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 |   The only blog that will put hair on your chest... |
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** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Turning from the Dark Side ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** < This is where I'll insert a cool new blog description. Someday. > |
| Only four more days, folks. Then it's off to the 2006 Writing.com convention. For those who offered up their prayers, thoughts and encouragement, and for a certain asshole who thought I was using my mom's illness as a excuse to not face him, my mom is doing well and her surgery is scheduled for August. The cancer scare is a thing of the past as well at this point. So that means convention is definitely going to happen. I'm sure I'll enjoy the convention, but I'm also looking forward to the aftermath. I'll have journal entries to read and write, stories to swap, and teasing to do. I'll also get to see how badly the other analyst screws up at work while I'm gone. That'll be fun too. I'm almost looking forward to the recounting of the events more than the actual events themselves. I doubt I'll post anything during my time away, though I do intend to bring my laptop. More likely I'll be using my Writing.com notepad to jot down anything especially juicy. I'm like a girl when it comes to gossip, and I'm like a tabloid when it comes to journaling. Therefore, don't expect me to hold anything back. I'll bet my life savings I come up with the most entertaining journal entry after it's all said and done. Will it be the best? No. Will it be the most well written? Not even close. Will it be the funniest? Maybe, maybe not. But it will entertain you, in a sick "I know he's giving way too much information" kind of way. Half of it will be honest with blatant disregard for tact. Half of it will be sheer fabrication and/or exaggeration in the name of bullshit art. Half of it will be laugh until you're wheezing hilarity. Yeah, I did the math; that's three halves, but my entries are half again as good as the next guy's anyway. (And in case you haven't noticed, I've decided to pat myself on the back even more since some people have decided to take me seriously.) I'm sure I'll have the coolest auction item, and Jodi will probably have to restrain me from bidding on it. I expect it to sell for like $5, or some other number that isn't a tenth of what I spent on it, mostly because no one has any sense. It's a hodge podge of Problematic Contents, items no one should ever be without. If you don't believe me, then suffice it to say that I am putting each and every one of these items on my next Christmas list. Alas, the one missing item is a copy of "The Safety Dance," but making a copy would be breaking the law, and we all know what a saintly do-gooder I am. I'll detail each of the problematic items and explain them here, so you can all realize what you missed out on. But not until after the auction is over. Jodi made her own masquerade ball mask, in her typical creative fashion. I was impressed with the results and thankful that something pretty came out of the $30+ we spent on plain white masks and bags of feathers. I told her she needs to make more and sell them out of the trunk of her car. Everyone knows the value of a feathery mask on the street could support a third world country. It's the principle of supply and demand. Since you can't have a handgun without a permit, I fully expect inner city gangs to make the move to black market masquerade masks. So when you convention attendees decide to bid on SMs's extravagant masquerade masks, just remember we're selling extras all covert like. I need to recoup some of my loss, so I might even make some myself. You'll recognize my creations pretty easily. Just look for the mass of multi-hued feathers throw together with no particular pattern. You might have to cut the eye holes back out though. And trim off some of the gobs from the hot glue gun. Don't worry though; if it starts to fall apart, I'll have the hot glue on my person. And maybe a stapler. I find that the shotgun approach works best with both those utensils, and I love my buckshot. I'll have the coolest masquerade mask though. No feathers or anything resembling artsy fartsy. Just a plain, albeit perfect, masquerade mask. Move over, phantom of the opera, wait till you get a load of me! I actually may wear multiple masks, but I guarantee the first one will be problematic to say the least. Just you wait. I'm not dressing up though. My superhero cape is at the cleaners, and my tyrannical despot military uniform has cat piss on it. Likewise, I'm keeping my zombie slaying regalia in my room in preparation for the outbreak. I won't be the most well-dressed man in attendance, far from it, but I will be the... uh... most... uh... something superlative. Aren't I always superlative? Or was that superfluous? No matter. I almost envy you who can't come. I say almost because there's only a few of you who read this that aren't going that I can stomach anyway. The rest are hate readers, so it doesn't really matter. But for those of you who are attending and are suddenly apprehensive about meeting me and whatever I may have in store, I leave you with a quotation I fully relate to. "I am prepared to meet my Maker. Whether my Maker is prepared for the great ordeal of meeting me is another matter. " - Sir Winston Churchill |
| All good pirates will do anything imaginable for a buck, and Disney has mastered the art of pirating. Don't believe me? Just go watch the "ending" to "Pirates of the Carribean: Dead Man's Chest." Now I'm fairly certain I misspelled Carribean, but I'm so pissed at this movie that I could not care less. Lots of people have written about the movie but never more than to simply say it was great. No spoilers or hints. Well, you should know I'm not that polite. I once told one of my best friends that in the end of the fantasy book he was reading the main character died. Why would I ruin it for him, you ask? Because he was reading too damn slow, and I had no one with whom to discuss it. So if you'd rather not knowing anything about this box office monster, you might want to skip this entry. I won't spoil much though. Notice I said "much?" "Pirates..." was an awesome movie. For the most part anyway. The sudden romance between Jack Sparrow and Elizabeth was a little contrived and sometimes downright confusing. It reminded me of the gay tones of the Maverick/Ice Man relationship in "Top Gun." Of course this wasn't two ambiguously gay men. Plus Johnny Depp has some talent. Actually, now that I think of it, it didn't remind me of that homoerotic relationship at all. I mostly just mention that because it's the most mind-boggling thing I've ever seen in a movie. Did Val Kilmer have the hots for Tom Cruise or was that all in my head? Uh oh, I'm rambling again. At this rate I'll never get to the end of this little entry. I'll have to make it a "to be continued..." and leave my readers with a shocking cameo of sorts. Oh wait, that's exactly what this movie did! The plot was great throughout, and Davy Jones is most assuredly the best antagonist to hit the big screen this year. I definitely don't want to ever see a guy's tentacle, but I was able to fixate on that bulbous and inexplicable growth on the back of Davy's neck. Some cool British guy plays him. I think. I read that in someone's blog somwhere, and I'm too disinterested to verify that. Anyway, he did a good job, ruthless and exceedingly clever. Love that. Depp was good again, of course, even if he is a girly, French sympathizer. Actually I generally like him in anything where he isn't pasty pale or sporting bangs and girly hands that make me question the amount of estrogen his body his pumping. Yup, he wasn't the girliest man in this flick. That goes to Orlando Bloom, but everyone already knows he's light in the loafers. Hmmm, you're probably starting to think I have something against gay people by now. Actually I don't. The only gay people I hate are the dirty hippies ones. The kraken was awesome, not surprisingly. I won't bore my readers with the details, but the beast's last appearance is a combination of terrifying, comical, and surreal. (Kraken drool is surprisingly not that different from Zeus shaking his head and splattering the walls and television screen.) Come to think of it, that describes most the scenes in the movie. This sequel included as much humor as the first and at the most peculiar times. Yet somehow it did not diminish the believability of the plot. Not that willingly suspending disbelief can exceed the acceptance of a kraken, a squid-faced cursed pirate, and an undead monkey too much. Speaking of which, the undead monkey is pretty much the neatest animal I've ever seen in a movie. Kudos to whoever thought that one up. Seriously, all we needed was the zombies. So, yeah, I was loving the movie. And then the kraken went and ate Jack Sparrow... Whoops! Did I just ruin the movie? I'm very sorry. Look at it like this though: I just saved you $8 for a ticket, $7 for that breadbox-sized tub of stale popcorn, and $5 for an oversized coke that'll make you piss all night long. Trust me on this; you can wait until movie number three comes out and buy the second and third in a boxed set. They should have been released as a single movie anyway. So yeah, the kraken ate Jack Sparrow. Will Turner, Elizabeth, and company took refuge with the witchy woman, and not the sort from the Eagles song. Davy Jones found out his locked up heart is still missing. And the exiled commodore (or whatever he was) absconded with Davy's still beating heart and presented it to the East India Trading Company. To make a long story short, we end up with Jack Sparrow eroding in the stomach of the beast and Davy Jones at the mercy of the tyrannical leader of the East India Trading Company. Basically the bad guys win. Disney makes movies with happy endings. Everyone knows that. It's their friggin' MO. So why do the bad guys win then? That's easy: more moolah. In the first weekend, "Pirates..." grossed a record $103 million (or was it $130 million). Since Snow White style animation has long since been replaced by all these computer animated flicks, Disney's short on blockbusters. They hit the mother lode with this one. Disney might do everything better than anyone else, but they also know how to cash in. So when the bad guys win, that means everyone's coming back for sequel #2 to see how the good guys turn it back around. Sure enough, the witch with really bad teeth and a penchant for the bayou lets Sparrow's comrades know there is a way to save him. Apparently not even stomach acid and more teeth than a wood chipper is enough to keep ol' Jack Sparrow swimming with the fishes... er... digested fishes. But they'll need a new captain, and she knows just the guy. I honestly don't remember his name, but he's the antagonist from the first movie! He appears at the very end and proclaims "What's going on with me Black Pearl?" or something all piratey like that and the screen goes black. Ummmm, correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't this guy die at the end of the first one? Didn't he turn back into a mortal just as Sparrow's bullet pierced his heart? Didn't we all watch him die? I haven't seen the movie in a while, so maybe I'm wrong. Please correct me if I am. But if he died, that means Disney concocted some lameass explanation for how he comes back to rescue his mortal enemy Jack Sparrow and end the threat of Davy Jones. Of course we won't get to see any of this until we fork over our hard earned cash whenever movie #3 comes out. Way to sell out and cash in a blockbuster, Disney. The fact is I don't mind chipping in the extra cash to see the next sequel. The movie is good enough to pay double. What pisses me off is I'll have to wait at least a whole freakin' year just to see how it ends. It's a multi-year cliffhanger. By the time the next one comes out, I will have stopped caring. Why does Hollywood do this to us? Oh yeah, for money... And one more thing... what the hell is a "pirate" movie without at least a half dozen "Arrrrrrs"?! |
I had an entry planned about superheroes, but Zoo - Salted and Roasted  went and stole my thunder. I'm sure he's absolutely thrilled to think he and I have similar brain patterns. Maybe I'll write the superhero entry tomorrow anyway, since I was going to turn it into a blog game, but for now I'll focus on something else. If I can't be Batman, I'll be the Riddler. So then, dear readers, I pose a question, a puzzle, an enigma, a conundrum if you will.Unless you only read my blog during some ether-induced high or whilst smoking the wacky weed, you'll notice a fairly common trend in my blogging. My blog is roughly two parts silliness, two parts reader involvement, one part romantic sappiness, one part ironic musing, one part irate ranting, one part artistically enhanced anecdate (code for bullshit), and three parts conflict. novusfemina posted an interesting entry today: "Invalid Entry"  You perverts can ignore the title, because it's not what you think. And yes, I know some perverts read this. A pervert that didn't read my blog would have to be a little crazy or living under a rock. In any case, she rather accurately points out that most or all of the most popular blogs feature one of the following: sex, violence, or conflict.I fall into the last category. I'm rapidly becoming one of the most loved and hated Writing.com people around. And it's in large part thanks to this blog. The people who love me think I'm an entertaining and/or controversial riot, and the people that hate me... well, I don't know what exactly they think. Judging by the responses I come across as an arrogant, conceited, mean-spirited, outrageous, offensive, asshole. I guess that means my blog is a complete success. But seriously, people, did I mention that my blog is mostly just silliness and bullshit artistry? More than that even, it's just me being honest in the funniest way I can manage. Well, maybe it's not so funny to some, but I crack myself up, so why the hell wouldn't I keep it up? And according to plenty of others I'm funny, and my aundience has always come first. Pia Veleno wrote today "Oh, I admit it! I love reading the controversial entries. I still read Problematic's blog regularly." Everywhere I go I see people talking about me like I'm controversial. Friends like Pia even. I just don't get it. That's where the riddle comes in. When did being outrageously silly and writing down exactly what you're thinking become controversial? If being honest means you're controversial, does that mean everyone else is too chickenshit to write what they're thinking for fear of being controversial/offensive?I write silly stuff about poop, Chuck Norris, and zombie attacks. I write absurdly exaggerated and humorous tales about the freakish women at the mall. I give my opinion on anything and everything, openly and honestly. Apparently all that makes me controversial. And people love controversy. Some recognize it for what it is, and realize my own proclamation of controversy and supremacy is just a gag, while others truly do peg me for some offensive despot bent on demoralizing and corrupting the youth of America or something. (I almost just used the word "despotic," but then I wasn't sure if it was a real word. In which case I almost pulled a Bill Shakespeare and invented it, but I'm sure some literature majors would have taken extreme offense and named me in their journals.) haizey always writes exactly what she's thinking, just like I do. That's probably why she's one of the ones even more loved and more hated than me. Not surprisingly, her journals rank as some of the highest on the site. The difference between she and I is she just plain doesn't give a fuck. I admire that, and I respect her for it. Sometimes I try to be a diplomat and... ah, who the hell am I kidding? You write shit about me, and I'll write it back. She does it in a straightforward, probably more effective in-your-face sort of way. I turn it into a game and dance around it with funny jabs. Why you ask? Because this is my blog, and the sole purpose of my blog is to entertain my audience. If my audience thinks I'm controversial, then by all means I hope they enjoy it. I'll go on writing shit entries. I'll go on telling anecdotes that make some people piss their pants. I'll go giving my honest opinion about things I see and experience everywhere. And if you happen to be someone I've never met and you write something mean-spirited about me, I'll go on writing shit about you. No one has to read this blog. The fact that people who dislike me would read it, oftentimes multiple entries, and then go write something specifically about me is pretty reprehensible. But you're entitled to do exactly that, because a blog is all yours and freedom of speech rules the day. I even respect you for being honest and voicing your opinion. So if I'm writing offensive stuff in my blog and that makes me controversial, what does that make you for writing offensive stuff about me in your blog? Answer that riddle, bitches. Okay okay, I'm rambling. You all get the point. Next time you label me controversial, just stop and think a minute. Do I ever do anything but act silly and give my honest thoughts? Likewise, have you ever done anything "controversial?" By the way, notice all the ports I plugged in this entry? Holy cow! I apologize to all of you. You no doubt just earned yourselves a whole slew of new hate readers who might transfer their intense loathing of me onto you. Quick quick! In your next entries write about what a horrible prick I am! |
| Here's my boy! He turned one July 7, 2006. At one year old he weighs about 180-190 lbs. He's still got some growing to do. Invalid Photo #1003941 Invalid Photo #1003940 Invalid Photo #1003939 |
| Everybody knows how much I love hate readers right? They rack up my views and skyrocket my blog into celebrity status (as if that has any importance at all). At the same time they're mostly too gutless to leave any comments. That's just as well really because I hate having to point out that they're missing a couple personality traits, namely a sense of humor and an ability to spot the obvious. Anyone with half a brain in his or her head can tell that my blog is never to be taken seriously. Anyone can also tell that my so-called egotism is a feigned part of my schtick. Yes, I have a somewhat healthy ego, but if you believe half of the self-loving nonsense I spew in here for entertainment's sake, then you haven't really been paying attention. Just ask my fiancee how highly I think of myself. Ask her about all the times I cry because I think I'm gross and unworthy or untalented. Of course if you've bothered to read more than two entries in this blog you wouldn't have to ask her. In fact, it would be rather obvious. But that's the great thing about hate viewers; they only read one or two entries and form their opinions. After that, because they're so damn thick-headed, their opinions are unwavering. They continue to read just so they can go on hating me. I might write something that is not a joke and expose the real me, the guy that the sweetest woman in the world is engaged to, but they interpret that entry as the phony one. They have to go on hating me. I'm actually thankful for that though. Because whether you love me or hate me, my goal is to entertain. And if you're reading, that means you're entertained, even in some sort of sick, hate-filled way. Now if the hate viewers actually had an open mind about who I really am, they probably wouldn't hate me anymore. Instead they'd be offended by some of my stuff and just stop reading out of boredom or disagreement. But because they hate me, they have to go on reading. Which means my audience remains. That makes me happy. But what makes me really happy is what I discovered this morning! I love my loyal hate readers, but I never know who all of them are. Sure I know who some of them are, but I know I didn't get all these blog views strictly from known enemies. There must be some gutless cowards in the mix too. In fact, this morning I discovered who some of them are in another blog! Here's some quotations taken from the comments section of one of my hate readers. She's reading my blog now, and she wrote a wonderful entry about how I gave myself an awardicon! Here are some of my hate readers:  pencilsoverpens : Yeah, bug him till he breaks! Everybody has a breaking point, Zack  Uh oh! Looks like somebody wants to start harrassing me!  Scarlett  : Was it a GREEN ribbon by any chance?Ooh, didn't know she was reading my blog... Wolfedale : I wouldn't worry about that guy btw sounds like he has too much time on his hands.Finally someone with some common sense. Equilibrium : Mayabang kasi.I have no idea what that means, but it looks funny. David McClain : I know the blogger you speak of and you are right...he does fit the "jerk" mold... Anyway, I have read his blog and trust me, he ain't no messiah, except maybe to idiots.Ooh, the guy behind the Blogville News, or whatever it's called! I must be really famous. And though I'm certainly no messiah, apparently anyone who likes me is an idiot. I'm sure all of you friendly readers will be glad to know that David McClain thinks you are all idiots. Hey, wasn't that Bruce Willis's name in the Die Hard movies? Correct me if I'm wrong. Gaby ~ Keeper Of The Realm  : He's just jealous that he has no friends on this site.Ummmm... I think you need to read more of my blog...  Z.˚rz : ... Meh, just go read his entry. It was actually pretty funny, in a non-funny sort of way. Thank you faithful hate readers, and I'm glad to hear I've added some more to the mix. Stayed tune and I'm sure I'll do something very pompous, conceited, and outrageous that you can rant about within the next day or two.  |
| I'm bored, oh so bored, and I'm feeling a little insecure today to boot. Since I do love stroking my own ego so much, I figure I may as well fill the void by doing exactly that. Which brings me to the subject of this entry. Time for a game, ladies and gents. This time the idea is really simple: write about me! Sometime before this coming Monday write a journal or blog entry that somehow mentions me. Some ideas include a tribute to me, an anecdote (real or fictitious) about me, an entry inspired by me, a casual and/or witty reference to me, a brief mention of me and how I relate to your entry, a plug for my port or one of my items... The choices are limitless. Here's the rules:  Write the aforementioned entry before Monday, July 10th and post a link to the entry in this blog. The entry must link to my handle at least once. Anyone who completes this task will receive a variable GP gift depending on the content of the entry. The best entry will earn the writer a merit badge of my choosing. It's all about me; deal with it. |
| Since I'm on the subject of surviving a zombie attack, I should mention a dream I had a couple years ago. I thought it was the most kickass dream I've ever had, but apparently it's a possible reality with the ever-growing threat of a zombie outbreak. Maybe my dream will come to fruition. I always figured I had clairvoyant powers. In the dream, my family was hosting a family reunion at a house way up in the mountains. We spent 6 months living there in 2004, so I'm familiar with the mountainous terrain. Below the house are several large fields, and above the house is a forest that leads up to the top of the moutain. Below the fields are more mountains and forest, effectively leaving the house enclosed in woodland in the side of a mountain. Our reunion was underway in the fields when a milling mass of the living dead emerged from the forest and advanced on us. Our extended family literally began heading for the hills as my father and I took up arms and prepared to defend the family. For lack of firearms, which is somewhat ironic because my father always has guns in real life, I grabbed my katana and he grabbed an axe. We slowed the zombie parade by dispatching walking corpses along their front line. As their numbers overwhelmed us, we slipped to either side of their army and inflicted casualties on their sides and flank. We held them off long enough for the family to reach the pinnacle of the mountain. (Photos of this pinnacle can be found in my port.) But the zombies continued to advance. Soon, via sheer numbers, they made it to the pinnacle with my father and I continually taking chunks out of their ranks. The family, which numbered in the dozens, slipped back through the gaping holes we left in the zombie host and fled back to the fields. The undead turned and gave chase, and we once again harried them with our blades back down the slope. we cut them down, one after the other, but more kept appearing. When the nightmarish parade reached the bottom, the family ran back up the slope, and once again the zombies turned to give chase. We followed the zombie host up and down that slope an indeterminable amount of times, always dwindling their ranks with our cold steel. By slowing the zombie progess, we kept all our family members safe and even provided them some respite each time before changing direction once again. And then I woke up, still engaged in the heroic act of zombie slaying. My katana is ready for this dream to come true. I am ready for it to come true. |
| I'm sitting here bored at work while I wait for some coworkers to get some spreadsheets back to me. With no one around to talk to, my mind begins to race, and I go places I shouldn't go, both figuratively and literally. I try to tell myself that ignorance is bliss and I should stay within my own pocket of knowledge and happiness. But curiosity and insecurities always get the better of me. So now I'm sitting here contemplating life as I know it now. I'm reveling in the happiness I experience almost every day, but those demons of insecurity and worry creep up and make me wonder how long it can last. All things come to an end at some point, so how do I know mine won't? We've all been happy before, but that happiness precedes a length of unhappiness, followed by happiness of a different sort. I don't want a different sort; I want this. What makes my situation any different? Or our situation? Or anyone's situation? If history repeats itself, why should I put all my faith in my happiness now? What's different this time around? What's special about this particular form of happiness to convince me that it's more permanent? What must I do to sustain it? What if I can't do anything to sustain it? Wow, that's a lot of questions, for which I have none of the answers. My insides are a roiling mess of nerves and anxieties now, because simply contemplating losing this happiness I've found--nay, we've found-- threatens to rip my heart and soul out and tear them asunder. I try to live in the present, but my mind doesn't function that way. For all my fears, anxieties, and compulsions, none is more terrifying than losing the happiness that it's taken me my whole life to attain. When faced with that threat, it's possible, maybe even probable, that I won't be able to do a damned thing about it. And that's why right now I'm sitting here fighting back the tears. I know what my current happiness means to me, and I know I shall never forsake it or take it for granted. But that might not be enough. Whereas I enjoy my happiness, it may grow tired of me and move on. Fate or simple circumstances may decide I'm not worthy or something. What did I do to deserve this happiness? What makes me any more worthy than the next guy? Frankly, I can't answer that, and that's why I'm rubbing tears from my eyes to hide the emotion at work. This happiness might move on without me, and no amount of effort will keep it here. I can't bear that possibility, but I can't ignore it either. |
| When I was embroiled in mood indigo 's contest (and I use the word "embroiled" because it's the most accurate word to describe the mud-slinging into which it degenerated), I read all the journals in the contest. Maybe it was my competitive spirit wondering how I measured up, or maybe it was a curiosity of how many different ways people could respond to a prompt entry, or maybe it was just a need for further inspiration for my own entry. Some of the entries I quickly skimmed, probably most of them toward the end of the contest, but I always read enough to get the gist of an entry. During that time I realized some blogs and journals are just plain boring or too artsy, superficial, or elitist for my tastes. Now granted my blog is elitist, but anyone who takes that seriously is a doodoo head. Even a mentally handicapped armadillo could tell that I use mock elitism. That's not to say that I'm not elitist at all. To the contrary, I am in fact better than some people. That's just a healthy ego and recognition of truth. Almost everyone is better than someone. Except of course for the scum of the scum and Hillary Clinton. But the boastfulness and exaggeration and delusions of grandeur are pure fabrication with a two-fold purpose: some good yucks for those with a sense of humor and some witty barbs for those artists and religious zealots with ridged pine cones stuffed up their prissy asses. And yes, ridged pine cones stuffed up one's ass are an immense detriment to one's sense of humor and a booster to one's stuffiness. They are also extremely painful and generally result in an intense rectal itch. Just trust me on that one next time you want to shove a pine comb up your arse. (Wow, the British spelling is so much funnier in that instance.) Whoa, how did I get so far off track?! Oh yeah, because I'm bored at work, and I can't find any decent journals to read. After the contest I kept reading the journals for a bit. Eventually I dropped the vast majority of them because outside the context of the contest I discovered I'd rather lick spilt chocolate milk off my keyboard than fall asleep reading them. They are all still in my favorites, mostly because I'm too lazy to delete them. Actually not "mostly;" that's the only reason I haven't deleted them. Thanks to the contest I did find a couple more journals/blogs to add to my must read list, but in general it was an abysmal showing post-contest. During the first round of the contest, several bystanders read all the entries from all the contestants, and some even unofficially participated. Not surprisingly, my blog served as a launching off point for drawing further attention to the contest. As if my theory that controversy and unrest gets attention hadn't already been proven time and time again. Following in these bystanders's footsteps, I decided to follow the second round of the contest sans participation. And I just don't get it. It's boring. I started out reading all the prompts and responses to prompts. Now my only exposure to the contest comes in the form of people I'd read anyway that are competing. And even then once I've read three entries on something like "The Human Condition" I just skim the next one I see, even if it's written by one of my favorite journalers. I hate mindless repetition and uninspired redundancy almost as much as I hate hippies. (Can anyone identify the irony in that last sentence?) Of the new contestants I've only added two to my must read list, and they earned that spot outside the context of the contest. One actually writes funny, entertaining stuff in his blog, and the other is a zombie hunter in training. Actually there may be one or two more, but I don't remember who's in the contest anymore so I can't be sure. The point is though I can't understand why all those people were bystanders for the first round. I can see if they started reading all the entries and then just limited themselves to the interesting ones, but did they read all the mind-numbing entries too? What were they thinking? I don't get it. It's a great contest, and the most fun I've ever had on W.com, but unless you're participating it's the pits. It's like watching golf on TV. I bet playing golf is fun, but watching it on TV is like snorting Nyquil. Unless of course you're some kind of golf fanatic, in which case you've probably downed six cups of coffee by noon and have no prayer of falling asleep anyway. Isn't the real fun part of golf driving the golf cart into the sand pit anyway or waking up in a pool of vommit somewhere on the fairway? Maybe I just know the wrong kind of golfer. Kudos to shannon for creating the coolest contest on W.com, and shame on all your journalers for not entertaining me at work. |
| Game 1 of the 11-12 Year Old All-stars is behind us. The implications are two-fold and none of them good. We jumped ahead 1-0 in the top of the first, and our starting pitcher mowed down the opposing team's first three hitters with three strikeouts. Next inning he faced the minimum number of hitters, shutting the meat of their order down to a weak blooper. It was a good omen for the game, but we knew we'd need to score more runs. They tied it up somewhere in the middle of the game, but we jumped back ahead 2-1 the very next half inning on three consecutive singles. Many more times we had opportunities to score, but we invariably hit it somewhere in the vicinity of shortshop, which was a black hole for our hitters. Their big shortstop made great play after great play, at least twice turning hits into outs with a last ditch snag and cannon throw to first base. In the bottom of the sixth, which is the last inning in Little League baseball, we faced the top of their order. We tied up the leadoff hitter, and he grounded weakly to third. The ball was bobbled, and the tying run stood on first base. The second batter hit into a fielder's choice and advanced to second on a wild pitch. We jumped ahead of their number 3 hitter, but then he launched a ground rule double into right field, tying the game at 2 runs a piece. The monstrous cleanup hitter grounded to short, who checked the runner and threw to first. Our first baseman fired back across the diamond to pick off the runner from second trying to advance. The double play ended the inning, and we sent the top of our order out in extra innings. The heart of our order reached base once again but with two outs this time, and they were stranded on first and second. We sent our new pitcher to the mound in the bottom of the seventh to hold down the bottom of their order. He had hit in the top half of the inning and hadn't gotten to loosen up. It took him a few throws to gain his control, and he fell behind the hitter 2-1 and then 3-1. Though his best pitch is his slider, we had to go with the fastball in this count. He threw it above the belt, and the batter took him deep for a walk-off homerun. A heartbreaking way to lose such a well-played game. In a double elimination tournament, losing the first game is the last thing you want to do. Now we'll have to win something like half a dozen games in a row to advance. Not impossible, but not easy either. Despite knowing our chances of victory just sank from good to abysmal, that's not what makes me the most upset. Our next game is on Saturday now, instead of Friday. That means I can't go east with Jodi to visit her grandparents and aunt. Her grandfather is in the hospital, so now she's planning an impromptu visit, a visit that we had planned on making after convention. I'm stuck back in the Berkshires to coach a ballgame, while she'll be contending with city driving and virgin road by herself. I'll miss her and I'll worry sick about her. What's more, I still don't get to meet that cluster of her family. And worse yet, I don't get to be there for her while her grandfather is sick. Now that is heartbreaking. As important as baseball is to me, it's really just a game in the grand scheme of things. I wish things worked out differently, but I've made a commitment to these kids. |
| Friday I went to a vintage baseball game. That may or may not turn into a blog entry of its own considering the events that took place. It all depends on whether or not I can craft a story of our fellow spectators in a mirthful fashion. But that's not the subject of this entry. During the seventh inning I headed for the bathroom. I entered the grimy, public restroom under the stadium and picked the urinal on the right to do my duty. Grumblings off to my left caught my attention, and I glanced over. An elderly man in an electric wheelchair sat with his back to me, facing the wall perpendicular to the urinals. I couldn't be sure what he was doing, but then I saw his head come up, and he produced a plastic cup fill of what could only be urine. I guess I never stopped to wonder how men in wheelchairs used urinals. I assumed they just used the handicapped stall for both #1 and #2. But this guy was missing one leg, maybe two, so perhaps that wasn't an option. Anyway, he reached back towards the urinal to dump his urine cup in its proper receptacle. To my horror, and to his I'm sure, he dropped the cup prematurely. Part of it spilled on his sleeve and maybe his lap on its way down, and the cup hit the floor, spraying urine in a two or three foot radius in front of the urinal. "Ahhh shit," he exclaimed. It was at that point that it finally registered in my brain what was going on. He peed in a cup and now just spilled it on the floor and on himself. I didn't know what to do. What do you do? I felt really bad for the old boy, but I'm sure by the tone of the "ahhh, shit" that his pride would not have handled me helping him out. For that matter, what could I do to help? I certainly wasn't to help him use the bathroom. As bad as I felt, I wasn't a nurse. I finished up what I was doing as he backed his electric wheelchair out. He paused in the doorway for some reason, maybe to collect himself after just spilling pee everywhere, and that gave me time to wash my hands. I followed him out, at a distance that wouldn't draw attention. I'm sure he was embarrassed quite enough without my help. Never mind the young boy who also witnessed it and followed him out the door. So what would you all do in that situation? I bet you'd be like me and pretend you never saw it. |
| No word on my mom's test results. Today marks 9 business days, and she hasn't heard anything. We're choosing to take that as a good sign, because bad results would have hopefully made it to us by now. The medical profession tends to take its sweet ass time when not facing imminent danger. Since they're apparently in no hurry, we hopefully assume that everything is going to be okay. Now it's just a waiting game while my mom gets her blood levels back up in preparation for the surgery. Hopefully I didn't just jinx it. |
| This is my tenth consecutive year coaching some level of youth baseball and my twelth consecutive year helping out in some capacity. Every year for the last 4 years or so I've reached a point during the season in which I decide it will be my last year coaching. Some of the fire dies, and despite the ever increasing attachment to the kids, I start to value my free time more than my time spent on the field. I've especially been feeling that towards the end of this season, because now I have a fiancee waiting at home and all the responsibilities of a grown, independent man. The time and money I contribute to coaching just doesn't seem worth it much lately. Last year was the closest I've ever come to retiring from coaching. Last fall my father and I decided we were done, and early this spring we packed all the equipment in my van and planned to turn it in at the first meeting of the year. The day of the meeting, as I was driving home from work, I decided I wasn't ready to leave just yet. I wasn't ready to say goodbye to the kids. I called my father and suggested one last hurrah. He said he couldn't do it, and I didn't argue the point. Moments later he called back, and we decided to stay on another year. We just can't get away from it. He's already decided he's staying on next year. As the season wound down this year and I began to sense Jodi's displeasure that I'm busy most nights, interest started to wane again. I started coaching an all-star team that doesn't hold the same appeal for me as past all-star teams. I think it's because if we win the district championships, I have to skip the sectionals tournament because it coincides with convention. If it comes down to that, it'll break my heart. Part of me is secretly rooting for the team to not win the district tournament so I won't have to miss anything. Of course I want them to win though, and of course I'll do everything I can to make that happen. I just wish the timing was a little bit different. So as I contemplate whether or not I should hang it up, some kid puts his hooks into me. He's been on our regular season team three years, after I chose him as our first overall pick. Now we've added him to this all-star team. He's not close to being the best player on that team and he's actually the youngest, but he's one of the best compared to the players we had left to choose from. We picked him because we were confident he would get around on the fast pitching we're likely to see. Being that he's a part-time player, a pinch hit here and there will be a huge contribution. I always secretly root for him more than a lot of the other kids, because this is the kid I invested in, this is the one I took a chance on twice. Since coaching with my father, I've made a few of our first round draft picks, and I've always taken a special interest in those kids because they reflect back on me and because I saw potential in them. This is especially true when I talk my father into picking a kid he may not have otherwise. It started 8 years ago when I convinced him to take a chance on a kid he really didn't want. The player went on to have the highest career batting average in the history of our team and was the only pitcher we've ever had to go undefeated for his career. But back to the player at hand. He's a singles hitter, and might eek out a double now and again. He's a puny kid, second smallest on the team, and we expect him to amass some low line drives and hard grounders that scoot through the infield. If he gets it in the air, we're expecting a pop-out or a bloop single. But in an exhibition game Friday night he shocked us all. With two on, two outs, and two strikes on him, facing a pitcher twice his size, he belted a line drive into deep left center that carried all the way over the wall for a three run bomb. He pumped his fists, raised his arms, and got mobbed by his team at home plate. For a second he disappeared in the throng, as they mostly all stood head and shoulders above him. My heart raced for a second as I remembered why I coached. Watching a new kid make his first catch, watching someone get their first hit, watching the smallest guy drive one to the fence, watching them grin when they know they've succeeded... those are the moments that make every minute worth it. One hitter later he walked back to my end of the dugout and said, "Ernie, I just hit a homerun!" He still couldn't quite believe it. It didn't take long before it settled in though. Then he realized if the speedy runner on third hadn't scored on a wild pitch during his at bat it would have been a grand slam. He was a little pissed about that, though it never diminished his grin. Then, in typical team clown fashion, because that is his first and foremost role, he explained that the lifesavers he had just eaten were laced with steroids. (I plan on bringing those lifesavers to every game now.) After the game, my father treated the team to pizza, and the hero of the night sat in the corner with all our sluggers exchanging home run tales like he had been chasing Hank Aaron all season long. He had never hit a homerun before, and he probably won't again, but for one night he was king of the world. And that is why I coach. |
| I've been scoping out a lot of blogs lately, and I've noticed an apalling trend. There are a few Writing.com members, one in particular, that goes around bestowing blogs with rather expensive and impressive awardicons. That in itself is not alarming, but the quality of the awarded blogs is. The majority of these blogs are mind-numbingly boring. Every entry is a minute by minute retelling of their boring, uneventful, perfectly ordinary day. If that's excellent blogging, then I must be a freakin' blogging messiah. My blog is utter crap. I write inane entries for shits and giggles. I write to entertain my readers and piss of my naysayers. I don't bore my readers with day to day bullshit. In fact, just yesterday I cruised my blog and deleted all the boring entries that might have remotely fallen into that category. Does anyone really found that entertaining? Let's find out, shall we? This morning I got up at 5:00AM. I showered, which was nice, and then I went back to bed and cuddled with my sweetheart for 40 minutes.  I got up again at 5:50. I hate getting up so early. I wish I didn't have to. I wish I could just sleep in now and again. Maybe I will this weekend. That would be really nice. Maybe Jodi and I will make omelettes or something.  I got to work at 6:50AM. Traffic was light this morning, so that made me smile. The air conditioning isn't on at the office yet though. Grrrr. That happens every morning. I'm so mad I could... I could... I could frown!  I think you get the picture. People are actually awarding journals that write stuff like that! Is that really good writing? Well, mechanically it's mostly sound, though I tend to not consider baby talk and netspeak to be good writing. Maybe I'm a blog snob or something. Maybe I just need to mix in more smileys and internetisms like LOL and BTW. Better yet I'll just copy and paste my IM conversations right into my blog. Whether it's good writing is debateable I suppose. But the bottom line is this: it's so fucking boring! Why are we awarding things that literally lower our IQs just by reading them? Why are we encouraging aspiring authors to write things no one would ever dream of paying to read? Why do we put the most boring blogs up on some awarded pedestal? Oh, I remember now, because those bloggers are our friends, and we must demean and cheapen the value of awardicons by undeservingly heaping them upon our friends. That's the only viable reason, if you can even call it that. Well, I don't think I have a great blog and certainly not the best, but I know mine is a hell of a lot better than many of the awarded blogs. I had a nice little ribbon presented to me by one of my readers, and I was honored, but I see that the most boring blogs in the world have way cooler ribbons. If some of those blogs are really deserving of those cool ribbons, then by comparison I must have the best blog in the universe. That's why I just bought myself a fancy new ribbon. I would have called it "The Best Damn Blog in the Universe" but that's not e-rated, so "Best Blog in the Universe" it is. I don't deserve it any more than some of these blogging/journaling robots do, but I'll display mine as proudly as theirs. Because I can. And because it's purty. I'm just doing my civic duty of cheapening the merit of an awardicon. |
| Given my rather prominent reputation as a zombie slayer, people are always asking me what to do in the face of a full-scale zombie attack. I, personally, have always taken a rather proactive approach to the zombie threat. That's why I bought that katana a couple years ago. Trained in firearms as a small child, I know the ins and outs of rifles and shotguns. They both have advantages and disadvantages in zombie warfare, but nothing quite beats a katana. I've been on the frontlines decapitating undead heads for the last couple years, keeping the populace safe from zombie overpopulation. But whereas the zombie population is holding steady, the zombie slayer population is slowing taking a hit. We lose a few slayers each year, and the vampire slaying ranks are stealing all our potential recruits. Hollywood has sensationalized vampire slaying thanks to shows like Buffy the Vampire Slayer. They're ignoring the imminent threat of a full-scale zombie attack. I can't debrief everyone on what it takes to be a slayer of all things somnabulist. And yes, I do mean all things. Who's to say the sleepwalking granny with the cranberry red mustache wasn't actually an undead ghoul feasting on her grandchildren? You can bet your ass we won't have to worry about her jumping up from her knitting to eat her grandson's brain anytime soon. I'll tell you rule #1 of zombie slaying: Decapitate first, look for decaying tissue later. Being a slayer isn't easy. In fact, we tend to discourage the populace from persuing a slaying career. Getting in close quarters with zombies is just asking for a zombie bite, which of course means fatality, followed by immediate reanimation as the next undead soldier. Therefore, it's best to leave the zombie slaying to trained professionals like myself. No, I will not teach you to be a slayer. (And please do quit asking me why I rule so much.) No, I will not teach you katana techniques or how to make a zombie's head explode at 200 yards, but I will advise you to be prepared. In the event of a Class III zombie attack, or even a heavy Class II, you may all get up close and personal with a flesh-hungry ghoul incased in the shell of your Aunt Matilda's rotting corpse. That's when you take what you've learned, spit in her eye, chop her head off, and yell "Pinch these cheeks, bitch!" The best bet for preparing yourself for a zombie attack is getting the right literature. Here's a useful link: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/071563318X/sr=8-2/qid=1149186973/ref=pd_bbs_2/0... Don't worry, I taught Max everything he knows about surviving a zombie attack. I didn't teach him everything I know though, because I never liked him much. I don't think he every took zombie survival serious enough. And now, because I'm a benevolent mentor, and because I want to encourage my disciples to prepare themselves for the omnipresent zombie threat, I'm going to host a mini essay contest. In 2500 words or less, because that's how many you can put in a blog comment, describe your role in a full-scale zombie attack. What actions would you take? How would you protect yourself and/or your family? If you joined the zombie resistance, what role do you think you'd have? What preparations have you made for zombie survival? In short, what would you do to survive a Class III zombie invasion? I'll award the best answer a merit badge. And if the response is good enough, I may even take you under my wing as a new slayer trainee. |
| Though I once in a while write something of hysterical brilliance, never could I achieve this level of genius: http://www.whiteninjacomics.com/comics/kindergarten.shtml http://www.whiteninjacomics.com/comics/peed.shtml http://www.whiteninjacomics.com/comics/sweet.shtml |
| Every writer has aspirations, dreams that seem practically out of reach, and sometimes those dreams come to fruition. Today I realized I've finally made it as a writer. Or at least a blogger. Now granted I think my skills are mediocre at best, and in truth I have no writing aspirations whatsoever, but I've come to realize that I can really and truly spin a yarn. My entries touch people in profound ways, ways so profound that it also inspires them to touch each other, quite literally. Today, elizm446 mentioned that she had been discussing my blog with another young woman. That was nothing noteworthy considering people everywhere, both friends and foes, are often discussing my blog and usually commenting on the sheer audacity of it. But when mentioning a particular topic of my blog, elizm446 pointed out that "she mentioned it last night ... when we were lying in bed together in the afterglow of our intense love-making." There you have it people, chitchat about my blog is fodder for post-sex conversation. I can sort of imagine them lying there, smoking a cigarette as they comment on their favorite poop entries and the skill with which I describe the most mundane things. *shivers* Actually, let's not imagine Mia post-sex, or even pre-sex for that matter. Let's just stick to something more appetizing, like more of my poop entries. I knew my blog was erotic and all that, but I had no idea it inspires lesbian sex. That tidbit alone really and truly puts me on the blogging map, right there next to online porn. I should start charging a small fee to read my entries. It would be like selling an aphrodisiac. I stroke my own ego often enough, but I really have no confidence in my writing. In fact I'm pretty self-deprecating when it comes to that lone facet of my existence. But now I have all the blogging confidence I need. You know you've finally made it as a writer and an icon when your words inspire hot girl on girl action. Hell, even if it inspired two female truck drivers to get it on in the cab of their big rig, I'd be proud of myself. I'd gouge my eyes out and stick pins in my forehead, but I'd be proud. But two young bi-curious ladies writhing around with each other, all sweaty and moaning as they contemplate my tales of circus freaks... Doesn't that deserve a Nobel Prize or something? A few questions though, Mia. Do you snuggle when commenting on my flair for the dramatic? Do you recite Chuck Norris facts whilst performing orally? Do you ever scream fart jokes whilst in the throes of climaxing? Seriously now, I'm curious. |
| I'm falling asleep at work, quite literally, and I haven't had anything to blog about today. Luckily my lunch break at the mall gave me fresh fodder. Now what I'm about to describe will no doubt shock and awe. You'll have to overcome your misgivings about how shallow and insensitive this is for a few minutes in order appreciate its true beauty, or rather lack thereof. Standing in line at the pizza joint in the mall foodcourt, I happened to look over my shoulder and observe a monstrosity walking past that nearly made me lose my appetite. Now granted there are ugly people in this world, overweight people, disfigured people, etc, and in fact I fit at least two of those categories, but this was a sight to behold. This specimen belonged behind one of those veils at the state fair. You know what I'm talking about; every fair has at least one of those booths. Usually there's some punk kid in a ridulous red and white striped outfit working the booth, and when he's not being snotty to customers he's trying to grope the teenage girls. A big sign over his booth draws us in. Maybe it's the world's largest bear, or maybe the contortionist, or maybe the bearded woman, or maybe, if we're extremely lucky, the Yak Lady, which is invariably a testosterone-rich female with absurd pin-on horns adorning the top of her head. No matter what monstrosity waits behind the veil, we hand over our hard-earned buck and plod on with morbid fascination. We know we don't want to see it, but something compells us, some sick and twisted craving for disfigurement and mutation. Perhaps we can gaze upon the carnival freak and realize how despite all our misgivings and bad luck we're still infinitely luckier than that poor sod. It's being thankful by comparison. I'm already off topic aren't I? It would seem that witnessing a page right out of "Ripley's Believe It or Not" leaves me longwinded and waxing philosophical. Maybe it's simply a realization that I've seen more today in my young life than most people see well into their middle years. Whatever the case may be, I already have the sign picked out for the carnival show: Dinosaur Lady! The subtitle will read something like Observe the living proof that man descended from reptiles! Watch the dinosaur lady devour small children and bob her head in raptor-like fashion! Feel her footsteps, and cower in her towering presence! $2 for adults $1 for children (not small enough to be swalled whole by a Tyrannosaur) She was a mammoth woman, pear-shaped certainly, but not deserving of a Wide Load sign if that's what you're thinking. Nay, she towered over me. At 6'1" I've never had a woman tower over me, but this beast did exactly that. She looked down upon me, and I'm fairly certain her forked tongue slipped out to lick those cold lips. That's not to say she was only tall either, because her ass and torso very easily would have made suitable living quarters for a family of dwarves. I just couldn't envision her with a backing up beeper though, because that immense girth almost provided proportionality when considering her height. Also, I'm sure she was very thankful for that low center of gravity. As I gazed up into the heavens to observe this monster, I cringed in horror. I do not know if I what witnessed was disfigurement, mutation, or the effect of the stress that kind of body puts on a person. From her shoulders up, she was all neck. Now, extremely heavy people are often said to have no neck. Instead their head and shoulders form one big blog, and the entire definition of a neck is lost. But this woman was all neck. I could just as easily given her top billing as the Giraffe Lady. Her neck was as long as her head and significantly thicker. She possessed no chin or back of the head to speak of. Instead she had this thick, rubbery growth that shot up from her shoulders, soared to astonishing heights, and simply culminated in a stump upon which her face took residence. The neck itself consumed at least half again as much surface area as the head. With a robust torso, massive legs, and tiny forearms, she could have done a walk-on for Jurrassic Park as the big, bad T-Rex. But with that Go-go-Gadget neck that practically regurgitated its own face, she could have likewise been the Jurassic Park posterchild for Brontosaurs, if they kept the previews limited to head shots. Move over, Nessy, we have a new natural wonder on our hands! Most astonishing of all were the two small children walking at her side. At first I assumed it was some sort of symbiotic relationship. Perhaps they cleaned her ankles, and in exchange they got the morsels that fell from her jowels. Alternatively, they could have just been museum-goers who thought they saw the brontosaur exhibit get up and walk away, and they've been following her ever since. But in fact the mothering nature she had towards them, muck akin to the way a robin regurgitates the worm for its offspring, informed me of their true relationship. From this, my next logical inquiry was what kind of man would impregnate this reptilian Amazon? The sheer mechanics of it were mind-boggling. I didn't have to look far for my answer though, because the Abominable Snowman was bringing up the rear, although he lacked snow and was twice as abominable. My lifelong dream of seeing a yeti had finally come to fruition. He made the brontosaur look like a compsygnathus. (I wonder if I spelled that right. Kudos to Michael Crichton on that one.) Tall, lanky, and all knees and elbows. (I wonder if he can breathe okay at that elevation.) He bore less fur than I expected, so it came as no small shock that sasquatch like to shave. I pulled my eyes away reluctantly but purposefully. You ever watch those surgeries they have on the Discovery Health Channel? You sit there and watch them, often between the fingers covering your eyes, because to turn the channel makes you too much of a pussy. Well, that, and you almost have to see it. You're so damn curious that you're willing to recycle your lunch to watch it. (At least the dog will get some scraps I guess.) That's what this was like. I was standing in line for lunch, and yet I couldn't stop staring at what would most assuredly ruin my appetite. You know how you stare at someone, but you do it peripherally or by constantly glancing away? You don't want anyone to notice. This is especially true if you're looking at someone attractive. For some reason there's less embarrassment of being caught when you're staying at a freak. Maybe we figure if they catch us, we'll just fork over the cost of admission. At the same time we wouldn't dare slip the hot chick some dollar bills because we'd like to see her strip. It's a double standard, but I digress... That's how I scoped out the Hendersons while I went about eating my lunch. I wonder if they knew I was watching. Hmmm, maybe I should have tossed some small children their way. *shrugs* |
| For those of you who have been with this little blog and I from the beginning, you might remember that I frequently would host little games in here. Invariably I'd do this because I was bored, and occasionally just because I loved the attention. More often than not I'd use the opportunity to both see who the greedy GP mongers are and also to stroke my own ego. Well, once again I'm bored, and once again I'd like to stroke the ego. Fortunately, my boredom knows no shame, so here's today's game. For the next 24 hours stick a flattering remark about me in your handle, post a comment indicating you've done so here in this blog, and I'll aware you 2,500 GPs. Think of it as a rental fee. I'm renting a piece of your handle for one day. Can't beat that right? And now the rules: PC or Problematic Content must appear in your handle. It must contain some flattering or ego-stroking remark. (eg "PC is the Man!") Post a comment in my blog while sporting that trendy handle. Maintain that handle or some equally flattering variation thereof for at least 24 hours. If you change the handle back before I get to award you, then you're out of luck. Everyone with a handle that strokes my ego gets 2,500 GPs sent to them ASAP. BONUS! The best handle at the end of game will receive a 10,000 GP prize. Be creative. Be flattering. Be funny. Proudly bear my name. All handles must be used and comment blogs posted by Wednesday, June 28 @ noon, Writing.com.Simple enough right? Then get to work! |
| Whether you love me, hate me, or are indifferent to me, I need your help, or at least your opinions. I am in a quandary, a rock and a hard place of wanting to do what's right and wanting to do what my emotions tell me. There's moderator on this website that has been after me for about a year and a half. His conscending remarks and snide jabs reached their former peak about a year ago, at which point I more or less told him to get lost after my best attempts to be amicable. I thought he had agreed to just distance himself, but instead he's been lurking ever since, apparently waiting for a chink in my armor. I think that's pretty sad and petty myself, but it's his perogative. Lately he launched into an attack. He posted condescending, snide comments in my blog and even went as far as to post a link to one his journal entries in my blog comments. The entry was of course a libelous attack on me. I emailed him in the beginning because I wanted to keep this behind the scenes. I didn't think going public with an absurd feud was very adult. He posted a journal entry anyway, but for once I didn't respond in my own journal. His ego is so immense he would have loved that. Instead I wrote two lengthy private rants, one of which is contained within this blog. I so desperately wanted to post it, but good judgment got the better of me, and I decided to vent privately and just ignore him. Now he's done something so deplorable I don't know if I can be the better man anymore. In a correspondence with a friend of mine he called Jodi my "trophy." That ticked me off, but I could still maintain my composure well enough to ignore him. But then he made light of my mom's current situation. My mother may have cervical cancer, and he made light of it, claiming I'm just using her potentially dangerous situation as an excuse to chicken out of a battle with him. He wishes so badly that I'd respond to his attacks that he would take potshots at a person who may have a serious illness. My mother no less. I consider this to be the most deplorable, digusting, vile, egomaniacal, and loathesome route of attack anyone could take. I believe he has shown his true colors with this vicious and disgusting display. I'm not going to mention this moderator's name here, because I won't give him that satisfaction. For more than a year he's wanted to pick a fight with me, not surprisingly all because of an old circumstance surrounding a woman for whom he had feelings, and now he's finally trying to goad me into it. Once again, I want to make my rant public, show him for the despicable excuse for a human being that he is and make him quiver in his boots as I stand over him. But I won't, because I'm still a better person than he is. But now I beseech my readers. I challenge you all, both friends and foes, to put yourselves in my shoes. Imagine someone you care very deeply about facing the diagnosis of a life-threatening disease. Along comes some jerk who makes light of it. He puts his own self-induced feud with you above the importance of your loved one's well being. He is so consumed with his hatred for you and his own ego, that he would demean and diminish the significance of cancer consuming someone you love. I challenge you to write about that. I challenge you to write a journal entry about how that would make you feel, how it would make you feel about this person, and how you would react. I've told been I'm being amazingly calm (though honestly I'm absolutely seething inside), but what would you do? I challenge you to show this man just exactly how despicable that is. You're welcome to link to it here. Maybe when presented with several opinions, this man will actually realize how loathesome his behavior has been. |
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