Hello folks, D-Rock here! It's been a while, I know, and although none of you out there are reading this anymore, I thought I'd post something anyway. (I don't have my own blog, and I have a secret, sexual desire to see the Sports Quiz Radio Blog have success -- seriously, I 'jerk it' to the idea . . . or do I? Either way, I've had Dutch potatoes on the brain since algebra times.) Anyway --
We, as lovers of pop-culture, find ourselves at the upcoming close of something near and dear to my heart, and maybe yours as well -- Chris Nolan's 'Dark Knight' Trilogy. (I would say Batman, but I prefer him to be known by the aforementioned.) I've seen both the Prologue and the first full length trailer for 'The Dark Knight Rises', via the wondrous bootleg world that is the 'inter-webs.' I don't like to get emotional, especially on the something as 'emotion-less' as the Sports Quiz diaries, but I must say that a journey; a film series that has been with me for the better part of my adult-life, is now drawing to it's close. I can't deny it, nor would I want to. Sad as it is, I must respect that a 'story' has touched me so deeply, as all good stories do for us, and that they all must end. . . .
I believed in Batman when I was 3-years-old. I drew pictures of him; my mother put them up on our refrigerator. They were, as all kids' drawing are, hokey, circular-faced, and sausage-fingered. But even from those early, Adam West-inspired days, I knew that Batman stood for something more than most of our comic book heroes do (Spiderman and Supe excluded.) I felt something when it came to the 'idea' of what Batman is! Even in those days of Adam West re-runs, there was something about the character that struck a nerve in my 3-year-old heart, and maybe, even then, I knew what darkness was . . . .
Then, something magical happened. I saw a preview on our old TV for 'Batman'. Michael Keaton was The Batman; Jack Nicholson was The Joker. I was five. I constantly asked my mom if we could go see it in the theater. She always responded with "no." She thought it'd appeared to be "too dark for kids." She was partially right, but mostly wrong: my first memory of buying a VHS tape was in Hills Department Store, when my dad bought my brother and I the VHS of 'Batman'. We obsessed over that tape. We watched it every night. We bought the 'Batman' role-play sets, and chased each other around the living room, pretending that we lived in that world, where the Bat was the Hero.
I 'got' it. I got what Batman was: He was a brooding hero who saved the oppressed. He overcame his own nightmare, utilized it, and dealt his own suffering out to those who inflicted pain upon others who were oppressed. The Bat, The Darkness . . . the Monster who taps into the nightmares of those who are afraid. I loved that. I still love it. Fear Fighting Fear -- that's The Batman.
No hero comes without their own flaws, and no hero comes without their own dark story; that's why The Batman intrigued me so much, I think, as a kid. I must've known that; respected it. Pain is paramount in the decisions we make. Pain shapes our life-decisions; cursing us! It's 50/50 when you're flawed. You can go one way as easily as you go the other, as some of you may know. Batman chose the right way -- he sacrificed himself for the well being of others because he 'could.' On one hand, he did it for himself, ('to avenge his parents' death'), but ultimately, his story becomes much more than that. He did it because he was ultimately decent; he did it because he's fucked up, and never stopped being that child on Crime Alley, kneeling before his dead parents. He does it because he's screwed up, and the only way to fight the nightmare, is to BECOME the nightmare . . .
Chris Nolan's Batman Trilogy ends this summer, a trilogy which began when I was living in New Jersey as a wide-eyed young man, and continued when I lived in my first apartment, with a fantastic young woman who has since existed my story. . .
I'm not the man I was, back then. I'm horribly jaded, despicable, and downright belligerent now . . . but I still 'believe' in The Batman. I'll be 28-years-old when Bane breaks the Bat; I'll never forget the 5-year-old I once was, when the Cape and Cowl meant something to me. It still does; always will. The Night Will Rise . . . The Dark Knight Rises.
http://www.thedarkknightrises.com/
Batman-4-Life, Bitches
Friday, December 16, 2011
Monday, April 4, 2011
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
OPERATION: CANADA ACTION TEAM GO SAVE RECOVER
My hot damn!!! Long time, no banter cats and kittens!! DRock here once again. I'm writing because of the disturbing state of affairs that our dear friend Canada is involved in. His last post made me cry tears of immense pain so horrible, that I finished a bottle of wild turkey while simultaneously eating a tub of cookie dough ice cream....I then proceeded to vomit on myself for a few hours in a sugar/booze blackout extravaganza.
I think I'm should have gone to the hospital. Aaaaanyway....
I write to rally you all together in a mob of salvation!!! We must save Canada from the clutches of Midwest, 90 degree, Call of Duty, burnt egg slavery!!! Now, here's the plan for...
________OPERATION: CANADA ACTION TEAM GO SAVE RECOVER__________
If you're with me, then I need us all to pull together to acquire these items...
1. Helicopter
2. Zip-line and grappling gun
3. Supersoaker guns for all involved in the mission
4. An ample amount of Rice Dream (this is what will fill the super soakers)
5. Stereo system for the 'copter
6. 2 mounted speakers for the 'copter that when blasted to the extreme will have the capacity to deafen a neighborhood into oblivion.
7. Protective ear wear so that our brains don't explode upon usage of the 'copter speakers
The helicopter will be used to swoop in without warning just above Canada's apartment complex. We then fire grappling hook attached to zip line near a point of easy access, such as a window. This is when the fun comes! The theme song of Sports Quiz, Prince's "Let's Go Crazy," will be jacked to the high heavens over the helicopter's stereo system. The idea here is to create a blistering situation in which the roommate of Canada will have no comprehension. Smoke grenades would work just as well...but this is more fun and appropriate, I think. As the song begins, our agents (read...us) will zip line down to said entry way. Hopefully the sound waves from the Squiggled One's Purple Rain surprise will break the glass of our window entry, and we can enter the apartment in a blaze of glory. Now...what about these super soakers filled with Rice Dream, you ask?? Since it would be wrong of us to actually kill anyone on this mission, we have to settle for the next best thing in the line of defense. Anyone who tries to stop us from acquiring the target (Canada) will be immediately engaged with a stream of horrifying, rice-based milk product. This will stop anyone in their tracks and induce vomiting almost instantly.
Now, in the haze of confusion and heat (I'm sure it will be 90 degrees or above) we rapidly and uniformly seek out Canada and grab him as soon as he's located. Whomever reaches him first will immediately get him out of the building and into the chopper, which will at this time will be waiting on whatever nearby patch of open ground the pilot finds. As soon as Canada is escorted out and is secure, the rest of us then will back out of the area and all head for the chopper. As soon as we're clear of the area, "Let's Go Crazy" can be turned off, and we can ditch all the Rice Dream out of the helicopter so as to avoid rice induced vapor poisoning.
Now, the only question is...How do we acquire any of these things?
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Graduate School Mini Post
Since we last talked, children, I have moved to an undisclosed Midwestern hellhole, attending an undisclosed Midwestern university's MA program in philosophy. I am also responsible for teaching a section of an Intro course composed of roughly 35 bovine, glassy-eyed, mouth-breathing future drop outs.
I am also currently living in an apartment complex and rooming with a 20 year old Saudi Arabian guy who plays Call of Duty at all possible times, yells in Arabic while playing said game--behavior which, among other things, drove out our other room mate (another 20 year old, from the suburbs of Pittsburgh, who couldn't figure out how not to burn eggs).
This post is just to let you all know that I just had to turn down the heat in the apartment. It's about 50 degrees outside right now, and my room mate had the thermostat set to 90.
I.
I don't even.
What.
I am also currently living in an apartment complex and rooming with a 20 year old Saudi Arabian guy who plays Call of Duty at all possible times, yells in Arabic while playing said game--behavior which, among other things, drove out our other room mate (another 20 year old, from the suburbs of Pittsburgh, who couldn't figure out how not to burn eggs).
This post is just to let you all know that I just had to turn down the heat in the apartment. It's about 50 degrees outside right now, and my room mate had the thermostat set to 90.
I.
I don't even.
What.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Stupid News (Squirrels)
Stupid News! I was walking around in the Hill Section of beautiful Scranton, Pennsylvania when something caused me to stop abruptly. There, not three feet away from me on the sidewalk was a squirrel drinking from a puddle.
Anyone who knows anything about squirrels knows that there are certain rules about squirrels. And anyone who knows me knows that I have a bad history with squirrels--because, I believe, I broke one of those rules. The big rule. I broke the big rule of squirrels and it has caused me trouble ever since.
The general rules of squirrels are about squirrel things and squirrel activities that humans are not allowed to see. Basically any activity that is not scampering and climbing trees or being exploded in the road is verboten. The BIG rule of squirrels is, however, that you never see a baby squirrel in the wild. You only see big red ones, big gray ones, or big black ones (Canada)--but never babies. Unfortunately, last year, while walking around Lake Scranton, I saw a baby squirrel. And things haven't been right since.
I continued my walks around the lake--sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. Whenever I walked the lake alone I would encounter a squirrel. It would sit in the middle of the trail (a paved road), stare at me, and not run away. There are two things in the universe that will frighten anyone, anywhere: toilet water rising when it should for all reasons not be, and a squirrel that does not run away when you approach. There are laws in the universe, and one of them is that squirrels dart off and scramble up a tree within a certain diameter. But on every occasion that I walked the lake by myself, I would encounter a brazen game of squirrel intimidation. I had to walk to the edge of the road to avoid the squirrel. I--a human being that has mastered fire and knows limited mathematics--I had to give wide swath to an animal whose Hitler equivalent is a nice set of whitewalls. And it watched me with every step I took. Every time. Every time I was alone.
And this brings us to yesterday, the end of my brief winter reprieve from their bushy tailed revenge for rocking the boat. It was a threat, plain and simple. The thing--the creature--sitting there sipping gently from a puddle. Eying me up. Well within the well-known squirrel-run-away radius. Close enough to touch.
You may not realize the unspoken (but perfectly clear) statement in this act. I was walking home. They know where I live.
Anyone who knows anything about squirrels knows that there are certain rules about squirrels. And anyone who knows me knows that I have a bad history with squirrels--because, I believe, I broke one of those rules. The big rule. I broke the big rule of squirrels and it has caused me trouble ever since.
The general rules of squirrels are about squirrel things and squirrel activities that humans are not allowed to see. Basically any activity that is not scampering and climbing trees or being exploded in the road is verboten. The BIG rule of squirrels is, however, that you never see a baby squirrel in the wild. You only see big red ones, big gray ones, or big black ones (Canada)--but never babies. Unfortunately, last year, while walking around Lake Scranton, I saw a baby squirrel. And things haven't been right since.
I continued my walks around the lake--sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. Whenever I walked the lake alone I would encounter a squirrel. It would sit in the middle of the trail (a paved road), stare at me, and not run away. There are two things in the universe that will frighten anyone, anywhere: toilet water rising when it should for all reasons not be, and a squirrel that does not run away when you approach. There are laws in the universe, and one of them is that squirrels dart off and scramble up a tree within a certain diameter. But on every occasion that I walked the lake by myself, I would encounter a brazen game of squirrel intimidation. I had to walk to the edge of the road to avoid the squirrel. I--a human being that has mastered fire and knows limited mathematics--I had to give wide swath to an animal whose Hitler equivalent is a nice set of whitewalls. And it watched me with every step I took. Every time. Every time I was alone.
And this brings us to yesterday, the end of my brief winter reprieve from their bushy tailed revenge for rocking the boat. It was a threat, plain and simple. The thing--the creature--sitting there sipping gently from a puddle. Eying me up. Well within the well-known squirrel-run-away radius. Close enough to touch.
You may not realize the unspoken (but perfectly clear) statement in this act. I was walking home. They know where I live.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Comments on watching the first episode of something called "Galaxy Express 999"
I found this in Hulu. I decided to watch it with no understanding of context and give a running commentary. Enjoy.
OK, we're starting this off right. We are immediately presented with the baffling logo for what I can only presume is the production company for this particular piece of Japanonsense: a starry background, glimpsed briefly, as we see a cartoon cat's head, grinning widely and toothlessly in the way only the severely, blissfully retarded can. Said horrifying cat has something on or about its head. Perhaps an old fashioned floppy hat. It also has some mysterious business around the back of the head. Perhaps a friendly waving paw? Or maybe a feather from his hat? Or maybe a piece of the cat's spine, still jutting out from the gaping, unseen decapitation wound? Ah, no answer, for as soon as the ghoulish feline visage appears, it is gone again, leaving only unanswered questions and subconscious nightmare cues.
The Galaxy Express, I presume, mere moments from demise as it is sure to plummet from these unfinished tracks, killing many in the city below. Remember, kids, Japanese cities are made of wood and paper, and are thusly not particularly resistant to multi-ton falling metal anacrhonisms. OH SHIT THE TRAIN CAN FLY.
Not only within the atmosphere of Earth, we see, but also out into the soulless void of space. The title begins to make some small amount of sense--at least, when I ignore the fact that I am currently seeing a train, smoke billowing forth, press onward into the uncharted heavens. A male Japanese voice sings to me as the eponymous vehicular abomination cruises through asteroids and around the moon. Perhaps he is trying to explain to me why any of this is happening.
Now there are more trains flying around like prog rock album covers, whistling and leaving glittery comet tails, making me wonder: if they are designed to function in the vacuum of space via their own propulsion, why do they need so many wheels? The credits end, the singing Japanese man has failed to make me understand. I am afraid.
The show begins, and we are informed that it is 2221 AD, and though "great advances have been made," we are still using technology that is, in this narrative, roughly four hundred years old.
Ah! Megalopolis, joining its sister cities Metropolis, Citytown, and Location USA. Also, how can something be "extremely modern"?
As the narrator babbles about temperature control, a long-haired woman turns around and waves, revealing a terrible robot John Lennon face with a glowing hole in the forehead. This, I imagine, is what will come for Mark David Chapman when he dies. The back of her knees also share the same unholy orifice. The narrator says that the wealthy trade their bodies for mechanical ones, which beats my habit of trading my body for money.
The poor of Megalopolis live in a green wire frame and rubble hellscape where shirts have been uninvented and dream of the mythical (perhaps?) GALAXY EXPRESS 999 that can take them to get a free robot body or something. They look skyward in either hope of the hallucinogenic spasms of their decaying brains. This it the American Dream.
A mother and child walking through the winter wastes--how did such a dainty frame birth such an abnormally large head? I bet she's just a mess down there. Ruined. Destroyed. It becomes clear that she is trying to get her hydrocephalic monster child onto the possibly mythical train--thus proving the unfortunate genetic factor in cases of mental disability. Their brief moment of warmth and laughter is shattered by the senseless and horrific violence that runs like a rhythm through Japanese children's programming. While my mind tries to comprehend the idea of cyborgs on horseback, the mother of the water-headed ape child is murdered--and, we discover, she was naked under her coat. We are less than ten minutes in and a dead mother has been sexualized. I am unsure if I will last the full 25. It also occurs to me that, really, hunting a woman and child for sport in an open field can't be much fun at all.
The child is saved by a blonde white woman who lives alone in the forbidding, violence-filled wasteland, who seems to busy herself solely with spying on suffering travelers while withholding aid. A deviant such as herself, I imagine her cruelty orgasms are prolonged and unsettling. Her relationship with the child is immediately inappropriate. The child angrily breaks his host's china and makes demands. The pervert-woman saves his life, then offers him his entire life's desire (a pass on the magical space train!) and he behaves like a stripper's boyfriend. Deformed and ungrateful. In my day just one of those was enough to get a child left outside the city gates to be eaten by wild dogs.
As you contemplate the child's rudeness, don't miss how he trembles with an adorable rage, then grabs a rifle to go slaughter his enemies. The horrible blond woman does nothing to stop him, even though the child is either going to be brutally killed, commit several acts of murder, or both.
The ad bumps are inscrutable and disturbing.
The evil cyclops discusses the taxidermy of the mother when the hydrocephalic hero bursts in and mows them down. The head cyborg begs for his life, and the boy brutally beats his head in with the rifle butt, then torches the place. The protagonist becomes a child murderer. Not a murderer of children, but a child who has murdered. That, I think, is somehow worse.
The police chase him because he is a murderer. He is rescued again by his blonde benefactor who probably became familiar with his bathing suit area while he was unconscious.
In the city the child stares cheerily out the window, reflecting on his status as the angel of death. The blond woman is taking a shower and talking to someone with a male voice, and the child (confused and probably aroused) chooses to investigate. Oh, no, there's no man in there. Just a naked, showering, adult female who doesn't seem shamed at all to be in this situation.
The police arrive! The woman is immediately in her coat, apparently taking a free-balling lesson from the mongoloid's dead mother. They escape and fly over cartoon Auschwitz.
I am less amazed by the final revelation of the space train than I am by the apparent fact that Megalopolis seems to have no residents besides the poor naked people, the two protagonists, and the two cops that chased them. No, wait, the fact that a steam locomotive with opening windows is still somehow spaceworthy is pretty amazing.
The line "The next time you see it, it might not be with human eyes" makes me want to read my children Lovecraft bedtime stories.
MIND BOGGLING END CREDITS IMAGERY!
GALAXY EXPRESS 999!
(Preview footage of the next episode: a dead girl in a hole on Mars and more child gunplay)
OK, we're starting this off right. We are immediately presented with the baffling logo for what I can only presume is the production company for this particular piece of Japanonsense: a starry background, glimpsed briefly, as we see a cartoon cat's head, grinning widely and toothlessly in the way only the severely, blissfully retarded can. Said horrifying cat has something on or about its head. Perhaps an old fashioned floppy hat. It also has some mysterious business around the back of the head. Perhaps a friendly waving paw? Or maybe a feather from his hat? Or maybe a piece of the cat's spine, still jutting out from the gaping, unseen decapitation wound? Ah, no answer, for as soon as the ghoulish feline visage appears, it is gone again, leaving only unanswered questions and subconscious nightmare cues.
The Galaxy Express, I presume, mere moments from demise as it is sure to plummet from these unfinished tracks, killing many in the city below. Remember, kids, Japanese cities are made of wood and paper, and are thusly not particularly resistant to multi-ton falling metal anacrhonisms. OH SHIT THE TRAIN CAN FLY.
Not only within the atmosphere of Earth, we see, but also out into the soulless void of space. The title begins to make some small amount of sense--at least, when I ignore the fact that I am currently seeing a train, smoke billowing forth, press onward into the uncharted heavens. A male Japanese voice sings to me as the eponymous vehicular abomination cruises through asteroids and around the moon. Perhaps he is trying to explain to me why any of this is happening.
Now there are more trains flying around like prog rock album covers, whistling and leaving glittery comet tails, making me wonder: if they are designed to function in the vacuum of space via their own propulsion, why do they need so many wheels? The credits end, the singing Japanese man has failed to make me understand. I am afraid.
The show begins, and we are informed that it is 2221 AD, and though "great advances have been made," we are still using technology that is, in this narrative, roughly four hundred years old.
Ah! Megalopolis, joining its sister cities Metropolis, Citytown, and Location USA. Also, how can something be "extremely modern"?
As the narrator babbles about temperature control, a long-haired woman turns around and waves, revealing a terrible robot John Lennon face with a glowing hole in the forehead. This, I imagine, is what will come for Mark David Chapman when he dies. The back of her knees also share the same unholy orifice. The narrator says that the wealthy trade their bodies for mechanical ones, which beats my habit of trading my body for money.
The poor of Megalopolis live in a green wire frame and rubble hellscape where shirts have been uninvented and dream of the mythical (perhaps?) GALAXY EXPRESS 999 that can take them to get a free robot body or something. They look skyward in either hope of the hallucinogenic spasms of their decaying brains. This it the American Dream.
A mother and child walking through the winter wastes--how did such a dainty frame birth such an abnormally large head? I bet she's just a mess down there. Ruined. Destroyed. It becomes clear that she is trying to get her hydrocephalic monster child onto the possibly mythical train--thus proving the unfortunate genetic factor in cases of mental disability. Their brief moment of warmth and laughter is shattered by the senseless and horrific violence that runs like a rhythm through Japanese children's programming. While my mind tries to comprehend the idea of cyborgs on horseback, the mother of the water-headed ape child is murdered--and, we discover, she was naked under her coat. We are less than ten minutes in and a dead mother has been sexualized. I am unsure if I will last the full 25. It also occurs to me that, really, hunting a woman and child for sport in an open field can't be much fun at all.
The child is saved by a blonde white woman who lives alone in the forbidding, violence-filled wasteland, who seems to busy herself solely with spying on suffering travelers while withholding aid. A deviant such as herself, I imagine her cruelty orgasms are prolonged and unsettling. Her relationship with the child is immediately inappropriate. The child angrily breaks his host's china and makes demands. The pervert-woman saves his life, then offers him his entire life's desire (a pass on the magical space train!) and he behaves like a stripper's boyfriend. Deformed and ungrateful. In my day just one of those was enough to get a child left outside the city gates to be eaten by wild dogs.
As you contemplate the child's rudeness, don't miss how he trembles with an adorable rage, then grabs a rifle to go slaughter his enemies. The horrible blond woman does nothing to stop him, even though the child is either going to be brutally killed, commit several acts of murder, or both.
The ad bumps are inscrutable and disturbing.
The evil cyclops discusses the taxidermy of the mother when the hydrocephalic hero bursts in and mows them down. The head cyborg begs for his life, and the boy brutally beats his head in with the rifle butt, then torches the place. The protagonist becomes a child murderer. Not a murderer of children, but a child who has murdered. That, I think, is somehow worse.
The police chase him because he is a murderer. He is rescued again by his blonde benefactor who probably became familiar with his bathing suit area while he was unconscious.
In the city the child stares cheerily out the window, reflecting on his status as the angel of death. The blond woman is taking a shower and talking to someone with a male voice, and the child (confused and probably aroused) chooses to investigate. Oh, no, there's no man in there. Just a naked, showering, adult female who doesn't seem shamed at all to be in this situation.
The police arrive! The woman is immediately in her coat, apparently taking a free-balling lesson from the mongoloid's dead mother. They escape and fly over cartoon Auschwitz.
I am less amazed by the final revelation of the space train than I am by the apparent fact that Megalopolis seems to have no residents besides the poor naked people, the two protagonists, and the two cops that chased them. No, wait, the fact that a steam locomotive with opening windows is still somehow spaceworthy is pretty amazing.
The line "The next time you see it, it might not be with human eyes" makes me want to read my children Lovecraft bedtime stories.
MIND BOGGLING END CREDITS IMAGERY!
GALAXY EXPRESS 999!
(Preview footage of the next episode: a dead girl in a hole on Mars and more child gunplay)
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.
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