The only blog that will put hair on your chest...
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Turning from the Dark Side
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|I'm not sure if anyone actually checks this anymore. With any luck, my loyal readers forgot to delete it from their bookmarks despite my lack of updates for years. So right now it's popping to the top of their Favorites list and they're thinking "Egads! PC has updated!" At this moment they're flocking to this blog, a one-time bastion of sheer awesome and manliness. And I'm here to tell them, "Yes, I'm back. Please hold your applause." My hiatus has been long enough, and by that I really mean I've gotten bored with playing video games and have nothing better to do. Time to blog again. And who knows what might come after that.
But a lot has changed during my years of inactivity. Now I have a wife, kids, a house, a career, the whole American dream thing going on. So it's time for something new. The content won't be all that different, because let's be honest, it's hard to improve on perfection, but the venue will be different. I'll be traveling for the next few days, but after that I'll start filling it up. Update your bookmarks, folks.
|I'm actually giving NaNo a try this year. A few weeks ago I was thinking about a particularly cliche horror plot line and suddenly realized I could put a twist on it that's most likely never been done before. It's so wacky and awesome at the same time, I doubt any one could have thought of it before. Basically it takes two very awesome, very unrelated topics and combines them into one giant orgasm of horror awesome. I can't give any more detail than that because it might just blow your mind and because I don't want anyone stealing the idea.
Normally horror isn't my thing, but you could argue this is science fiction too, and it's just too cool an idea to pass up. I've chosen it for my NaNo because I think it actually fit into the novella size of 50,000 words, or at least close to it. Most of my story ideas are epic tales that stretch on forever. 50,000 words wouldn't even put a dent in them. So inevitably I'd feel like I'm not getting anywhere and just give up. I actually have a chance to finish this story.
I decided recently I want to get published someday. I know I could if I put my mind to it. I think I have what it takes. Some would say I'm cocky... okay, most would say I'm cocky, but I think it's just some healthy confidence. The way I see it the only thing holding me back is basically laziness. I never actually get around to writing. I'm hoping this NaNo might change that. I don't intend to polish this NaNo story or try to publish unless it comes out much better than expected. It would make a much better movie than novel anyway. But I'm thinking that actually completing a lengthy story will give me what it takes to start finishing my longer story ideas. We'll see I guess.
That means next month I'll be spending more time on the laptop and less on the XBox, so you might see some activity here too.
|My daughter Katie beat up her first hobo yesterday. He was loitering around the sidewalk smelling up my burnt front lawn with malt liquor and bottled urine. Now to be fair, I'm into bottling urine as much as the next guy, but do you really need to carry all those bottles around with you in a dented shopping cart? And at least use glass pickle jars, man, those plastic Coke bottles aren't cutting it. But I digress.
So there was this hippie on our front lawn, ruining my life and stealing my air. The more attuned reader may notice that I now refer to him as a hippie instead of a hobo. He was in fact both. Now obviously telling the two apart is a difficult task, given the grungy, welfare-loving nature of both. So you're no doubt asking yourself, "How could PC possibly know that this hobo is also a hippie?" The answer is actually quite simple: he was a white guy with dreadlocks. Have you ever seen a white guy with dreadlocks that wasn't a hippie? Of course not. That would be like claiming you saw some guy with a tribal tattoo that wasn't a douchebag. Also the fact that he was wearing sandals and smelled of reefer was a clue. Come to think of it, maybe he wasn't a hobo at all; maybe he was just some hippie trying to recycle some other hobo's urine bottles in some misguided attempt to save the planet. Hobos and hippies are practically the same thing after all, except hippies smell worse.
So there's this hobo-hippie hybrid, pushing a cart of urine bottles down our sidewalk. The first one to spot him was our dog Optimus. He likes to put his front paws up on the window sill and bark at the Democrats that strolll by. I had actually smelled the hippie before Optimus ever saw him, but assumed it was just the smell of someone getting their septic tank pumped, so I went back to watching Zombieland, the movie based loosely on my teenage years. That was interrupted however by Optimus barking like mad out the window. I can tune out the barking noise with relative ease, but I've noticed that when he barks now our toaster transforms into a Camaro and rolls out the door. We're on toaster number 6 and the last one try to eat the cat, so I decided I better intervene.
I went right to the window, totally prepared to ruin somebody's shit, and yanked Optimus down. He bared his teeth and he had that crazed look in his eyes, the one he gets when I shoot him up with adrenaline and let him run wild at Panera Bread. Either he had just woken from a dream about Ralph Nader or there was a hippie on our front lawn.
"Honey, I'm going to need some soap, a pair of shears, an autographed photo of Ronald Reagan, and a baseball bat."
My wife yelled back from the kitchen where she was probably hand washing my underwear. "Are you kidding me? Another damn hippie?"
At that moment I felt a tug at the hem of my shorts. My daughter looked up at me with wide eyes. "Filthy, liberal hippie, daddy?" She's just one year old so she can't use the big words yet like "loathsome," "illogical," or "peace-mongering." I nodded my reply, and she ran straight for the door. Before I could grab her, she tore across the font lawn and launched herself through the air, landing a flying drop-kick right to the hippie's groin. This of course had no impact because everyone knows hippies are genderless and sterile thanks to years of fornication with wild apes. Their only method of reproduction now is by sharing needles. But Katie didn't know this because she's only one and because we choose to shelter her from the horrifying truth of reality.
The kick to the groin accomplished nothing, but the bright, floral print dress Katie was wearing drew the hippie like a moth to a flame. Or more accurately, like a hippie to a Volkswagen van with flowers painted on the side. When he knelt down to bum a joint off her, she went Steven Seagal on his ass. Her meaty little hands were a blur, fist after fist pounding him in the nose. After several minutes she broke through the layer of dirt and cannabis and brought some new color to his jaundice visage. The hamburger meat that had once been his leathery face now reminded me why I don't eat hamburgers: they might test like ass kicked hippie. When she was finished and he crumbled to the sidewalk, she emptied every piss bottle on him, a fruitless endeavor considering how much hippies like to bathe in urine. But again, she's still just one year old so I can forgive the lack of logic this time around.
She did all this, I might add, whilst shitting her pants. She made her daddy very proud. We went for ice cream after wards.
|It's Easter, the day your savior was reborn. And here he is to blog for you. (Just getting started and already I'm blaspheming...)
I haven't been around in so long that most folks missed out on my fantastic 2009. Some things are just so important that they need to be documented, so even though it's four months late I really do need to recap at least one of my highlights from last year. Now because it's me, last year was obviously awesome and filled with all kinds of events most people would envy or find awe inspiring. I did a couple little things like have a kid and bought a house (i.e. finally achieving the American dream of lifetime debt), but I won't bore you with little details. No indeed, I have a special moment to share with all of you, a moment the likes of which I have never experienced and may never again.
It happened on December 29, 2009. I know this because I noted the date in my iPod and because the date will forever hold special meaning in my heart. It happened in the bathroom of course, like any monumental event would. It was the downstairs bathroom actually, which is why it's now my favorite bathroom.
I had eaten pizza that day. I know this because I always eat pizza. I remember being pretty bound up too, so I would imagine it was a doughier pizza than normal. Pizza Hut perhaps. Or maybe I just held it in all day and became constipated. I tend to do that. Increases the sensation you know. Whatever the case may be, as I was sitting there hugging the porcelain with my ample cheeks, I remember wishing for an "oh shit" bar. If you don't know what I mean, think of the handicapped stalls in the public restrooms. You know that 3" thick metal rod always mounted on the wall near the toilet? I need one of those. Not for getting up or down but rather for clenching. Sometimes you just can't push without white knuckles.
So after some sweating and cursing and a little bit of tearing, I finally squeezed it off. It hit with the usual ker-plunk, splashing some piss water back at my cheeks. I tore off a small strip of TP and wiped. Completely dry. That in and of itself is reason enough to celebrate, but what came next was nothing short of monumental.
I chose "monumental" for a reason, because when I peeled myself off the seat and turned to admire my handiwork, what returned my stare was indeed a monument to my greatness. It was a turd, an ordinary nine inch turd. But there was nothing ordinary about its positioning. In fact, it stood on end, the top inch or two protruding from the calm surface of the toilet water. Normally nine erect inches is something I'm used to, but nothing could prepare me for my little fecal monument, my own little statue of liberty, my personal obelisk of intestinal fortitude.
I considered saluting this flagpole of manliness, and I did indeed hum the national anthem for a few minutes. I thought of going for the camera, but the last time I did that my wife didn't have sex with me for three weeks. She has some weird aversion to my poo; I don't know what her problem is. So I gazed in admiration for a few minutes, being proud to be American, and then commenced flushing my dreams down the toilet. But this little poo standing at attention wasn't ready to say farewell. The water swirled around him, and I could only think of Moses parting the Red Sea. The water disappeared down the opening, leaving my little poo man standing there, naked to the world, brave and proud. If I wasn't so much like Chuck Norris, I probably would have cried.
It took some more toilet paper and a little forceful mashing with the plunger, but the standing turd did eventually leave this world. I shall never forget, and now neither will you.
Seriously now, I just had to come back in poo style.
And for those of you who didn't get visited by the Easter Bunny today, here's why: http://tonova.typepad.com/thesuddencurve/images/easter_roadkill.JPG
|... that today is the day the federal government utters a collective "April Fools! We didn't really pass a socialist reform that will further bankrupt our country!"
Seems like a fitting day for me to make a return, given that I enjoy making fun of fools. I could have also returned on Awesome Sauce Day, if such a thing existed, for obvious reasons.
I haven't been around hardly at all because I generally have better things to do, like masturbate and play video games, or even masturbating whilst playing video games. However, the video game thing is losing its appeal for me. In my only game of choice I've achieved the highest rank possible and am currently seated at 251st in the world out of 2.5 million players. So there's really not much left to do there. Pretty much conquered that like I did this blogging thing a couple years back. The sequel doesn't come out until April 2011, so I've got a year to reclaim my Writing.com notoriety. Today seems as good a day as any to get started.
I've got an iPod Touch sitting in my coat pocket full of juicy blog entry ideas. Time I started cashing in on some of those. I'm also a dad now, which immediately makes me an expert on parenting. Don't worry, I won't tell any boring stories about my kid that no one else could possibly care about, as all other blogging parents are wont to do. I'll keep mine focused on the important things, like her training regimen for the approaching zombie apocalypse.
And since Easter is coming up, an oldie but a goodie:
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|I saw an inspiring commercial just moments ago. It had that guy from ER... or maybe it was Chicago Hope. I don't know, one of those shitty hospital dramas. I do remember he played Steve Jobs in some made for TV movie about the Operating System wars though. But anyway, that's not the point. The point is he was speaking on behalf of WWF and their endeavors to protect polar bears. Now how exactly professional wrestlers got involved with polar bears isn't clear to me, but is anything cooler than a polar bear doing a pile driver on somebody? I submit that there is not.
Polar bears are endangered and are on the verge of extinction thanks in large part to climate change. So WWF would like us to help out somehow. Who am I to say no to Hulk Hogan? Besides, I'm extremely eco-friendly. It's well established that my favorite documentary is "The Lorax." I couldn't save the brown barbaloots in their brown barbaloots, eating those truffula fruits, but I can help to save the polar bear. And why wouldn't I want to? Polar bears are only the coolest bears alive. If bears were people, polar bears would be me.
I think the commercial was looking for donations. Money can be used to repair the ozone and set the clock back on global warming apparently. Maybe they're going to build a big dome over the earth like in the second Highlander movie. Or maybe they plan on building a really big snow cone maker to make a new arctic region. They should do it in New Jersey; it's not like we're using that state for anything useful now anyway.
I'm not really sure why polar bears need my money. I'm certain they make more doing those Coca-cola commercials than I'll ever make in my lifetime. But if they need help, then help I'll give. And that, friends, is why I'm going to adopt a polar bear. The basement at this new place stays pretty cool, so I think I'll keep him down there. I'm not really worried about maintenance; my fridge has an ice maker. I haven't decided what I'll name him yet. Maybe Thor. Or Bob. Or Jesus. All suggestions are welcome. It has to be a male bear though, because the women are already outnumbering me in this house.
Now, as a fiscal conservative, I'm no big fan of welfare. So this is only until the bear can get back on his feet. He has a place to live as long as he wants, but it's not going to be free forever. I want some of that Coke money, and whether it's from soda or drugs doesn't really matter to me. Or if he brings home baby seals for dinner that's good too. Z.˚rz tells me they taste like sweet, sweet nectar. But I swear to the Flying Spaghetti Monster, if he pisses on the furniture like those damn cats, he's going right back to that glacier he rode in on.
WWF will probably want to be involved in this adoption, but it's really not necessary. I can teach him all the wrestling moves myself. Before you know it, he'll be powerbombing the mailman just for shits and giggles. Animal control will probably show up because of some pussy neighbors. I challenge them to try removing a guard polar bear that can do the Stone Cold Stunner and fart the National Anthem. Just when you all thought I couldn't possibly get any more bad ass, I get a wrestling polar bear as a pet.
I'd also like to take this moment to talk about another endangered species. There is only alive today, a male, currently living in the wild. He is a beautiful creature, and the world would be a sad, sad place without him. He belongs to the rare, and never duplicated species Problematicus Contentis. We desperately need your donations to improve his habitat. He needs fresh water and home theater systems soon or he may perish. His singular diet of lobsters and prime rib are in short supply. For just $60 a day, mere cents more than a cup of Starbucks coffee, you can make sure he stays fed and healthy.
|As I was browsing WDC, I happened to notice a Gay & Lesbian merit badge recently awarded. I have no problem with gays or lesbians, especially if they're hot lesbians who happened to make a home movie in their shower. But why should they get a merit badge for being themselves? I don't get a merit badge for being heterosexual. Or for writing the only blog that puts hair on your chest.
I demand we add more merit badges that award people for being themselves. And by "people" I mean me. And by "themselves" I mean myself. I think it would be called something like "The Bad Ass Merit Badge" or the "I Made Chuck Norris My Bitch Merit Badge." Either way its name would have to be the longest ever, not unlike certain parts of my anatomy. It would have to have a really cool and manly icon, too. Maybe a pirate. Or a lumberjack. Or a pirate punching a lumberjack. I could actually pose for the icon myself to make it more valuable.
|... I do not change diapers. People seem to think that being a father translates into me changing diapers. Before you all continue with the lame diaper changing jokes, I want to be clear that I have never, and will never, change a diaper, poopy or otherwise. An Ernie B----- has never changed a diaper, and an Ernie B----- never will change a diaper. I come from a long line of non-diaper changers, a cycle I have no intention of breaking.
One might wonder what I'll do if the kid craps herself and mom's not around. Well, besides the fact that I never intend to be babysitting alone until she's house-trained, that's what they make grandmothers for. I have no qualms about sticking the kid in the car and driving an hour so my mom can change the kid. And if I have no mode of transportation, well then she'll just have to suck it up and deal with it. That'll learn her.
Oh I know, so so cruel right? Well, my dad did the same for me. One time when Mom wasn't home, my father left me sitting on the potty chair for like three hours because he would not wipe me or anything of the sort. And I turned out just fine, right? (That's a rhetorical question only).
Katie's diapers are most definitely a mom chore, not a dad chore. Likewise, mom will be the one house training her, sucking boogers out of her nose with a syringe, cleaning up her puke, and all that good stuff. I have more important things to do with her, like preparing her for the inevitable zombie outbreak. Or teaching her what she should do when the machines rise up against us. A little shit in her pants will be the least of all our concerns when the undead are sucking our brains or our washing machines are eating people.
|Has anyone seen that show Man vs. Food on the Travel channel? It's rapidly become one of my favorite shows. Basically the host travels to various cities around the country seeking out food eating challenges. If I wasn't such a picky eater, I would totally want his job.
I saw an episode last night in which he ate a burger with some kind of pepper I've never heard of that is more than 100 times hotter than a jalapeno. The cook had to wear gloves while preparing it. The host had to wear gloves while eating it. He was apparently afraid of burning his fingers on contact, but he saw no problem with shoving it down his gullet and into his stomach. I see this as somewhat problematic. But no guts, no glory, right? Even if that does mean those particular guts are leaking out through a hole in your stomach lining.
I've never seen someone in so much pain whilst eating. I have a sneaky suspicion that level of discomfort while eating a burger may not be healthy. But he did finish said burger, and he did then sit there without a drink for five minutes, as the challenge required. For that I pay him homage. For one brief moment, he exuded a manliness I have rarely seen, except in myself. If I were Budweiser, I would have immediately added him to my "Real Men of Genius" list.
However, this spectacle of awesome sauce was undone when he failed to devour a 12 egg omelet. He had just two bites remaining when he called it off. Shameful, downright shameful. It made me question how hot that burger really was. Because let's be honest; a 12 egg omelet is barely more than a snack. It's just three or four normal sized omelets. How hard could it be?
The real irony is in the challenges that give a T-shirt if you pull them off. Is there any chance they have a T-shirt large enough to fit the man that just ate a 72-ounce steak? If so, I'd like to meet that man. Preferably before he keels over from a heart attack. During the show last night, someone wondered why you would put yourself through all that just to win a T-shirt for some crappy diner in the middle of nowhere. Clearly this person was missing the big picture. The T-shirt is just a symbol. The true glory comes in the sheer satisfaction in knowing you ate more than a small village without blowing chunks. It's all for the bragging rights. I mean who wouldn't want to scoff at the little people who always leave something on their plate and never dare to embrace one of the seven deadly sins.
The show has inspired me to achieve a new level of gluttony. I want to find one of these food challenge restaurants and conquer their pitiful attempt at internal disembowelment. I know I could do it. Like when the Man vs. Food guy puked after 14 milkshakes into his 15 malt milkshake challenge. I could have gone the distance. I know I'm the better man.
|... or more accurately my wife did. If I was the one whose anatomy required I shoot an ugly, goop-covered watermelon out through my pee-hole, you can rest assured there would be no little PCs running around.
Speaking of running around though, our daughter isn't doing anything like that. In fact, she's not doing any tricks yet. I remind her of this daily because she's quickly getting to the point where she needs to get a job or daddy is kicking her ass to the curb. She's something like 6 or 7 weeks old now, plenty old enough to be fetching daddy the remote or making him a cocktail so far as I'm concerned. But no, all she does right now is eat, fart, drool, shit herself, and stare dumbfounded at the television. Yep, she's a chip off the old block.
Everyone told me, "oh, it will be so different when you have your own kid." Clearly people underestimated how fucked up I really am. I'll be honest, nobody has pointed out her ugly moments more than me. I still haven't met a cute baby. Granted she has cute moments, like when she smiles when daddy hovers his bare foot just above her face, but she also has plenty of ugly moments. That's why I refuse to post a photo to appease all your simpering women out there; I can't run the risk of picking one of the ugly ones. The cute ones are fleeting so I'm not sure we even have a photo that qualifies yet. Mostly they're just all jowls and nasty-looking comb overs.
So no, having a kid hasn't really changed me, except that now I have a new toy that actually lives and breaths and can be molded in my image. Now sure I love her, that part actually did happen, but I would never tell her that. Her mother tells her every day, which I find immensely disturbing. In my family, we never said anything with the word "love" in it. It was just understood, and actions speak louder than words. Kids who go around saying "love ya" grow up to be pussies. Or hippies. Or hippie pussies... nasty, unclean, crab-infested ones. That's just the way it is, and everyone knows this. Yet people make the mistake anyway. I blame the Democrats. For everything.
She does have a personality already though. When she gets very mad she begins to squirm and commences a nasty series of farts. Now I love the smell of fart as much as the next guy, whether its mine or someone else's, but her farts will actually make me leave the room. They're coated in thick baby funk, the only smell I've encountered worse than rotting flesh.
You see I learned that babies always have a funky odor, even when completely clean. In fact, sometimes she smells even worse after a bath. I think all those shampoos are baby funk scented. Now our whole house (which is also new by the way) smells like it. My wife is starting to ooze baby funk out of her pores. To all you men considering fatherhood, let me tell you that nothing ruins a boner quicker than the smell of baby funk. Your wife will put on something sexy and lie down next to you. She leans in nice and close, careful not to rub her C-section scar on you, and next thing you know you got baby funk up your nose and she's lactating into your eye.
Now this is all hypothesizing mind you, because I haven't had sex with my wife yet since the delivery. In fact we haven't had sex in like 9 months because of this kid. That's one reason she better start doing some tricks soon, she owes her daddy big time. Well now you also know why I've been so inactive of late. Busy with the baby? Oh no no no, that's woman's work, I'm talking about the fact that I haven't had sex in 9 months. So needless to say I've been very busy with porn.
The baby's name is Katelyn Storm. Being a girl, Jodi got to pick the first name. I had to infuse her with some kind of geeked out name, so of course Storm comes from the X-Men. Credit goes to mood indigo for suggesting it to me. I imagine when she gets older and friends ask where it came from, she'll come up with some lame excuse like it was storming when she was born. I'll make sure I'm around to tell the real story and leave her completely mortified in front of her friends and any boy she might like. I'm looking forward to that.
One thing is for sure: my kid is going to ooze awesome sauce. *sniff sniff* In fact, I think she already did.
|topsey's topic is pretty near and dear to my heart since my very own firstborn is on her way. In typical female fashion, she's taking her sweet ass time.
Everyone talks of the joys and wonders of parenthood. I can imagine some of those. Like being proud when they get their first "A." Or getting excited when they take their first steps. Or being pumped up when they don their first storm trooper costume. Or even smiling when they string together a series of subordinate clauses and treat them like sentences. ( See what I did right there?) I can't imagine those intangibles that go along with parenthood though, the ones people say make it all worth it. So instead I focus on the things I know I'll be good at.
Now if we were having a boy I would have been totally kick ass at turning him into a proper geek. But being the chauvinist I am, I don't necessarily want my daughter to be a geek. That means I get to focus on something else at which I'll have mad skills. One such example is being an outstanding disciplinarian. That's right, I'm looking forward to disciplining our child. In fact, I'm downright relishing it.
The reason for this fascination with instilling proper discipline in my offspring is twofold. First, since my plans at world domination have thus far been fruitless, fathering a cub at least provides me some opportunity to rule with that iron fist I've been shaking so menacingly. Second, I think the world has gone to pot because parents have gotten too soft.
Growing up, my father and I had a special relationship. He loved me and I was afraid of him. He spanked me only once or twice actually, but that was more than enough. After that, the simple glare was all it took to remind me that spanking was a very real possibility. I spent a great deal of childhood being pissed at him for being so strict. Like most kids, I grew up thinking I didn't want to be a mean old dad like my dad was. Now I'm an adult, and I see how young people everywhere are acting. And I thank my lucky stars my father was such a hardass. He turned me into a reasonably decent human being, with the emphasis on reasonably, and I'm eternally grateful. I gladly say now that I would be proud to be the father my dad was for me.
I see little rugrats running through stores, wreaking havoc in restaurants, talking back to their parents, fighting with other kids, and just generally being little menaces. Meanwhile I see their parents being completely inept at parenting, thus raising an all new generation of douchebags and degenerates. I see this as my opportunity to raise a kid the way a kid should be raised. I get to create and nurture a new life that won't be a complete cancer on society. Unfortunately by the time she's an adult she'll probably be surrounded by a generation of total fuckups. However, that's not the kids' fault, it's the parents' fault. Here's what I notice parents doing lately:
They ignore the fact that their child is a little twat. Through months or even years of practice they've managed to train all their senses to completely miss the fact that their hellspawn is ruining everyone's lives. They are able to quietly sit and enjoy their meal, completely oblivious to the fact that little Johnny is screaming so loud my ears are bleeding or that little Sarah is using her spaghetti sauce as a paint by number on the chandelier. These parents have built imaginary worlds in their own heads, a place where their little genetic nightmares cannot enter. Whenever they want a moment of peace or sanity, they simply retreat into these magical lands of gumdrops and lollipops, thus leaving their failed abortion to mutilate the family cat with a wooden spoon and bailing twine. The way I figure it, these types of parents ignore their kids misbehavior for one of two reasons: 1) psychologically they can't handle it or 2) they simply don't care. In either case, those parents should have aborted. And then been forcibly stripped of their reproductive organs.
They try to reason with their child. As their little hellion is slapping them across the face, these parents try to explain that hitting is wrong and good little girls and boys don't hit. As the brat is urinating on the magazine rack at the Kwik-E-Mart, they make the suggestion that peeing on Good Housekeeping isn't very nice. As the demon-seed is running after the dog with a cleaver, they wag their finger and threaten the infamous time-out. I don't understand why anyone, including some well-educated people, would be inclined to believe they can reason with someone whose brain hasn't fully developed and whose concept of social conduct is limited to what they see on cartoons. Wake up and smell the roses, people. Animal brains need to be conditioned to respond appropriately to various situations. Cause and effect. Consequence and reward. You don't get results with a condescending look and a limp-wristed argument that involves phrases like "that's inappropriate" and "not nice." Actions speak louder than words every time, especially when it comes to someone who doesn't know the meaning of the words. Get off your asses and take action. It's a great you're such a trooper and can turn the other cheek when your spawn slaps you full in the face, but freakin' grow a set already. Correct the behavior immediately.
They call for the dreaded time-out. So the kid acts up and the consequence is sitting on a chair somewhere for a couple minutes. Oh the horror! And in reality they don't even make them sit there for the designated amount of time. The kid gets up and runs away, despite the pussy parent insisting they are still on time out. How about forcing him to sit there? And how about it actually lasting long enough to scare him? If they do the crime, make 'em do the time.
As a good friend of mine pointed out the other day, anybody can walk into a car dealership and get denied a car loan. That same person though can have sex with a random stranger and suddenly be responsible for a human life. No application required. No threat of denial. No co-signer. Just a six pack and a faulty condom. There's something seriously wrong with this picture.
You might be wondering what I intend to do for discipline. Will I spank? I don't intend to, but I will if it's needed. Thanks to all the pussies (read as Democrats) in the world now, spanking your child can get you charged with child abuse. I submit there is a huge difference between the two with a very obvious line lying somewhere between them. But unfortunately that's not how everyone sees it, so I'll avoid spanking whenever possible, only because I don't want to end up in jail because some liberals would rather we raise assclowns and welfare junkies than run the risk of making our kids cry. I will yell. Oh how I will yell. I talk loud naturally anyway, so I can sound downright mean when I want to. I will not use time-outs, as I feel they are for pussies, liberals, and incompetents, all of which are roughly the same thing. I will however send a kid to his/her room for an extended period of time with instructions to do nothing but lie on the bed and "think about it." These instructions will be enforced. Forcibly if necessary. In principle it will be similar to the time-out, but I refuse to call it such because that's such a wuss name for it. I'll come up with a much more appropriate name. Like "spending time in the shitbox."
|Muses are nonexistent. They are not real, nor even imaginary. They are not anything tangible or intangible other than a lazy excuse by an unoriginal author writer for why he/she can't write anything creative or worthwhile. Real authors, people who actually make a living by writing, never whine about how their muse has abandoned them or how their muse is currently alluding them. Real authors come to grip with the fact that they're either being lazy or just plain dumb. Then they start cranking pages out because words are what pay the bills, not inane symbols of lackluster creativity.
I've read articles and portions of books written by real paid authors on how to actually write. And I do mean paid authors, I mean folks who pay the mortgage with royalties. Any namby-pamby, pretentious asshole can get published, but only real writers put food on the table with paragraphs. These real authors don't advise would-be authors on how to get cozy with their Muse. They don't describe the most efficient and successful way to carry on a love-hate relationship with an imaginary friend. They don't waste their advice on pretentious and boring exposition or contrived dialog with a non-existent douchebag. Instead they preach things like outlines, concentration, motivation, and hard work. All pretty much good advice in any career endeavor. I've never seen any evidence that living in an imaginary world and talking to imaginary people leads to success. In fact, I'm pretty sure those folks get locked up.
I've never seen the point in writing (or even reading for that matter) a blog/journal entry about an encounter with the writer's so-called Muse. Nine times out of ten it becomes self-indulgent drivel full of mixed metaphors and inane bullshit. They almost invariably describe some internal struggle with said Muse to land even an iota of creativity. Here's an idea. How about instead of symbolically bitching about your current lack of writing, maybe you should actually just write something. Rather than a piece of pretentious fiction about a glorified subconscious, how about just writing a story somebody (namely me) might actually care about? Seems like time and energy better spent, but maybe that's just me.
By the way, for those who think I'm taking Pia Veleno to task for her leading entry, you'd be right. She can take it though. She is after all a snarky entry waiting to happen, and she knows I'm the King of Snark. This entry isn't targeted at her though, as this is an annoying trend I see all over the place, and my response here is inspired by various incarnations of Muse worship that I've witnessed. Enough is enough. Take that creative energy and actually write something. People care about your fictitious characters; they don't care about your pretentious subconscious and how uncooperative it's being at the moment.
Pia did let me down with a bunch of touchy-feely, imaginary mumbo-jumbo though. If I saw her Muse right now, I'd punch him in the kidney. Because Muses suck. And because that's how I roll.
|I'm playing the "Follow the Leader game" this time around. If you don't know what that is, I'd suggest following the link. I've been too lazy to provide that link here though, so you can just do a Writing.com search.
Anyway, the first leading entry focuses on the number 13. Now when I play Follow the Leader, I rarely ever write about the main topic of the leading entry. And since the superstition of 13 is a cliche topic, I don't intend to break mold here. So I sat there staring at that entry, reading it several times, wondering what I was going to write.
Now on about the third read through, my eyes started glazing over and my mind began wandering. This is pretty typical behavior for me. Along with plenty of drooling. What I discovered during this bout of apathy was quite astounding and arousing. As it turns out, the number 13, when rotated clockwise 90 degrees reminds me of boobies. Now while I have no interest in the number 13 or superstition in general, I have a great deal of interest in boobies.
The 1, in addition to being the loneliest number, appears as a horizontal line above said boobies. In the interest of boobie magnitude, let's ignore the 1 and focus instead on the 3, i.e. the boobies. (Now if you happen to be female, and you'd prefer to keep the 1 because rotating it with the 3 reminds you of male genitalia, then by all means enjoy your little erotic numerology.) The bottom line here is the number 3 looks vaguely like breasts, luscious, perky, bulbous breast... mmmmmm, breasts.
Okay, okay, so I'm off topic here. When your wife is on bed rest with an order of no sex, everything looks like boobies. And other female private parts for that matter. In fact I just had a completely inappropriate thought that involved the ninja on my wall and a vagina. You may not be able to imagine what comes next, but it would somehow be both bloody and pleasurable. And I'm not talking about bloody tampon kind of pleasurable.
This two-month case of blue balls (along with the promise of four more months of it and with the insistence from all my male friends that sex ends once the kids arrive) has lead to my sudden expertise in porn. Okay, so maybe it's not so sudden. But it is certainly more prolific. If anyone is looking for free, downloadable clips, I have any number of web sites I can point you to. I don't even try to hide it anymore. Anyone can boot up my home PC and see the desktop riddled with dozens of pornographic snippets. I have officially become a perv.
Right now, I'm okay with my new perv-hood though because I haven't yet crossed over the line. I still cringe and suppress the gag reflex when I come across far-too-gratuitous anal, genitalia that is most clearly not genetic, and utensils never intended for the human body. I still click away as fast as humanly possible when I see zoom shots of places where the sun doesn't shine, and I have not the slightest inclination to click on anything that pictures a horse or a toilet. In fact I really wish all that great porn out there wasn't cluttered with links to the occasional nastiness.
mood indigo sent me two links the other day. In the first home movie the woman either had some serious mental issues or was just plain fucked up. At least the video was grainy enough that I might have been able to enjoy it muted. The second video involved some guy with an 18 inch penis. I refused to click on that one given shannon's description of some of the scenes. Some things are just not meant to be seen. And though I didn't tell her, she ruined porn for me that day. Luckily today is a new day.
And now if you'll excuse me, there's a video of two girls in cowboy hats (and absolutely nothing else) that is seriously wanting my attention...
|Since June of last year to be exact. Not quite sure how I fell out of the blogging loop, but the landscape has certainly changed since I've been gone. For one thing, the W.com background color changed, rendering my Problematic title image completely out of place. Fortunately, I'm both color blind and extremely lazy, so I have no intention of correcting it.
I didn't quit for lack of material--I always have plenty of that. And with a kid on a the way, I have even more material than usual, most of which includes my own personal expertize on raising a child so he/she doesn't become a pussy, a liberal, or a hippie. The truth is I can't wait to rear a child the way I know all children should be raised. Our nation, and indeed our world, has gone to pot because all the wrong people are becoming parents, namely Democrats and New Yorkers. Kids are growing up to be sandal-wearing, flower-toting pansy-asses. They grow up with no responsibility, no accountability for their actions, and no sense of bad-assery. But now I have the awesome opportunity to mold a little progeny into what the world really needs. Much like God, I shall mold him/her in my own image.
Now actually we found out we're having a girl. That makes it somewhat more difficult. Any son of mine would have had chest hair by 4 and been punching rhinos in the face by 6, but not so much with a girl. Even though it would keep the boys away later in life, I'm not too keen on a daughter with more machismo than Chuck Norris. She can still kick ass of course, but she should do it girly girly fashion. Unfortunately I haven't yet wrapped my head around that combination. So I'm still trying to figure out how all my plans for molding my son into a Star-Wars worshiping ninja translate into a daughter. Jodi thinks this is a blessing in disguise because it will somehow soften me for when and if we ever do have a son. You'd think after the last several years she'd know better than that.
Last night at my parents Jodi was looking at my baby book. I suspect she thought if she could enlighten me to my own days as a baby, I might soften some of my positions on proper child rearing. She's not a liberal thank God, but she can be a bit of a candy ass sometimes. For instance, she thinks we'll be taking our infant daughter out and about and showing off photos of her. She doesn't quite believe me yet when I say that if our baby is ugly, we'll be keeping her out of the public eye until she starts looking human. She showed me the photo of me as a newborn and pointed out that I wasn't much to look at a few days/weeks old. Apparently that was supposed to make me realize how silly I'm being or something. The actuality is I saw the photo and agreed that I was in fact a fugly baby. I then yelled at my mother for keeping that vile portrait and for letting people see me when I really needed a bag over my head. The ridiculous lederhosen they used to dress me in was ugly enough without my little turd-face protruding out from it. I should have been kept home until I stopped looking like a wrinkly fetus.
See Jodi thinks my unwillingness to show off a homely baby somehow reflects on our future daughter in a negative way. This is not at all the case. The plain truth is most babies are hideous. Some are downright fugly. And despite what women everywhere claim, none of them are cute. Some are just less stomach-churning than others. Just because we love our new pink lump of flesh, why should we take her out into the public where the mere sight of her can ruin some poor bystander's appetite? What right is it of ours to carry an eyesore around and flaunt it for everyone who pretends to give a damn. See I have no doubts whatsoever that I'll love little Kate (that's what we're calling her so far), but that doesn't mean she won't look like a veiny sac of blob with a patch of hair here and there. The fact is I was an ugly baby. I'm okay with admitting that, it doesn't bother me one iota. So I started out hideous, but now I ooze awesome sauce, so it all turned out okay. Likewise, I've sometimes mistaken Jodi's baby pictures for freak show brochures, but she grew into a gorgeous woman. So why didn't our folks do everyone a favor and just keep burlap sacks over our faces for those first couple months/years? I won't make the same mistake they did.
In looking in my baby book, Jodi also saw the section about my first words and phrases. Apparently, according to my mother, ma-ma, ba-ba, and da-da were my first words. What a crock of shit. Those aren't words, those are nonsensical gibberings of someone who can't articulate thoughts yet. Ba-ba is somehow the universal baby word for bottle. What the fuck? Ba-ba and bottle, eh? Are we all freakin' sheep or something. Let's pretend for a minute this correlation hadn't existed for decades all ready and I just told you my first word was "bottle" and I said it as "ba-ba." You'd probably ask me if I suffered brain damage as a baby. It's absolute nonsense to claim ba-ba is a word. Likewise, da-da and ma-ma aren't words. They're pretty close to Daddy and Mama. But guess what, that's not because the baby learned those two words. Rather it's because those are the first sounds all babies can make, and so in the natural progression of the English language we created words that sounded like baby sounds. And of course we'd create the two words that all parents want to hear. I guarantee if the easiest sound for a baby to make was poo-poo, mothers everywhere would be called Poop.
By age 2 I had an actual vocabulary. According to my mom's notes in the baby book, my most commonly used phrases at age 2 were "Don't you even dare," "Don't push it," and "Kiss my ass." I don't really have anything else to say about that; I just thought it uber bad ass.
That's enough baby talk for now. I might start blogging again, I haven't decided yet. See the truth is I'd rather just be playing XBox. When it comes to entertaining you folks or shooting people in the face, it's really a no-brainer for me. I'll probably be back though; I have 6 months worth of valuable information, advice, and awesomeness that everyone really needs to know.
|I've always wanted to be a YouTube celebrity.
Have you ever seen those Geico commercials asking if there are better ways to spend 15 minutes online? They show people creating YouTube-esque video clips that are apparently supposed to be denigrating in some way. But is there really anything cooler than having a mattress fight like those guys in the dorm hall? I submit that there is not. I see that commercial, and I think, "Hell yeah! Let's get some mattresses!"
That's what makes YouTube so awesome. Any idiot can produce cinematic masterpieces, or, as is more often the case, a grainy underground film of people doing incredibly dumbass shit that I want to try. But this isn't retarded nonsense like Jackass; this is creative stupidity. And I want a piece of that action.
I want to create YouTube phenomenom, but not something wussy like a dancing baby or... or... well, anything cutesy and wussy with babies. I don't want people to giggle or coo; I want them to spew milk from their noses or crap themselves uncontrollably. Mostly I want them to yell "This guy is freakin' awesome!" and go running into their backyards to divebomb off the hoods of their cars and strap rocket engines to their sofas. I want to get one million hits, get invited onto Access Hollywood, and have some hot B celebrity blonde ask me why I rock so much. I want to be a Budweiser Real Man of Genius. I want the Internet to bow to my intense 15 minutes of ridiculous coolness.
Of course in order to create YouTube greatness I need a few essential tools. Two of these are a plethora of ideas and a truckload of coolness. Fortunately neither of these are in short supply. However, lack of camcorder sort of complicates things. As such, my attempts have had to rely on the short clips we can take with a digital camera. I got one such clip last summer when I shot a water balloon from a long range slingshot at point blank range into the back of my wife. It left a welt, and the video could have been freakin' awesome. The operator flubbed it up though, and we had to do it a second time. I don't think Jodi could bend over for a week. And even then the operator, my sister, held the camera sideways, not realizing video can't be rotated. Needless to say, she was born in the shallow end of the gene pool. Ready for a third attempt, the battery died on the camera. All I remember after that is blacking out and then seeing my sister face down in a pool of her own bile.
As many of you know, last summer I married the love of my life. And in typical uber-manly Ernie fashion, we had a pirate wedding. Yeah, you read that right, a pirate wedding; I lived every man's dream. I thought for sure I could get some YouTube worthy footage from the wedding, like a band of drunken pirates doing the Safety Dance or the 30 ft inflatable pirate ship collapsing on top of my bratty cousins or a grog-induced food fight or a ninja attack or... something. No such luck though. In fact, when they got our first dance on video, they missed the beginning where we danced to "A Pirate's Life For Me!" I'm dealing with incompetents here, folks.
Just last week I had this plan that involved showing up to my sister's volleyball party with huge ass Super Soakers and storm troopers masks. It was going to be a big surprise, and I swore my mother to secrecy and asked her to work the camcorder. Needless to say she chickened out or you would have just watched several minutes of yours truly dispensing with H20 ass whoopin', Star Wars style.
My day is coming though. It will be a single video, something so heinous and yet so intensely cool that men watching it will have to shave their back hair and women watching it will be spontaneously impregnated. And from that moment on the whole WWW will know that sick, sick bastard in the Vader mask. No one will forget the day they played the Titans experienced problematic content.
Now for a plug for some real YouTube-esque genius:
(Zack, I fully expect compensation for this advertisement.)
|Growing up, my father always had this routine he went through when one of us kids would hurt ourselves. And by "hurt ourselves" I could be referring to either a bug bite, a stubbed toe, a broken bone, or blood gushing from our arms. It really has nothing at all to do with this leading entry, but I just had to share it because the title reminded me of it.
So there I'd be with my humerus sticking out through my elbow, sweating, screaming, and otherwise going into shock. My father would calmly cross his arms, look me square in the eye, and tell me to hold my arm out as far away from my body as I could.
I'd do it of course, between whimpers, thinking he had some miracle father healing he was about to give me a la Mr. Miyagi. I'd wait for him to rub his palms together and then apply some kind of ancient ninja pressure. When that didn't come, I'd wait for him to bestow some fatherly bit of advice, some home remedy passed down from his ancestors. In a way, that's what it was.
Finally he'd say, "Look how far it is from your heart; you'll be fine."
He was always right, and it's a bit of wisdom I pass on to anyone in need to medical attention. Though I always preferred "Suck it up."
But as I said, that's not what this leading entry was about. The leading entry was in fact a parable of sorts. Normally I don't mention what a leading entry is about, least of all when it's a metaphor for loose morals and apparent promiscuity, but parables always make me think of one thing: "The Lorax."
Few can deny that "The Lorax" is a classic. I've written about that hairy little man before. He is, in fact, the only tree-hugging hippie I've ever liked.
Now granted, The Lorax's liberal environmentalist philosophies aren't something I usually agree with, but you have to admit he had it going on. He spoke for the brown barbaloots in their brown barbaloot suits for example. If that's not a metaphor for being a barbaloot pimp, I don't know what is. He also spoke for the Truffula trees, for the trees have no tongues, and for the swammy swans, who I admit were douchebags.
The Lorax was a glorified lobbyist probably sticking his stubby nose into affairs that didn't concern him, but he also had that badass mustache. Even Tom Selleck envies that mustache. If Chuck Norris shaved his beard and left just the mustache, it would look like the Lorax's mustache.
Not to mention the fact that the Lorax could lift himself up by the seat of his pants and fly away. Actually no, I did just mention it. That's because it's totally worth mentioning. That particular skill is something more hippies should be able to do. In fact, they should have to do it. Alternatively I could give them a kick start, quite literally.
Whenever I read "The Lorax," for a brief moment I wonder if maybe we should be more environmentally aware. Maybe, just maybe, we should all vote for Ralph Nader. It lasts only a second mind you before I come to my senses, but even that is impressive. The Lorax has that power over me, and it kind of scares me
|I remember when I use to write. It's a fuzzy memory at best though, often laced with images of exploding bodies from too much XBox. That's what I do now instead of write, I play video games. I'm lazy by nature, so it's much preferable to the actual work that is writing. I signed up for Follow the Leader to attempt to rectify that.
The first step in my writing process has always been hours of silent contemplation. My best ideas always played out in my head, scene by scene, line by line, during those long moments when I have nothing much to do except imagine.
I do my best thinking on a long drive. Many of my most nefarious blog entries were hatched during that 45 minute commute to work. That's why I blogged so much at my previous job. Granted I'm much busier with this job, but I also don't have that long commute to come up with something exceptionally spiffy. In fact, since I now work from home, I don't get to think in the car at all. Or on my ass in the public restroom at work when I'd try to kill the last hours of the afternoon forcing out some half-digested lunch.
I used to get lots of ideas in the shower too. And only some of them were of an erotic nature. Sometimes Jodi would hear me talking to myself in there and ask what I was doing. I'd either ignore her or tell her I was masturbating, both of which are less embarrassing than telling someone you just acted out a naked, three-way dialog from your next chapter.
But now I work from home, and just like not having any commute time to think anymore, I also usually don't bother showering. If I do rinse off or have Jodi hose me down, it only lasts a few moments, hardly enough time to concoct an amusing rant or decide on the perfect dialog for my villain.
I think that's why I'm so far behind on this contest. I use to come up with ideas on the drive in to work. Sure some leading entries would instantly inspire me, but for most I'd have to dig deeper. I've never liked writing about the same thing the leading entry was about. A whole lot of the same gets boring, even when you're writing about something cool like throwing halibuts or midgets with mullets. I always tried to keep my entries different. Now I just don't get the time to think up something "different."
Okay, I'm half lying. The reality is even if I had ideas to write about, I still probably wouldn't. Typing gives me carpel tunnel, and miraculously mashing the buttons on the XBox controller doesn't. For that matter, shooting people at point blank range with a shotgun is vastly more entertaining than reading journals and writing half-assed entries about things I don't much care about. It seems I've lost my writing mojo. Or maybe just my Writing.com mojo.
|I'm participating in Follow the Leader this round, and I'm far behind, but I intend to rectify that, so I'm starting now with the bonus challenge.
At about 9:12 PM I read "Invalid Post" .
At about 9:14 PM I decided I wouldn't bother with this bonus challenge for the Follow the Leader because it was decidedly lame and because as a rule I abhor dictation of one's mundane daily life. I find it excruciatingly boring when reading it in other people's blogs and so I intend to avoid it in mine.
A few minutes later I changed my mind and decided to attempt the bonus challenge after all. It did say part of the challenge was making the mundane details of life seem interesting, so I saw some merit in that at least.
At 9:20 I finally settled in to more than just skim the leading "entry" for the bonus challenge. At 9:21 I took a moment to wonder why Jenn and shannon were using an entry that's 4 months old as an example. I couldn't decide if they had a legitimate reason or if they were just lazy. Given the level of originality I decided it was probably laziness.
At 9:22 I yawned several times. At 9:23 I think I scratched my testicles while reading bout some paranoid cop at Blockbuster. At 9:24 I completely forgot to keep reading and instead watched a fight scene on "The Transporter."
By the time 9:31 rolled around I had decided that it was time to play XBox. Since the bonus challenge was boring the hell out of me and the other leading entries were failing to inspire me to do anything other than take a nice dump, Gears of War online seemed like a much better option.
At 9:33 I suddenly remembered why I haven't played Follow the Leader in so long. And then I decided to procrastinate and start my following entries tomorrow instead.
Tomorrow the outlook is roughly the same. Now I'm going to go shoot some people.