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.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
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.
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