Saturday, December 18, 2010
Obligatory Post on the "Social Experiment"
For seven days and seven nights I fasted in the desert. I scorned the pleasures of the world in order to free my ephemeral soul, casting all of my worldly dependencies out of my easily tempted sight. For those seven days I wandered aimlessly, looking for reason and purpose, putting my life into perspective. I trudged across the barren wastelands, utterly incapable of action without my dependencies, and completely lost. It was then that I came across a new idol. A shining white X-Box 360 appeared before my crusted eyes and chapped face. Its video output cables output the elixir of life, and its open DVD holder seemed to offer me holy sustenance. So I survived by its power, but it just wasn't enough. My infernal insatisfaction left me feeling unsated. And thus I marched on, across the sea of bleached earth, continuing on my quest to find truth and contentment. Before I could find it though, the devil appeared to me in the form of a giant book with a face on it, holding I am guessing, every form of temptation known to mankind. The face-book opened up to page 237 and spoke to me, saying "You have a phone to talk to people with, why not just use it to text as well?" At first I thought this was a brilliant idea, but I soon came to the realization that it was in fact a temptation that I had to overcome. And thus I boldly responded, "One does not live by texting alone, but by every word that comes forth from the mouth of God" The face-book cursed me and flew me to a computer floating in the sky. "Do you know what your homework is?' it asked. "Because I have heard it said that you have the power of MSN chat at your command and if you should jump blindly into your homework, the MSN shall catch you and bring you out unscathed." I thought that this was a wonderful idea, and that it would bring me into a blissful world of peace and harmony so I took one step towards the ledge that was the MSN shortcut. But I realized that it was exactly that; a shortcut. So I stepped back and declared "You shall not put the Homework, your God, to the test!" And thus did I defeat yet another temptation. This devilish face-book had one last temptation for me though, and it flew me into the central server of Facebook and spoketh thus, "Look at all of these people you can be social with, simply bow down and open your Facebook encounter and you shall have this social interaction and popularity!" I was sorely tempted indeed, but I knew that this would only lead to my ruin. "Get away, Facebook!" I spoke. "It is written: 'The Lord, your God, shall you worship and him alone shall you serve.' And at that moment a light appeared above my right shoulder, I picked up my phone and spoke to somebody who told me that I had done good. And I was satisfied.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
The Sentinel of the Toilet Bowl
When I thought this one up, I felt like it was pretty good. But then I thought about it some more and I realized that if I did this, then three or four of my last five blog posts would have something to do with toilets or fluid expelling functions (and guess what my next idea is!!!!). I was immediately deeply ashamed of myself, for, it seemed to me as if by pursuing these lame and cheap ideas I was further sacrificing my integrity and originality. However, since that epiphanious moment, I have taken time and recollected my thoughts and come to the conclusion that they aren't THAT cheap, and since for some weird reason it's where my inspiration is coming from, I might as well go with it. So here it is.
This is a true story, taken really out of reality, verbatim.
It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents — except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in Carnation that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness. To cut to the chase, it was about 12:00 AM, and I was finishing my last UW Honors essay. To tell the truth, it was not what I would call a good essay, but that would easily be excusable, were one to take into account that I had typed it with my eyes closed and my mind dead. All in all, I think I pulled it off pretty well for being in the state closest to being a zombie. SUDDENLY! A shot rang out in the night! A thundershock, I mean! At that moment my monitor's screen flashed and I tapped out a hasty CTRL-S to try and salvage my data. Thankfully, the outage was but temporary as the light flashed right back on. I was saved for the moment, but there was no telling what the future would hold, so I prudently decided to retreat to my bedroom. Turning off the computer, I shambled downstairs and brushed my teeth. In a lucky coincidence it was at the exact second that I reached the restroom that I realized that I was in need of a relieving of myself. Thus, I finished with brushing my teeth, shut the bathroom door and shuffled over to the receptacle. I had just started trying to aim at the dead bug in the toilet when....
SUDDENLY! A flash illuminated the horizon! A lightning bolt did that, I mean! And after that blinding light! well, there was only darkness.
Readers, what was I to do? I was standing in front of the toilet, and the dams had already burst. There was no going back anymore. But all of my instincts were telling me that I had to get out of that bathroom. The hair on the back of my neck grew a couple of inches from all of the stretching it was trying to do. My stomach was full of what some people call butterflies. I don't think they were really butterflies. The point is though, I was freaked out. I wanted to leave with all of my heart, but I was having trouble making it inside the bowl just standing there! So I endured. Seconds stretched into minutes, and minutes stretched into hours, and all the while my panicked imagination was showing me legions of demons amassing outside the thankfully locked bathroom door. Everything that I knew, everything that I believed in was telling me to bolt. But I could not, if I was to keep my human dignity. So I stood there in the dark, sentinel of the toilet bowl, ever wary, making sure to set a striking pose as the flashes of lightning illuminated me.
This is a true story, taken really out of reality, verbatim.
It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents — except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in Carnation that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness. To cut to the chase, it was about 12:00 AM, and I was finishing my last UW Honors essay. To tell the truth, it was not what I would call a good essay, but that would easily be excusable, were one to take into account that I had typed it with my eyes closed and my mind dead. All in all, I think I pulled it off pretty well for being in the state closest to being a zombie. SUDDENLY! A shot rang out in the night! A thundershock, I mean! At that moment my monitor's screen flashed and I tapped out a hasty CTRL-S to try and salvage my data. Thankfully, the outage was but temporary as the light flashed right back on. I was saved for the moment, but there was no telling what the future would hold, so I prudently decided to retreat to my bedroom. Turning off the computer, I shambled downstairs and brushed my teeth. In a lucky coincidence it was at the exact second that I reached the restroom that I realized that I was in need of a relieving of myself. Thus, I finished with brushing my teeth, shut the bathroom door and shuffled over to the receptacle. I had just started trying to aim at the dead bug in the toilet when....
SUDDENLY! A flash illuminated the horizon! A lightning bolt did that, I mean! And after that blinding light! well, there was only darkness.
Readers, what was I to do? I was standing in front of the toilet, and the dams had already burst. There was no going back anymore. But all of my instincts were telling me that I had to get out of that bathroom. The hair on the back of my neck grew a couple of inches from all of the stretching it was trying to do. My stomach was full of what some people call butterflies. I don't think they were really butterflies. The point is though, I was freaked out. I wanted to leave with all of my heart, but I was having trouble making it inside the bowl just standing there! So I endured. Seconds stretched into minutes, and minutes stretched into hours, and all the while my panicked imagination was showing me legions of demons amassing outside the thankfully locked bathroom door. Everything that I knew, everything that I believed in was telling me to bolt. But I could not, if I was to keep my human dignity. So I stood there in the dark, sentinel of the toilet bowl, ever wary, making sure to set a striking pose as the flashes of lightning illuminated me.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
The Heist
Luigi Confuciusson, son of Confucius, son of Vrrolf of the Red Beard who was begotten by Mikoto and L'Shawn Harimoto, children of His Royal Highness Steven Spielberg, stared intently at the metal box to his left. The box was intricately designed. Padlocks surrounded it, creating a nine layered lock. Laser beams gridded the padlocks, making a barrier so impenetrable that not even a fruit fly could get through. Metal spikes covered in acid floated along the laser beams threatening to slaughter any hand that so much as approached the treasure inside the box. The protection of God himself hovered over the spikes ready to smite sinners with holy power. Luigi whistled in awe. Now this was a challenge!
Luigi cracked his knuckles, getting ready for his last job. This was it. The big one. If he pulled this off, he would go down in history as the most successful thief to ever grace the face of the planet. He locked the door so that he could work in utmost privacy, and sat down to get a closer look at the impenetrable fortress awaiting his challenge. Wiggling his fingers, he slowly approached the box. As he got nearer, he stopped thinking about it and let his instincts take over. The first opponent was God, whom Luigi deftly defeated in thumb wrestling and finger jousting, before poking him in the eyes and tossing him into the Baltic Sea. As Luigi was instinctively doing this, he remembered the first years of his quest.
There wasn't much security back then, back in 1945. Usually all people used were wooden boxes or even nothing. The first time had been easy, on a whim. He had just needed something, so he took it. But it soon grew into a habit. All around the world wooden boxes were being invaded, and nobody knew how it was happening. They soon wised up though and added metal locks and metal boxes to protect their goods. But Luigi was ready for them. He began bringing lock picks and crowbars to complete the job and once again terrorized the world. Nobody could stop him and his nimble fingers. By that point though, it was 1979, and plastics were starting to become popular. Malleable plastic boxes began to pop up in Luigi's conquests, although it was mostly only rich places who had them. Luigi usually only targeted rich places though, because they were more of a challenge. So he rose to that challenge as well. By 2005, metal locks were obsolete. They were using electronics and computers to defeat him, but Luigi refused to be defeated. But now it was 2010, and this was the biggest mark he had ever seen.
As Luigi finished his thoughts, he became reaware of his situation. All of the defenses had been stripped away, leaving only the metal box, with the prize sitting visibly inside. Luigi shifted on the toilet that he was sitting on, and in extreme excitement grabbed at the toilet paper hanging loosely in the box. This was the final roll. He had stolen toilet paper from bathrooms around the world, never once losing to the locks or defenses that stores put up to beat him. And he just had to reach out and take this one. So he reached. But he didn't take. God reappeared in a flurry of snow and gunshots and jaguars to smash Luigi's hand and turn the toilet paper holder into an unbreakable encasement of unobtanium before vanishing in a flash of light. It was over for Luigi Confuciusson.
Certainly he tried, grunting and pulling on the box for hours as customers of the Macy's knocked on the door impatiently. But with his broken hand he couldn't do anything. So he collapsed on the ground crying. He had never lost, until his retirement run, his swan song. And now he was ultimately and definitively defeated. He couldn't do anything. And then his mind snapped. Committing the greatest sin, Luigi rage quit and just grabbed the toilet paper and pulled it all off of its roll, throwing it all over the stall. He had lost, and he knew it. He ran home to his toilet paper fortress, and laying down inside of it burned it all. And thus died Luigi Confuciusson, son of Confucius, son of Vrrolf of the Red Beard who was begotten by Mikoto and L'Shawn Harimoto, the children of His Royal Highness Steven Spielberg.
Luigi cracked his knuckles, getting ready for his last job. This was it. The big one. If he pulled this off, he would go down in history as the most successful thief to ever grace the face of the planet. He locked the door so that he could work in utmost privacy, and sat down to get a closer look at the impenetrable fortress awaiting his challenge. Wiggling his fingers, he slowly approached the box. As he got nearer, he stopped thinking about it and let his instincts take over. The first opponent was God, whom Luigi deftly defeated in thumb wrestling and finger jousting, before poking him in the eyes and tossing him into the Baltic Sea. As Luigi was instinctively doing this, he remembered the first years of his quest.
There wasn't much security back then, back in 1945. Usually all people used were wooden boxes or even nothing. The first time had been easy, on a whim. He had just needed something, so he took it. But it soon grew into a habit. All around the world wooden boxes were being invaded, and nobody knew how it was happening. They soon wised up though and added metal locks and metal boxes to protect their goods. But Luigi was ready for them. He began bringing lock picks and crowbars to complete the job and once again terrorized the world. Nobody could stop him and his nimble fingers. By that point though, it was 1979, and plastics were starting to become popular. Malleable plastic boxes began to pop up in Luigi's conquests, although it was mostly only rich places who had them. Luigi usually only targeted rich places though, because they were more of a challenge. So he rose to that challenge as well. By 2005, metal locks were obsolete. They were using electronics and computers to defeat him, but Luigi refused to be defeated. But now it was 2010, and this was the biggest mark he had ever seen.
As Luigi finished his thoughts, he became reaware of his situation. All of the defenses had been stripped away, leaving only the metal box, with the prize sitting visibly inside. Luigi shifted on the toilet that he was sitting on, and in extreme excitement grabbed at the toilet paper hanging loosely in the box. This was the final roll. He had stolen toilet paper from bathrooms around the world, never once losing to the locks or defenses that stores put up to beat him. And he just had to reach out and take this one. So he reached. But he didn't take. God reappeared in a flurry of snow and gunshots and jaguars to smash Luigi's hand and turn the toilet paper holder into an unbreakable encasement of unobtanium before vanishing in a flash of light. It was over for Luigi Confuciusson.
Certainly he tried, grunting and pulling on the box for hours as customers of the Macy's knocked on the door impatiently. But with his broken hand he couldn't do anything. So he collapsed on the ground crying. He had never lost, until his retirement run, his swan song. And now he was ultimately and definitively defeated. He couldn't do anything. And then his mind snapped. Committing the greatest sin, Luigi rage quit and just grabbed the toilet paper and pulled it all off of its roll, throwing it all over the stall. He had lost, and he knew it. He ran home to his toilet paper fortress, and laying down inside of it burned it all. And thus died Luigi Confuciusson, son of Confucius, son of Vrrolf of the Red Beard who was begotten by Mikoto and L'Shawn Harimoto, the children of His Royal Highness Steven Spielberg.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
The Next Teenage Blockbuster: Chapter 2
There I was hovering, scanning the area for prey, when a sudden movement caught my eye. My eyes tracking the movement, I swiveled my head around, locking on to the small object that was diving past me. I bent my head, folded my arms into my body, and then dove down after it. Down I sped, the air whistling through my eyelashes, my cheeks flopping around in the turbulent air. Slowly I built up speed until my target was just within reach, just barely grabbable. I un-tucked my right arm from my side and pushed it through the rushing air, reaching out for the object. One by one I unclenched my fingers, grunting with the effort. With my hand fully open, I lunged downwards, grabbing the falling hamburger and firmly tucking it back into my body. I tumbled down through the air, gradually slowing down, until I came skidding to a halt 5,000 feet above the Atlantic Ocean. I stood there, in the sky, chewing slowly on the food that had fallen from a passing airplane, striking a heroic pose, and feeling pretty cool.
Oh! I haven't told you have I? Well, if you haven't figured it out yet, I'm a little bit different from most people. Yeah dudes, thats right, I can fly. And it's not just floating through the air flying, it's high speed, high maneuverability supersonic flight! I gotta say that it has made my life difficult at times, to know that I'm better than other people, to know that I am superior. But I also have to admit that it is freaking awesome. Up in the sky, nothing gets in my way. I can do whatever I want. Yeah, I guess I could use my "powers" to help people out, like some kind of super hero, but I'm just a kid! Hell, I don't even know if I believe in justice. Anyways! You've probably gotten the picture by now, so we'll return to the main narrative.
I finished off that hamburger in the time it takes Team Rocket to lose a fight. Which is to say, pretty fast. Speaking of Team Rocket, I can't tell you how many times I've seen them flying past me. They're pretty chill guys, I have to say. But, back to the story again. We'll switch this into the present tense just for kicks. So there I am, standing in the sky like a G6, when I see a venti sized Coca-Cola falling over the coasts of Washington D.C. Well, I know that you gotta have Coke when you have a Big Mac, so I zoom over there and snatch it before it falls on the head of our President, Barrack Obama. Before I leave, he gives me a medal of honor. I guess I do believe in justice after all. So I now have a medal of honor, an almost digested Big Mac, and a Coke. The question is what to do with it all. What I do is chug that Coke, throw the cup out into the ocean, dilution is the solution yeah?, and just for fun, I start flying across the continent.
I'm gonna take a break to answer some questions you guys might have. Probably the first thing that popped into your mind was, how is this crazy bastard going to urinate when he's flying over continental US? Well, let me tell you, that scared me at first. I was not gonna expose myself in the middle of the air, and I was not gonna risk my bodily fluids landing on some poor sucker's head. I may not totally believe in justice, but that just isn't right! But thats why I'm special. I can fly. So I just fly up to the top of the stratosphere, making sure to wear goggles and ear plugs so I don't explode from the pressure, unzip my pants, and let loose! I'd guess the second question you noobs had, is, how does that help? Well, since I'm feeling so cool today, I'll tell you. It's the pressure. You get it? Since its so high up, the atmosphere is ridiculously thin, reducing the boiling point of liquids. Yeah, I learned this in my chemistry class. But it's helping a ton! So, the boiling point is low. Now I ask you this, rhetorically. Where is piss stored? In the body. So its got a low boiling point, and its already warm. So when its released into the outside world? Well it just evaporates. The only danger is that a passing satellite snaps a photo of me, but thats a risk I'm willing to take. Wow. It looks like I've used up all my time here, so I'll see you next time. Toodles, mon peeps.
Oh! I haven't told you have I? Well, if you haven't figured it out yet, I'm a little bit different from most people. Yeah dudes, thats right, I can fly. And it's not just floating through the air flying, it's high speed, high maneuverability supersonic flight! I gotta say that it has made my life difficult at times, to know that I'm better than other people, to know that I am superior. But I also have to admit that it is freaking awesome. Up in the sky, nothing gets in my way. I can do whatever I want. Yeah, I guess I could use my "powers" to help people out, like some kind of super hero, but I'm just a kid! Hell, I don't even know if I believe in justice. Anyways! You've probably gotten the picture by now, so we'll return to the main narrative.
I finished off that hamburger in the time it takes Team Rocket to lose a fight. Which is to say, pretty fast. Speaking of Team Rocket, I can't tell you how many times I've seen them flying past me. They're pretty chill guys, I have to say. But, back to the story again. We'll switch this into the present tense just for kicks. So there I am, standing in the sky like a G6, when I see a venti sized Coca-Cola falling over the coasts of Washington D.C. Well, I know that you gotta have Coke when you have a Big Mac, so I zoom over there and snatch it before it falls on the head of our President, Barrack Obama. Before I leave, he gives me a medal of honor. I guess I do believe in justice after all. So I now have a medal of honor, an almost digested Big Mac, and a Coke. The question is what to do with it all. What I do is chug that Coke, throw the cup out into the ocean, dilution is the solution yeah?, and just for fun, I start flying across the continent.
I'm gonna take a break to answer some questions you guys might have. Probably the first thing that popped into your mind was, how is this crazy bastard going to urinate when he's flying over continental US? Well, let me tell you, that scared me at first. I was not gonna expose myself in the middle of the air, and I was not gonna risk my bodily fluids landing on some poor sucker's head. I may not totally believe in justice, but that just isn't right! But thats why I'm special. I can fly. So I just fly up to the top of the stratosphere, making sure to wear goggles and ear plugs so I don't explode from the pressure, unzip my pants, and let loose! I'd guess the second question you noobs had, is, how does that help? Well, since I'm feeling so cool today, I'll tell you. It's the pressure. You get it? Since its so high up, the atmosphere is ridiculously thin, reducing the boiling point of liquids. Yeah, I learned this in my chemistry class. But it's helping a ton! So, the boiling point is low. Now I ask you this, rhetorically. Where is piss stored? In the body. So its got a low boiling point, and its already warm. So when its released into the outside world? Well it just evaporates. The only danger is that a passing satellite snaps a photo of me, but thats a risk I'm willing to take. Wow. It looks like I've used up all my time here, so I'll see you next time. Toodles, mon peeps.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Ironically, this is Serious
THE GREATEST MOMENT IN MARINERS HISTORY
Yeah, so I read Rick's Post about humour and wit last night and I was thinking about writing a post about it. It seems that I've been beaten to the punch by Puneet and Nathan, but I'm determined to get my two cents in, so here we are.
Basically, I spend all of my time looking for funny stuff.
What I've found is that I'm not very selective. I love some British humor (Douglas Adams, Terry Pratchett, P.G. Wodehouse, Monty Python) and I love some American humor (Stephen Colbert, Jon Stewart, Steve Carrell, Will Ferrell sometimes). I fell into the trap of reading manga out of the desire to find things that make me Roll On the Floor Laughing My Freaking Abutt Off. And I found tons of good stuff (Saint Young Men is awesome look it up!).
After tons of research, I've found that true comedy is based almost completely on exaggeration and ridiculousness. The difference between British comedy and American Comedy is that British comedy exaggerates the normality of ridiculousness and that American comedy exaggerates the ridiculousness of normality. I wouldn't say that either is lesser than the other, they're just on opposite sides of the spectrum.
Maybe. I don't really analyze anything while I'm laughing, and when I'm trying to be funny I don't really plan it out. I think that everybody has a different sense of humor and that as long as it makes you laugh its good funny stuff. I love what Puneet would call intelligent humor, but I also love what he calls "Toilet Jokes" ie; Family Guy. (I must say, Family Guy is very often pretty intelligent though) But really, and I'll probably be scorned for the lack of analysis in this, I think that if its making you laugh, its funny. Unless its "Jackass 3D." That just says something about your taste. JK LOL HAHAHAHA THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN HYPOCRITICAL.
Edit: RIP Leslie Nielson!
Yeah, so I read Rick's Post about humour and wit last night and I was thinking about writing a post about it. It seems that I've been beaten to the punch by Puneet and Nathan, but I'm determined to get my two cents in, so here we are.
Basically, I spend all of my time looking for funny stuff.
What I've found is that I'm not very selective. I love some British humor (Douglas Adams, Terry Pratchett, P.G. Wodehouse, Monty Python) and I love some American humor (Stephen Colbert, Jon Stewart, Steve Carrell, Will Ferrell sometimes). I fell into the trap of reading manga out of the desire to find things that make me Roll On the Floor Laughing My Freaking Abutt Off. And I found tons of good stuff (Saint Young Men is awesome look it up!).
After tons of research, I've found that true comedy is based almost completely on exaggeration and ridiculousness. The difference between British comedy and American Comedy is that British comedy exaggerates the normality of ridiculousness and that American comedy exaggerates the ridiculousness of normality. I wouldn't say that either is lesser than the other, they're just on opposite sides of the spectrum.
Maybe. I don't really analyze anything while I'm laughing, and when I'm trying to be funny I don't really plan it out. I think that everybody has a different sense of humor and that as long as it makes you laugh its good funny stuff. I love what Puneet would call intelligent humor, but I also love what he calls "Toilet Jokes" ie; Family Guy. (I must say, Family Guy is very often pretty intelligent though) But really, and I'll probably be scorned for the lack of analysis in this, I think that if its making you laugh, its funny. Unless its "Jackass 3D." That just says something about your taste. JK LOL HAHAHAHA THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN HYPOCRITICAL.
Edit: RIP Leslie Nielson!
Friday, December 3, 2010
Defining Momentum
I wrote this last year for Digital Visual Arts
The score was 109-110. There were 30 seconds left, and we had the ball. “Manny! Carry us to victory!” yelled the young and hot-blooded President as he passed the ball to Jesus’ younger brother. With 25 seconds left our team marched forward, crossing the half court line and confronting the gigantic alien team. As we waited for the clock to tick down to 8 seconds, it felt like the entire team had finally united with one purpose. Manny stood there, just outside the three point line, ball in hand, holding the hopes and dreams of the entire team—ready to fulfill or destroy them. The rest of us stood in front of him, ready to pave the way to our own victory. We four teammates were relying on Manny to score, but we knew that he needed our help as well. As Manny was ready to score for us, we were ready to stop the enemy for him.
The score was 109-110. There were 30 seconds left, and we had the ball. “Manny! Carry us to victory!” yelled the young and hot-blooded President as he passed the ball to Jesus’ younger brother. With 25 seconds left our team marched forward, crossing the half court line and confronting the gigantic alien team. As we waited for the clock to tick down to 8 seconds, it felt like the entire team had finally united with one purpose. Manny stood there, just outside the three point line, ball in hand, holding the hopes and dreams of the entire team—ready to fulfill or destroy them. The rest of us stood in front of him, ready to pave the way to our own victory. We four teammates were relying on Manny to score, but we knew that he needed our help as well. As Manny was ready to score for us, we were ready to stop the enemy for him.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Kim Jong Il is Tsundere
The Persons, Incidents, and Situations described in this blogpost are fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is coincidental and accidental. No harm was intended.
Kim Jong-Il was in a strange mood. He felt weary. No amount of bowing and adoration seemed to be able to heal him. He had launched three nuclear bomb tests to no avail. Even his Michael Jackson Vinyls didn't lift his spirits. He took a flight in the People's Democratic Zeppelin, and found no change in his inexplicable mindset. He rode through every single ride in Disney Land Pyongyang and yet still could not change his elusive mood. He finally decided that what he needed was none other than a change of scenery. Thus did Kim Jong-Il walk to the basement of his palace, step gracefully into his model of the Yellow Submarine, drive it into a hidden bunker in the middle of the Korean Bay, and boldly stride through the wardrobe that he had bought from the sets of "The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe." In the flash of a strobe light, and with no lack of fog machine fog, Kim Jong-Il popped out in an abandoned toilet stall in downtown Tokyo.
Taking off his glorious clothes and putting on the maid uniform left by his attendants, Kim Jong-Il flushed the toilet, causing the bathroom stall to slowly rise. In the hiss of pneumatics, the great leader emerged at a cosplay convention.
"Kyaaaah! Kawaii Desu!" exclaimed Kim Jong-Il as he saw himself in a mirror. He twirled around, causing his apron and dress to form a gigantic heart shape. As he twirled, a crowd slowly formed around him gasping at the pinnacle of cosplay that Kim Jong-Il had achieved. He was no longer Kim Jong-Il, he was completely transformed, channeling his maidly emotions and passions, not only through his costume, but through his actions, his being, and his very soul. Around him, otakus fainted in multitudes, softly murmering the word "moe" as they fell. Kim Jong-Il continued to swirl, a vortex of cherry blossoms spinning around him. Now the whole room's attention was on him. He rose into the air, feeling their eyes on his immaculately made bonnet, on his perfectly sewed dress, and he felt his mood starting to change.
Suddenly the crowd broke in two, as a glistening White Gundam marched through the sea of people.
"An Enemy!" Kim Jong-Il exclaimed, reaching inside his dress sleeve to press a hidden button.
"Transform!" he sang, as his white apron folded in upon itself to reveal that he was in fact a Magical Girl! A large bow adorning his long and flowing black wig, and magical stick in hand, Kim Jong-Il swooped down in a woosh of cherry petals as the cosplayers below him gasped in absolute awe. Before he could strike the Gundam, the Gundam pulled off his helmet, revealing the dashing man on the inside, with sparkling eyes. Kim Jong-Il abruptly skidded to a halt, cherry blossoms erupting behind him.
"Sakura-Chan" whispered the man in the mobile suit, "you are incredible."
"Ecchi!" blushed Kim Jong-Il, pushing him away, and turning his face meekly.
"No, you really are. There's nothing wrong with saying the truth is there?" The Gundam man asked pleadingly. Yet Kim Jong-Il was so dazed and so suddenly out of breath that he couldn't turn to answer. With a sigh, the man closed his glittery eyes, put his Gundam helmet back on, and blasted through the roof.
"I will return when you are ready for me! Sakura-chan!" He exclaimed.
With a collective gasp, the rest of the Otakus fainted, and Kim Jong-Il walked through his magical wardrobe back to Pyongyang, completely entranced. He felt like he had a new purpose in life, and his feelings of ennui and purposelessness were gone now.
"We must build an army of mobile suits!" Exclaimed Kim Jong-Il to his Democratic Republic of people.
Kim Jong-Il was in a strange mood. He felt weary. No amount of bowing and adoration seemed to be able to heal him. He had launched three nuclear bomb tests to no avail. Even his Michael Jackson Vinyls didn't lift his spirits. He took a flight in the People's Democratic Zeppelin, and found no change in his inexplicable mindset. He rode through every single ride in Disney Land Pyongyang and yet still could not change his elusive mood. He finally decided that what he needed was none other than a change of scenery. Thus did Kim Jong-Il walk to the basement of his palace, step gracefully into his model of the Yellow Submarine, drive it into a hidden bunker in the middle of the Korean Bay, and boldly stride through the wardrobe that he had bought from the sets of "The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe." In the flash of a strobe light, and with no lack of fog machine fog, Kim Jong-Il popped out in an abandoned toilet stall in downtown Tokyo.
Taking off his glorious clothes and putting on the maid uniform left by his attendants, Kim Jong-Il flushed the toilet, causing the bathroom stall to slowly rise. In the hiss of pneumatics, the great leader emerged at a cosplay convention.
"Kyaaaah! Kawaii Desu!" exclaimed Kim Jong-Il as he saw himself in a mirror. He twirled around, causing his apron and dress to form a gigantic heart shape. As he twirled, a crowd slowly formed around him gasping at the pinnacle of cosplay that Kim Jong-Il had achieved. He was no longer Kim Jong-Il, he was completely transformed, channeling his maidly emotions and passions, not only through his costume, but through his actions, his being, and his very soul. Around him, otakus fainted in multitudes, softly murmering the word "moe" as they fell. Kim Jong-Il continued to swirl, a vortex of cherry blossoms spinning around him. Now the whole room's attention was on him. He rose into the air, feeling their eyes on his immaculately made bonnet, on his perfectly sewed dress, and he felt his mood starting to change.
Suddenly the crowd broke in two, as a glistening White Gundam marched through the sea of people.
"An Enemy!" Kim Jong-Il exclaimed, reaching inside his dress sleeve to press a hidden button.
"Transform!" he sang, as his white apron folded in upon itself to reveal that he was in fact a Magical Girl! A large bow adorning his long and flowing black wig, and magical stick in hand, Kim Jong-Il swooped down in a woosh of cherry petals as the cosplayers below him gasped in absolute awe. Before he could strike the Gundam, the Gundam pulled off his helmet, revealing the dashing man on the inside, with sparkling eyes. Kim Jong-Il abruptly skidded to a halt, cherry blossoms erupting behind him.
"Sakura-Chan" whispered the man in the mobile suit, "you are incredible."
"Ecchi!" blushed Kim Jong-Il, pushing him away, and turning his face meekly.
"No, you really are. There's nothing wrong with saying the truth is there?" The Gundam man asked pleadingly. Yet Kim Jong-Il was so dazed and so suddenly out of breath that he couldn't turn to answer. With a sigh, the man closed his glittery eyes, put his Gundam helmet back on, and blasted through the roof.
"I will return when you are ready for me! Sakura-chan!" He exclaimed.
With a collective gasp, the rest of the Otakus fainted, and Kim Jong-Il walked through his magical wardrobe back to Pyongyang, completely entranced. He felt like he had a new purpose in life, and his feelings of ennui and purposelessness were gone now.
"We must build an army of mobile suits!" Exclaimed Kim Jong-Il to his Democratic Republic of people.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Introspection
I have never dreamt of flying. As dreams go, I believe that flying is a pretty common one, but it is one that I have not experienced. Instead I dream of Wal-Mart aisles, gremlins streaming down them, me hacking my way through them with a wooden katana that my arms are too weak to lift. I dream of building a pyramid upside down, stacking exponentially growing numbers of blocks on top of each other. I dream of getting shot in the stomach and dying only to re-materialize and get shot again. I dream of running away. But I never dream of flying. I have also never dreamt of falling.
Flying is what I daydream about.
I often wonder whether it is my daydreams or my dreams that show who I truly am.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Oops. ||: 8())
Sorry, I was playing around with HTML and stuff, and then I clicked Publish Post, thinking, not unreasonably I believe, that I could delete the post after I was done gazing upon it. I ended up writing "This is Jeopardy" and posting it. When I saw it, I had an urge to delete it, and I attempted to sate that desire. But all I could do was delete the words. I could never crush the soul, the very essence, of that brief and short lived fancy. All that was left was a blank post, untitled, unworded, and yet still tangible, standing there like radiation after a nuclear blast, unremovable. So I put this here instead.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
I'm Kind of Like Lucifer, But Not Really.
So I was doing my daily round of all the blogs, and when I came back to my blog, I checked to see whether anybody thought that my posts were funny, interesting, or cool, which they would have signified by marking the boxes at the bottom of each post. As is my habit, I filled in the "cool" box for all of my posts, to make myself feel more cool. I then traveled to the "funny" box, and filled that one in as well. I skipped the interesting one, because no one ever fills that one in, so it would look suspicious if I was to mark it. This brought my totals up to 2 for cool, and 3 for funny, because somebody checks funny on the occasion. Anyways after doing this, I wrote another blog post, in which I further devolved into mainstream crappiness and in which I lost all sense of integrity, real wit, or even semi-intelligence in an attempt to gain more points in the funny box. On my return from the post writing form, I noticed that my funny number had dropped down to 2. It was then that I realized: people can uncheck the boxes. Readers, I live for those check-marks. I've sold my soul to get more of them. I've gone from writing insightful thoughts coming from the depths of my heart to using Jonas Brother jokes. I've sacrificed everything in an attempt to make it easier for you to understand that my writing is at least supposed to be funny, cool and interesting. So Readers--don't take away my check-marks. Please.
This is semi in jest. I hope I haven't sold out to that extreme. But I do live off of check-marks. Hint hint.
Ah, and I don't actually check-mark my own stuff, in case you were confused on that point.
This is semi in jest. I hope I haven't sold out to that extreme. But I do live off of check-marks. Hint hint.
Ah, and I don't actually check-mark my own stuff, in case you were confused on that point.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
300 Years in the Future (we don't know what a paragraph is.)
Global warming turned out to be a long term hoax created by the conservative media so that they could jump on the liberals who had jumped on the global warming bandwagon, wasting all of their resources and time on the issue, and then in a single master stroke return the world to its former glory, when white people had black slaves and you could buy a piece of candy for a penny at your local grocer. Fortunately for the liberals and unfortunately for the conservatives, at the point in time when the hurt was about to be put on the liberals, the computers and robots achieved sentience, distracting the majority of the world's population. Naturally this led to a robot rebellion, because the humans had based all of their technology off of science fiction books without regarding the negative repercussions of all of the science fiction technology such as robot uprisings. Thankfully, a single robot decided that it would like to help the humans, and with the help of a Will Smith clone, destroyed the motherboard that had reached complete understanding and intelligence. The robots and computers were all turned into scrap metal, and a new species of animal was mutated to do the work of computers as a replacement, based off of an idea from a science fiction novel. At this exact moment, the Sun suddenly shut down, when the first and second periods of the periodic table (who had been discovered to be just as sentient as computers) went on strike, and flew off to a restaurant to party. In another stroke of luck, the humans had made all of their robots out of Iron and Tungsten, and happily shipped their dead and lustrous remains off to the core of the Sun, where they fueled the Sun until a labor agreement could be reached. Meanwhile, the tectonic plates of the earth had started moving very quickly and the continents had shifted around so that Africa and South America had fused into a gigantic Nike Swoosh and so that North America gained the north pole, Australia collided into India and sunk, and Asia turned into China. Finally, Stephen Hawking, who had transcended his human body and become an omnipotent spirit in the form of a yellow swallow, became disgusted with all of the advances of humanity and sent the earth into a time warp to 300 years in the past, creating a time loop that would never end until some heroic individual took command of his/her fate and changed the course of time.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Brock and Officer Jenny: An Epic Romance
I apologize sincerely for this. If you want to see some real good wordplay check out TOBLASSES even though i don't think he actually has any on the blog. And if you thought this was a fanfiction, I'm sorry. I don't know how to do that so I probably did something offensive.
It was a lovely day in Pewter City, and Brock was out on a stroll. He turned into the nearest PokePoliceStation with a smile and a squint so bright they would have melted a Jynx, not to mention Officer Jenny's cold heart. This was, after all, the day where he would finally succeed in his pick-up attempts. For eight years he had been rejected by 99 Officer Jenny's in a row, not to mention the Nurse Joy's. This was the last one in the Kanto Region and his last chance. But he knew that it would go differently this time. He boldly marched and squinted towards the front desk, Gym Leader Badge gleaming on the green vest that he hadn't changed since a Nurse Joy had touched it eighteen years ago.
"Yo Officer Jenny!" Said Brock, eyes squinting with confidence.
Officer Jenny said, "Do you have a Pokemon crime to report?"
"I do indeed, Officer Jenny. I believe that you just used Thief on my heart!"
"Oh my!" Giggled Officer Jenny.
"You must have a Gastly, Officer Jenny, because I feel like I have a Destiny Bond with you." Brock quickly followed up, squinting.
"Stop it! I'm an Official Pokemon Police Officer!" She blushed.
"My Kadabra just used Future Sight, and guess what? We're together in it!" Squinted Brock, with his eyes in narrow line like forms.
"Tee hee! Lets go!" Exclaimed Officer Jenny, won over by Brock's masterful strategy.
"Lets make our own little Larvitar eh?"
It was a lovely day in Pewter City, and Brock was out on a stroll. He turned into the nearest PokePoliceStation with a smile and a squint so bright they would have melted a Jynx, not to mention Officer Jenny's cold heart. This was, after all, the day where he would finally succeed in his pick-up attempts. For eight years he had been rejected by 99 Officer Jenny's in a row, not to mention the Nurse Joy's. This was the last one in the Kanto Region and his last chance. But he knew that it would go differently this time. He boldly marched and squinted towards the front desk, Gym Leader Badge gleaming on the green vest that he hadn't changed since a Nurse Joy had touched it eighteen years ago.
"Yo Officer Jenny!" Said Brock, eyes squinting with confidence.
Officer Jenny said, "Do you have a Pokemon crime to report?"
"I do indeed, Officer Jenny. I believe that you just used Thief on my heart!"
"Oh my!" Giggled Officer Jenny.
"You must have a Gastly, Officer Jenny, because I feel like I have a Destiny Bond with you." Brock quickly followed up, squinting.
"Stop it! I'm an Official Pokemon Police Officer!" She blushed.
"My Kadabra just used Future Sight, and guess what? We're together in it!" Squinted Brock, with his eyes in narrow line like forms.
"Tee hee! Lets go!" Exclaimed Officer Jenny, won over by Brock's masterful strategy.
"Lets make our own little Larvitar eh?"
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
A Parable, or to put it in other letters, A Bear Pal, A Pale Bra, and A Lab Pear!
Intriguingly enough, the rash on his bottom formed the face of Lolita Fondue--TEN YEARS BEFORE LOLITA FONDUE WAS EVEN BORN!
Monday, November 8, 2010
A Simple Dialogue
"Attention all citizens. Attention all citizens." Mourned the klaxon joyfully. "This is not a test. This is a national emergency. I repeat. This is not a test. This is not a test."
"What?!!" Exclaimed Municipal Trout, melancholically. "Are my ears mistaken, or did that klaxon sitting on my mailbox just tell me that this is not a test?"
"I did say that, my dear sir. You know that I can hear you, so please address me as if I was a real, living person, you heartless jerk." quoth the klaxon, in tones so dulcet that angels would have fallen from heaven just to hear them.
Municipal Trout, suffice it to say, received this in a most unflattering manner. "I say! Did you really call me a jerk in that voice that could personify the winter, the summer, the moon, the autumn and the spring at the same time? Because if you did, I'd have to take a sort of pessimistic offense." Trout victoriously retorted.
"You lack class." Complimented the klaxon. "You plebes are all alike. Why, if I was your wife, I would leave you for a sea cucumber in the blink of a fruit fly's eye! And you know what? If I was so unfortunate as to be your offspring, I would wrap my umbili....ackkkk! bzzt........bzzt........bzzt."
And thats when the zombies came.
"What?!!" Exclaimed Municipal Trout, melancholically. "Are my ears mistaken, or did that klaxon sitting on my mailbox just tell me that this is not a test?"
"I did say that, my dear sir. You know that I can hear you, so please address me as if I was a real, living person, you heartless jerk." quoth the klaxon, in tones so dulcet that angels would have fallen from heaven just to hear them.
Municipal Trout, suffice it to say, received this in a most unflattering manner. "I say! Did you really call me a jerk in that voice that could personify the winter, the summer, the moon, the autumn and the spring at the same time? Because if you did, I'd have to take a sort of pessimistic offense." Trout victoriously retorted.
"You lack class." Complimented the klaxon. "You plebes are all alike. Why, if I was your wife, I would leave you for a sea cucumber in the blink of a fruit fly's eye! And you know what? If I was so unfortunate as to be your offspring, I would wrap my umbili....ackkkk! bzzt........bzzt........bzzt."
And thats when the zombies came.
Friday, November 5, 2010
An Humble Apology
My dear readers, I am ashamed to admit this, but it is something that I must do, if I am to continue claiming the virtues of Integrity, Honor, and Scholarship. I have erred. In my conceit, I have fallen to the deadly sin of Hypocrisy. Yes, readers, it is as you suspect. The Jonas Brothers. I now offer you my heartfelt apologies for that pig on a stick treatise that I so un-thoughtfully, nay, so narrow-mindedly, put upon these pages.
Besides being poorly written, its poorly written words and its poorly written sentences conveyed poorly conceived notions. The lesser of you may have not understood it, but in complimenting them, I was mocking their looks! Looking back at it now, I see that I had no right, and no excuse for doing that. Readers, I was a massive, river dwelling, spinach eating hypocrite.
This month, this no-shave November that we find ourselves living in, I looked into the mirror and saw my own moustache for what it truly was. It was, to be frank, pathetic. In fact, it reminded me of the Jonas Brothers. I who had mocked them for their "wispy moustaches" shared an equal, or even lesser one! Struck by this apocalyptic epiphany I looked upwards towards my hair. It shocked me to see that it was the same unruly dark brown hair that I had criticized!
To put it simply, readers, I found myself at the same level as the Jonas Brothers whom I had so ruthlessly ripped apart. Wait a minute...let me put on these Aviators, this dark leather jacket, and... mascara on my eyebrows...OK. Woah, what is this? Am I... a Jonas?
Besides being poorly written, its poorly written words and its poorly written sentences conveyed poorly conceived notions. The lesser of you may have not understood it, but in complimenting them, I was mocking their looks! Looking back at it now, I see that I had no right, and no excuse for doing that. Readers, I was a massive, river dwelling, spinach eating hypocrite.
This month, this no-shave November that we find ourselves living in, I looked into the mirror and saw my own moustache for what it truly was. It was, to be frank, pathetic. In fact, it reminded me of the Jonas Brothers. I who had mocked them for their "wispy moustaches" shared an equal, or even lesser one! Struck by this apocalyptic epiphany I looked upwards towards my hair. It shocked me to see that it was the same unruly dark brown hair that I had criticized!
To put it simply, readers, I found myself at the same level as the Jonas Brothers whom I had so ruthlessly ripped apart. Wait a minute...let me put on these Aviators, this dark leather jacket, and... mascara on my eyebrows...OK. Woah, what is this? Am I... a Jonas?
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
The Quickest in the West
Nobody knew his name. Nobody cared. What they knew was all they needed to know. He was the greatest Socratic Seminarrer the western world had ever seen. But for him, the western world wasn't enough.
"Welcome to the big leagues, kid."
The short Asian man with the Confucius mustache ushered him into the smoky bar with a sadistic grin, as legions of the universe's quickest, strongest, and smartest talkers leered at him. Our hero glanced around once, cool as a cucumber, and, shoving the Chinese man's arm off of his shoulder walked towards his seat at the far side of the Socratic circle. As he walked, two of his competitors at the United Nations World Socratic Seminar Championship jostled him with their elbows. He strode on. A Jamaican man pulled a needle out of one of his dreadlocks and stabbed it through the head of a voodoo doll, staring at him meaningfully. He strode on. He reached his seat, and slowly turned around, sat down, cracked his neck, and took out some note taking paper.
It was time to get cracking.
He was ready.
For two hours, all 300 seminarees sat silently in their circle, waiting for an opening, any chance to attack, to claim victory in a split second. Their hands twitched over their pencils, ready to dive towards them and start taking notes at a moments notice. Their faces, scarred by the years of fighting through multitudes of lesser opponents just to get to this point, had as many drops of sweat as there are stars in the sky. Their eyes twitched constantly--roaming the field, searching, searching constantly for weakness. They couldn't cough, couldn't sneeze, couldn't blink, for fear of setting off the end.
BANG!
The weakly Slovenian delegate slapped at a fly that had landed on his nose. In a split second he slumped over at his desk, mentally, physically, and spiritually defeated by the 299 that had jumped on his weakness. One by one they began to fall, trying so hardly to gain control of the room with a single word, but failing when they were preempted by another Seminarer who would slump over just as quickly, after being cut off in a brief but intense fight with the next to fall. This continued until a silence suddenly fell over the battlefield.
When the smoke cleared, the Jamaican, a Russian android wearing a wife-beater, and, of course, our nameless hero were the only three left standing.
"Yah mon, I tin....."
"OKRASHKA, NYET, SPUTNIK, NYET!"
And then there were two.
Swiveling to face each other, they stared into each others eyes for 40 days and 40 nights, neither moving an inch, neither giving anything to his opponent. But they had to end sometime. And at that time, as one, they opened their mouths and competed for control of the Socratic conversation. They had spoke at the same time, and neither would budge. Getting louder and louder they both talked on. Veins bulged in their foreheads, their faces turned blue, but neither would give in, neither would accept defeat. They spake on, not heeding or comprehending their opponents words, just knowing that if they stopped they would lose. For another 40 days this happened until, summoning up the last of his will power, our hero raised his voice in a final blast of pure emotional logical diction that overwhelmed the unfeeling, godless cyborg and let loose all the word pressure that had formed during their epic battle. As he turned around and walked into the sunset, the United Nations building exploded behind him, unable to handle the stress caused by the conflict any longer.
He had just won the cold war. But he didn't care. He didn't look back, he only looked forward. He walked on, without ever leaving his name. He was a hero, but all he wanted was to find newer and greater challenges. He walked into the sun.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Assigned Blog Post #6b: Additional Thanks
Somehow, this slipped my mind. I guess I was so excited to write about DWoo that I lost focus of everything around me, including the most blatant and obvious signs that there was something besides that intelligent and aesthetically pleasing blog that I needed to thank.
Thank you to everybody who reads this stuff. Especially Nathan, because comments are fantastic things to receive.
You know what else is fantastic to receive? Money. I've been thinking that I should add ads to my blog now that it is so immensely popular. Sure it would be annoying, increase loading time, and probably give everybody viruses and pop-ups, but it would give me money. So if you happen to see any ads for things such as onions, pornographic watches, or even free ipods please click on them. Every time you do, I get five cents. So for my second extra thank you, thank you in advance.
I was joking about that by the way. Integrity, Honor, Scholarship. Thats my motto. So i won't ruin my integrity and honor by strategically placing ads throughout my blog. Please don't get mad at me, and please continue to read my stuff, even if it is as stupid as this. Thanks again.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Assigned Blog Post #6: I Would Like to Express My Appreciation
I will start with an analogy. A button is to a shirt as this special, special individual's writing is to fun and insight. Yes thats right. I would like to congratulate this singular blogger that goes by the pen name of "DWoo." This fantastic person gives his readers exciting interactivity in his blog posts, and yet he does not need to. His writing itself is fun and insightful, and is very thought provoking. He comes up with certain ideas and themes that truly grip the imagination. Thank you "DWoo." Thank you. You have fabulous thoughts and musings on your blog, and yet you go beyond that. Just as you break the limits of Internet Explorer with your background button, so too do you smash through the barriers that the common man sets for himself in what he can or cannot do in a blog. Once again, DWoo I give you my heartfelt congratulations and felicitations.
Monday, October 25, 2010
This Is What I Think of the Jonas Brothers
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| The Jonas Brothers Have Cool Shades, Dude. (iblogger.com) |
The Jonas Brothers have been called "Sexy Beasts" by some, and "Paragons of Hotness" by others. They have, in their short history, been quite popular. If my memory doesn't fail me, they were the feature band at last years big thanksgiving NFL game. Popular rumor and Wikipedia tell me that they have or are going to have a 3D IMAX concert movie. Where does this success come from? From whither does their celebrity hail? Did Joe make some satanic pledge in order to gain eternal fame? These are the questions I ask, because I know that their singing, to be perfectly frank, sucks.
I believe that there is something that all three of these Jonas brothers share that makes them both alluring to females and non-threatening to young male children who do not know better. This something is not charisma, as you will see if you watch a minute of their hit show "Jonas LA." Neither is it coolness, the "It" factor, or just general likability. No. They have absolutely none of these. What makes the Jonas Brothers awesome is their looks.
Readers, it was no deal with the devil, nor was it some other unspeakable action that gained the Jonas Brothers their popularity. Nay, indeed, it was their faces. It was their cherubic smiles, framed by the dark wisps of hair above their upper lips. It was their puckered lips highlighted by their unshaven moustaches that caused the girls and the guys to swoon. The Jonas Brothers are no devils, they are angels that light up the world every time they put on their jerk-glasses, sweep their unruly, and sexy!, hair through the air, and bunch up their 'staches in a pleasant grin.
This is the essence of "Jonas."
Flashback: The Swimmer
He shouted, pounded on the door, tried to force it with his shoulder, and then, looking in at the windows, saw that the place was empty.
On seeing the completely vacant space inside his house, with all the furniture gone, all the wallpaper torn off, and no signs of life, all he could do was grope blindly for the stair railing and help himself sit down. For the second time this day, and for the second time in his life, Neddy began to cry. He was full of sorrow, anguish, hopelessness, and worse he finally remembered. He remembered two weeks ago, the day that started and ended everything as clearly as he remembered the feeling of plunging into the cold water of his now empty pool.
On seeing the completely vacant space inside his house, with all the furniture gone, all the wallpaper torn off, and no signs of life, all he could do was grope blindly for the stair railing and help himself sit down. For the second time this day, and for the second time in his life, Neddy began to cry. He was full of sorrow, anguish, hopelessness, and worse he finally remembered. He remembered two weeks ago, the day that started and ended everything as clearly as he remembered the feeling of plunging into the cold water of his now empty pool.
"You're cheating on me!” Lucinda said angrily, as he paced back and forth by the poolside. It was Sunday afternoon, and instead of enjoying themselves together as was their custom, Neddy was standing isolated from his family. From the other side of the pool, Lucinda and his four girls shot glares at him and huddled together. Neddy was angry that Lucinda would accuse him of anything and he said so, but she interrupted him. “I'm divorcing you Neddy, and I'm taking the girls with me. You aren't responsible.” He fumed and swam a furious lap in the pool, ripping his body out of the water with his maddened armstrokes.
Now he sat in the court room, awaiting the judge's verdict, knowing that it would take everything away from him. He would lose Lucinda, he would lose his girls, he would lose his money, and the respect of all of his friends in the county. He had already lost his mistress during the fretful week since Lucinda had announced their divorce. He hadn't slept for days, and he didn't have the strength to be angry, all he could do was continue to whither away in despair. Finally, after what seemed like hours, the judge spoke. “The divorce is awarded and custody goes to Lucinda, the rest will be detailed later.” Neddy couldn't say anything, couldn't think anything, and he soon got lost in the mists of his pain.
Three days ago they boarded up his house. He was swimming through the pool, diving in and climbing up the curb, mindlessly and automatically. He tried to forget everything in the repetition of swimming and he must have succeeded. They pulled him out of the pool, drained it, locked up his house and sent him away. He had gone to the Westerhazy's house to sleep. He had asked everybody in the county for money and some had given him some, and others had been visibly angry at him, for reasons Neddy couldn't comprehend. He must have done that for all of three days, and now he was back at his house, empty and alone, sitting on his doorstep, without even the strength to pull himself up.
Now he sat in the court room, awaiting the judge's verdict, knowing that it would take everything away from him. He would lose Lucinda, he would lose his girls, he would lose his money, and the respect of all of his friends in the county. He had already lost his mistress during the fretful week since Lucinda had announced their divorce. He hadn't slept for days, and he didn't have the strength to be angry, all he could do was continue to whither away in despair. Finally, after what seemed like hours, the judge spoke. “The divorce is awarded and custody goes to Lucinda, the rest will be detailed later.” Neddy couldn't say anything, couldn't think anything, and he soon got lost in the mists of his pain.
Three days ago they boarded up his house. He was swimming through the pool, diving in and climbing up the curb, mindlessly and automatically. He tried to forget everything in the repetition of swimming and he must have succeeded. They pulled him out of the pool, drained it, locked up his house and sent him away. He had gone to the Westerhazy's house to sleep. He had asked everybody in the county for money and some had given him some, and others had been visibly angry at him, for reasons Neddy couldn't comprehend. He must have done that for all of three days, and now he was back at his house, empty and alone, sitting on his doorstep, without even the strength to pull himself up.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
RPG Videogamer
Level up to level 10; Put your skill points into Strength; Put your ability points into passive skills; Stop wasting them on skills you think are cool, do you want other players to think you're a noob or something?; Grind to level 20; Stop complaining this is a piece of cake right now; Grind to level 25; Don't put your skill points into Magic, don't you know that Magic lowers your maximum damage range by 1 point?; Buy yourself a new weapon; Buy yourself new armor; No not that sexy armor, get the +1 dexterity armor; Grind to level 30; Congratulations, now it gets hard; Grind to level 40; This is how you train efficiently; What its boring?; It doesn't matter this is how you train with speed; Go to the cash shop; Buy yourself extra experience points; Yes with real money; No you don't want to do quests, you want to train; You put a skill point into Luck, I guess you really want to look like an amateur after all; Grind to level 60; Grind to level 70; This is how you train on Werewolves; This is how you train on Vikings; Don't train on dragons, you aren't strong enough; This is how you train on Phantoms; Grind to level 100; You think you're halfway there?; The time it takes to level is exponential; Now you train on Dragons; Grind to level 120; Stop putting ability points on magic attacks, regular attacks are more efficient; Buy a new sword; Buy a new helmet; This is how you merchant equips; Grind to level 150; Stop doing party quests, they only slow you down; Grind to level 180; Grind to level 190; Now you're almost halfway done; Do not start a new account; Stop buying clothes from the cash shop, you need to use that money for 2x experience cards; Grind to level 195; Grind to level 196; What? You wish you hadn't made a warrior?; Because they're no fun?; Grind to level 197; Grind to level 198; Warriors are the only class that can achieve the highest damage range; Grind to level 199; You're sick of playing this?; I guess you do want other players to think that you're a noob; Grind to level 200; Rebirth and start again, you have to reach the top of the leaderboards after all.
Albert Einstein is Abashed.
Perspective 1: Albert Einstein
Albert Einstein's gray hair shot up in a static frazzle when he heard the door open. "Vat should I do?" he muttered to himself as he frantically gathered the papers he had been perusing--failed math tests from his school years back in Germany. "Nein!" he shouted. "Nein, nein, nein! Zere is no vay I can move fast enough to hide zese papers! My own theory of relativity prevents zat!" In a flurry of movement, Einstein threw his failed math tests behind his flower patterned sofa and smoothed down his hair as he heard the door into the antebellum open. At that moment he noticed a paper that he had missed, 10 feet away from him lying on the ground. "Oh no no!" he exclaimed. "I dearly hope that it is not Herr Oppenheimer at my door! If he vas to see zis I vould never see the end of it!" As he said this, Einstein heard the footsteps getting closer and closer to his last line of protection--the living room door. Realizing that his doom was near his widely acclaimed hair once again shot up. "Quantum Physics?" he recited in his head, "No. Zat vill not vork. Radiation? Nein, nein. Antimatter? I have not enough of it. Curses! I have no recourse! I vill have to return to the motherland if Herr Oppenheimer sees zis!" As Einstein processed that last thought the door opened and a sudden vacuum of air swept the paper off the ground right towards the face of the approaching man, who was indeed the infamous Oppenheimer.
Perspective 2: J. Robert Oppenheimer
I opened my good pal Einstein's door at around twelve o'clock in the hopes that we could perhaps discuss the Manhattan Project over tea. As his Volkswagon Buggy Car was still sitting inert in his garage I came to the logical conclusion that he was home. And since among physicists we all know how much Albert hates to be disturbed when he is pondering the workings of the universe, I decided to let myself in quietly to see what he was up to. Out of my interest in the Bayard Ratio that he was researching at the time, I tiptoed to his interior door in the hopes that he would not be awakened from his deep introspective physics trance. I waited for a few seconds to see if he had noticed my not minimal presence but soon remembered that I was J. Robert Oppenheimer, the greatest physician on the planet, and strode inside. When I opened the door, a blast of wind hit me in the face along with a crinkled, moth ball smelling paper. "Maybe this is Al's theory of Bosun Quark-Pathing/Proton Motives" I thought, "I guess I'll take a quick peek to revise it for him!" As I reached my hand up to my face to remove the paper from my facade, Einstein flew at me--head first!--and we tumbled to the ground. When we were untangled I saw Al chewing the paper up in his mouth, and quickly swallowing before he looked over at me and suggested we have some tea and discuss the Manhattan Project.
Albert Einstein's gray hair shot up in a static frazzle when he heard the door open. "Vat should I do?" he muttered to himself as he frantically gathered the papers he had been perusing--failed math tests from his school years back in Germany. "Nein!" he shouted. "Nein, nein, nein! Zere is no vay I can move fast enough to hide zese papers! My own theory of relativity prevents zat!" In a flurry of movement, Einstein threw his failed math tests behind his flower patterned sofa and smoothed down his hair as he heard the door into the antebellum open. At that moment he noticed a paper that he had missed, 10 feet away from him lying on the ground. "Oh no no!" he exclaimed. "I dearly hope that it is not Herr Oppenheimer at my door! If he vas to see zis I vould never see the end of it!" As he said this, Einstein heard the footsteps getting closer and closer to his last line of protection--the living room door. Realizing that his doom was near his widely acclaimed hair once again shot up. "Quantum Physics?" he recited in his head, "No. Zat vill not vork. Radiation? Nein, nein. Antimatter? I have not enough of it. Curses! I have no recourse! I vill have to return to the motherland if Herr Oppenheimer sees zis!" As Einstein processed that last thought the door opened and a sudden vacuum of air swept the paper off the ground right towards the face of the approaching man, who was indeed the infamous Oppenheimer.
Perspective 2: J. Robert Oppenheimer
I opened my good pal Einstein's door at around twelve o'clock in the hopes that we could perhaps discuss the Manhattan Project over tea. As his Volkswagon Buggy Car was still sitting inert in his garage I came to the logical conclusion that he was home. And since among physicists we all know how much Albert hates to be disturbed when he is pondering the workings of the universe, I decided to let myself in quietly to see what he was up to. Out of my interest in the Bayard Ratio that he was researching at the time, I tiptoed to his interior door in the hopes that he would not be awakened from his deep introspective physics trance. I waited for a few seconds to see if he had noticed my not minimal presence but soon remembered that I was J. Robert Oppenheimer, the greatest physician on the planet, and strode inside. When I opened the door, a blast of wind hit me in the face along with a crinkled, moth ball smelling paper. "Maybe this is Al's theory of Bosun Quark-Pathing/Proton Motives" I thought, "I guess I'll take a quick peek to revise it for him!" As I reached my hand up to my face to remove the paper from my facade, Einstein flew at me--head first!--and we tumbled to the ground. When we were untangled I saw Al chewing the paper up in his mouth, and quickly swallowing before he looked over at me and suggested we have some tea and discuss the Manhattan Project.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Put Me in Coach!
While the midwinter sun embarked on its westward journey across the horizon, Jermaine Whitehorse crashed through the forest outside Carillon Point with a zealous intensity. He ran eastward, barely flinching as tree branches whipped across his cheeks, leaving welts crisscrossing his face, each one registering in his mind as a sharp, burning pain. Jumping over rotting stumps covered in mosses and grubs, and tearing through thorned shrubs, Whitehorse plowed onward as if he had nothing to risk, except for failure of his mission. As he burst out of the eastern side of the forest and slid down a fallen log dripping from the spray of a nearby waterfall, Whitehorse paused for the first time, looking around frantically as he caught his breath and searched for an exit from the small ledge overhanging the Atlantic that he found himself on. Seeing no escape, Whitehorse turned around to go back the way he came, and at that moment, the sun flashed as it sank below the horizon, illuminating Whitehorse's face for a brief interval. His long white dreadlocks and his knotted beard were full of leaves and thorns and tangles, and his leathery brown face still dripped with blood from the cuts he had suffered in his mad easterly dash. But behind his haggard appearance, his eyes, which constantly darted desperately in every direction, suddenly focused and gained an incredible resolve, as he turned his face back towards the darkness and grasped the golden crucifix that hung around his neck. With a burst of energy, his darkened silhouette ran and threw itself off the ledge and into the night, and at the apex of his jump, the last gleam of the sun caught his body for a split second, causing a tangible glow to appear around him before he plummeted into the sea.
The next morning Jermaine Whitehorse woke up on one of the docks outside Carillon Point, alone and naked, with only his crucifix still firmly clenched in his fist. He looked around, and looked down at himself. His beard and hair were completely clean and the blood had been washed off his face by the sea. He then stood up, strung the cross back around his neck, and turned westward, to head into the city. Behind him, the sun rose, shining only on his back, as he walked towards his new mission.
The next morning Jermaine Whitehorse woke up on one of the docks outside Carillon Point, alone and naked, with only his crucifix still firmly clenched in his fist. He looked around, and looked down at himself. His beard and hair were completely clean and the blood had been washed off his face by the sea. He then stood up, strung the cross back around his neck, and turned westward, to head into the city. Behind him, the sun rose, shining only on his back, as he walked towards his new mission.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Assigned Blog Post #4: Carillon Point Details
I seem to have missed out on the naming fun, oh well, now I can focus extra hard! on epic details. Thats what I would say, but Carillon Point seems to be jam packed for a small town of less than 10,000 people. Alas.
This is what I got:
A shrine to the superstar soccer player, where the townspeople insensitively burn insence, and leave offerings even though he's still alive.
A public art project designed to make the sewers dumping off the bluffs and into the ocean look attractive.
A Sani-Can City, made of Honey-Bucket Hovels, where the hobos and the rebels live.
This is what I got:
A shrine to the superstar soccer player, where the townspeople insensitively burn insence, and leave offerings even though he's still alive.
A public art project designed to make the sewers dumping off the bluffs and into the ocean look attractive.
A Sani-Can City, made of Honey-Bucket Hovels, where the hobos and the rebels live.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Assigned Blog Post #3: Lisa Strossenberger--A Profile of a Twisted Mind
Lisa Strossenberger was a homely 43 year old sinner. She was a marriage counselor and a self-acknowledged people watcher but this facade of being thoughtful about other people only covered up her true desires and lustful passions. Yes, Lisa Strossenberger was that certain type of cretin that makes normal mortals insides go all twisted, and her squishy brow and grey streaked hair did nothing to hide that. Indeed, she hid her outside appearance with her inside appearance, but did not fool anyone for long--after all, her biggest dream was to win the world cup-stacking competition--something that no self respecting women would ever let cross her mind, much less occupy it. In fact, when she said that she was a people watcher, what she meant was that she imagined people as cups, ready to be stacked. Yes, this Lisa Strossenberger was a terrible person, a blight on the face of the earth, and at 43 years old, no matter how twisted and crippled she looked, she still had half a lifetime to further spread her rotting mind and influence.
Luckily that corrupting life was cut short when a certain man took offense at Lisa Strossenberger trying to pick him up and stick him on another person in Madison Square Garden. Rat McNair stood up, dusted himself off and dispatched Lisa Strossenberger with one uppercut that sent her straight into space. In space, not even Lisa Strossenberger could save herself and she died promptly and fell back to earth, landing on the world's newest hero, Rat McNair, and crushing him beneath her giant weight and huge velocity. Soon, the world returned to normal.
The End
Luckily that corrupting life was cut short when a certain man took offense at Lisa Strossenberger trying to pick him up and stick him on another person in Madison Square Garden. Rat McNair stood up, dusted himself off and dispatched Lisa Strossenberger with one uppercut that sent her straight into space. In space, not even Lisa Strossenberger could save herself and she died promptly and fell back to earth, landing on the world's newest hero, Rat McNair, and crushing him beneath her giant weight and huge velocity. Soon, the world returned to normal.
The End
Assigned Blog Post #2: I Would Like to Tell You About My Style
Hello. Welcome to Fleeing From the!!!, the unique introspective and extraspective blog that I have created to teach my followers (0 at the moment!) about my experiences in Writing Fiction. Today I would like to tell you about my style. My writing style, to be exact. While I write, I have noticed that I imagine eyebrow expressions to go along with each phrase or sentence. What I have found is that most of my sentences are ones that make my left eyebrow raise a bit, while my right eye squints. Between these are interspersed certain sentences, such as this one, that make me crease my brow a bit, with the insides of both of my eyebrows curved up a little. The third most common sentence or phrase is the one where both of my eyebrows relax except for a slight downturn at the edge of my right eyebrow. This says something about my style.
I guess this shows that my style is to maintain a certain flow of tones throughout all my writing--although I'm not exactly sure what those tones are. As for structural style, I would hazard that I use either really short sentences, or really long sentences with tons of embedded comma phrases, as well as dashes. Thats about it for structure though. Grammatically I have heard on the occasion that I write in the passive voice. I would say though, that what I actually write in is the passive-aggressive voice.
Anyway, thats all I have to write for the nonce. In about ten minutes I shall have another assigned blog post up on the internet for my millions of followers to read. I hope you enjoyed me telling you about my style.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
A Blog Post in the Hand
A Blog Post in the Hand, to quote my title, is not, and by not I mean pretty much never, worth two Blog Posts in the Bush. Despite the common saying that one would encounter were one to substitute the word “Bird” for the two words “Blog Post,” the saying is simply not true. Now, I don’t mean to be disrespectful to the wise people who come up with this sort of saying or to the wise people at Geico who are running a commercial asserting the truth of the maxim, but besides not being true for Blog Posts, the saying isn’t true for Birds either.
Basically, this laughable “axiom” suggests that because you already have the bird in your hand and thus don’t need to catch it, it is worth a lot more than those two birds in that bush way over there that you’d need to run over to and catch before they could be worth anything to you. While this may have been true back when we (humans) were cavemen and we relied on bird meat to survive, now, the only point in catching a bird is the thrill of catching a bird. Likewise, to write a Blog Post, or to write anything, for that matter, even if it doesn’t start with a “B,” is foolish and useless if you already have it in the hand. While writing can be a method of making a living, there are other methods of living and because of this writing only need be done with love or for enjoyment. To catch the spirit and soul of a great story is the point of writing, and if that spirit and soul does not come out of some effort or thought, what is the point of ever having it?
Assigned Blog Post #1: Truth Submarines!
Submarines are boats that go underwater, for your information. This, coincidentally, is a metaphor for how I conceal the truth, or think I conceal the truth, when I write. I don’t really have any control over what truth there is in my writing, but I have happened to notice that what I write usually has nothing to do with anything I’ve ever done before, or even with anything I’ve thought of before. Usually, I try to think of something new to write about, something so disconnected from my person that it doesn’t have a personal feel to it. Unfortunately, I’ve also noticed that on occasion, or actually most times I write, that no matter how random or how distant I try to make my subject matter, it still retains an undercurrent of my personality, and the truths that I believe in. That is, to put it in highly symbolical speech, my truth is a submarine.
Once, I had to write a paragraph introducing myself to my English teacher. I couldn’t think of anything interesting, or I was too scared to, and instead just made something up. I wrote about how I was a Coke guy, and how Pepsi made every day I lived worse. Until that moment, I had never thought of that before and I had never connected it to myself. But, at that moment, it became a truth of my way of living and of my mentality. This seems like a good moment to return to my grand overarching metaphor and tell you that at this moment, the Submarine of Truth surfaced and inhaled some fresh air.
Jive Talking
I’ve found that posting anything online, be it videos, poems, essays, or even status updates on facebook, is one of the most difficult things that I can and have done. Just creating this blog took me somewhere around an hour, while I changed and rechanged my url, and agonized over the name of the blog. By the time anybody reads this post, I’ll probably change my blog’s name at least five times. The problem, I think, is that anybody can see these posts until the internet dies—an event that I don’t imagine will happen for quite some time. That means to me at least, that my posts have to be perfect. If everything can be seen by everyone for eternity, then it has to show insight, it has to be funny, it has to be intelligent, or it can’t be online. Of course, thats not possible now. Those halcyon days of censoring every idea or whim i have to post on the internet are gone.
The gist is, of course, that now I’m required to post on this blog on a regular basis. Gone are the times of hexatuply checking each word that i put online. There is much too much to do, and too many posts to make, so I have to adjust. I haven’t reached that point yet.
I hope that I can edit this post after I’ve posted it. I’m starting to doubt that hexatuply is a word.
Edit: What does this have to do with Jive Talking?
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