%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |   The only blog that will put hair on your chest... |
|
** 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. > |
| There's a local yoga joint near where I work. It's part of a larger resort-like place, for lack of a better name. They're all about this new age body, mind, and soul mumbo jumbo. See, hippies didn't just go to Woodstock and smoke doobies in flower mural vans; they exist today and are even born today. They wrap themselves in new age nonsense, support the Green Party, think they're Ghandi or something, and still smoke doobies of course. This place is a virtual breeding ground for them. I fully expect them to lock themselves down and mass produce tie-dye shirts and anti-war signs. So anyway, just to prove how dumb hippies are, I have a story about this Body, Mind, and Soul yoga place. They have bed bugs. And not just those microscopic mites that crawl around on our mattresses. We're talking big, bad bugs that are biting yoga people and leaving big, red welts. This shouldn't surprise us really, because we all know how dirty hippies are, even new age hippies, so naturally any place they frequent is rife with cockroaches and other insect undesirables. Want proof that they're dirty? Well, among other things, half of all American yoga people have dreadlocks, those hardened clumps of hair that they "grow" by not washing themselves for weeks at a time. Funny, when Zeus gets mats in his fur I cut 'em out, not flaunt them whilst preparing a meal of organic vegetables. But I digress. So this yoga joint has bugs. (How fitting that I call it a "joint" since that's what they're all smoking.) If your business has a bug infestation, what would you do? Call the exterminator right? Nuh huh, not for these new age peaceniks. They're all into pretending to be the Dali Lama or something, never mind that they're driving cars, actively protesting everything under the sun, eating weird crap like grapeleaves and goat cheese, and of course smoking doobies. So instead they call in someone to "talk to the bugs." Some sort of bug pschologist or psychic. They're own little hippie Doctor Doolittle. They'd rather reason with the bugs then squish 'em or bring them any harm. So the bug therapist comes in and has a heart-to-heart with the bed bugs. He quickly determines that he'll have to come back for another session though, because apparently bed bugs are very hierarchal, and their big bad boss bug wasn't around when he visited. I'm not kidding you. You can't make this shit up. So the new age hippies arranged for him to come back at another time to convene with the head bug and discuss their recent inappopriate behavior. He'll implore the bug to have his underlings cease and desist with the biting and what not. I'm not sure what's crazier: these new age hippies hiring this guy, or this guy. And that is the epitome of a modern hippie. |
| I started reading a particular blog a few weeks ago. A particular life-changing entry about seeing a mullet immediately hooked me, so I bookmarked it. Latter and previous entries showed a hint of liberalism but the blogger professed to hate politics all together. Thank God, not a raging liberal, I thought, and I read on. Of course I had forgotten that most liberal-leaning young people are hypocrites by default. So here's someone who professes to care about politics not at all, and then they go and write an entry about the Mark Foley controversy. Writing about a congressman sending provocative emails to teenage boys isn't political in and of itself, and any rant about a pedophile is a well-founded rant, but the focus of this blogger's entry was instead the political division of this issue. He saw it as his opportunity to pretty much bash Republicans. And then in a subsequent entry, which was all of one paragraph, he took a jab at the conservative-leaning FOX News. God forbid he miss the opportunity to bash any conservative, so let's throw in an addendum entry, eh? How can anyone possibly write about a pedophile and give a single shit about the politics involved? This guy is a sick fuck that should be severely dealt with; his political affiliation is hardly relevant. Does anyone really care whether the creep making passes at teenage boys is a Republican or a Democrat? I sure as hell don't. And who the hell cares whether or not Fox News (which by the way is only as conservative as CNN and most of the media is liberal) puts some spin on it? But of course, raging liberals must turn it into a political issue, because that's what raging liberals do best. The blogger goes on to comment about criticism of Democrats for making this such a big issue. He of course alludes to the Republicans making a big deal about the Clinton sex scandal. Well guess what, no one gives a flying fuck. They are both reprehensible acts, each despicable on their own immoral grounds, and we should make a big deal of both of them. Why does one side have to be right or wrong all the time? Why can't we see that politicians in general all suck ass and hate them all, instead of turning everything into a political martydom for this party or that party? But I'm straying off course from the original intent of this entry, which is of course how much hypocrite liberals piss me off. How come young people who claim to have no interest in politics jump at the first chance to criticize conservatives? They claim to have no affiliation but miraculously take the same side in every debate. Conservatives don't do that. We at least identify with a group and stand behind it. Maybe the damned hippie liberals are too ashamed to identify with the Dumbocrats. I could go on and on about this, but it's really not worth it. I'm a loyal conservative and I'll tell you that right now. I won't profess to be non-political and then bash Clinton and Gore and every other Dumbocrat. To do so would make me a hypocrite. For God's sakes, if you're a liberal, just own up to it, you damn dirty hippie. And yes, all liberals are damn, dirty hippies. No matter what shannon says. |
| Okay, no more patterns of two per day or whatever. I'll write 'em whenever inspiration hits me. And it just hit me like a roundhouse kick to the head. Diane  :Diane wanted me to bring chocolate, but I'll do her one better. Why bring the chocolate to her, when I can bring her to the chocolate? I'd hire my ninjas. who would in turn hire the Amish, to take over the Hershey Chocolate Factory. They'd start flinging poo-laced shurikens, and the factory would quickly clear out. At that point Diane and I would have the run of the factory and access to all the chocolate at all the various stages of manufactoring. At this point I should mention that Diane would be bound and gagged. The gag would not however cover her nostrils, so smelling the chocolate should be no problem. Having woken her up at the ungodly hour of 9 AM at what seemed to be her time of the month, I'd fear for my safety at least a little bit and order the ninjas to subdue her. For someone who knows martial arts, you'd expect her to put up a good showing, but clearly she'd not met the likes of my ninjas. Even so, her lethal crankiness cut their numbers in half. I'd lead her through room after room of boxed, wrapped, and bare chocolate. Shelves and pallets and mountains of chocolate. Chocolate with nuts, with caramel, with nugget. Plain milk chocolate, creamy white chocolate, and rich dark chocolate. Vats of liquid chocolate and pillars of solid milk chocolate. At last we'd emerge into a candlelit room with a pedestal in the center. Atop the pedestal would stand a chiseled hunk of a man encased in a thin layer of milk chocolate and chocolate fudge. Only his head would protrude from the chocolate casing that functioned as the only covering on his naked body. He would wink and beckon Diane. Sickened beyond belief, I'd make a quick exit and lock the door behind me to go eat some chocolate. In my haste I'd forget to undo Diane's bindings or remove the duct tape gag. Which I guess means she'd still be stuck in there, and that guy would still be stuck in the chocolate. *shrugs* Oh well, damn this chocolate is good! |
| Okay okay, so I'm getting slow with these. I decided to only do them during my slow times at work. That way I avoid being too bored at work. I wanted to do them all at once so as to not waste blog entries, but I tend to lose my head of steam after one or two. So here's the next installment. novusfemina: I did this with Sweet Lady once already, and I didn't embarrass her too much. I couldn't even be especially cruel, because, as I pointed out back then, "being wicked to Sweet Lady is like tripping Mother Theresa." However, having since met her in person I realized just how wrong I was. She may be sweet, but that girl is anything about innocent. I had the pleasure of seeing the giggle-wave in person, and since we all got such a kick out of it, I thought it fitting that on our virtual day together I'd make the blush and giggle-wave a bit more permanent. I'd of course accomplish this by bringing her to a strip club. Now, having seen a drunken Sweet Lady staring at my fiancee's cleavage all night, I know she would enjoy this. It's just a matter of getting enough drinks in her. Fortunately she's isn't the type to turn down an adult beverage. I've never actually seen a stripper or been to a strip club, because it's just not my thing, but the hilarious giggle wave is probably worth it. It would be only females strippers of course, because I no desire to see another man's penis, and I'd rather not throw up before even having a drink. I'm quite sure boobs would be sufficient to keep Sweet Lady occupied anyway. I expect she'd blush perpetually and maybe even hyperventilate from the giggling. Her wrist would get sore fanning herself, and the sounds of horny, drunk men would soon be drowned out by a sweet southern belle exclaiming things like "Oh my!" and "I'm innocent!" When she started getting a little wobbly from the booze and settled down a bit, I'd start throwing twenties in front of her seat so the girls would come over and give her a lap dance. They'd have to be careful though, because I'm betting Sweet Lady is likely to get a little frisky. I'd somehow have to keep her from getting us tossed out for violating the don't touch rule. I expect after a half dozen or so reddish concoctions, she'd wind up on the stage trying to teach the strippers how to belly dance. They would in turn teach her how to pole dance, and I'd shield my eyes, because that would be like seeing my little sister do a strip tease, a drunker, loopier little sister. I'd recognize Robert Waltz  in the crowd, and we'd exchange some high fives and buy each other drinks while Sweet Lady disappeared somewhere with a couple of the strippers.I'd intervene before the men could get their grubby mitts on her though because I'm a gentleman like that. I'd drive her home and shove her out of the car with a package of pussy pops before she could start getting frisky with me SueBear :Ah, what can I do with Susan? That's really a tough one considering I barely know her. I mean what do I know about her that I could turn into a day or even a few hours together? I don't think watching a Magnum PI marathon qualifies. Actually maybe it does... Yes, we could watch Magnum PI all day and relate it to the Writing.com scroll crowd, getting a good laugh at their expense. Clearly I'm the handsome, dashing hero type like Magnum himself, but because I'm so modest I'll identify with Higgins instead. Why? Because he's smart, witty, wealthy, and snooty. If you added in studly with mad skills, I'd be a spitting image At this point the analogy already ends, because I would not be able to find any scripted characters dumb enough to play some of the scroll regulars. I'd comment on this several times, and Susan would snicker but attempt to maintain an air of dignity and respect. Fortunately I know that would all be a front, and I'd move on to activity #2. With my trusty phonebook and some Google sauvy, I'd find the phone numbers for Scroll frequenters. The most annoying ones don't even make it too difficult to get their names and information. Of course then we'd make prank phone calls. Having never done that myself, I'd force Susan to place the first call. She'd first call a certain black case that couldn't find his way out of a plastic bag or a shopping cart and ask him if his refrigerator is running. At this point the joke would be lost on him because when she told him to go catch it, he would try. Afterwards I'd have a midget come over, and Susan would punt him across the room. I'd let her know that is what it feels like to kick a munchkin's ass. |
| It's been a year, a year of peace, happiness, and love. I am no longer alone, nor do I need the Internet to provide my sole source of companionship. So I should be unaffected right? I should not feel the cling of Writing.com IMs, right? I should be impervious, right? Wrong. It happened this morning. I was sitting here, bored at work, waiting for 8:00 AM to roll over so I could call a support line. I did what I always do in that situation: I kept tapping the F5 key every other breath to refresh the Writing.com IM Console. No one was in Scroll though, and the last solved bot game just kept refreshing at the top of Scroll. I hit F5 once more, and the frame of a small popup window appeared at the top of the console. An instant message! It started as a white screen, as it always does, and as I waited for it to load, I thought of who it could be. At this ungodly hour I had to rule out most of the usual IM pals. That meant it was either Jodi or some new person about to regale me with something interesting or spam me with something poorly written. My heart leapt as I realized it could be my beautiful fiancee popping in for a bit before she headed off to work. The window loaded and I glanced at the handle. Greg B. Ghastly. My jaw dropped as the disappointment of not chatting Jodi hit me. I had been misled, fooled, bamboozled, tricked, disappointed, led astray, and hoodwinked. By a damned Ghostie. So they've returned have they? Those multi-hued little bastards with bad puns for names?! They've returned to trick all us bored and lonely bastards into thinking we're getting unexpected but highly appreciated IMs. It's a sadistic thing to do to somebody who delights as much as I do at any chance to avoid work. There was a link in the IM to turn the Ghosties off. Did I click it though? Of course not. When you're as bored as I am, even a phony IM practically makes you squirm with delight. I wrote about the Ghosties once before, in much more detail, and I welcome you to check it out: "Invalid Entry"  . |
| Okay, so I missed out on this round of "Invalid Item" by my own choice, but some people respond to the leading entries anyway. Frankly I'm neither bored enough, uninspired enough, nor respectful enough to even attempt that. Especially when there's nothing at stake. Today though mood indigo posted the bonus challenge, and I decided I had to respond to it. Basically one of the options for the bonus prompt is to write a knock knock joke. Time to share my favorite knock knock joke of all time. Knock knock. Who's there? ... I don't know, but you're mother's a whore. I promise you it's much funnier when Sean Connery says it. |
| Okay, I better start knocking these off again. Time for some more. Bear in mind that everyone will receive their 1000 GPs when I'm done with everybody. kittiara: I had a hard time getting ideas for Kitti. What problematic way could I possibly spend a day with someone so nice, unassuming, and saccharine? And then I realized that was my inspiration. Kitti and I will spend the day at a cat shelter. She'll get to cuddle and smother all the little kitties, so I'm sure she'll love that. I, on the other hand, will find the long-haired ones and pet their backs quickly, thus building a static electric charge in my fingertips which I will then discharge by touching their ears or noses. Having done this to my sister's cat on several occasions, I know the cat's reaction is completely worth the minor shock I experience. I will then present Kitti with the true purpose of our feline visit. I'll hand over a wireless laptop already connected to Writing.com. Then, for every time she says or types any variant of the word "hug" I'll punch a kitten in the face. If you happen to show up at that shelter, you'll recognize me because I'll be the one in the back punching kitten faces. I'll be typing away on my own laptop as well, coaxing people to prompt her huggly wuggly barfy warfy Kittisms. Any use of "hugglewif" will be especially heinous and likely involve a monkeywrench, bailing twine, and a twelve-pack of Twisted Tea. The alcohol is because I'll need to be drunk to pull it off. Once huggling is cleaned from her system, at the expense of turning kitten faces into swollen hamburger meat, I'll douse her in tuna fish and lock her in a cell with feral cats. While she undergoes some kind of Michelle Feifer-esque Cat Woman transformation, I'll hunt down evil purveyors of kitty porn. Those sick fucks! She'll emerge a grizzled, hissing feline who swears in Scroll and journals about drop-kicking midgets. And my work will be done. The only thing remaining will be escaping without getting scratched or bitten. darkin What can I say about Darkin that hasn't already been said? If we include all the things people say behind her back, then I guess nothing. Luckily all I have to do is find some way to amuse her, and we all know how easily amused she is. First off I'll preface all our activities with a capitalized disclaimer, warning of bad language, inappropriate behavior, and uncharacteristic rants, before returning you all to your regularing scheduled blog reading. Clearly Darkin and I will need to consume large quantities of hot sauce. We'll have a hot sauce drinking competition. However, she will be unaware that I'm pouring her hot sauce while I pour myself a nice glass of V8. I've never actually had V8, and I suspect it ranks only slightly above puddle water, but I'll easily be able to win the competition. Hopefully it will go on for quite some time, because I'm fairly certain she has a lead stomach. And a lack of sanity. Her eyes will water, her face will turn red, and a throbbing ulcer will manifest itself in her stomach. Now, in theory, you might expect me to act like I too am suffering. However, first, I want to look all studly and what not, and second, I really doubt she'll noticed. So I'll egg her on with remarks like "Is that all you got, wuss?" and "Be a squirrel!" and "Say uncle! Say UNCLE!" I'll eventually win of course, because that's one of the things I do. Some people will say I cheat, but clearly it's just another case of advanced strategy. Then, while Darkin is melting before my very eyes, lost in her haze of habernero hallucination, I'll hold up a mirror. Of course it won't be a mirror, but she'll be too far gone to notice that. Instead she'll gaze into the glass-like material, expecting to see herself, and come face to face with a woodchuck. She'll begin groping at her face, which I have since covered with woodchuck hair, and realize finally that she's lived a horrible horrible lie. After she faints, I'll revive her and show her the image again. Revive, reveal, repeat. Then for kicks I'll make her chuck wood. |
It's up there...  Now I just have to get around to rewriting the intro, since it really hasn't applied in about 10 months. |
| Wow, a lot of people willing to spend a virtual day with me. I have my work cut out for me. Luckily my creative genius is pumping at full speed today. So let's dive right in. I'll only do the first two for now though, and I'll be doing them in order, so you'll know when yours is coming. terryjroo: Terry and I don't have a whole lot in common, but fortunately we do have one very entertaining hobby in common: laughing at stupid people. I think most people actually share this most honorable of pasttimes, but few own up to a morbid fascination with society's outcasts and nitwits. Not only do I own up to it, but I write about it shamelessly. In fact, I go out of my way to create situations of potential hilarity at the expense of the socially and intellectually challenged. So that's how Terry and I would spend our day. We'd find a comfy street bench and sit down for an afternoon of people watching. Ideally we'll sit outside WalMart or Goodwill, shops ripe with stupid people. Now because seeing stupid people pass by isn't quite enough, I'll strike up conversations with them. I'll nod to the enormous chick with the three filthy kids and ask about her trailer. I'll stop the guy in flannel and ask how long it took to grow out that glorious mullet. I'll sell "magic beans" to the old man with the visor and the shit stain on the back of his pants. I'll inquire of the Goths whether or not blue koolaid makes an effective hair dye. Goths don't hang out at Walmart you say? Actually the wannabe Goths do, and anyone who tries to look like death frozen over and mutilated by a masochistic clown but can't quite pull it off is way funnier than real Goths. Then wonder of wonders, we'll reach our loser watching peak. The crazy guy who wonders the streets in high heels yelling at himself will wander by. We have one of those in my town. He has dozens of women's shoes, which he wears whilst walking the sidewalks and turning around to scream vehemently and unintelligibly at the invisible person following him. He goes into the local liquor store and scratches lottery tickets compulsively. The employees give him a dollar to do stupid shit. They also give him dollar bills when he rattles off the square root of 4 digit numbers to the nearest hundredth decimal place. He gets it right every time, mere seconds after they do it with a calculator. He's some sort of math idiot savant, like the rainman but a lot dirtier and a shoe fetish instead of a KMart one. He also has a "husband," who is a hunched, buck-toothed man who wears the same red shirt and hat every day and wanders the street giggling to himself for no apparent reason. They are a match made in heaven. To top it all off his name is Vince. The only way it would be better is if his name was Marc. When he wanders by, Terry will try her best to disappear, which is what most people do when Vince, or Vinny as those in the know affectionately call him, comes within fifty feet. I'm not most people however, and I'll strike up a conversation with him. In fact I'll let him know that Terry thinks he's cute. Despite having a supposed husband, Vince loves the ladies and sometimes shows off his lovely shoes to flirt. So then Terry will spend the rest of the afternoon huddled under the park bench while Vinny lifts his pantleg to reveal white heels and winks like he has Tourette's. And I'll be laughing my ass off. mood indigo :Shannon says I'm mean, so I shouldn't disappoint her. Since torture is what I do best, I'll take her to a trailer park. I don't actually know anyone at a trailer park, but I'm sure they're nice people that wouldn't mind us visiting. I'll find that trailer in the back with its own Porta-Potty. Except it won't be a trailer exactly; it will be an abandoned, broken down school bus . Larry and Doris will live inside and they'll welcome us into their not-so-mobile home. After they push the dirty dishes off the sheet of plywood bolted to one of the bus seats, we'll all sit down and enjoy some lunch, which will consist mostly of hamburger meat and cereal. For variety, the two will be pre-mixed. After lunch, I'll let Doris know that shannon wants a makeover. She'll fetch her beautifying utensils from the overhead compartment that used to house the fire extinguisher, thus raising her arms and giving us a full view of the sweaty armpit hair that resides beneath the sagging skin dangling from the sleeveless holes of her tanktop. The gesture will pull the too-tight shirt up even further, until her second roll spills out. After retrieving the goods, she'll produce a pair of rusty scissors and proceed to cut and style shannon's hair. The result is a stunning white trash mullet. She'll proceed with other beautifying tasks, including a manicure and a pedicure. Doris even takes the time to point out how she sanded down the corns on her own feet. However, there is an unreachable spot behind her ankle and she asks shannon to scratch it for her. After lunch and the makeover, Larry takes us out back to shoot guns, lots and lots of guns. We shoot the rats and the mice. Shannon tries to name them, but I blow their little heads off. Finally, as the day draws to a close, shannon and I will swap presents. She'll present me with buckets of ninjas, and I'll give her a toothbrush wrapped in a sock with masking tape, all bundled together inside a condom because I know how much she loves those. If you don't believe me, just ask her. |
| Okay, folks, what better way to kick off some vintage PC blogging than a blog game, a tradition which I basically invented and everyone copied. It's hard being the Howard Stern of blogging you know. So, here's the deal. A long while ago I wrote a blog entry saying how I would spend a day with each of my friends. I feel like doing something similar, but this time I don't get to choose who I spend time with. Simply post a comment in this blog, any kind of comment at all, and I will send you 1000 GPs and write a blurb about how I would spend a day with you in an upcoming blog entry. Whichever one turns out the most amusing by my judgment will earn the commenter an extra 10,000 GPs. Basically you get 1000 GPs and a little story written about you. Then based on my blogging skills, I may earn you another 10,000 GPs. Yes, it's open to anyone. Even if I don't know you, I'll write a blurb about spending a day with you. And yes, it's open to people involved the first time I did this. I've known you all much longer now and can no doubt come up with some fresh material. But remember that spending a virtual day with me may not be something you'd want to experience... I'll award GPs and begin writing my blog entry tomorrow at noon, so you have 24 hours, people. |
| I haven't blogged much lately. That means I don't have any bizarre anecdotes or anything that's really pissed me off. That is, until now. Well, maybe not pissed off so much as disappointed. Frankly I blame myself. The Writing.com blog world has come up lame of late. And I mean lame in the most insulting of ways. I can count on a mutant's hand how many blogs have offered up decent entries of late. Without good blog entries, I have nothing to pass those last 20 minutes before my lunch break each day. This makes me irritable. Not irritable like got up on the wrong side of bed irritable, but rather I want to punch someone in the kidney kind of irritable. It makes me want to punt a midget. A midget with a mullet no less, which is roughly as life-changing as seeing a sasquatch. I see surveys, a not-so-trendy fad that thankfully died, is slowly making a comeback. I found a somewhat interesting survey in a journal the other day and contemplated doing it myself. And then I had a revelation. Surveys are only interesting to the people taking them, and even then only occasionally so. I skimmed the questions and read only a couple of the answers before the survey in question bored me. Unless it's shiny or filled with porn holograms, surveys are pretty much worthless. I can't even get through a question or two of those ridiculous MySpace type surveys before I jab myself in the adam's apple. Why are grown people who profess to be writers using surveys written by and for adolescents? Here's a clue people: when the survey asks you about high school as if you're in it right now, you're not supposed to fill it out unless you haven't grown any pubic hair yet. It should be a law or something. Another trend seems to be the very short blog entry. Now granted I'm exceptionally verbose, but these three sentence blog entries are a waste of my time. I click the link, eager to piss away some work time on blog reading, and discover an entry a first grader could read. It's highly disappointing, people. If you're going to write just a halfass entry, then seriously don't waste my time. I'm guilty of that offense too though, since I use my blog as advertisement. This thing gets more views than a stripper's boobs, so it's the most obvious place to post any items or links I'm looking to publicize. I know those entries are a waste of time though, and I delete them soon after. In fact, it was one of these entries that made me realize what blogging has come to of late. I linked my Ninja Chronicles website and posted one or two sentences about a miniscule update I had made. I promptly got a flurry of blog comments. People are so bored they're commenting on nothing. It's disappointing. Listen, I know people adore me and take all my entries as gospel, but that's just plain sad, folks. The "Follow the Leader" contest has inspired great blog entries for a few? months now, so I figured I could at least count on that for some cool entries. It was only the second time in my life I've been wrong. One of the prompts actually asked participants to name their three favorite fictional characters. Funny, I seem to remember exercises like that in grade school. I shouldn't be surprised since the same assignment was actually given to the participant's 8th grade class. What an original prompt! The next prompt should be one of those MySpace surveys or maybe just a list of each person's favorite movies. What's worse is some participants who profess to be intelligent can't recognize the sheer juvenile and lameass value of that prompt because they have their noses shoved up certain artsy asses. I was supposed to be a participant in this round of the contest, and I no doubt would have single-handedly saved it from the mundane blog boredom. I had to pull out though when I saw a vile, pretentious, pompous, selfish, self-absorbed, moody, high maintenance, self-deluding, back-stabbing, uninformed and ignorant liberal wench joined the contest. It would have turned into a blog war, which is strictly prohibited by the rules. I hope she's reading this right now actually, so she can enjoy the pleasure of knowing she kept me out of a contest. Listing out all these entirely accurate adjectives is worth giving her a little satisfaction. In fact I'm almost positive she's reading this, because she still whines to a mutual friend when I write something offensive or something she thinks is about her (which it never is). The first time I entered I didn't care about winning and pulled out prematurely, but next time I enter I'll win it, much like I would have done had I finished the first go-round. That's not arrogance, that's well-founded confidence, especially after seeing the abysmal display the "competitors" are barfing out this round. I blame myself for this blogging lull. I inspire people somehow, and I stir people up. They may write similar entries, they may write hateful entries, they may leave tons of comments, or they may just get fired up and go on blogging. But clearly if the non-holy-roller segment of the blogging community is going to get a kickstart, I'll have to be the one doing the kicking. Fortunately I love to kick. Time for some vintage PC bloggage; the world has waited long enough. |
| Just did a minor update on http://ninjachronicles.problematiccontent.com. At the bottom of the left panel you can now email the Ninjamaster, whom is of course me, because I'm a badass like that. That's all. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Well, actually the Greatest Website Ever is clearly http://ninjachronicles.problematiccontent.com but the following is a close second... http://www.realultimatepower.net/index4.htm |
| I got Jodi a new digital camera for her birthday yesterday. We hadn't even had time to learn how to properly use it yet before witnessing something I just had to document. The ninjas are alive and well, and what you are about to see is straight out of the pages of World Weekly News. (Not National Enquirer because they have celebrity stories; only WWN has awesome shit like the bat baby and sasquatch photos.) I fear what may become of this... http://www.ninjachronicles.problematiccontent.com/navigate.php?ninja_id=50 http://www.ninjachronicles.problematiccontent.com/navigate.php?ninja_id=51 ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Anxiety attacks are coming back again. Right now my heart is racing and I can't think straight. They are less frequent than they used to be, but every once in a while they rear their ugly head. As usual, it's financially induced. On the way into work, my driver's seat finally broke. More accurately it's been broken and flopping around for a long while, but this morning the last bit apparently snapped. It's pretty much just setting on top of the base, and I can't get it to stabilize. Ironically I'm not the least bit concerned that it's unsafe to drive. Instead I'm dreading how much it would cost to fix. I drive a rather fancy conversion van, with fully electric bucket seats. I'm afraid this may be a four digit expenditure. I'd be content to just go on driving it as it. I could bungee cord it down or wrap duct tape around the whole base. Hell, I've duct taped my glasses together before, so why not a seat? That's all fine and dandy, but my inspection sticker runs out at the end of this month. That's where the anxiety really sets in. I'm afraid it won't pass inspection and I'll have to fix the seat. Halloween is just around the corner. I've cut my expenditures from last year down immensely, but I still have more stuff to get. And then there is the upcoming holiday season and frequent trips to Maine. I've accounted for those expenditures and am not particularly concerned about them. Until now. If I have to come up with four digits to fix this seat, some part of all that will need be sacrificed. Without a doubt that will be Halloween, and that's fine, but more importantly I don't have that money right now. I just don't know how I could pay for it. Which means if it fails inspection, I'll be paying $500 ($600 with insurance) a month for a car I can't use, and I'll have no way to get to work. We always seem to get through these things, and we probably will again. I just don't know how. The money isn't there and it won't be any time soon. I don't know what I'm going to do, and some flaw in my personality prevents me from handling that stress. My foot is shaking right now, and I feel the panic setting in. Sitting here at work, I know I won't be productive today. I can't possibly be. I can't think of anything but money. Of course that invariably leads to thinking of the wedding. I almost just typed "the wedding next year" but left off the "next year" part, because right now I can't see it happening. I cannot imagine having all the money I need to pay for a wedding. It looks like it will cost me a bare minimum of $4000, and I have scantly more than a couple hundred bucks left over from each paycheck. And every time that excess starts to build up, I get hit with an expense like this stupid chair and it's all gone. This summer it was new brakes and rotors sapping my savings. Now it's this chair. We're no closer to the wedding than we were almost a year ago when we got engaged. I don't know how I'm going to do this. So there it is, my whiny entry of the month. I'm usually ashamed a couple days later for whining about the sort of things lots of people deal with everyday. But sometimes I just have to write it out; it's the only way to try to calm myself. It doesn't work much, but bottling it up is even worse. I really need Jodi right now. |
| An absurd portion of the blogging community is taking the "Let's be Fruity!" quiz and linking their results in pictoral fruit form. We have grapes and apples and bananas and kiwis and kumquats and whatever else. I, however, am no fruit. There is nothing even remotely fruity about me. Fruits are for pansies and... well, fruits. I'm about as fruity as Bruce Willis or Samuel L Jackson. That's because I'm a man's man, and man's men don't take no fruity quizzes. This is one bandwagon I ain't jumping on. I might kick the wheel out and laugh when you produce people roll out into the street, but I ain't getting on. If I was any plant life at all, I would be a vegetable. Vegetables are way cooler and taste better. Think about it. I could be some lettuce, because having me in large doses gives people the runs. Or I could be a potato because... uh... because potatoes grow underground. Yeah, that's it. Or corn, definitely corn, because no matter how much butter and suger you schlop on me, I'll still come out hard. No one can fully digest me. Except for Jodi, who usually has diarrhea. The next time I see someone being fruity, I'm going to make them wear a tutu and pay an assless-chaps-wearing, cowboy midget to have anal sex with them. Bring it on, you fruity bastards. |
A bunch of mostly younger bloggers decided to start a blogging newsletter geared towards those living not quite within the gated community of Blogville. I've been asked to write for it, and that's where my last entry came in. Here's the link:
|
| Z.˚rz asked me to write about my views on cussing in blogs. Yes, he actually used the word "cussing." Seriously, dude, there should be a law against 20-somethings ever using the word "cuss" or any of its derivatives. Unless we had to walk six miles uphill both ways to go to the mall we're not entitled to use that word. And how do you expect whippersnappers like myself to reckon anythin' about cussing in these new fangled der blogs? It's almost enough to make me wanna rock on the porch and sip a little canteen of... uh... root beer. Now the real challenge here is writing about cussing in blogs without ever actually cussing. He wants me to argue the value of swearing with an E rating. C'mon, man! That's like taking a fat guy to an All You Can Seafood Buffet and duct taping his mouth. Having experienced this first hand I can attest to its torture value. So how do I defend being a potty mouth without prompting someone to wash that mouth out with soap? How do I talk about curses without cursing? This had me perplexed for quite some time, until I realized one of my boyhood heroes had already solved this problem, someone much more sagacious and eloquent than myself. I am of course referring to Papa Smurf. You'll see what I mean in a moment. Clearly I'm a proponent of cussing in blogs. That's not to say I think someone's blog stinks just because they don't swear; they actually stink for others reasons. In fact, you can write a perfectly entertaining and expressive blog without ever cursing. You just need to evaluate the tools you do have. For instance, I can write an E-rated entry about "fanny burping." I can even write one about "poo." Are those E-rated blog entries going to be just as entertaining and problematic? Smurf yeah! In fact, do any curse words exist that are cooler and funnier than "fanny burp?" I submit that there are not. I can even even say "turdastic," and that my friends is fan-Smurfing-tastic! By now you Smurftards are wondering what the Smurf I'm talking about. It doesn't matter really, because the real issue is whether or not cussing in blogs is kosher. Since I'm not Jewish, that is also a moot point, but since I am a blogger it's a topic that's close to my heart. There's is this little thing we call Freedom of Speech. So long as we're not slanderous or libelous, which frankly takes all the fun out of it, we can express ourselves pretty much any way we want. That includes cussin'! Basically it's my Smurfing right to Smurf whenever the Smurf I want! Hmmm, I think I just Smurfed when I should have Gargameled. Anyway, if I want to cuss to express myself, why shouldn't I? Living in America has given me the right to cuss, bear arms, and other awesome stuff. It's your blog, folks, and if you want to cuss, why should prudes, morality chasers, little children, or the religious right stop you? Hippie liberals, all of whom need a swift kick in the Smurf, would preach about raising a village, blah blah blah, and let us know that we can adequately express ourselves without swearing. This is of course true, and many people are capable of speaking eloquently and efficiently to express their thoughts and opinions. I'm mostly talentless so I don't count myself among them. Even if I did, how can I effectively talk about fanny burping and accidently Smurfing myself without cussing a little? I can't, because it's just not my style. I use cuss words like chefs use seasoning. I spice it up, give it a kick, and yell "Bam!" for no reason other than it's obnoxious and draws nasty glares. I like to cuss, and it's part of my disrepectful, trash-talking, 90's-generation heritage. I identify with it, because frankly nothing gives me a warm-hearted family feeling like calling my sister a Smurfing Smurf before I Smurf slap the Smurf. (Trust me, she's no Smurfette.) I get all gooey when I open up someone's blog and see a string of f-bombs the likes of which would make Jay and Silent Bob blush. Sometimes that blogger has a real points, sometimes he's hilarious, and sometimes he's such a total Smurfclown that I can't help but laugh. And that's my perogative. Some people find swearing offensive, so they might assert that we shouldn't cuss in blogs. Listen, I don't like raging liberals--they offend me, so I don't read their blogs. Why torture myself? Quiet liberals are fine, but raging liberals make me want to Smurf. (Use your imagination.) That's all there is to it, folks. If you don't like something, don't read it. For that reason, I wouldn't expect cuss-haters to read my blog. Just stay away. Why is that so hard? You know what else Smurfs me off? People who set their blogs to an XGC rating and then whine when someone cusses in the comments sections. Hellooooooooooo, Earth to Brainy Smurf, you just gave all readers carte blanche to post obscenities in your blog! That's what the rating is for! You've got three choices here. 1) You can lower your rating, which requires you stop cussing too. Or 2) You can just deal with it because no one did anything wrong. Or 3) Go on whining about it like a hypocrite. All the same logic applies to any blog rated 18+ or above. If you don't want to see swear words, then don't allow them. Plain and simple. *Phew* I'm rambling now, especially since I could have summed this whole thing up in three simple words: Freedom of Expression. Others may outcry for decency, and I suggest those people kiss my Smurf. I'm going to go on cussing in my blog until someone decides that "fanny burp" is seditious. Time to go Smurf my fiancee. And by Smurf I of course mean swear fealty and hand over a list of my bank account PIN numbers. |
| You know that saying "An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind?" That's a bunch of bullshit. If someone pokes out your eye, you poke out both of his fucking eyes. There won't be any poking going on after that now will there? Anyone ever see the movie "The Untouchables?" One of the greatest movies ever made. And straight from Sean Connery's lips, this is the single greatest line ever: You wanna know how you do it? Here's how, they pull a knife, you pull a gun. He sends one of yours to the hospital, you send one of his to the morgue. You know why? Because it's true. You have to fight fire with fire sometimes. You can't sit back and just "take it like a man." What about when they cut your testicles off? Are you still a man then? Actually most of my readers are female, so let's speak more generally. So suppose someone takes a jab at you. They decide they are better than you and they kick you. You peaceniks will turn the other cheek. Hell, I might too... the first time. Now suppose he kicks you again. And again. And again. Do you still let him kick you? Maybe you call the cops. What if they don't do anything? You going to just let him keep kicking? I for one am going to kick back. But I don't want to engage in a kicking war, so I'm going to aim right for his groin. Then when he's lying on the ground, I'm going to kick him in the kidneys a few times, so he knows to never ever kick me again. And if he makes the same mistake again? I'll just kick harder and I'll go get a big stick. What about if this guy just kicks you once? Okay, maybe you ignore it. But suppose he lets you know he's going to kick again at a later time. In fact, he's going to keep kicking until he gets what he wants? What then? It's like the school bully that steals your lunch money every day. You know he's going to take your money again tomorrow, and there's nothing you can do about it. Oh, but there is... you can punch that assclown right between the eyes. But maybe you just let the bully keep taking your money all throughout school. Eventually he drops out of high school and you're safe. Of course then he knocks up some poor girl, leaves her for dead without ever paying child support, gets drunk one night and kills a family of three in a car accident. When we let people get away with shitting on people, they just keep shitting. Some people don't respond to pleasantries and turning the other cheek. They truly don't get it. They are so deluded that they will not stop until they've accomplished their goal. Will you keep being the punching bag until that goal is met? I won't. Historically who are some people that turned the other cheek? The French ignored Germany right up until they were conquered. Several Native American tribes welcomed European explorers right up until they slaughtered them. The US presidental administrations stayed out of terrorist affairs right up until we lost 3000 civilian lives. The list goes on and on. Now, when you turn the other cheek and ignore the person pressing your buttons, you know you are "the better person." Means a lot doesn't? Actually it means exactly jack shit. What did being the better person ever accomplish? Self gratification? Let me tell you something; nothing is more gratifying than laying waste to your tormentor. Don't delude yourselves, kiddos, revenge is sweet. I can see the appeal of wanting to know you're the better person though. But guess what, you already knew you were a better person, because you would have never started kicking someone in the first place! You're better than that pompous ass, and retaliating doesn't diminish that one iota. Is there anything in today's society that rewards "being the better person?" Nothing that comes to mind. In fact, being underhanded, shady, clever, dishonest, mud-slinging, and aggressive is rewarded! How many politicians, successful businessmen, world leaders, professional athletes, etc. do you know that are "being the better person?" So then what does "being the better person" really get you? Some more kicks to your groin. I'm not saying we should stop being good people. Quite the contrary. We just need to realize that when someone kicks us and continues to kick, the only way to end the pain is to kick back. My father taught me to not start fights, only finish them. I'd be a fool not to. Push me once, whatever, but push me twice and you'll be lying on your back seeing stars. For you liberal hippies who love my blog so much, no, this entry is not a metaphor for war in the Middle East, though you can certainly draw many parallels. It's just a general rant about how worthless "being the better person" is. |
I saw the toilet ninjas defeated, but I have a hunch they'll try a counter attack. Just in case I'm starting a Ninja Relief Fund. If you want to help the cause, check out the new cNotes I just created! You too can have a piece of ninja lore!
|
 Log in to Leave Feedback |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
Tooo rich...Love the tale....Would make a great comic for a local newspaper!!
