Cherro grasped the test tube carefully, as a scientist, this was supposed to come easily, but as a four hundred pound bear, his early experiments consisted of simply trying to pick up frail equipment. He tipped the vial into a small beaker currently resting above a controlled flame, placed the beaker back on the table, and then proceeded to run for the safety of a three-foot high wall running through one side of the room. A close observer, if they cared to get that close to a worried looking black bear, would hear him counting under his breath.
Safely behind the wall, he peeked over, eyes on the larger beaker. If he did the math and mixed the levels of honey correctly (and part of that relied on the very specific training of a branch of the local swarm), then it should be a few more seconds until...
The door opened on the other side of the room, and Cherro was spurred into a panic to see Queen Grendolia and her assistant stride in. "Back! Back! Get out!" he shouted, leaping over the short wall and racing across the room.
Grendolia had enough time to take in a charging Cherro before she saw a beaker on the worktop beginning to simmer before the black bear tackled her and Forsyth, bringing them both to the ground.
She was about to ask what was going on when Cherro leapt back onto his hind legs, and slammed the double doors shut, and heard him mutter "...Fifty Nine, Sixt-" before a flash of light emanated through the cracks in the doors and a sudden resounding thud shook through the hallway. Cherro slumped against the door, breathing hard, then began laughing gently to himself. She stared at him for a moment or two, confused and slightly worried before he seemed to remember that he had tackled royalty to the ground.
"Oh, hell, your Majesty, forgive me for the mishandling of yourself and your...page?" Forsyth, picking herself off the floor, shot him a dirty look. "I was only just testing the latest sample of the charge honey and forgot to put a notice on the door..."
"Quite alright, Cherro, and I forgive you on the caution that you remember the notice in the future. I gather you've perfected the timed reaction of the charge honey?" Grendolia pulled herself off the floor as Cherro experimentally opened the door to the test-room a fracture.
"Very close to it, I believe, your Majesty. That was only the first test," he said, waving a paw in a fruitless attempt to clear smoke away, "but the timing was correct for a dose of that size. And that was only a tenth of the size we hope to employ in the battlefield. I've been working with Warlord Oberton very closely on this, and we hope to more than meet the original parameters of the Charge-Honey postulation."
Grendolia smiled, albeit coughing while doing so as smoke wafted into the hall, despite Cherro having shut the door and pulled the lever for the ventilation to kick in. "That is good news, Cherro. Unfortunately, it's the matter of the Charge-Honey project that I need to talk to you about. Could you find the Warlord and bring him to my secondary meeting-den in an hour's time?"
"Certainly, your majesty. Is there anything I should warn Oberton about? You know he's grumpy during the traditional Hibernation Season."
"Tradition holds us back, Cherro," Grendolia said, motioning to Forsyth to follow her as she walked back the way she came away from the still smoking test-room doors. "We have to move with the times, and grow with progress, or else," she added darkly to herself, "be buried by a mountain of fools."
10/10/10
10/3/10
Throne of Ursine, Part One
She was worried, though her stoic features betrayed none of this. Even in national panic, it would Not Do for the Overqueen to appear anything other than calm and reserved, no, she would have to go about this the hard way. That is to say, Grendolia could not help but proceed through the nightmare of bureaucracy and the dance of diplomacy before she could make any kind of decree, let alone a political movement or military action. How she longed to throw the oaken table of the Meeting Den aside and swipe her well manicured but powerful paws across the face of the offending diplomat, after which fangs would be bared, insults snarled, and blood shed until a champion stood over a mangled corpse, the victory howl would be picked up and carried on by vocal cords from den to wood to forest, till it reached the pointed ears of the mountain dwellers.
Of course, this was civilization. Honesty and Courage could only wait until after at least five winters passed in hibernation inducing meetings, paperwork, diplomatic tea parties (she despised the little cakes the Gnomes favored). And while Borst, the mentioned diplomat who occupied the chair at the other end of the table, certainly deserved several more creative types of punishment for his ill deeds, beginning a war with the Mountain Gnomes over mere reputation and hearsay would be devastating to her entire race. Not to mention it would exacerbate the similar talks with the Garden Gnomes and completely destroy the precarious allegiance with Humankind.
“In closing, your majesty,” when Borst finally wound down from his petulant droning, “You can see quite clearly that any Ursine deaths along the Eastern borders were clearly coincidental, and was in no way related to our continued mining defensive measures.”
“Defensive measures?” Grendolia raised a furred eyebrow, displaying innocent curiosity. “Defense against what, Borst? If indeed your Gnome leaders wish to achieve peace through these talks, why must you fortify your defenses? And furthermore, defense against what? The only bears that live along those borders are simple Bee Herders and experimental Honey Alchemists. Hardly a force capable of moving your mountain.”
Borst, nonplussed, raised her an eyebrow and saw her a look of honest doubt. “Clearly, your Majesty, you have not heard the reports from your own subjects that your Honey Alchemists have devised an attack honey that, when applied to bare rock, causes it to explode with alacrity.”
“What my brightest minds get up to when they are bored is their own business, Borst, and far from officiated at the highest level. Though their discovery should have a considerable effect on your mining, I believe you are still using the pick and shovel method? Hardly keeping with the times.”
“Tradition rules in the Gnomedom, Queen Grendolia, as you should be well aware, and we are made stronger for our commitment to the old ways. I believe that is everything for this week, shall we arrange our meeting for the next Cycle? Same as this time, at the time of the Half-Moon?”
“Agreed. Forsyth,” she said, turning to her Chestnut coated scribe, “make a note of it. And now, Borst, I’m sure you can see yourself out.”
She waited until her guards had shut the door behind the retreating Gnome, and silently counted to ten before slamming her paw down on the table in anger. “Damn and blast, Forsyth, how did they find out about the Charge Honey? And do they know of the Attack Swarm? Send a message to the Chief Alchemist, He and I are going to have Words.”
Of course, this was civilization. Honesty and Courage could only wait until after at least five winters passed in hibernation inducing meetings, paperwork, diplomatic tea parties (she despised the little cakes the Gnomes favored). And while Borst, the mentioned diplomat who occupied the chair at the other end of the table, certainly deserved several more creative types of punishment for his ill deeds, beginning a war with the Mountain Gnomes over mere reputation and hearsay would be devastating to her entire race. Not to mention it would exacerbate the similar talks with the Garden Gnomes and completely destroy the precarious allegiance with Humankind.
“In closing, your majesty,” when Borst finally wound down from his petulant droning, “You can see quite clearly that any Ursine deaths along the Eastern borders were clearly coincidental, and was in no way related to our continued mining defensive measures.”
“Defensive measures?” Grendolia raised a furred eyebrow, displaying innocent curiosity. “Defense against what, Borst? If indeed your Gnome leaders wish to achieve peace through these talks, why must you fortify your defenses? And furthermore, defense against what? The only bears that live along those borders are simple Bee Herders and experimental Honey Alchemists. Hardly a force capable of moving your mountain.”
Borst, nonplussed, raised her an eyebrow and saw her a look of honest doubt. “Clearly, your Majesty, you have not heard the reports from your own subjects that your Honey Alchemists have devised an attack honey that, when applied to bare rock, causes it to explode with alacrity.”
“What my brightest minds get up to when they are bored is their own business, Borst, and far from officiated at the highest level. Though their discovery should have a considerable effect on your mining, I believe you are still using the pick and shovel method? Hardly keeping with the times.”
“Tradition rules in the Gnomedom, Queen Grendolia, as you should be well aware, and we are made stronger for our commitment to the old ways. I believe that is everything for this week, shall we arrange our meeting for the next Cycle? Same as this time, at the time of the Half-Moon?”
“Agreed. Forsyth,” she said, turning to her Chestnut coated scribe, “make a note of it. And now, Borst, I’m sure you can see yourself out.”
She waited until her guards had shut the door behind the retreating Gnome, and silently counted to ten before slamming her paw down on the table in anger. “Damn and blast, Forsyth, how did they find out about the Charge Honey? And do they know of the Attack Swarm? Send a message to the Chief Alchemist, He and I are going to have Words.”
8/26/10
Vs The World
So, let me be up front about this. I've been a terrible nerd this year. I've barely seen any movies in the theater, let alone that many midnight showings, I can't get my girlfriend into Firefly, and I started this blog thing that I keep 'forgetting' to update.
Pretty typical, as nerds go, I suppose. But then, like a typical nerd, I find something new to be obsessed over. This time, it's Scott Pilgrim. Having devoured all six volumes of the graphic novel, I've been awaiting the movie adaptation since I saw the preview in late January, geek fires stoked on by the knowledge that it's directed by Edgar Wright, he of Hot Fuzz and Shaun of the Dead, two of my very favoritest movies ever. I expected editing that would give Orson Welles ADD, super-intelligent lines delivered at breakneck speed, and fight scenes that would make The Matrix not only cry, but give it all up and wonder why they hired this Keanu guy anyway.
What I wasn't expecting was a love affair to my generation, a symposium of light, sound and gay jokes aimed directly at the frontal lobes of anyone who came into orbit of a video game in the 80s and 90s. Using the plot-line of the novels as a loose jumping point, Wright launches us into the reality of a true comic book movie, textualized sound effects flashing across the scream as bass notes are slapped out, fists collide into faces, and in true video game fashion, villains explode into coins (though not enough for bus fare home). While the plot-line strays from the comics, it never leaves its roots, and how can you? A slacker musician nerd fighting a succession of seven bad-asses to win a girl's love? It's a bit hard to get wrong.
Some characters are lost in the fray, as are some awesome quips ('Scott, if your life had a face, I would punch it in the balls'), but I've always loved how Edgar Wright makes you feel for the characters in their trials and woes by making you laugh along with them, and his adaptation of Brian Lee O'Malley's varied and colorful cast is no disappointment. Some saw fault with Micheal Cera's casting of the titular hero, I realized him to be perfect for the role. We spend so much time seeing Pilgrim as a bad-ass in the comic we forget that he spends whatever time he's not fighting Evil Exes to be slacking, hitting on Asian high schoolers, and generally failing at life. Cera brought out the loser in Pilgrim, and in return, Pilgrim brought out the Holy Shit factor in Cera.
I've seen it twice now, and I fully intend to see it again, then buy it on Blu-Ray and it's accompanying digital download and watch the shit out of if on hi-def TVs and my iPod Classic on lunch-breaks (just noticed, whenever spellcheck underlines something, I tend to choose the hyphenated option. I wonder why). I've bought the complete deluxe soundtrack and listened to little else in the past two weeks. I've even picked up the guitar and started trying to get my poor widdle fingers used to fingering the wire, keen on having all the fun that Scott's band, Sex Bob-Omb is clearly having on screen.
Having gone to the midnight showing, I have to say it was probably the most fun I've ever had in a theater. The crowd's reaction to the film was sublime, cheering every win, laughing like hell at Scott's gay roommate Wallace, and even applauding the theme-appropriate treatment of the Universal logo. I highly doubt The Expendables got that kind of response the next theater over.
Sometimes, heroes inspire us. But only my generation could find a hero in a loser like Scott Pilgrim.
Haiku time!
Scott fights for a girl
Ramona's exes will pay
Slap your bass, Fight, Win!
Pretty typical, as nerds go, I suppose. But then, like a typical nerd, I find something new to be obsessed over. This time, it's Scott Pilgrim. Having devoured all six volumes of the graphic novel, I've been awaiting the movie adaptation since I saw the preview in late January, geek fires stoked on by the knowledge that it's directed by Edgar Wright, he of Hot Fuzz and Shaun of the Dead, two of my very favoritest movies ever. I expected editing that would give Orson Welles ADD, super-intelligent lines delivered at breakneck speed, and fight scenes that would make The Matrix not only cry, but give it all up and wonder why they hired this Keanu guy anyway.
What I wasn't expecting was a love affair to my generation, a symposium of light, sound and gay jokes aimed directly at the frontal lobes of anyone who came into orbit of a video game in the 80s and 90s. Using the plot-line of the novels as a loose jumping point, Wright launches us into the reality of a true comic book movie, textualized sound effects flashing across the scream as bass notes are slapped out, fists collide into faces, and in true video game fashion, villains explode into coins (though not enough for bus fare home). While the plot-line strays from the comics, it never leaves its roots, and how can you? A slacker musician nerd fighting a succession of seven bad-asses to win a girl's love? It's a bit hard to get wrong.
Some characters are lost in the fray, as are some awesome quips ('Scott, if your life had a face, I would punch it in the balls'), but I've always loved how Edgar Wright makes you feel for the characters in their trials and woes by making you laugh along with them, and his adaptation of Brian Lee O'Malley's varied and colorful cast is no disappointment. Some saw fault with Micheal Cera's casting of the titular hero, I realized him to be perfect for the role. We spend so much time seeing Pilgrim as a bad-ass in the comic we forget that he spends whatever time he's not fighting Evil Exes to be slacking, hitting on Asian high schoolers, and generally failing at life. Cera brought out the loser in Pilgrim, and in return, Pilgrim brought out the Holy Shit factor in Cera.
I've seen it twice now, and I fully intend to see it again, then buy it on Blu-Ray and it's accompanying digital download and watch the shit out of if on hi-def TVs and my iPod Classic on lunch-breaks (just noticed, whenever spellcheck underlines something, I tend to choose the hyphenated option. I wonder why). I've bought the complete deluxe soundtrack and listened to little else in the past two weeks. I've even picked up the guitar and started trying to get my poor widdle fingers used to fingering the wire, keen on having all the fun that Scott's band, Sex Bob-Omb is clearly having on screen.
Having gone to the midnight showing, I have to say it was probably the most fun I've ever had in a theater. The crowd's reaction to the film was sublime, cheering every win, laughing like hell at Scott's gay roommate Wallace, and even applauding the theme-appropriate treatment of the Universal logo. I highly doubt The Expendables got that kind of response the next theater over.
Sometimes, heroes inspire us. But only my generation could find a hero in a loser like Scott Pilgrim.
Haiku time!
Scott fights for a girl
Ramona's exes will pay
Slap your bass, Fight, Win!
7/8/10
DeodeRANT
I sweat. It happens more often than I’d like, and quite honestly, in more amounts than I’d like. I wouldn’t mind so much, but it tends to leave pit stains, something I’d prefer to avoid, on the job as a salesman and especially at parties surrounded by friends or, recently, young ladies in what could be formally called ‘Intimates.’ Therefore, the solution lies not in regular aerosol sprays that I generally prefer, but in anti-persperants. Cram my armpits full of aluminum, so long as it stops the dreaded underarm puddling!
As much as it pains me to say it, I’m generally a fan of Axe. Their commercials are creative, if vaguely sexist (although Old Spice had me in stitches with ‘I’m on a horse!’) and even the directions on the side of the package read as if the hypothetical pharmacist is setting you up to get laid that very night but scores of young sorority ladies in faux cheerleader fetish outfits. So when I realized the normal strength de-sweatulator I used was not up to the challenge, I stayed on with the name brand and tried their so-called Prescription Strength stick.
I had not known they made this product, but the nerd in me hopes to the God that may or may not exist that they keep bringing it, because the packaging and branding, as always with Axe products, is completely absurd. This SHIT, as they say, is BANANAS.
The stick itself is uneventful, everything you’d expect from a plastic tube you rub vigorously under your arms, a black wodge with a twist at one end and slightly sweet smelling gunk coming out the other. The box however, is a completely different story. Why they need a box is just simply beyond me, but this is like the Plan 9 of deodorant boxes, if such a thing exists. It stands as a black monolith, an imposing block seeming to radiate energy, with a blue cross emblazoned across the front, as if Axe bought a lab coat and insists on everybody at the family party calling him ‘Doc.’ The side of the box instructs you to use it the night before, as the metals in the cream you’re smearing on yourself takes some time to embed into your skin, but that you can use it in the morning if you were too busy that night GETTING SOME HIGH FIVE GUYS. That made me cringe, because even if I do genuinely like their products, Axe still goes a little far sometimes for my tastes. However, what freaked me out was when I actually opened the box, a nurse was staring at me.
I assume she was a nurse. She wasn’t wearing scrubs, but a fetish zed version of a nurse’s uniform that went out of style around the time of the Civil Rights movement, or around when nurses realized they needed pockets to put their nursing shit in. The woman is printed on the inside of the box, high contrast black on blue, her face peering out at you from the opened lid, and as you look farther inside, you see more of her, or at least her legs, which take up 7/10ths of her physical form. If this is a photo of a real woman, she’s either photoshopped beyond comprehension or one hell of a good runner. Like, Olympian marathon level. For cyborg gazelles.
Is this really the level of desperation in the ‘testosterone based deodorants’ audience? That they actually need a picture of a woman in their toiletries? What for, I really don’t want to begin to imagine.
Please, if anyone has any interesting observations of their deodorants, I’d love to hear them. What I’m trying to say is comment, for frak’s sake.
As much as it pains me to say it, I’m generally a fan of Axe. Their commercials are creative, if vaguely sexist (although Old Spice had me in stitches with ‘I’m on a horse!’) and even the directions on the side of the package read as if the hypothetical pharmacist is setting you up to get laid that very night but scores of young sorority ladies in faux cheerleader fetish outfits. So when I realized the normal strength de-sweatulator I used was not up to the challenge, I stayed on with the name brand and tried their so-called Prescription Strength stick.
I had not known they made this product, but the nerd in me hopes to the God that may or may not exist that they keep bringing it, because the packaging and branding, as always with Axe products, is completely absurd. This SHIT, as they say, is BANANAS.
The stick itself is uneventful, everything you’d expect from a plastic tube you rub vigorously under your arms, a black wodge with a twist at one end and slightly sweet smelling gunk coming out the other. The box however, is a completely different story. Why they need a box is just simply beyond me, but this is like the Plan 9 of deodorant boxes, if such a thing exists. It stands as a black monolith, an imposing block seeming to radiate energy, with a blue cross emblazoned across the front, as if Axe bought a lab coat and insists on everybody at the family party calling him ‘Doc.’ The side of the box instructs you to use it the night before, as the metals in the cream you’re smearing on yourself takes some time to embed into your skin, but that you can use it in the morning if you were too busy that night GETTING SOME HIGH FIVE GUYS. That made me cringe, because even if I do genuinely like their products, Axe still goes a little far sometimes for my tastes. However, what freaked me out was when I actually opened the box, a nurse was staring at me.
I assume she was a nurse. She wasn’t wearing scrubs, but a fetish zed version of a nurse’s uniform that went out of style around the time of the Civil Rights movement, or around when nurses realized they needed pockets to put their nursing shit in. The woman is printed on the inside of the box, high contrast black on blue, her face peering out at you from the opened lid, and as you look farther inside, you see more of her, or at least her legs, which take up 7/10ths of her physical form. If this is a photo of a real woman, she’s either photoshopped beyond comprehension or one hell of a good runner. Like, Olympian marathon level. For cyborg gazelles.
Is this really the level of desperation in the ‘testosterone based deodorants’ audience? That they actually need a picture of a woman in their toiletries? What for, I really don’t want to begin to imagine.
Please, if anyone has any interesting observations of their deodorants, I’d love to hear them. What I’m trying to say is comment, for frak’s sake.
6/28/10
Anti-Political Agenda
So, I've been thinking over the past few weeks, and I really don't want to get political in this blog/column/rant/bullshit thing that I do on a "weekly" basis. If anything, I write this to get away from the crap politics heaps up on us, and I'd like this to be an escape from the real. That said, The T Party could use some new members (23 at the time of writing! Come on, Internet! You can do better than that!) So I've decided to create an agenda, like I'm any good at sticking to timetables, but what the hell, politics is just a fancy way of lying to yourself anyway.
That said, if we can harness the power of hope and get in touch with our dreams, I believe it is possible to learn how to mix the perfect mojito.
I believe with enough love, we can conquer my inability to tan.
With courage, we can face our fears and actually go on a goddamn roller-coaster, and possibly go to the top of the Empire State Building.
Yes We Can expand our circle of friends, and actually get a proper story arc and campaign going in Dungeons and Dragons, and meet on a regular basis for once.
With dedication I can actually update this blog on time.
And I believe with determination and resources, we will put a man on the Moon-bounce by the end of this decade.
And maybe, just maybe...we'll stop them from making 'Indiana Jones 5'
WE CAN DO THIS, PEOPLE.
BELIEVE IN YOURSELVES, NOT GEORGE LUCAS.
That said, if we can harness the power of hope and get in touch with our dreams, I believe it is possible to learn how to mix the perfect mojito.
I believe with enough love, we can conquer my inability to tan.
With courage, we can face our fears and actually go on a goddamn roller-coaster, and possibly go to the top of the Empire State Building.
Yes We Can expand our circle of friends, and actually get a proper story arc and campaign going in Dungeons and Dragons, and meet on a regular basis for once.
With dedication I can actually update this blog on time.
And I believe with determination and resources, we will put a man on the Moon-bounce by the end of this decade.
And maybe, just maybe...we'll stop them from making 'Indiana Jones 5'
WE CAN DO THIS, PEOPLE.
BELIEVE IN YOURSELVES, NOT GEORGE LUCAS.
6/22/10
Toy Story 3
I saw TS3 on Thursday night, Midnight Showing. Only my second of the summer, following last month's Iron Man 2, normally I'm a whore for this sort of thing, but I seem to be getting older. By older I mean 24. Fuck. If this is what 24 is like, I plan on dying before 50, or at least discovering cryo-stasis and outliving the great-great-great-great grandchildren of everyone I know.
Meanwhile, Toy Story.
I had just turned 10 when the first one came out in 1995, and in fact part of my birthday present was to go to Burger King to get one of the huge puppets they had of the characters (they were out of Buzz and Woody, I got Hamm instead) and then off to see the film. Needless to say, I was blown away by the original story and stellar animation, like everyone else was, and I couldn't help but be reminded of that experience when I sat down to see the third one nearly 15 years later.
It wasn't too difficult to remember that it had been that long and the differences were vast. I drove myself, for starters, and before the movie even started my girlfriend fell asleep against my chest. Not exactly something you'd care about as a 10 year old.
Before that, though, I found myself surrounded by teenagers. Or more precisely, tweenagers. As annoying as Glenn Beck, but there's more of them. Like if Agent Smith was interested in pop music and iPhone apps.
And they seem to relish shouting. Not even shouting in general, they have to come up with the dumbest random gossip and improvise songs on the spot before being allowed to belt it out. The acoustics in the main hall of our theater are very good. I was getting ready to start with the throat punching.
Thankfully, the movie started before all of that happened, and I was 10 again. Woody, Buzz, even Rex's incessant whining was all still there, and fully developed characters came alive whenever people weren't looking. We fell in love with new characters, heartbroken by the loss of old, slightly disturbed by Ken's fondness for clothing, and TOTALLY SAW THE TOTORO CAMEO (he has an incredibly creepy smile).
In the end, as the fire loomed closer, and our always optimistic, heroic, faithful, beautiful plastic friends held hands and accepted their fate, we cried, because we knew, like them, everything must end.
Everything must end. But that doesn't mean it should.
Meanwhile, Toy Story.
I had just turned 10 when the first one came out in 1995, and in fact part of my birthday present was to go to Burger King to get one of the huge puppets they had of the characters (they were out of Buzz and Woody, I got Hamm instead) and then off to see the film. Needless to say, I was blown away by the original story and stellar animation, like everyone else was, and I couldn't help but be reminded of that experience when I sat down to see the third one nearly 15 years later.
It wasn't too difficult to remember that it had been that long and the differences were vast. I drove myself, for starters, and before the movie even started my girlfriend fell asleep against my chest. Not exactly something you'd care about as a 10 year old.
Before that, though, I found myself surrounded by teenagers. Or more precisely, tweenagers. As annoying as Glenn Beck, but there's more of them. Like if Agent Smith was interested in pop music and iPhone apps.
And they seem to relish shouting. Not even shouting in general, they have to come up with the dumbest random gossip and improvise songs on the spot before being allowed to belt it out. The acoustics in the main hall of our theater are very good. I was getting ready to start with the throat punching.
Thankfully, the movie started before all of that happened, and I was 10 again. Woody, Buzz, even Rex's incessant whining was all still there, and fully developed characters came alive whenever people weren't looking. We fell in love with new characters, heartbroken by the loss of old, slightly disturbed by Ken's fondness for clothing, and TOTALLY SAW THE TOTORO CAMEO (he has an incredibly creepy smile).
In the end, as the fire loomed closer, and our always optimistic, heroic, faithful, beautiful plastic friends held hands and accepted their fate, we cried, because we knew, like them, everything must end.
Everything must end. But that doesn't mean it should.
6/10/10
T Party Manifesto
Let me explain.
As said before in this blog, I go the gym several times a week. I usually start off with half an hour's worth of cardio on the elliptical, which I spend trying to talk to my girlfriend, but inevitably wind up trying to make out the blurry text on the twenty or so televisions they have lined up for the purpose of taunting the fat people with images of VH1's 'Whores on Parade'(or whatever they call their shows these days). Because I usually get there after work, I wind up catching the tail end of these awful 'Reality' programs and the start of what some channels call 'News.'
These make me mad.
Or really, they give me headaches. Or rather, the people on them give me headaches. More specifically, the stupid things people say on them give me headaches. Stupid, derogatory, racist, bigoted things people say. Ever try to bench-press with a pressure cooker strapped to your forehead? This is what hearing what dimwitted pundits telling me what to think does to me, actually decreasing my average health levels. They don't seem to take anything but themselves and their self-promoting books and radio programs.
So I've had enough of people who think they take politics seriously. It's time to admit what politics really are: Bullshit.
In honor of that, I urge you to join a political party that really knows what's going on, or at least fakes it really, really well, like a very expensive hooker; The T Party.
Organize events in your neighborhood (using the word 'community' as much as possible) and get together with strangers and loved ones alike to discuss Crimes You Didn't Commit, Soldiers of Fortune, Mohawks, and Custom Painted Vans. Wear your gold chains proud. Sit Nancy Reagan on your lap and ask her what she wants for Christmas. Pride yourself in knowing what it means to be a True American, and punch terrorists and crime syndicates in the face.
There is no agenda, there is no overlaying story or higher cause. All we know is that there are Fools. And they deserve nothing but our pity.
As said before in this blog, I go the gym several times a week. I usually start off with half an hour's worth of cardio on the elliptical, which I spend trying to talk to my girlfriend, but inevitably wind up trying to make out the blurry text on the twenty or so televisions they have lined up for the purpose of taunting the fat people with images of VH1's 'Whores on Parade'(or whatever they call their shows these days). Because I usually get there after work, I wind up catching the tail end of these awful 'Reality' programs and the start of what some channels call 'News.'
These make me mad.
Or really, they give me headaches. Or rather, the people on them give me headaches. More specifically, the stupid things people say on them give me headaches. Stupid, derogatory, racist, bigoted things people say. Ever try to bench-press with a pressure cooker strapped to your forehead? This is what hearing what dimwitted pundits telling me what to think does to me, actually decreasing my average health levels. They don't seem to take anything but themselves and their self-promoting books and radio programs.
So I've had enough of people who think they take politics seriously. It's time to admit what politics really are: Bullshit.
In honor of that, I urge you to join a political party that really knows what's going on, or at least fakes it really, really well, like a very expensive hooker; The T Party.
Organize events in your neighborhood (using the word 'community' as much as possible) and get together with strangers and loved ones alike to discuss Crimes You Didn't Commit, Soldiers of Fortune, Mohawks, and Custom Painted Vans. Wear your gold chains proud. Sit Nancy Reagan on your lap and ask her what she wants for Christmas. Pride yourself in knowing what it means to be a True American, and punch terrorists and crime syndicates in the face.
There is no agenda, there is no overlaying story or higher cause. All we know is that there are Fools. And they deserve nothing but our pity.
6/2/10
Book
I've always wanted to write a book. Or at least, I've obsessed over it for several years now so I'll pretend and apply the past thirty month's insanity to the rest of my life, using the same retroactive continuity that fans of the Star Wars prequels are so fond of using to justify just how a mentally handicapped frog person could assist in the forming of an evil dictatorship. That said, I've also always wanted to eat the moon and I've always wanted to be in a band that specializes in covers of Paul McCartney and Wings.
Moving on, Books.
So my first step in writing has to be what to write about. Do I make it a story of my life? Do I write historical drama? Should I explore unsolvable mysteries, creating a character whose singular genius and sheer luck help win the day? Do I dare write an epic poem in which Armored Bears fight an army of Lawn Gnomes, led by the small but wicked Dorfendal, who seek to destroy the benevolent Ursine OverQueen, the fair Grendolia? Crap, now I'm thinking about bears again.
No, the best thing to do is to create controversy. I don't mean make insane political claims, featuring myself in full Nazi uniform on the cover, declare myself the only true savior of the country and somehow endear myself as a beloved spokesman to the over 50, white, overweight, jean-shorts wearing demographic. I mean just insult huge amounts of groups just so people buy my book, the same way that Dan Brown does. The Catholics hate him, historians hate him, Time Magazine hates him, but everyone buys his books to see what the fuss is about, just so they can say something equivalent to "Bruce Willis was dead the whole time!" and then throw eggs at a crippled Ian McKellen.
But Brown set his sights too small. "Too small?" you ask? "The Catholics have thier own damn city and never pay taxes, like Wesley Snipes. How is that too small?" I fully intend, Ladies and Gentlemen, to do what even George Carlin could not claim to have done. I intend to INSULT THE WORLD.
Step one, the title. It may be a cheap shot, but it has to get attention, and as everyone has a mother, I intend to start with them. Addressing the reader in first person throughout the book, I start with bold letters across the cover, unabashedly getting to my insulting point by saying YOUR MOTHER IS A WHORE, and, to cover my bases, the subtitle will read (in smaller, more fanciful writing, as if layering it on in a saucy voice) And Other Sad Truths About You. Inside, the dedication page will give the book to anyone who reads it, anyone who sees it in a bookshop, anyone who hears about it over a radio review, anyone who has ever come in contact with any part of human or even non-human society, even to those non-terrestrial societies who have yet to make contact with our species, I want them to know that the book they hold is directed personally, sincerely to them, and their dear mothers.
The contents of the book will be rendered by chapters, each subsection directed at either a relation to the reader or their own personal looks, intelligence, insecurities, and standings at work. The font will be large so as to not confuse the intellect of the pitiful reader, which I will point out regularly how little intellect they have, and embellishing the pages will be facts of stupid people throughout history, insults adorning every footnote, metaphorical fingers pointing out of every page, laughing at the reader's expense, and of course, definitions for tough words like 'metaphorical' and 'definitions.'
And once I've outsold the Bible, which will have gone up in sale anyway due to the devastating effect of my book upon the spiritual world, just wait until you hear what I have in store for the audio book.
Moving on, Books.
So my first step in writing has to be what to write about. Do I make it a story of my life? Do I write historical drama? Should I explore unsolvable mysteries, creating a character whose singular genius and sheer luck help win the day? Do I dare write an epic poem in which Armored Bears fight an army of Lawn Gnomes, led by the small but wicked Dorfendal, who seek to destroy the benevolent Ursine OverQueen, the fair Grendolia? Crap, now I'm thinking about bears again.
No, the best thing to do is to create controversy. I don't mean make insane political claims, featuring myself in full Nazi uniform on the cover, declare myself the only true savior of the country and somehow endear myself as a beloved spokesman to the over 50, white, overweight, jean-shorts wearing demographic. I mean just insult huge amounts of groups just so people buy my book, the same way that Dan Brown does. The Catholics hate him, historians hate him, Time Magazine hates him, but everyone buys his books to see what the fuss is about, just so they can say something equivalent to "Bruce Willis was dead the whole time!" and then throw eggs at a crippled Ian McKellen.
But Brown set his sights too small. "Too small?" you ask? "The Catholics have thier own damn city and never pay taxes, like Wesley Snipes. How is that too small?" I fully intend, Ladies and Gentlemen, to do what even George Carlin could not claim to have done. I intend to INSULT THE WORLD.
Step one, the title. It may be a cheap shot, but it has to get attention, and as everyone has a mother, I intend to start with them. Addressing the reader in first person throughout the book, I start with bold letters across the cover, unabashedly getting to my insulting point by saying YOUR MOTHER IS A WHORE, and, to cover my bases, the subtitle will read (in smaller, more fanciful writing, as if layering it on in a saucy voice) And Other Sad Truths About You. Inside, the dedication page will give the book to anyone who reads it, anyone who sees it in a bookshop, anyone who hears about it over a radio review, anyone who has ever come in contact with any part of human or even non-human society, even to those non-terrestrial societies who have yet to make contact with our species, I want them to know that the book they hold is directed personally, sincerely to them, and their dear mothers.
The contents of the book will be rendered by chapters, each subsection directed at either a relation to the reader or their own personal looks, intelligence, insecurities, and standings at work. The font will be large so as to not confuse the intellect of the pitiful reader, which I will point out regularly how little intellect they have, and embellishing the pages will be facts of stupid people throughout history, insults adorning every footnote, metaphorical fingers pointing out of every page, laughing at the reader's expense, and of course, definitions for tough words like 'metaphorical' and 'definitions.'
And once I've outsold the Bible, which will have gone up in sale anyway due to the devastating effect of my book upon the spiritual world, just wait until you hear what I have in store for the audio book.
5/20/10
Knife
I have this thing about being useful. I carry a pocketknife strapped to my belt, and I have a flashlight and compass in my backpack. Not that I ever really use them, with the exception of the knife, which I use daily (and probably illegally) at work. Knife, serrated knife, pliers, three screwdrivers, bottle opener, ruler, wire cutters, and for some reason, a saw. I was sharpening it the other day, when it struck me, I may have an obsession with making myself valuable through being useful.
Harkening back to my 'Fat Gandalf' days, I augmented myself with these various tools and gizmos and gewgaws to make me feel better about myself, as I was wholly useless to myself, my friends, and humanity in general. Since then I've gone to school for something I'm genuinely interested in, lost weight, put on muscle, changed the way I dress, comb my hair, any number of things. But was it all in the goal of usefulness? And in what the hell way am I useful?
Well, I can lift significantly heavier things now, and actually run, as opposed to fall over breathing heavily trying to get the tingle in my left arm to go away after taking a few quick steps. I bought a truck as opposed to the crappy little compact I had, enabling me to ferry more people back and forth (Altho that may have backfired, as I've managed to turn into a middle aged cantankerous father figure, I don't know how many times I've said 'Don't make me turn this car around').
So all my effort to become more useful has resulted in a slightly healthier body and a truck.
Measurable, yes, but useful? Maybe. I'm certainly the person my coworkers turn to when they need a designated driver, so maybe that's something. Suppose I keep at my self-improvements, maybe I'll become a proper Jack of All Trades, like John Locke. Or a Swiss Army Human, like Inspector Gadget.
Harkening back to my 'Fat Gandalf' days, I augmented myself with these various tools and gizmos and gewgaws to make me feel better about myself, as I was wholly useless to myself, my friends, and humanity in general. Since then I've gone to school for something I'm genuinely interested in, lost weight, put on muscle, changed the way I dress, comb my hair, any number of things. But was it all in the goal of usefulness? And in what the hell way am I useful?
Well, I can lift significantly heavier things now, and actually run, as opposed to fall over breathing heavily trying to get the tingle in my left arm to go away after taking a few quick steps. I bought a truck as opposed to the crappy little compact I had, enabling me to ferry more people back and forth (Altho that may have backfired, as I've managed to turn into a middle aged cantankerous father figure, I don't know how many times I've said 'Don't make me turn this car around').
So all my effort to become more useful has resulted in a slightly healthier body and a truck.
Measurable, yes, but useful? Maybe. I'm certainly the person my coworkers turn to when they need a designated driver, so maybe that's something. Suppose I keep at my self-improvements, maybe I'll become a proper Jack of All Trades, like John Locke. Or a Swiss Army Human, like Inspector Gadget.
5/13/10
Cold
Every spring it seems, regardless of whatever the weather happens to be at the time, I get a cold. It's not a simple affair, just the occasional Halls and a packet of Kleenex, but a great big whopping event with an industrial sized bag of cough drops and using an entire roll of toilet paper as a tissue substitute.
PM drugs become my best friends, making sure I get to sleep with minimal amount of drip onto my pillow. However, the same wonderful medication that ensures time in dreamland forcefully wakes me up four hours later to flail around at three in the morning, nostrils encrusted with mucus, lips chapped and begging for a kind and merciful god who clearly doesn't exist to just put me out of my misery, because it is just too much damn effort to go take another FUCKING dose of this wonder pill.
A week after I'm over the brunt of this damn 'common cold', one nostril is still blocked, breathing is still labored, and certain body parts are operable only by ingesting dangerous amounts of caffeine, praying to the aforementioned nonexistent god, and then giving up and begging for more soup. In a breadbowl. That I can eat. And then take more PM drugs. And then again four hours later.
With more soup.
PM drugs become my best friends, making sure I get to sleep with minimal amount of drip onto my pillow. However, the same wonderful medication that ensures time in dreamland forcefully wakes me up four hours later to flail around at three in the morning, nostrils encrusted with mucus, lips chapped and begging for a kind and merciful god who clearly doesn't exist to just put me out of my misery, because it is just too much damn effort to go take another FUCKING dose of this wonder pill.
A week after I'm over the brunt of this damn 'common cold', one nostril is still blocked, breathing is still labored, and certain body parts are operable only by ingesting dangerous amounts of caffeine, praying to the aforementioned nonexistent god, and then giving up and begging for more soup. In a breadbowl. That I can eat. And then take more PM drugs. And then again four hours later.
With more soup.
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