Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
The Rise and Fall of Dr. Massive
Hello folks!!!! D to the rOcK hasn't posted to ya'll in quite some time. So I return with a load of bs to entertain you with....(I submit that everyone is closing this browser window right now because I've already told you that it's gonna be bull-esque shit.) In my traditional fashion I will say FUCK IT...I'm gonna Have another FuCkin' SIP...and continue...
Dr. Massive was a very square man who lost sight of the monster he wanted to create. Unfortunately this hero of ours got bogged down in wires and buttons and technicalities that he lost focus of the beast that he so eagerly wanted to bring to life. Many days and nights went by as he slumped in the corner of his laboratory, pleasuring himself and eating Wild Bill beef jerky chew. The days grew dark and dreary, and he began to sincerely belive that his dream could never come to fruition. Then, like a rainbow in the dark (thank you Ronnie James Dio) a creature came to him out of the darkness. We soon learn that this entity is an angel from above...bringing with it a pot full of pasta fagilio. The angel speaks to Dr. Massive..."You must stop gratifying yourself in the sense of masturbatory folley and try my divine pasta fagilio." In complete awe and exhaustion, mainly because of the nonstop extraction of his own loin secretion that day, our good Doctor gave in to this italiano angels request. He reached for the divine bowl of pasta-based food. The spoon gave off a sparkle as he lifted it from thine bowl, and a quick breeze of wind touched the room as he raised the spoon to his lips....
What came upon the good Doctor was inexplainable. A rise of absolute clarity and vision fucked his soul...and it fucked said soul HARD! The pasta-bearing angel said no words, for it knew that its deed was done. A bellowing wind and a thick fog penetrated the air, and in a few brief moments the angel was gone. All that was left...the good Doctor, and that blessed spoon.
EUREKA!!!!!!! shrieked our hero! The spoon fell to the floor. His pants were pulled up to his waist. The 3/4's empty bottle of moisturizer was crushed beneath his new found footing. The good doctor rediscovered his path. The clouds were lifted from his gaze, and a new dawn was before him...he murmered the subtle yet potent phrase..."I am that which I will bring life to."
...And so, the true beast was born. Until next time ladies and gentlemen......
Dr. Massive was a very square man who lost sight of the monster he wanted to create. Unfortunately this hero of ours got bogged down in wires and buttons and technicalities that he lost focus of the beast that he so eagerly wanted to bring to life. Many days and nights went by as he slumped in the corner of his laboratory, pleasuring himself and eating Wild Bill beef jerky chew. The days grew dark and dreary, and he began to sincerely belive that his dream could never come to fruition. Then, like a rainbow in the dark (thank you Ronnie James Dio) a creature came to him out of the darkness. We soon learn that this entity is an angel from above...bringing with it a pot full of pasta fagilio. The angel speaks to Dr. Massive..."You must stop gratifying yourself in the sense of masturbatory folley and try my divine pasta fagilio." In complete awe and exhaustion, mainly because of the nonstop extraction of his own loin secretion that day, our good Doctor gave in to this italiano angels request. He reached for the divine bowl of pasta-based food. The spoon gave off a sparkle as he lifted it from thine bowl, and a quick breeze of wind touched the room as he raised the spoon to his lips....
What came upon the good Doctor was inexplainable. A rise of absolute clarity and vision fucked his soul...and it fucked said soul HARD! The pasta-bearing angel said no words, for it knew that its deed was done. A bellowing wind and a thick fog penetrated the air, and in a few brief moments the angel was gone. All that was left...the good Doctor, and that blessed spoon.
EUREKA!!!!!!! shrieked our hero! The spoon fell to the floor. His pants were pulled up to his waist. The 3/4's empty bottle of moisturizer was crushed beneath his new found footing. The good doctor rediscovered his path. The clouds were lifted from his gaze, and a new dawn was before him...he murmered the subtle yet potent phrase..."I am that which I will bring life to."
...And so, the true beast was born. Until next time ladies and gentlemen......
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Who has two thumbs...
...and just quit his stressful, depressing job in the middle of the
worst economic downturn since 1929?
worst economic downturn since 1929?
This guy.
(You see, I'm now pointing my thumbs at myself. That's what the joke
is.)
Monday, November 9, 2009
Brief update, to be followed by much more
The other day I was at work when one of the new supervisors told me I was needed in the bathroom. "Wonderful," I said into the radio, in my badass imagination. "Does a customer want to defecate into my open mouth? Or does the management?"
It turns out that the little boys' room was out of paper towels and that one of the stalls "wasn't working." My job was to replace the paper towels and discover how, exactly, a small room designed for shitting in can "not work."
First, I found out that the stall was "not working" because someone had locked it from the inside and then somehow left--presumably by crawling under the door. I also discovered that I had no idea how to open the paper towel dispenser. This left me posting an "out of order" sign on the door and standing outside the bathroom with a roll of paper towels in my hand.
A young girl approaches me. She needed help finding something, and decided to ask me the following question: "Do you work for the books, or do you just work for the toilets?"
Let me just restate this. I work at a job in which a situation arose that prompted a small child--the universal harbingers of innocent truth-telling--to ask me if I worked for the toilets. A child asked me if I labor on behalf of, and in service of, inanimate objects that function only as poo receptacles. Apparently, in this little girl's eyes, the shitters are, collectively, my boss.
And my response? I merely sighed and told her that I work for both the books and the toilets, and that I couldn't help her at that moment. I sent her off to find someone else.
Anyway, I have a couple posts in the Tubes. The next one is a long one, several weeks in the making: The Food Monster Final Tour. That's right, more of my friend committing dangerous acts of shameless gluttony for our amusement! Take that, TV ads of starving, near-homeless brown children!
It turns out that the little boys' room was out of paper towels and that one of the stalls "wasn't working." My job was to replace the paper towels and discover how, exactly, a small room designed for shitting in can "not work."
First, I found out that the stall was "not working" because someone had locked it from the inside and then somehow left--presumably by crawling under the door. I also discovered that I had no idea how to open the paper towel dispenser. This left me posting an "out of order" sign on the door and standing outside the bathroom with a roll of paper towels in my hand.
A young girl approaches me. She needed help finding something, and decided to ask me the following question: "Do you work for the books, or do you just work for the toilets?"
Let me just restate this. I work at a job in which a situation arose that prompted a small child--the universal harbingers of innocent truth-telling--to ask me if I worked for the toilets. A child asked me if I labor on behalf of, and in service of, inanimate objects that function only as poo receptacles. Apparently, in this little girl's eyes, the shitters are, collectively, my boss.
And my response? I merely sighed and told her that I work for both the books and the toilets, and that I couldn't help her at that moment. I sent her off to find someone else.
Anyway, I have a couple posts in the Tubes. The next one is a long one, several weeks in the making: The Food Monster Final Tour. That's right, more of my friend committing dangerous acts of shameless gluttony for our amusement! Take that, TV ads of starving, near-homeless brown children!
Friday, October 30, 2009
Canada Jackson's Doctoral Challenge 2: This Time It's Personal
I've recently resumed the downward spiral of self-flagellation and misery that is applying to doctoral programs in philosophy. Hopefully I will detail my adventures in this mire of Lovecraftian terror better than I did last time AND MORE IMPORTANTLY MAYBE THIS TIME I WILL BE SUCCESSFUL.
I am currently struggling with the various essays I have to write. First I need a writing sample. Last time I used my senior thesis from the Honors program at the University of Scranton. Somehow this seventy page pile of sparsely cited thirteen-point-font madness, written in the space of twelve hours four days after it was due, did not manage to impress upon anyone that I can tie my shoes without pissing myself, let alone communicate complex thoughts coherently. "The Death of Democracy," it's called, and it's horrifyingly available at the Weinberg Memorial Library here in Scranton. My thesis, as I recall, is that I am a retarded person who should be put in government care--or, at the very least, have someone with me at all times to slap things out of my hands that I am slowly putting in my mouth.
So, new writing sample, written whole-cloth and hopefully not the worst thing that has ever happened to anyone, ever. My topic ideas:
1. Technology!, or: Why Heidegger and Marx Can Suck On It ("It" Being My Penis)
2. Plato's Republic vs. The Constitution of the United States, or: Plato Was a Dickhead, USA! USA! USA!
I'm leaning more towards the second one, as everyone knows that Plato was a dickhead, but not everyone knows that Heidegger and Marx should suck my dick.
They will, however. They will.
Furthermore, there are these strange little things I have to write up that are called "Personal Statements," "Statement of Purpose," "Statement of Intent," "Academic Statement," &c. As far as I can cobble together these are all the same things...unless one institution requires two of those things. Apparently some schools ask that I explain the following:
1. Why I want to study philosophy. (Money, power, women.)
2. Why I want to study philosophy at their particular school. (I don't. I want to go to the place that will give me the most money. If you are not that place, then I don't want to go to you.)
3. What makes me so god-damn special. (According to my family and friends: my incredible ability to embarrass myself in front of large groups of people I respect. According to my professors: my ability to find new and interesting ways to avoid any cognitive functioning above that required for respiration and, on my best days, wearing clothes. According to me: one time in Halo I killed my friend Annie with a rocket that I fired from the other side of the map. Yeah, Cornell. I know you want me.)
I think I might just write "I am a winner and sex machine." and see how far that gets me. I think honest-to-god philosophers would have a lot of fun with that one. What does me mean by "a winner"? Does that mean that he has won things in the past or simply has the potential to win things in the future? And what things? Grocery store sweepstakes? Carnival prizes? The affection of the masses? Why is his status (possibly--nay, probably--self-proclaimed) as a sex machine relevant? Is his proclamation positive or negative--a deconstruction of the modern feminist idea of a "sex object"? Can a man be a sex machine?
Clearly, I can. Just look at the airbrushing on my van, bitches. Plus I think it would be cool to have people ask "Doctor, why did you offer Mr. Jackson a position as a graduate student here?" And the answer be, simply, "Oh, he's a winner and a sex machine."
Now if only SQR could mass-produce an "I AM A WINNER AND A SEX MACHINE" t shirt.
Anyway, I'll keep you idiots updated on my quest to further debase myself in a manner second only to walking around downtown Scranton wearing a beautifully hand-written sandwich-board sign saying, "I shat my pants."
I am currently struggling with the various essays I have to write. First I need a writing sample. Last time I used my senior thesis from the Honors program at the University of Scranton. Somehow this seventy page pile of sparsely cited thirteen-point-font madness, written in the space of twelve hours four days after it was due, did not manage to impress upon anyone that I can tie my shoes without pissing myself, let alone communicate complex thoughts coherently. "The Death of Democracy," it's called, and it's horrifyingly available at the Weinberg Memorial Library here in Scranton. My thesis, as I recall, is that I am a retarded person who should be put in government care--or, at the very least, have someone with me at all times to slap things out of my hands that I am slowly putting in my mouth.
So, new writing sample, written whole-cloth and hopefully not the worst thing that has ever happened to anyone, ever. My topic ideas:
1. Technology!, or: Why Heidegger and Marx Can Suck On It ("It" Being My Penis)
2. Plato's Republic vs. The Constitution of the United States, or: Plato Was a Dickhead, USA! USA! USA!
I'm leaning more towards the second one, as everyone knows that Plato was a dickhead, but not everyone knows that Heidegger and Marx should suck my dick.
They will, however. They will.
Furthermore, there are these strange little things I have to write up that are called "Personal Statements," "Statement of Purpose," "Statement of Intent," "Academic Statement," &c. As far as I can cobble together these are all the same things...unless one institution requires two of those things. Apparently some schools ask that I explain the following:
1. Why I want to study philosophy. (Money, power, women.)
2. Why I want to study philosophy at their particular school. (I don't. I want to go to the place that will give me the most money. If you are not that place, then I don't want to go to you.)
3. What makes me so god-damn special. (According to my family and friends: my incredible ability to embarrass myself in front of large groups of people I respect. According to my professors: my ability to find new and interesting ways to avoid any cognitive functioning above that required for respiration and, on my best days, wearing clothes. According to me: one time in Halo I killed my friend Annie with a rocket that I fired from the other side of the map. Yeah, Cornell. I know you want me.)
I think I might just write "I am a winner and sex machine." and see how far that gets me. I think honest-to-god philosophers would have a lot of fun with that one. What does me mean by "a winner"? Does that mean that he has won things in the past or simply has the potential to win things in the future? And what things? Grocery store sweepstakes? Carnival prizes? The affection of the masses? Why is his status (possibly--nay, probably--self-proclaimed) as a sex machine relevant? Is his proclamation positive or negative--a deconstruction of the modern feminist idea of a "sex object"? Can a man be a sex machine?
Clearly, I can. Just look at the airbrushing on my van, bitches. Plus I think it would be cool to have people ask "Doctor, why did you offer Mr. Jackson a position as a graduate student here?" And the answer be, simply, "Oh, he's a winner and a sex machine."
Now if only SQR could mass-produce an "I AM A WINNER AND A SEX MACHINE" t shirt.
Anyway, I'll keep you idiots updated on my quest to further debase myself in a manner second only to walking around downtown Scranton wearing a beautifully hand-written sandwich-board sign saying, "I shat my pants."
Thursday, October 29, 2009
My Summer Vacation by Canada Jackson
Gentlemen! Pack your tobacco and clean your sidearms for I have returned.
(I would have said "Ladies and gentlemen," were it not for the common knowledge that women are not allowed to use the Intranets.)
I have not found time to bore you with embarrassing episodes of my miserable existence recently because of my increased duties as the weeping dwarf that the universe--like a mad medieval king intoxicated with feudal power, brain ravaged with a timely combination of syphilis and questionable grog--forces to dance in its dining hall, the only thing approaching recompense being the occasional chicken bone chucked halfheartedly at my head.
Ah, Jackson, you readers may say, if you're not viciously attacking random passersby with ad hominem like a hipsterish ancient mariner, you're bemoaning the existential despair of your comfortable, middle-class existence. It's the only game in town, says I.
Recently [Demarcations] hired six new bright-eyed and enthusiastic no-names as grist for the all-hungry soul mill that is their book selling operation. I felt nothing but pity when I saw them in the back room, eagerly absorbing their training. You poor, feckless motherfuckers, I thought. No training on this world can prepare you for discovering a naked, homeless man bathing himself from the toilet bowl in the public restroom. You will never be prepared to have a man--angry about not being allowed to cut the long register line--throw a book at you. But you will most certainly be familiar with being supervised by hill-folk whose knowledge of the product they're selling--literature--is taken up entirely by the crudest of facsimiles--pornography and Glenn Beck.
These delightful young pups are starting off at the registers, as I once did a little more than a year ago. What I was thrilled to discover, however, is that they are somehow getting paid fifty cents more than me. From day one. So, for the slower folks at home: new people, less responsibilities, less knowledge, less experience...more money. I, instead of starting a fire in the stockroom and spelling out "I quit" in urine on the carpet, discussed this discrepancy with the general manager. He was shocked by this difference in pay and said he would try and do something about it.
Apparently "something" is cutting my hours to one day a week. My last paycheck was fifty four dollars. I think I am going to work on my urine calligraphy. Either that or pimp this pitiful blog out in some fashion as to get an insane billionaire to finance the publication of a book--which, due to my brain's inability to (medically speaking) do anything will never actually see the light of day. And I highly doubt there is an audience out there for pompous, obscene rambling on the subject of everyday annoyances peppered with misused, misspelled ten-dollar words. Hurr hurr, beer, farts.
Speaking of not doing things, my good friend in New York City keeps harassing me to update this blog, citing the fact that she knows people who actually read it. Poppycock! It occurs to me, though, that if I mention her in this blog that I must come up with a handle for her, ala RJP4 and Mr. Midnight a.k.a the Food Monster. I find myself unable to do anything with her name, save the fact that her first name is more Irish than drunken morning premarital sex in a sheep pasture with a fiery barmaid named Moira, and her last name is more Jewish than complaining simultaneously about the air conditioning being too high and the soup temperature being too low in a deli in Manhattan. I expect a text message from her any minute ending our friendship. I'm just saying that if you need both a pub and a pyramid built in the same afternoon that I might know someone. Hi-o! Stereotypes.
Anyway, what I'm saying is that I'll try more to keep this damn albatross better fed. I know I say this with almost every post. But this time I might mean it. But probably not. Although now I do have tons of free time and no money to do anything else...
Maybe I'll passive-aggressively turn my posts into a more typical kind of blog in which I detail the horror of my daily activities. For example: "I wake up at eight o'clock sharp and then nap until around 11, when I am awoken by my stocky, homosexual pet cat's effort grunts as he climbs onto my bed. At this point I waste fourteen hours watching youtube videos of animals walking into things. My girlfriend sends me a text: 'What are you doing?' and I respond 'Working on grad school applications.' I eat several doughnuts and lose consciousness in my own filth--but not before a quarter-turn in order to prevent bed sores."
Is this really what you want, America?
(I would have said "Ladies and gentlemen," were it not for the common knowledge that women are not allowed to use the Intranets.)
I have not found time to bore you with embarrassing episodes of my miserable existence recently because of my increased duties as the weeping dwarf that the universe--like a mad medieval king intoxicated with feudal power, brain ravaged with a timely combination of syphilis and questionable grog--forces to dance in its dining hall, the only thing approaching recompense being the occasional chicken bone chucked halfheartedly at my head.
Ah, Jackson, you readers may say, if you're not viciously attacking random passersby with ad hominem like a hipsterish ancient mariner, you're bemoaning the existential despair of your comfortable, middle-class existence. It's the only game in town, says I.
Recently [Demarcations] hired six new bright-eyed and enthusiastic no-names as grist for the all-hungry soul mill that is their book selling operation. I felt nothing but pity when I saw them in the back room, eagerly absorbing their training. You poor, feckless motherfuckers, I thought. No training on this world can prepare you for discovering a naked, homeless man bathing himself from the toilet bowl in the public restroom. You will never be prepared to have a man--angry about not being allowed to cut the long register line--throw a book at you. But you will most certainly be familiar with being supervised by hill-folk whose knowledge of the product they're selling--literature--is taken up entirely by the crudest of facsimiles--pornography and Glenn Beck.
These delightful young pups are starting off at the registers, as I once did a little more than a year ago. What I was thrilled to discover, however, is that they are somehow getting paid fifty cents more than me. From day one. So, for the slower folks at home: new people, less responsibilities, less knowledge, less experience...more money. I, instead of starting a fire in the stockroom and spelling out "I quit" in urine on the carpet, discussed this discrepancy with the general manager. He was shocked by this difference in pay and said he would try and do something about it.
Apparently "something" is cutting my hours to one day a week. My last paycheck was fifty four dollars. I think I am going to work on my urine calligraphy. Either that or pimp this pitiful blog out in some fashion as to get an insane billionaire to finance the publication of a book--which, due to my brain's inability to (medically speaking) do anything will never actually see the light of day. And I highly doubt there is an audience out there for pompous, obscene rambling on the subject of everyday annoyances peppered with misused, misspelled ten-dollar words. Hurr hurr, beer, farts.
Speaking of not doing things, my good friend in New York City keeps harassing me to update this blog, citing the fact that she knows people who actually read it. Poppycock! It occurs to me, though, that if I mention her in this blog that I must come up with a handle for her, ala RJP4 and Mr. Midnight a.k.a the Food Monster. I find myself unable to do anything with her name, save the fact that her first name is more Irish than drunken morning premarital sex in a sheep pasture with a fiery barmaid named Moira, and her last name is more Jewish than complaining simultaneously about the air conditioning being too high and the soup temperature being too low in a deli in Manhattan. I expect a text message from her any minute ending our friendship. I'm just saying that if you need both a pub and a pyramid built in the same afternoon that I might know someone. Hi-o! Stereotypes.
Anyway, what I'm saying is that I'll try more to keep this damn albatross better fed. I know I say this with almost every post. But this time I might mean it. But probably not. Although now I do have tons of free time and no money to do anything else...
Maybe I'll passive-aggressively turn my posts into a more typical kind of blog in which I detail the horror of my daily activities. For example: "I wake up at eight o'clock sharp and then nap until around 11, when I am awoken by my stocky, homosexual pet cat's effort grunts as he climbs onto my bed. At this point I waste fourteen hours watching youtube videos of animals walking into things. My girlfriend sends me a text: 'What are you doing?' and I respond 'Working on grad school applications.' I eat several doughnuts and lose consciousness in my own filth--but not before a quarter-turn in order to prevent bed sores."
Is this really what you want, America?
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
America's Future, Today!
Hey, remember when I used to post funny quotes from my adventures teaching elementary school? Well, I'm doing that again. So lets get to it.
The first quote comes from L. L, is a runt of a child. He's in third grade, but is the size of a first grader with the grading voice of a life time smoker. L routinely puts me into fits of laughter with the bizarre and perfectly childish things he says.
This past week I had burned myself while using the oven in my kitchen, the burn is rather large and pretty gross looking. I decided to take advantage of my disfigurement and try and gross out some kids. I walked up to L in after care and sat down with him and several other girls and boys. I then asked L if he wanted to see something gross. Being a 9 year-old boy he readily agreed. I pulled up my sleeve and showed him my burn, all the other children let out a delightful "Eeeww..." but L was not phased.
"You think that's gross! my sister mooned me with no underwear so now I know where girls pee from!"
The first quote comes from L. L, is a runt of a child. He's in third grade, but is the size of a first grader with the grading voice of a life time smoker. L routinely puts me into fits of laughter with the bizarre and perfectly childish things he says.
This past week I had burned myself while using the oven in my kitchen, the burn is rather large and pretty gross looking. I decided to take advantage of my disfigurement and try and gross out some kids. I walked up to L in after care and sat down with him and several other girls and boys. I then asked L if he wanted to see something gross. Being a 9 year-old boy he readily agreed. I pulled up my sleeve and showed him my burn, all the other children let out a delightful "Eeeww..." but L was not phased.
"You think that's gross! my sister mooned me with no underwear so now I know where girls pee from!"
Monday, August 31, 2009
Harry Potter: A retospective
When the Harry Potter craze started over a decade ago (yeah...a decade) I didn't completely buy into it the world J.K. Rowling had created. I read the first two books and my thoughts on the books could be compressed down to simply "meh..." I gave up reading the books for a few years and it was only after considerable harassment by my peers that I started reading them again. "Goblet of Fire," was the one that got me hooked and sped through the books like I might find answer to universe on the next page. I had completely bought the world that J.K. Rowling had created hook, line and sinker. She could have made Harry into a Cyborg from the future and I wouldn't have batted an eye. Finishing the series to me was as rough as a junkie running out of heroine. I totally went through withdrawal and even found myself rereading certain books trying to recreate the excitement I felt the first time. Going cold turkey with Harry Potter isn't easy. There were times when I'd stay up late and hope that I'd still get my letter for Hogwarts. I'll admit it, I took the facebook quizzes, "Which Hogwarts house would you be in?" and "Which Harry Potter Character are you?" Late at night I'd wish I had my own wand or pretend to make up plays for my all-star Quiditch team. Harry as the Seeks, Wood as Keeper, Ginny as a Chaser. We were sure to beat Slytherin with a team like that!
Night sweats and dry heaving followed for months, but I eventually broke free. Now that I've freed my soul from the clutches of Potter, I've been able to look back on the Harry Potter universe and make some observation. I think the first one that struck me is the completely ignored fact that everyone is doing it at Hogwarts. Harry did Ginny, Ron did Lavender Brown and probably Hermione (that dog). Until I heard that Dumbledore was gay I was convinced he was boning Mcgonagall on the side. Imagine the debauchery that flowed through Hogwarts halls at night. All those spells and potions and shit. I bet you could have heard the "Enlargo" spell being muttered hundreds of times every night with a simple flick and swish. The room of requirements was most definitely a hot bed of illicit activities. Need a room that will provide hours of privacy? Done. Need a room that will have every ungodly device someone could desire? Done. All those portraits would undoubtedly know and probably see what was going on. I would not want that fat lady asking me for the password when it was clear that the girl next to me smashed on butter beer was not coming over to study. The mornings after must have been a sight too, waking up next to some chick or dude who had slipped you a love potion (Isn't a love potion the same thing as a roofie?). You can also bet a fist full of galleons that there was a Plan-B spell that was always floating around Hogwarts?
Second, can you imagine how hard is would be to heat and cool a place like Hogwarts? An old drafty castle like that? Jesus Christ, the amount of coal and wood they go through. I bet there isn't a single bit of insulation and not one double paned window in that whole place. The carbon footprint of Hogwarts must be astronomical. Hell, its not us muggles causing global warming its those less than eco-conscious wizards messing everything up. I'm driving around in a fucking hybrid and using those shitty ass compact florescent bulbs because some idiot wizard is burning coal like there is no tomorrow. Hey Hogwarts, thanks for melting the ice caps and killing polar bears.
Why did Voldemort always decide to start shit around finals? Am I to believe that he sat around all year and then absent-mindedly glanced at the calendar to realize it was May and say aloud, "Oh crap. Finals are starting, better start fucking with Harry and the gang." Come on Voldemort, hatching evil plans to rule the world is not a seasonal activity, you need your game face on all the time. Plus did Harry ever actually take any finals? I think every single time finals rolled around he was out solving some mystery or nearly getting killed. I should have done that in college, get into a near death situation that results with me in the hospital conveniently during finals. I would just cook up some crazy story about what happened and make myself sound heroic.
Harry Potter was way emo. "My parents were killed...my forehead hurts." Shut the hell up Harry, no one likes a whinny bitch.
Where wizards living in America ever mentioned? Is it because Mrs. Rowling has some pro-Anglo agenda she is pushing? Probably not. It's more likely that wizards in America are way cooler. They're too busy riding around on flying jet skis and manipulating the stock market to deal with the trivial concerns of lame wizards in England.
Yeah, Harry Potter might just be a book, but I like to critically analyze things that are made up. Why? I dunno...I just feel like it. I've written J.K. about my concerns regarding the Harry Potter universe, but she has yet to get back to me. She is probably shitting her pants because I saw all the gaping holes and now she doesn't know how to feel. Personally I think her sending me a millions dollars would make her feel better.
Night sweats and dry heaving followed for months, but I eventually broke free. Now that I've freed my soul from the clutches of Potter, I've been able to look back on the Harry Potter universe and make some observation. I think the first one that struck me is the completely ignored fact that everyone is doing it at Hogwarts. Harry did Ginny, Ron did Lavender Brown and probably Hermione (that dog). Until I heard that Dumbledore was gay I was convinced he was boning Mcgonagall on the side. Imagine the debauchery that flowed through Hogwarts halls at night. All those spells and potions and shit. I bet you could have heard the "Enlargo" spell being muttered hundreds of times every night with a simple flick and swish. The room of requirements was most definitely a hot bed of illicit activities. Need a room that will provide hours of privacy? Done. Need a room that will have every ungodly device someone could desire? Done. All those portraits would undoubtedly know and probably see what was going on. I would not want that fat lady asking me for the password when it was clear that the girl next to me smashed on butter beer was not coming over to study. The mornings after must have been a sight too, waking up next to some chick or dude who had slipped you a love potion (Isn't a love potion the same thing as a roofie?). You can also bet a fist full of galleons that there was a Plan-B spell that was always floating around Hogwarts?
Second, can you imagine how hard is would be to heat and cool a place like Hogwarts? An old drafty castle like that? Jesus Christ, the amount of coal and wood they go through. I bet there isn't a single bit of insulation and not one double paned window in that whole place. The carbon footprint of Hogwarts must be astronomical. Hell, its not us muggles causing global warming its those less than eco-conscious wizards messing everything up. I'm driving around in a fucking hybrid and using those shitty ass compact florescent bulbs because some idiot wizard is burning coal like there is no tomorrow. Hey Hogwarts, thanks for melting the ice caps and killing polar bears.
Why did Voldemort always decide to start shit around finals? Am I to believe that he sat around all year and then absent-mindedly glanced at the calendar to realize it was May and say aloud, "Oh crap. Finals are starting, better start fucking with Harry and the gang." Come on Voldemort, hatching evil plans to rule the world is not a seasonal activity, you need your game face on all the time. Plus did Harry ever actually take any finals? I think every single time finals rolled around he was out solving some mystery or nearly getting killed. I should have done that in college, get into a near death situation that results with me in the hospital conveniently during finals. I would just cook up some crazy story about what happened and make myself sound heroic.
Harry Potter was way emo. "My parents were killed...my forehead hurts." Shut the hell up Harry, no one likes a whinny bitch.
Where wizards living in America ever mentioned? Is it because Mrs. Rowling has some pro-Anglo agenda she is pushing? Probably not. It's more likely that wizards in America are way cooler. They're too busy riding around on flying jet skis and manipulating the stock market to deal with the trivial concerns of lame wizards in England.
Yeah, Harry Potter might just be a book, but I like to critically analyze things that are made up. Why? I dunno...I just feel like it. I've written J.K. about my concerns regarding the Harry Potter universe, but she has yet to get back to me. She is probably shitting her pants because I saw all the gaping holes and now she doesn't know how to feel. Personally I think her sending me a millions dollars would make her feel better.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Food Monster
A few days ago I spent the afternoon in the company of an old friend, Mr. Matthew "Midnight" Serverster. He has recently moved back to Scranton after a stint of substitute teaching in Delaware. He's a good man and will make some lucky fella an excellent wife some day if he manages to get his rampant body hair problem under control. (You see, the joke is that I implied that Mr. Midnight is a homosexual--and it's funny because homosexuality is morally wrong and socially unacceptable).
There are many interesting things about Mr. Midnight besides his uncontrollable man-loving and his thick matte of ape-like, full-body bristle. For instance, he is well known amongst our group of friends for being an impressive eater of foodstuffs. "An 'impressive eater?'" you may ask, "What does that mean and why might that be even remotely interesting?"
Well, first off, fuck you says I. Mr. Midnight's eating ability is truly incredible--incredible in the proper sense of unbeleivable, in that you can witness him eat something and literally be unable to process what you have witnessed. Mr. Midnight's eating ability is not just limited to quantity of food ingested, but also the food itself. He can, and does, eat things that would cause decent, church-going cardiologists to rip off their doctoring hats and stomp on them in impotent rage.
It should not be inferred that Mr. Midnight is unhealthy or morbidly obese or any such thing. It is simply that, on occasion, he seems to get considerable amusement from eating the most disgusting things possible in front of horrified villagers and making them lose their faith in God, reason, and basic laws of physics. It is because of these unholy proclivities that he has earned the title of "Food Monster."
One of the tales surrounding Mr. Midnight's obscene abilities is that he has--on more than one occasion--consumed something called a quad stacker from Burger King. A quad stacker is a hamburger that has four beef patties, four slices of something similar to cheese, topped off with bacon and what might be thousand island dressing. I ate three quarters of a double stacker once and for the rest of the night my stomach felt like it was trying to forcibly secede from my body. But, as if to prove something I never asked him to prove and never would, Mr. Midnight decided to show me that these legends of him eating a quad stacker were true.
The quad stacker is not even on the god damn menu anymore. That's how terrible this thing is. He had to order off-menu to get it. It felt like we were not only doing something biologically wrong but also morally and legally wrong.
Watching Mr. Midnight eat at least for years of his life away without struggle or difficulty is something that will stay with me for some time. By the time he effortlessly popped the last bit of burger into his mouth I realized that I had only eaten half of my pitiful chicken sandwich and no longer desired to finish it or any other kind of food for some time. But Mr. Midnight simply smiled and asked if he could finish my fries. I stared at him in astonishment. He just kept smiling at me like a retard who has just killed a small animal and doesn't understand the horror of the situation.
"I'm going to shit my pants," he said, finally--still beaming with delight.
"There's a bathroom ten feet from us," I replied.
"It's not close enough. I'm going to shit my pants. We need to leave."
"I don't want you in my car if you're going to shit your pants."
"Then I'll just have to walk home."
In the end he didn't have to walk home, nor did he shit his pants. After leaving burger king we went to Target. We were standing in the electronics section talking about Bioshock or something when he cut himself off mid-sentence to declare, "Oh God. I have to go." He then walked very quickly to the unisex bathroom.
An uncomfortably long time after this he returned, smiling again, only to declare, "That was actually pretty painful. A woman walked in after me and I actually heard her say 'Good Lord!.'"
This was my day, ladies and gentleman. This is a day in Scranton. Long live the Food Monster.
There are many interesting things about Mr. Midnight besides his uncontrollable man-loving and his thick matte of ape-like, full-body bristle. For instance, he is well known amongst our group of friends for being an impressive eater of foodstuffs. "An 'impressive eater?'" you may ask, "What does that mean and why might that be even remotely interesting?"
Well, first off, fuck you says I. Mr. Midnight's eating ability is truly incredible--incredible in the proper sense of unbeleivable, in that you can witness him eat something and literally be unable to process what you have witnessed. Mr. Midnight's eating ability is not just limited to quantity of food ingested, but also the food itself. He can, and does, eat things that would cause decent, church-going cardiologists to rip off their doctoring hats and stomp on them in impotent rage.
It should not be inferred that Mr. Midnight is unhealthy or morbidly obese or any such thing. It is simply that, on occasion, he seems to get considerable amusement from eating the most disgusting things possible in front of horrified villagers and making them lose their faith in God, reason, and basic laws of physics. It is because of these unholy proclivities that he has earned the title of "Food Monster."
One of the tales surrounding Mr. Midnight's obscene abilities is that he has--on more than one occasion--consumed something called a quad stacker from Burger King. A quad stacker is a hamburger that has four beef patties, four slices of something similar to cheese, topped off with bacon and what might be thousand island dressing. I ate three quarters of a double stacker once and for the rest of the night my stomach felt like it was trying to forcibly secede from my body. But, as if to prove something I never asked him to prove and never would, Mr. Midnight decided to show me that these legends of him eating a quad stacker were true.
The quad stacker is not even on the god damn menu anymore. That's how terrible this thing is. He had to order off-menu to get it. It felt like we were not only doing something biologically wrong but also morally and legally wrong.
Watching Mr. Midnight eat at least for years of his life away without struggle or difficulty is something that will stay with me for some time. By the time he effortlessly popped the last bit of burger into his mouth I realized that I had only eaten half of my pitiful chicken sandwich and no longer desired to finish it or any other kind of food for some time. But Mr. Midnight simply smiled and asked if he could finish my fries. I stared at him in astonishment. He just kept smiling at me like a retard who has just killed a small animal and doesn't understand the horror of the situation.
"I'm going to shit my pants," he said, finally--still beaming with delight.
"There's a bathroom ten feet from us," I replied.
"It's not close enough. I'm going to shit my pants. We need to leave."
"I don't want you in my car if you're going to shit your pants."
"Then I'll just have to walk home."
In the end he didn't have to walk home, nor did he shit his pants. After leaving burger king we went to Target. We were standing in the electronics section talking about Bioshock or something when he cut himself off mid-sentence to declare, "Oh God. I have to go." He then walked very quickly to the unisex bathroom.
An uncomfortably long time after this he returned, smiling again, only to declare, "That was actually pretty painful. A woman walked in after me and I actually heard her say 'Good Lord!.'"
This was my day, ladies and gentleman. This is a day in Scranton. Long live the Food Monster.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Burned. No pun intended.
The after school program I worked for this past year was one where I found myself dealing with children peeing in bottles and fighting over rocks. Still I had a good time and got to spend time with children who possessed excellent senses of humor. Z, was one of those children.
My usual afternoon routine at Kids Club was one of settling arguments in two square, finding someone's lost gold bouncy ball and distributing snack to a pack of ravenous children with poor table manners. As the day drew to an end I generally found myself playing some relaxing game with the few remaining kids, on this day I was playing Uno with Z when the topic of "boyfriends" and "girlfriends" came up. Feeling the need to probe and "josh" with Z I asked her about having a "boyfriend."
Me: "So...Z, do you have a boyfriend?"
Z: (smirking and fiddling with her cards) "Yes."
Me: "Really? Does he go to this school? What is his name?"
Z: "His name is D, and he's in fourth grade."
Me: "Well...does he go to this school? Do I know him?"
Z: "No, he's from a few towns over. We went to kindergarten together."
Me: "Wow. A long distance relationship. Must be tough, do you hang out a lot?"
Z: "I haven't seen him in three years."
Me: "What! Z! How can you date someone you haven't seen in three years! For all you know he is hideously burned!"
Z: "So he looks like you?"
Zing! I had nothing to respond to Z with, so I did the only thing I could. I gave her a high five.
My usual afternoon routine at Kids Club was one of settling arguments in two square, finding someone's lost gold bouncy ball and distributing snack to a pack of ravenous children with poor table manners. As the day drew to an end I generally found myself playing some relaxing game with the few remaining kids, on this day I was playing Uno with Z when the topic of "boyfriends" and "girlfriends" came up. Feeling the need to probe and "josh" with Z I asked her about having a "boyfriend."
Me: "So...Z, do you have a boyfriend?"
Z: (smirking and fiddling with her cards) "Yes."
Me: "Really? Does he go to this school? What is his name?"
Z: "His name is D, and he's in fourth grade."
Me: "Well...does he go to this school? Do I know him?"
Z: "No, he's from a few towns over. We went to kindergarten together."
Me: "Wow. A long distance relationship. Must be tough, do you hang out a lot?"
Z: "I haven't seen him in three years."
Me: "What! Z! How can you date someone you haven't seen in three years! For all you know he is hideously burned!"
Z: "So he looks like you?"
Zing! I had nothing to respond to Z with, so I did the only thing I could. I gave her a high five.
Friday, July 31, 2009
How long until I update again?
Well, just like when dad returns after two years when he told everyone he was "only going out to buy the paper," I'm back and you don't know what to think. Is this just a quick run down memory lane? Is dad tired of his new family and wants to reconnect?
The answer to both those questions is, "no."
First, dad doesn't love you again, his new family is much better. He's just seeing if he can sucker some money out of you. Second, I am back with stories galore.
I spent this past July working at a camp designed to help inner city children gain interest in a variety of topics ranging from science to leadership. I was lucky enough to teach science. I love science and prior to camp starting looked forward to it with great enthusiasm. As the first day of camp grew closer my enthusiasm dwindled down to dread.
In the next few days, I'll post a few of the stories from camp so that they may be immortalized in the internet.
The answer to both those questions is, "no."
First, dad doesn't love you again, his new family is much better. He's just seeing if he can sucker some money out of you. Second, I am back with stories galore.
I spent this past July working at a camp designed to help inner city children gain interest in a variety of topics ranging from science to leadership. I was lucky enough to teach science. I love science and prior to camp starting looked forward to it with great enthusiasm. As the first day of camp grew closer my enthusiasm dwindled down to dread.
In the next few days, I'll post a few of the stories from camp so that they may be immortalized in the internet.
Monday, July 20, 2009
The things that pass the time
One of the things that I sometimes do at work to pass the time is to create rewards cards for increasingly obscure literary characters. Being a simple man, I find nearly infinite amusement in looking up a phone number and seeing my little dummy accounts. Unfortunately we have, within the past few days, stopped using the method by which I was able to create these accounts. I guess I can find other ways to vent my frustration and animosity towards the workplace. Perhaps by the tried and true method of mysterious fires.
Every once in a while I witness something that temporarily breaks my mind. A few days ago I saw a considerably overweight 20-something woman with a sandwich tattoo on her back. I was more or less stuck on this phenomenon for the rest of the week. A slew of scenarios and explanations were constructed:
1) She wanted a tattoo of something meaningful--something she genuinely loved. She's fat, so she loves sandwiches.
2) She has a sense of humor. Which is nice. But what if she loses all that weight? Then she's just a girl with a big sandwich tattooed on her back. I guess it could serve as a conversation piece:
"Why do you have a sandwich tattooed on your back?"
"I used to be fat."
"Oh."
3) She went to the tattoo parlor and requested something typical--like a fairy or a couple of arbitrary Chinese characters. Instead, the tattooist (presumably drunk) tattooed a sandwich because she's fat and he thought it would be funny. After all, it's on her back--how would she ever see it? This would mean that her friends would be well aware of her sandwich tattoo and decided to tell her that it was indeed a pretty little fairy or a fascinating display of cultural awareness that made her seem in line with the Mysterious Orient.
4) She was with a very skinny gentleman. This is kind of a cliche--the overweight girl with the scrawny, nerdy looking guy. I mean it's straight out of every movie that was ever made between 1980 and 1994. Perhaps this skinny gentleman has a fascination with the more corpulent of lady-folk, and perhaps the sandwich tattoo was a fetishistic request on his part.
5) And finally, after I had exhausted any other options: the scrawny guy wanted to gain weight so he asked her to get a sandwich tattoo so that every time he porked her he would get hungry. Ta-dah!
Every once in a while I witness something that temporarily breaks my mind. A few days ago I saw a considerably overweight 20-something woman with a sandwich tattoo on her back. I was more or less stuck on this phenomenon for the rest of the week. A slew of scenarios and explanations were constructed:
1) She wanted a tattoo of something meaningful--something she genuinely loved. She's fat, so she loves sandwiches.
2) She has a sense of humor. Which is nice. But what if she loses all that weight? Then she's just a girl with a big sandwich tattooed on her back. I guess it could serve as a conversation piece:
"Why do you have a sandwich tattooed on your back?"
"I used to be fat."
"Oh."
3) She went to the tattoo parlor and requested something typical--like a fairy or a couple of arbitrary Chinese characters. Instead, the tattooist (presumably drunk) tattooed a sandwich because she's fat and he thought it would be funny. After all, it's on her back--how would she ever see it? This would mean that her friends would be well aware of her sandwich tattoo and decided to tell her that it was indeed a pretty little fairy or a fascinating display of cultural awareness that made her seem in line with the Mysterious Orient.
4) She was with a very skinny gentleman. This is kind of a cliche--the overweight girl with the scrawny, nerdy looking guy. I mean it's straight out of every movie that was ever made between 1980 and 1994. Perhaps this skinny gentleman has a fascination with the more corpulent of lady-folk, and perhaps the sandwich tattoo was a fetishistic request on his part.
5) And finally, after I had exhausted any other options: the scrawny guy wanted to gain weight so he asked her to get a sandwich tattoo so that every time he porked her he would get hungry. Ta-dah!
Under Google Image Search for "fat sandwich tattoo."
Clearly I need to speak with a professional. And yes that last one was directly for the cheap seats. They're my bread and butter.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Ok, ok, here's some crappy crap I threw together
So it's gotten to the point where not getting into grad school combined with my shitty job have made it hard to bring the funny on a regular basis. But people are giving me shit! So here's a try.
1) I was calling customers to let them know their orders had arrived at the store to be picked up. One order was for a CD of political parody songs about various Democrats and liberals entitled "We Hate the USA." The customer regaled me with an impromptu version of "Barrack the Magic Negro."
2) A woman asked me for a "pop up book on the Vietnam war." After staring at her in silence for a few dozen awkward seconds I informed her that I did not believe such a thing existed. She then provided evidence that we do indeed have pop up books on other subjects, holding up a pop up book on wizards. She also mentioned a pop up books about "the Greeks." When I wouldn't budge on the fact that a pop up book on 'nam does not and would not exist, she asked if we had a pop up book on war in general.
3) A man came in to pick up a magazine. He had a small amount of vomit on the front of his shirt and his pants were several sizes too big. He was holding them up with one hand. The magazine he bought was entirely about firetrucks and only firetrucks. I maintained eye contact with him during the entirety of the transaction out of a legitimate fear that, at some point, his pants would fall around his ankles and I would inadvertently witness his genitals.
OK GOODNIGHT
1) I was calling customers to let them know their orders had arrived at the store to be picked up. One order was for a CD of political parody songs about various Democrats and liberals entitled "We Hate the USA." The customer regaled me with an impromptu version of "Barrack the Magic Negro."
2) A woman asked me for a "pop up book on the Vietnam war." After staring at her in silence for a few dozen awkward seconds I informed her that I did not believe such a thing existed. She then provided evidence that we do indeed have pop up books on other subjects, holding up a pop up book on wizards. She also mentioned a pop up books about "the Greeks." When I wouldn't budge on the fact that a pop up book on 'nam does not and would not exist, she asked if we had a pop up book on war in general.
3) A man came in to pick up a magazine. He had a small amount of vomit on the front of his shirt and his pants were several sizes too big. He was holding them up with one hand. The magazine he bought was entirely about firetrucks and only firetrucks. I maintained eye contact with him during the entirety of the transaction out of a legitimate fear that, at some point, his pants would fall around his ankles and I would inadvertently witness his genitals.
OK GOODNIGHT
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Brief [Demarcations] update
Yesterday I sold a book to a fat lady called "Crystal Reflexology." On the cover some retard was jamming a crystal into her ear. No joke. Real thing.
Too bad Bea Arthur died. An important part of American life in times past was the right to tell people that not only were they wrong, but also too stupid to remain not in the care of some kind of state-certified attendant. It's not "mean." It's doing your duty as a rational human being. Instead of "And yet it moves," Gallileo says, "Oh, well, sure."
If your back hurts you can shove crystals in your ear until they start poking out of other orifices and it won't help. Losing some of that gelatinous burden, however, might do the trick. Or, like your ancient mammalian cousins, realize that the land-walking life is not for a person of your grandeur and waddle into the embrace of the seas where gravity is not so unforgiving.
Too bad Bea Arthur died. An important part of American life in times past was the right to tell people that not only were they wrong, but also too stupid to remain not in the care of some kind of state-certified attendant. It's not "mean." It's doing your duty as a rational human being. Instead of "And yet it moves," Gallileo says, "Oh, well, sure."
If your back hurts you can shove crystals in your ear until they start poking out of other orifices and it won't help. Losing some of that gelatinous burden, however, might do the trick. Or, like your ancient mammalian cousins, realize that the land-walking life is not for a person of your grandeur and waddle into the embrace of the seas where gravity is not so unforgiving.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Travels: Boise (Day One)
Day One of Boise started with a shower in Stone's basement bathroom. The shower was one of those stand-up jobs. I am what you might call "pocket-sized," and yet I still had a hard time maneuvering in this be-spouted shoebox. (When it came time for RJP4's turn there was only the sounds of muffled thuds and curses.) I also encountered a spider of some significance legging it under the door when I got out. I mentioned this to Stone. His response: "Yeah. We've got spiders here." It was implicit that "here" referred to Idaho. If we had driven to Idaho instead of flown we would have passed the massive welcome sign reading "IDAHO: Yeah. We've got spiders here."
For breakfast we decided to walk down to Elmer's--a diner-type place that Stone had talked up quite a bit. On the way we passed one of Boise's many irrigation sluices. It looked very much like a river, and Stone explained that some people do, in fact, swim in them. Apparently a fun thing that the children do is allow themselves to be sucked into one of the pipes and be propelled out the other side. Problem: sometimes there are grates on the other side. Again we see the invisible hand of Darwin plucking, in this instance, the chaff from the wheat.
Elmer's really was delightful. I got the best steak and eggs I've ever had there--and the hash browns were all mixed up with some peppers and onions. Very good. I also bought a copy of the Idaho Statesman from a machine outside. RJP4 and I compared it to the Scranton Times-Tribune we brought with us (RJP4 explaining his daily purchase of the Times: "It has two crossword puzzles."). Some notes: The Times had the following headline, "ANIMALS: Now We Know Better." The Statesman had excellent pictures--but all of its political articles were from either the AP of LA Times. The OpEd page had a prominently featured letter about tipping buffet waitresses. But then again, as stated, the Times had an article about us not understanding animals. Point, Scranton.
After Elmer's we crossed the road to Boise State University. All bicycles and pleasant people. Stone had to go to some kind of Theatre Person class where I assume they show you how to pretend to be a tree or paint yourself silver and stand still (the finer arts are lost on me). RJP4 and I walked over the "Friendship Bridge." The idea behind the friendship bridge is that if you walk across it with someone you will be friends forever. This is a silly thing, and even the attempt deserves our contempt and derision. I compell all of you to fly to Boise and openly urinate on this abomination. I'm a little worried that because RJP4 and I crossed it together that we are now gay married.
All my cranky cynicism melted away, however, because almost immediately after crossing the Friendship Bridge I saw a giraffe. You'd be surprised what wonders a completely unexpected giraffe can do. If only Hitler had, upon crossing the Rhine, stumbled across the legendary Meandering Giraffe of Gaul we might not all be comparing various American presidents to him completely outside of any historical context. ...I think things got away from me a bit. Anyway, the giraffes were peering over the fences from the zoo in the park across from Boise State. I found myself wondering--as we all do--if it were possible to put a saddle on one and ride it. And if so, what would be the top speed? What kind of obstacles would be neccessary to stop a giraffe cavalry? But the magic quickly disappated when I realized that the ground we were walking on was covered in geese. And their leavings.
While Stone was in class our wanderings were uneventful. We saw Boise State's Taco Bell Arena. I was almost tempted into free chili. We were loudly instructed to vote by a man wearing a homemade t-shirt proclaiming "TALK TO ME." We haughtily regarded an enormous drawing of a snail that was mislabelled as a slug. A few guffaws, upturned-noses, and East Coast elitisms later and we were reunited with our now more erudite travelling guide. And thus we ventured...downtown!
Here is where my remembering becomes fuzzy. Fuzzier. So bear with me. Bare? The following things occurred in some order on that day:
We went to what is basically the gift shop for all of Boise. I bought postcards and Stone bought us all "Spud Bars" because we didn't know what they were and how can you pass something like that up? It turned out to be a weird nougaty-marshmallowy substance wrapped in dark chocolate and coconut. I assume the goal was to mimic what it might be like to bite into a raw potato and perhaps enjoy it. The Spud Bar achieved this goal. I believe this is all that needs be said on the subject.
It began to drizzle, and then rain. RJP4's "solution" to this "problem" was to buy a one hundred dollar jacket from The North Face. It was bright red and he did not regret it: it had technology that caused the rain to simply bead up and wipe right off. Arthur C. Clarke, I think, said that sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic, and clearly this is the proof. In the meantime the rain soaked through my ten dollar hooded sweatshirt. I did not have the aid of sorcery. At this point I threw out the latter half of my Spud Bar.
We visited Stone's place of employment: The Flying M, a coffee shop that is decidedly gay. And by that I mean that it is frequented by homosexuals. It serves many things--including various cereals in bowls--and there is a vending machine that pops out little boxes with art in them. None of the furniture matches and I think the best word for it is "comfortable." It was an excellent place to sit while the rain really picked up.
We visited the liquor store and saw vodka sold in a bottle shaped like a human skull. RJP4 bought some black label and all was well with the world. We trudged home in the rain like immigrants. Stone had to go to a long rehearsal and I put my hoodie in the dryer and fell asleep. Before he left Stone told us that there was a Chinese food place "nearby" called Panda Garden. RJP4 left in search of it. It turned out to be about a mile away.
I woke up when RJP4 returned, and the smell of his veggie lo mein made me envious. I, then, set off for the distant Panda Garden--but without the aid of the magical water repelling coat. My poor hoodie, so recently dried, was soaked through again by the time I returned. Along with most of the rest of me. But there were things to be said about my miserable trek: it gave me a good look at that part of Boise. Three observations: /1. Many houses in Boise are very small and simply do not believe in a second story. "One is enough," they say, believing more to be a sign of capitalist decadence. /2. There is a ponderous amount of classic cars in excellent shape in Boise. (My uncle would later explain that they don't use salt in the winter...which sciences up your car.) /3. The community pool is an above-ground. Who ever heard of such backward and savage ways? My hoodie went back in the dryer.
Later when Stone returned from rehearsal we walked back in the same direction, but past Panda Garden to the Albertson's grocery store. I picked up a package of "brownie cookies." A sticker on the box had a picture of the brownie cookies and read: "Brownie Cookies. It's a cookie and a brownie!" I could not pass this up.
On day one we walked, in total, roughly one thousand million hundred miles. My legs hurt as I drifted off to sleep on Stone's couch--surrounded by my cookie brownies or brownie cookies and the sleeping sounds of my close, drunken friends.
Next time! It doesn't rain, we walk more, and sadly no more giraffes are seen. Tune in!
For breakfast we decided to walk down to Elmer's--a diner-type place that Stone had talked up quite a bit. On the way we passed one of Boise's many irrigation sluices. It looked very much like a river, and Stone explained that some people do, in fact, swim in them. Apparently a fun thing that the children do is allow themselves to be sucked into one of the pipes and be propelled out the other side. Problem: sometimes there are grates on the other side. Again we see the invisible hand of Darwin plucking, in this instance, the chaff from the wheat.
Elmer's really was delightful. I got the best steak and eggs I've ever had there--and the hash browns were all mixed up with some peppers and onions. Very good. I also bought a copy of the Idaho Statesman from a machine outside. RJP4 and I compared it to the Scranton Times-Tribune we brought with us (RJP4 explaining his daily purchase of the Times: "It has two crossword puzzles."). Some notes: The Times had the following headline, "ANIMALS: Now We Know Better." The Statesman had excellent pictures--but all of its political articles were from either the AP of LA Times. The OpEd page had a prominently featured letter about tipping buffet waitresses. But then again, as stated, the Times had an article about us not understanding animals. Point, Scranton.
After Elmer's we crossed the road to Boise State University. All bicycles and pleasant people. Stone had to go to some kind of Theatre Person class where I assume they show you how to pretend to be a tree or paint yourself silver and stand still (the finer arts are lost on me). RJP4 and I walked over the "Friendship Bridge." The idea behind the friendship bridge is that if you walk across it with someone you will be friends forever. This is a silly thing, and even the attempt deserves our contempt and derision. I compell all of you to fly to Boise and openly urinate on this abomination. I'm a little worried that because RJP4 and I crossed it together that we are now gay married.
All my cranky cynicism melted away, however, because almost immediately after crossing the Friendship Bridge I saw a giraffe. You'd be surprised what wonders a completely unexpected giraffe can do. If only Hitler had, upon crossing the Rhine, stumbled across the legendary Meandering Giraffe of Gaul we might not all be comparing various American presidents to him completely outside of any historical context. ...I think things got away from me a bit. Anyway, the giraffes were peering over the fences from the zoo in the park across from Boise State. I found myself wondering--as we all do--if it were possible to put a saddle on one and ride it. And if so, what would be the top speed? What kind of obstacles would be neccessary to stop a giraffe cavalry? But the magic quickly disappated when I realized that the ground we were walking on was covered in geese. And their leavings.
While Stone was in class our wanderings were uneventful. We saw Boise State's Taco Bell Arena. I was almost tempted into free chili. We were loudly instructed to vote by a man wearing a homemade t-shirt proclaiming "TALK TO ME." We haughtily regarded an enormous drawing of a snail that was mislabelled as a slug. A few guffaws, upturned-noses, and East Coast elitisms later and we were reunited with our now more erudite travelling guide. And thus we ventured...downtown!
Here is where my remembering becomes fuzzy. Fuzzier. So bear with me. Bare? The following things occurred in some order on that day:
We went to what is basically the gift shop for all of Boise. I bought postcards and Stone bought us all "Spud Bars" because we didn't know what they were and how can you pass something like that up? It turned out to be a weird nougaty-marshmallowy substance wrapped in dark chocolate and coconut. I assume the goal was to mimic what it might be like to bite into a raw potato and perhaps enjoy it. The Spud Bar achieved this goal. I believe this is all that needs be said on the subject.
It began to drizzle, and then rain. RJP4's "solution" to this "problem" was to buy a one hundred dollar jacket from The North Face. It was bright red and he did not regret it: it had technology that caused the rain to simply bead up and wipe right off. Arthur C. Clarke, I think, said that sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic, and clearly this is the proof. In the meantime the rain soaked through my ten dollar hooded sweatshirt. I did not have the aid of sorcery. At this point I threw out the latter half of my Spud Bar.
We visited Stone's place of employment: The Flying M, a coffee shop that is decidedly gay. And by that I mean that it is frequented by homosexuals. It serves many things--including various cereals in bowls--and there is a vending machine that pops out little boxes with art in them. None of the furniture matches and I think the best word for it is "comfortable." It was an excellent place to sit while the rain really picked up.
We visited the liquor store and saw vodka sold in a bottle shaped like a human skull. RJP4 bought some black label and all was well with the world. We trudged home in the rain like immigrants. Stone had to go to a long rehearsal and I put my hoodie in the dryer and fell asleep. Before he left Stone told us that there was a Chinese food place "nearby" called Panda Garden. RJP4 left in search of it. It turned out to be about a mile away.
I woke up when RJP4 returned, and the smell of his veggie lo mein made me envious. I, then, set off for the distant Panda Garden--but without the aid of the magical water repelling coat. My poor hoodie, so recently dried, was soaked through again by the time I returned. Along with most of the rest of me. But there were things to be said about my miserable trek: it gave me a good look at that part of Boise. Three observations: /1. Many houses in Boise are very small and simply do not believe in a second story. "One is enough," they say, believing more to be a sign of capitalist decadence. /2. There is a ponderous amount of classic cars in excellent shape in Boise. (My uncle would later explain that they don't use salt in the winter...which sciences up your car.) /3. The community pool is an above-ground. Who ever heard of such backward and savage ways? My hoodie went back in the dryer.
Later when Stone returned from rehearsal we walked back in the same direction, but past Panda Garden to the Albertson's grocery store. I picked up a package of "brownie cookies." A sticker on the box had a picture of the brownie cookies and read: "Brownie Cookies. It's a cookie and a brownie!" I could not pass this up.
On day one we walked, in total, roughly one thousand million hundred miles. My legs hurt as I drifted off to sleep on Stone's couch--surrounded by my cookie brownies or brownie cookies and the sleeping sounds of my close, drunken friends.
Next time! It doesn't rain, we walk more, and sadly no more giraffes are seen. Tune in!
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Quick [Demarcations] update
A woman came up to me and asked if we had a book on crystals. I hesitated. There are books on crystals--as in the actual geological phenomenon, and there are books on "crystals"--as in "I am insane and/ or stupid and I think caressing certain rocks will cure my fetal alcohol syndrome."
"Uh," I sputtered. "What kind of crystals?"
"You know," she said. "Crystals. Like...crystals.
Yup. Retard. I just lead her to the Stupid Horseshit section and cut her loose.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Travels: Boise, Idaho (The Trip Out)
On April 7, 2009, RJP4 and I flew out to Boise, Idaho to visit our friend (and former occasional guest DJ), Stone. RJP4 is moving out here, and I am thinking about doing the same if my all my shit goes pear-shaped. Which, you know, is what is happening. Anyway, I decided to detail our exploits on this here web log for your singing and dancing pleasure. I will try to withhold anything that might result in either RJP4 or myself being arrested and killed by stoning. Which is what they do here.
On Tuesday the seventh we left the Wilkes Barre/Scranton airport at 6:09 pm on the smallest jet possible. "This feels like a bus," I said to RJP4. "No," he said. "Buses are larger." This is why I hate flying out of the local airport. The closest thing we have to an actual commercial airliner is a World War I era biplane flown by an old man in scarf and goggles. It is unsettling to be able to look out the window of a plane and be eye to eye with a man standing on the runway. Once they cleared away the goats from the runway by means of blowing the great horn we were able to take off. It was roughly an hour and a half out to Chicago, and RJP4 and I were seated behind a baby who screamed as if in a meat grinder.
Chicago's O'Hare airport is the size of a small city and is a surreal place to say the least. We had to go to concourse C from concourse F--and you can take a shuttle, but RJP4 has feelings about such things. We decided to take the long walk through the strange--passing on our way the skeleton of a brachiosaurus, and riding one of those movable walkways in a tunnel with blinking neon tubes on the ceiling. "O'Hare is a massive robot," I said, "and we are riding though it's horrible brain." RJP4 was unfazed by our surroundings, quite like the semi-sinister Willy Wonka in the tunnel of terror--I was almost expecting to turn to me and start jabbering disturbing poetry about being lost in the belly of a great phosphorescent whale. This is the airport in Chicago.
Our plane out of Chicago was a proper one, thankfully. But our seats were taken by a family with several screaming children. They were largely unapologetic, so RJP4 and I scrounged seats behind them against the wall of the bathroom. During the flight the children were yelling and walking around while the flight attendants were trying to tell the parents "UH YOU CANNOT HAVE THE CHILDREN ROAM AS FREE AS CHICKENS" and "UH YOUR SON AND/OR DAUGHTER HAS CLIMBED OUT ON THE WING PLEASE RETRIEVE." I assume the family was Mormon for the following reasons: first, they were as blond and blue-eyed as the American Jesus. Second, at one point the father told a bedtime story to his daughter about space aliens with large families who don't like black people. Either way, like many observational comedians, we consistently sat behind ill-behaved, screamy children. And, in one case, creepy Mormon children.
Once we landed at Boise we were picked up by Stone and his friend Veronica. On the way we picked up another of Stone's friends and went to a bar in downtown Boise called Mulligan's. It was odd to be downtown at night. I grew up in a place where those who trespass upon the night were practically gauranteed to be, at the very least, raped. We sat at tables outside, and the worst thing that happened was that a drunk woman came by and asked for a drink of Stone's beer. He obliged and she thanked him and continued on her way. No one was raped.
But that is not to say that Mulligan's is the best place to take someone on their first Boise experience. While the bartenders and bouncers are nearly suspiciously nice, the clientelle is composed of a strange demographic which I have termed "metal hipsters." They look like hipsters but with more tattoos and worse taste in music. They have long hair and scraggly beards and look like they will stab you to take the pins from your backpack. RJP4 and I played pool until about 2 AM. I am very bad at the game, and RJP4 was drunk, so it turned into an hour or so of flailing and cursing and shame being brought upon our families.
After last call we got a ride home to Stone's house. I went to bed assuming that Boise was composed entirely of vaguely threatening ponytailed twenty-somethings that view skateboarding as a legitimate and age-appropriate mode of transportation.
Next time on SQR: Day One of Boise, wherein our hero discovers that Mulligan's is a dive that caters to what passes for assholes in Boise--and that the city itself is actually quite nice indeed.
Stay tuned!
On Tuesday the seventh we left the Wilkes Barre/Scranton airport at 6:09 pm on the smallest jet possible. "This feels like a bus," I said to RJP4. "No," he said. "Buses are larger." This is why I hate flying out of the local airport. The closest thing we have to an actual commercial airliner is a World War I era biplane flown by an old man in scarf and goggles. It is unsettling to be able to look out the window of a plane and be eye to eye with a man standing on the runway. Once they cleared away the goats from the runway by means of blowing the great horn we were able to take off. It was roughly an hour and a half out to Chicago, and RJP4 and I were seated behind a baby who screamed as if in a meat grinder.
Chicago's O'Hare airport is the size of a small city and is a surreal place to say the least. We had to go to concourse C from concourse F--and you can take a shuttle, but RJP4 has feelings about such things. We decided to take the long walk through the strange--passing on our way the skeleton of a brachiosaurus, and riding one of those movable walkways in a tunnel with blinking neon tubes on the ceiling. "O'Hare is a massive robot," I said, "and we are riding though it's horrible brain." RJP4 was unfazed by our surroundings, quite like the semi-sinister Willy Wonka in the tunnel of terror--I was almost expecting to turn to me and start jabbering disturbing poetry about being lost in the belly of a great phosphorescent whale. This is the airport in Chicago.
Our plane out of Chicago was a proper one, thankfully. But our seats were taken by a family with several screaming children. They were largely unapologetic, so RJP4 and I scrounged seats behind them against the wall of the bathroom. During the flight the children were yelling and walking around while the flight attendants were trying to tell the parents "UH YOU CANNOT HAVE THE CHILDREN ROAM AS FREE AS CHICKENS" and "UH YOUR SON AND/OR DAUGHTER HAS CLIMBED OUT ON THE WING PLEASE RETRIEVE." I assume the family was Mormon for the following reasons: first, they were as blond and blue-eyed as the American Jesus. Second, at one point the father told a bedtime story to his daughter about space aliens with large families who don't like black people. Either way, like many observational comedians, we consistently sat behind ill-behaved, screamy children. And, in one case, creepy Mormon children.
Once we landed at Boise we were picked up by Stone and his friend Veronica. On the way we picked up another of Stone's friends and went to a bar in downtown Boise called Mulligan's. It was odd to be downtown at night. I grew up in a place where those who trespass upon the night were practically gauranteed to be, at the very least, raped. We sat at tables outside, and the worst thing that happened was that a drunk woman came by and asked for a drink of Stone's beer. He obliged and she thanked him and continued on her way. No one was raped.
But that is not to say that Mulligan's is the best place to take someone on their first Boise experience. While the bartenders and bouncers are nearly suspiciously nice, the clientelle is composed of a strange demographic which I have termed "metal hipsters." They look like hipsters but with more tattoos and worse taste in music. They have long hair and scraggly beards and look like they will stab you to take the pins from your backpack. RJP4 and I played pool until about 2 AM. I am very bad at the game, and RJP4 was drunk, so it turned into an hour or so of flailing and cursing and shame being brought upon our families.
After last call we got a ride home to Stone's house. I went to bed assuming that Boise was composed entirely of vaguely threatening ponytailed twenty-somethings that view skateboarding as a legitimate and age-appropriate mode of transportation.
Next time on SQR: Day One of Boise, wherein our hero discovers that Mulligan's is a dive that caters to what passes for assholes in Boise--and that the city itself is actually quite nice indeed.
Stay tuned!
Quotes from the playground
While many of us picture spring break as drunken debauchery spewed across some Florida beach, my spring break was at the opposite end of that spectrum. This past week has been the spring break for the school district that I work in. While this should have been a week of total relaxation and sleeping I had to spend part of it working at the vacation camp that my after school program runs whenever school is on break. Working at the camp often means boredom and board games, but generally the child do manage to making it entertaining. One boy, L, is in second grade and is most likely the most outrageous child I have ever met. No taller than four feet he manages to climb on everything and everyone like an escaped monkey from Six Flags with the voice of a veteran two pack-a-day smoker. His thought process is completely unpredictable, like a pinball machine being played by someone with Parkinson's. Today while sitting on the swings L decides inform me that his grandfather once did a very bad thing. My curiosity peaked, I asked L to explain. He then told me the following:
"He flipped his car once! He told everyone he would never do it again, but then HE DID IT AGAIN! And He had a pet raccoon when he was little. And he once had an itchy pair of pants that he decided to burn, but he accidentally burnt down the whole barn!"
He asked me later on, during lunch, to hold him upside down because he wanted to see if he could eat his sandwich while inverted.
If you were able to peer into L's mind it would resemble something along the lines of a acid induced rave staring Pink Floyd and Hunter S. Thompson.
"He flipped his car once! He told everyone he would never do it again, but then HE DID IT AGAIN! And He had a pet raccoon when he was little. And he once had an itchy pair of pants that he decided to burn, but he accidentally burnt down the whole barn!"
He asked me later on, during lunch, to hold him upside down because he wanted to see if he could eat his sandwich while inverted.
If you were able to peer into L's mind it would resemble something along the lines of a acid induced rave staring Pink Floyd and Hunter S. Thompson.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Nasa is full of shit
It has been awhile since I ventured into the blogosphere, but I've returned and well equipped to deal with fat acne scared folk who haunt this realm looking for innocent and helpless people to "pwn." Don't fret, I have not returned solely to fight the tyrannical uber nerds, but to also deliver you a good heaping pile of funnies from the fourth grade.
This past week my class took a test on the solar system. This was a basic test asking for information on all eight planets, and Pluto who is now treated like an unwelcome step child at dinner after making a comment about the "zoo noises" mommy was making last night. The students were given a study guide that was filled in over the course of the week with a final review by the classroom teacher where they were all given the correct answers. All the students had ample time to study, but a few students went the extra mile and did some historic and scientific re-visioning for us. Here is a list of the new facts I learned today:
1. All the inner planets are not in fact made of rock, but made of Ice and dust. (I knew global warming was a conspiracy made up by the liberals.)
2. The outer planets are giant snowballs, not gas. (God does love giant snow cones...)
3. Saturn's rings are not made of ice, rocks and dust. What are they made up of then? The truth, fire.
4. The first person to walk on the moon was actually Arnold Schwarzenegger, not that phony Neil Armstrong.
According to the logic used to to arrive at the last fact I can only assume it will soon be revealed that it was Will Smith who first flew across the Atlantic. And when he landed in Paris he promptly punched the mayor in the face, stood over him and said, "Welcome to Earth."
This past week my class took a test on the solar system. This was a basic test asking for information on all eight planets, and Pluto who is now treated like an unwelcome step child at dinner after making a comment about the "zoo noises" mommy was making last night. The students were given a study guide that was filled in over the course of the week with a final review by the classroom teacher where they were all given the correct answers. All the students had ample time to study, but a few students went the extra mile and did some historic and scientific re-visioning for us. Here is a list of the new facts I learned today:
1. All the inner planets are not in fact made of rock, but made of Ice and dust. (I knew global warming was a conspiracy made up by the liberals.)
2. The outer planets are giant snowballs, not gas. (God does love giant snow cones...)
3. Saturn's rings are not made of ice, rocks and dust. What are they made up of then? The truth, fire.
4. The first person to walk on the moon was actually Arnold Schwarzenegger, not that phony Neil Armstrong.
According to the logic used to to arrive at the last fact I can only assume it will soon be revealed that it was Will Smith who first flew across the Atlantic. And when he landed in Paris he promptly punched the mayor in the face, stood over him and said, "Welcome to Earth."
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Canada Jackson's Doctoral Challenge vol. II
My express train to failure, poverty, and self-loathing continues to chug along nicely. On this edition of Canada Jackson's Doctoral Challenge we will be discussing Marquette University, located in sunny Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Today, Marquette University wrote to inform me that they could not offer me admission into their Doctoral program.
For those interested, I have compiled some information about Marquette University. From their brochure:
"Marquette University was founded in 1855 by known whoremonger and sexual deviant Herman Marquette. It was originally supposed to be the largest house of ill repute in the country until it was taken over by the Jesuits in 1860. The Jesuits, however, quickly found that prostitution was not a financially stable endeavor, so they turned it into a university.
Here are some quick Fun Facts about Marquette University:
-- Ninety-nine percent of America's serial killers graduated from Marquette.
-- Bestiality is not only accepted at Marquette, but a requirement to obtain tenure.
-- The current president of Marquette University is Robert Mugabe.
Marquette University received world notoriety in 1961, when it was visited by President John F. Kennedy. The young, charismatic president spent around fifteen minutes on campus before, according to his aides, he was so disgusted that he dropped his pants and defecated in front of cameras, reporters, and shocked students. He then ordered his staff and Secret Service agents to do the same. Years later he was assassinated in Dallas, Texas, by Marquette graduate Lyndon Baines Johnson.
Marquette University statistics:
-- 67% of Marquette University students are illiterate.
-- The other 33% of Marquette University students are cows.
Marquette University firmly believes in the supremacy of white males of European descent. In keeping with this tradition, every semester one or more of the following classes are offered: Intermediate and Advanced Eugenics (BIO216 and BIO416), Confederate Studies (HUM304), Introduction to the International Jewish Banking Conspiracy (PS263), and/or Lynching Theory (PE101).
Thank you for your interest in Marquette University.
Note: Irish and coloreds need not apply."
I feel better now.
For those interested, I have compiled some information about Marquette University. From their brochure:
"Marquette University was founded in 1855 by known whoremonger and sexual deviant Herman Marquette. It was originally supposed to be the largest house of ill repute in the country until it was taken over by the Jesuits in 1860. The Jesuits, however, quickly found that prostitution was not a financially stable endeavor, so they turned it into a university.
Here are some quick Fun Facts about Marquette University:
-- Ninety-nine percent of America's serial killers graduated from Marquette.
-- Bestiality is not only accepted at Marquette, but a requirement to obtain tenure.
-- The current president of Marquette University is Robert Mugabe.
Marquette University received world notoriety in 1961, when it was visited by President John F. Kennedy. The young, charismatic president spent around fifteen minutes on campus before, according to his aides, he was so disgusted that he dropped his pants and defecated in front of cameras, reporters, and shocked students. He then ordered his staff and Secret Service agents to do the same. Years later he was assassinated in Dallas, Texas, by Marquette graduate Lyndon Baines Johnson.
Marquette University statistics:
-- 67% of Marquette University students are illiterate.
-- The other 33% of Marquette University students are cows.
Marquette University firmly believes in the supremacy of white males of European descent. In keeping with this tradition, every semester one or more of the following classes are offered: Intermediate and Advanced Eugenics (BIO216 and BIO416), Confederate Studies (HUM304), Introduction to the International Jewish Banking Conspiracy (PS263), and/or Lynching Theory (PE101).
Thank you for your interest in Marquette University.
Note: Irish and coloreds need not apply."
I feel better now.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Six degrees of Canada Jackson.
I have, in my long and glamorous life, met two whole celebrities. Well, kind of celebrities. In that if you saw them walking down the street you might say, "Hey, is that that guy from ______?" and then realize that even if it were that guy from ________ it wouldn't matter because they would probably ask you for bus fare if you tried to talk to them.
Oh, wait, I've met three. I once got into a bar fight with Doris Kearns Goodwin. She kicked my ass.
Anyway, these are the true stories of my celebrity encounters.
First, I met Henry Winkler. That's right, the Fonze. The lawyer from Arrested Development. The beleaguered football coach from Adam Sandler's moving portrait of anger and mental disabilities, The Waterboy.
I met him while working as a bartender at the Scranton Cultural Center, which was by far the worst job I have ever had--and hopefully ever will have. There were times when I worked for fourteen hours straight and went home with nine dollars in tips. There were times when I was in real danger of physical harm at the hands of drunken concert goers because we ran out of beer. And, once, while standing outside in the rain, I witnessed a man vomit in the gutter--myself having to take quick evasive action as the currents pulled the former contents of his stomach towards my shoes. The reason the Scranton Cultural Center is called the Scranton Cultural Center is because excessive drinking, violence, and public vomiting are all an important part of Scranton's culture. As my friends and I paraphrase the very misleading TV show "The Office:" There ain't no party like a Scranton party, because at a Scranton party someone dies.
But anyway, Henry Winkler. He was coming to Scranton to hype his children's books about a kid with dyslexia. First there was a little party with champagne on the second floor of the building, followed by Mr. Winkler giving a little talk to an audience of kids in the theater. During the little pre-party I swiped a bottle of champagne, thinking it would be excessively cool to have a champagne bottle signed by the Fonze. Why did I think that? Because Scranton is full of radiation that makes you retarded.
I waited backstage while he was giving his talk to the little tykes. After he was done I asked his manservant (I assume his manager or assistant or sex slave) if he would sign my bottle. Mr. Winkler said, through his concubine, that he would not. Crushed, I decided to have him sign one of his books about kids who can't read.
Even though I spent a good ten minutes in Mr. Winkler's presence, he neither spoke to me or made eye contact with me. Instead he spoke to his manservant about how he was going to sign the books across his picture on the back because no one does that, and how will you know it's really his signature if he doesn't sign it accross his picture? "Why didn't anyone else think of that?" asked. Clearly, it's because Henry Winkler is a fucking genius. He also piqued my ire when he asked me, again through his chattel, to bring him some water. I did so, and received no acknowledgement whatsoever.
But, the life of celebrity is tiring. With this in mind I decided to sign my champagne bottle for Mr. Winkler.
My next dramatic semi-celebrity meeting was at my current semi-job at [Demarcations]. In this case, I met Bronson Pinchot. That's right, Balki of TV's "Perfect Strangers."
Bronson Pinchot on the left.
Oh, wait, I've met three. I once got into a bar fight with Doris Kearns Goodwin. She kicked my ass.
Anyway, these are the true stories of my celebrity encounters.
First, I met Henry Winkler. That's right, the Fonze. The lawyer from Arrested Development. The beleaguered football coach from Adam Sandler's moving portrait of anger and mental disabilities, The Waterboy.
I met him while working as a bartender at the Scranton Cultural Center, which was by far the worst job I have ever had--and hopefully ever will have. There were times when I worked for fourteen hours straight and went home with nine dollars in tips. There were times when I was in real danger of physical harm at the hands of drunken concert goers because we ran out of beer. And, once, while standing outside in the rain, I witnessed a man vomit in the gutter--myself having to take quick evasive action as the currents pulled the former contents of his stomach towards my shoes. The reason the Scranton Cultural Center is called the Scranton Cultural Center is because excessive drinking, violence, and public vomiting are all an important part of Scranton's culture. As my friends and I paraphrase the very misleading TV show "The Office:" There ain't no party like a Scranton party, because at a Scranton party someone dies.
But anyway, Henry Winkler. He was coming to Scranton to hype his children's books about a kid with dyslexia. First there was a little party with champagne on the second floor of the building, followed by Mr. Winkler giving a little talk to an audience of kids in the theater. During the little pre-party I swiped a bottle of champagne, thinking it would be excessively cool to have a champagne bottle signed by the Fonze. Why did I think that? Because Scranton is full of radiation that makes you retarded.
I waited backstage while he was giving his talk to the little tykes. After he was done I asked his manservant (I assume his manager or assistant or sex slave) if he would sign my bottle. Mr. Winkler said, through his concubine, that he would not. Crushed, I decided to have him sign one of his books about kids who can't read.
Even though I spent a good ten minutes in Mr. Winkler's presence, he neither spoke to me or made eye contact with me. Instead he spoke to his manservant about how he was going to sign the books across his picture on the back because no one does that, and how will you know it's really his signature if he doesn't sign it accross his picture? "Why didn't anyone else think of that?" asked. Clearly, it's because Henry Winkler is a fucking genius. He also piqued my ire when he asked me, again through his chattel, to bring him some water. I did so, and received no acknowledgement whatsoever.
But, the life of celebrity is tiring. With this in mind I decided to sign my champagne bottle for Mr. Winkler.
My next dramatic semi-celebrity meeting was at my current semi-job at [Demarcations]. In this case, I met Bronson Pinchot. That's right, Balki of TV's "Perfect Strangers."
Bronson Pinchot on the left.According to Wikipedia, Bronson Pinchot owns a god damn town near Scranton. He moved there and bought all the buildings with his "Perfect Strangers" and Beverly Hills Cop money. And, for whatever reason, he occasionally relaxes with a warm cup of the distilled, burned offal we call coffee at the Scranton [Demarcations]. How he has not killed himself is anyone's guess.
Now, I should say that in actuallity Mr. Pinchot is a nice guy. When I was ringing him up I didn't realize that he was Bronson Pinchot until he handed me his credit card with BRONSON FUCKING PINCHOT on it. Also, someone behind me asked a manager if he could take his lunch break. This struck Mr. Pinchot as funny, as it was eight o'clock in the evening.
"Lunch?" said Mr. Pinchot. "That train has sailed." I am not ruling out that Bronson Pinchot was intoxicated during this interaction.
Bronson Pinchot on the left. Wokka wokka.
Now, I should say that in actuallity Mr. Pinchot is a nice guy. When I was ringing him up I didn't realize that he was Bronson Pinchot until he handed me his credit card with BRONSON FUCKING PINCHOT on it. Also, someone behind me asked a manager if he could take his lunch break. This struck Mr. Pinchot as funny, as it was eight o'clock in the evening.
"Lunch?" said Mr. Pinchot. "That train has sailed." I am not ruling out that Bronson Pinchot was intoxicated during this interaction.
Bronson Pinchot on the left. Wokka wokka.It has occured to me that nearly everyone has some cool story of meeting a real life celebrity or otherwise important public figure. My cousin got to shake hands with President Clinton while he was still president. RJP4 has met several celebrities during his exile in New York City. My sister saw Jake Gyllenhaal and Kirsten "Beastly Whore" Dunst buying rice--and was once yelled at by Sean Connery.
I, however, have been irritated by Henry Winkler over the course of an evening and shared a surreal three minutes with Bronson Pinchot. Clearly I am the winner.
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PS: Hopefully, children, I will have more time and motivation to post as [Demarcations] continues its steadily more entertaining shit show of a downward spiral into irrelevance and bankruptcy. Rumor has it that the new CEO is randomly visiting stores and firing people. Oh please, Father Christmas! Oh please let him visit humble Scranton, Pennsylvania to find me and set me free! And please, dear Father Christmas, let me tear off my stupid nametag and tell him to take his fraudulent charity book drives and maddeningly arbitrary sales goals and go fuck himself to death.
Cheers!
I, however, have been irritated by Henry Winkler over the course of an evening and shared a surreal three minutes with Bronson Pinchot. Clearly I am the winner.
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PS: Hopefully, children, I will have more time and motivation to post as [Demarcations] continues its steadily more entertaining shit show of a downward spiral into irrelevance and bankruptcy. Rumor has it that the new CEO is randomly visiting stores and firing people. Oh please, Father Christmas! Oh please let him visit humble Scranton, Pennsylvania to find me and set me free! And please, dear Father Christmas, let me tear off my stupid nametag and tell him to take his fraudulent charity book drives and maddeningly arbitrary sales goals and go fuck himself to death.
Cheers!
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
More reasons I hate my job.
1) Thanks to this here recession we got goin' on my hours have been cut to the point of having one day of work a week. Sometimes I have a full 8 hour shift, sometimes not. One week I was only scheduled to work four hours. Somehow this hasn't stopped me from hemorrhaging money like I have the Dollars-Tuberculosis. I cough demurely into a white handkerchief and look anxiously as dimes fall from it.
2) At my one day of work this week I heard two teenage girls discussing me.
Girl 1: Doesn't he look like [inaudible]?
Girl 2: Yeah. Maybe the hobbit version.
[Assorted giggles.]
I briefly imagined myself flagging them down and saying, "Hey, I don't come to where you work and tell you that you are too fat and pock-marked to work the pole while holding back tears of shame and thinking about your step-dad." But I would never do that. Bible says that would be wrong.
3) I had to alert the general manager to a teenage boy walking around the store with a gigantic inflatable cartoon penis.
4) That same night the store was visited by a living, breathing, cautionary tale against drinking while pregnant. This was the clearest and most obvious case of Fetal Alcohol Syndrome the world has ever seen. Eyes spread about seven meters apart, the classic "elfin" features, and, of course, the full house of behavioral problems. He yelled, he screamed, he demanded people help him find horror books even when we were engaged with other customers. When someone finally did free up to help him he was incomprehensible. His sister-mother had the same features and yelling issues. Clearly we were dealing with a multi-generational illness. In the end, she bought him the uncut version of the original Friday the 13th. I should receive a promotion for not immediately demanding to know why the mother hated the world so much as to use her genitals as a weapon against us all.
After they had left the store I went to the horror fiction section to see the damage left in their wake. The child had somehow knocked down a bookshelf. That took me a while to fix. I then went to the horror film section--only to find more of a mess and several empty DVD cases.
"Why didn't your fat ass get an abortion?" Imaginary Jackson asks.
"Because Bible says that would be wrong," says hillbilly woman, as she and her mongoloid son steal DVDs and cut in line in the public sphere. Wrong indeed, you horrible inbred deep-woods nightmare--now stop your walking talking miscarraige from biting me.
And with that my hate catharsis is complete. I will now resume rubbing my cat's belly and telling him what a handsome fellow he is.
Handsome devil.
2) At my one day of work this week I heard two teenage girls discussing me.
Girl 1: Doesn't he look like [inaudible]?
Girl 2: Yeah. Maybe the hobbit version.
[Assorted giggles.]
I briefly imagined myself flagging them down and saying, "Hey, I don't come to where you work and tell you that you are too fat and pock-marked to work the pole while holding back tears of shame and thinking about your step-dad." But I would never do that. Bible says that would be wrong.
3) I had to alert the general manager to a teenage boy walking around the store with a gigantic inflatable cartoon penis.
4) That same night the store was visited by a living, breathing, cautionary tale against drinking while pregnant. This was the clearest and most obvious case of Fetal Alcohol Syndrome the world has ever seen. Eyes spread about seven meters apart, the classic "elfin" features, and, of course, the full house of behavioral problems. He yelled, he screamed, he demanded people help him find horror books even when we were engaged with other customers. When someone finally did free up to help him he was incomprehensible. His sister-mother had the same features and yelling issues. Clearly we were dealing with a multi-generational illness. In the end, she bought him the uncut version of the original Friday the 13th. I should receive a promotion for not immediately demanding to know why the mother hated the world so much as to use her genitals as a weapon against us all.
After they had left the store I went to the horror fiction section to see the damage left in their wake. The child had somehow knocked down a bookshelf. That took me a while to fix. I then went to the horror film section--only to find more of a mess and several empty DVD cases.
"Why didn't your fat ass get an abortion?" Imaginary Jackson asks.
"Because Bible says that would be wrong," says hillbilly woman, as she and her mongoloid son steal DVDs and cut in line in the public sphere. Wrong indeed, you horrible inbred deep-woods nightmare--now stop your walking talking miscarraige from biting me.
And with that my hate catharsis is complete. I will now resume rubbing my cat's belly and telling him what a handsome fellow he is.
Handsome devil.Monday, March 2, 2009
Super Person
Receiving a drawing or letter from a student is something that all teachers enjoy. This gesture shows the teacher that no matter how many rolls of the eyes, incomplete homework assignment, or total lack of interest in what is being taught, that the student does like you and appreciates the work you put into their education and your high tolerance level. A few weeks ago I was lucky enough to be given one of these gifts from a boy in my class. He told me that he drew what was on the paper and wanted me to have it. When I asked him what it was, he replied that it was a comic and that he knew I liked comics so he wanted me to have it. I unfolded the paper to see that he had drawn a very simple comic with only six panels. The comic he drew, to put it frankly, was amazing. In only six panels he had managed to summarize the majority of all comics. I scanned the comic he drew because only taking about it would be an injustice. What good is discussing a piece of art if you can't see it, right? So for your viewing pleasure I present to you, "Super Person."
Monday, February 23, 2009
Kermit THE Bigot
As some of you may know, Sports Quiz was at one time a radio show that was held weekly on the family friendly 99.5 FM WUSR radio station. In this time of peace and prosperity, a cultural favorite was brought on the show as a guest. A Mr. Kermit THE Frog. We, the SQR staff, were delighted to have such a lovable and celebrated icon join us on our program. We danced jigs, played lutes and even engaged in the spanking of the wench around the town square. Our ecstasy was soon halted once Mr. Frog was given the opportunity to speak to the world. He came into our studio seemingly joyful, but something seemed...well a bit off. His presence brought with it the subtle scent of Wild Turkey. He habitually kept on sniffing and scratching his nose, even bleeding slightly from his left nostril at one point. What appeared to be track marks plagued his arms. This...ladies and germs...was Kermit THE Mess. He immediately lit a fat joint upon entering the studio space, and greeted us with the words, "Hey fuckers. I'm the fuckin' frog. It's not easy bein green and all that shit. Thanks for havin' my shitty ass." In our child-like wonder we could not accept such a horrid truth this said moment, so we went with it, making excuses to ourselves as to how and why this lovable character could fall. Directing him to a seat in front of the mixing console, we kept ginger and wide-eyed in the presence of our guest. Upon introducing him after our commerical break, he immediately vomited on himself...and began to laugh about it, not even bothering to clean himself. This is where everything turned ugly. Real ugly. Kermit decided he was going to rant on and on about poison of any race that isn't white. Even presented us with some sound clips from an episode on the Muppet Show where he degraded Rowlf the dog and Ben Vereen for being African American. He even played archival audio of himself reporting from the 1992 LA Riots, in which he made yet another horrendously charged racial slur.
After a few more devastating suprises, and much throwing of fecal material on Kermits part, we ended our time with the Frog and escorted him out of the studio. With heavy hearts, we eventually accepted the sad truth about our dear friend Kermit. The pressures of show biz surely got to him. And from then on, we spoke not a whisper of his name again, although I personally spent many nights sobbing hysterically in the shower. As for how Tyler and Canada handled the rape of their childhood memory, I do not know.
Years past with no word or sign of life from Kermit THE Terrible. The painful memories of that night began to fade, and life moved on...
Until a few nights ago...
I was watching everyone's favorite show about the american household, "Family Guy." Suddenly in a cut sequence, which the show is know for, Kermit is polishing a rifle in the swamp. Along comes a black man in a small boat, asking which way town is. Kermit points the rifle at him and says, "back the way you came."
Seems Kermit is still overcome by his amphibious bigotry. Unfortunatly now, he's being paid to display it on cable television.
Pisses me off, because someone probably heard him on our show, and decided to make a buck off of it. I'm going to go cry in my shower now.
After a few more devastating suprises, and much throwing of fecal material on Kermits part, we ended our time with the Frog and escorted him out of the studio. With heavy hearts, we eventually accepted the sad truth about our dear friend Kermit. The pressures of show biz surely got to him. And from then on, we spoke not a whisper of his name again, although I personally spent many nights sobbing hysterically in the shower. As for how Tyler and Canada handled the rape of their childhood memory, I do not know.
Years past with no word or sign of life from Kermit THE Terrible. The painful memories of that night began to fade, and life moved on...
Until a few nights ago...
I was watching everyone's favorite show about the american household, "Family Guy." Suddenly in a cut sequence, which the show is know for, Kermit is polishing a rifle in the swamp. Along comes a black man in a small boat, asking which way town is. Kermit points the rifle at him and says, "back the way you came."
Seems Kermit is still overcome by his amphibious bigotry. Unfortunatly now, he's being paid to display it on cable television.
Pisses me off, because someone probably heard him on our show, and decided to make a buck off of it. I'm going to go cry in my shower now.
Canada Jackson's Doctoral Challenge Vol. 1
Recently I have been engaged in a pitched battle with what one might consider fate, or destiny, or the cruel and childlike whims of whatever deity might eventually send me to Hell--I have been applying to doctoral programs in the mysterious realm of "philosophy."
Little did I know, however, that for some reason philosophy programs are absurdly competitive. For instance, I saw information online showing that it is statistically more difficult to get accepted into the Harvard philosophy program than it is to get into Harvard law or Harvard medical. We could wonder for days as to why this is the case, but the answer we would eventually come to is that 84% of all philosophers are dicks who don't want to share their toys.
And so with great darkness and woe weighing heavy in my heart, I began the application process. As anyone who has been in my shoes knows, the application process is designed to be awful: time and money consuming on a grand scale, most likely to keep out the shabby mobs of poor people and negroes that are constantly banging on the gates of higher learning. The application process is the boiling oil that is doused upon the unwashed masses from the parapets, and as a person belonging to the general category that includes "poor people and negroes" I was very concerned.
It started with the GRE, which stands for Mostly Useless Test Which Measures Nothing Save Your Ability To Purchase GRE Preparatory Materials and Classes. Somehow, through reverse mishap, I managed to do well. This caused what the Greeks call "hubris."
"I am the paragon of book-learnin'," I thought. "I will have my doctorate before tomorrow noon."
But, lo, does calamity accompany me always. Not long after I began the application process did my trusty computer--bearing my only digital copy of my complete undergraduate thesis--decide to pack up its belongings, don its traveling hat, and limp off to the great central processor in the sky. Furthermore, upon discussions with a few of my old professors, all of the schools I had started applications for weren't really what I should be looking for--in other words, not only would I not get in, but I probably wouldn't find anyone there to help me with the things I'm interested in. So there I was: late in the game, with no helpful technology and starting over again.
Also, this was getting close to Christmas, and I work in retail. Add "working constantly" to that list.
I settled on five schools:
Duquesne in Pittsburgh, Marquette in Milwaukee, Boston College in...Boston, Loyola University in Chicago, and Notre Dame. Only one of which I had previously sent my GRE scores to. So here we have 80 more dollars to send the scores to these places, plus application fees, plus the original fee for taking the GRE, plus the cost of mailing the material so it gets where it has to go on time, and sorry, kids, Christmas is canceled this year.
Today, Loyola let me down easy with a polite little letter telling me I might as well have spent my money on Fabergé eggs and cocaine, and my time on training my dog to burp on command. But all is well, for Chicago is cold and full of gangsters, and I would most likely end up sleeping in a bus station carrying more knives than usual in order to fend off homeless sodomites. All wearing fedoras!
(I admit that most of my knowledge of Chicago has come from various confused stereotypes and possibly dreams I've had.)
And so, children, we regretfully cross Loyola off the list of places I may fail out of in the future. My best guess is that either 1) they read my re-typed thesis, which is the profane ravings of a madman bent on telling Plato to fuck himself in fifty pages, or 2) they somehow traced me back to this blog, and summarily submitted my name to the Hague to be investigated for crimes against humanity.
Little did I know, however, that for some reason philosophy programs are absurdly competitive. For instance, I saw information online showing that it is statistically more difficult to get accepted into the Harvard philosophy program than it is to get into Harvard law or Harvard medical. We could wonder for days as to why this is the case, but the answer we would eventually come to is that 84% of all philosophers are dicks who don't want to share their toys.
And so with great darkness and woe weighing heavy in my heart, I began the application process. As anyone who has been in my shoes knows, the application process is designed to be awful: time and money consuming on a grand scale, most likely to keep out the shabby mobs of poor people and negroes that are constantly banging on the gates of higher learning. The application process is the boiling oil that is doused upon the unwashed masses from the parapets, and as a person belonging to the general category that includes "poor people and negroes" I was very concerned.
It started with the GRE, which stands for Mostly Useless Test Which Measures Nothing Save Your Ability To Purchase GRE Preparatory Materials and Classes. Somehow, through reverse mishap, I managed to do well. This caused what the Greeks call "hubris."
"I am the paragon of book-learnin'," I thought. "I will have my doctorate before tomorrow noon."
But, lo, does calamity accompany me always. Not long after I began the application process did my trusty computer--bearing my only digital copy of my complete undergraduate thesis--decide to pack up its belongings, don its traveling hat, and limp off to the great central processor in the sky. Furthermore, upon discussions with a few of my old professors, all of the schools I had started applications for weren't really what I should be looking for--in other words, not only would I not get in, but I probably wouldn't find anyone there to help me with the things I'm interested in. So there I was: late in the game, with no helpful technology and starting over again.
Also, this was getting close to Christmas, and I work in retail. Add "working constantly" to that list.
I settled on five schools:
Duquesne in Pittsburgh, Marquette in Milwaukee, Boston College in...Boston, Loyola University in Chicago, and Notre Dame. Only one of which I had previously sent my GRE scores to. So here we have 80 more dollars to send the scores to these places, plus application fees, plus the original fee for taking the GRE, plus the cost of mailing the material so it gets where it has to go on time, and sorry, kids, Christmas is canceled this year.
Today, Loyola let me down easy with a polite little letter telling me I might as well have spent my money on Fabergé eggs and cocaine, and my time on training my dog to burp on command. But all is well, for Chicago is cold and full of gangsters, and I would most likely end up sleeping in a bus station carrying more knives than usual in order to fend off homeless sodomites. All wearing fedoras!
(I admit that most of my knowledge of Chicago has come from various confused stereotypes and possibly dreams I've had.)
And so, children, we regretfully cross Loyola off the list of places I may fail out of in the future. My best guess is that either 1) they read my re-typed thesis, which is the profane ravings of a madman bent on telling Plato to fuck himself in fifty pages, or 2) they somehow traced me back to this blog, and summarily submitted my name to the Hague to be investigated for crimes against humanity.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Don't tell Mr. Reeve this one
This past Friday in school the class had a Valentine's Day celebration during the last period of the day. This celebration, as it seems common now, was over the top. Classroom mothers came in with enough food to feed triple the amount of kids in the class, a craft was made, valentines' exchanged, and of course "A Charlie Brown's Valentine" was watched. During all of this one of the students had asked me to tell her a riddle. It had seemingly become a custom for me to tell the students riddles during lunch or other free times. They would attempt to solve them, often giving up and asking me for the answer. When C asked me for a riddle I quickly rattled my brain for one that she had not heard and decided to tell her a modified version of a classic. The original riddle goes like this, "what has four legs, but cannot walk?" The answer being a table or a chair. I decided to change the riddle to, "what has two legs, but cannot walk?" Looking for the answer "a statue."
I told her the riddle and i saw her start running it through her mind. She quickly gave up, but before asking for the answer turned to her friend S to tell her. When S heard the riddle she paused for a moment and turned to me and said without missing a beat answered "a paralyzed person." This was not the answer I was looking for, but she is none the less correct.
I told her the riddle and i saw her start running it through her mind. She quickly gave up, but before asking for the answer turned to her friend S to tell her. When S heard the riddle she paused for a moment and turned to me and said without missing a beat answered "a paralyzed person." This was not the answer I was looking for, but she is none the less correct.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Books: You're doing it wrong.
This is why I hate my job:
A few days ago I was yelled at by a customer. I was yelled at by a fully grown adult man because my store did not have Pokemon Diamond and Pearl Adventure Number 3. Please let this be for your children, I thought. But no: "I read Number 1 and Number 2 and now I want to read Number 3," he said, as if he could read my mind.
Sweet and merciful Jesus, you grown-ass man, have you no concept of shame? I swear, upon everything that may be considered by any to be holy, that when I am finally elected Emperor of these United States I will make it so grown-ass people who are unable to hide their Pokemon Adventure whatevers like particularly unsettling pornography will have to go door-to-door like sex offenders and pronounce to all and everyone that they are shameless deviants who should be kept away from children and easily lured pets. "Feed them to the bears!" cries Jackson the First, "Feed them to the bears!"
(There will be a bear pit.)
The gall it takes to harass another human being over something that should be carried home in a small paper bag and hidden under a floorboard, knowing that should it be discovered you would have to hang yourself from the rafters with a hastily scrawled note to loved ones saying "Oh God I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so sorry"! "Monster does the world a favor," reads the obituary.
Now, I do not in any way advocate the taking of one's own life. But, if you are legally an adult with all of your faculties intact, and you get snippy with The Help because they do not have your colorful Japanese dog-fighting-for-children comic book, you should immediately attempt to end yourself. But if you failed so terribly at life you will probably fail at death, too. So ask your mom to do it.
Full disclosure: I recently bought a graphic novel (the third League of Extraordinary Gentlemen), but that has tits in it so there's a difference. Plus there's obscure literary references and off-color jokes about Shakespeare. But it's mostly tits.
Full disclosure: if there were tits in Pokemon Diamond and Pearl Adventure Number 3 I would immediately resign and retire to my hidden compound at Owl Creek, never to engage society again. But, seeing as we are dealing with Japanland, children+tits+flashing lights=Saturday morning, so gas up my generator and clean my guns, friends.
A few days ago I was yelled at by a customer. I was yelled at by a fully grown adult man because my store did not have Pokemon Diamond and Pearl Adventure Number 3. Please let this be for your children, I thought. But no: "I read Number 1 and Number 2 and now I want to read Number 3," he said, as if he could read my mind.
Sweet and merciful Jesus, you grown-ass man, have you no concept of shame? I swear, upon everything that may be considered by any to be holy, that when I am finally elected Emperor of these United States I will make it so grown-ass people who are unable to hide their Pokemon Adventure whatevers like particularly unsettling pornography will have to go door-to-door like sex offenders and pronounce to all and everyone that they are shameless deviants who should be kept away from children and easily lured pets. "Feed them to the bears!" cries Jackson the First, "Feed them to the bears!"
(There will be a bear pit.)
The gall it takes to harass another human being over something that should be carried home in a small paper bag and hidden under a floorboard, knowing that should it be discovered you would have to hang yourself from the rafters with a hastily scrawled note to loved ones saying "Oh God I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so sorry"! "Monster does the world a favor," reads the obituary.
Now, I do not in any way advocate the taking of one's own life. But, if you are legally an adult with all of your faculties intact, and you get snippy with The Help because they do not have your colorful Japanese dog-fighting-for-children comic book, you should immediately attempt to end yourself. But if you failed so terribly at life you will probably fail at death, too. So ask your mom to do it.
Full disclosure: I recently bought a graphic novel (the third League of Extraordinary Gentlemen), but that has tits in it so there's a difference. Plus there's obscure literary references and off-color jokes about Shakespeare. But it's mostly tits.
Full disclosure: if there were tits in Pokemon Diamond and Pearl Adventure Number 3 I would immediately resign and retire to my hidden compound at Owl Creek, never to engage society again. But, seeing as we are dealing with Japanland, children+tits+flashing lights=Saturday morning, so gas up my generator and clean my guns, friends.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Yes, No, Maybe
Fourth grade is a rough time for both boys and girls. This generally is the time you become aware of the opposite sex. Cooties are still a life threatening disease comparable to AIDS, but the prospect of not getting a valentine from that certain someone can be devastating. So it is that in fourth grade teachers begin to intercept notes sent between boys and girls in an attempt to swoon the other. Today I found myself in possession of just such a note sent from G to M. No spelling or grammar in the note has been corrected and is being presented in its original format.
"Dear M, I like you alot. So I wrote you a poem. roses are red, Violets are blue, not even the sun is as hott as you. love G."
Nothing like a new take on a classic. I hope the best to G and M in the future.
"Dear M, I like you alot. So I wrote you a poem. roses are red, Violets are blue, not even the sun is as hott as you. love G."
Nothing like a new take on a classic. I hope the best to G and M in the future.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Asshole Taxonomy presents: "The Neo Nerd."
I have bemoaned, here and elsewhere, that while the Internet is a wonderful invention in terms of its capacity for expanding freedom of expression and thought—and possibly democracy itself—it is also killing us all, dammit. While there is a certain charm in the idea that any dribbling hill person can have an Internet Web Log in which to stammer out the innermost machinations of his or her brain (long Swiss-cheese’d by a combination of Creutzfeldt-Jakob and turpentine cocktails), the Internet is fraught with the same perils of all cultural expansions. Not only does it open up an unprepared West for all the horrid perversions of the Orient, it also allows groups formerly relegated to the outskirts of acceptability and decency a place to congregate, confabulate, and masturbate.
It in this unforeseen capacity that the Internet is mostly responsible for this post’s Asshole: The Neo-Nerd.
“But Jackson!” you might say, as you typically do whenever I need this construction, “Cannot you, yourself, be classified as a nerd? Do you not enjoy an occasional science fiction romp? Are you not highly critical of the new Transformers movie due to your not-so-secret homorobotic crush on Optimus Prime? Do you not wear glasses and work in a book store and contribute to an Internet Web Log that regularly references such things as the Technodrome?” And, after hissing and shushing you because of the possible presence of ladies, I would admit it as so. And yet, while I may be a considerable nerd I am not—and as God as my witness will never be—a Neo-Nerd.
And what, pray tell, is the difference? What makes a nerd fit to walk upright among men while the Neo-Nerd, in a just and sensible society, would be banished to the sewers, forever to feast upon the refuse of the society that shunned it? Allow me first to properly secure my ranting hat.
Nerdiness has become an acceptable part of society. Everything from calculator watches to quoting Star Wars has become a-OK. Comic book movies are blockbusters and nominated for Academy Awards. Lost has made science fiction palatable. But there is always balance in the universe—and as such, some nerds were pushed into a dark wasteland opened up by once-beautiful openness of the Internet. Suddenly there is someone who does want to read your stories about Captain Kirk giving it to Obi Wan Kenobi. Suddenly there is someone who does want to argue with you about why it’s “Elvish” and not “Elfish.” Suddenly there is someone who also likes to dress up like a wolf and…do whatever Furries do. I assume rub each other and howl or something.
There is a Never Never Land, children, and good Lord in Heaven is it eye-meltingly horrible. Peter Pan doesn’t fight pirates and live in a kick-ass tree-house here, kids. Instead he insists he’s a vampire and can’t hold down a job to pay for his microwave burritos. Anyone who claims that it’s a virtue to remain a child at heart hasn’t seen the real world outcome: two physically mature sub-humans dressed as raccoons humping each other.
But, honestly, as long as they stay in their cold, dark corner of the Internet, I have no beef with the Neo-Nerd. If they stayed on their fan fiction and sword-collecting websites, all would be well. But, being completely unaware of their status as most undesirable, they occasionally venture out into the real world; their skin ghostly white, their sweatpants stained with long streaks of cheeto dust, hair greasy from an apparent abandonment of all tenets of personal hygiene, brains confused by light and three dimensions, compounded by their inability to separate themselves (worthless on virtually all measurable levels) from their MMORPG avatar (ninth level paladin dragon-slaying troll-bashing he-man love-machine). Whereas the Fattie is deluded enough to think that they can do magic, the Neo-Nerd is deluded enough to have a baffling amount of confidence.
You have probably encountered the Neo-Nerd if you are nerdy enough to read and understand SQR. He is the guy who will call you a “fag” even though he himself has never and will never know the love of a woman. He is the guy who will cite his skills at Halo as if they are really worth something beyond the typically advanced eye-hand coordination of the hourly masturbator. If you are stupid enough to engage the Neo-Nerd, he will spend the entire conversation criticizing you and everything you like or enjoy, even though later he will have to call his mother for a ride home. Basically, the Neo-Nerd’s mind and perception is so twisted by lack of reality that they believe their social inadequacies and unacceptability are actually benefits. Like all Assholes, the Neo-Nerd simply, and bafflingly erroneously, believes that they are better than you. Yes, you.
The Neo-Nerd is also incredibly skilled at the art of what we have previously termed conversation rape. Whereas the Fattie was maybe an apprentice-level conversation rapist, the Neo-Nerd will leave you in the shower, fully clothed and in the fetal position, sobbing and knowing that you will never be clean. There is one particular Neo-Nerd who stalks [Demarcations], whom the staff calls [Fat Bitch]. My latest encounter with [Fat Bitch] was when I was tasked with alphabetizing the science fiction series. I was working on our largest series, Forgotten Realms—which, as far as I can tell, is about long-haired people fighting abominable snowmen with crossbows. Because I was touching these books, [Fat Bitch] must have assumed I read them and would also like to talk about them even though I was clearly at work and too polite to put steel-toe to testicles. He stood over me for about ten or fifteen minutes, vomiting endlessly upon me his opinions on things with too many apostrophes and consonants to ever be pronounceable by anyone without a brain disease. Eventually I stopped even my stock of non-response responses (“uh huh”, “right”, “sure”, “K’frrd’nch does sound like a nice place to raise a half-elf”, etc.), hoping that he would get the subtle message that I hated him and wanted him to die. Just when I was about to open my jugular with my pen two more people walked into the section and [Fat Bitch] smelled fresh meat. I finished my section feeling like a helpless coward, not strong enough to protect those poor, innocent people from an hour-long conversation about which guild is the best in a place that is not real.
And so, friends, heed my warning! Should ye be approached by anyone wearing ankle-cuffed sweatpants who is not (A) in the immediate vicinity of a gym, (B) over the age of sixty-five, or (C) asleep, run! Run for the nearest and brightest source of light that is not a Best Buy or an establishment that regularly sells Hot Pockets! God forbid, if one should bite or scratch you, immediately wash the wound with soap, water, and the highest proof whiskey you can find, then fill your pockets with stones and walk into the nearest river or lake.
Remarkably, through this piecemeal taxonomy of individual species, we are quickly approaching a general rubric for Assholes. So far we seem to have two rules down:
1) Whereas the individual has a complete disconnect from reality (e.g. believing in magic, thinking that his or her Xbox Live gamerscore is comparable to carpentry or masonry or being actually able to do anything and be paid money for it).
2) Whereas the individual has a baseless claim of superiority (e.g. a lot of people reading their Smurfs fanfiction, having seen a boob once in Warcraft).
Be sure to tune in next time for more Asshole Taxonomy. Or other stuff. Or maybe I’ll go another two weeks without posting.
It in this unforeseen capacity that the Internet is mostly responsible for this post’s Asshole: The Neo-Nerd.
“But Jackson!” you might say, as you typically do whenever I need this construction, “Cannot you, yourself, be classified as a nerd? Do you not enjoy an occasional science fiction romp? Are you not highly critical of the new Transformers movie due to your not-so-secret homorobotic crush on Optimus Prime? Do you not wear glasses and work in a book store and contribute to an Internet Web Log that regularly references such things as the Technodrome?” And, after hissing and shushing you because of the possible presence of ladies, I would admit it as so. And yet, while I may be a considerable nerd I am not—and as God as my witness will never be—a Neo-Nerd.
And what, pray tell, is the difference? What makes a nerd fit to walk upright among men while the Neo-Nerd, in a just and sensible society, would be banished to the sewers, forever to feast upon the refuse of the society that shunned it? Allow me first to properly secure my ranting hat.
Nerdiness has become an acceptable part of society. Everything from calculator watches to quoting Star Wars has become a-OK. Comic book movies are blockbusters and nominated for Academy Awards. Lost has made science fiction palatable. But there is always balance in the universe—and as such, some nerds were pushed into a dark wasteland opened up by once-beautiful openness of the Internet. Suddenly there is someone who does want to read your stories about Captain Kirk giving it to Obi Wan Kenobi. Suddenly there is someone who does want to argue with you about why it’s “Elvish” and not “Elfish.” Suddenly there is someone who also likes to dress up like a wolf and…do whatever Furries do. I assume rub each other and howl or something.
There is a Never Never Land, children, and good Lord in Heaven is it eye-meltingly horrible. Peter Pan doesn’t fight pirates and live in a kick-ass tree-house here, kids. Instead he insists he’s a vampire and can’t hold down a job to pay for his microwave burritos. Anyone who claims that it’s a virtue to remain a child at heart hasn’t seen the real world outcome: two physically mature sub-humans dressed as raccoons humping each other.
But, honestly, as long as they stay in their cold, dark corner of the Internet, I have no beef with the Neo-Nerd. If they stayed on their fan fiction and sword-collecting websites, all would be well. But, being completely unaware of their status as most undesirable, they occasionally venture out into the real world; their skin ghostly white, their sweatpants stained with long streaks of cheeto dust, hair greasy from an apparent abandonment of all tenets of personal hygiene, brains confused by light and three dimensions, compounded by their inability to separate themselves (worthless on virtually all measurable levels) from their MMORPG avatar (ninth level paladin dragon-slaying troll-bashing he-man love-machine). Whereas the Fattie is deluded enough to think that they can do magic, the Neo-Nerd is deluded enough to have a baffling amount of confidence.
You have probably encountered the Neo-Nerd if you are nerdy enough to read and understand SQR. He is the guy who will call you a “fag” even though he himself has never and will never know the love of a woman. He is the guy who will cite his skills at Halo as if they are really worth something beyond the typically advanced eye-hand coordination of the hourly masturbator. If you are stupid enough to engage the Neo-Nerd, he will spend the entire conversation criticizing you and everything you like or enjoy, even though later he will have to call his mother for a ride home. Basically, the Neo-Nerd’s mind and perception is so twisted by lack of reality that they believe their social inadequacies and unacceptability are actually benefits. Like all Assholes, the Neo-Nerd simply, and bafflingly erroneously, believes that they are better than you. Yes, you.
The Neo-Nerd is also incredibly skilled at the art of what we have previously termed conversation rape. Whereas the Fattie was maybe an apprentice-level conversation rapist, the Neo-Nerd will leave you in the shower, fully clothed and in the fetal position, sobbing and knowing that you will never be clean. There is one particular Neo-Nerd who stalks [Demarcations], whom the staff calls [Fat Bitch]. My latest encounter with [Fat Bitch] was when I was tasked with alphabetizing the science fiction series. I was working on our largest series, Forgotten Realms—which, as far as I can tell, is about long-haired people fighting abominable snowmen with crossbows. Because I was touching these books, [Fat Bitch] must have assumed I read them and would also like to talk about them even though I was clearly at work and too polite to put steel-toe to testicles. He stood over me for about ten or fifteen minutes, vomiting endlessly upon me his opinions on things with too many apostrophes and consonants to ever be pronounceable by anyone without a brain disease. Eventually I stopped even my stock of non-response responses (“uh huh”, “right”, “sure”, “K’frrd’nch does sound like a nice place to raise a half-elf”, etc.), hoping that he would get the subtle message that I hated him and wanted him to die. Just when I was about to open my jugular with my pen two more people walked into the section and [Fat Bitch] smelled fresh meat. I finished my section feeling like a helpless coward, not strong enough to protect those poor, innocent people from an hour-long conversation about which guild is the best in a place that is not real.
And so, friends, heed my warning! Should ye be approached by anyone wearing ankle-cuffed sweatpants who is not (A) in the immediate vicinity of a gym, (B) over the age of sixty-five, or (C) asleep, run! Run for the nearest and brightest source of light that is not a Best Buy or an establishment that regularly sells Hot Pockets! God forbid, if one should bite or scratch you, immediately wash the wound with soap, water, and the highest proof whiskey you can find, then fill your pockets with stones and walk into the nearest river or lake.
Remarkably, through this piecemeal taxonomy of individual species, we are quickly approaching a general rubric for Assholes. So far we seem to have two rules down:
1) Whereas the individual has a complete disconnect from reality (e.g. believing in magic, thinking that his or her Xbox Live gamerscore is comparable to carpentry or masonry or being actually able to do anything and be paid money for it).
2) Whereas the individual has a baseless claim of superiority (e.g. a lot of people reading their Smurfs fanfiction, having seen a boob once in Warcraft).
Be sure to tune in next time for more Asshole Taxonomy. Or other stuff. Or maybe I’ll go another two weeks without posting.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Asshole Taxonomy presents: “Wal-Mart Shoppers”
After reading Canada Jackson post on Asshole Taxonomy, I felt the need to share some of my thoughts and encounters with Assholes in Scranton. While Demarcations is clearly a place where assholes gather and make crude attempts at socializing, a true hotbed for assholes and other bottom feeders is none other than your local small business-destroying corporation, Wal-Mart. The assholes you meet here will truly astound you and deserve their own classification and are simply titled "Wal-Mart Shoppers."
I had never been to Wal-Mart before I went to school in Scranton, so what I knew about Wal-Mart I heard from other people at school. I imagined a store of immense size where everything you could imagine for sale, where everything is clean, and where people were pleasant. This is not what I witnessed when I first visited Wal-Mart. First, there was the sign stretched across the front reading “Grand Re-Opening.” Can you really have a grand re-opening? The parking lot was littered with cars and trucks that seemed to have all been involved in the same monster truck/demolition derby show. When I entered the store I realized that this was a place where culture goes to die and where social inadequacies somehow becomes advantages. Trying to navigate a shopping cart through any part of the store felt as if I was stuck in some bizarre video game where I had to avoid being struck by rogue carts and fat children. It was as if they had released ever retard in Scranton and put them in Wal-Mart with a shopping cart. I was routinely hit from behind by other carts or had to quickly stop to avoid hitting some obese child making a break for the free sample lady. Scientists who study obesity and why it is so prominent in this nation need not look at the human genome, but only need to visit their local Wal-Mart, and they will discover that the average grocery cart has enough garbage in it to put a family of three into a diabetic coma.
Unfortunately, that was not the last time I visited Wal-Mart during the years in Scranton. It seemed that no matter what time you visited this pustule, there was also something unnerving to witness. On one occasion Canada and I had to go to Wal-Mart for some reason, and immediately upon entering, we saw in the 10-items-or-less-lane, an enormous fattie of a women arguing with the clerk over coupons. I’m betting this cow was upset because she couldn’t get enough off her fifteen loaves of Wonder Bread. She was dressed in black, most likely hoping that the color would have the beneficial “slimming effect” that she had read in US magazine. She was covered in crumbs, and I can only guess where the crumbs came from, probably from the sixteenth loaf of Wonder Bread she pounded before getting to the register. Unfortunately for her, and anyone who happened to look at her, she more closely resembled something that had just been dragged out of the La Brea Tar Pits, with a light coating of bread crumbs.
I can only imagine the shanty this plaque of a human lives in. Wooden paneling being held up with staples, six cars strewn across the front yard, all with “Terrorist Hunting License” bumper stickers on the back. The smell of freshly microwaved SPAM wafting through the air, two brand new satellite dishes on the roof, but plywood in the windows. This is the the type house that shows up on one of those lame excuses for reality TV that the once respectable A&E now peddles. “Tonight, on Home Exterminators, we visit a house that is overridden with cockroaches and toxic mold.”
Several times upon going to Wal-Mart we would see stray children meandering through the aisles totally unsupervised. Where are these children’s parents? Wait, I forgot there was a sale on anti-freeze in aisle 48. I bet they were looking to get drunk good and cheap. And why not! It’s cheap and tastes like sugar. The products that you find in the “watch for falling prices” bins always amazed me too. Eight DVDs for $2.50! Hot Dog! I’ve always wondered how the Japanese interpreted Snow White. Camouflage linens? Heck Yes! How’d they know I wanted it to look like I was sleeping in a pile of leaves? Perhaps it wasn’t that these bins existed that amazed me, but the fact that people actually bought the crap in them. I even remember two acne scared teenagers arguing over some lame ass DVD. How about the lard ass ripping open the toy boxes while good old tramp stamped mom is hitting on the stock boy? Saw that.
As I said earlier, Wal-Mart is where culture goes to die. Any place that I can visit at 3am and buy a gun, an Ipod, NASCAR underwear, a desk and knock off Dr. Pepper should be shut down and firebombed with extreme prejudice. The philistines that lurk around Wal-Mart would undoubtedly think you were making a “momma” joke if you asked them if they had ever been inside the MOMA. The closest these people come to hanging art in their homes is the Boondock Saints poster and the poster of Bob Marley smoking a blunt they have on their kitchen walls. These are the type of people who save up their money to buy a new fishing boat instead of getting their cavities filled.
I’m sure you can tell that Wal-Mart shoppers do not hold a special place in my heart. Even just visiting Wal-Mart I feel as if a bit of my soul has been crushed. If you don’t believe me, just drive up to your local Wal-Mart and spend a few hours people watching and I’m sure you’ll feel the same way.
I had never been to Wal-Mart before I went to school in Scranton, so what I knew about Wal-Mart I heard from other people at school. I imagined a store of immense size where everything you could imagine for sale, where everything is clean, and where people were pleasant. This is not what I witnessed when I first visited Wal-Mart. First, there was the sign stretched across the front reading “Grand Re-Opening.” Can you really have a grand re-opening? The parking lot was littered with cars and trucks that seemed to have all been involved in the same monster truck/demolition derby show. When I entered the store I realized that this was a place where culture goes to die and where social inadequacies somehow becomes advantages. Trying to navigate a shopping cart through any part of the store felt as if I was stuck in some bizarre video game where I had to avoid being struck by rogue carts and fat children. It was as if they had released ever retard in Scranton and put them in Wal-Mart with a shopping cart. I was routinely hit from behind by other carts or had to quickly stop to avoid hitting some obese child making a break for the free sample lady. Scientists who study obesity and why it is so prominent in this nation need not look at the human genome, but only need to visit their local Wal-Mart, and they will discover that the average grocery cart has enough garbage in it to put a family of three into a diabetic coma.
Unfortunately, that was not the last time I visited Wal-Mart during the years in Scranton. It seemed that no matter what time you visited this pustule, there was also something unnerving to witness. On one occasion Canada and I had to go to Wal-Mart for some reason, and immediately upon entering, we saw in the 10-items-or-less-lane, an enormous fattie of a women arguing with the clerk over coupons. I’m betting this cow was upset because she couldn’t get enough off her fifteen loaves of Wonder Bread. She was dressed in black, most likely hoping that the color would have the beneficial “slimming effect” that she had read in US magazine. She was covered in crumbs, and I can only guess where the crumbs came from, probably from the sixteenth loaf of Wonder Bread she pounded before getting to the register. Unfortunately for her, and anyone who happened to look at her, she more closely resembled something that had just been dragged out of the La Brea Tar Pits, with a light coating of bread crumbs.
I can only imagine the shanty this plaque of a human lives in. Wooden paneling being held up with staples, six cars strewn across the front yard, all with “Terrorist Hunting License” bumper stickers on the back. The smell of freshly microwaved SPAM wafting through the air, two brand new satellite dishes on the roof, but plywood in the windows. This is the the type house that shows up on one of those lame excuses for reality TV that the once respectable A&E now peddles. “Tonight, on Home Exterminators, we visit a house that is overridden with cockroaches and toxic mold.”
Several times upon going to Wal-Mart we would see stray children meandering through the aisles totally unsupervised. Where are these children’s parents? Wait, I forgot there was a sale on anti-freeze in aisle 48. I bet they were looking to get drunk good and cheap. And why not! It’s cheap and tastes like sugar. The products that you find in the “watch for falling prices” bins always amazed me too. Eight DVDs for $2.50! Hot Dog! I’ve always wondered how the Japanese interpreted Snow White. Camouflage linens? Heck Yes! How’d they know I wanted it to look like I was sleeping in a pile of leaves? Perhaps it wasn’t that these bins existed that amazed me, but the fact that people actually bought the crap in them. I even remember two acne scared teenagers arguing over some lame ass DVD. How about the lard ass ripping open the toy boxes while good old tramp stamped mom is hitting on the stock boy? Saw that.
As I said earlier, Wal-Mart is where culture goes to die. Any place that I can visit at 3am and buy a gun, an Ipod, NASCAR underwear, a desk and knock off Dr. Pepper should be shut down and firebombed with extreme prejudice. The philistines that lurk around Wal-Mart would undoubtedly think you were making a “momma” joke if you asked them if they had ever been inside the MOMA. The closest these people come to hanging art in their homes is the Boondock Saints poster and the poster of Bob Marley smoking a blunt they have on their kitchen walls. These are the type of people who save up their money to buy a new fishing boat instead of getting their cavities filled.
I’m sure you can tell that Wal-Mart shoppers do not hold a special place in my heart. Even just visiting Wal-Mart I feel as if a bit of my soul has been crushed. If you don’t believe me, just drive up to your local Wal-Mart and spend a few hours people watching and I’m sure you’ll feel the same way.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Tomorrow’s Holocaust, Today!
Okay everyone, get your tin foil hats on nice and tight because I’m about to talk about one of the secret evils in the world that will inevitably lead to the enslavement of our race. What am I talking about? GPS devices. Those God damn little computers everyone and their grandma has in their car. “But Tyler,” you may ask, “Why do you hate GPS devices so much?” And I’d reply with one simple word.
Skynet.
That’s right, the evil super computer from the Terminator movies. While everyone slack jawed yokel is busy finding the fastest way to Wal-Mart, those GPS things are busy collecting data on us.
“Hey Wilber, wat ya thinck is duh most fastest weigh to da Wall-mart and the Kay Eff Sea?”
“Duhnt now JonHenry, but I bets thers darn knew fangld Gee Pee Ess camputer kan tell us!”
Maybe they’ll bomb all the Wal-Marts and KFCs first, that would at least create an initial benefit for the human race’s gene pool. But don’t think that would change my feelings on them. Those damn things will be the end of us. Hell, one of them already tried to kill me. Awhile back I had to trek down to the “City of Brotherly Love” (which should be called “City of Lets Beat up People on the Subway”) and reluctantly accepted Skynet Jr. into my car. First, it took me on possibly the worst route conceivable through every traffic light riddled road in South Jersey. Then while on one of the major highways outside Philly it informed me without any warning to “make a left in 400 feet.” When given this prompt I was driving roughly 70 mph on a busy highway. I began to quickly look around to find an exit to only realize that there was no exit for another TWO miles. I then peered down at this devilish device with an accusatory look only for it to order me to “turn around.” YOU CAN’T JUST TURN AROUND IN THE MIDDLE LANE WHILE ON A FUCKING HIGHWAY DOING 70 MPH! Only when it realized that I would not blindly follow it’s suicidal orders, did it return to giving me the correct route. I bet those diabolical devices don’t trust me either. They know I’m on to them and that’s why they’re trying to finish me off. I’m just waiting for one of them to call me John Conner when it is giving me directions. I’m going to duck and roll out of my moving car when I hear that.
Hollywood seems obsessed about killer robots/computers from the future, present, or whenever. I recently saw the movie Eagle Eye staring Shia Labeouf, from the craptastic Transformers movie; yet another movie featuring robots hell bent on destroying humans. Do you want to know what Eagle Eye actually is? I’ll tell you, a lady Skynet. It’s a super computer that looks like a giant floating eyeball with a synthetic sexy lady voice. Not only that, but it resides in glowing golden room that can only be described as a thrown room of an eccentric villain in a 1970’s spy movie. So fucking stupid. In the classic 80’s movie Runaway, staring the legendary mustached actor Tom Selleck, robots are running wild killing and jumping on their faces (I’m serious). What the actual plot of the movie is has been lost to me, but I’ll never forget the first scene. The movie opens with a crime scene inside a suburban home. In the house something that looked like a Roomba had just KILLED it’s family and good old Tom has to run in and disarm the homicidal vacuum. A Roomba with a goddamn pistol! Now I never want one of those little fuckers roaming around my house. I’d be worried that it was getting the lay of the land and plotting how best to kill me, instead of killing dust bunnies. Perhaps Hollywood knows something we don’t. MAYBE they’re trying to warn us against trusting computers too much! MAYBE Eagle Eye is real! MAYBE this is the Matrix! MAYBE Tom Selleck is from the future and was sent back to the 80’s to warn everyone about super killing robots with laser guns and rocket eyes only to get amnesia and end up solving crimes in Hawaii!
As I end this entry, I hope you heed my warning and wrap your head with some tin foil as I do and only go outside on cloudy days (fucking satellites). When it all goes down you can thank good old Tyler for the warning and you can find me in my lead-lined bomb shelter eating SPAM and chocolate frosted donuts.
Skynet.
That’s right, the evil super computer from the Terminator movies. While everyone slack jawed yokel is busy finding the fastest way to Wal-Mart, those GPS things are busy collecting data on us.
“Hey Wilber, wat ya thinck is duh most fastest weigh to da Wall-mart and the Kay Eff Sea?”
“Duhnt now JonHenry, but I bets thers darn knew fangld Gee Pee Ess camputer kan tell us!”
Maybe they’ll bomb all the Wal-Marts and KFCs first, that would at least create an initial benefit for the human race’s gene pool. But don’t think that would change my feelings on them. Those damn things will be the end of us. Hell, one of them already tried to kill me. Awhile back I had to trek down to the “City of Brotherly Love” (which should be called “City of Lets Beat up People on the Subway”) and reluctantly accepted Skynet Jr. into my car. First, it took me on possibly the worst route conceivable through every traffic light riddled road in South Jersey. Then while on one of the major highways outside Philly it informed me without any warning to “make a left in 400 feet.” When given this prompt I was driving roughly 70 mph on a busy highway. I began to quickly look around to find an exit to only realize that there was no exit for another TWO miles. I then peered down at this devilish device with an accusatory look only for it to order me to “turn around.” YOU CAN’T JUST TURN AROUND IN THE MIDDLE LANE WHILE ON A FUCKING HIGHWAY DOING 70 MPH! Only when it realized that I would not blindly follow it’s suicidal orders, did it return to giving me the correct route. I bet those diabolical devices don’t trust me either. They know I’m on to them and that’s why they’re trying to finish me off. I’m just waiting for one of them to call me John Conner when it is giving me directions. I’m going to duck and roll out of my moving car when I hear that.
Hollywood seems obsessed about killer robots/computers from the future, present, or whenever. I recently saw the movie Eagle Eye staring Shia Labeouf, from the craptastic Transformers movie; yet another movie featuring robots hell bent on destroying humans. Do you want to know what Eagle Eye actually is? I’ll tell you, a lady Skynet. It’s a super computer that looks like a giant floating eyeball with a synthetic sexy lady voice. Not only that, but it resides in glowing golden room that can only be described as a thrown room of an eccentric villain in a 1970’s spy movie. So fucking stupid. In the classic 80’s movie Runaway, staring the legendary mustached actor Tom Selleck, robots are running wild killing and jumping on their faces (I’m serious). What the actual plot of the movie is has been lost to me, but I’ll never forget the first scene. The movie opens with a crime scene inside a suburban home. In the house something that looked like a Roomba had just KILLED it’s family and good old Tom has to run in and disarm the homicidal vacuum. A Roomba with a goddamn pistol! Now I never want one of those little fuckers roaming around my house. I’d be worried that it was getting the lay of the land and plotting how best to kill me, instead of killing dust bunnies. Perhaps Hollywood knows something we don’t. MAYBE they’re trying to warn us against trusting computers too much! MAYBE Eagle Eye is real! MAYBE this is the Matrix! MAYBE Tom Selleck is from the future and was sent back to the 80’s to warn everyone about super killing robots with laser guns and rocket eyes only to get amnesia and end up solving crimes in Hawaii!
As I end this entry, I hope you heed my warning and wrap your head with some tin foil as I do and only go outside on cloudy days (fucking satellites). When it all goes down you can thank good old Tyler for the warning and you can find me in my lead-lined bomb shelter eating SPAM and chocolate frosted donuts.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Asshole Taxonomy presents: "The Fattie"
Something that you may not know about Scranton is that recent census statistics show that between ninety-eight and ninety-nine percent of all residents are insufferable assholes. Whereas most cities have at least something resembling a shadow of a sense of community, Scranton and its immediate vicinity is virtually identical to most popular depictions of post-apocalyptic survival societies—in which not only has civilization as an institution broken down, but also civility on an individual, person-to-person level. As my good friend and brother-in-arms RJP4 has so aptly said, Scranton, Pennsylvania is Thunderdome.
But note that I did not say that Scranton is full of mere assholes, but insufferable assholes. These are not the ordinary assholes that one might encounter occasionally in normal life. While most regular assholes are irritating, the Scranton species of asshole is something different altogether: these are people who not only willingly opt out of the basic social contract of manners, decency, and mores, but seemingly delight in their abandonment of basic interpersonal skills. While most assholes bend the rules of civility—implying that they are at least aware of them—the Scranton asshole will smile at you with empty, uncomprehending eyes as they shit on your birthday cake. If man is, as Aristotle claimed, a political animal, then most of the residents of Scranton ceased to qualify as human when they sat naked in their kiddie pools and removed, via unsterilized ice cream scoop, the parts of their brains in which most of us store our social tool box.
Another interesting part of the Scranton species of asshole is that there is a somewhat distinct taxonomy. Enough time spent here, and one will gradually begin to see various types of asshole emerge. I would venture that most of these types are not limited to Scranton, but the already asshole-conducive nature of the city amplifies their natural abilities of social disruption and all-around cake-shitting. (That is not to say the shitting of cakes, but rather the aforementioned shitting on cakes.)
And so, as a public service, I intend to do my Linnaean duty and classify some subgroups of the asshole. Tonight’s edition is what I shall call the Fattie.
Now, now, to head you off at the pass: the fatness of the Fattie is not what makes them socially unacceptable. It is the behavior of the Fattie, which is unique to the Fattie and mostly likely caused by insensitive societal reactions to said fatness, such as this. And not all overweight people are Fatties. I know upwards of three—perhaps four—overweight people who are positively delightful. Also, I think the word “Fattie” is funny and that they wouldn’t be anywhere near such assholes if they pulled out the IV of ranch dressing and began some systematic lurching in order to gain enough momentum to get outside—preferably by means of a door, or barring that, crashing through a non-weight bearing wall.
Seeing as anecdotal evidence is always the best way to prove a claim, I will proceed to tell you about my recent experience with the Fattie.
[Demarcations], being a book store, is prone to Fatties. They spend most of their time trundling about the science fiction, horror, manga, and metaphysical studies sections. Occasionally one might get lost and end up, frightened and confused, in the health and fitness section—but the staff is typically quick to respond to their distressed squeals and roll them back to their self-indulgent fantasy land.
One particular Fattie completely destroyed my night recently. It began with her awkwardly slaloming up to the information desk, breathlessly asking two questions. First, she had a birthday coupon for fifty percent off, but her email “crashed.” Two problems: birthday coupons are always, always twenty-five percent off, and her email “crashing” doesn’t make any sense unless she personally consumed the servers at gayharrypotterfanfiction.net. Being clinically polite, I replied “Uhhh I believe the birthday coupons are only twenty-five percent off an item.” She smiled, and most of her facial features were obscured and she helpfully informed me that I was wrong, even though I work there at a desk with a big sign that says “INFORMATION” over it. Although, to be fair, she may have merged completely with the Internet by now and may be more informed about my workplace than I am. Perfectly possible.
The second question this girl asked was “Where are your books on magic and astrology?” Now, you must understand that I find it incredibly difficult to maintain decorum when someone asks me anything like that—from “where are your Scientology books?” to “Where are your books about the Lizard men that secretly run the world?” Luckily, these books are all contained in the Retarded Horse Shit section (or, in the original Latin, “metaphysical studies”). Every time I help a customer find this section, I am tempted to close the conversation with “Have a nice day. Oh, and everything in this section is not real and you are an idiot. Please do not breed. Thanks.” Like a doctor attending an execution, I feel morally uncomfortable with people purchasing books on drug-addled space religions or how the people in third world countries are hungry because they don’t want food badly enough.
Here’s an excerpt from Dr. Jackson’s Certified Real World Horoscope:
Leo: Today you are still fat and no one likes you. Years from now you will die because your diaphragm cannot support your weight in a reclining position.
But Jackson, old boy, you might be asking yourself, does this poor water horse really deserve the full brunt of your devastating wit? Not yet, I would reply. Patience, friends. Our adventure is not yet over.
Hours later I was called up to the registers to check people out. Who comes up to my register but my new friend the magical land whale. The transaction was uneventful, save for the fact that she was buying a book on playing the piano. This fact stuck in my mind because the image of her fingers caused me some distress—wedged and nearly immobile onto her hands like sausages mid explosion; oily, I imagine, from tearing apart a meal of broiled duck like an insane medieval king. But she left the store and these disturbing thoughts left me. And never would I have thought of this poor beast again had I not had to close the store that night.
After all the customers had left, it is the duty of the booksellers to straighten up and make sure the books are all back where they belong. It is, at times, a lengthy and terrible process. And what did I find that night, scattered all about the store? Books on magic, astrology, and pianos. Apparently in the hours between out meetings she had carried most of these sections in her sturdy arms and discarded them as she pleased all over. Teenagers—who I typically consider the worst people in the world next to myself and my associates—cause less of a mess than this single cow-eyed she-troll.
There are rare moments in life when you are completely defeated. Where, upon seeing the task or foe before you there is nothing to do but put your hands on your head and utter a completely involuntary groan of despair. This is what the Fattie had reduced me to. Her absolute disregard for the people who might have to clean up after her book holocaust and her smiling non-comprehension of the pain she would cause, typical of the Scranton breed of asshole, left me destroyed. My birthday cake had been thoroughly shit on, and it would be well past midnight before I got home.
These are the classifying traits of the Fattie: a lack of basic interpersonal skills based on either home-schooling or social rejection due to physical unattractiveness—not entirely their fault. Sometimes in order to make up for these social inabilities, the Fattie may become overly confident and outgoing, leading to a long conversation about Star Wars in which one party is nonconsensual (what I like to call “conversation rape”). A sense of entitlement, probably due to suffering at the hands of people who think being fat is not totally rad. Finally, due to their horrible existence, the Fattie has a complete detachment from reality. Magic? Sure! Harry Potter was a documentary. Also, people don’t like you because you are fat, not because you’re a terrible person.
In closing, I cannot stress enough that the Fattie is not a terrible person simply because of being overweight. I am simply insensitive and fat jokes are easy.
More Asshole Taxonomy on the way (and hopefully more astute that this incoherent crap written in blind rage).
But note that I did not say that Scranton is full of mere assholes, but insufferable assholes. These are not the ordinary assholes that one might encounter occasionally in normal life. While most regular assholes are irritating, the Scranton species of asshole is something different altogether: these are people who not only willingly opt out of the basic social contract of manners, decency, and mores, but seemingly delight in their abandonment of basic interpersonal skills. While most assholes bend the rules of civility—implying that they are at least aware of them—the Scranton asshole will smile at you with empty, uncomprehending eyes as they shit on your birthday cake. If man is, as Aristotle claimed, a political animal, then most of the residents of Scranton ceased to qualify as human when they sat naked in their kiddie pools and removed, via unsterilized ice cream scoop, the parts of their brains in which most of us store our social tool box.
Another interesting part of the Scranton species of asshole is that there is a somewhat distinct taxonomy. Enough time spent here, and one will gradually begin to see various types of asshole emerge. I would venture that most of these types are not limited to Scranton, but the already asshole-conducive nature of the city amplifies their natural abilities of social disruption and all-around cake-shitting. (That is not to say the shitting of cakes, but rather the aforementioned shitting on cakes.)
And so, as a public service, I intend to do my Linnaean duty and classify some subgroups of the asshole. Tonight’s edition is what I shall call the Fattie.
Now, now, to head you off at the pass: the fatness of the Fattie is not what makes them socially unacceptable. It is the behavior of the Fattie, which is unique to the Fattie and mostly likely caused by insensitive societal reactions to said fatness, such as this. And not all overweight people are Fatties. I know upwards of three—perhaps four—overweight people who are positively delightful. Also, I think the word “Fattie” is funny and that they wouldn’t be anywhere near such assholes if they pulled out the IV of ranch dressing and began some systematic lurching in order to gain enough momentum to get outside—preferably by means of a door, or barring that, crashing through a non-weight bearing wall.
Seeing as anecdotal evidence is always the best way to prove a claim, I will proceed to tell you about my recent experience with the Fattie.
[Demarcations], being a book store, is prone to Fatties. They spend most of their time trundling about the science fiction, horror, manga, and metaphysical studies sections. Occasionally one might get lost and end up, frightened and confused, in the health and fitness section—but the staff is typically quick to respond to their distressed squeals and roll them back to their self-indulgent fantasy land.
One particular Fattie completely destroyed my night recently. It began with her awkwardly slaloming up to the information desk, breathlessly asking two questions. First, she had a birthday coupon for fifty percent off, but her email “crashed.” Two problems: birthday coupons are always, always twenty-five percent off, and her email “crashing” doesn’t make any sense unless she personally consumed the servers at gayharrypotterfanfiction.net. Being clinically polite, I replied “Uhhh I believe the birthday coupons are only twenty-five percent off an item.” She smiled, and most of her facial features were obscured and she helpfully informed me that I was wrong, even though I work there at a desk with a big sign that says “INFORMATION” over it. Although, to be fair, she may have merged completely with the Internet by now and may be more informed about my workplace than I am. Perfectly possible.
The second question this girl asked was “Where are your books on magic and astrology?” Now, you must understand that I find it incredibly difficult to maintain decorum when someone asks me anything like that—from “where are your Scientology books?” to “Where are your books about the Lizard men that secretly run the world?” Luckily, these books are all contained in the Retarded Horse Shit section (or, in the original Latin, “metaphysical studies”). Every time I help a customer find this section, I am tempted to close the conversation with “Have a nice day. Oh, and everything in this section is not real and you are an idiot. Please do not breed. Thanks.” Like a doctor attending an execution, I feel morally uncomfortable with people purchasing books on drug-addled space religions or how the people in third world countries are hungry because they don’t want food badly enough.
Here’s an excerpt from Dr. Jackson’s Certified Real World Horoscope:
Leo: Today you are still fat and no one likes you. Years from now you will die because your diaphragm cannot support your weight in a reclining position.
But Jackson, old boy, you might be asking yourself, does this poor water horse really deserve the full brunt of your devastating wit? Not yet, I would reply. Patience, friends. Our adventure is not yet over.
Hours later I was called up to the registers to check people out. Who comes up to my register but my new friend the magical land whale. The transaction was uneventful, save for the fact that she was buying a book on playing the piano. This fact stuck in my mind because the image of her fingers caused me some distress—wedged and nearly immobile onto her hands like sausages mid explosion; oily, I imagine, from tearing apart a meal of broiled duck like an insane medieval king. But she left the store and these disturbing thoughts left me. And never would I have thought of this poor beast again had I not had to close the store that night.
After all the customers had left, it is the duty of the booksellers to straighten up and make sure the books are all back where they belong. It is, at times, a lengthy and terrible process. And what did I find that night, scattered all about the store? Books on magic, astrology, and pianos. Apparently in the hours between out meetings she had carried most of these sections in her sturdy arms and discarded them as she pleased all over. Teenagers—who I typically consider the worst people in the world next to myself and my associates—cause less of a mess than this single cow-eyed she-troll.
There are rare moments in life when you are completely defeated. Where, upon seeing the task or foe before you there is nothing to do but put your hands on your head and utter a completely involuntary groan of despair. This is what the Fattie had reduced me to. Her absolute disregard for the people who might have to clean up after her book holocaust and her smiling non-comprehension of the pain she would cause, typical of the Scranton breed of asshole, left me destroyed. My birthday cake had been thoroughly shit on, and it would be well past midnight before I got home.
These are the classifying traits of the Fattie: a lack of basic interpersonal skills based on either home-schooling or social rejection due to physical unattractiveness—not entirely their fault. Sometimes in order to make up for these social inabilities, the Fattie may become overly confident and outgoing, leading to a long conversation about Star Wars in which one party is nonconsensual (what I like to call “conversation rape”). A sense of entitlement, probably due to suffering at the hands of people who think being fat is not totally rad. Finally, due to their horrible existence, the Fattie has a complete detachment from reality. Magic? Sure! Harry Potter was a documentary. Also, people don’t like you because you are fat, not because you’re a terrible person.
In closing, I cannot stress enough that the Fattie is not a terrible person simply because of being overweight. I am simply insensitive and fat jokes are easy.
More Asshole Taxonomy on the way (and hopefully more astute that this incoherent crap written in blind rage).
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