the city burned down or if a trailer park was visited by another tornado.

Then again, they are a news station.

One Stop Comedy Shop

2008-08-14T08:36:00.012-04:00

Yeah, so I've been kinda slack this week with posting. I live a boring life, have a boring job, and while I'm not a boring person, per se, this kinda makes for dull weeks with nothing to report.

And really, I don't know if I can top my ordeal with the bees.

Anyway, since it's Thursday, it's time for your weekly dose of comedy. As always, please enjoy the laughs.

Andrew Dice Clay gets profanely belligerent on CNN:

OK, so it wasn't comedy, but I think it's fucking awesome. The employee-related off-camera gasping at his language is priceless, as is the deer-in-the-headlights stare of the apparently shocked anchor.

Bill Hicks on the JFK assasination:

Richard Pryor - Super Nigger and Nigger with a Seizure (audio only):

Lewis Black answers fan mail:

Kung Fu Theatre

2008-08-12T08:33:00.005-04:00

In this installment, Gordon Liu (Pai Mei in Kill Bill 2) and Wang Lung Wei are having a disagreement on how to decorate the path from their front porch to the gazebo. As one would expect, a lovers quarrel ensues. While obviously differing on the proper method to wallpaper, both admit throughout that the other is Hong. Everything ends without serious injury.

Love is a mantis strike to the sternum, I guess.

Idea Vortex

2008-08-10T20:07:00.005-04:00

I've decided to jot down random thoughts I have HERE, in case I can expand on them in the future, because they're funny thoughts, etc... but moreso for when I say "I said that first", I can back it up.

That said...

I wonder if there's a way to play strip Chutes and Ladders. And if there is, who would know? Should I ask the local Catholic priest?

Note: Management does not suggest trying to play strip Chutes and Ladders with a minor. That's fucking gross. You sicko.

Lawn Of Duty 4: Jungle Warfare

2008-08-08T12:36:00.014-04:00

Personally, I'm not a big fan of any lawn care, be it gardening, landscaping, lawn-mowing, mulching, or anything else involving the outside maintenance of ones grass-infested areas. My home looks like it's surrounded by a Cambodian Jungle, and I tend to only mow my lawn once a month, or less. (Oy, it's so humid.)

Well, I wanted to go ahead and mow it so my neighbors wouldn't complain to the local Public Works people again. Normally, I do what most people, I guess, do. A big square, slowly getting smaller, like a boxy spiral, then edge... maybe. But this lawn, oh no, would not be that easy. It had become fairly overgrown. I went out to proudly tame the jungle... in basketball shorts and cross-trainers. No shirt necessary, I need the sun.

So I started like I normally would, and after about 6 or 7 stalls from too much somewhat dewy grass, I said to myself that doing this in sections would be far easier. I cut two horizontal lines of grass and then proceeded to mow three little boxes. While cutting the lines of my lawn-circle, I felt something thumping my back, but nothing had bitten, stung, or leapt at me from the ground, so I shooed it off and went slogging along, cutting my perimeters.

I mowed the top of the lawn without incident. The middle section took some time, as the mower apparently was mad at me for neglecting it. But all was well and good until I hit the bottom section, where, apparently, a large nest of yellowjackets was laying in wait. I should have known from the thumping - I've seen specials on bees - but it just didn't register.

I get half of the bottom portion done when I feel a sting on my ankle. I look down and I see something flying off, and I notice some movement behind me. Holy shit. I mean, holy shit. Now, I know that the first sting is a homing device for the rest of the nest. I let go of the lawnmower and run inside, only to be stung two more times - in my ankles! - by bees. How I did not get stung above the knee, I know not.

I make some calls warning my friends who frequent my domicile that hey, watch out, your least favorite insect is parked near my front door, so go around. I verify some methods for disposing of the little bastards, and we come to the conclusion that due to the proximity of the nest to the septic tank (read: due to it being right on top of the septic tank), we'll go with Sevindust, and not our preferred method, gasoline fires.

Oh yeah, and the lawnmower is still running.

I play a lot of Call of Duty, and have actually handled a number of pistols, assault rifles, and sniper rifles, and for some reason all those instincts kicked in. If someone had been around, they would have been most confused.

I rummage around for a can of what will turn out to be useless foamy flying insect killer. I throw on a long-sleeved t-shirt, grab my phone and the bug spray, go downstairs, outside... and commence to turn this into a mission.

The objective: Turn off the fucking lawnmower. Gas ain't cheap.

I stalked slowly up the driveway facing left - toward the front door - with my phone clutched in my left hand, thumb on the talk button like a grenade ready to be hurled, while I held the bug spray out in front of me like a pistol with my right hand, eyes watching for the slightest of movement. (Bees are far craftier than you might imagine, really... make no mistake.)

After I passed the sidewalk leading to the front door, I deemed it safe enough to walk normally, and went around my car to the street, walked across the front of my lawn, hands at my sides like Pistol Pete, eyeing Ground Zero. I moved my eyes back and forth between GZ and LM, trying to gauge the distance between them, my window of opportunity.

Upon reaching the diagonal outer limit of my lawn from GZ, I bring the Phone Grenade into ready and pull out my Spray Pistol, and quietly move - like a stalking soldier - toward the mission goal. My vision registers the slightest movement to my right, the grenade cocks to my ear, the pistol swings down ready to fire - and a cute little dragonfly lands to my right. Unnerved, I swing my pistol immediately to the left at a downward angle, expecting to be ambushed by my Bee-etcong adversary.

I take a deep breath, steady my vision, and see the swarming mass of angry insects, watching them establish and lengthen their perimeters. I see a few fly up and out towards the top of the lawn. Not good. I keep my pistol trained on them, eyes locked on their position, and slowly, carefully, stalk back to the safety of the roadside.

Pacing back and forth, I look between the two targets. I figure I have one shot, maybe a 5 second window, or I'm gonna be very uncomfortable for a few days. And really, sometimes you just have to say "fuck it" and go. I set down my phone grenade, grab my pistol tighter, and slowly crept back to within about 10 feet of my running lawnmower.

A voice in my head - hopefully one that LIKES me - says "NOW!" and I'm off. I bolt to the lawnmower, front-kick the switch to off, and run back to my grenade, grabbing it in one motion while turning behind me and making sure I'm not being pursued. I back completely up to the road, walk back down the driveway.

Woe is me. My habits have gotten the best of me.

I locked the downstairs door.

Great.

So, the mission parameters change. A soldier adapts. I walk back up to the sidewalk and slowly stalk down it, watching for the slightest of movement. A slight breeze blows, swinging leaves here and there, but I maintain my focus. I take 5 cautious steps and - like Jesse Owens defying Hitler - leap to my porch! I dodge an incoming missile, slip inside my front door, slam it shut, and celebrate like I'd just won gold, like I'd just completed a mission, like I was happy to be alive.

They have won the battle, but tonight, I end the war.

Tonight, I'm carpet bombing them with Sevindust.

Why Waste Needles On Perfectly Good Food?

2008-08-07T11:04:00.014-04:00

I was laying in bed, trying to sleep while listening to Life is Worth Losing by Carlin - which, mind you, isn't easy - and happened upon my own clever idea for getting rid of the dregs of society while performing a necessary good.

I'm with George. There isn't any really creative capital punishment. So in his tradition, I've come up with some of my own.

Part of this particular idea hatched while watching a video of a zookeeper getting mauled by some lions. Now, I'm not a fan of zookeepers getting mauled by their tenants, but I'm not necessarily against general animal-related deaths.

As you may or may not know, I have a special affinity for ferocious, predatory cats, and an almost consummate hatred for humanity. The gerbil in my head hopped on the wheel and got me to thinking.

You can thank me now or later, but eventually you will all come to agree: we should feed societies most unwanted denizens to animals in zoos.

See, predatory animals need to keep their instincts up to par, and every now and again they tend to forget that the locals have tranquilizer guns and go for their tenders. Moreover, good zookeepers are hard to find. But we can't have zookeepers handling the meals. The meals are far too dangerous for that.

So we take all the rapists, sociopaths, serial killers, pedophiles, Oil executives, mass murderers, etc... and we keep em in holding pens at zoos the world over.

Armed guards. Secure perimeter. The works.

Not only would this rid us of some of our most unwanted people, it would do so in an educational way. Kids could come by and see a polar bear eat a Catholic Priest. They'd have the joy of watching a few panthers stalk and kill the CEO of Exxon, or a Tazmanian Devil tearing off the testicles of a transvestite serial rapist. But wait... there's more!

When the animals are contented, the zookeepers can safely retrieve the corpses... and put them in the hyena cage. Then the kids will learn what kind of food hyenas like, and it can be explained to them that a hyena rarely kills on its own, but steals kills from other predators. Still not satisfied? Act now, and receive this special offer!

After the hyenas get done, you cart the corpse off to the vultures. Let them pick at it for a few hours. Think of the endless entertainment at zoos the world over.

As for the skeletons, well, I guess we could grind them into powder and use them for mortar to make additional sections to the zoo... or the holding pens for the food - err, prisoners. Calcium enriched walls. Rinse with milk.

But really, why stop there. There are how many acres of animal sanctuary around the world? And they could always use money for maintenance / security. Right?

Right.

So we take our most loathsome creatures and drop them naked in random jungles, deserts, plains, tundra, shark-infested water, etc., and let them try to survive against the predators. And that, of course, has to be on Pay Per View. They could show teasers during those National Geographic shows like Meerkat Manor. It'd be perfect.

And in the off-chance they might survive, we watch the borders of the area with sniper teams. Not like we won't be following the guy with a camera. We can find him if he lives. And if he survives the wild, you still get to see someone get domed. It's a win-win!

That would truly be Man vs. Wild.

So whaddya say people?

I say, make the zoo more exciting.

And if you're not disturbed that these are the kinds of ideas I go to sleep to, you should be.

One Stop Comedy Shop

2008-08-07T08:39:00.008-04:00

Happy almost Friday. Enjoy some chuckles.

Bill Hicks on drugs and the human condition:

Jeffrey Ross roasts Drew Carey:

Greg Giraldo roasts Flava Flav:

Jeffrey Ross roasts Flava Flav:

Ok, so I went heavy on the roasting stuff, but it's hilarious shit, no?

Kung Fu Theatre

2008-08-06T12:37:00.006-04:00

I have been fascinated by martial arts all my life. I've studied Tae Kwon Do, Karate, submission wrestling, and Gung Fu, the last of which I still practice from time to time.

My Shifu has been practicing our system since he was five years old, as well as having mastered many other martial arts systems. It's a form of practicality, one that maximizes the use of ones natural bodily tendencies into very real - and some times, very lethal - self defense.

A great deal of what we do is based on footwork, and Shifu actually suggested that, if we wanted to watch someone who had good footwork, we should watch Jet Li.

Jet Li has been practicing since he was five. He was a master of all weapons at the age of 12. He has studied under no less than 3 different masters for Shao-lin / Tai Chi systems.

It shows in his footwork.

In this clip, Jet Li is having a round-table discussion with some minor underlings. The manager in the customer service department fails to impress him.

Excuse the overdub, but to my knowledge there's no DVD without it.

From Fist of Legend:

Toking The Odium

2008-08-06T10:16:00.003-04:00

Sometimes, I really feel this way:

Not the Peter for President part, dumbass.

Decoding Female Linguistics

2008-08-05T09:57:00.010-04:00

Eight years ago, before I was employed at a "real" job, I used to spend my evenings with a few friends watching the drunken rednecks circulate through the local Waffle House.

Tommy, Brad and I would sit around and talk of past exploits, current happenings, and future plans over cups of very, very shitty coffee. We'd write and share ideas, story-lines, haikus, poems, journal entries, and other various nonsensicals. We were not so young, not completely stupid, and trying to understand the female mind.

Whenever we wrote about things that involved females, we would inherently present to them our findings and ask for comments and clarification. Not only was this an ideal icebreaker, but it lead to a dawning realization for us: while not all things things were across the board true to form, they were statistically 'correct' for all intents and purposes.

We came to understand that we had not come to understand women entirely... just their darker side.

Here are some excerpts from our Female to English dictionary.

General Terms
Hi : I'm bored, entertain me. No, we're not going to fuck.

You're so sweet: You are very nice to me, so know that I would not legitimately consider dating a pathetic swine like you if you were the last human on earth... but buy me things.

Why are you so nice to me?: Why can't you be a complete dick like every other guy I've dated?

Because I love him: He treats me like shit and that is all I need in a man. I don't want someone who can show me respect and treat me right. Have you lost your mind?!

Awwwww: While the plight you are currently explaining to me is unfortunate, I am unconcerned with your pathetic situation. Seeing as I am a woman, I am forced to show you a modicum of compassion even though the reality is I could give less than two shits. As sweet and sincere as you sound and probably are, I will never, with god as my witness, raise myself to the respectable level of being able to date a guy such as yourself. Here's a quarter, call someone who cares.
(Note: A quarter is not enough to use a pay phone.)

Girls kick ass: You are scum.

What was your name again?: Oh, you're still talking to me?

Relationship Enders
I think we should just be friends:
I found someone else, so don't expect to be spending any time with your best friend any time soon.

This just isn't working out:
Now that they've taken me off the medication, it's not so easy for you to lie about the size of your penis.

We have nothing in common:
I told you not to put your feet on the table.

I just don't love you any more:
How is it my fault I got a promotion?

I just don't think it's gonna work:
How is it my fault you didn't get that promotion?

I'm in love with someone else:
And it's just taken me the entire span of our relationship to inform you.

You're not the same person you used to be:
Two words: Slim Fast
Three words: Seek Psychiatric Assistance

The Comeback
I couldn't take life without you:
I heard through a friend that the girl you're dating is prettier than me.

I felt lost:
Everyone but you thinks I'm a whore.

I'm still in love with you:
When I found out you were still crying over me, I thought 'hey, why pay rent when I could just be with you instead'.

It was a huge mistake to leave you:
I should have married you so that when I left half your shit would have been mine.

So, the musings of three 20-23 year olds turn out to be pretty humorous and pretty on target. Please note that this refers to women in that age range, and yes I realize we all mature eventually, in theory. So if you don't think these are accurate, you've had a far more normal life than anyone else.

It was a fun exercise in understanding perfidy, wise-assed misogyny, and realizing that, yes, we get you, you evil harpies.

Not that men are all that great, either.

Order Hammurabi A Side Of Haggis

2008-08-04T11:37:00.014-04:00

I lived in North Carolina during college summers, and rarely in the summer did I bother to go up, because I needed to work, save money, tend to my responsibilities and whatnot.

However, in the summer of 1997, for some reason I found myself attending an all-weekend drunken festival at our fraternal residence. Well... wait a sec. Let's try this:

Dramatis Personae
Lilly - 6'4, ghostly white, hunched, wakes to a six pack, insane.
Z - 5'8 Nubian Goddess, insane.
Sam & Mike - the coolest city cops I've ever known, insane.
Other people who were also drunk.
Some dumbasses who eventually got what they deserved.

On what I believe was a Saturday night, roughly about 2:30 am (ok, so that's Sunday...), we had closed our festivities and were quietly lounging in our ghetto-fabulous craptacular living room in broken recliners and shredded couches, when all of a sudden there is a pounding, pounding at our front door.

"What the fuck?!" we all said, and nothing more.

As it turns out, a fraternity a street over had been throwing a party, had gotten the cops called on them, and the party was shut down. Apparently this is our fault.

Why? Well, Sam and Mike were beat cops on the city PD where I went to college. (You'll find this kind of vagueness intentional. Deal with it.) Our first introduction to them was our first party. They come in and say "Look, we know you're all drinking and underage and having a good time. We just don't want to smell anything funny. " Yep, looking for drugs. And in all the wrong places.

Throughout the years, Sam and Mike had and would: tend bar in full uniform (including kevlar vests), intentionally scared the shit out of our friends who didn't know about them, sent OTHER cops to drive by when we had parties just to FUCK WITH US, and were even honored with parties on their birthdays, where they got drunk with hundreds of undergrad co-eds, had a piece of cake, and puked all over the place.

Seriously though, we respected that they understood what college is about at times, and they respected that we could have fun without the use of drugs AND still show respect to authority figures who clearly deserved it.

In another incident, Sam saw me walking home one night from a party, and stopped to say hi and offered me a ride. I was clearly wobbly, it was late, and the city wasn't exactly at its "being cleaned up" phase. He calls over his radio "Dispatch, I have a stranded motorist I'm going to give a ride. I'll be 15 minutes." and took me to my dorm. It is experiences like this that make me think there are more good than bad cops out there.

Back to our story, already in progress.

So these guys come storming in, all drunken machismo, and start accusing us of having their party busted up. Fact was, we were way too busy getting drunk ourselves to bother. Buncha dumbasses. So I see things getting out of hand, Lilly has gone upstairs and returned with a billy club, it's more shouting than rational talk, and I AM TOO HAMMERED FOR THIS SHIT. So I tell one of our people to call the cops.

A guy about 6' even or so, and probably 210 or so, oversees that exchange I have, sees whoever it was run up the stairs, and walks over to me. I'm sitting in a large, soft orange chair covered in beer stains. Z is sitting left next to me. The guy says "Did you just tell him to call the cops."

I slur a yeah out.

Whap.

He slapped me.

I know he slapped me, because I saw the movement, and I heard the impact, and I remember my head moved a little. But I didn't feel it. Didn't feel a damn thing. I see a blur to my left. Z has gotten in the mans face and Iiiiiiiii am scared shitless.

I had never seen Z's inner angry black woman come out. She scared that white boy pale. And me too. I didn't want to watch her kill a man.

"Motherfucker if you hit another one of my friends I will fucking kill you."

At least, that's what my drunken hazed brain remembers.

She gave me a family heirloom to pass down one day. It's a butterfly knife. Seriously.

So to get to the point of all this, the cops show up, Lilly clubs a dude in the head with his billy after getting pushed, the cops confiscate it but let Lilly be (because THEY know our style, and this ain't it), and I point out the bitch that slapped me and tell them to cart his ass off.

And you'd think the story would end there, but I like my revenge to be a little more personal.

It just so happened that said fraternity showed up on our opponent list for intramural soccer that next fall, and boy did I have a surprise in store for them. The night of the game, I bought some blue facepaint (it was October, and thus readily available), grabbed some of that shitty orange-powdered adrenaline booster from a friend, chugged the required dosage, and proceeded to paint my face blue like William Wallace.

Picture it. You're the first game of the night. You're the first team to arrive at the gym. All 11 of ya. Slowly, the preppy, pseudo-jock date-rapers filter into the room with their little sorostitutes tagging along. And what do they see? An overly hyper man wearing Braveheart facepaint, a look in his eye that is screaming "There will be blood tonight!"

Second half, I bust a fools' lip wide open with a solid elbow strike to the mouth. Took 5 stitches.

Poor guy had to see me on his way to class for 2 years, always in his eyes a desire for revenge... and a hint of fear.

Wise words from a Tai Chi Master:
"Never get into a fight if you don't know what you're up against."

If you're going to hit a man, do something besides slapping him. If that's your idea of striking the first blow, then you and all you know deserve what's comin' to ya.

Seriously, don't ya wish you could just slug some people?

Happiness Is A Tornado Cocktail

2008-07-31T13:57:00.013-04:00

I'm about to go to bed, and had a rare urge to consume a Guinness.

A big thunderstorm is coming through, and it looks rather unfriendly.

I'm going to bed to leave the fates to their ways. No prayer of hope. No assumption of safety. I've done what I can and things must be as they may.

I know I can't beat Mother Nature.

Which reminds me:
After Dolly made her triumphant impact upon the soil of Texas, which in my estimation wasn't nearly triumphant (read: catastrophic) enough, I was fortunate to find justification for my previous post concerning these events. (See labels below.)

A vacationer to Texas - that is, someone who willingly went there - by name of Becky Wacasey said of the experience, "Next time they say a hurricane is comin', category zero to.. whatever, I'm leaving." Watch the video here.

However, according to an article written by Elizabeth White for the A.P. News, the truth is:
"North Texas residents Becky Wacasey and her husband, Charles, rode out the storm in their room at the South Padre Island Beach Resort hotel, which had many of its sliding glass doors blown out. Drapes flapped in the gulf breeze, and it appeared some tourists had barricaded broken windows by standing box springs in the openings.

"We kept saying 'where's the eye?' because that's when we were going to leave but the eye never came," Wacasey said."

They were in South Padre and they were from North Texas. North... North... North... I'll let that fucking sink in. They could have headed... fucking north. But no, let us wait it out, and if it's bad, we're gonna leave with the eye. That's bright. I hope they have a doplar radar attached to their R.V.; it'll really help when they get lifted and impaled into the side of a gas station - or better into the pumps to explode in a violent ball of idiotic fury.

Others were barricading glass with standing box springs? That makes sense. That way, the glass can get smaller and more lethal as it ricochets through the metal.

What the FUCK?! And people like this somehow survive? And procreate??!!

Doesn't that scare the shit out of you?

Anyway, if I don't show up tomorrow, I'm following the Yellow Brick Road.

I'll send a postcard.

The Perfection Of Circumstantial Humor

2008-07-31T11:13:00.007-04:00

We'll stick with the comedy theme today, and explore one of the greatest silence-enducing jokes I've ever encountered.

I'm a big fan of most kinds of comedy, and am not one to shy from racially motivated humor. I find myself intrigued by the simplicity of them, the generalizations they draw upon, and the acerbic reaction they tend to get.

As far as I'm concerned, I'm qualified to tell racist jokes mainly because I am not above joking about my own ethnicities. For example:

What's the difference between a Jew and a pizza?
A pizza doesn't scream when you put it in the oven.

What's white and bubbly and scratches on glass?
Honkey in a microwave.

And apparently, when we're wet - or sweaty, or hell, maybe all the time - we smell like wet dog. Ask a black friend who's honest with you.

Whitey smells like wet dog.

If you're like my friends, we cover the gamut of jokes about blacks, hispanics, Helen Keller, dumb blondes, and eventually get to Jew jokes. I don't know a lot any more, because that one above pretty much gets the point across that I'm fairly hard to offend.

One night, so it's been told, my friend Charlie was with some of HIS friends and they were, in fact, sitting around, and they had come to that point. Let the Jew jokes fly. In my circle, Charlie always defers to me to open, because it seems to alleviate concerns at angering the kike. But in my absence, he just sat there quietly and listened, his face impassive.

After a particularly offensive joke, Charlie turns somber and says firmly "Man, enough with the Jew jokes. I had a relative that died in the Holocaust."

The crowd expectedly turns very quiet, eyes looking at him with a mixture of apology, sympathy, and regret. You could hear a pin drop.

He looks up slowly, shaking his head slightly, eyes downcast.

"Yeah, he fell out of the guard tower."

One Stop Comedy Shop

2008-07-31T09:46:00.007-04:00

I'd noticed that I had accidentally run this theme on concurrent Thursdays, so I figured, fuck it, comedy every Thursday. That being said...

It has been a month and almost a week since the tragic loss of our beloved cultural necessity, George Carlin. So here are a few bits to enjoy, that we may revel in his genius.

Victory Smells Like What Again?

2008-07-30T10:09:00.009-04:00

I was suffering from a bout of ye olde blocke, and had decided to google random things in the hopes of stimulating my mind. (Interesting to note, the lexicon that spellchecks this stuff recognizes neither 'google' nor 'spellcheck' as words.) The googling wasn't working (damn spellchecker is going nuts this post), so I thought "well, yesterday I told a story about mom, why not dad?".

Into the google I went. My father had run track for either U. of Buffalo or Buffalo State; I can't remember which. So I googled them, but they both came up empty after exhaustive measures of searching through now-crap. I tweaked my search to give it more parameters, and again came up with nothing. I did however stumble upon some of my relatives, as they are quite active in their community.

But still nothing on dad.

Or, interestingly, his older brother.

That uncle served in 'Nam.

Dad served in 'Nam.

Hrmmmm.

So I try again, different parameters, all that stuff. Looking for anything about my father: military mentions, sports results, alien abductions. Nothing. At this point, my rational mind kicks in and I say to myself "Well, he did serve Special Forces, so it wouldn't be totally surprising for there to be nothing on public record."

I know a few other people who served in 'Nam. I google them. Notta.

Now, maybe this is all pure happenstance. Maybe just maybe I've lost my fucking marbles. However, I do find it odd that some people with distinct service records have no public outlet for those records.

I realize you'd probably have to black out the important stuff like SSNs, birthdates, amount of agent orange exposure, MK Ultra indoctrination results, mothers' maiden names, assassinations performed, mission parameters, etc.

You know, in the interest of full disclosure.

And after thinking all that, I am nagged by a single question:

Have you seen this man?

Chance Of A Lunchtime

2008-07-29T08:50:00.012-04:00

There are apparently a lot of people who think that the language someone uses defines them, not the way in which they use language. This typically centers around any word considered 'offensive', like Carlin's 7 words you can't say on TV, most racial slurs, or any word not found in the bible.

The fact of the matter is, content means a lot, and I learned this in the third grade.

I attended an elementary school during third through fifth grades which at the time was the public school for kids too smart for the regular public schools. My mother had decided to move me to the school after my second-grade teacher at one of these more-public schools bid me a fond "congradulations". My mother deemed that any teacher who could not spell right could probably not teach right, and she was right.

So one afternoon I'm sitting with my friend Tyler, quietly drinking my chocolate milk, talking about whatever the hell it is kids talked about those days, when this girl at the table across from me accuses me of saying the word 'shit'.

The assistant principal comes over and asks me if I said it, and as I had not said it, I thoroughly denied having said it. He does, however, inform me that he's going to keep an eye on me, since apparently I had been ratted out by George Washington's great- great- great- great- great-grandchild.

A few minutes after that, I'm doing my best Italian impression - you know, talking with my hands - and I knock over my chocolate milk. To a third grader, chocolate milk is ambrosia.

Nectar of the gods.

I can only think of one thing to say.

"Shit."

Apparently the A.P. wasn't joking, because the first movement I noticed was him sauntering off of the pillar he was leaning on, a look on his face that said "you foul-mouthed little rodent, you're mine now". He then proceeded to escort me to the office and call my mother.

Now, I was a child raised to love, respect, and fear my parents. I personally feel that, due to the upbringing I had and the way I turned out - which isn't all that bad - that my parents did right to beat me when appropriate. So I'm sitting in the office dreading the ass-whooping my mother is going to unleash upon my hindquarters for saying a "bad word" in an elementary school lunchroom.

She walks into the office, sees me sitting there sullen (and probably crying) and utters the most immortal line ever spoken by a parent:

"So, he's in some pretty deep shit, isn't he?"

The A.P. replies "Well, at least I know where he gets it." and sends me back to class.

And through sheer luck alone, my asscheeks were spared.

Sowing The Seeds Of Sarcasm

2008-07-28T09:05:00.006-04:00

Due to my horrible schedule, I am somewhat forced to seek potential mates on online dating sites. Interestingly, I do actually go out now and again, and have met some fine people, but that's neither here nor there.

I have been on match.com. It was useless to me. I've been on yahoo. Useless. Now I'm on plentyoffish.com, and I have to admit, it's not completely useless, is 100% free, and seems relatively bullshit-free as well.

While perusing the site for the first time some weeks ago, I stumbled upon an old acquaintance of mine whom I had not spoken to in about 7 years, and since then we've become quite chummy. It probably helps that she's a female me.

I like me.

I'm awesome.

Mary and I tend to share sob stories about the horrendous emails we get, which usually are either horribly misspelled missives from muddleheaded morons or hostile hate-mail from hypocritical horseshits. Take that, consonation.

I asked my friend if I could send her hate mail, and she agreed. I went with the "you don't remember me" theme, because it seems to have infected her life since _I_ did it, even though I really did know her. Anyway, I told Mary I would probably post it at some point, and since I'm feeling kinda brain-dead.....what was I saying?

Oh, right.. personals sites and the insipid, simpleminded people who tend to form the majority of the membership. Of course, if you took ANY sample of the population... well... yeah.

Anyway, I present to you Hate Mail, Volume 1:

You scheming, two timing, backstabbing bitch! I cannot believe, for the life of me, that you would disregard what we shared all those years ago! You are probably thinking that you don't remember me. Well.. I remember you, you evil, heartless hag.

Like the time you told me what a blowhole on an orca was for, and my subsequent lifetime ban from Sea World. Sure, it was a laugh, I guess. But I thought I meant more to you than being a cheap gag in a fishtank.

And lets not forget that idea of yours for us to make an eskimo mush across the desert pulling a chihuahua in a red wagon. You about got me killed, which I suppose is, in hindsight, was your goal. Why did you have ME pulling YOU in a rickshaw?! Yeah, yeah, I remember how you'd look at me all dreamy-eyed, suckling down another Evian while I had to lick my own sweat for nourishment. Ahh.. those were happier days.

And then there was that time we time-traveled and cut off Van Gogh's ear. Now that was a triumph, I thought, until you fed it to me for dinner that night. I mean, having me boink the goat the night before was one thing, and you seemed to get off on it, but I draw the line at cannibalism... now.

I hope you're happy in your neat little life, and while these memories are etched in my mind, I'm sure they're all lost to you, you hateful, forgetful wench.

I hope you burn in hell.

Love always,
Dave

The sad thing is... some people on this planet have probably actually written that same letter... and meant it.

A Touching Moment

2008-07-24T14:01:00.011-04:00

Normally by now I would be in bed. Actually, by now, normally, I'd have been asleep for a couple hours, but something happened.

I have a dear friend by the name of Jess whom I've known for nigh on sixteen years. We've grown up together, though somewhat apart, geographically speaking.

A few examples of our sordid history: My mother had taken Jess and me out to an Indian restaurant. Over some fine cuisine, I confided to my mother that I intended to marry Jess, who was sitting right there. I was maybe 15 or 16. A bold statement, to be sure. I still contend that I will, if for no other fact than to give Jess a hard time.

In another, unrelated incident, Jess happened to work at the oral surgeon who removed my wisdom teeth. Talk about good drugs. Thanks babe, you're the best.

Hell, the first time she met me was in my teenage "I can drive like a fucking maniac because I'm immortal" stage, and I didn't know people could turn so pale until the first time I gave her a lift. Vampires the world over were jealous that day.

Anyway, aside from being smart, smart-assed, and no-nonsense, she's geeky, charming, beautiful, ass-kicking, and has even survived a visit from the Grim Reaper himself. She's one tough cookie, and I love her to death.

But she's human, after all, so when a friend I rarely see calls me in tears needing some familiar company, I'm not one to say "Oh, so sorry, I have to sleep." I'm always there for my people.

The strangest thing happened.

I get to her house, walk in, completely expecting Jess to be standing right there. Storming down the stairs comes a lady in her mid fifties in shorts and a shirt, her hair frazzled like she'd been going to town on herself for a few hours.

She doesn't look familiar to me, but I haven't seen Jess' parents in about six years.

"Mrs... Black?"

She shakes her head.

"I'm so so sorry, I'm at the wrong house. Do you know where the Black residence is?" Bear in mind I'm still standing in the entrance to this stranger's house. I exit, apologizing the whole time, a non-threatening posture throughout, basically feeling the fool.

I call Jess up, find out it's on the COURT, not the DRIVE, and commence to the proper house.

I find this entire course of events to be hilarious. As I explain to Jess what happened, I warn her that "If you get a call from a strange number from here, it's probably that lady who I scared shitless." Sure enough, not even 10 minutes after I utter that sentence, the mystery woman calls to verify I am indeed looking for the Black residence and have arrived, else she "would have called the sheriff". And indeed, I approve of such caution. Good for her.

Jess and I apologize again to her and we go about or discussions.

End of story, right?

Well, not exactly.

While sitting on the porch having a smoke, I realize what t-shirt I'm wearing. I replay the events in my head and it occurs to me that the lady, obviously startled and confused, had indeed taken the time to read my shirt, which more than likely added to the overall bafflement of the encounter. I show Jess my shirt. She bursts out laughing. I'm already busting a kidney myself.

Sitting plainly on my chest - above the grinning, helmet-wearing soldier holding a cup a coffee - printed in easily legible, dark blue letters:

"How about a nice cup of shut the fuck up."

Ahh... closure.

One Stop Comedy Shop

2008-07-24T08:59:00.009-04:00

I'm being lazy today. Enjoy some laughs.

Sam Kinison provides Phone Vengeance (poor quality video):

Steven Wright:

Robin Williams Live in NYC:

Bill Cosby's legendary Dentist sketch:

Lunacy Reboot At The Alamo

2008-07-23T08:49:00.010-04:00

*****SYSTEM CHECK*****
Energy: Increasing
Appetite: Within Normal Parameters
Mood: Nominal
Opinion of the Moon: Man, fuck that bitch.

It's becoming somewhat of a theory of mine that my mood is tied to lunar cycles. My only fear in this is that when people call me a loony, they'll be right.

History and science have uncovered plenty of correlations between the moon and its effect on this planet and its inhabitants. From the howling of wolves, the changing of the tides, to regulating menstruation, the moon can have a profound effect on us all.

So, with the moon waning, I find my spirits brightening, and with good news to boot.

The first tidbit of news involves our late friend Studly the squirrel, my recent roadkill victim. I would like to report, in the interest of science and the afterlife, that Studly is not a Were-squirrel, for the corpse of the very baby deer remains roadside. (This presupposes that Studly the Were-Squirrel did not kill said deer to confuse me. Lycanthropes are quite smart, you know.) Apparently, the reincarnation of Studly into the baby deer taught him his lesson. There were no new roadside homicides.

And... Texas is about to be nailed by a hurricane.

Yes, this sounds heartless.

It is. I can admit that.

Lemme 'splain:

Since the first time I encountered the comedy of Bill Hicks in its entirety, I became enamored with the idea of Los Angeles sinking into the ocean. Eventually, this came to include all of California, as I see very few redeeming qualities in the people who reside in the metropolises of that state. And if you wanna make an omelet, you've gotta break some eggs.

Some friends I have made over the years happen to share my dystopian wet-dream of wiping off the planet sections of "civilization" in the hopes that it will help make the world a better place. In our discussions of Places We'd Like To See Mother Nature Level, we invariably all came back to Texas. We might joke about most places being razed to the ground - even giving a bogus reason why - but in reality it's only a few places that need to go.

Texas happens to be one of them.

I have contended that the only good things to ever come out of Texas were Bill Hicks and Sam Kinison. I submit to the notion that there may be more things from Texas worthy of our notice, but we're talking "grand scheme of things" here.

From drive-through liquor stores to street vendors selling ribs, oil tycoons to multinational conglomerates, and from the Dallas Cowboys to "Don't Mess with Texas", Texas helps to epitomize the worst forms of vanity, gluttony, greed, stupidity, and wanton, unearned boorishness and prideful hostility in this country.

Oh, yeah. And the Bush family. They're in Texas. How about getting behind this idea now? Doesn't sound so bad now, does it? Yeah... That's what I thought.

One of my afore-mentioned friends once opined to a chatroom mostly filled with neanderthals: "Where are you people from?! Is there some Vortex of Stupidity hovering over Texas, systematically disseminating you to bog down the status quo?"

Yes, Justin, yes there is, and it's about to get smacked by Ma Nature.

Mom's gonna try to flush it all away.

And the Moon will laugh.

Two For One Roadkill Special

2008-07-22T10:12:00.007-04:00

Because of yesterday's unfortunate incident, I was paying particularly close attention to the sides of the road in the event some suicidal rodent thought it wise to play chicken with me.

I noticed that my latest victim, Studly the Squirrel, was no longer to be seen in the road, or near the road, or on the roadside. I figure a dog picked him up and took him home to grill.

But as I near my house, I see victim number two - which I did not personally destroy - laying in full rigor on the shoulder of the street. It's a very baby deer.

Which was sad. I like deer. They're interesting critters.

But then I got to thinking about it, because it was a very baby deer.

And I got to thinking about Studly, whose body was AWOL.

Now, I have two theories about what has happened:

Roadkill Theory One: Studly survived, being a Were-Squirrel, and transmogrified into a baby deer, ran down the street, and blammo! Whacked again. (This theory predicated on the corpse of the deer NOT being on the side of the road tomorrow... I'll keep you posted.)

Roadkill Theory Two: Studly did not survive. He was, in fact, reincarnated as a baby deer, born right after I whacked his squirrelly form, and apparently had not learned his lesson. Blammo. Dead Studly. Again.

I realize a rational theory is "two animals, two incidents, you're insane".

Well... see...there's a problem with trying to rationally explain things.

That kind of thinking just isn't fit for a modern society.

Finding Serenity In An Acorn

2008-07-21T08:46:00.008-04:00

As if a foul mood could not get any worse, I had an event of some misfortune today.

I ran over a squirrel.

Now, I'm not some bleeding heart environmentalist, but I understand the need for - and whole-heartedly endorse - a diverse ecosystem. (To prove this, I should provide pictures of my lawn, but I'm lazy. Trust me in this though: it is a veritable Cambodian jungle.) I'm a fan of nature in all its forms: mammals, reptiles, e-bola, tsunamis, puppy dogs, the black plague. I think it all serves a purpose to us and to itself.

But I was driving home, literally half a mile from my house, coming around a bend when this crazy squirrel just decided to bolt across the street. I swear, the little guy didn't even take off until my front tire was even with him.

Yes, I hit the brakes.

Yes, it was too late.

Normally, I can see the movement before the animal is in the road, and thus avoid it, unless it's a possum or raccoon, in which case I speed up and swerve toward it. I even brake for housecats, and I loathe housecats. In fact, my father always contended that there were two kinds of cats: fast ones and dead ones. Cheetahs are notoriously fast. A domesticated tabby... not so much. But a housecat is someones pet, and I'm not that much of a dick.

I digress.

Poor squirrel, I think he got bet by the other squirrels that he couldn't do it, and being the macho, stud muffin of a squirrel that he was, said "Oh yeah, I bet you 15 acorns and a night with your girl that I can make it!"

And my back tire broke his little neck.

Hopefully he didn't suffer. I rather like squirrels.

Interesting critters.

Meanwhile, in my ongoing struggle with the loquacious voices in my head, I tend to have weird thoughts at the worst of times. And the thought of this song came up, which is odd because the song cracks me up, but I feel bad about whackin' that squirrel. I've a healthy dose of schadenfreude in me, I guess.

Now, if only I were a squirrel... I could get to all that tasty cyanide in the center of those yummy nuts.

The Dull Drums Of Despondency

2008-07-18T09:50:00.018-04:00

Seeing as I'm not in much of an overly joyful mood, I've decided to pass on posting anything remotely personalized.

However, in lieu of dragging you along the currents of this undertow of depression, I'm going to wow you.

This is a painting by Alex Grey. Not quite coincidentally, it's also my favorite of his works, a relatively small (8 in. x 10 in.) painting entitled Lightweaver.

Grey is, quite simply, amazing.

You might recognize his work if you are a fan of - or have ever seen the more recent videos by - the band Tool.

Regardless, his extensive collection will awe and astound you, not just with the vastness of his canvases, but with the intricate detailing of his work.

Additionally, I recommend to you his online journey, entitled the Chapel of Sacred Mirrors.

You're welcome. Enjoy your weekend.

The Stupidification Of The Insomniac

2008-07-17T08:58:00.010-04:00

Last night, while at work, I happened upon the break room during the late-night talk show programming. For some reason, we have a ceiling-mounted TV in the break room that picks up 2 channels: public access and whatever channel Leno is on.

I've never been a fan of late night talk shows since Johnny Carson retired. I've always found Letterman to be too paranoid and skittish, Leno to be too much of a parasite, and thought that Conan should never have left writing for the Simpsons. For the most part, I'm relatively ignorant of the hosts after these three, because if I can't stand them, what hope do their even-later counterparts have.

In the 10 minutes it took me to smoke a cig, have a cup of very shitty coffee, and eat a small 6 pack of not-so-tasty powdered doughnuts, I realized, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I had just become dumber. What brought on this unwanted idiocy?

Last Call with Carson Daly.

Can someone on this earth explain to me how a talentless hack like Carson Daly got a talk show? And from where did he get his writers? The brain-trauma unit at a local hospital?

The bit that I saw was part of a rerun of an Easter program, which leads me to believe that he may, mercifully, be off the air, but seeing as how network programming is designed by shit-throwing monkeys, I wouldn't be surprised if he isn't.

Regardless, the bit included "Current News Karaoke" or some such nonsense, which featured some interning jackass (who probably went home and hung himself) in a giant bunny costume singing "Bunny" over and over again to the tune of "(For the love of) Money" by the O'Jays.

Upon finishing this important tidbit of "Current News" - because singing 'bunny' over and over again really drills home what Carson called "the real reason for the holiday" - the hack band leader held a shotgun and pretended to shoot said rabbit. After that, since my brain was dying, I don't really remember what happened.

But I do know this.

In a perfect world, the band leader would have swapped his shotgun for a semi-automatic AK-47 assault rifle and mowed Carson, the bunny, and his own band down. Then he would have pulled out a .50 cal Desert Eagle (go Israeli arms manufacturers!) and splattered his brains on the studio backdrop.

Seriously, can anyone that started on MTV - besides Jon Stewart- pull their egos out of their ass and do something of value and substance, or does being on that network suck dry their very souls and leave them as corporate husks that will do any fucking stupid shit, regardless of how deliriously incompetent it makes them out to be?

Or were these people just born fucktards and the network simply refined their inherent obtuseness?

I'm talking to you, too, Jackass-ers.

The Force Is Strong With This One

2008-07-16T08:29:00.009-04:00

In keeping with my habit of feeding you unwanted nonsense related to the Star Wars Universe, I present to you The Vader Sessions.

The skinny: 10 minutes of edited down footage from the very first (1977) SW movie, with all Vader-related dialogue removed...and replaced with audio from about 12 other movies that featured James Earl Jones.

Thankfully, there are no "This is CNN" clips, and I'm pretty sure they avoided his lines from Conan The Barbarian.

However, I have one rhetorical question for Mr. Jones:
Conan The Barbarian?

Addendum: having watched it, it appears they did use Conan. Or they just listed it as part of Jones' credits.

Still...

Conan?

Jethro, Fire Up The Generator

2008-07-15T10:50:00.018-04:00

Years ago I had an idea, and it recently resurfaced into that jumbled heap of synapses and fat cells in a recent conversation with someone of some acquaintance to me.

Any of you who have, in the course of your life, spent vast amounts of time on the internet, have no doubt stumbled onto - or been an active participant in- some sort of website or ISP related chatroom.

The average denizen of these infernal pits of hell have the IQ of a drowned rock, the mental capacity of a dented thimble, and seem to live life as if an emphysemic hamster in a rusty wheel is fueling the power of their mind.

And so, to combat the problem of idiocy on the internet, I came up with an idea for removing cancerous warts from the gene pool: The Big Red Button.

It works like so.

The Big Red Button would be a computer program that would include all the state of the art tracking software known to man. One would boot up the program, enter the persons screen name/email address/ID of some sort, and simply click on - you guessed it - the Big Red Button.

The program would create an electromagnetic pulse that would gain strength and speed as it headed toward the destination of said user, following the route of the tracking software. When it reached its destination, the energy would be released in a cascade of electrical energy that would incinerate the computer and its user in a veritable lightning storm which might look something like this:

And the world would be a better place.

Someone, get cracklin' on this.

My Brain Took A Left At Conundrum Boulevard

2008-07-15T10:10:00.005-04:00

A philosophical quandary:

Knowledge is power.

Power corrupts.

Absolute power corrupts absolutely.

If power corrupts and knowledge is power, does knowledge corrupt, and how?

If it does, is it a positive or negative corruption, or is that based on the knowledge and how it is used?

Can absolute knowledge corrupt absolutely?

Come In And Burn With Henry

2008-07-14T09:19:00.012-04:00

Henry Rollins.

Writer, singer, and actor.

He's been to more countries than actually exist, and has published his journals of various interesting places.

He's lived in the back of a van, limped his way through 6 continents in broken down cars, and walked the streets of Thailand. Nowadays, he drives a Mercedes, has reliable transportation in 6 continents, and backpacks through jungles.

Rollins has a cult-like following, to be sure. His no-nonsense, no-bullshit, I'll-kill-any-motherfucker-who-fucks-with-me attitude is part of his brilliance and charm. He once opined that he's come as far as he has because "..most people get their 15 seconds of fame. I got 18 because... I have the tenacity of a cockroach." (paraphrased)

I could probably go on with this shameless plugging and obvious adulation for this genius in a psychopaths body, but if you don't know who Ol' Hank is, you're really missing out.

The following are from the series "Letters from Henry". These in particular are politically slanted. So if politics bore you, you may want to skip them.

If you're a Republican, I hope they offend you.

Unless you're a rational elephant, in which case, enjoy.

Ann Coulter:

Laura Bush:

Ike Turner, We Hardly Knew Ye

2008-07-10T09:43:00.009-04:00

For some of us, finding and maintaining intimate, meaningful relationships comes off as second nature. It is done with ease, and they move from one heart-wrenching coupling to another with apparent abandon. They manage their emotions well, and can find the best in their mates with seemingly superhuman adeptness.

I am not one of these people.

For me, mainly because of how I am and some of the things I've been through and been put through, I find it very difficult to do these things. I'm not going to go into details or explanations, for those aren't my point.

My point is, if you're anything like me, you try to work things out even when your rational mind is saying "this is fucking stupid".

A few years ago I got out of a partially healthy relationship at the same time as one of my favorite new-generation cartoons, Metalocalypse, came out.

Now, this is relevant for a primary reason: I have trouble, at times, using my own words to express my emotions. A lot of times I'll use others' words. I like to quote people because it seems to express a thought I have in a way I could not, because I figure my way would fuck up the message I'm trying to send.

So, I present to you the description of that relationship, as orated by Nathan Explosion.

And really, I think we've all been here.

Thankfully, I didn't have to be tortured by my friends.

And now that I know how to embed video, I'm gonna abuse the shit out of it.

One Stop Comedy Shop

2008-07-10T09:30:00.005-04:00

Bill Hicks on God, Religion, and Dinosaurs:

Richard Pryor on Fucking:

Lewis Black on A Nuclear Holocaust:

Dave Chapelle on Why Terrorists Never Take Black Hostages:

A Touching Moment

2008-07-09T11:06:00.007-04:00

This is one of the most compelling things I've ever witnessed.

Rarely have I seen a more heartfelt "thank you".

The Force Is Strong With This One

2008-07-09T08:57:00.006-04:00

I think this might be an interesting, though somewhat ridiculous, psychological discussion.

The battles between Jedi and Sith are well documented in the lore of Star Wars. There is actually a Wikipedia style site devoted solely to Star Wars, and the official site has its own database. The authors that write the novels to the universe have their own database known as The Holocron. And so it goes, so it goes.

Anyway, below are the two more traditional, more lexicon-approved "codes" the rivals live by. And so I put it to you: by which code do you live? Which would you aspire to live by? What best defines you? And what makes or breaks that decision?

Jedi:
There is no emotion, there is peace.
There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.
There is no passion, there is serenity.
There is no death, there is the Force.

Sith:
Peace is a lie, there is only passion.
Through passion, I gain strength.
Through strength, I gain power.
Through power, I gain victory.
Through victory, my chains are broken.
The Force shall free me.

If it's not painfully obvious, I am a Star Wars geek.

And an aspiring Sith with Jedi tendencies.

Constitutional Ejj Ooh Kay Shun

2008-07-08T08:14:00.006-04:00

First off, it should be known that I work third shift. Thus, when your day is starting or half over or whenever you stumble onto this, let it be realized that I am probably in bed, this having been written while I'm fairly wide awake and not shaking off the morning woozies.

And as is such my ritual when I first rumble home and get situated, I like to check my email. I'm an old school chap, and I've been using the same address for a number of years now. On Yahoo of all places.

If you have a yahoo email account, you're familiar with the main page and its brief news blotter. The following was the headline blotter:

Panel calls for new war powers legislation (AP)

AP - Former secretaries of state James Baker III and Warren Christopher say the next time the president goes to war, Congress should be required to say whether it agrees.

See the full story here.

Last time I checked, it was my understanding that Congress and ONLY Congress had the right to declare war. In fact, according to the Official House of Representatives Website it is listed as Article One, Section 8, Clause 11 of the Constitution.

Now, I realize I only have a marginal education when it comes to Constitutional Law, as I went to public schools. I realize I may be delusional on some matters since I was raised in this country at a time when civics was still being taught in the classrooms. I'm quite aware that things as wonderful as the No Child Left Behind act make revelations such as this an astounding thing.

So, the question that is burning in my mind...

Excuse me, for I am about to have a Lewis Black moment.

Congress should agree?

What the fuck do you mean "agree"?! The President is the one who has to fucking agree! Not Congress! Congress makes that decision! And if Das Pres doesn't like it, tough fucking shit! Congress AGREE?!?! You have got to be kidding me! Fuck!!!

*huffs*

Yeah... if it hadn't been for that horse...

Raul's Wild Kingdom

2008-07-08T08:10:00.006-04:00

In light of the above post, I thought it might be fun to get our minds off of the afore-mentioned stupidity and focus on what really matters: useless animal facts! Many thanks to Mike for his contributions. Feel free to add your own useless factoids.

-Sea horses carry their young in pouches, like kangaroos -- only it's the male who has the pouch.

-Giraffes cannot cough, and because of the length of their necks, are prone to throat infections.

-Dolphins have their own language, are practical jokers, and enjoy sex for the pleasure of it.

-75% of the body mass of a flea is its reproductive organs.

-Elephants are the only other mammals (aside from humans) that recognize the skeletal remains of their own species.

-Snakes can sense prey and predators through vibrations in the ground.

-Poodles cannot fly.

-Female lions do the hunting, male lions eat first.

-When a hippopotamus yawns, it is making a threatening gesture.

-Rhinos ejaculate for 45 minutes. (Take that, Ron Jeremy.)

Dude, Where's My Hammer

2008-07-07T09:35:00.010-04:00

My friend Mike (blog:Pop Musicology) pointed this out to me. (psst. you just passed the link.)

To be frank, it makes me ill. It inspires within me a beastly, fiendish desire to tie the people who would favor such a thing to stakes and incinerate them with their own bibles.

Makes me want to crucify these people onto light poles so every trip through downtown feels like a ride to Vincent Price's house.

Look, I'm against religion, god, etc., but I concede people are entitled to believe what they want to, as long as it makes them a better, more decent individual.

However, there's a real truth to this.

Anyone who would support this kind of insipid poppycock thinks that god can justify anything from slavery (see: My Bondage and My Freedom by Frederick Douglass) to rape and genocide (if you doubt this, please look up "Manifest Destiny").

And those people piss me the fuck off.

We really should consider killing them all.

I'll Take "Why I Need Depends" For $1000, Alex

2008-07-07T08:15:00.011-04:00

There's irony afoot today in North Carolina. Tragic, gut wrenchingly wonderful irony.

On the one hand, Barack Obama is visiting a middle school in Charlotte to give some talk about how people are being screwed by the economy... essentially.

Now, I'm not one to really throw my political beliefs out there, but I will mention that the last 8 years have been the absolute worst administration on record. In any country. Except maybe Nazi Germany.

Seriously folks. I'd take Idi Amin over this crew of corrupt treasonous bastards any day of the week. At least with Amin you knew where you stood. You know, you're either with him or you're his dinner.

I admit I like Obama, and I think it's great he's coming through the state, especially today. I think that it could quite possibly be the best-timed visit to any state, ever, in his campaign.

Why?

Because in Raleigh, the wake for Jesse Helms is taking place.

So, on a day when a man is being observed by scum-sucking, trivial racist southern swine for trying to keep black people as oppressed as is inhumanly possible, a black presidential candidate is running around spreading the messages of hope and change.

Now I realize this is an overly simplified view of Helms' career. And he may have done some good things in his time. But lets face it. He was scum. Fuck 'im. He can rot in hell.

The ironies of life couldn't be sweeter, could they?

Truth be known, I smiled when I found out Helms died. It almost - and I cannot emphasize how minute this "almost" is - but it almost balances the loss of Russert or Carlin. An iota of almost on either. But definitely not even close on both.

To bring things back into balance, I'm pretty sure we'd need a mass suicide from all current and former members of the Bush administration, their families, friends, acquaintances, and accountants, up to and including any and all Supreme Court Chief Justices that may or may not be known for handing the presidency to an incompetent neanderthal.

Anyway, good timing Barack. Now about that energy policy. Every hear of a guy named Tesla? Yeah. We need to have a talk. Call me.

I Used To Be Schizophrenic, But We're Ok Now

2008-07-03T19:12:00.011-04:00

Seeing as I've no desire to rant and rave right now, I present to you The Confession.

I wrote this sometime in the 2002-2003 era. It was, in hindsight,both a hit and a miss in an attempt to emulate some of the aspects of Poe and Lovecraft in a VERY short span. I suppose I could rewrite it and lengthen it substantially, but as of now, I like the brevity.

I hope you enjoy it.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

It was a day of destruction. I don’t really remember what day it was. Doesn’t really matter, pick a fucking day; they’re all just pointless consecutive digits to me now. I don’t remember anything of too much substance either, to be honest. My memory just continues to swirl around; I cannot focus on one relevant detail. Sure, I know who I am… I think… but I have no recollection of how I came to be… here.

I woke up one morning on the wrong side of sanity. My home – at least I think it was my home – did not seem familiar at all. I arose to the dizzy feeling of displacement. All I knew was that I had to get out of there. It was suffocating me.

Having hit the streets, I became more confused, disoriented, and felt even more out of place. I didn’t seem to belong. All the voices, the ones I can only assume were coherent to me at some point, were now nothing more than gibberish. It was a cavalcade of foreign tongues, a communication gap more akin to deciphering relentless, infuriating white noise than to a mere difference of culture. It was as if a hundred thousand linguists had bombarded my brain at the same time with whatever fucking language they happen to know, as long as it wasn’t a language I knew.

I had avoided eye contact with anything but the ground during this. I remember, quite clearly, that I was stalking down the street with my hands in the pockets of my black leather jacket, my teeth clenched, cringing at every unutterable syllable that impaled my ears.

I never should have looked up.

Oh God, this… this can’t be happening…

No one… Oh God, tell me it was a dream!

No one…

No one had a face.

It seemed I was in an alien world, one familiar to me, yet I had no idea where I was.

Those faceless faces… Oh God… where did they come from?! What have I done?! Those faces… they seemed to penetrate my very being, as if each of them were slipping through me to peer into my soul, to scream nonsense at my spiritual self, to rend me from… something… someone.

Then something happened. I… I can’t explain it in terms… I don’t think that you would…

No! Don’t leave…

Wait…
Please listen…

The sounds, those foreign sounds from these… these infernal denizens, grew into a symphony of terror. As the throbbing in my head swelled, the maelstrom of faceless faces began to melt around me. Not like an acid trip, but like the skin coming off of an incinerated man. Everything just began to run together, churning into a cacophony of colorless colors as if Heaven itself were giving you a mangled vision from God. Then, just as suddenly, it all fell away like a jigsaw puzzle being blasted with a shotgun.
I went from Heaven to the Abyss in moments.

Then… the blood.

No! I don’t know whose it was!

I don’t remember anything, I swear! I am here, now, naked and lost, with blood on my hands.

Please, I beg you… let me finish.

I… I think… Oh God I can’t remember. It’s all just… a spiraling blur… I… I don’t… I can’t… Oh the blood! Rivers of it! Everywhere I turned the blood came… rising… after the Abyss I was happy to see color until… I wanted to scream… it just kept rising… the floodgates… all that blood… like these fear-filled tears on my face… the blood never stopped…

The blood never stopped until after the screaming did.

Be Thankful For Your Fucking Kansas, Dorothy

2008-07-01T07:04:00.005-04:00

Wyoming doesn't exist.

There, I said it.

Now, ideally, I'm speaking for myself in this, but bear with me. It's not really there, and I can prove it.

Have you ever been on a highway and seen someone with Wyoming license plates and actually gotten a good look at the passengers? And have you ever seen a drivers' license of someone claiming residence from there? Of course not. The only Wyoming drivers' licenses I've EVER seen have been tacked up behind bars as confiscated fakes.

Have you ever met anyone from Wyoming? Did you have them confirm it with a "valid" license? And do you not realize that said license is an item given by the federal government, and we know how much we can trust them and their benevolence. And people who said they were born there? Lemme see a birth certificate. Wait, those are government issue too.

Some of you may be saying "but wait! I've been there!"

No, you haven't.

You've been on a ranch on the outskirts of Montana. Where you thought you went you didn't go. It was all a lie. You can not provide viable evidence to the contrary.

Airline tickets don't count. The FAA is a government agency. They just land you on a ranch and call it Wyoming. What do you know? The midwest is the midwest. It's all the same.

Any toll booth receipts, tax vouchers, etc... even standing next to the fucking sign that says "Welcome to Wyoming" wouldn't count. All that stuff is funded by who? Right. Exactly.

So, Wyoming, as we know it, does not exist. What's out there? Who "lives" there? That's easy.

The patch(es) of land - for one has to maintain multiple deceits to maintain the concept of "borders" - you may have visited is(are) not "Wyoming". Wyoming, such that it is, is a void unknown to most citizens. Living herein this unkown abyss are two sets of beings: Aliens from outer space and people in the Witness Protection Program.

For what better way to hide certain elements than to group them together in a place no one has any knowledge of.

Mr. Gravano, meet your neighbor Neefblung Amrxasasx. He's from beyond Pluto. Enjoy your stay.

This message brought to you by the Wyoming Tourism Board. Sucker.

I Know Why The Caged Bear Mauls Its Handler

2008-06-26T06:28:00.008-04:00

So, you're probably wondering who this asshole who wrote a Carlin tribute (below) is. That's understandable. And while I personally feel it's no business of yours, whoever the hell you are, I'll indulge you somewhat so as to give you an idea of what to expect in the future.

Hi, I'm David. And I'm a human-racist.

I find that, in all honesty, discrimination takes up way too much of ones time. It makes things require effort, and I'm far too lethargic to care for putting forth effort when it comes to hate. I glean some of this from various influences in my life: my parents and grandparents, Henry Rollins, Bill Hicks, Carlin, Pryor, and various other authors, comedians, and underground pop-culture icons. Hatred is a curious thing; in a sense, I do have a discriminatory slant, as I do indeed hate all morons, idiots, addle-pates, dolts, mongoloids, troglodytes, imbeciles, and neanderthals with a little more effort than the rest of humanity. But how much effort does it really take to hate them a little more? Don't get me wrong, I prefer a good intelligent argument to simply berating someone who claims to have intellect but clearly is delusional... I digress.

I've been cursing up a storm since the third grade, so don't expect things to be anything less than R-Rated. In light of that, note that freedom of speech applies to satire and cynicism alike, and take some of the things here with a grain of salt. If you find that you lack a sense of humor, I wholeheartedly encourage you to leap into the center of an active volcano. Also be warned that there will be times that I will use religion like it's my own personal Tina Turner.

I'm doing this for a number of reasons, and I'll elaborate on them in some form or another as I continue to write this monstrosity.

If you wish to solicit advice from me, feel free to do so. Please be reminded that I'm not responsible for any actions you may or may not take at my behest. You make your own choices in life. It's called free will.

And in light of all this, we'll get more to the point here: I have a lot of great ideas, twisted, convoluted insights, and a few sets of vastly disturbing plans for the cleansing of the human race. The problem is, most of them involve some sort of genocide. And some of them are just plain batshit crazy. Like my ex. And probably your ex too. Anyway...

I admire people of insight, intelligence, and conscience. I'm not talking false morals here either. You have to stand for something. Be above the status quo. Even if it's known to just a few people.

If you feel sorry for some idiot who lost his life because he thought it'd be fun to go pet the big lion in the zoo, well, you're not welcome here. That kind of shit is hilarious.

If you think "Reality TV" is real, or things like "American Idol", "I Survived A Japanese Game Show", or any other show that centers around being a melodramatic moron in the hope.. the hope.. THE HOPE! of getting rich, call me. I'll come over and club you like a baby seal. And while I'm in my car listening to Paranoid by Black Sabbath, or sitting at home watching Scrubs, or actually going out and living my life, you can live vicariously through your ever-shittier programming options while mending broken bones in a sterile hospital room.

Ok, I'm done ranting for now.

So strap on your big-person pants and try not to be horribly disturbed. Remember: You've been warned.

Food for thought:
"That's right. When L.A. falls into the ocean and is flushed away... all it will leave is Arizona Bay." - Hicks

"I root for the big comet. I root for the big asteroid... to make things right." - Carlin

"I''m praying for rain and I'm praying for tidal waves. I wanna see the ground give way. I wanna watch it all go down. Mom please flush it all away. I wanna watch it go right in and down. I wanna watch it go right in. Watch you flush it all away." - Keenan

Remembering a Legend: A George Carlin Retrospective

2008-06-25T13:17:00.003-04:00

A general consensus among Carlin fans is that it's entirely too difficult to put into words the effect his loss has had on us. In the greater sense of what was Carlin, we do him an injustice by not being able to communicate the grave consequences, so personal and yet so far-reaching, of so horrid an event. Carlin himself once stated, in the 40th anniversary special with Jon Stewart: "We think in language. And so the quality of our thoughts and ideas can only be as good as the quality of our language."

Carlin transcended time. He's probably the only comic that did what he did for 40 years and never wound up as a side act in a Vegas strip club. And why? Because he continued to remain relevant, because, up to a point, he cared... in his own twisted way. At least 3 generations have endured the wrath of his humor and wisdom, his wit and cynicism, and his weaving and webbing of the English language. The point is, he touched us all. Unless you didn't like him. In which case, go fuck yourself.

What's more is, he had hope, once. But like Vonnegut and so many others, in their later years they saw no more need for hope. Carlin saw a country that had such potential - both for itself and for the rest of the world - devolve into a baseless cesspool of mind-numbing pointlessness. It is no wonder why Carlin, in an interview with Charlie Rose, said that he was now spectating, watching the human race destroy itself faster and faster. I believe the words were "swirling the drain, and it's too late to stop it." And even if that's a misquote, he'd agree.

But more than this, and much more important, is the way in which Carlin was simply, boldly, and brutally honest. He continued to remind us that the truth is out there, even though it's not always going to be the truth you want or expect. He taught us to think about the world in which we live and realize the absurdity of our culture, our ways of life, and offered us creative insights on the completely idiotic hypocrisies in this world of lies that has been created for us. (For example, if you drink evian bottled water... well, you're... spell it backwards and look it up.)

We lost George Carlin too soon. And right off the heels of Tim Russert. We're losing the last remaining godfathers of a dying breed of people who fight the good fight. So lets fight the good fight. Especially you famous rich people who could do some real good but who will never, ever see this post.

Let's shake the foundations of the system and bring it tumbling down.
Let's remind people of the truth and tell them why the wool over their eyes makes their face itch.
Let's eradicate the booboisie.

Let's do it for George.