Aaron's
List Film: Chapelle's Show Game: Nothing, still Music: Yeah Yeah Yeahs- Maps Text: Confucius' The Analects Activity: Editing and the like Anticipating: Who knows? I like right now, actually
Brandon's
List Film: Monty Python stuff Game: HalfLife. Save me Music: Nothing. That's a surprise Text: Something by Le Corbiseur Activity: Boredom Anticipating: Nothing I can think of
beautiful
narcissus
was the adorable result of an unconventional
relationship between a ninja and a rare giant
krayt dragon... and a butterfly. It is rumored
that along with being crafty, extremely agile,
and having a venomous sting, he believes that he
too, like a certain R. Kelly, can fly.
wandered into Something Like Tripe in a drunken
stupor one night and when he sobered up decided
that it was a nice place and never went back
home. His history is a mystery to all who know
him, and in fact the years of hard living have
made his history a mystery to himself as well.
Note: This is a
fairly rough count, which only counts once for
each post, no matter how many times a single
post might mention one of the above mentioned
topics. So really, we are far more pathetic than
these counters might lead you to believe. Hard
to fathom, yes, I know.
Also: Brandon
explains the menstruation with, "I think it
hits you harder as you grow up. You realize that
whenever you get pissed at a chick, it's usually
'cause of that." He then proceeded to
exclaim, "WOW. God dammit, man," at
something disgusting that I said.
Google Search
Queries...
Retards, three toed sloth, Jedi Outcast,
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joe, monkey pictures, cartoon dogs, train
lyrics, don, cry, come, New York subway map,
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monks, shaolin kung fu, time travel, mucus,
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Isn't it weird how the only thing you want to do after getting out of the pouring rain is immediately take a shower?
Have you ever noticed that your parents get angier not when you're wrong, but when you're right and they know it?
Do you have trouble coming to grips with the fact that stale cookies still taste good? Do you have a moral dilemma over the fact that they still taste great, but you know you shouldn't be eating them because they're stale?
Have you ever noticed that all Asians don't actually look the same, but all retards do?
Now, does that mean all retarded asians look the same?
Isn't it ironic how the people who are always arguing over racism are usually racists themselves?
Isn't it silly how when somebody else trips and falls it's funny but when you do it it's just plain and simple embarassing?
Have you ever noticed that the beat to DMX's "Party Up" fits perfectly with the vocals for Eminem's "The Real Slim Shady"? Isn't that crazy?
Isn't it weird how my bus driver in grade school used to lecture me on the benefits of eduation when she was hardly the pinnacle of scholastic achievement?
Have you noticed that in the stills from Star Wars Episode 3 and in The Empire Strikes Back (ep. 5) Luke Skywalker's lightsaber is blue but in A New Hope (ep. 4) it's lilac? Was he experimenting in the Light in the Loafer's Side of the Force or something during that time?
Have you also just realized that there is nothing badass about a lilac colored lightsaber?
Have you ever noticed that the Hilton sisters were celebrities without actually doing anything? I'm talking about before that whole sex tape thing.
Isn't it strange how the people who are prolife are also very often advocates of the death penalty? Life or death, bitches, make up your minds.
Isn't it kind of funny how the kids with the worst cases of ADD and ADHD are the same ones whose parents are never home? I wonder if they're related.
Isn't it absurd how if I take a shit on the sidewalk I go to jail but if I take a shit on the sidewalk and put it in a museum I get acclaimed as a genius artist?
Have you ever noticed that it always rains the day after you get your car washed?
Isn't it weird how the students who speak Spanish fluently in their homes are always the ones who do worst in Spanish class?
Do you ever find that after sleeping too much the only thing you want to do is take a nap?
Yep. Me too.
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Wednesday, March 24, 2004 |
It's 8:48 in the morning, I've been up for over an hour already, I didn't go to sleep until sometime around 3 AM, and you should just see some of the cosmic shit I'm dreaming up... that is, whenever I'm not waking up with my face against the keyboard for the fifteenth or sixteenth time. Hey, look at that, make that the sixteenth or seventeenth time. There's a difference between narcolepsy, chronic fatigue, and just being fucking exhausted. I don't know what this difference is, and if you ask me, people with narcolepsy and chronic fatigue are pussies. Wake the fuck up, pussy. That's what my boss is going to say to me when he finds me asleep at the wheel. That's right, I'm driving a state of the art, secret test model automobile with a computer built into the steering wheel. I'll probably be one of the very few people that ever get to drive it though, apparently it's dangerous to be using both hands to type when you're going 70 miles an hour on the highway and should be using both hands to steer the car away from the other cars going 70 miles an hour on the highway. However, at least now you can keep in touch with your friends on instant messanger and let them know what the real story is when they see you driving in the wrong direction with a legion of police cruisers behind you on the 6 o'clock news.
Or rather, your friends will be able to inform you that you are indeed going in the wrong direction and that there is a legion of police cruisers behind you and that you are on the 6 o'clock news - smile! - because you hadn't noticed since you were too busy playing Solitare. Or Minesweeper. Or Freecell. I don't care really, Solitare is just the one that came to mind, although, Minesweeper is my drug of choice even though I usually get exploded after 2 clicks or so. But in that respect I guess the game really is an accurate portrayal of weeding your way through an actual mine field. The fact of the matter is, there are going to be a lot of mines there. That's just the mine field doing its job for you, and you can't begrudge it that; it does its job quite well. Now, if only the employees of McDonalds across the country would take a lesson from the mine field's example. We can all learn a lesson from Minesweeper, that being, it's no fun getting your ass exploded. Some people don't know these things instinctually, and while sad and unfortunate, at least now technology allows us to teach them that there is an alternative to living in the dark your entire life until that calamitous day comes along when you step on a stray mine and PIKKA PIKKOW, ass exploded. I don't know if that's the actual sound a mine makes when it blows up as I have never been blown up by a mine before except in the virtual world and Minesweeper does not provide sounds, just a smiley face with sunglasses. Although that's probably more realistic as you won't be able to hear anything when your ears are blown off and raining down on some Pakistanian village some 20 miles from the site of the explosion.
If you ever start to think how truly mortifying having bits of ear rain down on you is, I bet the first thing that comes to mind is either "Shit, I'm glad I don't live in Pakistan" or "Shit, I'm getting the hell out of Pakistan." These are the sorts of things the realtors don't tell you about, people. What, do you think they'd actually sell any clay huts if they told people about the constant blood rain? That's not a very good selling point. "Let's see, the house's exterior is very lavish, as you can see, only the finest clay has been used to render this... clay like texture. The backyard cesspool/hot tub is certainly an added bonus and that fence made of human skeletons will keep any unwanted visitors away. There is one room and one roof, which is nice because then at night the entire family can fall asleep together looking up at the stars. That is... until the blood starts raining. I'll tell you something, there's nothing quite as refreshing on a sweltering Pakistan night as a deluge of boiling vital fluids on your face as you're trying to fall asleep." They have enough trouble selling people on Pakistan as it is, you can't go and completely ruin your chances of making a sale by including the whole blood rain problem. That's like asking for a new car and getting your legs broken instead, or shooting yourself in the foot, or something like that.
All this talk of blood rain has got me thinking of Hawaiian Punch. Hawaiian Punch Hawaiian Punch.
Hawaiian is a very strange looking word. Not unlike caterpillar or Tonka Trunk. Tonka.
Tonka: Hi! My name is Tonka, what's yours? Doody: Well hello there Tonka, pleased to meet you. My parents unfortunately named me Doody. Tonka: I don't know why you say that is unfortunate, Doody, there's nothing I enjoy so much as a stiff Doody. Doody: Well then you're in luck Tonka, get over here, boy, time for your birthday spankings! Tonka: This bratwurst is delicious.
Later that day...
Tonka: So Doody, I meant to ask you before things got all weird and gay, why do you think your name is unfortunate? Doody: Actually, I was kidding. It saved me from a lot of name calling as a child, since people could just call me by my real name and make fun of me at the same time. Although, it hurt a lot when I finally realized that when people called me "Shithead" it wasn't just an affectionate nickname. Tonka: Oh, Doody, you split my sides. Doody: Did I? I'm sorry. Tonka: It's okay.
The next day...
Tonka: I meant to say this yesterday before we made relations, I'm going to be your new neighbor. That's my clay hut right there. Doody: Oh, is that why you're still here you greasy bastard? Tonka: Where's the grease? Doody: *pours bucket of hot grease on Tonka's chest* Tonka: AH OH MY GOD THAT HOT GREASE IS HOT AS FUCKING HOT GREASE! Doody: Relax, the blood rain will wash it off. Stop being such a pussy. Tonka: Oh, so now you're calling me a narcoleptic, too. Real neighborly, Doody, real neighborly.
Sometimes when I start writing with no purpose at all in mind, things get a little out of control. What? I have no idea what you're talking about. Which is funny, because you probably have no idea what I'm talking about. You know, I sort of wanted to wax serious again today. I think I might a little bit, but first, a discussion on wax.
I love using the word wax as an expression of talking about something more specifically. I'm going to wax on wax. I guess that's really all I have to say about wax, actually. My bad.
Doody: *pours bucket of hot wax on Tonka's chest*
But anyway, now to wax serious. I was thinking about how silly it all is. How pointless everything is, when you really think about it. Or at least, when I really think about it. Like, you work all your life for some kind of goal or ideal but then, one day, PIKKA PIKKOW, your ass is exploded, or whatever your fate may be, and that's it. Nothing. What did you do it for? The opportunity to be blown up by a mine? Now that's something worth fighting for! What I mean to say is, stop pretending your having fun and actually do it. Stop living life like it's some kind of routine, like you're just another cog in the machine and do something differently. Get your thumb out of your ass. Figuratively, of course, but if your thumb is actually in your ass you should probably take it out as well. You're better than that. We only have so much time here, so before the mine field comes along, why not be the leader of the choir or set your pubic hair on fire, just because. I mean, what else do we really have? Is your thumb out of your ass yet?
Be that one asshole in the crowd of Yankees fans screaming "GO RED SOX YEAH," or the only guy at church yelling, "SATAN ROCKS!" or whatever. Be that guy that everybody hates. Let's all do armpit farts until our muscles are so overworked we can't even raise our arms anymore. Let's dance even when there is no music, let's practice our karate chops. Let this all only be the beginning. Let the good times never stop.
Finally talk to that girl, or go on that road trip, or try that thing out you thought would be cool but never did. Celebrate nothing. Celebrate everything. Throw your dream journal in the urinal because dreams really can come true. Be living proof.
Now if only I could convince myself.
Doody: *pours bucket of hot now if only I could convince myself on Tonka's chest*
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Monday, March 22, 2004 |
What is it about her?
Her lips always call me back. She's got an allure I can't deny and it scares me to think that it all might be so impermanent. On the other hand, what really is permanent? In the grand scheme of things, everything will fade. All will eventually end in ruin or slip slowly into dilapidation, becoming nothing more than an empty, dessicated husk of what it used to be, with haunting vacuous eye sockets and crumbling bones. But underneath all of the twisted, savage wreckage the future may hold, there is something permanent. That is, there are certain things worth fighting for. There are certain things worth risking everything for because even if I lose it all, she'll still be there and isn't that all that really matters? That I'll never forget that breathless, weightless, hopeless feeling when I really stop and think about how lucky I am. That I'll always have a home in her arms, that I can fall into her eyes and tumble through the infinite intricacies and just forget about everything else because it all seems so insignificant compared to pure, unadultered beauty. Those eyes, those endless, fathomless eyes with their millions of hues of tempting green that transfix me in place. And then I just want to hold her and make time stand still, because she makes it all go away. She's more addictive than any drink or drug, and entirely more intoxicating. I can't escape. I want to be captured and handed a life sentence. I want to tell her that I won't be a mistake. I want to see her again, always.
Not feeling funny today. Sometimes other things come first.
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Thursday, March 18, 2004 |
What day is it? Thursday? Good God, that means I haven't updated in over a week, doesn't it? Well you know what, maybe you should consider updating once and a while. What about my needs? Like, seriously, I do have other things I could be doing. ...Okay, so that might be a lie. But if I hadn't already masturbated in the past hour I probably wouldn't be here right now.
That's what it's come to around here. That's what Spring Break has turned me into. MTV would lead you to believe that Spring Break is nothing but fun, drinking, and date rape in the sun but keep in mind that MTV would also like you to believe that good programming is 12 hours straight of Real World reruns. It wasn't interesting the first time, but I'm damn glad I get the chance to watch the same episode from six years ago every day so I can gather every minute detail for my doctoral dissertation on the effects of putting one gay man, one jock, one slut, one girl with a shitload of problems, one black man, and one unconventional weirdo all in the same house and forcing them to live and work together. So far my results have been inconclusive as seeing the true effects of this living environment are not possible because MTV stages the whole thing. Sorry guys, I didn't want to be the one to break your hearts, but then I really wouldn't be living up to my reputation of heartbreaker, now would I?
Just a note, that reputation of heartbreaker is in the works. Right now it's all theoretical.
But back to the rant at hand. Spring Break is not all the glamour and hangovers it's made out to be. When you go to Connecticut for Spring Break you really ought to be expecting something more commonly thought of when considering Winter Break, and that would be Winter. I've been on Spring Break for 6 days now and it's been snowing since day 4. Three days of straight snow. And it's supposed to snow tomorrow too. If you ask me how much sun bathing I've been doing, I'll punch you in the face. This is not fucking funny. It would only be funny if it were happening to anybody other than me. Let's compare Spring Breaks, just for the sake of beating a dead horse, and then flossing it to make sure that it's teeth are clean for its passage into the horse afterlife. All those other dead, rotting, maggot-ridden horses aren't going to want to play with him if his teeth aren't clean.
Spring Break in Cancun:
DJ: OKAY EVERYBODY GET NAKED AND FUCK EACH OTHER AND WHOA, LOOKS LIKE A BUNCH OF STRIPPERS DRESSED UP AS FIREFIGHTERS ARE SPRAYING FIRE HOSES INTO THE CROWD, BUT WAIT, THE FIRE HOSES ARE FULL OF BEER! BUMP! GRIND! X GON' GIVE IT TO YA! Crowd: *goes wild* Girl in Crowd: *to random guy in crowd* Hey look at me, I'm bare-chested, drunk, and horny! I'm having a blast! Isn't this great? Guy in Crowd: *buries face in girls' bosom, grabs ass*
Spring Break in Connecticut:
Aaron: *turns last page of the same magazine he's already read twenty times today, sights* Well, shit, looks like there's another six inches of snow on the ground. I guess I'll go out and shovel the driveway...again.
Spring Break in Cancun: In Spring Break in Cancun, people go swimming in the crystal blue waters of Mexico, forgetting momentarily that they are in fact in Mexico and therefore the water must be crystal blue due to some sort of chemical spill.
Spring Break in Connecticut: In Spring Break in Mexico, people decide that it would be nice to go for a swim, and that they might as well make good use of their membership to the YMCA that they bought for the sole purpose of using an indoor pool, since swimming in New England is never an option as our winters are 11 and a half months long and the water never warms up enough for us to feasibly even go near it without risking frosbite the likes of which you've never seen. I'm talking the kind that necessitates amputating those pretty little piggies of yours. That said, people grab the snow shovel, open the door, and burrow their way through their driveway until they hit what surely must be their car. Then, they grab a chainsaw and make an ice sculputure of their car, open the door, and immediately fishtail across the ice-coated road and into a frozen river. They worry that they will sink and drown until they realize that you can't sink on solid ice, and even if the river was in liquid form, which it hasn't been since before the ice age, their car is still a block of ice and would therefore float. In conclusion, Spring Break in Connecticut sucks.
I've only typed a few paragraphs here and I'm already quite sick of typing the word "ice". Just the appearance of it so disgusts me that I think I will remove it from my common vocabulary. Unfortunately, other than walking outside of Connecticut and exploding it with bombs that I strategically placed while I was still in Connecticut, I will never be able to escape the solid form of water which I had previously called ice but cannot any longer as I removed that word from my vocabulary. Because of this, I'm going to attempt to find the negative aspects of travelling to Cancun for Spring Break in order to make my Spring Break experience seem slightly more palatable. Which you might realize is impossible, as you cannot physically eat Spring Break, but if it was, believe me, I would do it if that would mean that it would finally be overwith. An interesting side note to that, if Spring Break was shit before eating it, what would it be on the way out? Shittier? Is that even possible? If you answered "yes" to that question, fuck you, because that obviously means that your Spring Break has been better than mine.
As it is, I cannot imagine how I am going to accomplish this task, even if I was granted all the magical forehead gems in India. See, if Spring Break were normally held in India, I might not feel so bad about mine. Even though the weather there is much warmer than here, that's actually a negative thing because it only enhances the foul reeking of the human feces everybody over there is constantly rolling in. You might argue that their shit might not smell so badly if they would stop eating all that curry, but I would argue that shit stinks regardless of what you eat. I would also point out that it's not fair for you to presuppose that they've eaten any curry, or in fact, eaten anything. I'm pretty sure eating is a luxury that they don't have over in India.
Here's some food for thought. Does shit stink because it comes from your ass or does your ass stink because shit comes from it? This is an important question that demands answering. Somebody get to work on that, I'm a little bit busy trying to come up with reasons why going to Cancun for Spring Break would suck.
My mother suggested that "fresh girls would be flashing their breasts" at me. Her arguments fail to convince me. At this point, I'm pretty sick of imagining what breasts would look like through 6 layers of sweaters.
Okay, so after some deliberation, I've come up with a few reasons why going to Cancun on Spring Break wouldn't be any better than staying here in scenic Connecticut. But before I do that, I'd like to point out that whenever a tourist department says a place is "scenic", that means it's very cold but has a nice view to compensate. You know what, fuck the view, I'd rather take warm weather. And for all you sky-gazers jacking off to the view out there, first of all, I didn't mean literally "fuck the view", and second, pornography is a multibillion dollar industry, I'm sure they've got something out there that interests you. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if there was such a thing as "view porn". It can't be any sicker than gay, ebony midgets.
Anyway, here's my first reason. In order to go to Cancun, I would probably have to wake up obscenely early to catch a flight to Mexico. And by "obscenely early" I don't mean the time of morning when somebody's actually playing "Saved By The Bell" reruns on TV. By "obscenely early" I mean the time of morning when you could go back to sleep for another 10 hours and you could still get an Egg McMuffin when you wake up. They haven't even put the cheeseburgers on for lunch yet. Now that's early.
Reason number two is that it probably wouldn't even be that much different than Spring Break here. I mean, other than the blistering cold and the fact that you can't see your hand in front of you because of the constant snowfall. Number three? The rats in the hotel I'd be staying at probably wouldn't be any meaner than the rats in my room here at home. Actually, there's a good chance they'd be more pleasant because they wouldn't be so goddamned cold. Cheese is probably still in season in Mexico at this time as well. It doesn't grow natively in Connecticut, we have to import it from Florida with oranges and other citrus fruits.
And finally, there'd probably be a lot of free alcohol and easy women. I'd much rather just stay home and watch Teletubbies while I enjoy my second bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Hi Mom, I thought you'd like that one. Oh, my bad, I meant Cheerios, not Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Straight up, original Cheerios, too, none of that sugary Honey Nut shit.
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Wednesday, March 10, 2004 |
One of the things that I just adore, and I mean sincerely adore, is how gay girls are. The other day I was looking for some "reading" material and all I could find, "unfortunately", was an issue of Cosmopolitan. While looking for the section that details various readers' sexual romps and filthy perversions, I stumbled across an article lush with tips on "giving your man the best sex of his life." Obviously, I was interested.
Speaking from a man's perspective, as I have been known to do from time to time, I can only assume that this article was written by nazi lesbian aliens whose sole goal is not world domination but providing endless, unthinkable tortures for the male kind. Either that, or just a dumb woman who hooked up with some guy once who only pretended to like what she was doing so she would stop. While that's most commonly known as a tactic employed by girls who are frustrated by their partner's relentless mauling of their tits, any man in his right mind would act similarly if a girl started squeezing his buttcheeks together. Or biting his nipples. Like, actually biting them. Nipples are not food, ladies, so stop that. And I'm not kidding, these are tips actually featured in that article. I'm pretty sure another tip was, "place his throbbing member in between the gears of a giant clock while simultaneously stuffing electric eels up his asshole." Let me tell you, you do that to me and I'll never leave your side. It's the electric eels that really make or break the deal, and congratulations, you made it.
I decided that since that article was total bullshit, I would write my own since I actually know what men like and am far more capable of writing effective sex tips than a collective of spider aliens with human heads hellbent on the suffering of the male gender. Although I do understand where Cosmo is coming from, it's probably hard to find anybody human actually willing to put "wrote for Cosmopolitan: Women's Softcore Pornographic Worthless Drivel Magazine" on their resume. At anyrate, I'd like to present to you, "Aaron's Sex Strategy Guide for the Video Game Enthusiast."
You know how dogs and squirrels chase each other around for a few hours before actually engaging in sexual intercourse? Well, I want you to do that, but instead of just chasing me, make it more like a secret espionage operation. I will dress up like Snake from Metal Gear Solid and stealth around the bedroom, blending in with the shadows, moving ever so deftly like a cat stalking its prey. You will dress up like an armed soldier, and every time I make a noise a question mark will pop up over your head. When you finally catch me hiding in one of your dresser drawers or underneath the cushions of the couch, an exclamation point will pop up over your head and you will have to seduce me thoroughly to get me to give up government secrets and find out that my true loyalties are to sex. Also, stick the barrel of your gun up my ass. Pump my prostate as you pump your hot, loaded shotgun. And I'm actually talking about a shotgun, not a penis. That's a different game.
Take a good look at my mother. Study her. And then, model your hips like hers.
Agree upon a set number of lives before we have sex. Every time I do something stupid like prematurely ejaculate all over your exposed vagina, I lose a life. When I run out of lives, shout authoritatively, "GAME OVER", and kill me. Seriously kill me. ...It's a better alternative to paying child support. How am I supposed to support a family and my video game addiction? See, you understand. I've been saving up for a virtual reality headset for years, there is just no way in fuck I'm going to throw that all away on a child now.
Carry a pair of 12-sided dice with you at all times, just in case. Not to mention, it's totally hot. Before we have sex, let me know how much I will have to roll to be able to touch you. If I don't roll high enough, drain all of my mana so I can't cast any of my charms on you. Not that I had any charm to begin with, though.
Remember, the most important thing to me in a girl is lack of vision, that way I can play video games while having sex. Oh, and I guess lack of hearing would be good too. And while you'are at it, lack of pulse would just be great, you know, if that's not too much to ask for. Don't worry, I have some experience in smiting the undead.
Never try to have a serious conversation about my sexual history after we do it. If you really want to know when I had my first kiss, just take whatever age I am now and add two or three...decades. And while we're on the topic of my shameful past experiences, the most embarrassing thing that ever happened to me during sex was the time that she woke up.
My dream date would be any real date at all as long as it did not take place in my imagination and involve the characters from the Pokémon animated series, like every other date I've ever been on.
Don't feel like it's your fault if I can't get it up. It's because I masturbate every day that I play Everquest and every day that ends in "y", which both coincidentally, happen to be every day.
The thing that attracts me most to a particular girl is not her eyes, or her breasts, or her legs. It's her penis. And wilingness to challenge me in a few rounds of Halo. Hey, hey, you ever hear this one? Let's play war with the Covenant. I lay down in the thick grass behind my Warthog and you blow the hell out of me... with a rocket launcher, you fuckin' camper.
A good goal for you to have for this relationship would be to somehow convince me that sex is not just the event that follows me slipping a roofie into your drink. You could also try working on me not referring to having sex as "making whoopie" anymore; unfortunately however, you will probably never get me to stop exclaiming, "whoopie!" every time that we actually do have sex.
I would never date a woman with a fully developed fight or flight reflex. I developed my lightning fast reflexes through years of Team Fortress, you too can learn how to compensate for crippling lag time and still get those eye- I mean, head shots.
My wildest fantasy is having you try to cram my entire collection of X-Men action figures in the rolls of my fat. You can probably squeeze them in between those couple of chicken wings and the can of Mountain Dew I was saving for later.
After sex I like to go online and tell all my friends that "I AM TEH BUTT SE><0R!!!1" Correction: If I ever actually manage to have sex with somebody, afterwards I would like to go online and tell all my friends that "I AM TEH BUTT SE><0R!!!1". I'll probably also rearrange all of my Star Wars figurines into sexual positions involving light saber pentration since I will have finally come to understand that there are certain things more important than the infinite clash between the light and dark sides of the Force.
If my ideal woman was a car, she would be a futuristic hover car that could shoot lasers from its headlights and has good upgrades in later levels. If my ideal woman was a gun, she would be a sniper rifle, quiet, but extremely powerful and effective. If I was a gun, I would be a minigun, extremely fast and terribly inaccurate.
When it finally comes time to break up, it should only be at gunpoint. First one to the quad damage does the dumping.
