02 December 2011

The Jeremy Clarkson Saga

I'm no Briton, so I can't attest to the current climate that is taking shape there in the way of the public service strikes, but I definitely enjoy everything British -- the culture, the humor, the ridiculous way they insist upon drinking tea all the time. There is something about the idea of being British, specifically English, that speaks to me. I don't know why, but the pithy and, often times, snarkily sarcastic way that they speak and act is both hilarious and beautiful to me.

As such, I watch a lot of British programmes and series -- made all the easier by the expansion of the BBC to include an American affilate channel. While BBC-A doesn't show the every day programming that is native to its mother country, since that would be irrelevant to Americans, there are a lot of good programmes that I enjoy on a regular basis. Gordon Ramsay's The F Word, Doctor Who, and Top Gear all top my list of personal favorites. There are others of course (Luther, White Chapel, The Tudors), but they don't rank as must-see in my opinion even though they are enjoyable.

So, recently, as some people may or may not be aware, a situation has developed concerning the current strikes and a rather flippant moment of television involving a BBC presenter and his comments on the situation. And while I can understand the ire directed at the presenter, it seems to me that the demands for his job are a bit premature and somewhat ludicrous due to who it was that made the comments. Not to mention the subtext to this whole situation is, to me, a commentary on how this modern political correctness ideology seeks to make people less themselves and more autonomous; effectively it's personality facism.

Anyway...Jeremy Clarkson, a presenter for the BBC's Top Gear, made an appearance on The One Show and offered the following while discussing the on-going workforce strikes:

"I think they have been fantastic. Absolutely. London today has just been empty. Everybody stayed at home, you can whizz about, restaurants are empty... Airports, people streaming through them with no problems at all. And it's also like being back in the '70s. It makes me feel at home somehow. But we have to balance this, though, because this is the BBC. Frankly I'd have them all shot. I would take them outside and execute them in front of their families. I mean, how dare they go on strike when they have these gilt-edged pensions that are going to be guaranteed while the rest of us have to work for a living."

Okay, admittedly, when you see it in print it sounds pretty harsh. However, you cannot truly believe, even if you are dumb as a hammer, that anyone would publicly call for actions that are, in essence, genocide and be serious about it. And while I can see the point of those who were offended by the statement, the reason they are so upset, it seems, is because the only portion of the clip being shown starts mid-thought (Frankly I'd have them all shot...) and this turns Clarkson into an instant demon thanks to the media. Of course, some people will have watched the show itself, seen the full commentary, and still been offended. These people are idiots, and I'll tell you why.

Jeremy Clarkson is nothing short of a brash, outspoken, and brilliant presenter. As to Jeremy Clarkson as a person, I cannot attest but would imagine that privately he is largely the same as his TV persona. And that's just the point. Jeremy Clarkson the presenter, the TV personality, the affable facade, is who made those comments. Jeremy Clarkson the private citizen was tucked somewhere behind that jowly, withering ham hock of a face while TV Clarkson did what he is paid to do by way of being offensive, yet brilliantly spot on in his ribbing of not only the strike situation, but the BBC as a try-hard non-partisan entity.

Having watched Mr. Clarkson for quite some time now, I understand what his TV personality is, how he acts and reacts to certain situations. Some people do not, and that is evident because of the copious complaints the BBC has received over this whole thing. Did he say the words he said? Yes. Did he mean them to be offensive? Probably. Did he say them with absolute conviction, devoid of any detectable sarcasm? No, but sarcasm is hard to read or even see sometimes.

Personally, I don't think he should have had to apologize for what he said at all. It was an intelligent joke that was told so convincingly that those who did get offended have only made it known that they are are intellectually the same as a doorknob. There are no boundaries in comedy, everything is fair game. And Jeremy Clarkson is a smart enough man to understand that and use it to his advantage.

30 November 2011

I've Seen This Film Before

I really do post far too infrequently on this thing. Oh well, it's not like anyone actually reads it, except this one guy I know. Anyway, lots of happening has been going down, and honestly, I'm not sure I know where else to lay out all my extemporaneous thoughts.

Saturday, not in the park, and it definitely wasn't the 4th of July, I uncovered information about my sister. If you have read much of this blog in the past, you know the one of whom I speak -- the bat shit crazy bitch who long ago abandoned reason for madness. Well, that harlot is pregnant...again. By the same beast that done did her in the first time. Can't say that I'm surprised. Once you decidedly throw away your life to live as a concubine to the white trash revolutionary king it becomes sort of a given that you will constantly be pregnant with degenerate and inferior genetic material.

And I could wax idiotic about all the same things that were wrong with this the first time around, but that would do little to assuage me. I am forever stuck in this middling ground. I want to care because that bitch is my sister, but I'm sick of continuously getting no reciprocation from the other side. I want to see her do better for herself and her (now 2) kids, but she fucked her way into this problem and burned every bridge along the way.

And then there is the sadistic side of me which, in all honesty, very well might win out. Yes, I've considered torture but I don't mean that. With Christmas coming up, I believe that even though I have to put up with my whore of a white trash sister and her brood of degenerate Idiocracy cast memebers, I can at least gain some sort of pleasure from it.

I think I'm going to order 500 condoms and FleshLight and give them to my idiotic, cock hungry slut of a sister and pray that maybe she will get the message. It's just unfortunate that I can't obtain a prescription for birth control pills or I would include that as well.

23 October 2011

Fucking Dubstep

I officially hate my next door neighbor. This is a relatively new development being as he has only just moved in last month. The first month was peaceful enough. I never saw him, he never saw me, and he was fairly quiet...until last week.

Last week, I discovered my neighbor has a great, umm, talent(?) for music. It's not so much a talent as it is a penchant for playing music, really really ridiculously annoying music, very loudly. Nightly selections range anywhere from terrible scream-o selections to god awful 70's disco - basically anything that makes it sound as if non-sedated women are repeatedly getting back alley abortions with a hacksaw. That's fine, it's a mild annoyance at best, and I can drown it out with my own musical tastes or by hopping on the old Xbox, putting on the Turtle Beach headset and shooting people.

Tonight, however, my dear neighbor has struck a particularly deep nerve of mine. I don't know if it is intentional or by preference, or perhaps he fancies himself an audiophile who wishes to break into the music business, but my dear neighbor has found the one thing that makes me more insane than anything else -- dubstep. I can usually tolerate, and somewhat appreciate, most musical genres, but dubstep gets on my last living nerve to no end. I will never understand the attraction to listening to electronic machines thumping, whirring, and generally carrying on in an atonal hot mess.

But, oh, that my plight ended there! Because of neighbor's sudden interest in dubstep, and the fact that he owns a computer, he has taken this to mean that he should start trying to create some dubbed up remixes. Standard fare for this, from what I can gather is popular in the club/rave scene, is typically early 90's trash pop mixed with idiotic and annoying beats, buzzes, trills, and nonsense. But that is not good enough for neighbor. Oh no, he takes it further.

Tonight's playlist has included dubstep remixes of Boston's "More Than a Feeling", Dexie's Midnight Runner's "Come On, Eileen" (a song title I think someone should license to make a bukkake film), Chicago's "25 or 6 to 4", and the smash hit "Barbie Girl" by Aqua. While I care nothing for the final song, the other three are dear to me. I grew up listening to those songs, no I'm not that old but my father is and passed along his great taste in music to me. So, to hear them chopped and screwed, tweaked, and brutalized almost beyond recognition really fucking pisses me off. Not to mention the fact that all of them sound as if they have been done on a first generation Macintosh dot matrix printer.

Dubstep sucks. My neighbor sucks. And he is ruining the World Series even though the Rangers are winning right now. That is all.

28 September 2011

Another Dream for the Ages

The title says it all, I think. And I think you'll agree from my last dream that you are in for a treat. This dream was a bit more tame, by my standards, and definitely more linear than the previous one I posted but it was still incredibly odd. Let me set the scene...<flashback-y synthesizer music>

There I was standing on a stage, a lone spot light illuminating the space around me, and I could hear the sounds of an audience collectively breathing heavily. I peered into the darkness, searching for a face, a hand, anything recognizable that I could latch onto and ease my troubled mind. As the music began to play, I found a friendly face in the crowd and launched into my performance of Alfredo's aria from La Traviata juxtaposed against the pulsating rhythm of a dub step mix.

Soon the music died out and I was left holding out the final note until my lungs caught fire and my voice faded into nothingness. Standing there, in the light and the stillness, the echoes of my song dying softly, I heard the thunderous applause and I walked off stage and down to my dressing room. Once there, I stripped naked and changed into a baseball uniform and slipped behind a curtain draped over a portion of the wall that led me to an underground tunnel.

Inside the tunnel, someone was waiting for me, someone from my past, and she wanted me to escape with her. I was in imminent danger, she said from the stifling darkness, and I needed to follow her and help her find something along the way. As I didn't see the point in arguing, I agreed and we set off in the musty blackness toward whatever and where ever we needed to be going. The farther we walked, the more curious I became about exactly whom it was I was following. Naturally, I reached out and grabbed at whatever my hands could find which just happened to be hair.

The hair was no good to me, it could be anyone, even a fat guy in wig, so I worked my hand down to the shoulder trying to figure out who was leading me down into the earth. The skin was soft, so I was reasonably satisfied that it was indeed a woman and not some feminine sounding man. Suddenly, a light appeared at the far end of the tunnel, and as we drew closer I could work out more features. 'Twas my old hooker friend Tiffany, and the light we came into illuminated her features and our current surrounding.

She had led me to a sewer. Typical, I thought, now she was going to rape me in the rat infested pipelines of the underground. Once I took in the fact that we were in a sewerline, Tiffany explained to me that we were now on the run from the Nazis and in search of a long lost shoe. Great, I thought, I'm Baron von fucking Trapp. Since we were officially on the run, we did next that which is only logical and stripped down naked so as not to leave any traces that we had been where we currently trod and set about the business of climbing through the muck toward a distant set of confusing pipes.

As we plodded through the foul smelling poop water, Tiffany further explained that the shoe we were after was the mighty and mythical Golden Chuck, a shoe so legendary and powerful that he who held it would wield the strength of 1 million gibbons. I hate basketball, is all I could say. And we pressed on.

We soon came upon a ladder leading up toward a platform, and being the consummate gentleman I let Tiffany ascend first. Once we reached the platform, I spied a small opening in the wall with a faint glow coming from within. I lay down in the grimy, slimy, wetness that coated the rough concrete and peered through the hole. I grew excited, not visibly (that would have proved painful in my present position), and marveled that we had found our quest. As I reached my hand slowly into the breech, Tiffany began humming a tune that was familiar to me but I couldn't quite place it.

With my fingers beginning to fumble with one of the laces of the Golden Chuck, I suddenly remembered the song being hummed behind me. It was Dies Irae, and as the large stone cracked down on my skull, I cursed at myself.

15 September 2011

Apologies, This Is Probably Longer Than Your Attention Span

First thing's first, my attempt to avoid any and all trite, over-televised, over-politicized meet-and-greets masquerading as a 9/11 "memorial service" was a resounding success. Even though I did not stay away from the television as I had thought I would (come on, it was opening Sunday of the NFL season), I have a keen sixth sense about when someone is going to do or say something that I don't want to hear and was able to deftly mute any and all who sought to thwart my peace bubble.

I also decided to take an extended hiatus after my last posting to get some affairs in order, namely to finish reading the Vince Flynn novel I had been putting off and rabble rousing with the locals; there was much rabbling, far too little rousing, and a maddening plot that didn't resolve itself by the end of the novel leading to my procurement of the next in the series.

And then today, all day, at least up until about an hour ago, it rained. That's right, rain. That most precious of liquids squirting from the sky and covering the land with what I have always imagined to be God's favorite sexual act. Even with that stunning visual, I still very much enjoy the rain. It makes me happy, makes me wish I was in London, makes me want to prance like Legolas through Middle Earth. And don't try to tell me he didn't prance, he did. "Light of foot" is just a nice way to say prancing homosexual with big, misshapen ears frolicking about in tights....but I am dangerously close to getting off topic.

I love rain. I love the smell, I love the feel, I love that it makes dirt not kick off the ground straight into my eye. As much as I love the rain, and all that goes with it (rainbows, wet dog smell, unemotional self-love with the windows open), I hate what it does to people - particularly in a drought striken area...in the Bible Belt...of Texas. People around here routinely lose their minds when anything wet falls down from the clouds. Of course that's not to imply that they hadn't already lost their minds before, most of them already had done and are batty as fuck. But rain makes their mental disorder that much more apparent. They forget how to drive, they forget how to walk, they even forget how to be civil. And I understand, this year especially, there has been no substantial wetness for the better part of six months around here. Believe me, I understand that - I live here, too. But to completely go bat shit crazy and not be a decent human being is insane. Aside from that I have noticed something that, while not completely categorized as crazy, bothers me for some reason that I don't think I can accurately explain.

Whenever it rains, whether it be the first in a long while or the tenth day straight, the air becomes choked with the same sentiment of praise to God. Granted, I think God is probably praise worthy and I won't ever stop someone from doing so, but every single time that it rains there is a veritable shit storm of the exact same words either IRL or on the book of faces or the annoying bird noise announcement maker. And I can only take hearing/seeing/reading it so many times.

"God is ever faithful"

Hmmm, cute platitude. Shitty cliche. Even shittier basis for praise.  This one is usually in reference to how God is always looking out for his people and taking care of them, faithfully doting upon them and showering them with kindnesses. Interesting thought, but completely weird to me. If he were ever faithful, why let things get into such a precarious position in the first place? Isn't the benefit of omniscence and omnipresence that you can be everywhere, know everything, and take precautionary steps to prevent harm to those whom you steward? And yet, God seems to be some sort of sadist, constantly drumming people and killing them off or slowly torturing them with fire, famine, and fear.

"God answers prayers"

Another cute indoctrination quip. I get that prayer is the tool in which people 'talk' to God, and I understand that God 'answers' prayers in some people's minds. What I don't understand is how people think that the coincidental alignment of what you desire and some arbitrary action that somehow magically precipates this is the answer to a prayer. Especially interesting is when coincidences don't line up, and people throw out the contigency gem

"The answers come in God's time."

What the fuck? No, no, no. Now you're just adjusting your belief system to placate yourself because if you lose faith you think you will die and rot in Hell. Yeah, I do actually think that time has something to do with it but not in how it relates to selfish desires requested to God in the guise of it being beneficial to someone other than you, you selfish twat. To say that things come in God's time also bothers me for one other reason - it's ALL God's time. There is no ownership of time by humanity, no rent-to-own policy, no timeshare. Time just is and you are stuck in it, an insignificant carbon bubble in the stream. Therefore, most things will NEVER get answered and you will die having changed your beliefs and views on God simply to assuage your delicate sensibilities.

And of course, I will undoubtedly have touched many nerves, might even get a couple pieces of hate mail or some lovin'. I prefer lovin' but won't shy away from hate, since hate actually makes me happier to know that I have power over someone. Simple fact is, to me, rain is rain. It comes down, greens things up and I am generally happy about it. I don't think it's the answer to a mass prayer-a-thon, weather patterns change and eventually all cyclical things come back around. I'm not intentionally trying knock people for whatever they think but I'm sick of hearing about your shit. Think what you gotta think to fake yourself happy, but don't fucking proclaim it ad nauseum because I might just stab you one day. Who knows, I could be the answer to your prayer of not wanting to have to go to work every day if I paralyzed you. It could be a win/win.

04 September 2011

Fuck September 11

I'm intentionally addressing this subject a week in advance because it is my hope that on the appointed day, I will be cut off from all electronic devices and means of having to hear or see anything to do with that which we all know is going to be a deluge of sentimentality, chest banging, and political jockeying for the 2012 election.

September 11, 2001

I was in high school on that day, and that is all I am going to say about that. I refuse to be a part of the rehashing, but I will address it as there is nothing more I loathe. Do not get me wrong, that day was terrible. Many people lost their lives, families torn a-blah blah blah, rhetoric and jargon of nostalgia. It was something that should have never happened, but since it did we cope, adapt, and move on. Except that we don't, move on at least. How can we when around every corner, every year, there are any number of people and politicians bringing it up and forcing people to remember the terror of that day.

While I do agree it was tragic and that those who were directly affected have a right to remember the loved ones they lost, how fucking dare anyone else dredge up the past and use it as a tool to get TV ratings, get elected, re-elected, or blown by a grieving intern. It is an abhorrence and a travesty that a terrorist attack on the American public be utilized by those weasels and leeches that "protect and represent the interests of its' people." What the fuck gives them the right to falsely empathize with people that actually lost someone that day when they sit behind their desks, raping the Constitution, and pencil pushing American freedom into the paper shredder? And as far as protecting the interests of the people, well let us not start down that primrose.

The fact of the matter is that lives were lost. Lives are lost every day, it's a part of the life cycle - shit has to die. The only difference was on that day, those that died had no control over their own fate and the manner in which they were killed was publicly televised and subsequently used as a buy-in chip to the World Americanization Tour. Because of the grim realization that no one is as in charge of their own fate as they think, the bastards in Washington decided to take it upon themselves to tell us exactly how we were going to "be safe" by following their "guidelines."

Time heals all wounds

I'm a bit off track, but not really. By having a memorial every single year, and this year being the 10th so it's just bigger and more political, there is never going to be a return to normalcy. Yes, "normal" is relative, and yes, "normal" changed forever that day. I've heard the fucking catch phrases, too. But in order that people begin to feel normal, they need to be allowed to move the hell on and not be repeatedly beat over the head with the tragedy that befell a decade ago. That's like having a cut on your arm and just before it has time to close up you rip it open with a box cutter, and continue to repeat that process for 10 years.

While I do think that the event should not be completely written off and forgotten, I don't see why it is the business of govenment officials to annually parade about at memorial services they don't give a shit about, weren't affected by, and only show their face at to make the people that mistakenly elected them think they do give a damn so they can be re-elected to their bloated pensions, tax funded vacations, closet homosexual affairs, and continued rape of American freedom.

So, as respectfully as possible, fuck September 11. Not because I am angry at the bad bad terrorist man for what he did, or because I'm anti-American, or not patriotic. None of that rings true, I have personally moved on. I coped, I adapted, I moved on. No, I say fuck September 11 because the instant those events began to unfold and right up to this very day, the people who died in the planes, trying to escape buildings, or trying to save lives of others became, and forever will be, nothing more than a footnote in the bibliography of every mother fucking liar that sits in a seat in Washington, D.C. The people ceased to exist as people, ceased to matter as people, and instead have become lost in the larger symbollic collapse of mortar and steel that is used as a means to get elected by slimy, low-life, ass hats that do nothing, and care nothing, for the people who put them where they are.

02 September 2011

If Dreams Are a Wish Your Heart Makes, I Want a New Heart

Last night, I had a dream. Not uncommon since, according to all manner of medical evidences, we all dream multiple times throughout the course of the night. However, I find that it is a rare occasion that I will actually remember a dream. And in typical fashion, the dreams I manage to remember are of the most insanely off-the-wall variety. Today was no exception. So this, in essence and in pictographic form, was my dream.





Ewan McGregor was walking down the street with me. I don't really know where we were going or where we were, it was a post-modern village that appeared to be made of chocolate covered houses. It was sort of like that weird poem about Jesus on the beach except I could see him and we weren't leaving footprints in the pavement.
Suddenly, out of nowhere there was an opening in the street. A voracious manhole had opened itself and was awaiting the arrival of McGregor and myself. Reluctantly, and because there was no way around the gaping hole, we allowed ourselves to fall into the hole. Not knowing where we would end up or if we would be alive by the end of our plummet into darkness.



As Ewan and I plummeted farther and farther, deeper and deeper, losing our sense of direction and time in the ever deepening darkness, we became acutely aware that something was amiss. Of course, there was no way to know in the pitch blackness, but just as we began to think there was no end to our forever free fall there was a soft splashing sound and the sensation of being both cold and warm; like taking a piss in the public pool. We had finally hit the bottom, and had landed in a mud wrestling pit. Across from where we landed, there was a ninja holding a chicken.




Before we could react to the shock of being plunged into the darkness of an underground mud wrestling pit, Michael Buffer began ushering in the improptu bout with his forever classy baritone.
As the match began, we quickly learned that we were outclassed by our nimble ninja opponent. He was agile, strong, and lightning quick, not least of all because I happened to notice that he wasn't slogging through the mud like we were but was walking atop the mucky goo. In a calculated move, I sprinted left as Ewan feigned to the right and I tackled our ninja, knocking his hood to the muddy floor. I was aghast at what my manuever had revealed, we were mud wrestling dear old JC himself.





I felt a little bit bad about wrestling with the son of God, but not really. He started the whole thing, so I was defending myself. And then, once his identity was revealed, something happened that I did not expect. Not unlike a whiny, spoiled tool, JC up and rage quit. He started throwing mud everywhere and cursing, screaming things I had never even thought of before. I shouldn't have but I started laughing.



Eventually, Michael Buffer came into the ring and delcared me and Ewan McGregor the winners and offered us our tasty prize, a delicious cheesy bowl of magical macaroni. I enjoyed it most, I think, which was unfortunate. For unbeknownst to me, the more you ate and enjoyed the macaroni, the more likely it was that you would be transported somewhere else, somewhere unhappy.




And then it happened. Upon taking my last luxurious bite of victory pasta, I closed my eyes and found myself astride a My Little Pony and flying through the air. The air was stiff and hot and full of fire and I was strapped to the back of this stupid pony, flying faster and faster toward a strangely colored rainbow.


Unfortunately for me, this was no mere rainbow. It was the devil's rainbow, a rainbow so sinister and intimidating that the colors were not colors but the souls of different ethnicities collected as payment for unreturned Blockbuster DVDs. And thanks to my unexpected transportation atop the My Little Pony, I was closing in fast. We slammed into the rainbow and it exploded souls into the air.


All the souls melted together in flight, forming a super being. There before me, was a large golden Buddha holding a tennis racket. Buddha took one look at me and began swinging his tennis racket menacingly, laughing hysterically. The My Little Pony carried me nearer the devil spawned Buddha and I soon began to understand what was to happen, but unsure of eactly how it would come about.



With a mighty swing of his racket, held in a Western grip, Buddha smacked me off the top of my pony. I was hurled high into the air and saw fluffy marshmallow fields below me. I began to descend, rapidly picking up speed and preparing to slam to my death when I was hit once again with Buddha's racket. This time I was sent forward, lightning fast, and a soon passed out from the sheer force of gravity and speed I was fighting against. When I awoke, I discovered that I had entered into the Hotel California which I assume is what hell is really like since you can check out anytime you like but never leave.


...and then I woke up, hungry for a fried egg sandwich which I promptly made and devoured before getting ready for work.

31 August 2011

Of Hollywood and Violence

I watched a film and I liked it. Not exactly a groundbreaking statement with the various ways one has to enjoy movies these days, but nonetheless there it is. And while I was initially skeptical of this film, it turned out to be much better than I had expected. Call it morbid curiosity, call it work-related research, or just call it watching a movie, the film I chose was a small, relatively unknown and unmarketed film from 2001 called Gang Tapes. While it was not widely known or even that well received, I liked it (like kissing a girl but without the cherry chapstick or big fake tits).

The whole premise is fairly straightforward, a young boy in search of his manhood, and himself, aligns with a street gang in South Central LA and, through the ever-present eye of his home video camera, documents the life he chooses to lead and the relationships he forms with those of his set. Along the way, our young protagonist becomes mired in some next level shit and seeks to avenge (7X) his fallen homies only to succumb to the inevitability of the path he hath trod. At least that's my synopsis of the plot.

The official description, as noted on Netflix, is a little less than truthful. The claim is that the tape is 100% legitimately genuinely real and that the boy captures all the stuff on camera and then it somehow ends up in the hands of the LAPD and leads investigators to bring down all the people involved in the crimes that were documented. While I understand that Hollywood is in the business of making up shit that sells, how the fuck is that not A) false advertising since I assume they marketed this the same way 10 years ago B) why are there no regulations on the type of bullshit you can claim is true? To each his own I suppose, and really that is neither here nor there since the film only tested in major markets and was so ill-received that it was sent straight to DVD.

As far as the movie goes, it was decently entertaining. Storytelling was fluid and made a lot of sense, well as much sense as being a gangbanger can make I guess. I figured I would have a problem with the use of Handicams to make the movie, but it was well done and actually served to keep the illusion that it was all a home video (unlike that insufferable Blair Witch Project that was so damn jumpy and epileptic that I think I actually had a seizure without knowing it since the screen was bouncing just as much as I was).

That being said, I do have some contentious points to make about the stroy in a couple of places. Whilst I myself have no knowledge of actual gangbangery, I find it hard to believe that a thirteen year old boy would be taken to a bedroom by a 30 year old prostitute to have his virginity stripped off him like a peeling top coat of bad paint. For starters, even though sluts have zero morals or brains I'm fairly certain that even they would draw the line at pedophilia. I could be wrong though, maybe I will ask my ex about that.

Secondly, there a scene near the end of the film that, while I don't want to ruin much of the movie just in case any of you want to rush out and find a copy after reading my raving review, just strikes me as completely implausible. Again, I've no gangbangery in my past but I can surmise from sheer common sense that when one who chooses to enact a violent retaliation goes to do so it is not on a bicycle. For starters, that is the most inefficient way to get anywhere. Riding a bike is good exercise but not exactly a great way to traverse many miles without feeling like you are made of jello by the end.

Then there is the logistics of carrying a sidearm. Gangbang enthusiasts often carry their weapons in one of two places, the front waistband or the rear waistband. Both of these places are stupid for a couple reasons. First is the fact that if, okay WHEN, when you had to draw down on a rival or a grandmother or a cop, there is absolutely no secrecy to your intent. So if you were trying to draw on the sly and get the drop on someone, you would be fucked since they would see your overly ridiculous move to the crotch or the ass crack. Secondly, if you were a gangbanger riding a bicycle and strapped you would either impale your penis repeatedly from the pedaling motion or the gun would fall the fuck out your pants so many times that it would be a week before you got where you were going.

These two facts alone are enough to bother me within the closing minutes of the film but are not, by far, the most insane. That is reserved for the following: South Central is crawling with gangs and is thus used to the sound of gunshots, true. However, if you roll up on some nigga's hood and start tango blastin' like some dumb ass Dirty Harry, I can guarantee (through learned inference of gang culture) that the chances of no one from that hood or set coming outside with a piece in his hand and firing wildly in the direction of the first shot are slim to none. Retaliation and "protection" are a big part of the criminal world, so the fact that the protagonist camera child just walks in, guns down a guy, and then rides his one speed back out and safely to his house is fucking stupid.

But overall, the movie was a decent exploitation of former gang members (aka most of the cast) and the depiction of life in a gang even if it was written and directed by some white Jewish guy who probably shat himself every day they were filming in Watts.

28 August 2011

Dancing With Myself

There is a man outside my office window. He is huge, if I had to venture a guess I'd say around 6'4, 'bout 2-fiddy lbs. If I had to describe him to the police, I would say he was HUUUUUUUGE! Somewhere between this awkwardly shaped Chinese guy and the Empire State Building. Not a very helpful description, but I would pretty much be shitting myself if I met him in an alley somewhere, not least of all because I know he is a convicted criminal.

And this guy, this behemoth of a man, is standing outside my window watching mun2, probably to see the bikini clad self-esteem deprived women with daddy issues dancing around like the disease addled lesions of society that they are. This is not an uncommon occurrence in prison. The men routinely awaken at 5AM because there is a program dedicated solely to people, predominantly whorish women, dancing in what could only be described as a swimsuit in the loosest possible definition since it more closely resembles kite string holding together handi-wipes. Such is the life of a prisoner I suppose, get it where you can and sear the image into your brain for late night gratification.

While I am now very accustomed to the various habits and practices of those locked away from the world, sometimes they do something unexpected and it makes me giggle. That's right, I said giggle. It's not a girly word, shut up. Anyway, so this bear of a man has done just that. I am trying hard not to laugh visibly for fear he might stop his actions, and they are funny. Through my slightly opened door I can hear the music playing on the TV and while I'm so damn sick of the song, Katy Perry's Last Friday Night, the visual foreplay I'm watching is worth the trickle of bloo coming out my ears. This large black telephone-pole-shaped man is singing along with the musical abortion which is entertainment enough since he is, it appears, tone deaf, but he is also dancing. And dancing awkwardly, it's eerily similar to the way I would convulse and shimmy on the dance floor if I ever danced (which I don't because I'm whiter than Wonderbread). I am half expecting him to, at any point, bust out the Carlton and start singing Tom Jones.

I can't tear myself away, and I really need to since I have much work to get done. I guess it can wait until he decides to stop...oh, now we've progressed to some Nicki Minaj song and a modified version of my personal favorite high school show choir move the step-ball-change. Oh, that recall is being announced and my entertainment is now about to have to leave. Maybe he will be back this afternoon but I doubt it. He looks like the sort that enjoys playing dominoes in the noonday sun.

27 August 2011

My Writing Demon

I wish I could get paid for reading. That would be awesome, and I would probably be moderately to amazingly more affluent than my current situation indicates depending on how much I would get paid per page. I imagine it would be comparable to those people that do the medical record transcription stuff from home, and while it's not more than maybe 15c a page, I could bank that shit away like a boss. I love to read, always have, and I constantly keep a rotation of at least 3 novels at all times. And I don't mean idiotic drivel meant to ensnare hormonal young girls or their desperately-seeking-validation-because-I'm-in-a-loveless-marriage-to-a-secretary-banging-manwhore mothers by perpetuating some farce that interspecies love is not only right, but life-alteringly beautiful and "deep." Nor do I mean I stock an insipid e-reader with the bestsellers list or a collection of pre-modern propaganda and philosophy because I simply must rail against the consumerist society through the ironic means of buying anything with a piece of chrome fruit affixed to its side. I mean honest to god paper and glue, tangible, wonderful smelling books. Currently, my rotation includes the Mitch Rapp series by Vince Flynn, Dostoevsky's Demons, and Mentor: A Memoir by Tom Grimes.

Along with that, I read a lot of blogs as well. Some good, some bad. Many are funny on some level, either intentionally or because I have a twisted sense of humor, and a few provoke actual thought. And some, well if I'm being honest, I just started following at random for the hell of having something to read and they hold no particular spot in my heart or head. Recently, I came across one that has both proved humorous and made me think by way of appealing to my literary and alcoholic nature. And it really got me thinking about myself as well since the co-authors of the blog are both semi-professional(?) writers.

I have always been, in my own mind, somewhat of a writer either because I have something to say or simply because I can craft numerous words in a relatively short amount of time that makes sense on some level. While I am narcissistic, I'm not so much so that I think that everything I write is amazing, funny, or worth reading, but then I am my harshest critic as I think most writers are or have to be. For me, every word, each sentence, every paragraph or story needs to be as close to perfectly crafted as possible or it is a monumental failure. Perhaps that is why nothing I have ever written, save a couple poems in grade school and this blog, have ever been published in any true form. Usually I will bang out thousands of words in the course of a day or two, feel good about it, and then I read what I have and figure out where to take it. I write on impluse or at some impetus and don't actively have to think about what I am saying, it just materializes in my brain somewhere and out it comes (not unlike the way I speak).

Once I hit the point that words don't flow, I start to edit and critique and question exactly what it was I was trying to say in the first place. That, more than anything, is probably why much of what I write has a terrible conclusion. I spend far too much time doubting my premise or searching for a different word to sound more polished than I should, and when I try to wrap things up, as untidily as possible, it fizzles and sends me into a sneaky hate spiral that can derail my magical yarn train. Part of me then spends weeks festering in that seething, brooding hatred of what I have done that I start hating my mother for having grown up Catholic and passing on that sense of shame and guilt down to me.

I should really not bother with editing my words, I can find someone else to do that, but damn it all I like coherence and perfection too much to let it go. In my head the perfection of a piece of written word is like winning the US Open (any of them, just insert your favorite sport) and I'm a competitive motherfucker so I have to win no matter what. I'm like Charlie Sheen without the crazy. See? Even there, I couldn't stand that crass, culturally relevant but overused cliche and now all I can think of is a rant about how Charlie Sheen has ruined being able to draw out metaphors and similies about winning shit. Fucking Sheen, even when he isn't playing he fucking wins.

Then again perhaps my penchant for perfection, and my adept ability to articulate alliteration, is a strength. In fact, I think it is. If I were not so persnickety (finally I have worked that word into one of my posts), I wouldn't be a writer-esque person. If I just pounded the keyboard or scribbled with my pen and didn't care to notice structure, flow, or word choice, I would be no better than a Stephanie Meyer or any number of willfully ignorant dolts hu sp33k li3k d1s, or a kitten walking on a keyboard.

24 August 2011

A Passionate Cry

There is a ridiculously prevalent idea pervading and perverting the landscape. An idea so vile and loathsome that it makes me cringe every time someone says they are doing something, and in the back of my mind I can't help but think, "Dear God, that is (or will be) awful." I blame it on MTV perpetuating this idea that if you are a chronic drunk, a whore, or so stupid that the even more stupid public would think you being totally incapable of a functioning thought is hilarious, you can be famous. This idea is really more of an intrinsic feeling from the person choosing to pursue an end, and that is passion.

Yes, passion. That oft mentioned, overutilized and misguided feeling of attraction toward someone or something. And while there is no denying that people are passionate about anything in this world from animals to assholes, both literal and figurative, to me it is often completely absurd. Call me a cynic, call me pessimistic, call me whatever you want, but it just doesn't seem to me that passion is worth anything. Simply saying that you have a passion, to me, is indicative that while you might actually really, really, think something is fantastic, there is no reason for you to try and pursue that which you have a passion toward.

For instance, last night I came across someone who, on a whim, has gotten together with 4 obese gangbangers (probably in every connotation of the word) and they have created what they are calling a "hip hop/hardcore rap/blues" group. They have created a website, a facebook fan page, ringtones (WTF for I don't know), and, I was told, are making a self-produced record. Great, just what people want to hear, shit music that doesn't make sense to anyone but them that will sound as if they recorded it in their bathroom on an 8-track. So after all the "fun" of making the technological aspects available to a completely unaware and uncaring public, they seem to think their passion is going to just will them to amazing stardom or some shit.

I visited the website for this asinine project and first read the "About Us" section. And the thing that stuck out to me was, of course, that they said "we have a passion for music." That in itself made me want to gag and shoot a duck out of a slingshot, but then I ventured to take a listen to some of what I guess is loosely considered music. There were sounds in the background and some sort of vocalized atonal speech mixed together with insufferable tinny noises. And that pretty much confirmed my position that passion doesn't amount to shit.

Passion for passion's sake doesn't amount to anything if you have no discernable talent for that which you profess to be passionate about. I love tennis, but...no, that's not a good example I'm good at tennis. I have a passion for cooking but I can't even...no, no, I can cook something fierce, self-taught, I'm pretty amzing. Ummm, huh, I'm actually having a hard time coming up with something I don't have some sort of talent for. Oh, I know! I am passionate about reading but I don't go around recording myself reading books and trying to sell them to elderly people or the blind or people who don't like to read, not because I don't read out loud well, but because I know that my voice, when recorded, doesn't hold the right timbre or flow to be appealing. And it's that simple.

And before you go thinking, "Well who the hell are you to judge what's good or bad or complete shit? You don't know everything." You would be right, I don't know everything but I've been cursed with soemthing called common sense and a background in music. I may not know every facet of it, but I know what sounds like total garbage and that passion will never pay the fucking bills. Passion is important, but so is talent. And it's true, you can work on something if you are truly passionate and become good. I have no problem with that but in this case, knowing what I know about the one person in this musical atrocity and can infer about the other based on the person I know and the people she associates with, I can say with 100% certainty that they have no drive to learn and they all suffer from delusions of perfection stemming from unchecked narcissism.

Oh, a last funny thought. The website has menu buttons that are locked until they get X number of 'likes' on their facebook page. The page has been up for at least a year and they have amassed an impressive 36 likes. Not even their entire families like them.

23 August 2011

My Friday or How I Learned to Stop Sleeping and Watch Something Die

For most people Friday is Friday, a day to look forward to the prospect of not working for the next couple days and just relax or do some menial housework. But for me, Friday, in the traditional sense, is Wednesday. And that makes Sunday Friday since my "weekend" is Monday and Tuesday. But add to that that the work week is recognized as Sunday through Saturday instead of Monday through Sunday and then Sunday-Friday becomes Sunday-Monday-Friday and my days off turn into Monday-Tuesday and Tuesday-Wednesday and I get paid on Friday-Saturday-Wednesday. It's a ridiculous semantics nightmare, but for purpose of this post you only need to know that Sunday is my working Friday.

Right, so Sunday night, a time when I am often at home relaxing with sporting events, beer, and Xbox gaming, I receive a text from an acquaintance. She had gotten a dog, a puppy, a few weeks back. I know this because unnecessarily she sent me a picture of said beast and I cared nothing for it. Well, the text Sunday was a frantic, misspelled lump of poor grammar and insanely unnecessary emotional overuse of the exclamation point. Within said text, there was one word that I keyed on and that was 'seizure.' Once I was able to cipher the rest of the nonsense, I figured out that her dog was having them and she was flipped out because she had no idea what to do. So, being the nice epileptic person that I am, I agreed to come over and sit around like an idiot so she could calm the hell down, thinking at best I would be there for a couple hours.

Upon arrival, I was given a very awkward hug. Not awkward because it was too long or I was inappropriately groped (it was those also) but I just dislike hugs from people that I really have no desire to be connected to, it's fucking weird. After the physical assault, I get the full story that the dog has not been eating, drinking, etc and that the vet thinks the dog might have distemper. I think to myself, why the fuck don't you leave the dog with the vet then? That would make sense, right? Leaving a sick animal with an animal doctor...hmmm.

I sat silently for the first hour, reading a Vince Flynn novel to keep from having unnecessary and idle chat about whatever stupid thing it is that 21 year old girls babble about. And then the dog went into another seizure, sitting bolt upright and convulsing, slobber and foamy drool coming out of its' mouth for the better part of two minutes. After it was over, I went back to reading my book and the girl started whimpering and crying and asking why I hadn't done anything. What the fuck was I supposed to do?! You can't stop a seizure, you don't DO anything it has to run it's course. And besides that, I'm not a neurosurgeon so even after it was over I couldn't have done anything.

More minutes drag by, and the girl decides she is too tired to stay up anymore. "Thank God," I think, "I'm going to sneak out while she is unconscious." Unfortunately, right before she passed out she asked me to stay a while and make sure the dog didn't seize again and since I know what it's like for people to see a seizure and cope with it, I decided to stay. 

I stayed all night. Until Monday-Saturday morning. During the night, I attempted to waken my acquaintance when the dog had a seizure the first couple times but that didn't work. So I gave that up and just started playing count the seizures. Around 5AM, the dog had a string of 4 seizures back to back totaling 20 minutes in duration. I checked on it at the end of the spree and it was barely breathing, not moving, not responding to anything (and I had done everything short of pick up the crate and drop it upside down). Then, about a half hour later (give or take, by this time I was delirious and unaware of what time was anymore), I heard the tell-tale sound. The shaking and clawing of another, bigger, grand mal seizure. It was bad, and it lasted for nearly 3 minutes. After it was over, I waited a little bit to check the dog again (I needed to finish the chapter I was on, lots of action). No movement, no response, no breathing. I knew it was coming, I could feel it well before it happened. And so, I left quickly....

Okay, not really. I'm heartless, but that bad. I waited around until my acquaintance woke up around 7 or something and I told her what happened. I was again inappropriately hugged but I sort of let it slide cause, hell, there was dead dog 3 feet away. And then, after an appropriate amount of time (15 minutes) I took off. I was tired, I hate emotions, and I really had no desire to watch someone cry and whine about the death of her pet. Was it sad? I guess, but not for me. Should I have stayed through the emotional crap? Not a chance.

So, how was your Friday?

20 August 2011

Turning A Girl Into A Slut Is Easy

There once was a girl who did not gird her loins. She preferred to gild herself, wishing all she had was gold. Her desire took hold and plunged her into a hole. Hope sprung from within her as she would get her hops from her collection of slinky tops. This girl was very good at playing "Taps" while mixing various types of tars.

One day, she made the round of her local bars where she met herself a wonderful bard. Although he was bald, he was also very bold. Many stories this man had sold even though he suffered a chronic and constant cold. He was an odd man, quite out of the fold of society, choosing to drive some god awful Ford. He explained to the girl that he used to live in a fort, but was told to leave because of his obnoxious fart.

The girl soon left and headed to a farm, where she hoped to be out of the way of this man's flatulent harm. As she walked along the road she spied a large herm with a plaque that read "When you arrive, you are here." The girl walked a bit more and spotted a cattle herd being driven by large rancher men. When she neared them she swooned, but they paid her no heed. She was unaware but they were desperate to find a head.

The girl fell chasing the men, and injured herself and needed to heal. As she cried in the dirt, she questioned whether all this was real. She thought about how she wished she could read and not just shake her rear. The fear soon set in that she would forever be alone, but just then another cowboy rode by. He took one look at the girl, dismounted his horse and contemplated having his way with her. So the cowboy decided to tear the girls' teal Team Seam Seal shirt, and make of her a delicious sexy meal.

He clawed at his pants, revealing his meat, quite a feat that was hard to beat. The cowboy radiated heat, the girl could feel from her seat, and she looked at him expectantly. The cowboy took her to a nearby slat of wood, more comfortable than the dirt, and he gazed down at her young slit. And he bandied about, banging her til she shit. Then he came hard and she took the whole shot.

If only the girl, naive and young, had been taught to keep her mouth shut she would never have become such a slut.


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And here is how I arrived at such an absurd story.


19 August 2011

The Best We Can Hope For Is a Tactical Nuke

For some inexplicable reason, I have been watching "Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?", and I have come to a conclusion. While I am cognizant of the fact that I know relatively very little when weighed against the vast amount of knowledge in the world, I am incredibly intelligent and ridiculously good looking...and humble. I make it a point to be such since intellect is the most valuable, though underappreciated or utilized, resource of humanity. But that's not really what got me thinking, well in a way it is but only in the most tangential of paths.

In watching the show, listening to it in the background actually, I have found myself incredulous at the contestants. For those not in the know, the premise of the show is get an adult and ask them elementary school questions that are pretty much common knowledge and watch them fail miserably. Simple questions like: Is a tyrannosaurus a carnivore or an herbivore, Which of the following is an improper fraction 2/3 4/5 6/9 4/3, or What is the noun in the following sentence - John ate a bucket of chicken. And sadly, while the above examples are not exactly as worded on the show but more a template of the simplicity, full grown adults with MBAs or PhDs have missed such easy things.

I really do not know what to make of this, are these people actually that stupid? Are they forgetful? Did they, in earning advanced degrees of "education," manage to cram so much else in that their memory effectively reset itself to retain only the more recent information? Part of me hopes for the latter, as this is the least embarrassing of the options. But given the nature of humanity in general, and the shameless willful ignorance of the American public as a whole, I highly doubt that the people on that show are there for little more than a chance at a paltry sum of "free" money and to be on TV. And I would sit here and argue memory reset versus accepted medical knowledge, but the Rangers are on, the children are bitching about something stupid, and I have no more patience for the day.

11 August 2011

Something Has Basted My Oatmeal

Hello, old friend. Seems it has been a while since we last had a chat. I have been thinking a lot lately about a great many things. Good things, bad things, things that are generally neutral, and even some things that could potentially lead to my being locked in a mental institution. Of the great many things crossing my mind of late, I have decided to harp upon something, a rant if you will. And what is the thing that has earned a place in my distaste, you might ask. Well if you could find it in your heart to be a bit more patient as I ramble, I might tell you. Or perhaps I already did, depends on how well you are able to pick up context clues. Okay, actually I didn't, but I wanted to make you think I did.

As with anything that becomes a pet peeve, or a nuisance, or a downright annoyance, time is an inevitable factor. Sufficient time has now passed pertaining to my particular source of annoyance that I can no longer bear it in silence, ironic because in actuality that is exactly how I combat the thing that causes me to want to club hippies with a baby seal. For some, this thing might provide entertainment or even be of non-consequence, but some others of you might understand where I'm coming from if you ever had dealings with it. I speak, of course, of the radio.

Yes, the radio. Mankind's gift to musical artists the world over. I do not speak of this one though, I am more concerned with the closed circuit, CB-style walkie-talkie utilized to maintain the security and integrity of a house of incarceration. If you were still using your context clues, you have deduced my mode d'emploi. The reason behind my disdain of this innocuous piece of equipment designed to, in event of crisis, save my life, is fairly simple, and it could be argued that really I am not angry with the radio at all which is only the manner in which my true peeve is received. In fact, I'm certain of that, now that I have thought of that argument. Well done, me. You deserve a star.

I'm sorry, CB-style walkie-talkie, I was never angry with you. I apologize if I have in some way hurt your non-feelings, it's just so difficult to discern where my hatred and loathing should lie when you are the one transmitting the things that bother me the most. Can we still be friends? I would greatly appreciate that, CB, can I call you CB? I would greatly appreciate it, CB, if we could still be friends. I do rather enjoy the comfort of knowing you have been my constant companion these long months, and I know that I can count on you in a pinch. And really it isn't your fault that you transmit such things that stir my anger, you are just doing your designed purpose.




Right, so on to the real irksome matter at hand - unprofessionalism. I realize, of course, that such a subject is a broad and sweeping generalized term that can encompass a great many things, but in this particular case it mainly refers to the unprofessional nature in which people, generally, use the radio at my place of employment. For as noted above, the radio is a tool with which to conduct daily business and, in times of crisis, a failsafe designed to ensure the safety of those within the confines of the double fence. It is not, nor should it be seen as, a toy or a means to snipe at others.

Due to the diversity of people employed within my specific facility, and in general across the company, there are a great many personalities that need to be taken into account and dealt with in as many different ways as those who bear them. Unfortunately, thanks in part to the internet culture, people are no longer adept at dealing with difficult personalities or situations on a personal and discreet manner. Because of the anonymity provided by their home life on the internet, people in a prison setting (at least in my experience so far) utilize the radio as a portable internet forum where they believe they can say what they wish in a manner comparable to how they would speak online.

A perfect example of this was yesterday. There are many other instances that are similar but as this was the most recent, I can remember it verbatim. The early afternoon sun was beating down, as it has done for the past 6 months, and making everyone just that much more miserable. Early afternoon is typically when these types of things happen since those that are working have been here for anywhere from 6 to 14 hours and they are clearly growing edgy. I overheard the following exchange and it pissed me off, mostly because it never should have happened over the radio where everyone could hear:

1: Control, be advised I will be entering perimeter road in my personal vehicle.
Control: ....
1: Did you copy control? I will be entering perimeter road in personal vehicle.
Control: YES! I COPY! I AM ON THE PHONE WITH <other facility> RIGHT NOW....SIR.
1: 10-4, control. I was just advising
Control: I SAID I COPIED! I'M TRYING TO TALK TO R&D RIGHT NOW!
1: 10-4. <sarcasm> Just doing my job ma'am. </sarcasm>
Control: 10-4, sir. So was I.

Now, while that may be lost on many people, the face that this conversation took place at all is unprofessional. More to the point, the control officer should never have spoken that way to an officer doing his job and ESPECIALLY not while on the phone to another facility. As I said this is one example. There are countless others where similar arguments over petty things have occurred, but my favorite, almost daily, conversations are usually to do with discussing whether or not to order food and from where. In addition there are also numerous conversations that are just two or more people going back and forth quoting movie or TV show lines...over the radio...at work...while there are administrative staff present.

And while that is not my only contentious point, I believe I will stop there before I happen to get myself into trouble moreso than I already probably have.

03 August 2011

My Brain...I hate it.

"I amar prestar aen. Han mathon ne nen. Han mathon ne chae. A han noston ned gwilith."

Lately, I have been troubled. Things that have been in motion for quite some time have finally come to pass, as they will often do. And while I am, on the one hand, glad of this there is still something bothersome that remains.

Most of you, okay maybe two of you, that happen to glance over this blog and avidly non-read it, may know that recently my parents finally made their move. The end of a painfully long and laborious process is both a joyous and sad occasion. Twenty-seven years in one place, people sort of become a fixture of that place. Interestingly mother mentioned to me on the day we were actually moving the belongings from the house that even though they had been in this town nearly three decades, had plenty of friends, close or acquaintances, only a small fraction (read: 3 families) had even come by, or called/texted/emailed, in recent months to wish them farewell and express any sort of emotive response. And while I am the most stoic and unemotional person, that still struck me as odd. But that is neither here nor there, as the bulk of humanity are narcissistic assholes anyway, also that is not really a point of contention here. I only mention it because it pretty much sucks.

The big issue that has been plaguing my mind is an old one. Well, two really, but only one of them am I willing to speak about. And it once again harkens back to darker times, wherein that stupid piece of my brain keeps agitating me, seething and growing like a tumor. At this point, I probably have an actual tumor so that's less of a metaphor and more a bleak medical self-diagnosis.

Ever since my parents moved, like a week ago, I have been bothered more and more with thoughts of my long lost sister. The problem is two-fold. One is that on the day I was moving my parents, and it was just me helping father and mother for the bulk of it since many people had to work, were out of town, etc, I was told during the ordeal that my sister was coming over to say goodbye (a seemingly innocuous and selfless act). I had no problem with that, it was understandable. However, what I had a problem with was that she brought the entire brood with her as usual because she is not allowed outside sans supervision for fear she may run away. Aside from that obvious intrusion, I was told (not asked) by mother that when they arrived I had to stay in the emptying house so that the bitch and her master would actually get out of the car. That pretty much pissed me off. Why should I be the one to suffer such injustice when I have actually been an upstanding person? I didn't run off to fuck some disease-adled, meth addicted, lying, womanizing fuckbag with insecurity, control, legal and daddy issues...

Not wanting to upset my mother and spoil the last chance for a good while that she would have to see her precious illegitimate devil-spawned grandchild-like blob, I, wonderful son, submitted to the command and stayed in the house, pondering how best to murder someone. I would never murder someone, but I can think it about it all I want, and with my imagination I derive much pleasure out of it.

So that's issue one. Issue two is a bit more complex. Despite all the lecherous, selfish, backstabbing, bullshitting, fear mongering, loathsome, vile, heinous, lying, coniving, self-indulgent, victimizing, trite, and otherwise evil shit that my sister has put to my family, I have been wrestling again with biting the bullet and crushing the spirit of my sister by once again being the bigger, better, more narcissistic (but controlled) person and reaching out...again. The last few times have not gone well, but that is to be expected. When you are dealing with someone who has the maturity of 2 year old, the brain of a snail, and the poor-me victim mentality of an inmate, things will never go well unless you play it right. I know how to play it right, but because I also know that I am in the right, I do what I always do and speak the damn truth.

And while I never back down from my convictions, for better or worse, I am considering taking one for the team. I want to do this for two reasons: 1) I want my mother to be happy again, it's pretty important to me. 2) Most importantly, I would be the one who pieced my family back together. Thus my narcissism, and me, win in the end.

I hesitate to do this, however, because of my wealth of knowledge of my sister and her master. I have known my sister for many years, some would say all her natural life, and though she has been lost for the last 2 years, I still know everything about her poisoned mind. The biggest reason I am hesitant is because I know exactly what will happen in the aftermath of conversing with her. Let me show you:

Picture if you will, a dilapidated home infested with cockroaches, dirty dishes piled high as the ceiling, various piss and shit stains on the carpets, walls, and inexplicably, the ceiling. In the corner of the living room is a makeshift couch of milk crates and plywood. On the couch there are two people, my sister and a former inmate. They are talking about recent events wherein I have been the bigger person and tried to make amends for the shit they have done to my family. As they converse, laughter erupts...

"HAHAHAHA! What a fucking pussy! He's so stupid!"

"Oh, no shit! He's never been very smart, but he thinks he is. How damn dumb can you get? He actually apologized! What a dumbass!"

And on and on the scene goes, ad nauseum, until the two people collapse from exhaustion and drug overuse. All the while, the infant child lay in a pile of his own shit, crying in the corner unnoticed. Slowly the child dies.

While I want to fix things I do not want the above scenario to play out, and I know for a fact that is how it would go. That alone would in turn make me want to kill someone al over again. In being the bigger person, I would be ridiculed and that does not sit well with me...ever. Secondly, because I know my sister so well, even if I were to get her to agree to speak to me and hammer things out, the conversation would be non-existent; it would be more of a monologue because I know everything she will/would/could say.

I am her own personal Jesus. I know what she is going to do, think, or say before she does. So really, there is no point in talking to her. I know what her counter arguments would be to anything I say, I know how to parry them back in her face and prove her wrong over and over and over, I know exactly what button to push to make her speak or shut up. It would be fairly one-sided, almost unfair to speak to her because I would already have heard everything.

Did I just talk myself out of doing what I started off saying I was thinking of doing? Maybe, I don't know.

28 July 2011

Why Language is Important

I present to you, dear avid non-reader, a challenging decryption puzzle that will soon be the future of human communication. I will give you only the first six words of the remainder of the post below and it will be up to you to decipher what I am saying. Hopefully you will be right and get the joke, let me know in the comments what you think it is. I will post tomorrow the correct answer. Ready?.....Set......Go!

Oh, hi! I was talking with S1 2D & T W O T P T S1 E U T I T S C L. & W I A B A 2 A S M B B S L, I A H T S. O S, I H U I B O I S T A S & B M S T. I Y A 2 L 2 W O W Y W 2 S P J C T F P, P I O S, & L T P D & T! H P I I T W H B D L 2 A A & A BC T O F W L "HI" O "OK" O "YOU" I J S D T O O L? W N J T I L & N, T I T L A O E R. O T E B I P Y A J S, W H W Y E A T P?.....T A A G!! (L L S W B)


UPDATE:
As promised, albeit a day later than stated, here is the actual meaning behind the cryptic letter/number jumble....
Oh, hi! I was talking with someone today and they were on their phone texting someone else using that insufferable text speak coded language. And while I applaude being able to accomplish so much by being so lazy, I absolutely hate that shit. Oh sure, I have used it but only in situations that are sarcastic and blatantly mocking such things. If you are too lazy to write out what you want to say properly just call the fucking person, put it on speaker, and lay the phone down and talk! How pathetic is it that we have boiled down language to asinine acronyms and abbreviations because typing out full words like "hi" or "ok" or "you" is jsut so damn taxing on our lives? Why not just talk in letters and numbers, that is the least amount of effort required. Okay, that's enough but I promised you a joke so, what do you get when you eat all the potatoes?.....They are all gone! (like language soon will be)

27 July 2011

Ye Age Olde Debate

I was talking with someone the other day who was watching a program about intelligent design on TV. And they began to beat me with their incredulousness at how insane it was that intelligent design was being black listed by the scientific community. Which got me to thinking about science (read: atheism (I know it's not that simple but for sake of this post it is)) and religion, and what my thoughts are.

I think religion is interesting. Not in a fanatical fundamentalist sort of way, I just mean that there are things about religion as an idea that I find interesting; much the manner in which I think of science. There is a certain <je ne sais quoi> about religion as an entity that fascinates me. Having said that, this is not going to be one of those diatribes on religion, tearing it down or building it up, I rather hope it does not become such; I care little for debate but enjoy inspiring them. Right, on we go.

Like many people, particularly in Bible Belt USA, I grew up in a deeply devout, oh fuck it - I grew up around religion. My mother was a Catholic turned Methodist from the union to my father, I presume he was also a Methodist at the time...or maybe that came later, who's to say, I wasn't born so I don't know. And like many good children, from an early age I bucked at the trend. The only reason, besides having no free will, that I went to church was for story time and crackers. And then later on whence I became an adolescent, the ski trips and cute girls. All the while, I was being told these accounts and stories and how to act like Christ, and it sounded nice...in theory.

Fast forward in my development, or we could be here for a decade easily ===>===>===>===>===>===>===>epilepsy===>===>seizure===>===>seizure===>===>seizure
===>===>tennis===>tennis===>tennis===>skiing===>tennis===>tennis===>tennis===>choir
===>===>===>===>graduation===>SUMMER===>===>surgery===>===>===>college.

College was an interesting time, religiously speaking, as I had begun dating a girl who was deeply dedicated to the deity. And though I was not quite as religiously inclinated, like many others, I faked it. What the hell, I figured, try to share a common interest, blah blah blah. And though I had grown up in a religious home, I never felt that strongly so I went through the motions like a good Christian is supposed to in order that those around me would be impressed and marvel at my religiositude (my word, you can't have it). Unfortunately, that brilliant plan backfired and the girl, now fully entrenched in a sorority dedicated to the Son, started forcing blame upon me for things I did that she didn't think lined up with the version of the Bible playing in her (and her sorority's) head. Among these things were:

Look at a girl that's not her - go to hell. Say a "cuss" word - go to hell. Stay up past midnight - go to hell. Skip a class - go to hell. Make a hilarious innuendo - go to hell. Inappropriately hug her from behind - go to hell. Fall asleep or talk during church functions, including informal dinners sponsored by the church - go to hell. Speak to a member of a different ethnicity - Okay, not really but it wouldn't have surprised me. Do laundry in the nude - go to hell. Breath loudly - go to hell. Drink a beer - go to HELL! Masturbate because she won't do it for me - BURN LIKE A HEATHEN! (in HELL!)

I say all of that to say this. Insomuch as I think religion can be a good thing for people, it can also become a crutch to lean on or a way to lay blame on others for being different from you. People need to believe in something, it's just a part of the nature of humanity that's why we love Santa Claus as children. We try to assign everything to a box, neatly labeled and placed on a shelf. If we do not understand something or cannot explain something, we get scared. Thus religion gives people an out, a way to cope with the unfathomable nature of the world; unfathomable, of course, in that because it does not prescribe to the box we think it belongs to, we ostracize and shun the non-believer.

Along that line, I have always noticed a certain tendency of those who claim to be religious to be incredibly hypocritical. I do not mean the entire group, but just some of the herd. It astonishes me that people that want to be like Christ often are the worst type of people outside of the church building. As a former hypocrite myself, I can instantly recognize this quality. And sure, there are those who are truly Christ-like and that's wonderful, I appreciate and love them with my whole heart. But a few bad apples...well, you know. The hypocrites that are my favorite are the ones that know they are hypocritical and will still get shit-face drunk, fuck anything with a slit, and then try to pass themselves off as righteous anytime they are in public or at least around their religious "friends."

By now, if you are reading this far down, you are probably thinking "Hmmm, sounds like you don't believe in God." And if you're a Christian, you're also thinking "You're gonna BURN IN HELL!!" If you're not, you might be applauding my thoughts (I doubt it). Both groups would be wrong, though.

Every coin has two sides, and as such, strict atheists are just as horrible at representing what they believe. In my experience, atheists are often the loudest, most obnoxious human beings on the planet. They many times brow beat you worse than Christians with their beliefs. The passion they display while vehemently defending Darwinism, evolution, and the big bang as being the only explanation is overwhelming and alarmingly similar to religious zealots.
(Aside: It intrigues me when I speak to an atheist friend of mine because he always claims that his belief in the non-belief of God is far more intelligent than that of any "small-minded Christian." How do I tell him that in order to have disbelief in something it has to be experienced as tangible and concretely real?)

So, with that in mind, here is where I am. I hate religion, but it is interesting to me as a sociology experiment. However, I do, in fact, believe that there is a God. God is not dependent upon your ability to be religious, religion has nothing to do with God. He doesn't give a shit if you do as much as you possibly can inside a church; a church is just a symbol; a gathering place; it has no real meaning or ability to make you closer to God; it is just a builiding of mortar and bricks. The relationship you build between yourself and God is the vital part; without that how will relate to other human beings in a way that would make them question you? And questions hold the key to explanation and the sharing of a relationship with God, which incidentally is something God wants people to do.

Moving on....Atheism is as ignorant as it gets, but every point needs a counterpoint, thus atheism. Do I really believe that a floating piece of bacteria swum around to the point of getting bored and mutating itself into a frog into a fish into a lizard into bird into a monkey into a man? Hardly. If that held true, then by god, I would become a flying brain. I do not believe in evolution, but not because I believe in God. Evolution is the theory that all life is the offspring of one amoeba in a pond somewhere, and that's fucking stupid. However, I do believe, thanks to observable proof, that speciation, a form of evolution within a certain species of being, exists. Some would call it adaptation, but speciation is not adaptation. Adaptation is the bastard cast-off of evolutionary theory in which the strongest survive, the weak die. Speciation is the evolution of a species to continue its existence and even the dumb fucks survive (case in point my sister's baby daddy).

Do I think that creation is infantile, not infinite and ancient? No. To deny what I can see with my own eyes in the way of trillions of stars, billions of galaxies, and millions of incredibly complex and expanding cosmic events would be stupid. What I do think, is that both religion and science/atheism are right on the creation of the known universe. Religion says the universe was created in seven days. Okay. Science says the earth and everything else is millions of years old thanks to carbon dating. Okay. I accept both of these as true because of one simple, immutable fact: TIME. Time is not absolute nor definitive. Time is a creation of man to constrain his fellow brethren and give order to the chaos that is the universe. Time breaks down the events, places, and people of the known universe into neat little chunks so that man, the highest speciated being in existence (as we know it), can comprehend all that lay before us.

Simple, right?

22 July 2011

I Am An Asshole...So What?

As many of you, the dedicated and avid non-readers of my blog that you are, may know from previous posts, my "sister" recently brought forth life on this planet. For those that don't know, I refer you to the following previous posts, Undesirable and Conflict of Interest for full back story (if you care about such things). Anyway, the child is, for all practical purposes, decently cute. I wouldn't say that I love the bugger, mostly because I have only seen him a handful of times due to my sister's domestic incarceration enforced by her "boyfriend," but I can't hold anything against the defenseless child.

Well according to my parental units, the poor kid has been having some sort of intestinal distress for the past few months. Sucks for him. I have postulated on many occasions that the reason for this is because he can sense that his "home" is full of nothing but distrustful, hateful, lesions on society who do nothing but bicker, fight, and ignore that they have created nothing but turmoil in this lifetime; children can sense that sort of thing so it's not that much of a stretch. So, the poor child has been unable to stomach formula and the like and even when he does keep it, he then becomes incredibly constipated (according to my mother).

So the other day I was perusing ye olde Facebook, as we have all been conditioned to do now, and came across a post on my wall from said "sister." She had apparently done something responsible and actually taken her child to the doctor to find the source of his turmoil. The doctor has come to the conclusion that the child has a milk protein allergy. Hooray, right? The cause has been found! Let us all rejoice in the streets, singing songs of praise to the doctor and dancing 'round the maypole!

Nah.

While I am glad that the child has been tended to as best can be by taking him to a doctor, and that some reason has been given for his plight, I fail to understand why this should be a cause for happiness. Granted now that this information is out there, steps can be taken to prevent the child from contacting milk thus eliminating his troublesome bowels. But part of me doubts that this is the true cause of his ailing.

Allergies can develop seemingly out of the blue, this is true. However, for one to be susceptible to the effects of allergens, there must be a deeper root cause. Not only that, but based upon my own, somewhat limited, knowledge of anatomy and biology, the allergy could merely have served as the trigger for a more serious ailment. My money, what little I would wager, is on that the child suffers from a disruption of his peristaltic musculature as result of having been prematurely birthed, and the allergy simply agitated this and now takes the blame.

Of course this is a stretch, but not all together unlikely, especially because the true root cause for all his turmoils is the following: inferior genetic design.

Now, before you get all huffy and start thinking I am one of those crazy "pure blood, super race" people, I am not. However, it just makes sense that any offspring from a deficient genetic pool will not only have the same defects, but will, thanks to evolutionary speciation, introduce new defects into the population. And seeing as how my sister's child (unwillingly my nephew), is not the eldest child of this unholy union but the sixth such donation from the deficient sperm donor, the idea that the sperm used to conceive was incredibly inferior and broken is not far off.

Survival of the fittest, the greatest ideation of evolutionary thought, states that all who do not adapt or are not capable of being the best will die. Therefore, the sperm used to create my sister's child was one of those left behind on several occasions because it was slow, stupid, or forgot to move forward the previous five times. Admittedly, this could have been a calculated move by that sperm to wait until the time was right where he would be the most superior of the deficient sperms still locked away in the testicle staging area. Whereby he would then be the most superior of the least intelligently designed and broken sperms reserves. Leading us to where we are now, with a poor innocent child who is genetically defunct because of repeated offenses by a negligent criminal rapist.

That poor kid had better be a sports god or he has no hope in life.