Hopeless Cynic

Because I Hate You and I Want You To Suffer

2009-04-22T22:01:00.002-04:00

The Inspiration for Sugar Hill Gang's 'Jump On It'

2009-03-26T17:23:00.001-04:00

From the brilliant minds that brought you 'Adventure Time'

2009-02-26T23:03:00.001-05:00

I made another one

2009-02-26T16:49:00.003-05:00

I swear this was entirely coincidence and I didn't cheat at all.

analbumcover

2009-02-26T02:21:00.002-05:00

You can make one too:

1 - Click
The first random wikipedia article you get is the name of your band.

2 - Click
The last four or five words of the very last quote of the page is the title of your album.

3 - Click
Third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.

4 - Use photoshop or similar to put it all together.

I know the album title 'Vices Have Very Few Virtues' should be lower, but for some reason GIMP flattened the image before I could change it and I was too lazy to do it over again. You get the idea.

Also, this may be the greatest band name ever.

This is terrifying.

2009-02-09T12:56:00.003-05:00

Also, this girl is either Tom's daughter or the love of his life a few years too late.

Campaign's Over, Guys

2008-11-08T14:31:00.002-05:00

Time for some new bumper stickers.

McCain/Palin-themed sticker coming soon.

There Are No Words...

2008-09-18T13:35:00.003-04:00

(01:31:18 PM) Tom: You're a freight train!
(01:31:27 PM) Johannes: !
(01:31:31 PM) Johannes: Choo! Choo!
(01:31:48 PM) Tom: I'm a truck!
(01:31:52 PM) Tom: Beep beep!
(01:32:26 PM) Johannes: OH NOES! You stalled on the train tracks!
(01:32:29 PM) Johannes: CHOO CHOO!
(01:32:35 PM) Tom: Beep beep! Beep!
(01:32:37 PM) Tom: Beeeeeeeep!
(01:32:40 PM) Johannes: Wuh-BAM!
(01:32:52 PM) Tom: *crunch shatter break*
(01:32:55 PM) Tom: Beeeeeeep...
(01:32:56 PM) Johannes: CHOO CHOO
(01:33:18 PM) Tom: And that's how the train crossing got haunted by the ghost of a truck for all eternity.
(01:33:27 PM) Johannes: This is probably the greatest conversation we've ever had.
(01:33:42 PM) Tom: I'm pretty sure we can both fly off into the sunset on our magical balloons now.

This Is At Least 20 Kinds of Awesome

2008-09-17T15:37:00.001-04:00

www.marissasbunny.com

Found through Penny Arcade, first mentioned here.

Pics of the bunny at the PA Office.

the Book of Truth

2008-09-04T14:12:00.006-04:00

By observing my parents and the parents of my friends, I have reached the following conclusion: there is a fine balance between the cost and the value of your own children.

Let's face it: children are not cheap. They eat all the time; they wear through their clothing at an alarming rate; they break everything in their paths; they even incur costs when getting rid of things you already paid for once (food-->diapers, toilet paper; old clothing, toys, etc.-->garbage pickup services; goldfish they overfed-->water costs for a grandiose burial-at-sea).

As such, I have devised a plan to bring about maximum enjoyment of one's children at a minimum increase in the usual cost (hours of psychological counseling later in life notwithstanding). You are all welcome to use it.

I call it, simply, the Book of Truth. The Book of Truth will be a tome that occupies a prominent spot on your bookshelf or coffee table. It can be bound (or not) however you like, but it is important that it look official. A large, leatherbound volume with worn edges and tattered, yellowing pages, scripted in large (but not too large), flowing cursive would not be far off the mark.

Within the book will be lies. Not terrible, boldfaced lies (unless you think you can get away with them), but clever, creative works of fiction. Think of the explanations made by Calvin's dad. These lies--or 'truths'--will be fed steadily to your children as they grow up, with just enough conviction (and just enough backing from 'the Book') to keep them believing them until they begin to attend school and the endless(ly entertaining!) parent-teacher conferences begin. No other parent can fault you for these, either; they should be no more absurd than the legends of magical Easter Bunnies and benevolent (or confused) faeries who flit from house to house exchanging valuable coin for tiny human teeth--presumably to surface the keys of their tinier-still faerie pianos.

I will let you come up with creative 'truths' on your own, but I will add a few suggestions to heighten the realism of your child's parent-assisted spiral to remedial classes and lifelong counseling:

-Let your friends in on the fun. Make copies of the book for your child's friends' parents. Keep the same 'truths' circulating through your community or circle of friends to add to the fun.
-Make a Book of Lies. If you have naturally curious or suspicious children, make a Book of Lies and hide it somewhere in your bedroom or attic. Fill it, in the same authoritative script, with the factual answers to your children's questions.

I know, I know, there are easier ways to make your children (nearly) worthwhile. Forced labor has been a favorite for generations, and in some cultures (the Irish) it has even been suggested that your offspring are a suitable substitute for your Saturday night TV dinner. I say it's time for a change. Break out of the chains of stagnant, overused offspring-based amusement and get creative.

Don't worry about your little ones finding this guide and undoing all of your careful planning. It's as simple as Truth #1: The Internet will make you go blind.

The Drink to End All Life

2008-07-15T15:38:00.003-04:00

Here I sit at the Common Cup (no finer establishment can be found for the purchase of coffee'd beverages), imbibing a liquid concoction the likes of which have never before been seen. It is a drink on par with the mighty turducken, were the aforementioned bird-in-bird-in-bird deep fried in bacon grease and slathered in gravy, and the resulting feast consumed by one man in the caldera of an active volcano at midnight on the summer solstice while the children of the fay dance about him chanting deep and ancient incantations.

The drink of which I speak has no name--at least, no name which can be spoken by mortal man. It is a combination of ingredients so potent that a mere sip is enough to make a grown man cry--a cup would break him into his individual atoms and spread him evenly across the cosmos, granting him powers beyond imagination, but at the cost of his ability to love.

It would have been better had this recipe never been discovered, but now that its secret has been revealed it must be made public lest certain powers keep it to themselves so as to gain advantage over others.

The awe-inspiring list of ingredients is as follows.

Blend together in a lead-shielded bunker beneath at least one mile of earth:
16 oz Milk (soy, in this particular case)
1 cup coffee
2 shots espresso
1 Common Cup brownie
1 Common Cup red velvet cupcake (with icing)

Serve in a goblet hewn from the bone of a gold dragon.

Spread this recipe as far and wide as you can to maintain the balance of power in the cosmos--but if you choose to drink it, your life is in your own hands.

You have been warned.

Tom in 50 years

2008-05-30T16:48:00.001-04:00

the Skittles Touch

2008-04-05T17:01:00.001-04:00

Hilarious Muppet Bloopers!

2008-04-01T17:28:00.001-04:00

Those Tiny Arms

2008-03-21T13:30:00.005-04:00

Scranston 'the Puzzlemaster' Fizzlewick has released the never-before-heard demo of the now-hit 'She Left Me for a T-Rex (Those Tiny Arms)'. Get it while it's hot!

Right-Click to Download

Lyrics

She left me for a T-Rex.
What does he have that I lack?
One day we're holding hands
And the next she's riding through the forest on his back.
I never thought that this could happen,
That her love for me could dim,
But now she's loving his sweet nothings
And she's holding tiny, useless hands with him.

His tiny arms aren't strong enough
To pick my girl up when she's down.
His tiny arms aren't long enough
To even reach her on the ground.
And when that giant needs to hold her
He can't get his arms around--
Can't get those tiny arms around her.

She left me for a T-Rex
And it's driving me insane.
His head's as big as I am
But I'm not sure if he even has a brain.
What does she see in that behemoth
That's got her heart all in a whirl?
It must be something pretty special
For that tiny-armed T-Rex to take my girl.

CHORUS

Now the time for sadness and self-doubt has come and gone,
So the next time I see that T-Rex with her, it's on.

His tiny arms aren't strong enough
To fend me off when I attack.
I am a raptor, after all:
He took my girl, I'll take her back.
She won't think he's such hot stuff
When he is writhing on the ground
And he can't get his tiny arms
(Can't get those tiny T-Rex arms)
Can't get those tiny arms around me.

Happy Pi Day, Everyone!

2008-03-14T13:14:00.003-04:00

This is probably the most terrifying thing I have ever seen in my life.

The only way the name 'Sprint' makes sense is if the guy sprinting is an overweight, asthmatic paraplegic.

2008-03-04T16:45:00.005-05:00

I have, yet again, been subjected (not for the last time) to the antics of the knuckle-dragging Neanderthal people at the Sprint PCS store in Ann Arbor. I have a sneaking suspicion that they are not human at all, but a species closely related to the Vogons of Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy fame.

My feeble attempts to work out a new contract were met with a tortuous scheme involving time travel, ritual sacrifice, and the completion of no fewer than twelve tasks to be assigned by the Dark Lord Tharnacius Draculon, Prince of the Seventeen Underhells. Once completed, I could then move on to the paperwork.

In order to complete the paperwork, one must first purchase a plot of land, plant trees, grow them, log them, mill them into paper, and then present the paper to Thog, tribal leader of the Sprint clan. He will mix you a magical ink of berries, mud, and a pint of blood drawn from your left, inner thigh with which you must fill out the forms.

The actual bureaucratic process involved in filing the paperwork was, I believe, taken directly from Douglas Adams' own work. "You need orders signed in triplicate, sent in, sent back, queried, lost, found, subjected to public enquiry, lost again, and finally buried in soft peat for three months and recycled as firelighters."

That quote isn't from the book. It's from the directions on the top of page sixteen.

At any rate, upon completing the tasks put before me, I was informed that I could continue no further without assembling--in one place, at one time--myself, two of my siblings, a close friend, matter, anti-matter, and three hairs from the head of Patrick Stewart. At that point, I gave up. Perhaps I will try again tomorrow.

Click That!

2008-02-11T22:33:00.000-05:00

Seriously. Click this thing.

I Have Magical Powers

2008-02-02T17:34:00.000-05:00

At first I thought it merely an unfortunate string of coincidences, but as they continued to occur I came to the realization that there is no way I am not causing these things, somehow, to happen.

I, apparently, exude some sort of aura that can cause any piece of hardware, no matter how new, any automobile, no matter how resilient, and any relationship, no matter how perfect, to dissolve into utter, irreversible chaos. Having started to come to terms with this as-yet untamed power, I now only fear that some secret government organization will catch wind of my formidable abilities and attempt to harness them for some evil plot, thinly-veiled under the guise of 'National Security'. Clearly this is the only way in which top-secret government organizations function.

The irony of posting this on the internet for the world to see while simultaneously attempting to avoid capture by a band of nameless G-men is not lost on me. The idea is that my aura of destruction is transferable via the internet. If the power doesn't destroy my computer or the Blogger servers before reaching its intended destination (thereby saving me any trouble by never actually getting posted), it will, in theory, so ruin the operations and equipment of my as-yet-unnamed pursuers that they will never be able to catch me.

My apologies to those of you reading this who are not mindless automatons bent on my destruction, your very will supplanted entirely by orders from your faceless superiors. Your possessions and livelihood will, undoubtedly, be irreparably damaged by so close an encounter with the concentrated misfortune which emanates from my very being. Had there been a way to warn you without producing the very same outcome, I would have done so in an instant. It, however, was not meant to be.

If I am successful, I will hide myself away in a cave, deep beneath the Earth's crust. I can only hope that the layers of rock will be enough to shield the rest of you from my terrible influence.

Seriously, world. What the hell?

2007-09-26T23:13:00.001-04:00

Sorry to do this again, but...

2007-06-27T23:20:00.000-04:00

... Scott Adams is really starting to grow on me. Enjoy.

Irony Storm

In yesterday’s post I dared to say Paris Hilton entertains me, and I confessed I liked her because she works when she doesn’t need to, she has a sense of humor, and I’ve never heard of her being mean. This caused a Category 5 irony storm in the comments.

My favorite comments came from people who believe Paris Hilton’s television show on E!, The Simple Life, is a reality show about two stupid rich girls who do mean things. I hate to be a spoiler, but it’s a show produced by smart people, starring two rich girls who pretend to be mean and stupid. Their target audience is people who aren’t bright enough to know the show is staged.

And people wonder how I can be entertained by Paris Hilton. Good lord, the woman gives and she gives. This is performance art, and you’re part of the show, even if all you’re doing is strenuously denying its entertainment value and causing me to write this post that you are now reading.

My other favorite comments came from people who angrily point out how wrong it is to be entertained by something as trivial and unimportant as Paris Hilton’s life. This raises an interesting question: What the hell are you doing that’s so important? You’re not only reading The Dilbert Blog, but you’re leaving a frickin’ comment. How can you afford to take time out from your primary activity of performing free heart surgery on poor African babies?

My third favorite comments came from the people who say Paris is a racist. (This might come as a surprise to Lionel Richie.) Yes, I know she used the N-word on tape. I’ll bet she has also called people motherf*ckers without believing they actually have sex with their mothers. Sometimes you pick the most shocking word because it’s the most shocking word. I don’t know what’s in Paris’ heart, but I’m positive you don’t either.

I was also wondering how much economic value Paris has contributed to the world. If you put a price on the advertising budgets that support the media coverage she generates, plus her TV show, her movie roles, her magazine covers, I’ll bet the dollar value of her contribution to the world is in the billions. Those billions generate taxes that go to important social services such as feeding the poor and protecting our soldiers. And don’t get me started about the tens of millions of masturbators who appreciate her. You can’t put a price on that.

Clearly Paris has made some bad judgment calls. When cameras are rolling, you really ought to be more careful about what comes out of your mouth, and what goes into it. But I have to wonder how many of her critics could survive continuous video surveillance and be mistaken for Gandhi. I couldn’t. I don’t like your odds either.

In summary, if you enjoy opera more than you enjoy stories about Paris Hilton, you might believe you are superior. That’s the second clue there’s something seriously wrong with you.

That Guy Who Writes Dilbert

2007-06-10T00:39:00.000-04:00

Scott Adams has found a way to be a radical moderate (self-contradictory, I know): a special type of person who can offend liberals, conservatives, nazis, and communists all at once by talking about soup. His ideas somehow disagree with everyone at once and, thereby, offend the world. As such, his blog is often quite difficult to read.

Every so often, however, he comes through with a gem like this.

Enjoy.

Frequently Disappointed By Mice

Mice keep yanking my chain. Today was a perfect example. The headline said scientists produced mouse stem cells from mouse skin cells. This could be a huge breakthrough, both ethically and medically. The only problem is that the method used on the mice would cause cancer in humans. Fuck you, mice. Give me something I can use!

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/19067616/

My disappointment could have been worse. It’s not clear I’ll ever need that particular medical breakthrough anyway. The stories that really chafe my nuggets are the ones that sound like this:

“Researchers announced a breakthrough in gene therapy. This new technique gave mice an IQ of 700, grew hair in bald patches, doubled the size of their peckers, and made them immortal. The mice also showed signs of telekinesis, unlimited male orgasms, and x-ray vision. In lab tests, the mice beat leopards in paw-to-paw combat.”

This makes me all excited because I think “I could use a few of those things.” Then I read the rest of the story and it says something like “The researchers cautioned that this sort of gene therapy in humans would make their eyes turn into vaginas.”

It’s bad enough that I live in a country that ranks 37th in health care. The thing that really pisses me off is that I have worse health care than mice. If I were a mouse, I would start smoking, drinking, overeating and having unsafe sex, because those tiny bastards can be cured of anything with a goddamned aspirin and a shot of their own skin cells.

It makes me wonder if mice are easily cured because of the placebo effect. Mice don’t know anything about science, so they think whatever the scientist is doing must be helping. For example, if a lab mouse sees the janitor beating off in a test tube, the mouse thinks “Hey, my tumor is shrinking!” And then it does. You can’t underestimate the power of positive mouse thinking.

Just once I would like to see a headline that said, “SCIENTISTS DISCOVER A CURE FOR HUMAN DIABETES,” followed by details that say, “Scientists caution that this treatment in mice would give them inverted erections and make them hump themselves to death.”

Well, I can dream.

Groop, I Implore thee, My Foonting Turlingdromes

2007-06-07T22:36:00.000-04:00

The ever-so-wonderful Dexter Leader published this article. This is my response, to be sent in when I get around to it. Enjoy.

To the Editor: I would like to extol your publication for the brilliant content of the article about David Meyers' float in the Memorial Day parade. While the piece in its entirety stood out as a shining jewel of linguistic genius, I haven't the time to laud each and every part in detail. Alas, I will have to stick to a few main points.

The thing which stood out most to me about the article was the ability of the writer to include a frank, truthful, and entirely valid explanation—as well as an apology, if memory serves—on the part of the alleged offender, and yet still keep the tone of the writing so negative that every compass within a one-mile radius points toward the June 7th issue of the Dexter Leader. This is a fantastic trick, and one I would love to pick up for the next time I attempt to ruin the reputation of an innocent person.

I really enjoyed the manner in which the writer took what could, and by all rights should, have been a pleasant article attempting to set things right between the community and one of its prominent business owners and turned it right around. Taking hammer in hand, the mighty wordsmith beat and pounded the humble story of reconciliation into a glimmering masterwork, wrought of strength and brawn and purest self-righteous indignation. Woe to he who maketh an honest mistake, for the terrible might of this awesome weapon shall surely be brought to bear, and he shall be dashed asunder.

After reading this magnum opus, this masterpiece of literature, nearly to the end, to see before me the words “it's too late to salvage Memorial Day 2007” was almost too much. The arc of this finely crafted piece is nearly too perfect to describe. From the reporting of a shockingly terribly act to the horrified outcry of the townspeople, my heart was in my throat. The ingenious glossing-over of the apology flowed so seamlessly into the growing upset of upwards of four different members of the community that I could barely contain myself. But when I read those words, when I realized that it was, in fact, “too late,” I couldn't take it. The manner in which that bittersweet gem summed up everything is breathtaking still.

So this is for you, Sean Dalton. When an upstanding citizen made an honest and barely foreseeable mistake, you were there to catch him in the act. Never mind his reasons for doing what he did, never mind his petty apologies. Never mind the fact that his racist tendencies border on those of Abraham Lincoln. You saw an opportunity and you took it. And for that, you leader of the Dalton clan, your neighbors are a little more cynical, a little more bitter, and a little more angry at nothing at all.

NOTE: As the Dexter Leader article linked above is every bit as uninformative as I sarcasticly implied it isn't, I feel that I should clarify a few things. David Meyer is not a racist. The float did not feature dancers in blackface. The float was designed to emulate the iPod commercials in which silhouettes (which are black) wearing white iPod headphones dance in front of a colord backdrop. On the float, people painted so as to resemble silhouettes (that is, black--are you with me?) wore white iPod headphones and danced in front of a colored backdrop. These two things are related. These two things are not related to racism.

To recap:
-David Meyer ≠ a racist (that's a 'does not equal' sign)
-iPod ≠ blackface
-Steve Jobs = a big tool (that's an equal sign)

The Curse of the Stauffers

2007-06-04T20:11:00.000-04:00

First of all, evidently I am no longer allowed to use the WYSIWYG 'compose' function of Blogger. Oh, it shows up, but merely to taunt me, flaunting its fancy tools and easy-to-use functions for lazy and haphazard formatting. When I attempt to place my cursor in the text field, it blinks tantalizigly at me for a split second and disappears into the void, leaving behind only the faint scent of ozone.

As for the actual curse, it is much more tangible, obnoxious, and all-encompassing in the Stauffer family. It involves tech support, product repair and/or replacement, and the inevitable, inescapable stupidity and failure thereof.

I know my brothers have plenty of tales detailing the ineptitude of customer service people, and I'm sure my father has many more. I myself have come across this amazing phenomenon on nearly every occasion that I have had the ill fortune to have to deal with the cretins who work in the Happiness Mines, delving too greedily and too deep into the heart of humankind in order to extract the goodness and joy and leave only empty, soulless husks. They know not the terrors they will unleash if they mine further.

While I have been severely shafted in the past with everything from faulty Palm Pilots to faulty RAM to faulty processors to faulty everything else in the universe, this particular tale is about my poor, poor mp3 player and its journey of sorrows.

Rather than tell you the story, I will provide you with a transcript of the e-mail which I, just minutes ago, sent to the 'service' people at CompUSA. Enjoy.

To whom it may concern,

After a month of phone tag and e-mails and wading through menus waiting for you to replace my broken mp3 player on my TAP service plan (number 1-553516281), I finally received my new device today only to find that it had been crushed beyond repair by the FedEx delivery person. Needless to say, I am less than ecstatic about this. I know it is not your fault and, as such, am attempting to file a claim through FedEx. However, they have devised a scheme both crafty and cunning to impede, if not obstruct, my progress toward finally being able to listen to my music again--a scheme involving a veritable labyrinth of documents, waivers, and axe-wielding minotaurs. As a part of my Herculean tests, I am required to provide them with one of the following three things: a "photocopy of a FedEx Airbill and / or FedEx Ship Manager printout and / or FedEx Ground Pick-up Record." I haven't access, to my knowledge, to any of these things. I am told that Ship Manager Printouts and like documents are not things the recipient ever sees, but proofs of shipping on the part of the sender. If you would be kind enough to provide me with any of these documents and/or send them to FedEx on my behalf I would be grateful to the point of, perhaps, forgiving a small portion of the the debt which CompUSA surely owes me after a month of subjection to FM radio.

Thank you for your time, I await what I hope will be a prompt and informative response.

Regards,
Johannes J. Stauffer

I only hope the mindless zombies who run the place can decipher my message in time to save my mp3 player and my sanity.

The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he doesn't exist.

2007-05-12T03:39:00.000-04:00

The next greatest trick was creating the truly titanic cockroach perched upon my wall, the very inspiration of the word 'behemoth'. It looks at me, antennae twitching as if to say 'I dare you', knowing full well that a mere glance in the wrong direction will only see my untimely demise in its slavering maw, dashed to pieces upon rows and rows of razor-sharp insectoid teeth as I am ground asunder in the gullet of the beast. I lack the strength and skill to best the foul creature, but I sure as hell can't sleep with the damn thing in my room either. A conundrum for the ages.

ROACH UPDATE: LATER THAT NIGHT
I have, at least, caged the monstrosity and relocated it to another wing of the estate, having executed a daring and ingenious operation involving various household objects--plate, cup, 'Works' toilet bowl cleaner, wynch, front-end loader, working scale model of the Hubble Space Telescope--and can rest for a spell, assured that the Leviathan is elsewhere, for the time being. I can only hope that my plan to harness the energy of the sun to bring about the destruction of this brobdingnagian butcher of men will meet with success.

ROACH UPDATE: THE FOLLOWING MORNING
Kaloo! Kalay! The vicious beast is slain, its terrible, piercing spines and hideous, barbed tentacles splayed in final and utter defeat! The terror proved no match for the ferocious might of the Day Star! No longer will this Horror of the Blackest Night peddle its wares of Torment and Woe; no longer will children flee at the sound of its approach. The land is free! Let the people rejoice!

Dear. Sweet. Jesus

2007-01-06T02:42:00.000-05:00


Charlie the Unicorn

An open address to political dissidents and liberal protesters

2006-12-23T14:40:00.000-05:00

Remember when people loved America? When it was known as the land of the free and the home of the brave? Honestly, I have trouble doing so. What happened to the time when America was great because she stood for freedom and morals and opposed tyranny and oppression?

I'm not saying that America herself has changed. Far from it. I am, however, noting that the attributes for which our nation was once lauded and praised are precisely the same ones for which she is now hated and slandered.

You complain and protest at the so-called 'oppression' of the Iraqi people after the removal of their heartless dictator (who Iraq's own people condemned to death by hanging). You whine and cry out at the removal of your 'rights' to dismember and murder your unborn children, shouting and wailing against the removal of your freedom without a thought for the freedoms of the children you so long to destroy. You heap hatred and scorn on the 'religious fanatics' whose faith and beliefs tell them that homosexuality is wrong, ignoring entirely the love they show for the homosexual individuals themselves. You gasp in shock at the mention of God in a school, horrified and taken aback at the very idea that religions of blind faith could be heard alongside your scientific theories of... oh, right, blind faith.

And, amidst all your dissidence and blind rage against those who disagree with you, you have the gall to blame America's problems on others.

I don't think that gays, liberals, and abortionists are the only bad people. Conservatives and people calling themselves Christians are equally to blame when they claim that 'God hates fags' or that the poor aren't worth our time. I submit to you, however, that you are just as much at fault for the failings of our fair country, and that the next time you feel an urge to voice your opinions and deeply offended feelings, you pull your self-righteous head out of your self-righteous ass and think for a moment before you open your mouth. Then, perhaps, you will spare yourself and others the endless, pointless arguing and anger that come with your uninformed political views.

And don't, even for a second, consider talking about our government unless you understand exactly how it works. And we all know you don't, so shut it. Next person who says 'not my president' gets a boot in the face.

Ya' damn dirty hippies.

The Muppet Matrix

2006-10-10T23:29:00.000-04:00

Entertaining, anyway.

Almost enough to make me want a PS3

2006-09-25T15:58:00.000-04:00

Link.

Basic Anatomy of an Internet Journal

2006-09-24T01:15:00.000-04:00

So, something happened/is happening/will happen soon. Lame attempt to put a positive spin on it while being sure to make it blindingly obvious that I don't really find it to be positive at all. Though, something undeniably bad has happened/is happening/will happen (in case the positive spin wasn't lame enough)... Followed by a brief (or not-so-brief) explanation of what is bad and/or why it is bad. So, why, you ask, am I updating at a time generally accepted as too late/early to be awake (Feel sorry for me for being awake so late/early, dammit!)? Well, it turns out that I've been busy for any variety of reasons which are, probably, entirely my fault, but good luck getting me to admit that. Clearly the entire world is out to get me. And of course...

At this point, continue on another tirade about the misery of your life, following the same format as--or at least one similar to--the one above. Be sure to punctuate badly, and never, ever let yourself separate the post into paragraphs or any other type of readable format, as that might lessen the crushing despair of your terrible, awful existence.

Tune in next time for 'Advanced Anatomy of an Internet Journal'!

**Please excuse the atrocious grammar and layout and the flagrant abuse of elipses and the word 'so' to begin sentences in this post. I took it directly from the journal of a certain person (who shall remain nameless, though s/he has been the subject of at least one other post on this site) and merely replaced the actual times, places, and events with general descriptions of the same.**

EMT Training courtesy of Tom Rich

2006-09-09T14:18:00.000-04:00

How to tell if a man is hurt.
1: Is he screaming?
2: Is he bleeding?
3: Is there an entire vending machine lodged in his colon?

How to tell if a woman is hurt
1: Is she in the kitchen? If not, who cares, serves her right for not BAKING ME A DAMN PIE.

Brilliant.

Steve Irwin Died

2006-09-04T15:11:00.000-04:00

The world mourns.

Not that we didn't know this already, but...

2006-08-25T19:49:00.000-04:00

Tall people are smarter than short people.

Coming soon to a theatre near you

2006-08-19T07:09:00.000-04:00

Link

Compliments of my mother

2006-08-02T01:49:00.000-04:00

In 1986, Mkele Mbembe was on holiday in Kenya after graduating from college. On a hike through the bush, he came across a young bull elephant standing with one leg raised in the air.The elephant seemed distressed so Mbembe approached it very carefully. He got down on one knee and inspected the elephant's foot, and found a large thorn deeply embedded in it. As carefully and as gently as he could, Mbembe worked the thorn out with his hunting knife, after which the elephant gingerly put down its foot. The elephant turned to face the man and, with a rather stern look on its face, stared at him. For several tense moments Mbembe stood frozen, thinking of nothing else but being trampled. Eventually, the elephant trumpeted loudly,
turned, and walked away. Mbembe never forgot that elephant or the events of that day.

Twenty years later, Mbembe was walking through a zoo with his teenage son. As they approached the elephant enclosure, one of the creatures turned and walked over to near where Mbembe and his son Tapu were standing. The large bull elephant stared at Mbembe and lifted its front foot off the ground, then put it down. The elephant did this several times, then trumpeted loudly, all the while staring at the man. Remembering the encounter in 1986, Mbembe couldn't help wondering if this was the same elephant. Mbembe summoned up his courage, climbed over the railing, and made his way into the enclosure. He walked right up to the elephant and stared back in wonder. Suddenly, the elephant trumpeted again, wrapped its trunk around one of the man's legs, and swung him wildly back and forth along the railing, killing him.

Probably wasn't the same elephant.

To the aspiring artist

2006-07-28T01:48:00.000-04:00

This applies to every last art student, poet, musician, an aspiring writer out there, so I want you to read carefully:

The violent and destructive molestations you so boldly perpetuate against the existing rules of your medium do not make you or your work in any way artistic.

Writers, use punctuation and syntax (I assume you have not yet forgone spelling) properly. The use of a subordinate clause as a standalone sentence; the complete disregard for the semicolon, colon, or even the period; the haphazard capitalization of words, seemingly at random, throughout your work--regardless of what Charles Dickens, Ernest 'Rapist of the English Language' Hemingway, or your high school Modern English teacher says--are incorrect. Punctuation, contrary to popular belief, is not relative to the writer; it was not created to be changed, bent, or broken. It exists in order to make that which is written, typed, or printed coherent to all, across the board. Don't try to be poetic, you'll come across looking impaired.

Artists (of a visual nature, I mean), your field is already so far gone that there is little or nothing for me to say to you. For the sake of those who follow you, however, have some decency. Abstract art is one thing, but please, I implore you, don't shit on a piece of canvas and try to pass it off as art, artistic, meaningful, or even conveying anything more than your obvious loss of all grip on reality.

Musicians, I know it seems as though everything has already been done, but don't lose hope. You can still be creative.

Repitition and monotony are not the answer. Do not let the challenge of songwriting reduce you to the mindless simplicity of Greenday or Gnarls Barkley, and for the love of God and all that is Holy, do NOT attempt to mimic John Cage. The man is a menace to music itself and should have been locked away along with all records of his so-called 'music' ever having existed. Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, even music itself rejoiced in beautiful harmony at the cessation of his 'musical' aspirations. Don't subject us to it again. Remember, please, that the basic principals of rhythm and pitch still apply, so sing like Queen or Sinatra before you squawk like the Killers or James Blunt. Harmonics are actually governed by the laws of physics, if you can believe it. Yeah. They're that important.

Poets, your mode of expression exists purely for those beyond the grasp of language. My pleas, and those of others, for the preservation of grammar are lost on you, so in their stead I ask you this: Please, oh please, don't mention another word about how depressed you are that your girlfriend left you. Don't tell us in your prose about how you cut yourself or how the sun makes you weep. Spare us the melancholy and bitterness you cultivate in the fetid maw of your angsty little mind. Poetry is meant to be beautiful: try to bring it back from the festering, bloated corpse it has become.

Thank you.

NPR Narrative: A Narrative

2006-07-27T01:54:00.000-04:00

Note: Read as though hearing it narrated by its author during some NPR show.

It was an unusually hot afternoon on the day that I recorded my monologue for NPR. I can remember stepping out of the car and feeling the heat on my face like some unnecessarily vague and forcedly poetic simile for heat. Inside the studio, however, I felt safe: the cool, dry breeze of the air conditioner reminded me of ice cream or rice pudding or my third-grade reading teacher or something equally nonsensical to the mind of a sane, rational person.

I sat at the recording desk and, at the engineer's signal--the headphones firmly clamped over my ears to ensure that I didn't lose any of the essence of my own, beautiful voice--I began to read.

It was difficult at first, and I had to start over several times, but I soon found my place--my 'groove'--and I was able to attain the perfect NPR voice: too deep for a woman, but too effeminate for a man; displaying just enough emotion to avoid monotone, but not enough to be interesting; keeping my voice just breathy enough to keep you wondering if I'm speaking or whispering, and, most important of all, sounding not only interested but engrossed in a story so mind-numbingly mundane that it would make Prozac cry.

As I finished my reading, quite pleased with the several pointless and unrelated ramblings I had added displaying my screaming liberalism and utter, mindless devotion to the Greats--Darwin, Marx, and Moore--I thought again about my third-grade ice cream and how well it had taught me the evils of moral absolutes. Walking to my car, thoughts of pudding and disgusting, four-hundred-pound men were gently pushed into the background noise as I realized again the most important thing in my life: I am more important than everyone. Thank you.

Now Mitch Albom will say something blitheringly dull about the artistic nature of the piece, entitled 'My Third-Grade Heat Metaphor: An Autobiographical Account of Ice Cream and How the Political Genius of Karl Marx Changed My Life in One Way or Another', by author Rain Beau Honeysuckle. He will then mention, for the sixty-hojillionth time, that he wrote 'Tuesdays with Morrie'.

Superman Returns

2006-06-29T00:01:00.000-04:00

It is finished. The entire movie industry can shut down. Film-making has reached its epic pinnacle and there is, from here on out, nowhere to go but down.

I hesitate only slightly to say that the opening credits of this masterpiece constituted a more 'religious' experience than Mel Gibson's 'The Passion of the Christ' in its entireity. The stunning use of visuals coupled with a glorious rendition of the Superman score was nothing short of legendary.

Then the movie started.

I could rave for hours about the wonders of this motion picture, but for the sake of time and teh sp01leRz, I will leave it at this:

The makers of this movie got everything right. Every. Single. Thing. From the plot to the villain to the little black curl on Superman's forehead, Superman Returns was perfect in every way. The world will never again need drugs or alcohol, and when the film is released on DVD the entire population may, in fact, die out due to complete cessation of the reproductive process.

And if any of you disagree, I'll pee on your shoes.

This is great. 'Nuff said.

2006-06-17T12:46:00.000-04:00

Link

A tale of murder, intrigue, and a severed human hand

2006-05-28T19:41:00.000-04:00

... is not what you will find here. Sorry to disappoint.

What's the deal with the word 'disappoint'? I mean, look at this:

    Appoint \Ap*point"\ ([a^]p*point"), v. i.
    To ordain; to determine; to arrange.
    [1913 Webster]

    For the Lord had appointed to defeat the good counsel
    of Ahithophel. --2 Sam. xvii.
    14.
    [1913 Webster]

Clearly this is not the opposite of 'disappoint'. Think about that.

Update: Tycho is still a genius

2006-05-04T20:22:00.000-04:00

"I often end up catching whatever pox Gabriel drags into the office, foul, unstoppable creatures he contracts from his heir, who gets the disease initially from a puddle of sewage (rich and raw) that stagnates in the "Kidz Room" of the gym. I may even be impressed by his latest acquisition, which was symptomatic by lunchtime and then, by midnight, caused an arm to grow from my sternum. The arm moves of its own accord, with its own needs and desires." -Tycho Brahe, www.penny-arcade.com

2006-04-28T06:22:00.000-04:00

1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open it to page 161.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions.
5. Don't search around and look for the coolest book you can find. Use what's actually next to you.

"Whether it was two days, a month, or a year that the cloud remained above the tabernacle, the children of Israel would remain encamped and not journey; but when it was taken up, they would journey." Numbers 9:19, NKJV

Toothpaste is funny.

2006-04-26T19:02:00.000-04:00

There is a man on the Lisburn City Council named Edwin Poots.

2006-04-08T10:10:00.000-04:00

This is funny no matter how you look at it.

My life, brought to you as it happens so as to preserve the entirety of the rage that you so richly deserve to experience.

2006-04-08T09:43:00.000-04:00

Well this has turned into what may be among the most shite days of my entire life. I was, as you may know, supposed to go to Joy’s dad’s wedding in Cornwall along with Joy, her sister Becky, and her brother Johnny. Joy and I took the bus to Banbridge (where Becky lives with her mum) and spent the night there.

At 7 the next morning, Johnny showed up with his car, into which we all piled and headed down to the Dublin airport. Long Term Parking to reception to a McDonalds in the upstairs ‘mezzanine’ to an hour standing by the ticket counters waiting for our flight’s check-in to start finally brought us face-to-face with a pig-faced newbie in the airline industry.

Johnny showed his ID (a drivers’ license—you’ll see why this is important in a moment) as did Joy, and both received their boarding passes without so much as a ‘did you pack this bag yourself’. Then it was my turn. I suavely slipped my Michigan driver’s license, accepted everywhere as a United States Federal Government-sanctioned piece of identification—everywhere, evidently, but the RyanAir desk in Dublin Airport—across the counter.

‘You can’t fly with this, sir,’ (imagine the pimply-faced ‘We’re not supposed to put butter on the Milk Duds’ kid from the Simpsons) the pig-faced newbie squawked. ‘Do you have an Irish or UK driver’s license?’

‘No, I’m just visiting the UK for a year to do volunteer work. I was told my driver’s license would be enough for this flight,’ I replied in what I thought was a fairly obvious American accent.

‘Are you sure you don’t have a UK driver’s license?’ Clearly his ears weren’t working properly.

‘No. I’m American. I don’t have a U.K. anything, and I don’t have my passport because I assumed it wouldn’t be necessary’ (I know what they say about ‘assume’. Bite me. It was my stupid mistake, that doesn’t make the RyanAir clerk any less obnoxious).

‘Then you can’t fly with us.’

Just then Johnny stepped in and muttered something vaguely Northern Irish sounding and, quite possibly, involving kneecaps. This, at least, was enough to get the little snot to run, sniveling, off to his manager for a few awkward moments while the slightly better-prepared travelers in line behind me grew more and more restless. Eventually he returned, only to tell me, somewhat triumphantly, that I couldn’t fly with them with just an American driver’s license because, evidently, American ID just isn’t good enough (as opposed to Irish driver’s licenses, which are about as tamper-proof as a middle school student ID).

Fine. I’ll get the freakin’ bus home.

Becky got herself checked in, again, without a hitch, and we headed to the coffee shop upstairs to drink €5 cups of burnt, watery mud while we passed the two hours of down-time between check-in and boarding. We then moved on to the security check point where Becky and Johnny looked around awkwardly as Joy and I exchanged a tearful goodbye which consisted of less tears than you would think and a lot more Joy-being-pissed-at-me-for-ruining-her-weekend-and-basically-telling-me-that-I’m-a-horrible-person.

Now I’m enjoying the three-hour bus journey home from Dublin (my third in a matter of less than two weeks) by myself with nothing to think about but the trip that I’m missing and the fact that Joy, at least temporarily, hates me more than anyone else in the world. And, to top it all off, I’ve got the same bus driver that took Abbie, Ricke, and I back from Dublin two Sundays ago; the one who had never driven and vehicle in his life before then and who periodically mashes down the brake pedal for no reason whatsoever. I swear, I’m about to walk to the front of the bus and vomit all over the back of his head.

And it’s still just Friday.

Friday night update:

-Text message from Joy: she doesn’t hate me, she’s just mad (paraphrase)
-The bus driver managed to stall the automatic transmission bus four times in the space of our three hour journey
-My new hat which my brother so kindly brought for me from America and which I cannot replace in this country has disappeared, most likely stolen. Wonderful.

1970 called. They want their glasses back.

2006-04-06T19:14:00.000-04:00

An open letter to someone who will, most likeley, never read it, which is probably better than the alternative, given the nature of the letter in question.

Dear person,

You will, likely, never read this. If you do, however, I would like you to see this, an article to which I attempted to make frequent reference during our so-called 'discussion' the other day. It is quite informative. You should read it and, perhaps, incorporate it into your next shouting match.

I don't have a problem with you believing that the destruction of the World Trade Center was an elaborate plot by the U.S. government for entirely undisclosed reasons; everyone is entitled to their own crackpot theories. My problem, rather, is with your method of 'debate'.

To put it plainly, you argue like a liberal. It's actually physically painful to talk to you. You don't converse like a normal person, but rather force your opinion on others by shouting and interrupting and never, ever allowing the opposing party to even get a word in. God forbid that someone might, for even a second, share their own opinion. What terror would ensue! Your entire mode of communication would be shattered into a million tiny, obnoxious shards, just screaming like a feckin' banshee at everyone who passes.

Take my advice: don't argue like a four-year-old. No one likes four-year-olds. Seriously.

Friggin' four-year-olds.

February 16th was yesterday.

2006-02-18T07:51:00.000-05:00

My brother is amazing.

I will destroy you. I will destroy you with fire.

2006-02-08T19:08:00.000-05:00

So someone who will remain nameless, except to say that her name is Julie Francis, was allowed, ever-so-nicely, by me to use my beautiful, wonderful, splendiferous laptop to check her e-mail today. Aren't I a great guy? Yes. Yes I am.

Well, after about twelve and a half hours, she returned my laptop to me (at about 45% battery) so that I could use it to do what I came to the house to do in the first place and check my own e-mail. What a novel idea! But wait, what's that in my taskbar that I've never seen before? It's Yahoo Messenger and all it's abysmal fecking add-ons. EVERY. LAST. ONE OF THEM. I kid you not. That's like fifty megabytes of my disk space. Fifty megabytes filled the useless, resource-hogging drivel. AGH! This is why I hate other people.

But the fun doesn't end here, oh no. Not by a long shot.

One of the best things about Yahoo Messenger is how it mimics the ever-so-lovely MSN 'Takes Over Your Entire Computer' Messenger in nearly every way, right down to the near-impossible removal from your system. Noting the complete lack of an included uninstall tool, I moved right on to the 'add remove programs' tool in the control panel, selected the first of about fourty Yahoo programs that she had installed, and clicked 'remove'. Guess what happened. No, really. Guess.

Have you guessed yet? No? Keep trying.

IT LOCKED UP MY FREAKING COMPUTER! Who's surprised? 'Cause, to be honest, I really wasn't. Angry? Oh yes. But not surprised.

Well, you get the idea, so I will move on to my short, angry rant:

It's not your computer. It's mine. I don't ask you for a ride somewhere in your car and then pee all over the freaking interior, so don't install your crappy, obnoxious, virus-ridden tripe on my personal computer.

Love and kisses,

Johannes

Have a nice day!

The Ultimate Showdown of Ultimate Destiny

2006-02-02T09:11:00.000-05:00

This is the most brilliant piece of brilliance ever to be brilliant in the history of things which are brilliant. Don't say I never gave you anything.

The English? I'll tell you what I think about the English!

2006-01-25T16:26:00.000-05:00

So I've noticed two things (just the two; I'm not very observant) since coming to Belfast.

Number One:

British people never, ever blow their noses. Ever. They do this gross thing where they take the tissue, wrap it 'round their thumb and forefinger, ram these fingers up their nostrils, and vigorously rub. They then return their tissues to their respective pockets (gross) and continue to sniff. What the crap, people? Honestly.

Number Two:

Never, ever, in the history of the universe, has a British person used their hands to eat any form of food. I went to a coffee shop with an English (well, Northerrn Irish with English parents) friend who will remain nameless (it rhymes with Shamdrew Frown). He ordered a club sandwich and ate the whole thing with a knife and fork. Not once did his hands come in contact with food. IT WAS A FREAKIN' SANDWICH! GAH! Freakin' Brits.

Worst movie in the history of film? I think so.

2006-01-22T11:14:00.000-05:00

Kill Bill? Seriously, people, you must be kidding me.

I am repeatedly and consistently shocked by the sheer number of people who think this is a good movie. The first time I watched it, I literally could not stop making fun of it. I just happened to be in the same room as a girl who thinks that it is the greatest movie ever made, and she will no longer talk to me. For the sake of people like that, I am going to impart to you a list of useful facts:

-Quentin Tarantino is not a good director
-Quentin Tarantino is not a good writer
-Uma Thurman is not a good actress
-Kill Bill's plot sucks
-Kill Bill's soundtrack, excluding a few songs written long before the movie, sucks
-The acting throughout the entirety of Kill Bill sucks
-The animated portions of Kill Bill are not good (one might say they 'suck')

I could go on for pages and pages with this, but the movie is currently playing on a television in this room and it's making me so angry that if I don't get out of here I will start killing people.

People claim that Tarantino made this movie to parody kung fu movies like Bruce Lee's, but ieven if that is the case, he still failed miserably in every single way. The fight scene between Bruce Lee and Chuck Norris, arguably the worst in the history of kung fu film, was infinitely better than this crap.

Please, if you think that Kill Bill is a good movie in any way, shape, or form, I urge you to contact me and I will gladly beat the stupid out of you. Moron.

Love and kisses,
Johannes

NorthWest? More like ShmorthWest.

2006-01-14T13:09:00.000-05:00

I cannot begin to impart to you the intense dislike I am currently feeling toward NorthWest Airlines. My rage is tangible. One could, if one so desired, tange it. Like a raging, fiery furnace it burns within me, consuming all else that comes within its reach. This, as you can imagine, requires a metric tonne of antacid to keep in check.

My return flight from America, where I spent Christmas, was rife with minor disasters that, when lumped together, equal a large lump of minor disasters. Funny how these things work out.

Here's how things went:

At 8:30PM, Joy and I boarded our NorthWest flight (from Detroit Metro to London Gatwick) and took our seats. About ten minutes later, the captain's voice crackled over the intercom.

"Welcome to NorthWest Airlines Flight Blah Blah Blah. I'm you're captain, Blah Blah McBlahson. We're having some trouble with the auxiliary power generator, so we just have to fill out some paperwork before we can leave. Don't worry, the auxiliary power generator just runs a few minor operations like STARTING THE FREAKIN' ENGINES, so we're just gonna' start the engines here at the terminal, take off and hope to God we don't stall in midair."*

People in airplanes, as a rule, are not calm people. By that same token, people in airplanes who have just been told that things on said airplane are broken but we're gonna' go for it anyway are even less calm people. These people are not fun people with which to share a tiny, cramped space.

We sat, waiting, for a good fifteen minutes while the flight crew screwed around and generally left us uninformed. Then our wonderful captain came over the intercom again to tell us that it wasn't, in fact, a problem with the auxiliary power generator, but that the number one engine (on the left wing) wouldn't start. At this point, I was feeling somewhat less than confident in the abilities of our friendly flight crew. Reportedly, it would take another thirty minutes or so while they tried various things involving valves and forced explosions and that we should "sit tight".

Half an hour later (at least they were good about time estimates--at first) we were informed that nothing had worked, but they'd figured out that the engine needed new starter and they had about 15 minutes more paperwork and another hour and a half of work replacing the starter after that. I believe our captain's exact words were "They tell me it will only take an hour-and-a-half to two hours, so we're just gonna' keep you on the plane until they finish." Git.

Well, two hours later--hours completely devoid of refreshments or the ability to leave our cramped, cylindrical prison--we were informed that there was just a little more paperwork to fill out and then we would be on our way. WOO!

We finally got off the ground a little after midnight. Three and a half hours after we boarded the plane. Three and a half hours of sitting, still connected to the terminal, unable to leave the plane. Three butt-bruising, entertainment-free, foodless, drinkless, sleepless hours.

SEVEN AND A HALF HOURS LATER:

We finally reached London Gatwick and watched from our plane as the EasyJet flight we were supposed to take to Ireland taxied to the runway and took off.

So NorthWest caused us to miss our connecting flight. But would they give us a refund? Would they provide us with a flight home rather than leaving us stranded on an island? Of course not! That would be silliness.

So, after arguing with useless 'customer serivce' people to no avail, I forked over two hundred pounds for tickets home, we waited for five more hours in Gatwick, flew to Belfast International, and spent three more hours on buses because our ride couldn't pick us up nine hours later than planned.

Also, the guy that we had to sit next to on the NorthWest flight smelled like old cheese.

All in all, a great journey, I thought.

*By no means is this an actual quote.

And now it's time for AUDIENCE PARTICIPATION!!!!

2005-09-22T12:21:00.000-04:00

Alright, kids! It's time for the part of the show where I'm not feeling very creative and I call on you to come up with rant topics for me! AREN'T YOU EXCITED?!?!?! Alright, on the count of pi: 1. 2. 3. 3.141592653589793238462643383279502884197169399375105820974944592307816406286208998628034825342117067982148086513282306647093844609550582231725359408128481117450284102701938521105559644622948954930381964428810975665933446128475648233786783165271201909145648566923460348610454326648213393607260249141273724587006606315588174881520920962829254091715364367892590360011330530548820466521384146951941511609433057270365759591953092186117381932611793105118548074462379962749567351885752724891227938183011949129833673362440656643086021394946395224737190702179860943702770539217176293176752384674818467669405132000568127145263560827785771342757789609173637178721468440901224953430146549585371050792279689258923542019956112129021960864034418159813629774771309960518707211349999998372978049951059731732816096318595024459455346908302642522308253344685035261931188171010003137838752886587533208381420617177669147303598253490428755468731159562863882353787593751957781857780532171226806613001927876611195909216420198938095257201065485863278865936153381827968230301952035301852968995773622599413891249721775283479131515574857242454150695950829533116861727855889075098381754637464939319255060400927701671139009848824012858361603563707660104710181942955596198946767837449448255379774726847104047534646208046684259069491293313677028989152104752162056966024058038150193511253382430035587640247496473263914199272604269922796782354781636009341721641219924586315030286182974555706749838505494588586926995690927210797509302955321165344987202755960236480665499119881834797753566369807426542527862551818417574672890977772793800081647060016145249192173217214772350141441973568548161361157352552133475741849468438523323907394143334547762416862518983569485562099219222184272550254256887671790494601653466804988627232791786085784383827967976681454100953883786360950680064225125205117392984896084128488626945604241965285022210661186306744278622039194945047123713786960956364371917287467764657573962413890865832645995813390478027590099465764078951269468398352595709825822620522489407726719478268482601476990902640136394437455305068203496252451749399651431429809190659250937221696461515709858387410597885959772975498930161753928468138268683868942774155991855925245953959431049972524680845987273644695848653836736222626099124608051243884390451244136549762780797715691435997700129616089441694868555848406353422072225828488648158456028506016842739452267467678895252138522549954666727823986456596116354886230577456498035593634568174324112515076069479451096596094025228879710893145669136867228748940560101503308617928680920874760917824938589009714909675985261365549781893129784821682998948722658804857564014270477555132379641451523746234364542858444795265867821051141354735739523113427166102135969536231442952484937187110145765403590279934403742007310578539062198387447808478489683321445713868751943506430218453191048481005370614680674919278191197939952061419663428754440643745123718192179998391015919561814675142691239748940907186494231961567945208095146550225231603881930142093762137855956638937787083039069792077346722182562599661501421503068038447734549202605414665925201497442850732518666002132434088190710486331734649651453905796268561005508106658796998163574736384052571459102897064140110971206280439039759515677157700420337869936007230558763176359421873125147120532928191826186125867321579198414848829164470609575270695722091756711672291098169091528017350671274858322287183520935396572512108357915136988209144421006751033467110314126711136990865851639831501970165151168517143765761835155650884909989859982387345528331635507647918535893226185489632132933089857064204675259070915481416549859461637180270981994309924488957571282890592323326097299712084433573265489382391193259746366730583604142813883032038249037589852437441702913276561809377344403070746921120191302033038019762110110044929321516084244485963766983895228684783123552658213144957685726243344189303968642624341077322697802807318915441101044682325271620105265227211166039666557309254711055785376346682065310989652691862056476931257058635662018558100729360659876486117910453348850346113657686753249441668039626579787718556084552965412665408530614344431858676975145661406800700237877659134401712749470420562230538994561314071127000407854733269939081454664645880797270826683063432858785698305235808933065757406795457163775254202114955761581400250126228594130216471550979259230990796547376125517656751357517829666454779174501129961489030463994713296210734043751895735961458901938971311179042978285647503203198691514028708085990480109412147221317947647772622414254854540332157185306142288137585043063321751829798662237172159160771669254748738986654949450114654062843366393790039769265672146385306736096571209180763832716641627488880078692560290228472104031721186082041900042296617119637792133757511495950156604963186294726547364252308177036751590673502350728354056704038674351362222477158915049530984448933309634087807693259939780541934144737744184263129860809988868741326047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

Your every action does not bring me uncontrollable mirth.

2005-09-15T11:47:00.000-04:00

The fact that I am not constantly entertained by your every exertion offends me in ways that I cannot explain to you. That your presence does not cause endless peals of laughter to flow forth from my mouth is an affront to my very existence.

Where are you right now while I'm here at work, my brain eating through itself with boredom? Should you not be dancing around my cubicle in a tiny pink tutu taylored to fit a small French Poodle, waving a sausage in the air and screaming gibberish phrases at the top of your lungs? Should you not be spending your every last iota of energy in a vain attempt to bring some faint glimmer of a smile to my scowling, angry face? I think you should. And every second that you aren't trying to make me glad is a second closer to your untimely and gruesome demise.

As it stands, my day lies in ruins, happiness nowhere in sight, and a fit of what one might call 'the giggles' entirely out of the question. I will likely end up sitting here for another five hours, my life completely devoid of laughter. I hope you're happy with yourself.

YARR!

2005-09-08T14:46:00.000-04:00

The Dirtiest Hippie

2005-08-29T11:34:00.000-04:00

Here are the very tentative lyrics for my song 'the Dirtiest Hippie'. Enjoy.

The Dirtiest Hippie
w/m Johannes J. Stauffer

Verse 1
John was a boy who lived on my street
he couldn't drink milk or eat ice cream or meat.
It wasn't for health he abstained from these things
but rather because he was crazy left wing.

Pre-Chorus
He grew up with tales of saving the whales
and stickin' it to the man
and "I don't like this, let's change it,
or at least rearrange it and protest whenever we can."

Chorus 1
Johnny the Dirtiest Hippie
spouts buzzwords wherever he goes
like political corruption,
conspiracy, abduction of hamsters to make children's clothes.

Verse 2
Well Johnny reached high school at age thirty-one
and amassed a large throng of pot-heads
whose sole source of information
was the NPR station and anything their parents said.

(Pre-chorus)
Chorus 2
Johnny the Dirtiest Hippie
says that morals are relative things.
Abortion's ok, and so's being gay
and all evil comes from the right-wing.

Verse 3
Well Johnny grew up to be like his old man
to smoke pot and live off of welfare.
He'll never use soap and he'll smoke lotsa' dope
and he'll never cut off his long hair.

(Pre-chorus)
Chorus 3
Johnny the Dirtiest Hippie
Is a hypocrite through and through.
When the government you hate puts the food on your plate
well, there's something quite wrong with you.

(Repeat pre-chorus)

Await its coming with baited breath.

2005-08-26T11:28:00.000-04:00

I have written a song entitled 'the Dirtiest Hippie'. It is still in the works, but for you, my devoted fans, I will do anything (I know I'm not actually talking to anyone. Leave me my delusions if not my dignity). Expect a recording of said song on the site through the novel and less-useful-than-one-might-think Audioblog sometime within the next week. Until then, I expect you to think of nothing else. NOTHING!

G'day.

Johnny Cash for the Excessively Verbose

2005-08-23T22:34:00.001-04:00

I slew a fellow in Reno merely for the pleasure of witnessing his untimely expiration.

Truer words have ne'er been said...z0rz

2005-08-15T14:15:00.001-04:00

You spend literally years trying to avoid these nasty little suffixes and raw neologisms, and then one day you start using them in a purely ironic way, and now it's all I can do not to append "z0r" even in ordinary conversation. Even Brenna used it, once, but I think she might have been trying to ridicule me. Which I richly deserve, actually, if the language centers of my brain are now taking their cues from rounds of CounterStrike played four years ago.

-Tycho of Penny Arcade

Apple Accidentally Sues Itself

2005-08-11T16:03:00.000-04:00

A good dig at Apple's litigiousness and Steve's RDF.

read more | digg story

And lo, dids't the fire rain down from heaven and consume the ACLU in a mighty conflagration.

2005-08-05T10:29:00.000-04:00

And if it didn't, it freakin' should have.

WASHINGTON (AP)--In 1999, the ACLU of Illinois filed a lawsuit claiming the Pentagon's sponsorship of such Boy Scout activities violates the First Amendment. The ACLU argues that direct government sponsorship of the group amounts to discrimination.

Civil liberties advocates have assailed the Boy Scouts organization because it bans openly gay leaders and compels members to swear an oath of duty to God.

On June 22, U.S. District Judge Blanche Manning ruled in the ACLU's favor, saying the Pentagon can't spend millions of dollars to sponsor Boy Scout events. She said in an earlier ruling that the government spent between $6 million and $8 million to host the Jamboree on a military base in 1997 and 2001.

That's right kids, the Anti-Christ Lawyers Union is at it again. The Boy Scouts shouldn't be allowed to use military bases because they don't allow gays and they swear an oath of duty to God. OH LORDY, NO! (Wait, can I say 'Lordy' on the internet?) The exact wording used by the without-ACLUe? It 'violates separation of church and state.'

Ok, I'm gonna' go out on a limb here, but I'm pretty sure that you can't sue for violating something that DOESN'T EXIST. There is no separation of church and state anywhere in the U.S. Constitution. Anywhere. I would even go so far as to say that it's not in the lawbooks anywhere but for the fact that people, as a rule, are stupid and someone has probably passed some law at some point on the assumption that separation of church and state is a real thing. But I digress.

The concept comes, not from the Constitution (are you getting that yet? It's not in the Constitution), but from a letter written by Thomas Jefferson. Specifically, this segment:

"Believing with you that religion is a matter which lies solely between man & his god, that he owes account to none other for his faith or his worship, that the legitimate powers of government reach actions only, and not opinions, I contemplate with sovereign reverence that act of the whole American people which declared that their legislature should make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof, thus building a wall of separation between church and state."

Interpret it as you will, but I think it's pretty clear that he didn't want to separate church influence from the government, but the government's influence from the church. He knew full well that the country was founded on religious principals. To, with that knowledge, and being who he was (author of the Declaration of Independence an' all that) say that all religious influence should be removed from the government would be preposterous. But he didn't, so I guess we don't really have to worry about it.

Ok, so now we know that the Amoral Communist Liberals' Union based their suit on a thing that doesn't exist (for the hojillionth time) and we realize that they are obnoxious, unlovable people whose sole purpose in life is to annoy me.

However:
WASHINGTON (AP)--In a 98-0 vote, the Senate approved the provision continuing the hosting of Boy Scout events as part of massive bill setting Defense Department policy for next year.

Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist, R-Tennessee, a former Boy Scout who sponsored the Senate provision, said it is necessary to push back on a spate of lawsuits to limit Boy Scout activities on government property. The provision adopted Tuesday says Boy Scouts should be treated the same as other national youth organizations

Frist said it "removes any doubt that federal agencies may welcome Scouts to hold meetings, go camping on federal property or hold scouting events and public forums" on government property.

The House in November overwhelmingly passed a nonbinding resolution that recognized the Boy Scouts organization for its public service efforts and condemned legal efforts to limit government ties to the organization that has 3.2 million members.

So take that, ya' freakin' hippies. And get a haircut.

This table is badly formatted.

2005-07-25T16:32:00.000-04:00

You scored as Dread Pirate Roberts. Letting people thing you are a billy bad ass keeps you in business but when it comes down to it, you'll do the right thing every time. You are a good person at heart and just can't help being the hero.

Dread Pirate Roberts

100%

Captain Barbosa

100%

Captain Jack Sparrow

75%

Sinbad

67%

Long John Silvers

67%

Mary Read

67%

Black Beard

58%

Morgan Adams

33%

Will Turner

33%

Captain James T. Hook

33%

What kind of Pirate are you?
created with QuizFarm.com

The result of your pre-adult lovelife is not the end of the world.

2005-07-25T16:21:00.000-04:00

I have come across a truly ridiculous number of people, guys and girls alike, who are so convinced of the cosmic importance of their 'love'-lives that they can't think about anything else. There's a girl I know, we'll call her Sally, who can't function without a boyfriend. Her entire life becomes completely focused on boys: who likes her, who doesn't like her, why she doesn't have a boyfriend, and how to get one. Talking to her is a painful experience for exactly these reasons.

Conversations with Sally consist of one of two things: 1) talking about her current crush/boyfriend/whatever or 2) listening to her gripe and moan about how lonely she is, how no one loves her, and how depressed she is because of it. Even her grades are directly tied to her relationships or lack thereof. She also takes these relationships to their extremes; when someone breaks up with her or she breaks up with him, it's because he hates her or because he allegedly abused her. When she's single, she's convinced that she'll never date again, but when she's dating someone she becomes immediately sure of the fact that this is the guy she's going to marry.

For instance, she had a friend (Bob, we'll say) who liked her. She wasn't sure she liked him purely because there were two other guys who also liked her and she didn't want to miss out on playing them too (this is not what she said, but it's clearly the case). Anyway, the school year ended and she went home and, all of a sudden, Bob was the only of the three who was near enough to date. Within days, she was so enamoured with him that she was looking through bridal catalogues, completely convinced that he was 'the one'.

Fast-forward a few weeks: Bob has been gone on a trip week or so and Sally, who before could think of no one but him, has now been presented with the opportunity to date her ex-boyfriend. What do you think Sally wants? Will she hold fast to her newfound loveer, or will she leave her perfect man for a guy who she already broke up with a year or so ago? Guess what: SHE CHOSE THE FREAKIN' EX-BOYFRIEND!!! Seriously, people, how stupid can one be? But does she just admit it? No, she makes up some crap about never really having liked her current squeeze, and feeling like she has to act like another person around him. Bull. I'm going to get off the subject of Sally before I start bleeding out of my eyes.

Now, while girls are absolutely horrible in this respect (among others), many guys are no better. Guys spend much of their time jumping from girlfriend to girlfriend and, when they have these girlfriends, ignoring every other engagement they have. Again, quite obnoxious.

Boys and girls, I have an announcement to make: Your love lives are not actually all that important. A higher number of previous relationships does not a better person make. And, contrary to popular belief, the purpose of a relationship is not your own personal gain, but the improvement of the life of the other half of the couple and the search for a potential spouse. If you disagree, I highly recommend that you beat yourself about the head with something large and blunt, chug a bottle of mouthwash, and lock yourself in your room for the rest of your life. Good day.

Dating? More like shmating...

2005-07-05T00:57:00.000-04:00

Here is my advice to anyone in any high school anywhere (and many of you college students as well): Don’t date.

From my experience and my observations of the experiences of others, dating is a horrible, wretched, awful idea for a high school student. You’re at a point in your life where your hormones are raging and your brain is just beginning to congeal into a solid form from the soupy mass that it has been for your entire life. There is no better way to destroy a possible friendship and create new enemies than by dating.

Here are a few reasons:

1. People will dislike you for dating said person, or at least voice their dislike of that person to you repeatedly until you break up. This is no good for you or anyone else.

2. If and when you break up with said person, you will both undoubtedly be angry with each other for at least a short period of time, and will doubtless hold a grudge, no matter how small, for longer than will ever be healthy.

3. Dating is a frivolous exercise in and of itself, especially as a high school student. Dating is something you do on a completely selfish agenda. You think ‘Wow, that person is really attractive/nice/smart/etc. I would love to have that in a girlfriend/boyfriend.’ The correct way to go about it is this: ‘Wow, I like that person, I want to make them happy, no matter what the cost to me.’ This is an entirely different thing than dating, however. It is called courtship, and is also almost entirely frivolous until you are at least eighteen years old (i.e. old enough to marry).

4. The aforementioned raging hormones can lead a person, girls more often than guys, to think that they ‘love’ a person, and may even evoke some feelings of wanting the other to be happy. For the most part, however, this is, put mildly, a huge load of crap, and makes the impending breakup that much worse for all involved.

I could go on and on, but I’ll spare you the details, as you already have most of the basics. I know that most teenagers will pass this off as my wacko, ultra-conservative opinion, and I say that if you’re willing to hurl yourself into the hellish nightmare that is dating, be my guest. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

"If you are an educated person who sees no problem with the phrase 'Good food at it's best'..."

2005-05-30T17:20:00.000-04:00

"... you deserve to be struck by lightning, hacked up on the spot, and buried in an unmarked grave." - Lynne Truss

Seriously, people. The English language is taught to some degree from kindergarten on. That means you are forced to learn this language to some effect for a minimum of twelve years of your life. That's a flippin' long time. On top of that, you must write papers in most classes, and, regardless of whether or not they are English classes, most teachers prefer that you use proper grammar and punctuation. There is, therefore, no reason whatsoever not to be at least proficient in the use of the language, if not a master of its every subtle nuance.

The fact that people can't even tell the difference between plural and possessive, contractions and, again, possessive, or even tell a freakin' verb from a noun, astounds me again and again. Surely it must be at least partially the fault of the teachers in our school system; in fact, I know this to be the case, having encountered quite a few of these mindless incompetents myself. But these 'teachers', I have come to realize, are still not the root of the problem. The majority of the illiterate peons out there are not only unable to grasp the actual rules of language, but they cannot even understand the warped and twisted untruths that the English teachers give them in an attempt to make it easier. The problem is not so much that teachers are bad at their jobs (though that is still the case), but that people are stupid. By choice.

Many have tried to hide behind the so-called 'fact' that English is a 'growing, changing language' and that what I call mistakes will soon be accepted as the norm and I will be outdated. What you call the 'evolution of English', I call the rape of the English language. I will cede that the language is changing, and always has been, but the changes are ones that come about to make things clearer (such as the proposed use of the tilde [~] to separate a pluralizing 's' from the rest of the word like so: cows-->cow~s), not to excuse your blithering ignorance. Please note that I used 'your' rather than 'you're'. That's because I'm smarter than you.

I urge you all to stop being such ignorant heathens and start taking the extra five seconds to spell-check and properly punctuate your (not 'you're') writing. It's not hard; it's not complicated. Do it. For the children.

This is what I've been saying for years:

2005-05-16T10:47:00.000-04:00

"Dear Dogbert,

Lots of people write blogs, but I’ve never heard of anyone who actually reads them. What’s up with that?

Kurt

Dear Skirt,

Blogs exist to fill the important market niche of writing that is so dull that your eyes will burrow out of the back of your head to escape. People do read blogs, usually by accident, sometimes on a dare, but those readers are later mistaken for Mafia victims with what appears to be two holes in the back of their heads. On closer inspection, you might find their eyeballs clinging to the drapes directly behind them. Unless the cat gets them first.

Sincerely,

Dogbert"

Copyright © 2004 Scott Adams

2005-05-13T19:07:00.000-04:00

2005-05-12T00:16:00.000-04:00

I have fallen to the level of the rest of you unwashed heathens. For shame.

2005-05-11T23:36:00.000-04:00

So this is my blog. It exists for me to rant and to make audio posts when I get bored while I'm driving. I will be disappointed in anyone who reads it without their attention first being requested by me, and if I start posting too often I want every last one of you to yell at me, or hit me with something, or, quite possibly, both. Please.