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.

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.

This Is What I Think of the Jonas Brothers

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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?