Hey team so I kicked the ever-living shit out of swine flu today. I definitely got it, that's for sure. I suppose my invincible immune system was slightly tarnished by the fact that I was run over by a fast-moving car yesterday and despite being a man of steel and beating the shit out of that unsuspecting car door with my knee my knee got a considerable amount of skin torn away and he ran over my foot and cracked some of my toenails (fuck yeah man I get my foot freakin' run over and all it does is crack two of my nails? I should be fist-fighting volcanoes or superman with this power).
So obviously my body has to swarm the fuck out of those injuries and murder the hell out of the bacteria and they didn't have chance but I'm sure they were in cahoots with swine flu since it snuck in while my beastly immune system absolutely ruined those lousy bacteria. But then it's like "oh shit we got swine flu" because the amount of sickly horrible people around me somehow outgunned my perfect hygiene and my weakened immune system.
So this is living proof the swine flu is a danger, nay, a menace to society - if I, a healthy strapping 98 year old with a weakened immune system can get it, who is safe? Who is safe I ask you?
But yeah back to kicking the shit out of it. When I woke up this morning I had a grade-A, magnitude 11 headache from hell and I could tell my immune system was kicking the shit out of everything it was near. I felt groggy and horrible, I had chills, and a powerful fever. It was an uphill battle as swine flu had already taken hold and I basically sat on my ass for 3 hour staring at the ceiling. I didn't move, or do much. I had a muffin.
Then around lunch I decided enough was enough and it was time to bring in the cavalry. I got myself a huge honking block of Colby jack cheese (about 2 pounds) and at all of it in one badass sitting. That's right, I ate about 2000 calories of cheese in about a half hour but I wasn't done. I got myself some strawberry-kiwi juice and some orange juice and some V8 juice. It was time for some motherfucking vitamins. I downed them all in an instant.
I could feel that I was doing better but it wasn't time to quit. The swine flu was drowning and sinking in a tidal wave of killer vitamins in a manner I imagine was quite similar to many of those corny medication commercials about taking care of foot fungus.
So I started yelling. And I mean, yelling yelling. I screamed at the swine flu at the top of my lungs and it was cowering in the corner of my darkest location of my body. It was preparing for a counter-attack, it was time to end this.
I gathered up my battlecruisers and stationed all my siege tanks around his base. He had a tone of spore and sunken colonies left so I couldn't get too close, I had to take my time. He was sending zerglings towards my position like crazy as well as a bunch of mutalisks but they were no chance against my now invincible stronghold. He was out of crystals and vespine gas.
All of a sudden, Captain Vitamins and General Minerals came flying in with hoards of archons and zealots, reaming their ground forces. My battlecruisers move in.
It's all over! Swine flu defeated! 3 hours, no ill-effects, I'm all better. Fuck yeah.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
I should probably respect Native culture or something
Greetings fellows my name is Moleké of the Rain People and I am here to pass along my story so that it will never be forgotten in the histories.
It was a night of fog and dew with the shadows dancing favorably in the mist. The elder priests of our tribe told us the day of harvest grew near and that we should prepare our ritual sacrifice to appease the Gods of the Rain. They told me, "Moléké, you must be the one to prepare our ritual meal. Go now into the forest of the Rain and return to us with the food so that the Gods do not torment our harvest."
This was a very important task; if the feast is not performed according to our strictest ancestral traditions, the Gods will unleash their horrible plague upon the country. And it was I, Mõléké, who was given this great responsibility.
However I must tell you now before I continue my sad tale that I did not succeed in my mission. As the dawn of the harvest grew near I was unable to gather enough food from the unforgiving and dangerous forest and I wept for ages as I watched my people starve and die. This is the sad story of Mõ‡éké, the last of the Rain People.
I went into the forest 72 hours before the harvest was to begin. There it was that I found our most prized game, the wandering head of lettuce. The lettuce is the most important part of our ritual salad but also one of the most dangerous to hunt. I, MÕ¦ék¥é, am a skilled hunter and warrior but I have not often tamed wild lettuce.
It was a small herd but a formidable one with many sentries and powerful nodes to alarm the entire herd of any approaching danger. I used my training to the fullest extent but the slightest ruffle of leaves from my approach sent them scattering and klaxons blared across the forest louder than the greatest drums of my people.
I was ashamed that I could not catch the lettuce. It was required for our rituals and the great ceremony and feast but I could not even catch a single head of the wild beast. I hung my head low in disappointment and saw several stems of broccoli growing from the forest floor.
Now broccoli is not a traditional part of the great feast but the Gods would not know the difference. Broccoli, being one of the least intelligent and dim-witted of all the wild beasts in the forest, would not require as precise and delicate hands as lettuce or the wily tomatoes.
In hunting tradition, I, Andrew, very quickly set up a hammock to indicate the ease at which I felt I could capture the animal. I then sped after the broccoli in hot pursuit across the swamp. I pursued a small crowd and finally, after several hours of life's most dangerous game, I corned the wild creatures in the small of a tree. I scooped them into my pouch of bear skin and hollered triumphantly.
However, the Gods were not happy with our sacrifice. The harvest came and went, but everything we touched turned rotten and fell off of the stems. Great globs of beef lay strew across the land rotting as my people stared out and wept. It was a time of great sorrow.
I, Moe, was exiled back into the horrible jungle for failing to appease the Gods. That is where I still live. However, the Gods decreed that I was never to perish and that I, Sancho, should watch the torments of my people for all eternity as they starved and died in many horrible ways.
That is my story. I was Moleké of the Rain People, I am now simply Moleké, the exile of a great people I once served.
It was a night of fog and dew with the shadows dancing favorably in the mist. The elder priests of our tribe told us the day of harvest grew near and that we should prepare our ritual sacrifice to appease the Gods of the Rain. They told me, "Moléké, you must be the one to prepare our ritual meal. Go now into the forest of the Rain and return to us with the food so that the Gods do not torment our harvest."
This was a very important task; if the feast is not performed according to our strictest ancestral traditions, the Gods will unleash their horrible plague upon the country. And it was I, Mõléké, who was given this great responsibility.
However I must tell you now before I continue my sad tale that I did not succeed in my mission. As the dawn of the harvest grew near I was unable to gather enough food from the unforgiving and dangerous forest and I wept for ages as I watched my people starve and die. This is the sad story of Mõ‡éké, the last of the Rain People.
I went into the forest 72 hours before the harvest was to begin. There it was that I found our most prized game, the wandering head of lettuce. The lettuce is the most important part of our ritual salad but also one of the most dangerous to hunt. I, MÕ¦ék¥é, am a skilled hunter and warrior but I have not often tamed wild lettuce.
It was a small herd but a formidable one with many sentries and powerful nodes to alarm the entire herd of any approaching danger. I used my training to the fullest extent but the slightest ruffle of leaves from my approach sent them scattering and klaxons blared across the forest louder than the greatest drums of my people.
I was ashamed that I could not catch the lettuce. It was required for our rituals and the great ceremony and feast but I could not even catch a single head of the wild beast. I hung my head low in disappointment and saw several stems of broccoli growing from the forest floor.
Now broccoli is not a traditional part of the great feast but the Gods would not know the difference. Broccoli, being one of the least intelligent and dim-witted of all the wild beasts in the forest, would not require as precise and delicate hands as lettuce or the wily tomatoes.
In hunting tradition, I, Andrew, very quickly set up a hammock to indicate the ease at which I felt I could capture the animal. I then sped after the broccoli in hot pursuit across the swamp. I pursued a small crowd and finally, after several hours of life's most dangerous game, I corned the wild creatures in the small of a tree. I scooped them into my pouch of bear skin and hollered triumphantly.
However, the Gods were not happy with our sacrifice. The harvest came and went, but everything we touched turned rotten and fell off of the stems. Great globs of beef lay strew across the land rotting as my people stared out and wept. It was a time of great sorrow.
I, Moe, was exiled back into the horrible jungle for failing to appease the Gods. That is where I still live. However, the Gods decreed that I was never to perish and that I, Sancho, should watch the torments of my people for all eternity as they starved and died in many horrible ways.
That is my story. I was Moleké of the Rain People, I am now simply Moleké, the exile of a great people I once served.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Guys you are not going to believe this
Hey team so I was sitting with one of my homies and eating dinner, right? We are eating at a fast food establishment of unknown quality and origins and I didn't order all that much because for lunch I had a coupon for two Quiznos sandwiches for the price of one and gobbled down two large ham and Swisses because they were delicious.
So anyway back to my previous example. We are eating and my homie has a lot of food to eat and he is munching his way along and I am munching my way along munch munch munch munch chomp chomp chomp chomp yum yum yum chomp chomp chomp chomp chomp munch yum chomp yum munch chomp repeat. He gets up and says "I'll be right back" with no indication as to where he might be going or what he might be doing.
I finish my food and sit back satisfied as my arteries slowly harden into a greasy muck and start screaming for mercy. "Ow lawdy," they say, "whay you done gone ate that food?" They say. I ignore my arteries.
15 minutes pass. My friend is still not back. Where the hell did he go?
I am perplexed. I get up, throw my food away, and start looking around. He's not in the main dining area, it's just one room and not hard to scan quickly. I go outside. Nope, not in the parking lot. I go inside and check the bathroom. Both stalls are open, one guy is at a urinal. I do my business, then leave. I check the main dining area again.
He's gone! Vanished into thin fucking air. Oh well, no loss.
So I just went on home. I don't know what happened to him. I think I will call the milk company and get his picture up on their cartons.
So anyway back to my previous example. We are eating and my homie has a lot of food to eat and he is munching his way along and I am munching my way along munch munch munch munch chomp chomp chomp chomp yum yum yum chomp chomp chomp chomp chomp munch yum chomp yum munch chomp repeat. He gets up and says "I'll be right back" with no indication as to where he might be going or what he might be doing.
I finish my food and sit back satisfied as my arteries slowly harden into a greasy muck and start screaming for mercy. "Ow lawdy," they say, "whay you done gone ate that food?" They say. I ignore my arteries.
15 minutes pass. My friend is still not back. Where the hell did he go?
I am perplexed. I get up, throw my food away, and start looking around. He's not in the main dining area, it's just one room and not hard to scan quickly. I go outside. Nope, not in the parking lot. I go inside and check the bathroom. Both stalls are open, one guy is at a urinal. I do my business, then leave. I check the main dining area again.
He's gone! Vanished into thin fucking air. Oh well, no loss.
So I just went on home. I don't know what happened to him. I think I will call the milk company and get his picture up on their cartons.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Brush your teeth, brush your teeth, brush your goddamn teeth
Hey team so last night I was minding my own business brushing my teeth like I always do because only rapists and serial killers don't brush their teeth. So anyway I was following my usual routine - I squeezed some toothpaste out on the brush, right, then put the brush gingerly down on the counter while I put the cap back on the toothpaste.
FUCK I DROPPED THE CAP and it goes swirling into the sink and I try to grab it while, at the same time, knocking over my toothbrush and getting a big glob of blue watery muck on the counter. Just fantastic. So I clean all of that up and try again.
I did my normal routine again but this time the cap was much too slippery and FUCK I DROPPED THE CAP and it goes swirling into the sink and I try to grab it but forget I am holding a toothbrush and it drops dramatically and horribly to the floor.
"Why did you do that Cavity Goon?" I asked him
"I was trying to destroy Atlantis" he replied
"Oh no I forgot" and then I turned and yelled to my roommate "hey why do we have a magic bathroom floor that seems really inconvenient maybe like a table or something on your desk"
And God replied "whoops my bad bro"
FUCK I DROPPED THE CAP and it goes swirling into the sink and I try to grab it while, at the same time, knocking over my toothbrush and getting a big glob of blue watery muck on the counter. Just fantastic. So I clean all of that up and try again.
I did my normal routine again but this time the cap was much too slippery and FUCK I DROPPED THE CAP and it goes swirling into the sink and I try to grab it but forget I am holding a toothbrush and it drops dramatically and horribly to the floor.
"Why did you do that Cavity Goon?" I asked him
"I was trying to destroy Atlantis" he replied
"Oh no I forgot" and then I turned and yelled to my roommate "hey why do we have a magic bathroom floor that seems really inconvenient maybe like a table or something on your desk"
And God replied "whoops my bad bro"
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
It is time for the secrets about time travel to come out
Hey team sorry I haven't updated in a week but you must understand I've been busy traveling through time so for me it's been almost 3 years and you would think I would write something during that time but no.
Anyway yes it is time for the secrets to come out. No more conspiracy theories and idiots on youtube giving their suggestions about how it would cause a "paradocks" because you would change things and then they wouldn't be changed in reality but it is or then maybe they'll quote some TV show to show how much they know about time travel. As a certifiable time traveler myself I am the utmost authority on the subject except for J.K. Rowling who very nearly gave away our secrets which is why all the characters had plot convienent amnesia about that stupid hourglass thing because us time travelers gave her a piece of our mind (why we didn't go back and change the book, I'll never know)
But yes back to time travel. We are still not sure what causes it, or, moreinasmuch, why some people have the innate ability to time travel. There is no such thing as a time travel machine, it will never work no matter how many flux capacitors you shove into there. Believe me, we tried and get this - Ikea wouldn't even refund our money.
It's really a pretty pleasant experience to travel through time. It's pretty much exactly like flying in first class on any major airlines, although I suppose that is not a good analogy because you would be too poor to understand it. Think of it this way. It's like you're out working in the field and your boss comes around and sprays you with a hose so you cool down. Wouldn't that just be the best, 1930s era migrant worker?
One of my favorite hobbies as a time traveler is to go back in time and teach people from all periods of time to mix cement and build roads. So far we are doing just okay, but eventually my antics will continue to spawn impassably complex cities filled completely with streets that criss-cross randomly, stop at bizarre locations, or even are up in the air! It'd be like everywhere was Boston.
Most people are wrong about how time travel could impact the present. You can do whatever the hell you want and nothing really gets screwed up. I mean, just last week I took a trip to England in 1066 and punched William of Normandy right in the face. He was so pissed off but I just disappeared back to my present time and nothing had changed other than the fact that both of my parents are now volcanoes.
When you hang around the time-traveler's club, though, they give you Time'b'rite, which is a marvelous spray cleaner that reverses any ill-effects of your fun. It's a simple compound of Lysol and antimatter that really gets the job done. I just sprayed a couple times on my new volcano parents and BOOM the sun exploded. It sometimes takes a couple of tries. So for those of you who were awake last week at 5:32 am I'm sorry I scared you.
The time-traveler's club is a lot like any other really nice exclusive country club. We have our own golf course, but it's pretty pointless since everyone gets a perfect 18 on it every time anyway. We like to take mass trips and show up in strange eras as tourists with ugly pants and fanny packs and cameras taking pictures of all the astounded Greek philosophers and dinosaurs. Unfortunately, this backfired slightly on us when we single-handedly caused the fashion vortex of the 1980s.
We are behind every UFO sighting ever. Bigfoot was simply Andy running across a big, open field and several forested areas with Bigfoot on a leash from when we brought him back as a souvenir (just as a bit of a heads up, don't stay alive longer than 2058 - it's not pretty).
Hmm... I think that about wraps it up. There's really not much more to time travel than that. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to end this blog post the same way Bill Nye ended every single one of his shows.
Anyway yes it is time for the secrets to come out. No more conspiracy theories and idiots on youtube giving their suggestions about how it would cause a "paradocks" because you would change things and then they wouldn't be changed in reality but it is or then maybe they'll quote some TV show to show how much they know about time travel. As a certifiable time traveler myself I am the utmost authority on the subject except for J.K. Rowling who very nearly gave away our secrets which is why all the characters had plot convienent amnesia about that stupid hourglass thing because us time travelers gave her a piece of our mind (why we didn't go back and change the book, I'll never know)
But yes back to time travel. We are still not sure what causes it, or, moreinasmuch, why some people have the innate ability to time travel. There is no such thing as a time travel machine, it will never work no matter how many flux capacitors you shove into there. Believe me, we tried and get this - Ikea wouldn't even refund our money.
It's really a pretty pleasant experience to travel through time. It's pretty much exactly like flying in first class on any major airlines, although I suppose that is not a good analogy because you would be too poor to understand it. Think of it this way. It's like you're out working in the field and your boss comes around and sprays you with a hose so you cool down. Wouldn't that just be the best, 1930s era migrant worker?
One of my favorite hobbies as a time traveler is to go back in time and teach people from all periods of time to mix cement and build roads. So far we are doing just okay, but eventually my antics will continue to spawn impassably complex cities filled completely with streets that criss-cross randomly, stop at bizarre locations, or even are up in the air! It'd be like everywhere was Boston.
Most people are wrong about how time travel could impact the present. You can do whatever the hell you want and nothing really gets screwed up. I mean, just last week I took a trip to England in 1066 and punched William of Normandy right in the face. He was so pissed off but I just disappeared back to my present time and nothing had changed other than the fact that both of my parents are now volcanoes.
When you hang around the time-traveler's club, though, they give you Time'b'rite, which is a marvelous spray cleaner that reverses any ill-effects of your fun. It's a simple compound of Lysol and antimatter that really gets the job done. I just sprayed a couple times on my new volcano parents and BOOM the sun exploded. It sometimes takes a couple of tries. So for those of you who were awake last week at 5:32 am I'm sorry I scared you.
The time-traveler's club is a lot like any other really nice exclusive country club. We have our own golf course, but it's pretty pointless since everyone gets a perfect 18 on it every time anyway. We like to take mass trips and show up in strange eras as tourists with ugly pants and fanny packs and cameras taking pictures of all the astounded Greek philosophers and dinosaurs. Unfortunately, this backfired slightly on us when we single-handedly caused the fashion vortex of the 1980s.
We are behind every UFO sighting ever. Bigfoot was simply Andy running across a big, open field and several forested areas with Bigfoot on a leash from when we brought him back as a souvenir (just as a bit of a heads up, don't stay alive longer than 2058 - it's not pretty).
Hmm... I think that about wraps it up. There's really not much more to time travel than that. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to end this blog post the same way Bill Nye ended every single one of his shows.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
I'm really a kid at heart
"Hold steady men! Ho!" Yelled Captain Sausage aboard the great vessel. They were stopped, finally right where they wanted to be. It would be here that they would rendezvous with the rest of the armada before launching a full scale assault on the taste buds.
The attack would be one of the greatest ever. They had accumulated an unstoppable force of flavor and were floating triumphantly in a sea of gravy so rich that the Captain had to prevent his own men from feasting before the time was ripe.
Finally, over the horizon, they saw them - the great fleet of meats and delicious, rich, juicy flavors were coming to assist them. The metal flier that brought them dipped slightly into the deep, rich gravy and doused the crew in the most beautiful of all rain.
Then, recovering and leaving, the metal flier left and zoomed back to bring even more. But it never returned. Instead of their reassuring metal flier, a white plastic flier came zooming in, dropping in a mess of disgusting, foul, and horrible vegetables.
"PIRATES!" Yelled Captain Sausage, "Evasive action! Abort! Abort!" The metal flier heard them and came back, working frantically to move the meat to higher ground while the rest of the meat scrambled helplessly with the gravy acting as a hindrance now, rather than a blessing.
The vegetables were coming, great white cauliflower barreling down on the fleet with undeniable force and broccoli, its green skull and crossbones flag flying high, raining down on the meat with a barrage of seed cannonballs.
Captain Sausage knew it was all over. Before they knew it, it was all over.
"We're touching!" He yelled, "WE'RE TOUCHING!"
The attack would be one of the greatest ever. They had accumulated an unstoppable force of flavor and were floating triumphantly in a sea of gravy so rich that the Captain had to prevent his own men from feasting before the time was ripe.
Finally, over the horizon, they saw them - the great fleet of meats and delicious, rich, juicy flavors were coming to assist them. The metal flier that brought them dipped slightly into the deep, rich gravy and doused the crew in the most beautiful of all rain.
Then, recovering and leaving, the metal flier left and zoomed back to bring even more. But it never returned. Instead of their reassuring metal flier, a white plastic flier came zooming in, dropping in a mess of disgusting, foul, and horrible vegetables.
"PIRATES!" Yelled Captain Sausage, "Evasive action! Abort! Abort!" The metal flier heard them and came back, working frantically to move the meat to higher ground while the rest of the meat scrambled helplessly with the gravy acting as a hindrance now, rather than a blessing.
The vegetables were coming, great white cauliflower barreling down on the fleet with undeniable force and broccoli, its green skull and crossbones flag flying high, raining down on the meat with a barrage of seed cannonballs.
Captain Sausage knew it was all over. Before they knew it, it was all over.
"We're touching!" He yelled, "WE'RE TOUCHING!"
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Hey Team!
Hey team I have been asked several times why I preface almost everything I say with "hey team" and I suppose it is time I give a full and honest answer. In short, of course, it is because I feel that everyone is on my team and that we can all get along. Everyone is my teammate through thick and thin rough and smooth hot and cold night and day.
I got this philosophy from my friend and teammate Benjamin Franklin who would famously write "Four score and seven years ago everyone is innocent until proven guilty as long as we name this country after me" and of course most of his speech never really caught on but that middle part became a crucial section of the Boy Scout Pledge. I took this philosophy and decided that everyone is my teammate until proven guilty of some heinous most notably claiming to not be on my team which is pretty much the only offense that will get you booted since loyalty is a pretty big thing with me (the only other offense being not bringing your assigned snack to practices, which is also punishable by death).
This of course leads me to the next big benefit I gain from having everyone on my team. I can pad my resume to hell and back and if I ever go to a job interview I can say "Hey bro I played soccer with you in 10th grade" and he won't remember because he was stoned off his ass all through 10th grade and also how would he remember me it's foolproof.
Then he would reply with something like "I never played soccer in high school and also you're like 40 years older than me" and then I would start crying and he would apologize and console me.
We would then go back to my resume and his eyes would get very large when he noticed that I was best friends with not only Napoleon Bonaparte, William Shakespeare, Montel Williams, James Tiberius Kirk, and the Velociraptor from Jurassic Park, but I knew all of their nicknames ("The French Fury", "Captain PAIN", "Dark Chocolate Nightmare", "Blast from the Past", and "Velociraptor", respectively) and we were voted as the best water polo team on Earth from 1230-1233, and I still have the trophy on my desk to prove it.
Also being on everyone's team is a great way to pick up chicks in the park. I'll just go up to them and mention how we played little league together and remember how silly it was when I missed all the pitches and the coaches eventually had to give me a tee to hit from and I was embarrassed but your mom brought Mondos and we laughed and you might have even been my first crush I can't remember. Then you look at me and smile and wag your tail and wonder why I shake my head and ask myself why I look for girls at the dog park.
People are so much friendlier when you simply pretend that they are your teammates. It is as if summer would never end and I got to enjoy all the great sports out in fields with grass stains and happiness blooming out of everyone and we would never do drills because drills are for losers and with a team this size and with this variety of talent we are unstoppable.
Also since everyone is on my team it is very easy for me to choose the winning side in a competition. You can call me a fair-weather fan if you like, but I'd prefer to call myself a fair-weather player. I'm on the team too!
Now if you excuse me I have to go and party it up with my teammates and we will have a great time and it will be full of brotherhood.
I got this philosophy from my friend and teammate Benjamin Franklin who would famously write "Four score and seven years ago everyone is innocent until proven guilty as long as we name this country after me" and of course most of his speech never really caught on but that middle part became a crucial section of the Boy Scout Pledge. I took this philosophy and decided that everyone is my teammate until proven guilty of some heinous most notably claiming to not be on my team which is pretty much the only offense that will get you booted since loyalty is a pretty big thing with me (the only other offense being not bringing your assigned snack to practices, which is also punishable by death).
This of course leads me to the next big benefit I gain from having everyone on my team. I can pad my resume to hell and back and if I ever go to a job interview I can say "Hey bro I played soccer with you in 10th grade" and he won't remember because he was stoned off his ass all through 10th grade and also how would he remember me it's foolproof.
Then he would reply with something like "I never played soccer in high school and also you're like 40 years older than me" and then I would start crying and he would apologize and console me.
We would then go back to my resume and his eyes would get very large when he noticed that I was best friends with not only Napoleon Bonaparte, William Shakespeare, Montel Williams, James Tiberius Kirk, and the Velociraptor from Jurassic Park, but I knew all of their nicknames ("The French Fury", "Captain PAIN", "Dark Chocolate Nightmare", "Blast from the Past", and "Velociraptor", respectively) and we were voted as the best water polo team on Earth from 1230-1233, and I still have the trophy on my desk to prove it.
Also being on everyone's team is a great way to pick up chicks in the park. I'll just go up to them and mention how we played little league together and remember how silly it was when I missed all the pitches and the coaches eventually had to give me a tee to hit from and I was embarrassed but your mom brought Mondos and we laughed and you might have even been my first crush I can't remember. Then you look at me and smile and wag your tail and wonder why I shake my head and ask myself why I look for girls at the dog park.
People are so much friendlier when you simply pretend that they are your teammates. It is as if summer would never end and I got to enjoy all the great sports out in fields with grass stains and happiness blooming out of everyone and we would never do drills because drills are for losers and with a team this size and with this variety of talent we are unstoppable.
Also since everyone is on my team it is very easy for me to choose the winning side in a competition. You can call me a fair-weather fan if you like, but I'd prefer to call myself a fair-weather player. I'm on the team too!
Now if you excuse me I have to go and party it up with my teammates and we will have a great time and it will be full of brotherhood.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
I'm so sorry again
Hey team reality cracked down on me hard today.
I was walking along, minding my own business and enjoying a beautiful night, gazing up at the brilliant sunshine and watching the magnificent snowflakes tumble down the face of the great jolly giant that walked alongside me. It was a pretty busy time of day, the insects humming along and the starfish lighting up the sea floor like enormous light bulbs.
The land had a mysterious consistency, vibrating slightly with each step and its vibrations brought a pleasing and gentle melody to the air, almost as if the whole world was playing just for me. Enormous fruit hung from almost every tree in the forest, and each gentle gust of wind sent them tumbling merrily along down the hill and careening into a barren wasteland. There, their sparkling finish built a miraculous masterpiece of brilliant blues, gentle greens, and romantic reds, truly a sight to behold; a great work of art witnessed by me and me alone.
I thrust my hands mindlessly into my pockets as I walked, the ground humming along with me and birds swooping around chirping a perfect accompaniment with rainbows of flavor spewing from their mouths. I was happy here, this wonderful place atop the mountain.
Then I saw her. She was sitting properly and orderly at a table, looking like a real woman. She put on airs of legitimacy and gave weight to the room. I came crashing down, sulking into the chair next to her. We were both nervous, but she was composed and ready to bring me down.
She was terse with me. She told me that we could never be romantically involved again, but that I would have to take back the things I said, that I would have to apologize and put everything back to the way it was. I didn't know if I was ready to do that, I was happy with the way things were.
She scowled at me and told me I was wrong to walk away in the first place, that I could have gone so far with her help, that I would be trapped in my dreadful isolation forever.
I was hurt and taken aback. It was time for a real decision; so much was going to be riding on my choice here. I sat and contemplated the options for a long time. She stared intently, looking almost upset, but expectant - maybe, just maybe, she though, I would change.
We continued to avoid each others' gazes. I spoke softly at first.
"I really loved having you around, but I've accomplished so much without you and I'm so happy. I don't want to fix things, ever."
Her eyes widened with rage, her emotions spilling out all over the room like a swarm of horrible locusts. "You are wrong and you know it! You have to fix the mess you created! YOU HAVE TO!"
Her voice rang out across the dim parking garage with such intensity that the reverberations smashed through the concrete structure giving us glimpses of the barren wasteland outside.
And so here we stand, eyes locked, anger and hatred boiling our blood and wrecking our rational minds. I didn't see the fist coming until it was too late. It smashed my nose deep into my face, sending streams of confetti up in the air.
I retaliated, swinging hard and catching her in the side. She crumpled silently to the ground, defeated and weak.
Free at last. Free at last. "Today was a mighty fine day" I said to my friend, the great jolly giant. "Indeed it was" he noted in agreement.
And together we continued our walk.
I was walking along, minding my own business and enjoying a beautiful night, gazing up at the brilliant sunshine and watching the magnificent snowflakes tumble down the face of the great jolly giant that walked alongside me. It was a pretty busy time of day, the insects humming along and the starfish lighting up the sea floor like enormous light bulbs.
The land had a mysterious consistency, vibrating slightly with each step and its vibrations brought a pleasing and gentle melody to the air, almost as if the whole world was playing just for me. Enormous fruit hung from almost every tree in the forest, and each gentle gust of wind sent them tumbling merrily along down the hill and careening into a barren wasteland. There, their sparkling finish built a miraculous masterpiece of brilliant blues, gentle greens, and romantic reds, truly a sight to behold; a great work of art witnessed by me and me alone.
I thrust my hands mindlessly into my pockets as I walked, the ground humming along with me and birds swooping around chirping a perfect accompaniment with rainbows of flavor spewing from their mouths. I was happy here, this wonderful place atop the mountain.
Then I saw her. She was sitting properly and orderly at a table, looking like a real woman. She put on airs of legitimacy and gave weight to the room. I came crashing down, sulking into the chair next to her. We were both nervous, but she was composed and ready to bring me down.
She was terse with me. She told me that we could never be romantically involved again, but that I would have to take back the things I said, that I would have to apologize and put everything back to the way it was. I didn't know if I was ready to do that, I was happy with the way things were.
She scowled at me and told me I was wrong to walk away in the first place, that I could have gone so far with her help, that I would be trapped in my dreadful isolation forever.
I was hurt and taken aback. It was time for a real decision; so much was going to be riding on my choice here. I sat and contemplated the options for a long time. She stared intently, looking almost upset, but expectant - maybe, just maybe, she though, I would change.
We continued to avoid each others' gazes. I spoke softly at first.
"I really loved having you around, but I've accomplished so much without you and I'm so happy. I don't want to fix things, ever."
Her eyes widened with rage, her emotions spilling out all over the room like a swarm of horrible locusts. "You are wrong and you know it! You have to fix the mess you created! YOU HAVE TO!"
Her voice rang out across the dim parking garage with such intensity that the reverberations smashed through the concrete structure giving us glimpses of the barren wasteland outside.
And so here we stand, eyes locked, anger and hatred boiling our blood and wrecking our rational minds. I didn't see the fist coming until it was too late. It smashed my nose deep into my face, sending streams of confetti up in the air.
I retaliated, swinging hard and catching her in the side. She crumpled silently to the ground, defeated and weak.
Free at last. Free at last. "Today was a mighty fine day" I said to my friend, the great jolly giant. "Indeed it was" he noted in agreement.
And together we continued our walk.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
In about one week I'll get this emailed to me by my aunt who wants to help me become a better person and it will remind me to email it to 10 others
Hey team so today I found myself carrying several items as I was walking down the road. The first of these items was a chair - not a folding chair or a lawn chair or an angry chair, but a regular office type chair made of fairly substantial and, as I found out, heavy oak. I was carrying this with much difficulty with my left arm. In my right arm, I had a package of My Little Pony fruit snacks and a polka-dot blanket.
Now I can explain the fruit snacks. This is my scientific hypothesis which many of my colleagues refuse to help me in researching or funding or even validating as a legitimate hypothesis but when it comes to fruit snacks I postulate that the fruitier the source of the fruit snack's material, the fruitier and tastier the actual snack will be. For this reason, I usually stick to shows where at least 50% of the palette is pink; you know, Powerpuff Girls, Strawberry Shortcake, My Little Pony, and so on and so forth. I freaking love them and it is so many to buy next to my beef jerky and bacon and other artery-clogging macho foods at my local grocer.
But the rest of what I was carrying was a mystery to me. A mystery I was soon ready to rectify. I continued to walk for several blocks inviting many strange looks as well as many looks of pity for some reason but I kept going until I found a hospital and I checked in and told the doctor "I don't know what is wrong with me but I am carrying a chair and a blanket and I don't remember why"
So the doctor immediately diagnosed me as having cancer and they started me on chemo but then it got worse and I almost died and they figured it out and they thought it was an infection and they gave me antibiotics and I started to get better but then I got much worse and they ignored me for about a half hour while they diagnosed each others' problems to keep the viewing audience interested but then finally with about 5 minutes left in the episode they came back and told me I was suffering from plot-convenient amnesia and discharged me since I was all better but then they called back and I was like "what" and they handed me a bill for about 86 million dollars for the unnecessary health care and ran away to wrap up their personal problems while staring out of windows and listening to soft rock music.
So here I am now with a chair, a blanket with polka-dots of the green, red, and blue flavors, a half-eaten package of fruit snacks, and a pretty typical medical bill. I just continued walking. Maybe you'll see me on the street one day and you'll come up to me and help me find my way; I'm simply a lost and wandering soul with no one to turn to and no one to tell me my purpose in life.
Now I can explain the fruit snacks. This is my scientific hypothesis which many of my colleagues refuse to help me in researching or funding or even validating as a legitimate hypothesis but when it comes to fruit snacks I postulate that the fruitier the source of the fruit snack's material, the fruitier and tastier the actual snack will be. For this reason, I usually stick to shows where at least 50% of the palette is pink; you know, Powerpuff Girls, Strawberry Shortcake, My Little Pony, and so on and so forth. I freaking love them and it is so many to buy next to my beef jerky and bacon and other artery-clogging macho foods at my local grocer.
But the rest of what I was carrying was a mystery to me. A mystery I was soon ready to rectify. I continued to walk for several blocks inviting many strange looks as well as many looks of pity for some reason but I kept going until I found a hospital and I checked in and told the doctor "I don't know what is wrong with me but I am carrying a chair and a blanket and I don't remember why"
So the doctor immediately diagnosed me as having cancer and they started me on chemo but then it got worse and I almost died and they figured it out and they thought it was an infection and they gave me antibiotics and I started to get better but then I got much worse and they ignored me for about a half hour while they diagnosed each others' problems to keep the viewing audience interested but then finally with about 5 minutes left in the episode they came back and told me I was suffering from plot-convenient amnesia and discharged me since I was all better but then they called back and I was like "what" and they handed me a bill for about 86 million dollars for the unnecessary health care and ran away to wrap up their personal problems while staring out of windows and listening to soft rock music.
So here I am now with a chair, a blanket with polka-dots of the green, red, and blue flavors, a half-eaten package of fruit snacks, and a pretty typical medical bill. I just continued walking. Maybe you'll see me on the street one day and you'll come up to me and help me find my way; I'm simply a lost and wandering soul with no one to turn to and no one to tell me my purpose in life.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
My cellphone also makes a ringing noise
Hey team I want to talk to you about something that is very near and dear to my heart and that is of course the issue of cell phones. Now I know you are thinking that you are in love with your cell phone and that I will simply sit here and bash them because I am old fashioned and mean spirited and hateful and racist and quite frankly the very same monster you were terrified would come out of your closet when you were 6 no matter how many times your Dad would turn on the light and show you that it was just a sweater masquerading as a horrible monster and that if there were monsters they would certainly pick a much better hiding space than your fucking closet which you never clean.
Oh I am sorry I was talking about cellular phones wasn't I. Okay now let me tell you team, when I first starting using a cell phone it was roughly the same size, shape, and weight of a brick. It made calls and it did a damn fine job of making calls from wherever you were as long as you weren't under an overpass, in a building, in a car, moving, in a high amount of humidity, in a low amount of humidity, a barometric pressure greater than that on the moon, or in the presence of gravity our lord and savior. But goddamn I would be able to hold a conversation with the person I was in the room with since it was so awful to make a call on them that it was really only practical in the case of really, serious emergencies like death and even minor emergencies like death of someone you didn't really care much for would be neglected.
Nowadays you can tell everyone ever little insignificant shitty detail about your life but completely ignore the person who is speaking right there next to you and you say "huh" and they say "nevermind I won't tell you about about the free superlasers they are giving out down the streets" and you grunt again because Valerie and Liz have taken Arnold and Carlos and Dorothy and Keesha and Tim and Wanda and Phoebe and Ralphie down into some horrible nightmarish existence through the use of extremely questionable teaching methods and it will surely come up in the next PTA meeting.
Actually that example was pretty cool I shouldn't have used it.
But you know what I am talking about right this is the problem I face with so many people who are having a conversation with me. For example just this last week I was in the process of interviewing a girl to be my skydiving out of an exploding plane stunt artist for my upcoming movie and she actually interrupted me mid interview to answer a text on her phone and she said it was important. So then when she went to respond to me I pretended to be answering a very important letter right then and there and I rushed it to the nearest pony express office where I personally rode it to Kansas where it made it to railroad tycoon Thomas Magruder until I remembered that he never actually existed.
I soon returned to my interviewee, patiently waiting with an innocent smile on her face and WHAT WAS THAT SHE WAS TEXTING AGAIN and so I turned bright green and put on purple pants and roared and offered her some peas.
I have completely forgotten the point of my story so I will conclude by rating this product 4 stars out of 5 for ease-of-use, portability, and convenience.
Oh I am sorry I was talking about cellular phones wasn't I. Okay now let me tell you team, when I first starting using a cell phone it was roughly the same size, shape, and weight of a brick. It made calls and it did a damn fine job of making calls from wherever you were as long as you weren't under an overpass, in a building, in a car, moving, in a high amount of humidity, in a low amount of humidity, a barometric pressure greater than that on the moon, or in the presence of gravity our lord and savior. But goddamn I would be able to hold a conversation with the person I was in the room with since it was so awful to make a call on them that it was really only practical in the case of really, serious emergencies like death and even minor emergencies like death of someone you didn't really care much for would be neglected.
Nowadays you can tell everyone ever little insignificant shitty detail about your life but completely ignore the person who is speaking right there next to you and you say "huh" and they say "nevermind I won't tell you about about the free superlasers they are giving out down the streets" and you grunt again because Valerie and Liz have taken Arnold and Carlos and Dorothy and Keesha and Tim and Wanda and Phoebe and Ralphie down into some horrible nightmarish existence through the use of extremely questionable teaching methods and it will surely come up in the next PTA meeting.
Actually that example was pretty cool I shouldn't have used it.
But you know what I am talking about right this is the problem I face with so many people who are having a conversation with me. For example just this last week I was in the process of interviewing a girl to be my skydiving out of an exploding plane stunt artist for my upcoming movie and she actually interrupted me mid interview to answer a text on her phone and she said it was important. So then when she went to respond to me I pretended to be answering a very important letter right then and there and I rushed it to the nearest pony express office where I personally rode it to Kansas where it made it to railroad tycoon Thomas Magruder until I remembered that he never actually existed.
I soon returned to my interviewee, patiently waiting with an innocent smile on her face and WHAT WAS THAT SHE WAS TEXTING AGAIN and so I turned bright green and put on purple pants and roared and offered her some peas.
I have completely forgotten the point of my story so I will conclude by rating this product 4 stars out of 5 for ease-of-use, portability, and convenience.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Oh my god super amazing and funny bad day hahaha
Oh my god today was such a terrible day you know it was that kind of day that when anything that can go wrong does go wrong right I mean I think that was Mike's law or maybe it was Maurey's law haha I don't know I'm sorry I just remember it started with an M but oh yeah right like I was walking down the street in my cutest little green skirt and wearing an adorable gray hoodie that says "college" on it just like John Belushi wore in Old School right and so I was really upset because it started raining and I don't really like the rain like at all it's really a pain to deal with but that wasn't the worst get this a bus comes by and splashes me with a big puddle of dirty crummy street water and I'm like hey but he doesn't hear me because he is a bus and my sweater is completely ruined like completely and totally wrecked but my skirt was okay except for a couple of places but the while I was walking to Starbucks I noticed that my shoe was untied just a little too late because I completely tripped and fell down half a flight of stairs and broke a nail but like that wasn't even the worst thing there was a cute boy standing there and he just sat and laughed as I was tumbling and then I tried to completely play it off as if I meant to do it he burst out laughing and I was like what is the problem and he told me John Belushi isn't in Old School and I was so embarrassed that I couldn't even stand up now all I need to do is condense this into a single twitter update so that everyone who follows my mindless rambling thoughts for no specific reason can read what I have to say
Thursday, September 3, 2009
The story of Jeremy the sad little ant
Hey team it was a hard life for a little insignificant bug like Jeremy. He was an intelligent worker but physically he simply wasn't at the level that all the other insects were. He couldn't go the the gym due to the fact that Dirk, the very fearsome anthill bully, roamed around the gym constantly with his cronies, discussing things like delts and lats and abs and pecs and thoraxes, all the while laughing and picking on the wimpy little bugs like Jeremy."It is tough being the smart one," said Jeremy to nobody in particular, "I guess there simply isn't any room in this big anthill allegory for someone like me to thrive" right after Dirk had pushed him in a particularly wet, smelly, and sticky substance. "Dog poo bug dog poo bug why don't you hang out with your dung beetle friends Lame-emy" Dirk and his cronies yelled.
Jeremy was very mad and he wanted to get revenge on Dirk. Unfortunately there was no way Jeremy could match Dirk's size and food-carrying ability and Jeremy was very disappointed and went all the way back to his small room nestled in the furthest back, darkest corner of the anthill. He looked up sadly as several pieces of dirt crumbled down from his ramshackle ceiling.
The next day he tried to go about his normal routine and avoid Dirk. Dirk was still being extra mean to all of the ants and Jeremy wanted to know what was going on. Dirk had always been pretty mean but he had suddenly gotten much meaner to everyone, not just Jeremy. He had even started to pick on the older and wiser ant leaders, including the great queen.
The queen's guards immediately had Dirk thrown out and Jeremy followed Dirk back to his hideout. Once there he found Dirk's family had all been killed!
This was very alarming to Jeremy and so he immediately tried to tell the queen what had happened but he got thrown out as well because the guards were not as trusting after Dirk tried to attack the queen.
He walked away dejected and he was very sad until he bumped right into Dirk! "Blaaarrrggggghhhhhhh, roaaarrrrrr, blaaarrgggghgh" said Dirk. "Excuse me," said Jeremy, "I don't think you are speaking antish right now"
Then Jeremy looked down and saw that there were several little naked men running out of of Dirk's sleeve and he had the presence of mind to step on one of them. Dirk roared loudly and furiously, smashing Jeremy to the side and started climbing up the water tower! Jeremy grabbed onto one of Dirk's appendages and Dirk's exoskeleton gave way to reveal a finely dressed man in a black suit who continued to climb the water tower!
Jeremy thought quickly and he and his partner grabbed their vaporizer guns and blasted the human into millions of tiny bits.
"That was horrible" Jeremy said. His partner agreed.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
If I wrote a history book
Hey team so it was August in the year 1978. It was in this month, on the 26th, Pope John Paul I (not his real name) became the 263th Pope of the United States of America; this occurred a mere 20 days after the death of his predecessor and inspirational friend Pope King Henry V. This was a revolutionary accomplishment since he was the first female African-American grassroots reformist oppositional newlywed gay bald and overweight Pope in history.
This was a major event for civil rights in America since this was the first major civil rights achievement since the great doctor Martin Luther King Solomon the Wise was assassinated in 1968. The fact that it took 10 more years to make any more progress towards civil rights came as no surprise to the entire country, who, to the best of my knowledge, hadn't been sober since the Kennedy administration (1956-1993).
However as things continued to turn worse for the Cold War and difficult relations between the western world which supported capitalism and exploitation of workers and the eastern world which supported communism and the exploitation of workers. The fact that this revolutionary new Pope had been elected by a slim margin meant that he would have to make an even greater statement in his actions in order to convince the world that we should all just get along and exploit our workers while we eat caviar and Kobe beef.
So the good man decided that, in order to draw the world's attention away from real issues, he should die in his bed and start up lots of conspiracy theories about the church, the establishment he had sworn his life to in 1923. He was only 33 days old.
This was a major event for civil rights in America since this was the first major civil rights achievement since the great doctor Martin Luther King Solomon the Wise was assassinated in 1968. The fact that it took 10 more years to make any more progress towards civil rights came as no surprise to the entire country, who, to the best of my knowledge, hadn't been sober since the Kennedy administration (1956-1993).
However as things continued to turn worse for the Cold War and difficult relations between the western world which supported capitalism and exploitation of workers and the eastern world which supported communism and the exploitation of workers. The fact that this revolutionary new Pope had been elected by a slim margin meant that he would have to make an even greater statement in his actions in order to convince the world that we should all just get along and exploit our workers while we eat caviar and Kobe beef.
So the good man decided that, in order to draw the world's attention away from real issues, he should die in his bed and start up lots of conspiracy theories about the church, the establishment he had sworn his life to in 1923. He was only 33 days old.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Feedback + The Greatest Book Ever
Hey team I have a request of you all I would like some feedback from you on my blog here I would really appreciate whatever information you can give me so please be honest
1. One of the biggest complaints I get is about how long my articles are however they are usually no more than a page or two. In your very valuable opinion, how could I make them more pulling or make more people stick around to get all the way through them? Should I incorporate artwork, or change the format, or other suggestions?
2. What is your favorite article on the blog? Why do you like it? Is there anything you found lacking about it?
3. What are your three least favorite articles on the blog? What don't you like about them? What suggestions might you make so that I could improve upon them?
4. Which genre of article do you prefer? Do you prefer the shorter, less involved, and context-less stories or the longer, more drawn out ones? Do you prefer the more serious articles (or, ones closer to reality) or the more absurd and bizarre ones?
5. If you were (hypothetically) to recommend any of my articles to friends/family/coworkers/acquaintances/strangers, which type would you use to make them interested in them right away? Which articles might you avoid?
I really appreciate the feedback you guys will be able to give me. I would especially appreciate honest feedback so if you really feel strongly one way or another please don't hold back.
Hey team I would take a moment to talk about probably my favorite book of all time. This book, as some of you may be able to predict, is The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster. It was one of my favorite pieces of literature when I was younger and it remains one of my favorite books to this day, although my severe allergy to reading makes it difficult to try new books I haven't already built up an immunity to.
This book is essentially the inspiration for everything that has ever happened in my life. I love the incredibly thoughtful and creative wordplay that is constantly approached from angles never dreamed of by most authors, the colorful and stranger-than-fiction yet amazingly familiar characters that Milo meets along his journey, and the joyful and happy-go-lucky yet impossibly ominous feeling the entire story has. It is a true inspiration for me and all of my writings.
Milo's journey gives us all a chance to reflect on our own curious idiosyncrasies that turn us into (very much toned down) versions of all of the glaringly flawed characters in the story. This book, while still being very much a children's story, offers many opportunities for meaningful introspection even in sophisticated adult audiences. I would challenge you all to try to read the book without coming up with a new-found appreciation for life or an epiphany for self-realization, but I'm certain that is impossible.
Now those of you who have read the book will be able to chuckle at the reference as well as ponder once again, much like we all did as children, what exactly King Azaz and the Mathemagician's statement means to us as individuals. I can't even make a joke about the book without questioning the profound messages that it offers.
I know I draw so much of my writing style from this book and in all fairness Mr. Juster should probably get at least some kind of royalties for everything I have ever written. His constant puns and carefree yet intellectual wordplay, the constant characterization of idioms and abstract concepts, and the magnificent and poignant yet absolutely meaningless metaphors that I love so dearly("the sound of a blindfolded octopus unwrapping a cellophane-covered bathtub") are all such powerful examples of how wonderfully delightful and entertaining language can be.
If you haven't already because you have a deadly reading allergy, get this book and let it be the only book you ever read in your life. It will change you as a person.
1. One of the biggest complaints I get is about how long my articles are however they are usually no more than a page or two. In your very valuable opinion, how could I make them more pulling or make more people stick around to get all the way through them? Should I incorporate artwork, or change the format, or other suggestions?
2. What is your favorite article on the blog? Why do you like it? Is there anything you found lacking about it?
3. What are your three least favorite articles on the blog? What don't you like about them? What suggestions might you make so that I could improve upon them?
4. Which genre of article do you prefer? Do you prefer the shorter, less involved, and context-less stories or the longer, more drawn out ones? Do you prefer the more serious articles (or, ones closer to reality) or the more absurd and bizarre ones?
5. If you were (hypothetically) to recommend any of my articles to friends/family/coworkers/acquaintances/strangers, which type would you use to make them interested in them right away? Which articles might you avoid?
I really appreciate the feedback you guys will be able to give me. I would especially appreciate honest feedback so if you really feel strongly one way or another please don't hold back.
Hey team I would take a moment to talk about probably my favorite book of all time. This book, as some of you may be able to predict, is The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster. It was one of my favorite pieces of literature when I was younger and it remains one of my favorite books to this day, although my severe allergy to reading makes it difficult to try new books I haven't already built up an immunity to.
This book is essentially the inspiration for everything that has ever happened in my life. I love the incredibly thoughtful and creative wordplay that is constantly approached from angles never dreamed of by most authors, the colorful and stranger-than-fiction yet amazingly familiar characters that Milo meets along his journey, and the joyful and happy-go-lucky yet impossibly ominous feeling the entire story has. It is a true inspiration for me and all of my writings.
Milo's journey gives us all a chance to reflect on our own curious idiosyncrasies that turn us into (very much toned down) versions of all of the glaringly flawed characters in the story. This book, while still being very much a children's story, offers many opportunities for meaningful introspection even in sophisticated adult audiences. I would challenge you all to try to read the book without coming up with a new-found appreciation for life or an epiphany for self-realization, but I'm certain that is impossible.
Now those of you who have read the book will be able to chuckle at the reference as well as ponder once again, much like we all did as children, what exactly King Azaz and the Mathemagician's statement means to us as individuals. I can't even make a joke about the book without questioning the profound messages that it offers.
I know I draw so much of my writing style from this book and in all fairness Mr. Juster should probably get at least some kind of royalties for everything I have ever written. His constant puns and carefree yet intellectual wordplay, the constant characterization of idioms and abstract concepts, and the magnificent and poignant yet absolutely meaningless metaphors that I love so dearly("the sound of a blindfolded octopus unwrapping a cellophane-covered bathtub") are all such powerful examples of how wonderfully delightful and entertaining language can be.
If you haven't already because you have a deadly reading allergy, get this book and let it be the only book you ever read in your life. It will change you as a person.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Tales from the crypt!
Hey team it was a hot summer day as I sat idly by my slowly humming computer, taking a long sip out of my five-gallon drum of anxiety and playful curiosity that lay by my feet, then replacing the hose into the mouth of my dog. I looked slowly back and forth from my mind-numbing game of extreme underwater pogo-sticking, where I was expecting a person to come up my drive - at least sometime in the next few weeks.
I took another long sip from my barrel and, realizing it was now empty, filled it back up with used tissues, garlic, and thumbtacks. Such a concoction might have been dangerous to my health, so I was sure to wash my hands before attempting to sip this stuff through a straw. As I looked up from my work, I saw quite a bit of commotion out the window and, being the curious tiger that I am, I went out to see what was up.
"Hey what is up" I said to the crowd of irate bystanders. They turned and glared at me with some kind of ravenous lusting, with arms outstretched and an ominously blank stare in their eyes. They were all walking around in a trance-like state and seemed to be composed of something that smelled conspicuously like rotting flesh.
Suddenly the leader of them spoke up "Hey do you know where the gaming convention is? It should be on North River Road"
I stared silently back at them, clearly indicating I had never heard of that road. I then replied "are you sure you guys are in the right country I'm pretty sure games are illegal here because this is a police state"
Suddenly they all sprung into action and tackled me to the ground with surprising strength for sun-deprived game enthusiasts. I realized what I had done! Oh no! The government had set an elaborate trap for me and all of these gamers were actually secret agents of the law.
"But how did you know who I was on youtube?" I asked them. They simply replied with "Big Brother always knows" and I replied with "hah I doubt that if Big Brother knows all then I bet he could beat me at 20 questions which is the official sport of me"
"Okay" said Big Brother and we played 20 questions and I guessed that his favorite actor is Gary Busey in only 3 questions and it took them 485 questions to figure out that my favorite actor is Nicholas Cage and Big Brother was upset but it is understandable that they wouldn't have gotten that because, as we concluded while we sipped mineral water and enjoyed each other's company, Nicholas Cage is a terrible actor.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
An excerpt from my novel, part 1
Here is a note left from me to me to remind me to put this note on this post: "Hey team so I am writing an epic novel about extraordinary adversary and overcoming it and something along those lines. However I decided to forgo the traditional method of writing a book where you start in the beginning and have rising action and climax and exposition and then finally falling action which are almost in order. Instead, I will simply write excerpts from my novel and post them here; once I have a few pages of amazing climactic action written down I think it will be mighty easy to fill in the rest of the pages because that's usually just filler anyway."
"Hey team!" the ripped and super macho commander of the elite special forces team yelled as he was getting sucked in by Jupiter's inescapable riptide "would you help me get out of here so that we can continue on our mission"
Bob was unable to hear his commander's request and, even if he could, the number of his clones left to exterminate was still far too great for him to go to his commander's aid. Bob was obviously in dismay over the almost certain loss of his commander but he knew that showing emotions would give the giant robot clone army the upper hand as they are powered by tears of the innocent. But Bob's hands were not those of an innocent he was a brutal murderer and he suddenly flashed back to the slide rule incident. He was horrified by what he had become in this mission but he knew he had to do this for his friends back home, especially Tara his anatomically amazing and voluptuous girlfriend who was pregnant but fuck if she was going to have a kid while Bob was still 3000 miles below the Earth and that kid kept trying to come out but she would glare at it until it returned to its womb only to wait another long year to try again.
A sudden explosion from one of the thousands of nearby volcanoes sent millions of clone robot warriors flying but they were soon rescued by the clone robot high priests who carried them to safety on their flying motorcycles made of ecstasy. Bob knew this fight wasn't going to end and it was clear that the clone robot army knew the terrain better than anyone could have anticipated except Ronald whose untimely death was sad, but also awesome. Bob went into another flashback where he saw Ronald's flesh being torn away by his rouge small intestine while his femur, sporting a tumor the size and shape of an external hard drive, beat Ronald and all of Ronald's favorite manicurists to death.
But Bob knew that he couldn't keep thinking about his teammates' pasts if he wanted to defeat the imminent danger with at least 30 jaguars circling his feet as his completely plant-powered jetpack began to gave way. "Curses" Bob yelled at the top of his lungs, "why did we have to go green in the first place I mean I even showed all the scientists that I could navigate their spike-filled and extremely flammable jetpack obstacle course with my own invention that ran solely on ground up dinosaur bones I borrowed from the museum!?"
As the jetpack sunk lower and lower through the noxious sulfur and concentrated hydrochloric acid clouds Bob could hear the roar of the jaguars and the lions and grizzly bears that were forming an evil jungle animal pyramid on the ground in hopes of reaching him. Some were also trying to build a catapult to fling the massive stones of uranium filled with explosive radon gas lying all over the ground at Bob. Bob was obviously very scared but he was a military man so he had to appear composed.
His jetpack gave one last stutter and Bob watched his commander sink finally into the deadly waters and wave his last goodbye before being devoured by the legendary beasts that roamed the waters. They only spit out his commander's medal for excellence and bravery and it landed right in front of Bob. He grabbed his ultra-secret death ray laser gun that shot flaming lasers that explode on impact and looked down one last time at the evil and possessed creatures below before saying "This one is for you Tara and also for you commander I will take your medal for excellence and bravery and bring it back safely once I win this battle!"
Look for more exciting installments in the weeks to come!
"Hey team!" the ripped and super macho commander of the elite special forces team yelled as he was getting sucked in by Jupiter's inescapable riptide "would you help me get out of here so that we can continue on our mission"
Bob was unable to hear his commander's request and, even if he could, the number of his clones left to exterminate was still far too great for him to go to his commander's aid. Bob was obviously in dismay over the almost certain loss of his commander but he knew that showing emotions would give the giant robot clone army the upper hand as they are powered by tears of the innocent. But Bob's hands were not those of an innocent he was a brutal murderer and he suddenly flashed back to the slide rule incident. He was horrified by what he had become in this mission but he knew he had to do this for his friends back home, especially Tara his anatomically amazing and voluptuous girlfriend who was pregnant but fuck if she was going to have a kid while Bob was still 3000 miles below the Earth and that kid kept trying to come out but she would glare at it until it returned to its womb only to wait another long year to try again.
A sudden explosion from one of the thousands of nearby volcanoes sent millions of clone robot warriors flying but they were soon rescued by the clone robot high priests who carried them to safety on their flying motorcycles made of ecstasy. Bob knew this fight wasn't going to end and it was clear that the clone robot army knew the terrain better than anyone could have anticipated except Ronald whose untimely death was sad, but also awesome. Bob went into another flashback where he saw Ronald's flesh being torn away by his rouge small intestine while his femur, sporting a tumor the size and shape of an external hard drive, beat Ronald and all of Ronald's favorite manicurists to death.
But Bob knew that he couldn't keep thinking about his teammates' pasts if he wanted to defeat the imminent danger with at least 30 jaguars circling his feet as his completely plant-powered jetpack began to gave way. "Curses" Bob yelled at the top of his lungs, "why did we have to go green in the first place I mean I even showed all the scientists that I could navigate their spike-filled and extremely flammable jetpack obstacle course with my own invention that ran solely on ground up dinosaur bones I borrowed from the museum!?"
As the jetpack sunk lower and lower through the noxious sulfur and concentrated hydrochloric acid clouds Bob could hear the roar of the jaguars and the lions and grizzly bears that were forming an evil jungle animal pyramid on the ground in hopes of reaching him. Some were also trying to build a catapult to fling the massive stones of uranium filled with explosive radon gas lying all over the ground at Bob. Bob was obviously very scared but he was a military man so he had to appear composed.
His jetpack gave one last stutter and Bob watched his commander sink finally into the deadly waters and wave his last goodbye before being devoured by the legendary beasts that roamed the waters. They only spit out his commander's medal for excellence and bravery and it landed right in front of Bob. He grabbed his ultra-secret death ray laser gun that shot flaming lasers that explode on impact and looked down one last time at the evil and possessed creatures below before saying "This one is for you Tara and also for you commander I will take your medal for excellence and bravery and bring it back safely once I win this battle!"
Look for more exciting installments in the weeks to come!
When it's sunny I feel like I have to go outside otherwise I'm lazy
Hey team you know what really drives me up a wall? The weather. I know, I know, everyone needs something they can make small talk with every other person on Earth with but I want to have a serious conversation about the weather with you. I know I am not the only person who has these meticulous, bizarre, and almost neurotic complaints about the weather.
I really really can't stand storms. Storms are great and all, but they just don't do it for me. After seeing what can be made in Hollywood these days I just have to look up at the humongous bolts of horrifying and mystically powerful electricity flashing through the sky and shake my head because, come on nature, that is pretty lame. Mother nature really has to start hiring some better special effects people to make storms a little more than a pain in my ass.
What we really need is technicolor explosive lightning. Yes, I know some things explode when lighting strikes them but lightning seriously needs to blow up the cloud it was born from. I'm not even sure why it doesn't, and according to my cousin who is an expert scientist not even Science knows how clouds survive being struck by lighting but once again nature I have to say that is pretty lame that you can't even kill a white fluffy marshmallow in the sky. Oh right the technicolor is also important; if you can't put on a light show at least as impressive as your average Pink Floyd concert you don't deserve to be putting on a light show at all.
Then we really have to do something about hurricanes. Right now they pose a threat to about 2% of the entire world. That is right 2% according to my friend which means that if the world has 7 billion people only 140 million are threatened by hurricanes. Come on! That's chump change! That's like if I said I was a natural disaster by stepping on an anthill and now terrified meteorologist ants are pointing wildly at green screens showing predicted levels of foot carnage in the next few days right after adjusting their cute ant toupee.
What we need to do to make hurricanes really threatening is to equip them with the latest catastrophe-causing technology. That's right, we're going to give growth hormones and genetic therapy to hurricanes in order to make them grow into the most powerful overlords of all time. If all goes as planned as we isolate the killer horrible gene on hurricanes and we allow it to mate with all of the horrible pestilences of the world we will finally be able to grow hurricanes. The hurricane industry will then be rapidly monopolized by Chinese hurricane farmers who will blend it with their cultural heritage, sweet and sour sauce, pork imitation substance, and MSG.
Finally, once hurricanes are being produced more rapidly than sandpaper and bred to have more ferocity and aggression than my dryer (it has taken the washer hostage in my laundry room, I believe the standoff is on Channel 3 right about now) they will come and unleash their unholy fury.
Instead of rain the most horrible things imaginable will fall from the sky; teeth, barbed wire, sharks, rusty nails, candlelight dinners, sports cars, delightful water lilies, the pleasant aroma of your plump and cheerful aunt baking a cake, the cutest puppies imaginable, that toy you really really wanted for Christmas but your parents were too cheap to buy, sunshine, and concentrated happiness. Then hurricanes will be truly terrifying because you know they are going to hold this over your head and when you try to misbehave they will say "well what about when we gave you that adorable puppy huh?" and then you will feel bad and do as they say.
Mother nature I am calling you out. You really need to shape up and start giving us storms that really challenge the existence of human life. If you don't read this and start making some of these changes in the next few years I will have no choice but to throw a coup, and boy oh boy won't you be sorry you don't have homing tornadoes that are on fire and shoot more tornadoes.
I really really can't stand storms. Storms are great and all, but they just don't do it for me. After seeing what can be made in Hollywood these days I just have to look up at the humongous bolts of horrifying and mystically powerful electricity flashing through the sky and shake my head because, come on nature, that is pretty lame. Mother nature really has to start hiring some better special effects people to make storms a little more than a pain in my ass.
What we really need is technicolor explosive lightning. Yes, I know some things explode when lighting strikes them but lightning seriously needs to blow up the cloud it was born from. I'm not even sure why it doesn't, and according to my cousin who is an expert scientist not even Science knows how clouds survive being struck by lighting but once again nature I have to say that is pretty lame that you can't even kill a white fluffy marshmallow in the sky. Oh right the technicolor is also important; if you can't put on a light show at least as impressive as your average Pink Floyd concert you don't deserve to be putting on a light show at all.
Then we really have to do something about hurricanes. Right now they pose a threat to about 2% of the entire world. That is right 2% according to my friend which means that if the world has 7 billion people only 140 million are threatened by hurricanes. Come on! That's chump change! That's like if I said I was a natural disaster by stepping on an anthill and now terrified meteorologist ants are pointing wildly at green screens showing predicted levels of foot carnage in the next few days right after adjusting their cute ant toupee.
What we need to do to make hurricanes really threatening is to equip them with the latest catastrophe-causing technology. That's right, we're going to give growth hormones and genetic therapy to hurricanes in order to make them grow into the most powerful overlords of all time. If all goes as planned as we isolate the killer horrible gene on hurricanes and we allow it to mate with all of the horrible pestilences of the world we will finally be able to grow hurricanes. The hurricane industry will then be rapidly monopolized by Chinese hurricane farmers who will blend it with their cultural heritage, sweet and sour sauce, pork imitation substance, and MSG.
Finally, once hurricanes are being produced more rapidly than sandpaper and bred to have more ferocity and aggression than my dryer (it has taken the washer hostage in my laundry room, I believe the standoff is on Channel 3 right about now) they will come and unleash their unholy fury.
Instead of rain the most horrible things imaginable will fall from the sky; teeth, barbed wire, sharks, rusty nails, candlelight dinners, sports cars, delightful water lilies, the pleasant aroma of your plump and cheerful aunt baking a cake, the cutest puppies imaginable, that toy you really really wanted for Christmas but your parents were too cheap to buy, sunshine, and concentrated happiness. Then hurricanes will be truly terrifying because you know they are going to hold this over your head and when you try to misbehave they will say "well what about when we gave you that adorable puppy huh?" and then you will feel bad and do as they say.
Mother nature I am calling you out. You really need to shape up and start giving us storms that really challenge the existence of human life. If you don't read this and start making some of these changes in the next few years I will have no choice but to throw a coup, and boy oh boy won't you be sorry you don't have homing tornadoes that are on fire and shoot more tornadoes.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
That's how I beat Shaq
Hey team so today I was watching ABC and a fantastic show was being shown called "Shaq Vs." wherein Shaquille of Neal plays sports other than basketball against the best players in that respective sport stating that it is the best crossfit exercise possible for him to be ready to play more basketball in the coming season which may in fact be his last and he continues on to lament that this may be his last chance to win an NBA championship which drew some sympathy from me until several minutes later when the announcers confirmed that he has in fact already won four making it less of a comeback kid down and out under and over story and more of a hey I'm gloating here pay attention to me again kind of story.
But aside from that it was very entertaining watching the man I only know from seeing the cinematic masterpiece Kazaam try and play sports where he was clearly not nearly as talented in but still pretty good at them because hey well I mean look at him he's in pretty great shape and he's pretty huge and is still a professional athlete so he's not completely out of his league against other athletes even if they are better at their respective sport.
However watching this and seeing how easy it was for Kazaam the genie to jump up over the beach volleyball net which we were constantly reminded was only a couple inches taller than the big man himself by him and the announcers and the other players because well he's big and they don't want people to forget that but I thought that maybe I should be the one to challenge Shaq at a sport I knew I'd be able to beat him in which would be pretty impressive since I am clearly a greasy fat shit who sits and blogs all day only opening the blinds to adjust the clock on my computer which I do three times a day just in case because I'm not too trusting of this new technologies.
So I did what any normal person would do and I called Shaq up and did some trash talking and called him names for about 20 minutes before I realized that I had dialed the wrong number and apologized and hung up and then tried again and the same thing happened and it was then that I finally realized that I didn't know Shaq's phone number because hey why the hell would I?
After many hours of work I tracked Shaq down using advanced tracking techniques passed down by my Inuit grandmother and Cherokee grandmother and my Bloodhound grandmother in that I read his twitter page until I figured out where he was. Then, in classic hip-hop style I got my boom box and put in Aaron Carter's hit single "That's how I beat Shaq" and went up to Shaq and yelled "Hey Shaq man why don't you try and play against me in my sport unless you are very scared which I anticipate you will be"
Of course being Shaq he was not at all scared and approached me and asked me what my sport was and I was nervous but I held my ground and said "blogging is my sport it requires a lot of hand-eye coordination" and he nodded his head in agreement he has a twitter page he knows how brutal that workout can be.
So the competition was set we were each given a week to get in shape for it and I practiced blogging like crazy and so did Shaq and we blogged about everything I mean everything that happened in our daily lives and we wrote pages upon pages of worthless pages about sitting on the patio and blogging throwing us into some kind of horrible recursion situation where the only thing to blog about was blogging which only led to more blogging but it was okay we were rescued when the time finally came to start the competition.
Shaq began writing about a delicious barbecue grill he ate the night before and I knew I would have to come up with something fast since barbecues are pretty impressive events to blog about since you have so many great orators sharing the stories of their pasts so I immediately set to work on this article which is at this point a horrible self-fulfilling prophecy since I already wrote the title and I already decided on the ending for this piece.
Unfortunately for the universe it had a different ending in mind and since it is actually physically impossible for the universe to disagree with a blogger champion like me (it was proven by Karl Friedrich Gauss in 1823) it started to collapse upon itself and Shaq cursed as the horrible black hole sucked up the last remaining bits of the universe as well as his career and I yelled back "That's how I beat Shaq" and looked at Aaron Carter next to me and he nodded with his annoying boy band smile.
But aside from that it was very entertaining watching the man I only know from seeing the cinematic masterpiece Kazaam try and play sports where he was clearly not nearly as talented in but still pretty good at them because hey well I mean look at him he's in pretty great shape and he's pretty huge and is still a professional athlete so he's not completely out of his league against other athletes even if they are better at their respective sport.
However watching this and seeing how easy it was for Kazaam the genie to jump up over the beach volleyball net which we were constantly reminded was only a couple inches taller than the big man himself by him and the announcers and the other players because well he's big and they don't want people to forget that but I thought that maybe I should be the one to challenge Shaq at a sport I knew I'd be able to beat him in which would be pretty impressive since I am clearly a greasy fat shit who sits and blogs all day only opening the blinds to adjust the clock on my computer which I do three times a day just in case because I'm not too trusting of this new technologies.
So I did what any normal person would do and I called Shaq up and did some trash talking and called him names for about 20 minutes before I realized that I had dialed the wrong number and apologized and hung up and then tried again and the same thing happened and it was then that I finally realized that I didn't know Shaq's phone number because hey why the hell would I?
After many hours of work I tracked Shaq down using advanced tracking techniques passed down by my Inuit grandmother and Cherokee grandmother and my Bloodhound grandmother in that I read his twitter page until I figured out where he was. Then, in classic hip-hop style I got my boom box and put in Aaron Carter's hit single "That's how I beat Shaq" and went up to Shaq and yelled "Hey Shaq man why don't you try and play against me in my sport unless you are very scared which I anticipate you will be"
Of course being Shaq he was not at all scared and approached me and asked me what my sport was and I was nervous but I held my ground and said "blogging is my sport it requires a lot of hand-eye coordination" and he nodded his head in agreement he has a twitter page he knows how brutal that workout can be.
So the competition was set we were each given a week to get in shape for it and I practiced blogging like crazy and so did Shaq and we blogged about everything I mean everything that happened in our daily lives and we wrote pages upon pages of worthless pages about sitting on the patio and blogging throwing us into some kind of horrible recursion situation where the only thing to blog about was blogging which only led to more blogging but it was okay we were rescued when the time finally came to start the competition.
Shaq began writing about a delicious barbecue grill he ate the night before and I knew I would have to come up with something fast since barbecues are pretty impressive events to blog about since you have so many great orators sharing the stories of their pasts so I immediately set to work on this article which is at this point a horrible self-fulfilling prophecy since I already wrote the title and I already decided on the ending for this piece.
Unfortunately for the universe it had a different ending in mind and since it is actually physically impossible for the universe to disagree with a blogger champion like me (it was proven by Karl Friedrich Gauss in 1823) it started to collapse upon itself and Shaq cursed as the horrible black hole sucked up the last remaining bits of the universe as well as his career and I yelled back "That's how I beat Shaq" and looked at Aaron Carter next to me and he nodded with his annoying boy band smile.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Isn't it amazing how patient I am
Hey team so today was just an average day for me. I was walking down the street asking the homeless for change and seeing how many people I could creep out by pretending I was a pigeon. As I was flying along and looking for good targets to poop on I ran into someone else who was also flying along and pretending to be a pigeon. "What a coincidence," I said to him as we landed precariously on the edge of some historic landmark covered in bird shit, "I very rarely see anyone else playing floor is lava out here."
He was young-looking, with a light green short sleeved tunic that really seemed a bit short for someone who was flying around constantly, if you get my drift. He nodded nonchalantly, acknowledging my comment but not replying in any significant way. Since I wanted to make sure that he was also playing floor is lava, I very suavely and subtly added "you know I really like floor is lava but most people think it is a game for young people and that they are too mature to play it you're not an old crotchety person are you?"
"I will never grow up!" He yelled and then flew in a somersault, landing gracefully and beaming widely at me. It suddenly dawned on me what was going on here. "Holy shit," I said, "you're Robin Hood aren't you?"
He nodded again, with another sly smile that let me know that he had clearly very recently stolen from King Georgeshire the Lionhearted the Third and was looking for probably the lowest 10% of the general earning bracket so he could practice his socialist outlaw tendencies by performing a simple and straightforward reevaluation and forceful redistribution of wealth in a society dominated by capitalists who abuse the blue collar workers in order to gain a substantial wealth. I can get a lot out of body language.
He then asked me if I was poor. I replied simply by saying "well gosh I don't know I mean I assume we have massively different definitions of poor for example I live in a modern society that uses a complicated asset evaluation system and so while I may not have a lot of spending money I do have a few somewhat valuable assets at my disposal as well as a flourishing stock portfolio but I also only have $34.45 in my checking account and a toothpick, a crayon, and a carton of milk in my wallet and in your case you died like hundreds of years ago"
So he did what any self-respecting outlaw would do and he took a few hours with me to go over my stock portfolio as well as my pension funds and helped me balance my checkbook before coming to the conclusion that yes, I was poor. So he slipped me a bag full of shiny gold coins with pictures of the great King Charlemagne pressed into them. I told him he really needed to check this story for historical accuracy but I was appreciative nonetheless.
So I walked to the nearby bank to see how much money I could get for authentic gold coins from Charlemagne's era but also apparently Robin Hood's man shit that would be worth such a fortune I thought. So I make my way into the bank and the teller is a nice looking young lady in her early twenties and I hand her the bag and ask how much I could get for it. She looks at the coins inside and says "ummmmmmmmmmmm"
And stares off into space. And by stare, I mean actually stare - she didn't blink, or move her eyes, or apparently even breathe for several minutes. Becoming concerned, I tried to say something, but she cut me off with a more emphatic "uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh"
So I patiently waited for her to finish thinking, or whatever she was doing. She hadn't made a single noise in a little over an hour now and I was seriously afraid that she was dead. However, a simple check could be made; every time that I tried to say something she would declare that she was thinking at a much higher volume, either with "ummmmmmmmmm" or "uhhhhhhhhhhhhh". So at least she was still alive. I slumped down in one of the uncomfortable chairs and tried to catch the eyes of the other tellers, who didn't really seem to think that anything was wrong.
When I woke up, it was dark out and the security guard was shaking me awake. "Excuse me sir, we have to close the bank now. You're going to have to leave" so I left that poor teller just standing there until the next morning. I returned the next day, and the next, and the next day just waiting for a response from the nearly catatonic teller. For 8 long, grueling years I went back and waited for her to come up with something. Nobody else in the bank would even acknowledge me; I was already being helped.
Finally, late one Christmas eve, she finally started writing something. I peered over the counter at what she was doing. She had a one dollar bill on the table and was meticulously copying the picture of King Charlemagne over good old Geord Washington. Then, when she finished with that, she carefully transcribed "480,273,372,172 dollars" over where it said "one dollar" and stuffed it into her register. She then gave me a my deposit slip which showed that my account now contained $480,273,372,206.45 and said "Thank you, have a nice day!"
I lost it all playing slots. But it was the most fun 2 hours of my life.
He was young-looking, with a light green short sleeved tunic that really seemed a bit short for someone who was flying around constantly, if you get my drift. He nodded nonchalantly, acknowledging my comment but not replying in any significant way. Since I wanted to make sure that he was also playing floor is lava, I very suavely and subtly added "you know I really like floor is lava but most people think it is a game for young people and that they are too mature to play it you're not an old crotchety person are you?"
"I will never grow up!" He yelled and then flew in a somersault, landing gracefully and beaming widely at me. It suddenly dawned on me what was going on here. "Holy shit," I said, "you're Robin Hood aren't you?"
He nodded again, with another sly smile that let me know that he had clearly very recently stolen from King Georgeshire the Lionhearted the Third and was looking for probably the lowest 10% of the general earning bracket so he could practice his socialist outlaw tendencies by performing a simple and straightforward reevaluation and forceful redistribution of wealth in a society dominated by capitalists who abuse the blue collar workers in order to gain a substantial wealth. I can get a lot out of body language.
He then asked me if I was poor. I replied simply by saying "well gosh I don't know I mean I assume we have massively different definitions of poor for example I live in a modern society that uses a complicated asset evaluation system and so while I may not have a lot of spending money I do have a few somewhat valuable assets at my disposal as well as a flourishing stock portfolio but I also only have $34.45 in my checking account and a toothpick, a crayon, and a carton of milk in my wallet and in your case you died like hundreds of years ago"
So he did what any self-respecting outlaw would do and he took a few hours with me to go over my stock portfolio as well as my pension funds and helped me balance my checkbook before coming to the conclusion that yes, I was poor. So he slipped me a bag full of shiny gold coins with pictures of the great King Charlemagne pressed into them. I told him he really needed to check this story for historical accuracy but I was appreciative nonetheless.
So I walked to the nearby bank to see how much money I could get for authentic gold coins from Charlemagne's era but also apparently Robin Hood's man shit that would be worth such a fortune I thought. So I make my way into the bank and the teller is a nice looking young lady in her early twenties and I hand her the bag and ask how much I could get for it. She looks at the coins inside and says "ummmmmmmmmmmm"
And stares off into space. And by stare, I mean actually stare - she didn't blink, or move her eyes, or apparently even breathe for several minutes. Becoming concerned, I tried to say something, but she cut me off with a more emphatic "uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh"
So I patiently waited for her to finish thinking, or whatever she was doing. She hadn't made a single noise in a little over an hour now and I was seriously afraid that she was dead. However, a simple check could be made; every time that I tried to say something she would declare that she was thinking at a much higher volume, either with "ummmmmmmmmm" or "uhhhhhhhhhhhhh". So at least she was still alive. I slumped down in one of the uncomfortable chairs and tried to catch the eyes of the other tellers, who didn't really seem to think that anything was wrong.
When I woke up, it was dark out and the security guard was shaking me awake. "Excuse me sir, we have to close the bank now. You're going to have to leave" so I left that poor teller just standing there until the next morning. I returned the next day, and the next, and the next day just waiting for a response from the nearly catatonic teller. For 8 long, grueling years I went back and waited for her to come up with something. Nobody else in the bank would even acknowledge me; I was already being helped.
Finally, late one Christmas eve, she finally started writing something. I peered over the counter at what she was doing. She had a one dollar bill on the table and was meticulously copying the picture of King Charlemagne over good old Geord Washington. Then, when she finished with that, she carefully transcribed "480,273,372,172 dollars" over where it said "one dollar" and stuffed it into her register. She then gave me a my deposit slip which showed that my account now contained $480,273,372,206.45 and said "Thank you, have a nice day!"
I lost it all playing slots. But it was the most fun 2 hours of my life.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
I am such a revolutionary like Ben Franklin or Captain Planet
Hey team I have finally decided to become a powerful political pundit whose scathing criticism of all of the pathetic and horrible bureaucrats in Washington provides a shining beacon of hope for the sheltered and uneducated masses. This post is sure to move you in ways you haven't even imagined yet because I am going to rock your political world with more insight and suave persuasiveness than you can possibly comprehend.
Now first let me talk about the recent press conference about the health care problems wherein our "great" (did you see what I did there) president answered the questions of many wonderful local people who are so poor and struggling and Joe Six Pack who is important to pundits like me. I understand the working class you see I really have watched a lot of documentaries and read a lot of blogs about them so I really can understand their plight.
For example I was listening to Rush Limbaugh last night and he was interviewing a poor American who only made a little over two hundred thousand dollars a year and his wife was pulling in a paltry one hundred and fifty thousand a year and they were saying how they had to cut back on gas for their SUV because they simply couldn't afford to commute in it anymore and he was appalled by this and he stated that it is entirely the fault of the Obama administration and health care reform and death panels for killing their grandma and they explained how their grandmother had a stroke at 82 and the death panels decided to keep her alive and she is still alive and happy.
Now if you are anything like me you were angry about this and really want someone to speak out about this outrageous outrage. I think that someone is destined to be me. So in retribution I went ahead and called Washington D.C. so that they would get a mouthful of the people's fist of furious fury.
"Hello" was their all-too-innocent answer. "HELLO YOUR FACE" I yelled back at them, indicating immediately my intellectual superiority. I was soon transferred to someone very high up and I asked them "What is your plan surrounding the dealing of and dealing with or for the new health care reform not to not not not build death panels to not not not not not not murder the elderly and also the octomom?"
They were stunned by my powerful and probing questioning. He began to reply but I immediately shot back with "don't forget today is D alliteration day" and he readied himself once more to speak "don't deject domestic dealings during December delegating detestable death" and I replied with "dast doth don Deuteronomy during Darack Dbama's ddminstration dor dew dealth dare deform? "
He said "dumbass dumbass dumbass" and hung up. If only they were prepared to answer the tough questions that us genius pundits pose. Man just wait until next week when I reveal more about the corruption of government officials who, as it turns out, spend at least 400 dollars a year on food alone!
Now first let me talk about the recent press conference about the health care problems wherein our "great" (did you see what I did there) president answered the questions of many wonderful local people who are so poor and struggling and Joe Six Pack who is important to pundits like me. I understand the working class you see I really have watched a lot of documentaries and read a lot of blogs about them so I really can understand their plight.
For example I was listening to Rush Limbaugh last night and he was interviewing a poor American who only made a little over two hundred thousand dollars a year and his wife was pulling in a paltry one hundred and fifty thousand a year and they were saying how they had to cut back on gas for their SUV because they simply couldn't afford to commute in it anymore and he was appalled by this and he stated that it is entirely the fault of the Obama administration and health care reform and death panels for killing their grandma and they explained how their grandmother had a stroke at 82 and the death panels decided to keep her alive and she is still alive and happy.
Now if you are anything like me you were angry about this and really want someone to speak out about this outrageous outrage. I think that someone is destined to be me. So in retribution I went ahead and called Washington D.C. so that they would get a mouthful of the people's fist of furious fury.
"Hello" was their all-too-innocent answer. "HELLO YOUR FACE" I yelled back at them, indicating immediately my intellectual superiority. I was soon transferred to someone very high up and I asked them "What is your plan surrounding the dealing of and dealing with or for the new health care reform not to not not not build death panels to not not not not not not murder the elderly and also the octomom?"
They were stunned by my powerful and probing questioning. He began to reply but I immediately shot back with "don't forget today is D alliteration day" and he readied himself once more to speak "don't deject domestic dealings during December delegating detestable death" and I replied with "dast doth don Deuteronomy during Darack Dbama's ddminstration dor dew dealth dare deform? "
He said "dumbass dumbass dumbass" and hung up. If only they were prepared to answer the tough questions that us genius pundits pose. Man just wait until next week when I reveal more about the corruption of government officials who, as it turns out, spend at least 400 dollars a year on food alone!
Friday, August 14, 2009
I am actually completely deaf which is why I can listen to this crap
Okay team so I just got back from a 16 hour trip in the car which consisted of about 15 and a half hours of driving in Pennsylvania and the last half hour going through the states of Virginia, Ohio, Alaska, California, and the fictional planet Rigel VII from the up and coming hit TV series Star Trek. Naturally, since construction halted me to roughly the speed of a dead tapeworm blowing in the wind (this metaphor makes so much sense just don't think about it; or, if you do, be sure to write a glowing literary analysis about why it is deep), I spent a lot of the time listening to music.
Over the course of this long car trip, I listened to several hundred songs. However, at the unfortunate conclusion of the trip, only a single song was stuck in my head, replaying over and over again. This song was, of course, "I'm a Believer" by the Monkees. Now of course you thinking to yourself "no way I have heard of that song and this lunatic author never uses references to anything I have ever heard of" and for that I blame the horrible children's nightmare Shrek, a horrible movie about a bunch of angry computer hackers who find out they are in the Matrix.
Now this was a major problem for me because I enjoy their music because I am deaf but I had listened to many many songs but no matter how many songs I would listen to I would continue to have the Monkees and their music stuck in my head. This can happen to me even if I do not listen to their songs. For example, one day I spent 23 hours listening to my favorite record, The Best of Bread, and singing along loudly and out of tune. However, at the end of my experience I could not get "Last Train to Clarksville" out of my head. It was the only thing I could hear or think of singing.
To nervously retell another nearly repressed memory, I once had a marathon session of 12 straight days of listening to No End in Sight: The Very Best of Foreigner and, terrifyingly enough, at the very end the only words I could hear were the lyrics to "Pleasant Valley Sunday." I carefully weighed these very dangerous circumstances. It soon became very clear to me.
The Monkees are a secret organization hell-bent on brainwashing America. That is truly the only explanation for this phenomenon. And, unless drastic measures are taken, they will continue on their 50-year-long conspiracy to take over the world. They have simply been sitting by, biding their time and waiting for the day when the entire world has their songs stuck in their head at once. Then, they pounce, and their secret plot will be unraveled as the entire planet is given instructions to betray the Jedi and allow Palpatine to take his rightful place as Emperor.
The only way to stop them is radical, but it must be done. Monkees songs should be forever forbidden from being played; it will be considered treasonous to have "A Little Bit Me, a Little Bit You" on your iPod, it will be punishable by death to hear "Good Clean Fun" on the radio, and owning a copy of Shrek will leave us no choice but to flay you alive and eat your carcass. That is how important this is.
Over the course of this long car trip, I listened to several hundred songs. However, at the unfortunate conclusion of the trip, only a single song was stuck in my head, replaying over and over again. This song was, of course, "I'm a Believer" by the Monkees. Now of course you thinking to yourself "no way I have heard of that song and this lunatic author never uses references to anything I have ever heard of" and for that I blame the horrible children's nightmare Shrek, a horrible movie about a bunch of angry computer hackers who find out they are in the Matrix.
Now this was a major problem for me because I enjoy their music because I am deaf but I had listened to many many songs but no matter how many songs I would listen to I would continue to have the Monkees and their music stuck in my head. This can happen to me even if I do not listen to their songs. For example, one day I spent 23 hours listening to my favorite record, The Best of Bread, and singing along loudly and out of tune. However, at the end of my experience I could not get "Last Train to Clarksville" out of my head. It was the only thing I could hear or think of singing.
To nervously retell another nearly repressed memory, I once had a marathon session of 12 straight days of listening to No End in Sight: The Very Best of Foreigner and, terrifyingly enough, at the very end the only words I could hear were the lyrics to "Pleasant Valley Sunday." I carefully weighed these very dangerous circumstances. It soon became very clear to me.
The Monkees are a secret organization hell-bent on brainwashing America. That is truly the only explanation for this phenomenon. And, unless drastic measures are taken, they will continue on their 50-year-long conspiracy to take over the world. They have simply been sitting by, biding their time and waiting for the day when the entire world has their songs stuck in their head at once. Then, they pounce, and their secret plot will be unraveled as the entire planet is given instructions to betray the Jedi and allow Palpatine to take his rightful place as Emperor.
The only way to stop them is radical, but it must be done. Monkees songs should be forever forbidden from being played; it will be considered treasonous to have "A Little Bit Me, a Little Bit You" on your iPod, it will be punishable by death to hear "Good Clean Fun" on the radio, and owning a copy of Shrek will leave us no choice but to flay you alive and eat your carcass. That is how important this is.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
God damn why don't you pansy-ass wussies give blood
Okay so this is that obligatory preachy post where I act like I am better than every single person on Earth in that I know better and I am better and I want you to change your life right away and do exactly as I say because I am the internet and I know better. Well guess what god damn it I deserve to have at least one preachy post a year and I will try to use it for good rather than personal gain since I am almost a deity in terms of my morality.
And also if you already do what I am going to rant about than you can just sit back and bask in your amazing glory because you are a good person and everyone should look up to you and be happy about being able to even see you, the wondrous and heavenly light coming from you should be enough to blind the damned and wretched populous.
Now of course what I am talking about is donating blood. Donating blood is an amazing pastime; I personally have donated every day for the past several hundred years amassing an incredible 380,000 gallons of total donations. Of course not everyone is macho enough to reach this kind of level, but you know that I can't do all of this all by myself. I can try and I come close, but people still need blood and they really love not dying, so why not spend a few hours once every two months and help them out?
Yes, that is the first thing that is great about giving blood. You can become a better person instantaneously for - get this - no work at all! You don't have to see creepy and smelly old people, you don't have to laboriously build houses for charity, and you certainly don't have to deal with bratty-ass children! All you have to do to become a better person in the eyes of the general populace is sit on a table for 20 minutes and then go eat cookies. Now you can't tell me that isn't a good deal. You don't even have to lift a finger - in fact, they insist that you don't!
What's that? You're afraid of needles? WHAT KIND OF LAME ASS MAN DO YOU CALL YOURSELF? If you are too fucking pussy to let someone stick a huge-ass needle into your arm and draw a large amount of bodily fluids then why don't you just come and turn in your testicles and chest hair right now because you are a woman. In fact you are not even a woman because women still donate blood and aren't as lame as you. If you can't tolerate a little discomfort or deal with a little pain to SAVE LIVES of people WHO ARE DYING and ARE IN WAY MORE PAIN THAN YOU WILL EVER BE than you are shameful and I hope you get to be in their position at some point because you deserve to be in a horrible car accident or a shark murdering accident. I realize that seems harsh but sometimes laughter is the best medicine. Oops, wrong aphorism, I think I mean that you should walk a mile in their shoes.
It doesn't even hurt that bad. If you are a true man you are routinely putting yourself in more painful situations and you are shaking it off because you are a man and just because you have bones sticking out of you or blood gushing from a massive wound or missing a few limbs doesn't mean that you get to cry or run away.
So, to reiterate many of my main points, man up and do something good for society. Maybe it will be the only good thing you do for your entire life. It actually probably will be. You suck! There's no gift more personal than one drawn directly from your veins.
And also if you already do what I am going to rant about than you can just sit back and bask in your amazing glory because you are a good person and everyone should look up to you and be happy about being able to even see you, the wondrous and heavenly light coming from you should be enough to blind the damned and wretched populous.
Now of course what I am talking about is donating blood. Donating blood is an amazing pastime; I personally have donated every day for the past several hundred years amassing an incredible 380,000 gallons of total donations. Of course not everyone is macho enough to reach this kind of level, but you know that I can't do all of this all by myself. I can try and I come close, but people still need blood and they really love not dying, so why not spend a few hours once every two months and help them out?
Yes, that is the first thing that is great about giving blood. You can become a better person instantaneously for - get this - no work at all! You don't have to see creepy and smelly old people, you don't have to laboriously build houses for charity, and you certainly don't have to deal with bratty-ass children! All you have to do to become a better person in the eyes of the general populace is sit on a table for 20 minutes and then go eat cookies. Now you can't tell me that isn't a good deal. You don't even have to lift a finger - in fact, they insist that you don't!
What's that? You're afraid of needles? WHAT KIND OF LAME ASS MAN DO YOU CALL YOURSELF? If you are too fucking pussy to let someone stick a huge-ass needle into your arm and draw a large amount of bodily fluids then why don't you just come and turn in your testicles and chest hair right now because you are a woman. In fact you are not even a woman because women still donate blood and aren't as lame as you. If you can't tolerate a little discomfort or deal with a little pain to SAVE LIVES of people WHO ARE DYING and ARE IN WAY MORE PAIN THAN YOU WILL EVER BE than you are shameful and I hope you get to be in their position at some point because you deserve to be in a horrible car accident or a shark murdering accident. I realize that seems harsh but sometimes laughter is the best medicine. Oops, wrong aphorism, I think I mean that you should walk a mile in their shoes.
It doesn't even hurt that bad. If you are a true man you are routinely putting yourself in more painful situations and you are shaking it off because you are a man and just because you have bones sticking out of you or blood gushing from a massive wound or missing a few limbs doesn't mean that you get to cry or run away.
So, to reiterate many of my main points, man up and do something good for society. Maybe it will be the only good thing you do for your entire life. It actually probably will be. You suck! There's no gift more personal than one drawn directly from your veins.
Friday, July 31, 2009
I'm pretty sure I'd win the olympics at this point
Hey team, today I was out jogging like usual. Every evening if it's not raining I will go out to a local track or just run out alongside the road. It is good exercise and it is good fun. However today I was feeling very good; I had just eaten a big old honking Subway sandwich and two perfectly made, fresh from the oven oatmeal raisin cookies. I felt like I could conquer the world.
And to top it off, it was the perfect weather for running - mild temperature, pretty low humidity, and the sun just winking it's happy rays over the horizon as a cool breeze flowed carelessly by, caressing my every joint and mmmm hmmm... hmmm...mmm
Anyway, I decided that I didn't feel like boring old jogging today and I wanted to see how far I could sprint. I'm in pretty good shape and I really felt like I could do quite a bit of sprinting. And I mean, sprinting sprinting, not meager gallops, not slightly intensified jogging, not canoeing - running full sprint as far as I could go.
So I set up, do my stretches and do a slow jog for a single lap. Now the blood is flowing and I'm giddy as can be. I make it back to the line I started at and took off running at full blast! What an exhilarating experience, the wind blowing through my hair and cooling my face, the mad rush of my racing feet pounding away at the clay, the rampant thumping of my heart as I flew down the track. All in all it was pretty cool for the first 15 seconds or so. But after I stopped thinking of cool sounding descriptions to blow up the moment for my audience later, I realized I had only been running for 15 goddamn seconds and it was already really hard.
But I persevered. I kept on running, thinking only about my labored breathing and the sweat dripping from me like I was the least efficient sprinkler system in the world. I couldn't even think of decent similes anymore, for goodness sake! Then the unthinkable, the worst thing imaginable happened to me - a fucking bug flew in my nose.
"God damn it" I yelled, or something along those lines but probably more vulgar. I was using that nose for breathing! I tried very hard to maintain my pace while frantically blowing my nose on the air trying to get this horrible insect out. It was probably already gone, far up into my nose and down into the horrible abyss of my body only to be sweated out seconds later because, hey, it probably contained water, my body thought. I eventually gave up and kept pushing. Of all the things to happen...
I was still going strong. Well, maybe not strong. I was perspiring more than I ever have in my entire life, my body turning to whatever substance it could get its hands on in order to sweat it out. I had a feeling if I kept going I'd start sweating pee and peeing blood and then sweating both. My heart was in agony, beating easily over 9000 (oh I'm so sorry) times per minute all the while crawling slowly up my spine in order to have a nice "word" with my brain about this whole running thing.
So I as I came upon my starting line again I finally, eventually, horribly, climatically stopped. I could barely stand at this point, much less walk, but I needed to get to my Gatorade (man look at how many brands I am endorsing in this post alone why aren't they paying me anything) in order to not, you know, die. I slowly meander over, swaying greatly and watching as the approximate volume of the Bearing Sea dripped from my body. I got over to the Gatorade and nearly collapsed, but I remained standing for fear of not being able to wake up if I ever sit down again.
So I take my big, 1 gallon bucket of blue flavored Gatorade and start chugging like an idiot frat boy trying to something something something. I'm not even thinking anymore, am I? I checked my brain with a quick tap to the skull. Nope, not thinking. That's okay, I was getting the liquids I needed, so it was okay for Mr. Brain to tap out for a little while, even if he didn't really do any actual work (the slacker).
After taking in more Gatorade than I knew my body could even allow, I reflected on my achievement, trying to count how many laps I had gone. I racked my brain, who was obviously not being very helpful to me (probably because he thinks I have become to much of a jock to hang out with it anymore) and came up with a total of 8 laps. 8 laps at 400 meters a lap is 3200 meters, which to the best of my calculations is a really long way to sprint. Now granted I probably wasn't really sprinting in the same spirit as all those Olympic athletes and I probably wasn't actually even near the pace of the 3200 meter runners but it felt pretty damn fast to me and I think it's the thought that counts.
Of course, this is an accomplishment for me. I know all of you football (soccer) players will come up and say "Oh well yes we do 10 sets of those for warm-ups and then we go on to play outrun the cheetahs driving sports cars for the next 16 hours before taking a single sip of water to completely refuel our bodies and in conclusion you are suck" but I feel like I have done well. Or something along those lines.
And to top it off, it was the perfect weather for running - mild temperature, pretty low humidity, and the sun just winking it's happy rays over the horizon as a cool breeze flowed carelessly by, caressing my every joint and mmmm hmmm... hmmm...mmm
Anyway, I decided that I didn't feel like boring old jogging today and I wanted to see how far I could sprint. I'm in pretty good shape and I really felt like I could do quite a bit of sprinting. And I mean, sprinting sprinting, not meager gallops, not slightly intensified jogging, not canoeing - running full sprint as far as I could go.
So I set up, do my stretches and do a slow jog for a single lap. Now the blood is flowing and I'm giddy as can be. I make it back to the line I started at and took off running at full blast! What an exhilarating experience, the wind blowing through my hair and cooling my face, the mad rush of my racing feet pounding away at the clay, the rampant thumping of my heart as I flew down the track. All in all it was pretty cool for the first 15 seconds or so. But after I stopped thinking of cool sounding descriptions to blow up the moment for my audience later, I realized I had only been running for 15 goddamn seconds and it was already really hard.
But I persevered. I kept on running, thinking only about my labored breathing and the sweat dripping from me like I was the least efficient sprinkler system in the world. I couldn't even think of decent similes anymore, for goodness sake! Then the unthinkable, the worst thing imaginable happened to me - a fucking bug flew in my nose.
"God damn it" I yelled, or something along those lines but probably more vulgar. I was using that nose for breathing! I tried very hard to maintain my pace while frantically blowing my nose on the air trying to get this horrible insect out. It was probably already gone, far up into my nose and down into the horrible abyss of my body only to be sweated out seconds later because, hey, it probably contained water, my body thought. I eventually gave up and kept pushing. Of all the things to happen...
I was still going strong. Well, maybe not strong. I was perspiring more than I ever have in my entire life, my body turning to whatever substance it could get its hands on in order to sweat it out. I had a feeling if I kept going I'd start sweating pee and peeing blood and then sweating both. My heart was in agony, beating easily over 9000 (oh I'm so sorry) times per minute all the while crawling slowly up my spine in order to have a nice "word" with my brain about this whole running thing.
So I as I came upon my starting line again I finally, eventually, horribly, climatically stopped. I could barely stand at this point, much less walk, but I needed to get to my Gatorade (man look at how many brands I am endorsing in this post alone why aren't they paying me anything) in order to not, you know, die. I slowly meander over, swaying greatly and watching as the approximate volume of the Bearing Sea dripped from my body. I got over to the Gatorade and nearly collapsed, but I remained standing for fear of not being able to wake up if I ever sit down again.
So I take my big, 1 gallon bucket of blue flavored Gatorade and start chugging like an idiot frat boy trying to something something something. I'm not even thinking anymore, am I? I checked my brain with a quick tap to the skull. Nope, not thinking. That's okay, I was getting the liquids I needed, so it was okay for Mr. Brain to tap out for a little while, even if he didn't really do any actual work (the slacker).
After taking in more Gatorade than I knew my body could even allow, I reflected on my achievement, trying to count how many laps I had gone. I racked my brain, who was obviously not being very helpful to me (probably because he thinks I have become to much of a jock to hang out with it anymore) and came up with a total of 8 laps. 8 laps at 400 meters a lap is 3200 meters, which to the best of my calculations is a really long way to sprint. Now granted I probably wasn't really sprinting in the same spirit as all those Olympic athletes and I probably wasn't actually even near the pace of the 3200 meter runners but it felt pretty damn fast to me and I think it's the thought that counts.
Of course, this is an accomplishment for me. I know all of you football (soccer) players will come up and say "Oh well yes we do 10 sets of those for warm-ups and then we go on to play outrun the cheetahs driving sports cars for the next 16 hours before taking a single sip of water to completely refuel our bodies and in conclusion you are suck" but I feel like I have done well. Or something along those lines.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Golf would be so much better if you had to battle a new mythological creature every time you hit a ball
So guys I went golfing again today and I found out that I still suck at it that hasn't changed from two weeks ago. However with some assistance from the helpful golf professional mumbjo jumbo speakers at Pro Golf I at least know why I am bad at it. First of all though what the hell kind of lame name is "Pro Golf" for a golf course it sounds like they spent a couple seconds choosing the name instead of something clever like all those King Par stores if I were in charge I'd get more customers by calling it Pro Golfasaurus McManRape with fire-breathing dragons that pick up the balls on the driving range instead of the little guys in caged tractors and if you hit the dragon they will come and eat you alive oh man that would be sweet but I don't know how many customers we'd have after a day and I hear dragons don't exist so maybe I'll have to revise my business model a bit.
But anyway the pro golfer expert head honcho gave me lots of helpful explanations as to what I was doing wrong. First of all I was hitting with a massive fade because I was putting the wrong English on the ball when teeing from the rough and when I'm swinging the iron around the clubs moment of inertia loses all of its muffler bearings so I'm not getting enough melatonin in my hippocampus to walk for the cure. Or something along those lines.
Then he shows me how he would swing the club. It looked exactly the same as how I'd been doing it. He shows me a couple more times in pretty useless slow motion because as far as I know when you swing in slow motion you get the movements right but the ball goes like 2 feet. Then he let me try again and he immediately saw several thousand mistakes in my technique and how I was moving my deltoids all wrong and gave me a huge list of things to practice so that I would have a better golf swing and I promised him, staring like a deer into headlights shining golf textbooks into its eyes, that I would practice everything he told me about calculus and epilepsy.
He then went on helping other perplexed and hopeless golfers in their quest to become boring people in stupid polyester pants. I went on sucking at golf. And the circle of life continues
But anyway the pro golfer expert head honcho gave me lots of helpful explanations as to what I was doing wrong. First of all I was hitting with a massive fade because I was putting the wrong English on the ball when teeing from the rough and when I'm swinging the iron around the clubs moment of inertia loses all of its muffler bearings so I'm not getting enough melatonin in my hippocampus to walk for the cure. Or something along those lines.
Then he shows me how he would swing the club. It looked exactly the same as how I'd been doing it. He shows me a couple more times in pretty useless slow motion because as far as I know when you swing in slow motion you get the movements right but the ball goes like 2 feet. Then he let me try again and he immediately saw several thousand mistakes in my technique and how I was moving my deltoids all wrong and gave me a huge list of things to practice so that I would have a better golf swing and I promised him, staring like a deer into headlights shining golf textbooks into its eyes, that I would practice everything he told me about calculus and epilepsy.
He then went on helping other perplexed and hopeless golfers in their quest to become boring people in stupid polyester pants. I went on sucking at golf. And the circle of life continues
Friday, July 10, 2009
This is exactly how my sex life is
Oh my goodness yelled stacy the super hot mega big boobed cheerleader you are such a manly man oh yes please insert your penis into me just like that that is exactly how i like it. and i was like oh man oh man this is getting really good babby i don't have to use a condom rite and she was offended right off and she said hell no you need to use a condom im not having your babies i dont love you enough but i was quick back with well your parents didnt love each other very much and they had you and they used to beat you which gave you your fetish for being tied up. oh god yes yelled stacy and she took out the rope and mr green killed her in the conservatory.
I'm so fucking good at clue.
I'm so fucking good at clue.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
I also secretly like CSI: Miami
As far as I can tell by watching crime dramas, the popular and cool thing to do in retribution is to gather all the personal information on the person that hit you that you can possibly find and then stalk them for about 8 years and then, when the time is just right, you spring an elaborate trap on them and the CSI workers spend the next hour finding out that you did it and although they always will catch you you still have the opportunity to tell your sappy story of how they hit you and ruined your life and then Horatio will put on his sunglasses and say a pun and then it will be the credits or it actually might just be a crappy slow song with a picturesque setting and some people kindof staring at each other because you know that CSIs are real people too and they have relationships and feelings and they are always deeply effected by the case which is odd considering that they seem to go through a lot of these murders (probably once a week, at least - judging by the way they age on camera vs. how many murder mysteries they have solved) and it shouldn't really effect them after so long but it does and they always have a tragic backstory that overshadows your actual tragic event and you are shown as someone worse than Hitler because you are an evil villain who KILLED and you should be put to justice about it oh and don't forget that if you want to end it properly you must look out with a sortof mean and sad face on at the same time when you're looking at Horatio otherwise it's just not dramatic enough and I will not tolerate crappy shows on my television.
I miss the roaring twenties
Oh bah to all you young whippersnappers and your dummy boxes. When I was but a lad we would all gather round the radio to listen to Roosevelt and back then a dime would buy you a house and a dollar would buy you a railroad but gosh darn you worked hard for every penny and you respected your elders because they knew best and when they told you that that Hitler was trouble gosh darn you listened! We would gather around with the other kids and have us a grand old time with Rich Uncle Pennybags and trying to avoid the very bad and evil Officer Edgar Mallory so as to not become like Jake the Jailbird.
I could have made so many jokes about women here
Oh my good sir, allow me to explain the love/hate relationship I have with periods. When I'm attempting to communicate some point to another (likely) sentient being, I heavily endorse the use of and really try to include the period at regular intervals to complete a thought. For instance, I used it right there in order to separate the explanation of when I use periods with the explanation of the example used for when I used periods. I would use this sentence to delve further into the recursion, but right now that previous period is being used to separate the explanation of the example with the thought that I should spare you poor saps from reading any more of my nonsense.
Obviously, in such situations the period is a good friend of mine; she's very reliable, accessible, and very willing to help me contribute to society by making me the best that I can be. Without periods, I sound like a rambling, raving lunatic and, simply enough, nobody will take me seriously; she helps bring order to the world.
But that's why I hate her. She's so restrictive; she has so many rules as to when and where she can be placed. For instance, she would become furio.us at me with this sentence! "My goodness gracious," she would yell, "you can't use a period in the middle of a sentence randomly like that, much less in the middle of a word!" There's simply no arguing with her; she's a cynical and hate-filled misanthrope when it comes to allowing for the truly creative juices to flow. So I hate her; I hate how I have to have her to make me look presentable in the eyes of society and how bullshit social norms make me look like an insane and lonely outcast because I refuse to bow down the vindictive and authoritative paramount!
Call me misogynistic if you want, but I cannot truly express how I feel on a subject without forgoing the use of the period. When I'm off of her terrible and painful leash, I am able to let the creative and intellectual juices flow without any concerns; I can express in the most complete and utterly profound terms of how I really feel and I can leave an impression on anybody I talk to. If you try to force me to return to the clutches of period, the domineering bitch, it's like putting a stopper in a faucet with the water running; I may conform for some time, but then my extraordinary and incredible ideas must get out in some way and it will be in an even less desirable manner for you.
Obviously, in such situations the period is a good friend of mine; she's very reliable, accessible, and very willing to help me contribute to society by making me the best that I can be. Without periods, I sound like a rambling, raving lunatic and, simply enough, nobody will take me seriously; she helps bring order to the world.
But that's why I hate her. She's so restrictive; she has so many rules as to when and where she can be placed. For instance, she would become furio.us at me with this sentence! "My goodness gracious," she would yell, "you can't use a period in the middle of a sentence randomly like that, much less in the middle of a word!" There's simply no arguing with her; she's a cynical and hate-filled misanthrope when it comes to allowing for the truly creative juices to flow. So I hate her; I hate how I have to have her to make me look presentable in the eyes of society and how bullshit social norms make me look like an insane and lonely outcast because I refuse to bow down the vindictive and authoritative paramount!
Call me misogynistic if you want, but I cannot truly express how I feel on a subject without forgoing the use of the period. When I'm off of her terrible and painful leash, I am able to let the creative and intellectual juices flow without any concerns; I can express in the most complete and utterly profound terms of how I really feel and I can leave an impression on anybody I talk to. If you try to force me to return to the clutches of period, the domineering bitch, it's like putting a stopper in a faucet with the water running; I may conform for some time, but then my extraordinary and incredible ideas must get out in some way and it will be in an even less desirable manner for you.
I am so freaking manly
As the true epitome of masculinity, I theoretically shouldn't be able to shave without special tools like a black hole because my coarse, gritty, man-hairs that grow faster than the speed of light cannot ordinarily be shaved away with the tools of mortals. Nevertheless, I make my greatest attempts to seem as feminine as possible in order to counteract my machismo which, if allowed to grow unchecked, would consume the entire universe and New Jersey. Of course, for me, a feminine act is to shave, sans cream, by standing in front of a firing line and using the bullets to remove the hairs, one at a time. I then apply my aftershave by jumping into a volcano just as it is erupting.
Fuck I am manly.
Fuck I am manly.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
I am very inconsiderate
Okay team listen up and listen up good my name is Sergeant Old MacDonald and I swear to god if one more snot-nosed little punk comes up to me and tries to do that "E-I-E-I-O" I'll rip out their spleen and put it up in their sternum! I'm here today to tell you about everything there is in the world of fat and just how dangerous the world of fat can be and I will be very serious about it so no joke telling and no smiling and perfect posture and brushed teeth and perfect flossing because you know that dental health is just as important as real health because even if you look like a supermodel stud if you have bad teeth nobody will kiss you so you'll just get laid without love and nobody wants that.
The world of fat is a dangerous and mysterious one but due to recent scientific breakthroughs as a result of McDonald's and not coincidentally sponsored by McDonald's we have learned a lot more about fat people because there are so many fat people in the world today. Why, just this week I was on the street and I could have stood there all day counting fat people going by but I didn't because the manager told me that I had to buy something once every three hours to sit in the restaurant and so I went in to the bathroom and stole the soap dispenser and walked out while holding down the "dispense" key and leaving a trail of hand soap all over the floor. I'm so mischievous.
Oh, yes, but back to the world of fat. Like I said, there's so many fat people nowadays that it's really easy to study them, or so I thought. I thought long and hard about how to study them in great detail and learn why they are fat and how they are fat and when they are fat and who they are fat and where they are fat and so I came to the wonderful conclusion of using the scientific method, an archaic and useless method that scientists used to follow when conducting experiments. My experiment was going to be simple: I would return to that nameless restaurant that was McDonald's and watch the fat people until one of them challenged me to a fight or talked to me or something but this time I would wear a white lab coat so that everyone, even that little punk manager would know that I was up to science.
I watched and I waited for hours and, to my surprise, no fat people physically assaulted me. I was frankly surprised because, as a buff and outstanding member of the community and clearly a scientist I thought I would be intimidating to their primal alpha male instincts. But no, these new breeds of fat people are much more timid and do not respond to heckling or flexing contests in the way they used to. You see, I would know. I have a great confession to make.
There was a time when I was severely overweight and lived off of greasy food and grease from other locations and axle grease which doesn't sound good but put it on a hamburger and mmmhmmm that's tasty. I was a fighting fatty, though, and I was always trying to fight the buff guys at my school who threw me in a locker and laughed when I didn't fit and then I cried. It was a sad day. But I got back at those jocks really good when I became a drill sergeant and kicked all their asses when they signed up to join the army. Hahaha now you know why all us drill sergeants are so mean because we used to be fat and you picked on us!
But back to my experiments. I learned that fat people thrive off of simply the smell of grease and not necessarily the taste. It's like nicotine, only it doesn't make any sense and has no scientific evidence to support it. I propose that we use my newest invention, the fat patch. It goes on like a nicotine patch and dispenses a greasy odor into the air and also forces an air strike on the nearest fast food restaurant. Holy shit, that would be so cool; I really want it to do that. And then when they go for food at their nearest restaurant of fat and death and diabetes they would cry because it went out of business because they tried to get off their food!
And then the underworld crime agencies would start making fast food and sell it for hundreds an ounce and it will become like cannabis or Marijuana to you young folks and then the economy would prosper. I'm a fucking genius. It's all because of the white lab coat.
But, ahem, I got side tracked. The true nature of my experiment proved that fat people do exist and so I can safely say that this myth is plausible.
The world of fat is a dangerous and mysterious one but due to recent scientific breakthroughs as a result of McDonald's and not coincidentally sponsored by McDonald's we have learned a lot more about fat people because there are so many fat people in the world today. Why, just this week I was on the street and I could have stood there all day counting fat people going by but I didn't because the manager told me that I had to buy something once every three hours to sit in the restaurant and so I went in to the bathroom and stole the soap dispenser and walked out while holding down the "dispense" key and leaving a trail of hand soap all over the floor. I'm so mischievous.
Oh, yes, but back to the world of fat. Like I said, there's so many fat people nowadays that it's really easy to study them, or so I thought. I thought long and hard about how to study them in great detail and learn why they are fat and how they are fat and when they are fat and who they are fat and where they are fat and so I came to the wonderful conclusion of using the scientific method, an archaic and useless method that scientists used to follow when conducting experiments. My experiment was going to be simple: I would return to that nameless restaurant that was McDonald's and watch the fat people until one of them challenged me to a fight or talked to me or something but this time I would wear a white lab coat so that everyone, even that little punk manager would know that I was up to science.
I watched and I waited for hours and, to my surprise, no fat people physically assaulted me. I was frankly surprised because, as a buff and outstanding member of the community and clearly a scientist I thought I would be intimidating to their primal alpha male instincts. But no, these new breeds of fat people are much more timid and do not respond to heckling or flexing contests in the way they used to. You see, I would know. I have a great confession to make.
There was a time when I was severely overweight and lived off of greasy food and grease from other locations and axle grease which doesn't sound good but put it on a hamburger and mmmhmmm that's tasty. I was a fighting fatty, though, and I was always trying to fight the buff guys at my school who threw me in a locker and laughed when I didn't fit and then I cried. It was a sad day. But I got back at those jocks really good when I became a drill sergeant and kicked all their asses when they signed up to join the army. Hahaha now you know why all us drill sergeants are so mean because we used to be fat and you picked on us!
But back to my experiments. I learned that fat people thrive off of simply the smell of grease and not necessarily the taste. It's like nicotine, only it doesn't make any sense and has no scientific evidence to support it. I propose that we use my newest invention, the fat patch. It goes on like a nicotine patch and dispenses a greasy odor into the air and also forces an air strike on the nearest fast food restaurant. Holy shit, that would be so cool; I really want it to do that. And then when they go for food at their nearest restaurant of fat and death and diabetes they would cry because it went out of business because they tried to get off their food!
And then the underworld crime agencies would start making fast food and sell it for hundreds an ounce and it will become like cannabis or Marijuana to you young folks and then the economy would prosper. I'm a fucking genius. It's all because of the white lab coat.
But, ahem, I got side tracked. The true nature of my experiment proved that fat people do exist and so I can safely say that this myth is plausible.
I met Rob Zombie
Okay team so I was driving around in the middle of nowhere today when I came upon a sight almost too awesome for words. There was a clump of trees across the river from where I was driving. When I first was coming up on it, I was approaching from an angle and I thought to myself "Wow, holy shit! There's an image of JESUS FUCKING CHRIST in the trees!" and I thought it was a heavenly sign and I almost started praying and preparing to move the entire clump of trees to sell on ebay for tens of millions of dollars.
But I was wrong.
Dead wrong.
I stopped and got out to get a better look at it. It wasn't Jesus Christ making an appearance to me from the clump of trees; oh no, it was someone much different. It was Rob Zombie. No joke. Dead serious here. Everything was perfect. The trees were positioned in such a perfect way to make an exact scale replica of Rob Zombie himself appear before me across the river. I snapped a picture on my cell phone and compared it to Rob Zombie when I got home and, just as I expected, it sure as hell was him.
But I was wrong.
Dead wrong.
I stopped and got out to get a better look at it. It wasn't Jesus Christ making an appearance to me from the clump of trees; oh no, it was someone much different. It was Rob Zombie. No joke. Dead serious here. Everything was perfect. The trees were positioned in such a perfect way to make an exact scale replica of Rob Zombie himself appear before me across the river. I snapped a picture on my cell phone and compared it to Rob Zombie when I got home and, just as I expected, it sure as hell was him.
I'm so sorry
Hey team, I had a harsh confrontation with reality today.
We've been married for quite some time. Maybe 100 years, sometimes I lose track of those sorts of things. She pulled me aside today and told me that she wanted to talk. I was surprised, because we never sit down and talk about anything anymore; we usually just go our separate ways and nod to one another - we acknowledge each other and still, of course, respect each other, but the bond is just not what it once was.
This was apparently what was on her mind. She told me that she was upset that we never talked and that I was never interested in her or her needs; she felt I was neglecting her, ignoring her, even. I listened carefully. I thought she might have a point, we really never did do anything together anymore. Her only influence on me was the knowledge in the back of my mind that she would still be there, watching over me and watching out for what I did. I thought carefully before I responded.
I told her that she was smothering me. She watches my every move and doesn't let me escape her mighty, iron-fisted rule without harsh retribution. I told her that I needed my space and that she just was not providing that for me anymore. I might have even gone so far as to say that I only needed her for appearance's sake and for my own pleasure - the words were flying too fast for me to even be able to remember. She was upset. She cried. I cried.
We decided that it was time to end it all. We slowed our anger towards one another and calmed down until we could finally reach an agreement. The divorce is going to be finalized in the next few months, but as of now she's completely gone from my life.
But yet, as sad as this may be because of how integral she has been in my life all these years, I feel happy. I feel free. No longer am I continually restricted by her watchful, judgmental eyes. I was free from her wild mood swings, from dementedly cruel to exuberant and pleasant, she was unpredictable and downright scary at times.
After I got over the initial shock of losing her, I decided to go about my business without her. Everything would be different from now on.
I went into my basement and started up my perpetual motion machine. I then discovered a leprechaun living in the black hole about three blocks due south of north from my house and won a bet against him about the Detroit Lions winning a football game. I then proceeded to successfully invest all of my new found wealth in the real estate industry and have retired happily. She hasn't checked back in on me and I feel wonderful.
Ditching that woman was the best decision I ever made.
We've been married for quite some time. Maybe 100 years, sometimes I lose track of those sorts of things. She pulled me aside today and told me that she wanted to talk. I was surprised, because we never sit down and talk about anything anymore; we usually just go our separate ways and nod to one another - we acknowledge each other and still, of course, respect each other, but the bond is just not what it once was.
This was apparently what was on her mind. She told me that she was upset that we never talked and that I was never interested in her or her needs; she felt I was neglecting her, ignoring her, even. I listened carefully. I thought she might have a point, we really never did do anything together anymore. Her only influence on me was the knowledge in the back of my mind that she would still be there, watching over me and watching out for what I did. I thought carefully before I responded.
I told her that she was smothering me. She watches my every move and doesn't let me escape her mighty, iron-fisted rule without harsh retribution. I told her that I needed my space and that she just was not providing that for me anymore. I might have even gone so far as to say that I only needed her for appearance's sake and for my own pleasure - the words were flying too fast for me to even be able to remember. She was upset. She cried. I cried.
We decided that it was time to end it all. We slowed our anger towards one another and calmed down until we could finally reach an agreement. The divorce is going to be finalized in the next few months, but as of now she's completely gone from my life.
But yet, as sad as this may be because of how integral she has been in my life all these years, I feel happy. I feel free. No longer am I continually restricted by her watchful, judgmental eyes. I was free from her wild mood swings, from dementedly cruel to exuberant and pleasant, she was unpredictable and downright scary at times.
After I got over the initial shock of losing her, I decided to go about my business without her. Everything would be different from now on.
I went into my basement and started up my perpetual motion machine. I then discovered a leprechaun living in the black hole about three blocks due south of north from my house and won a bet against him about the Detroit Lions winning a football game. I then proceeded to successfully invest all of my new found wealth in the real estate industry and have retired happily. She hasn't checked back in on me and I feel wonderful.
Ditching that woman was the best decision I ever made.
I am the best at Halloween
I plan on passing out some raisins and health bars from my front porch in my rocking chair dressed as the ominous and bone-chilling "ghost", sporting the insatiably clever white bedsheet with small eyeholes cut out for my own vision because you know if I can't see I can't be spooky or pass out candy properly! Haha
I've also been working on perfecting my "BOO!", which I plan on yelling whenever those crazy youngsters come to my house for "trick-or-treating"; hah, it's such a hoot seeing the blood-curdling terror I unleash with my voice ever so slightly amplified and with a nice spooky, very evil sounding accent. It no longer sounds like "BOO!" but more like the terrifying "Baaaa-OOOOH!", which is sure to send those young folk running. Of course, being a concerned member of the neighborhood, I will be sure not to do it to any children under the age of 16, because they are easily frightened and I don't want to scare away the poor whippersnappers before they get their "heart healthy candy", as I humorously call it.
Yes, this Halloween will be fantastic. Now don't any of you youngsters go off and try to steal my costume or treat ideas; they're all mine and I've worked on them for years to perfect them in the most frightening, horrifying, and terrifyingly healthy and fun manner! Yep, that's my Halloween plans. I know some of you young whippersnappers and teenyboppers like to stay up late and pull pranks of a most scrupulous manner, but I warn you that I will only be out until 6:22, which is when I must depart for the land of the beyond - bed! Hah, I'm getting the hang of these Halloween festivities already!
See you on the 31st!
I've also been working on perfecting my "BOO!", which I plan on yelling whenever those crazy youngsters come to my house for "trick-or-treating"; hah, it's such a hoot seeing the blood-curdling terror I unleash with my voice ever so slightly amplified and with a nice spooky, very evil sounding accent. It no longer sounds like "BOO!" but more like the terrifying "Baaaa-OOOOH!", which is sure to send those young folk running. Of course, being a concerned member of the neighborhood, I will be sure not to do it to any children under the age of 16, because they are easily frightened and I don't want to scare away the poor whippersnappers before they get their "heart healthy candy", as I humorously call it.
Yes, this Halloween will be fantastic. Now don't any of you youngsters go off and try to steal my costume or treat ideas; they're all mine and I've worked on them for years to perfect them in the most frightening, horrifying, and terrifyingly healthy and fun manner! Yep, that's my Halloween plans. I know some of you young whippersnappers and teenyboppers like to stay up late and pull pranks of a most scrupulous manner, but I warn you that I will only be out until 6:22, which is when I must depart for the land of the beyond - bed! Hah, I'm getting the hang of these Halloween festivities already!
See you on the 31st!
I secretly like to play Halo
I really don't understand why people have this blind defense of the Halo games versus the millions of other identical games on the market. Hey, guess what, you're a space marine in a battle suit and you battle aliens and bad guys and go from level to level and setting to setting and you pick up extraordinarily generic "futuristic" guns that are ALWAYS the same bullet firing garbage from the humans versus the oh-so-pretty plasma firing "advanced" alien technology and guess what you are the only person in the universe that can save the universe and if you fail you have to start over from the beginning of the level and try again to save the universe because the bad guys will call a do-over because, obviously, they really don't think it's all that fair that they have 300 quadrillion soldiers and your entire army consists of you and a small squad of hilariously incompetent AI partners (this is an optional bonus, of course; sometimes it's just little old you and you don't even have any squadmates to act as foils to your excessive, testosterone belching manliness and space marine-ness) and the bad guys will reset and all the of the destroyed scenery will be put back in place to have the same thing happen to it next time you come through (this is where the real price in war comes - do you know how expensive those sets are? Look at all the shiny and/or extremely sepia toned foreign architecture!) and you will try again to be a macho space marine who is supposed to be an incredible hero like James Bond or Scooby-Doo and when you accomplish your almost impossible, very daunting task you stand stiffly at attention and blow it off like the modest, polite, and humble manly space marine that you are and then everyone throws a giant party in your honor but you don't care about the party you just cared that you saved the world and the universe from utter destruction and god damn you were the only one who could have done it and god damn did you pull it off and god damn it only took 803 resets this time and I really crushed those alien menaces like I would crush my Styrofoam cup at parties to impress the ladies and you probably would have gotten the lady too if you weren't so busy ogling the absurd and extremely Chauvinistic female portrayals inside of video games where they giggle and bobble their undoubtedly large bosom and flirt with you, Mr. space marine hero who saved the universe and who was the only one who could do it when nobody else was able to be able to do it and god damn that was a beautiful shot you made with the rocket launcher back there or how about that superb headshot on that medium-large variety of alien you made with your accurate sniper rifle that you know you couldn't have made with your machine rifle because that thing is inaccurate as hell I mean have you seen it shoot the crosshairs are huge you can only hit stuff in small, cramped, poorly lit hallways which very fortunately occupy about half of the known universe and the other half is migraine-inducing bloom with various shades of taupe and bisque and sepia and other hilariously funny-sounding colors that, when you think about it, are all just fucking brown but somehow extremely reflective and the sun is up in the air and it glistens off of your space marine suit of the super space marine, you, who is the only person who is right for the job in which the requirements state that you have to be able to defeat an entire army of strangely evil and motivated bad space aliens who are going to destroy the university and god damn Mr. space marine you are the only man who meets those stringent job requirements and you've worked hard to get qualified to do this job and wear the super powered armor suit and be ready to be the only person in the universe who is capable of saving the universe because only you are up to the challenge and sometimes you will be in a dark area and you will have to figure out some sort of ingenious procedure in which you can lower a bridge or disable an energy field that is blocking your path and your quick, genius super marine brain instantly is able to follow the mind-numbing linearity of the game and able to find out that there's only two cramped corridors that you can go down and one has a grenades pickup and a switch and the other one has a forcefield and somewhere in your super human better than me brain you were able to figure out that pressing the switch actually opens the door and you are so proud because you get to go to another identical room in which you fight another identical set of stupendously evil space aliens and I know you'll win Mr. space marine because I know that you, you of all the people and creatures in the universe are the one for the job and believe me I checked and I checked for a long time and I checked at least eighty maybe ninety percent of the creatures in the universe before I decided you were the only one for the job and believe me it was not easy finding all of those critters because the universe is a pretty big place like at least a couple miles across and wow it took me a couple hours to do it at least and that is a long time to do something by golly but I finally decided that you were the only one who could do it and I knew I could count on you because you got the job done in the end and I've seen this entire storyline in every other space shooting pew-pew bang bang game I've ever played. <--- this is a period.
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