As some of you know and others of you wish you knew, a couple of weeks ago I installed a so-called Statcounter on this page. Partly I wanted to see whether or not I could figure out html formatting, and mostly I wanted to see how many friends I have. Well , the results are in. The answers are "enough to follow simple html installation instructions" and "a few, but no girls."
The most fun I've had with this bit of software is seeing where in the world the IP hits come from (mostly Minnesota and Illinois, with a random few from wherever Matt Lauer is that day) and from what page they arrived to mine.
Which brings me to the policy of "appeasement."
Since the recent opening of the smash holiday classic In The Mix featuring the one and only Usher Raymond, I have been getting quite a few hits as the result of search engine queries for "Usher gay rumors." This phenomenon exists because, as you may recall, I once viciously assaulted (with words) a certain IMDB post concerning Usher's sexuality and religious arguments concerning sexuality that were unreasonably included therein. It was an assault that few had the courage to launch, especially in the manner that I did, which was the manner of not letting the IMDB post-er* I was attacking know that they were being attacked.
Needless to say, their silence echoed my victory.
But now I must appease the rumor millers, for they are a significant chunk of my audience. I must let them clonk around my webbery in their wooden shoes unhindered and unridiculed, knowing that I do not intend to burn their rumor mill down. Why would I burn the very mill that provides me with the grain of IP hits? From what would I make my daily bread of technology? Surely I cannot pray for my hunger to be filled, for I have ridiculed religion even more than I have ridiculed IMDB post-ers*. I must appease these gossip gobblers! Just as Churchill and FDR appeased Hitler! It is a policy that cannot fail.
So here you go, new friends. A rumor about Usher and his gayness:
"OMG I totally saw Usher at a coffee shop in SOHO this week and he had only one earring on and it was on his left ear! Doesn't that mean he's gay or something?!?!?!?!!?"
Enjoy! And as we media hounds say nowadays, "Spread the word. Not the bird. Flu."
*Post-er = someone who posts. Not to be confused with posters such as the large, glossy one of Celine Dion that got me through college finals. She will go wherever I go. And I know that our love will be true.
*Post-ers = The plural of post-er.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Omigosh Omigosh Omigosh
Currently, I'm hiding in a closet, under a bed, in a suit of armor, holding an ordinary houselamp that I am prepared to use as a weapon if need be.
I stumbled upon something horrible tonight. So horrible, in fact, that I may be dead before this post is even published. If that is the case, please don't use whatever I'm typing as my last words. Instead, use my actual last words, which were just "Get out," said to my little brother because he was in my room doing an impersonation of my dad waking me up. You wouldn't get it.
"Get out" would actually be some great last words. Especially if they were engraved on a huge mausoleum where my body was kept. And the mausoleum would be full of snakes and pits and spikes to keep people from getting to my body. Only they wouldn't know that the coffin held a fake body. My real body would really be hidden right behind the stone that said "Get out."
But back to the urgency of the present. The Jigsaw Killer is after me! I know he is. Why? A. Because that's what he does, and; B. Because of the following:
I was doing what I normally do on a Saturday night, which is slowly driving around Brookfield and looking at people's houses where I used to hang out. During this process, it dawned on me that I was a super-loser. I had to go home, do something cool, and do it quick before word got out to the ladies concerning my loser status.
What's cool nowadays? I wondered. Well, Napoleon Dynamite is pretty hip with the kids, and Napoleon loved to computer hack. So that's what I decided to do. Hack and hack until I felt some remnant of coolness drift back into my self.
However, just as I was up to the level of "kinda cool/maybe call for a movie if athletes have an away game," I made a huge mistake. I stumbled upon a blog entitled "Jigsaw's Blog." Hmm, I thought. I wonder who's writing a blog based on the protagonist/antagonist of the Saw movies? So I hacked the profile. Little did I know, that I was essentially hacking into a PDA - a PDA on which November 27th marked the date of my death!
The blog is actually*, truthfully*, and seriously* run by the Jigsaw Killer.
There is only one solution I can think of that can save me from some kind of cruel torture in which I must either hack into my own brain using a poison keyboard or die via computer virus. That solution is as follows:
Every one of you, my friends, who wants to post or comment on something in the voice of the Jigsaw Killer must use his profile. This will disperse the IP addresses enough so that I might have time to enter a witness protection program. Here is the information:
URL: jigsawblog.blogspot.com
Username: JigsawKiller
Password: yesblood
Please. I beg of you to help me and post as the Jigsaw Killer when your imagination feels it appropriate.
My mausoleum isn't due to be completed until late next year.
* (But not really)
I stumbled upon something horrible tonight. So horrible, in fact, that I may be dead before this post is even published. If that is the case, please don't use whatever I'm typing as my last words. Instead, use my actual last words, which were just "Get out," said to my little brother because he was in my room doing an impersonation of my dad waking me up. You wouldn't get it.
"Get out" would actually be some great last words. Especially if they were engraved on a huge mausoleum where my body was kept. And the mausoleum would be full of snakes and pits and spikes to keep people from getting to my body. Only they wouldn't know that the coffin held a fake body. My real body would really be hidden right behind the stone that said "Get out."
But back to the urgency of the present. The Jigsaw Killer is after me! I know he is. Why? A. Because that's what he does, and; B. Because of the following:
I was doing what I normally do on a Saturday night, which is slowly driving around Brookfield and looking at people's houses where I used to hang out. During this process, it dawned on me that I was a super-loser. I had to go home, do something cool, and do it quick before word got out to the ladies concerning my loser status.
What's cool nowadays? I wondered. Well, Napoleon Dynamite is pretty hip with the kids, and Napoleon loved to computer hack. So that's what I decided to do. Hack and hack until I felt some remnant of coolness drift back into my self.
However, just as I was up to the level of "kinda cool/maybe call for a movie if athletes have an away game," I made a huge mistake. I stumbled upon a blog entitled "Jigsaw's Blog." Hmm, I thought. I wonder who's writing a blog based on the protagonist/antagonist of the Saw movies? So I hacked the profile. Little did I know, that I was essentially hacking into a PDA - a PDA on which November 27th marked the date of my death!
The blog is actually*, truthfully*, and seriously* run by the Jigsaw Killer.
There is only one solution I can think of that can save me from some kind of cruel torture in which I must either hack into my own brain using a poison keyboard or die via computer virus. That solution is as follows:
Every one of you, my friends, who wants to post or comment on something in the voice of the Jigsaw Killer must use his profile. This will disperse the IP addresses enough so that I might have time to enter a witness protection program. Here is the information:
URL: jigsawblog.blogspot.com
Username: JigsawKiller
Password: yesblood
Please. I beg of you to help me and post as the Jigsaw Killer when your imagination feels it appropriate.
My mausoleum isn't due to be completed until late next year.
* (But not really)
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Chairs in the Corner
I don't really have any organized thoughts as I begin to type this, but I feel as if I should please my fans by posting something at least once every three days. I know how it feels to be a fan who's been forgotten. I've gone to Mark Twain's site every day for the past 12 weeks. He hasn't updated once.
Oh here's something I like. Newsweek has a little box where it lists about six people or things and says whether their stock is rising or falling. I like that I can read this section while eating Captain Crunch in the morning so I don't have to think too hard. I don't like that it demonstrates Newsweek's and other newszines' continual devolution into info-tainment. But I do like that President Bush was going down down down this week while Stephen Colbert was going up up up. Do I hear what I think I hear, Republicans? Oh yes. It's the Improv Actor Party making a serious move into the 2008 elections. Stephen Colbert and Ryan Stiles for president and vice president, respectively. Colin Mochrie can be the First Lady or something.
I just improv-ed that last line. Whoops! I'm revealing my partisan allegiance!
Anyway, with my thoughts still a bit jumbled, the rest of this post will be organized into my contribution to the devolution of news. Enjoy your cereal!
DOWN 5 points - Making out. I've always enjoyed making out (photographs count), but I can only imagine it getting grosser and more boring as I get older.
UP 3 points - Making out with someone who's half-person, half-octopus. I was going to give this 8 points because the 8 arms are sure to reinvigorate the whole making out process, but then I decided to cut that in half because of the weirdness factor and substract 1 more point for octopus slime.
UP 10 points - My imagination. I noticed that since I've been away, the television with the Atari that used to be in the back corner of my basement has been moved next to the television with the actual cable hook-up. And where the Atari television used to be is now a camping chair facing the corner. I don't even know where to start with what my imagination is thinking up for why the chair is facing the corner, so mayhaps I'll save that for a future post. Here's a preview:
UP 3 points - Topical conversation. With the Atari television now closer to the cable hooked-up television, I can more easily turn to the Atari television during cable commercials and say, "Isn't it amazing how far we've come since Atari with all these new game consoles coming out?"
DOWN magic points - Waking hours. I don't know if I can actually take away magic points from the times that I am awake because I never actually gave these times any points, but I guess that since the points are magic it doesn't really matter. My hope is that by knocking my waking hours down a few of these points that my dreaming hours will become even more magical.
UP magic points (if my hope is well-placed) - Fairy dust and beautiful gowns! Good night.
Oh here's something I like. Newsweek has a little box where it lists about six people or things and says whether their stock is rising or falling. I like that I can read this section while eating Captain Crunch in the morning so I don't have to think too hard. I don't like that it demonstrates Newsweek's and other newszines' continual devolution into info-tainment. But I do like that President Bush was going down down down this week while Stephen Colbert was going up up up. Do I hear what I think I hear, Republicans? Oh yes. It's the Improv Actor Party making a serious move into the 2008 elections. Stephen Colbert and Ryan Stiles for president and vice president, respectively. Colin Mochrie can be the First Lady or something.
I just improv-ed that last line. Whoops! I'm revealing my partisan allegiance!
Anyway, with my thoughts still a bit jumbled, the rest of this post will be organized into my contribution to the devolution of news. Enjoy your cereal!
DOWN 5 points - Making out. I've always enjoyed making out (photographs count), but I can only imagine it getting grosser and more boring as I get older.
UP 3 points - Making out with someone who's half-person, half-octopus. I was going to give this 8 points because the 8 arms are sure to reinvigorate the whole making out process, but then I decided to cut that in half because of the weirdness factor and substract 1 more point for octopus slime.
UP 10 points - My imagination. I noticed that since I've been away, the television with the Atari that used to be in the back corner of my basement has been moved next to the television with the actual cable hook-up. And where the Atari television used to be is now a camping chair facing the corner. I don't even know where to start with what my imagination is thinking up for why the chair is facing the corner, so mayhaps I'll save that for a future post. Here's a preview:
UP 3 points - Topical conversation. With the Atari television now closer to the cable hooked-up television, I can more easily turn to the Atari television during cable commercials and say, "Isn't it amazing how far we've come since Atari with all these new game consoles coming out?"
DOWN magic points - Waking hours. I don't know if I can actually take away magic points from the times that I am awake because I never actually gave these times any points, but I guess that since the points are magic it doesn't really matter. My hope is that by knocking my waking hours down a few of these points that my dreaming hours will become even more magical.
UP magic points (if my hope is well-placed) - Fairy dust and beautiful gowns! Good night.
Sunday, November 20, 2005
Zing!
Question: If suicide is sometimes justifiable, is not killing of born idiots and infants hopelessly handicapped at birth equally so?
There is no relation between the questions - between suicides and killing idiots. Suicide may, under certain circumstances, be right and killing idiots may be wrong; killing idiots may be right and suicide may be wrong. When we look about us, when we read interviews with preachers about Jonah, we know that all the idiots have not been killed.
- Robert Ingersoll
There is no relation between the questions - between suicides and killing idiots. Suicide may, under certain circumstances, be right and killing idiots may be wrong; killing idiots may be right and suicide may be wrong. When we look about us, when we read interviews with preachers about Jonah, we know that all the idiots have not been killed.
- Robert Ingersoll
Saturday, November 19, 2005
I Dislike A Parade
Get the title? Like "I Love A Parade" but not? Compliment me on it in the comments section below. It took some serious brain work.
Seriously, though, parades suck. Perhaps it's the ever-emerging bitter old man in me, but I've never liked them. They were always boring. Great for a climactic "bomb threat" or "disease-carrying warhead" scene at the end of an action movie, but otherwise boring.
It was always kinda sad being the only one in my family who didn't like to get up on Thanksgiving to watch Katie Couric say something like, "And there's the local dog club," and Al Roker hilariously respond,"Sit, Katie! Stay!" It was sad both because I was left out and because I didn't grasp the underlying excitement of Al Roker saying something so patriarchal and masochistic. Order Katie to do something else, Al! Do it! Ohhh yeah...
Whoops the bitter old man in me is transforming into the creepy old man. Better get the creepy old man out of my system before I move on...
So hot...
Alright back to parades. My parents are actually watching another one right now. I'm going to step out of my room for a second, watch the parade, return, and type something that one of the anchors says.
(3 minutes pass)
"The key to controlling the big helium balloons is to have manpower. It's better than cow-power. Cows have trouble balancing."
?!?!?!?!?!?!?
Is this the statement of a comic-genius, or is it just another example of a fool striking gold, as with Hilary Duff and her genius song "Come Clean"? Definitely the latter, as the man who said the comment I typed was being serious...
REVELATION! A parade really is just the embodiment of fools striking gold. It's a long, long line of boring displays and stupid floats and balloons, but once in a while that stroke of genius comes along. Like a float with live panthers on it or something. And then people who watch parades are reinvigorated with the human spirit, saying to themselves, "Hey. I didn't think humans were that great when I started to watch the parade. All they seemed to do was blow into metal and put flowers on cardboard and walk down a road. But then I saw this float with live panthers on it and I realized that humans ARE great because we put live panthers in parades. Humans are great because of panthers!"
There's some flawed logic there, but I think you get the point. Parades suck except for one out of every hundred displays. Like my mom walking with our dog in the Milwaukee parade. Not that my mom's a fool who struck gold. She's actually smart. Oh god this post has holes in it everywhere.
Go Mom!
But don't listen to Al Roker...
Seriously, though, parades suck. Perhaps it's the ever-emerging bitter old man in me, but I've never liked them. They were always boring. Great for a climactic "bomb threat" or "disease-carrying warhead" scene at the end of an action movie, but otherwise boring.
It was always kinda sad being the only one in my family who didn't like to get up on Thanksgiving to watch Katie Couric say something like, "And there's the local dog club," and Al Roker hilariously respond,"Sit, Katie! Stay!" It was sad both because I was left out and because I didn't grasp the underlying excitement of Al Roker saying something so patriarchal and masochistic. Order Katie to do something else, Al! Do it! Ohhh yeah...
Whoops the bitter old man in me is transforming into the creepy old man. Better get the creepy old man out of my system before I move on...
So hot...(3 minutes pass)
"The key to controlling the big helium balloons is to have manpower. It's better than cow-power. Cows have trouble balancing."
?!?!?!?!?!?!?
Is this the statement of a comic-genius, or is it just another example of a fool striking gold, as with Hilary Duff and her genius song "Come Clean"? Definitely the latter, as the man who said the comment I typed was being serious...
REVELATION! A parade really is just the embodiment of fools striking gold. It's a long, long line of boring displays and stupid floats and balloons, but once in a while that stroke of genius comes along. Like a float with live panthers on it or something. And then people who watch parades are reinvigorated with the human spirit, saying to themselves, "Hey. I didn't think humans were that great when I started to watch the parade. All they seemed to do was blow into metal and put flowers on cardboard and walk down a road. But then I saw this float with live panthers on it and I realized that humans ARE great because we put live panthers in parades. Humans are great because of panthers!"
There's some flawed logic there, but I think you get the point. Parades suck except for one out of every hundred displays. Like my mom walking with our dog in the Milwaukee parade. Not that my mom's a fool who struck gold. She's actually smart. Oh god this post has holes in it everywhere.
Go Mom!
But don't listen to Al Roker...
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Sarcasm Attack
In the couple of minutes I've watched Adam Corolla's new show (which comes on Comedy Central after the increasingly funny Colbert Report), I've feared not only for Mr. Corolla's career, but for his life as well. It seems that he and his guest (Carson Daly last night, Xzibit tonight... who knows what the treasure box holds tomorrow night) sit in an empty studio mocking current events and pop culture. An interesting idea for a radio show - the media that made Corolla popular - but as for television, dangerously unfunny.
Which is why I know he will soon be attacked by the Jigsaw killer of the superpopular, tragically sub-par Saw movies. The attack will go thusly:
(Fade from black)
(Adam Corolla awakes to find himself in a room wallpapered by the pages of failed television scripts. Some of the titles include Mother-in-Law Who?, Parent Snap!, and Hey! Your In-Laws Suck!)
(Hooked to Corolla's jaw is a fishing line attached to a pot of boiling tomato sauce.)
(Corolla finds a tape player next to him, picks it up, and plays it.)
Jigsaw's voice: Hello, Adam. I want to play a game. Your entire life you have ridiculed others and become famous for it. You had a radio show on which you mocked people with coming-of-age sex problems, and although you mocked them in a semi-genial manner, it always undermined the real advice. This "success" landed you a job at The Man Show, where I don't think you ever did anything but drink and make downwards of one comment a night concerning some "Juggy's" breasts you were oggling. The show was an embarassment to humanity and a setback to culture, something that I cannot accept in my diminishing days...
(Flashback to Jigsaw whining about getting cancer and not having done enough with his life and not getting a strawberry lolly and all this leading him to his current Messiah-complex ways and wah wah wah...)
Jigsaw (cont.): What you must do is simple: Sit still and quietly for five minutes without saying a word. I have even provided you with some magazines - Newsweek, The Nation - to pass the time. All you must do is resist from making a sarcastic comment about the failed sitcoms which paint these walls.
If you don't, things will get a bit saucy for you...
Oh, and I also removed the "Entertainment" section from the Newsweek, so that you are tempted even less. Is it just me, or does the "Entertainment" section keep getting bigger and the "News" section keep getting smaller? And even the news is presented in more and more of an info-tainment matter! What's the deal with that?!
Good luck.
(Corolla immediately says something sarcastic, tomato sauce dumps on his head, and he boils to death in a twenty-minute scene that wows Saw fans the world over.)
END
Sweet Jesus, I just realized that if I post this, then I am at risk of a similar fate due to my sarcastic "treasure box" comment above.
But if I don't post this, then Jigsaw, terrorists, and, worst of all, in-law sitcoms, win...
POST!
Terrorists!
Which is why I know he will soon be attacked by the Jigsaw killer of the superpopular, tragically sub-par Saw movies. The attack will go thusly:
(Fade from black)
(Adam Corolla awakes to find himself in a room wallpapered by the pages of failed television scripts. Some of the titles include Mother-in-Law Who?, Parent Snap!, and Hey! Your In-Laws Suck!)
(Hooked to Corolla's jaw is a fishing line attached to a pot of boiling tomato sauce.)
(Corolla finds a tape player next to him, picks it up, and plays it.)
Jigsaw's voice: Hello, Adam. I want to play a game. Your entire life you have ridiculed others and become famous for it. You had a radio show on which you mocked people with coming-of-age sex problems, and although you mocked them in a semi-genial manner, it always undermined the real advice. This "success" landed you a job at The Man Show, where I don't think you ever did anything but drink and make downwards of one comment a night concerning some "Juggy's" breasts you were oggling. The show was an embarassment to humanity and a setback to culture, something that I cannot accept in my diminishing days...
(Flashback to Jigsaw whining about getting cancer and not having done enough with his life and not getting a strawberry lolly and all this leading him to his current Messiah-complex ways and wah wah wah...)
Jigsaw (cont.): What you must do is simple: Sit still and quietly for five minutes without saying a word. I have even provided you with some magazines - Newsweek, The Nation - to pass the time. All you must do is resist from making a sarcastic comment about the failed sitcoms which paint these walls.
If you don't, things will get a bit saucy for you...
Oh, and I also removed the "Entertainment" section from the Newsweek, so that you are tempted even less. Is it just me, or does the "Entertainment" section keep getting bigger and the "News" section keep getting smaller? And even the news is presented in more and more of an info-tainment matter! What's the deal with that?!
Good luck.
(Corolla immediately says something sarcastic, tomato sauce dumps on his head, and he boils to death in a twenty-minute scene that wows Saw fans the world over.)
END
Sweet Jesus, I just realized that if I post this, then I am at risk of a similar fate due to my sarcastic "treasure box" comment above.
But if I don't post this, then Jigsaw, terrorists, and, worst of all, in-law sitcoms, win...
POST!
Terrorists!Tuesday, November 15, 2005
A New Me
There comes a time in every man's life when he realizes that everything he thought he knew was wrong. He figures out that he's been looking at things the wrong way, and dramatic changes must occur.
This happened to me last weekend.
I have written herein about my hatred for both reality shows and marriage. I am rescinding both of those views in light of an epiphany I had by the name of Laguna Beach.
If I were a vampire, Laguna Beach would be my holy water. Not because it kills me (which it might do to vampires, so this might be a bad metaphor) but rather because it baptizes me in the spirit of humanity that I have forgotten in my past months of bitterness and popular rejection.
The girls on this show personalize the wants and desires that every normal human would want if life were ideal. They want totally cute shoes, to relax on the beach (which seals do, too, demonstrating the natural-ness of such a desire), and, most importantly, yet also most complexly, boys.
The Laguna Beach girls need to be and should be admired for the objects of beauty they are. The trouble is choosing which guy will dote upon their throne? Should they choose Talan, the boy with the painted eyebrows who's destined to come out of the closet next season? Or should they choose Stephen, the guy who thinks he's in Good Charlotte until two seasons from now, when he comes out of the closet? Damn humanity and its dilemmas!
By the way, on a sidenote to all you feminists who have the balls to think that these girls are disrespecting themselves by acting primarily as sexual objects: for shame! Don't you realize that beauty is perhaps the most natural thing of all? Look at birds and their mating habits. It's all about the beauty. Though for birds it's the guys who are pretty. And some species do have nest-building contests to determine mating. But whatever. I can guarantee you that no male bird with ane eyepatch is ever gonna lay Queen Sparrow.
Now an apology, from me to pop culture: I was naive enough to think that I had outgrown you, and I was conceited enough to think that I was better than 99% of your content. Please forgive me. And let Laguna Beach be my teacher in your class of knowledge.
In the beginning of this post, I mentioned that my views on marriage have changed as well. Here are two words to explain this paradigmatic shift: Kirstin and Jessica. Apropo to my above preachings on beauty, I will simply post their pictures below and end discussion there. They are the loves of my life, and I pray that one day I may be mediocre enough to kiss their feet. They are both genius enough to realize that there is no such thing as a perfect relationship (read their MTV.com FAQs), so perhaps I have a chance at being accepted for the imperfect creature I am.
As long as they don't notice my eyepatch.
This happened to me last weekend.
I have written herein about my hatred for both reality shows and marriage. I am rescinding both of those views in light of an epiphany I had by the name of Laguna Beach.
If I were a vampire, Laguna Beach would be my holy water. Not because it kills me (which it might do to vampires, so this might be a bad metaphor) but rather because it baptizes me in the spirit of humanity that I have forgotten in my past months of bitterness and popular rejection.
The girls on this show personalize the wants and desires that every normal human would want if life were ideal. They want totally cute shoes, to relax on the beach (which seals do, too, demonstrating the natural-ness of such a desire), and, most importantly, yet also most complexly, boys.
The Laguna Beach girls need to be and should be admired for the objects of beauty they are. The trouble is choosing which guy will dote upon their throne? Should they choose Talan, the boy with the painted eyebrows who's destined to come out of the closet next season? Or should they choose Stephen, the guy who thinks he's in Good Charlotte until two seasons from now, when he comes out of the closet? Damn humanity and its dilemmas!
By the way, on a sidenote to all you feminists who have the balls to think that these girls are disrespecting themselves by acting primarily as sexual objects: for shame! Don't you realize that beauty is perhaps the most natural thing of all? Look at birds and their mating habits. It's all about the beauty. Though for birds it's the guys who are pretty. And some species do have nest-building contests to determine mating. But whatever. I can guarantee you that no male bird with ane eyepatch is ever gonna lay Queen Sparrow.
Now an apology, from me to pop culture: I was naive enough to think that I had outgrown you, and I was conceited enough to think that I was better than 99% of your content. Please forgive me. And let Laguna Beach be my teacher in your class of knowledge.
In the beginning of this post, I mentioned that my views on marriage have changed as well. Here are two words to explain this paradigmatic shift: Kirstin and Jessica. Apropo to my above preachings on beauty, I will simply post their pictures below and end discussion there. They are the loves of my life, and I pray that one day I may be mediocre enough to kiss their feet. They are both genius enough to realize that there is no such thing as a perfect relationship (read their MTV.com FAQs), so perhaps I have a chance at being accepted for the imperfect creature I am.
As long as they don't notice my eyepatch.
Friday, November 11, 2005
Me Lame
Because I've been "travelling" (aka taking a 3 hour flight home and then playing video games), I've been too lame to post anything exciting. And I'm going to be lame again tonight, except for one brief adventure. I'm going to take the Dictionary.com word of the day - puissant - and type it into Google image search and post the picture below. Enjoy:
Words can be scary.
Words can be scary.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
The End of an Era
(Curtains open. Stage is empty except for a single chair. Chair is turned backwards. Harry walks out.)
Harry (To audience): Well, this is pretty pretentious, isn't it? A chair turned backwards, as if it's supposed to mean something. It doesn't. It means nothing.
(Harry dumps gasoline on chair, lights a match, and the chair starts a flamin'.)
Harry: This is pretty pretentious, too, isn't it? Me putting on a one-man show on my last night in Los Angeles. Pretending as if I achieved something in Hollywood. I didn't. I slept with the theater manager so that she would let me put on this performance. I don't deserve it.
(Harry dumps gasoline on himself, lights a match, but... Wolverine enters from stage left.)
Wolverine: Hey, Harry. Whadderya doin'?
Harry: What does it look like? I'm putting on a pretentious show. You know those ones where people talk about feelings and stuff.
Wolverine: Sounds like crap to me. You think you know about feelings? How 'bout wakin' up with a body full of adamantium and no memory of your past? Try that one on fer size, kid.
Harry: Gosh, Mr. Wolverine. That does sound mighty painful.
Wolverine: Shaddup! Painful shmainful. Stop talkin' about feelings and start talkin' 'bout what yer gonna do with yer life!
Harry: Well, I was thinking of enrolling in grad school next year...
Wolverine: Shaddup! Don't you realize there won't be a next year if Magneto gets his way?
Harry: There won't be?
Wolverine: Nope. The whole world will be made out of metal, including yer feelings!
Harry: Huh? I didn't think Magneto had the power to create any more metal than already exists...
Wolverine: Shaddup or I'll pulverize ya!
(Harry cowers in fear, crying like a little girl).
Wolverine: Wait a sec. What's that smell? Smells like caramel coloring...
Harry (sighs): It is. I dumped Diet Coke on myself, not gasoline...
Wolverine: So yer sad little show wasn't even real?
Harry: No. It was just the beginning of a long monologue where I talked about my emotional path through the past few months in Los Angeles. The "gasoline" was meant to symbolize...
Wolverine: Shaddup!
Harry: Yes, sir.
(Curtains close.)
Voiceover: The theater later burned down after Harry forgot about the burning chair. Harry jumped aboard a plane to Nicaragua before the theater owner could track him down. In Nicaragua, Harry lived amongst the locals, known only as "El Blanco." No one from his former life knew how to find him, and he was forgotten to all.
Forgotten, that is, until word hit that all Central American mines had been stripped of their metal...
Harry (screaming, as overhead camera spins progressively farther away): MAGNETOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
(To be continued in Ultimate X-Men 11...)
Harry (To audience): Well, this is pretty pretentious, isn't it? A chair turned backwards, as if it's supposed to mean something. It doesn't. It means nothing.
(Harry dumps gasoline on chair, lights a match, and the chair starts a flamin'.)
Harry: This is pretty pretentious, too, isn't it? Me putting on a one-man show on my last night in Los Angeles. Pretending as if I achieved something in Hollywood. I didn't. I slept with the theater manager so that she would let me put on this performance. I don't deserve it.
(Harry dumps gasoline on himself, lights a match, but... Wolverine enters from stage left.)
Wolverine: Hey, Harry. Whadderya doin'?
Harry: What does it look like? I'm putting on a pretentious show. You know those ones where people talk about feelings and stuff.
Wolverine: Sounds like crap to me. You think you know about feelings? How 'bout wakin' up with a body full of adamantium and no memory of your past? Try that one on fer size, kid.
Harry: Gosh, Mr. Wolverine. That does sound mighty painful.
Wolverine: Shaddup! Painful shmainful. Stop talkin' about feelings and start talkin' 'bout what yer gonna do with yer life!
Harry: Well, I was thinking of enrolling in grad school next year...
Wolverine: Shaddup! Don't you realize there won't be a next year if Magneto gets his way?
Harry: There won't be?
Wolverine: Nope. The whole world will be made out of metal, including yer feelings!
Harry: Huh? I didn't think Magneto had the power to create any more metal than already exists...
Wolverine: Shaddup or I'll pulverize ya!
(Harry cowers in fear, crying like a little girl).
Wolverine: Wait a sec. What's that smell? Smells like caramel coloring...
Harry (sighs): It is. I dumped Diet Coke on myself, not gasoline...
Wolverine: So yer sad little show wasn't even real?
Harry: No. It was just the beginning of a long monologue where I talked about my emotional path through the past few months in Los Angeles. The "gasoline" was meant to symbolize...
Wolverine: Shaddup!
Harry: Yes, sir.
(Curtains close.)
Voiceover: The theater later burned down after Harry forgot about the burning chair. Harry jumped aboard a plane to Nicaragua before the theater owner could track him down. In Nicaragua, Harry lived amongst the locals, known only as "El Blanco." No one from his former life knew how to find him, and he was forgotten to all.
Forgotten, that is, until word hit that all Central American mines had been stripped of their metal...
Harry (screaming, as overhead camera spins progressively farther away): MAGNETOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
(To be continued in Ultimate X-Men 11...)
Sunday, November 06, 2005
Hark! Ready your ears!
Good morrow, all. It is I, Fenimore J. Anderson, author of the thesis "Why Zombies Intrigue Us." You may have read excerpts of this genius work (a work which is created by a genius, such as I) at this very web diary at an earlier date. Let me warn you that if you did so, you did so illegally! No one at the Westgloushire Archives was given the permission to release that work until after I had either died or granted my blessing. I can assure you that legal action will be taken and decided in my favor, thanks to my immense penal knowledge.
It seems that the documents in question were released because I was thought to have died at the hands of vampires. "Blood stains" appeared at the end of my prose, and to some idiot archivist this was a sign that my subject matter, vampires, had attacked and killed me. Ha! Doesn't anybody read anything in their daily papers besides the funnies (the working man's humor)? Apparently not, for if they did they would surely know that I am not only a great scholar, but a great suspense novelist as well. I ended my thesis as such in an attempt to enlighten via entertainment. Now I realize that my grandeur is so gross in size that my humor is forgotten by those whose menial brains have limited capacity. Peasants!
It is lucky for all of you that I am sending this message to the owner of this web diary with a demand that it be posted forthwith! If the world truly thought I had perished, I can only imagine the aura of hopelessness that would embrace the peoples. A world without its genius is comparable only to a molasses jar without its molasses. Empty. It is fortuitous for all that I was searching for the origins of the phrase "Good morrow" and was misdirected to this pathetic site.
What's that you say? How could my search for "Good morrow" have led me to this site when said phrase has never appeared here before this day? What a laughable question! The very fact that you asked it proves that you do not even near the genius level intelligence necessary to comprehend my journeys.
Good day!
- Fenimore J. Anderson
It seems that the documents in question were released because I was thought to have died at the hands of vampires. "Blood stains" appeared at the end of my prose, and to some idiot archivist this was a sign that my subject matter, vampires, had attacked and killed me. Ha! Doesn't anybody read anything in their daily papers besides the funnies (the working man's humor)? Apparently not, for if they did they would surely know that I am not only a great scholar, but a great suspense novelist as well. I ended my thesis as such in an attempt to enlighten via entertainment. Now I realize that my grandeur is so gross in size that my humor is forgotten by those whose menial brains have limited capacity. Peasants!
It is lucky for all of you that I am sending this message to the owner of this web diary with a demand that it be posted forthwith! If the world truly thought I had perished, I can only imagine the aura of hopelessness that would embrace the peoples. A world without its genius is comparable only to a molasses jar without its molasses. Empty. It is fortuitous for all that I was searching for the origins of the phrase "Good morrow" and was misdirected to this pathetic site.
What's that you say? How could my search for "Good morrow" have led me to this site when said phrase has never appeared here before this day? What a laughable question! The very fact that you asked it proves that you do not even near the genius level intelligence necessary to comprehend my journeys.
Good day!
- Fenimore J. Anderson
Shuttle...
I was going to try to write a well-formatted post on different definitions of cock and their relevance to current events, but it was turning out pretty second rate. So here are my notes instead:
Cock - definition - rooster - Chaucer's Cock's tale - Chaucer uses the term "chanticleer" - Coastal Carolina chanticleers - Postal Carolina - stamps.
Cock - definition (slang) - an arrogant bastard - 50 cent - two hours of 50 cent acting - he cries in the movie? - onions make tears - 50 cent smells like onions.
Cocky - definition - too proud - Family Guy getting cocky - still lots of good stuff but has to beware it doesn't become a parody of itself - hey this thought seems to be pretty developed I should actually write real paragraphs instead of just notes - lazy.
Cock - definition - rooster - Chaucer's Cock's tale - Chaucer uses the term "chanticleer" - Coastal Carolina chanticleers - Postal Carolina - stamps.
Cock - definition (slang) - an arrogant bastard - 50 cent - two hours of 50 cent acting - he cries in the movie? - onions make tears - 50 cent smells like onions.
Cocky - definition - too proud - Family Guy getting cocky - still lots of good stuff but has to beware it doesn't become a parody of itself - hey this thought seems to be pretty developed I should actually write real paragraphs instead of just notes - lazy.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Here's some gold!
Following is some exciting news for all of you involved in the Brookfield (plus Qualler) Blogulation Awards. I have taken it upon myself to collect the first prize for the event. This prize may be awarded for a "General Interest" category, but more appropriately it belongs to the "Most Insightful Movie Post" category, or something like that.
Anyway, the prize is...
(Drum roll...)
(Tension mounts...)
(Various birds are released...)
A call sheet for the Friday, June 4, 2004 shooting of A Lot Like Love, starring superstar Ashton "Kutch" Kutcher and relative nobody Amanda Peet!
This, folks, is a complete call sheet for Day 39 of the shoot. So complete, in fact, that it extends beyond the normal 8.5 x 11 standard paper size!
If you win this, questions you never thought you'd wonder will be answered! For instance:
1. Which of the two main stars drives to set, and which requests a courtesy pick-up?
2. What kind of sound effects were needed for Scene 41, "Emily's Sad Christmas?"
And more!
Of course, I am taking myself out of consideration for whatever category this prize falls in, so I guess it should be awarded for the proposed movie category. I think my views on Crossroads were common knowledge before my recent post, anyway.
But keep me in the "General Interest" category. I rock at things like that. Observe:
Octopi will eat their own legs when they're hungry!
The first bomb to fall on Berlin during WWII killed an elephant!
And more!
Anyway, the prize is...
(Drum roll...)
(Tension mounts...)
(Various birds are released...)
A call sheet for the Friday, June 4, 2004 shooting of A Lot Like Love, starring superstar Ashton "Kutch" Kutcher and relative nobody Amanda Peet!
This, folks, is a complete call sheet for Day 39 of the shoot. So complete, in fact, that it extends beyond the normal 8.5 x 11 standard paper size!
If you win this, questions you never thought you'd wonder will be answered! For instance:
1. Which of the two main stars drives to set, and which requests a courtesy pick-up?
2. What kind of sound effects were needed for Scene 41, "Emily's Sad Christmas?"
And more!
Of course, I am taking myself out of consideration for whatever category this prize falls in, so I guess it should be awarded for the proposed movie category. I think my views on Crossroads were common knowledge before my recent post, anyway.
But keep me in the "General Interest" category. I rock at things like that. Observe:
Octopi will eat their own legs when they're hungry!
The first bomb to fall on Berlin during WWII killed an elephant!
And more!
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
Why Zombies Intrigue Us
A Thesis: by Fenimore J. Anderson
Chapter One: The Fascination
Although I, being an incredibly busy and gifted anthropology student, do not actually have time to watch human entertainment, I have read quite a few papers informing me that the so-called "undead" are a phenomenon amongst certain demographics. At first I was startled that such an absurd concept could take root in the minds of our nation's youth. I stumbled a bit, clutching onto a nearby oak to maintain my balance, and wondered aloud to the sky, "Why god or gods do you make our brains so ponderous?!?!?!?!" But then it struck me. My Newtonian apple, if you will (which I'm sure you will, seeing as how I am a genius antropology student and my metaphors are gold). I am the one who has been chosen to study this fascination... the fascination. Zombies. The undead. The groan-makers.
Chapter Two: Knowledge
Being the complex organisms we are (even more so in my case, given how incredibly smart I am), we struggle to discover what exactly it is that we desire in life. A car? A house? Two cats and a yard? Whatever it is we think we want, we put all our efforts towards that "it." We base our careers upon "it." We base our love lives upon "it." We base our entire thought process upon "it." But even if that "it" is achieved, we may learn that we knew nothing of what we desired. Everything we knew was true was false. Sun was moon. Fauna was flora.
Zombies do not struggle with the "it," and that is why we are fascinated. Some scholars have suggested that it is their human likeness that impresses us. To others, it is the fact that zombies actually were people like us one day. Hogwash! If history has taught us anything, it's that people don't care about other people. People care about themselves, and zombies intrigue people because zombies, unlike people, know what they desire.
They desire brains. Any brain will do. Of course, the fuller, more juicy human brains satisfy the hunger greater than say, a bat or dog. But brains are the "it." They are what is needed, and they are what is desired.
(Continued...)
Addendum:
Chapter 11: An Urgent Plea
I, Fenimore J. Anderson, would like to revoke all above statements (except for those mentioning what a genius I am). It has come to my attention in the two weeks since my thesis that zombies are of no real concern to us humans. Vampires are! In fact, I have catalogued a variety of instances proving that vampires are both real and sexy and highly dangerous and I will list them subsequently with the hope that...
(Document unreadable. Blood stains.)
Chapter One: The Fascination
Although I, being an incredibly busy and gifted anthropology student, do not actually have time to watch human entertainment, I have read quite a few papers informing me that the so-called "undead" are a phenomenon amongst certain demographics. At first I was startled that such an absurd concept could take root in the minds of our nation's youth. I stumbled a bit, clutching onto a nearby oak to maintain my balance, and wondered aloud to the sky, "Why god or gods do you make our brains so ponderous?!?!?!?!" But then it struck me. My Newtonian apple, if you will (which I'm sure you will, seeing as how I am a genius antropology student and my metaphors are gold). I am the one who has been chosen to study this fascination... the fascination. Zombies. The undead. The groan-makers.
Chapter Two: Knowledge
Being the complex organisms we are (even more so in my case, given how incredibly smart I am), we struggle to discover what exactly it is that we desire in life. A car? A house? Two cats and a yard? Whatever it is we think we want, we put all our efforts towards that "it." We base our careers upon "it." We base our love lives upon "it." We base our entire thought process upon "it." But even if that "it" is achieved, we may learn that we knew nothing of what we desired. Everything we knew was true was false. Sun was moon. Fauna was flora.
Zombies do not struggle with the "it," and that is why we are fascinated. Some scholars have suggested that it is their human likeness that impresses us. To others, it is the fact that zombies actually were people like us one day. Hogwash! If history has taught us anything, it's that people don't care about other people. People care about themselves, and zombies intrigue people because zombies, unlike people, know what they desire.
They desire brains. Any brain will do. Of course, the fuller, more juicy human brains satisfy the hunger greater than say, a bat or dog. But brains are the "it." They are what is needed, and they are what is desired.
(Continued...)
Addendum:
Chapter 11: An Urgent Plea
I, Fenimore J. Anderson, would like to revoke all above statements (except for those mentioning what a genius I am). It has come to my attention in the two weeks since my thesis that zombies are of no real concern to us humans. Vampires are! In fact, I have catalogued a variety of instances proving that vampires are both real and sexy and highly dangerous and I will list them subsequently with the hope that...
(Document unreadable. Blood stains.)
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