Aaron's
List Film: A Christmas Story Game: Grand Theft Auto- Vice City Music: Junction 18- You're My Angel Text: Contrary to popular belief, reading is bullshit Activity: I've been sitting around a lot lately, if that counts Anticipating: Video Madness Spring
Semester 2004
Brandon's
List Film: Indiana Jones Game: The real game of LIFE Music: The Verve- Bittersweet Symphony Text: The Lord of the Rings Activity: Cleaning my mess of a room Anticipating: Getting a haircut!
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,
booger, Butterfly, wookie, something, nothing,
joe, monkey pictures, cartoon dogs, train
lyrics, don, cry, come, New York subway map,
potato salad recipes, shaolin temple, shaolin
monks, shaolin kung fu, time travel, mucus,
snot, phlegm, texas chainsaw massacre, costumes,
learn to fly, silly monkey hats, ugadi
greetings, fat people, noah's ark, crazy people
At long last, the second part of my account of the quest for KOTOR has made its way to Something Like Tripe. You should be aware, however, of the great pains it took me to actually transcribe the second part of my expedition. Let me take a moment to explain the process that is necessary to update this site while driving a car and rummaging through video game displays for KOTOR. Since I have no access to a computer, let alone a computer with internet capabilities not to mention the fact that even if I did chances are that Blogger is a smoldering pile of unsalvagable refuse at the time, I had to construct a time traveling upload device, which actually travels backwards at the speed of light, plowing a path through hyperspace to a time where I still could go online and Blogger still worked (this, of course, is a time before Blogger was actually invented). Once there, it uploads the post, comes back, and extends two electrodes into my ears that emit painful charges of lightning into my skull until I make another post. It's an incredibly efficient process, if not slightly painful, but the downside is that it isn't powered by cold fusion, or any other sort of readily available fuel like that. No... the time traveling upload device runs solely off of fingers, one per time travel trip. So I can update without worry 9 more times, after which I will have to start... well, I'd advise keeping your fingers some place safe. Now, one might wonder how I will manage to update without the ability to type once all my fingers have been burned in order to fuel that damned insatiable time traveling upload device, but don't worry, I've got that angle covered as well. No...the time traveling upload device doesn't have hands, only brain frying electrodes, but I bought a malnourished Nicaraguan child from an Ebay auction (supposedly they're considered collectibles these days) who is willing to type as much as I want him to as long as I provide him with bananas. Just more proof that you can teach monkeys to do just about anything.
Hopefully though, I will be done questing before I run out of fingers and can use the Nicaraguan for sensual massages, which is actually the only reason I bought him in the first place. But for now, on with the story! It made sense to me that right after Brandon made a post about being cool and forsaking things like “Star Wars” and “mutual masturbation with the guys in your chess club” that I put up something like the 8th post mentioning Star Wars or something Star Wars related and the 3rd post entirely about Star Wars. Now, Something Like Tripe has been around for just about a month, so if you do the math that means we’re pumping out an average of 1 and a half Star Wars posts a week. It’s like a sickness, I know.
As I mentioned in my last post, the drive to Enfield from Avon is 45 minutes, and although I was reluctant to embark my destiny was relentlessly pulling on me and I could not tear myself away from it, as if it had jammed my dick in between two rotating gears in a giant clock. While technically I could tear myself away, the interpretation would end up being a little too literal for my tastes even though at a later date I probably would enjoy walking past that clock and saying, “Heh heh, there’s the penis clock”. It was a judgment call, but in the end I just couldn’t justify it. Maybe some other time, penis clock.
Unfortunately, about 10 minutes into the 45-minute drive my car started seizing up a little bit. I ignored the gas petal’s unusual pumping and the fact that it felt like the engine was practicing for a pogo stick competition and continued driving. It heartened me to find out that similarly the car would continue its threatening throbbing. I thought to myself, “Great, I’ve agreed to drive all this way for this damn game and the car’s not even going to let me. Fuck this car. Fuck this destiny.” In the end it turned out all right though, because in a few hours I was saying, “Fuck that Jedi chick,” but this time not as an insult, instead, an imperative mandate to my in-game character. However, we have not reached that point in the quest yet. As it was, I was fairly worried every time my car turned on the hydraulic pumps. At first I thought that was pretty awesome, until I remembered that my car didn’t have hydraulic pumps so the only other explanation must be that I was about to die. That really wasn’t that bad though, since I have been about to die on several occasions and usually only end up with my dick caught in between two rotating gears in a giant clock. Er, wait, it was because of my dick being caught in the gears that I was about to die. Sorry. Anyway, I figured the car was either going to explode in a stupendous display of torment and other atrocities or at the very least break down in a disappointing fashion, but this would only occur after I had either gotten more than half way there or more than half way back. When the powers that be decide to flip the “Fuck Aaron” switch, they’re usually pretty good at timing it so it has the maximum effect and considering I was on a quest that my destiny was residing on, I expected them to be extremely punctual. In the mean time though, I occupied myself by cheering on my car as it fought to retain its pogo stick championship title. Bounce car! Bounce! I knew he could do it, I mean, it’s only a ‘92 Pontiac Grand Am, but it’s the SE.
After some time of me praying fervently that my car wouldn’t implode and suck me into a dimension were vicious abominations would violently quarter me (is there any other way to get quartered?) and greedily guzzle my life fluids we were in the lovely town of Enfield, which really isn't lovely, I was fibbing. Miraculously we made it there in tact, which was amazing considering not only the car’s relentless seizing but also the fact that the traffic appeared to be conspiring against me. I’m used to this, because often times it seems like the traffic is out for my blood. They just all want to kill me for no reason. Either that or people just don’t know how to drive, however, I like to think I have a little more faith in my fellow humans than that. Anyway, after weaving through the obstacle course of automobiles we finally made it to Media Play, our first destination in Enfield, hoping that at last we could capture the KOTOR and go home so that we could surrender our lives for the next several years. Might I just say before I move on though, how insulted I get at the other drivers on the road when they honk their horns and flash obnoxious gestures at me when I’m simply just trying to get ahead of them no matter the cost, and if cutting them off in the middle of an intersection is the only way then so be it! I’m telling you, I just don’t understand why they dislike me so much.
We got to Media Play around 5:00 and the parking lot was strangely deserted. Other than a couple other cars it was just the two of us, and there were no other people to speak of. This particular area of Enfield used to be incredibly prosperous during my youth, but over time it gradually fell into a sorry state of dilapidation. All that’s left there is a run down strip mall and a McDonalds that’s actually so far on the other side of the parking lot it looks like its trying to run away from the pathetic state of affairs the plaza is in. I mean, you know it’s bad when not even McDonalds will be associated with you. The McDonalds was quite apparently the only place to eat in all of Enfield, because there were hundreds of cars there, the line was going out the door and the drive through was practically going out of Enfield itself. And it's not like all these cars could be there for the strip mall. There was no reason to go there unless you're a necrophiliac and were hoping to hump one of the dead rent-a-cops. Or if you were looking for an elusive video game central to your destiny. This was convenient for our quest, however, since we were actually looking for an elusive video game central to our quest and let’s face it, these quests of mythical proportion just never occur somewhere nice and full of friendly fellow humans. Quests only happen in dark, dirty places where people don’t reside, but giant spiders are in abundance. Oh, and the giant spiders have to be immune to all of your weapons also. And poisonous. And in abundance.
The car door sluggishly closed shut, and the noise of it closing was questionably enveloped by the barren wasteland all around us. Sand blew across the cracked, weathered pavement and we slowly advanced towards the monolithic home entertainment center. I had been to Media Play many times before… but never like this. The heat was oppressive, but I cannot recall it mattering to me. The parking lot was like a desert, but it had no effect on me as I was being drawn to the Media Play like a moth to a flame, or an aspiring writer to extremely clichéd similes. But was I actually being drawn to the Media Play… or… or perhaps… whatever was inside?
As we grew ever closer to the entrance, I noticed a huge assembly of Media Play employees gathered towards the front of the store. There were at least 8 people in red shirts, simply standing around, waiting… for something. I immediately knew what their fiendish mission was. They were there for us, to keep us from obtaining the object of our desire. I would not be denied the precious. My palms itched, as I knew my destiny was at hand, this was the boss confrontation and I had forgotten to stock up on healing potions. But what if I cast shield of blinding light just as the fight broke out? That would buy me enough time to disarm at least two of the guards, leaving me an opening to escape or lop all of their lousy heads off. My brother interrupted my careful planning with some crap about western movies.
Austin: Wouldn’t it be funny if while we were walking over to the door we heard that music that they always play in western movies right before a shoot out? You know, “wa-wa-wa-wa…wawawawa,” quickly followed by the sound of clinging spurs and the rustling of tumbleweeds? Aaron: Right, you just want an excuse to wear some assless chaps you frickin’ faggotteer. Now come on, you’re slowing the quest’s progress. Austin: No, this is serious! Where have all the cowboys gone? Aaron: *a tumbleweed rolls by in front of them* Stop, stop it. This isn’t “Aaron’s Quest for the KOTOR at the OK Corral,” this is a goddamned mythical journey with giant spiders and unhelpful employees. You’re getting your themes all mixed up. What it really needs is a huge dragon to emerge from behind the store menacingly, blowing smoke across the parking lot before its eyes meet ours and silently communicate to us that we are going to be torn asunder by massive claws, teeth, and other big, sharp, unpleasant things. Austin: Yeah! Maybe that’s why nobody’s here. The dragon killed them all! Aaron: Haha, yeah… *a towering behemoth raises up from behind Media Play, rests its front foot on the roof and peers down at our heroes, letting out a terrific snort* …OH MY GOD WE’RE GOING TO- *Aaron and Austin are instantly incinerated by a substantial fire ball containing the heat of several thermonuclear reactors*
Your entire party has died, loading last saved game.
***
Well, maybe it didn’t turn out exactly like that, not after we loaded the saved game and went back to stock up on medpacs and these special anti-dragon grenades ($25.99 after mail in rebate, limited time offer!) anyway. Unfortunately, despite the fantastic lead up to Media Play, they didn’t have any KOTOR and so we had to resume our hunt. We proceeded to Sears, another KB Toys, and another damnable Electronics Boutique. Fortunately, this EB was moderately larger than the last and had 2 copies of the KOTOR left in stock. So my brother purchased one, the quest was over, the car didn’t go blooey on the ride home, and the EB employee took the last copy home and used it to pleasure himself thoroughly. Which I can understand. Maybe not if it were any other Xbox game, but please keep in mind, this particular Xbox game is EPIC. No… forget I said that, it’s still disgusting. Keep your masturbation away from Xbox games, that’s what the Virtual Boy was for. At any rate, despite the fact that I’ve now spent two entire posts talking about just getting KOTOR, I can’t answer any questions you might have about the game other than “Is it awesome?” to which I can only reply with either “yes” or “hell yes.” You’re going to have to direct any other queries to somebody else because I haven’t actually played the game.
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Tuesday, July 29, 2003 |
As you have undoubtedly noticed, 'The Idiot Box' did not appear last week and will continue to be absent until one of the following things happen:
1) First and foremost, television stops sucking. I've spent the past 3 years making fun of PBS. If this keeps up, my penis is bound to fall off. I don't know why; it just seems like McLaughlin Group does that to people.
2) I quit saying to myself, "Brandon, save the reader's 10 minutes of their life and don't bother. Open Kazaa, download some porn, bend it like beckham. You've earned it."
3) Transhumanists gain equal rights for cyborgs.
Okay, so the third one is bit far off, but I'm an optimist. Anyway, what I really wanted to tackle today is something that a lot of people need help with: being cool. Now, I'm not saying that by reading this you are going to achieve instant success. Most of you will look this over, try to emulate, and fail....miserably. Heartbreaking, I know. But with constant vigilance and the ability to read the English language, the tide may turn in your favor.
Stop Being a Geek
No matter what your internet friends say, talking about how Jolene Blalock brings a sophisticated yet boner-inducing new spin on the Vulcan species in yesterday's episode of Enterprise is not going to get people to hang out with you, or laid. The same thing goes for your extensive knowledge in 80's/90's pop culture, Star Wars, or comic books. It might've been super cool in, say, 4th grade, but you've grown up, and that stuff isn't exactly canon for discussion. It's time you shed this part of yourself for the greater good. A simple way of doing this involves meticulous planning and preparation. First, obtain a permit to burn leaves in your front yard. This is essential, because being slapped with an injunction is all kinds of not cool. Next, bring anything you own that could be considered 'nerdy' out onto your front lawn and bury it underneath a (preferably) large pile of leaves. Carefully light a match and say goodbye to your childhood.
If you find yourself weeping like a virgin after their first time amidst performing the "stop, drop, and roll" technique because you jumped into the fire in an attempt to rescue your shit (idiot), you've successfully been cleansed.
Dress Like a Ninny
This is incredibly simple. Get your ass down to the Gap and buy some clothes. No one cares if you're dirt poor ...it's an overused excuse - that's why they invented the clearance rack. Chances are you have no sense of fashion, so it's best if you bring a female companion with you (assuming you've actually spoken to one). Do not attempt to pick one up off the street out of desperation: this isn't a game, and these days just looking at a chick the wrong way can land you in the slammer. You're buying clothes, not looking for the quickest way to get closer to an overweight Norwegian dance choreographer named Hans.
When all's said and done, compare your attire to the people around you. If you blend in like a fat man at a anorexia seminar, you've done something wrong. If you have trouble differentiating your clothes from the leper in Abercrombie across the way, well, CONGRATULATIONS. Get a hair cut, take a shower and give yourself a cookie. We're finally getting somewhere.
Personality Adjustment
Are you weird? Are you quiet? Do you try to be funny but come off sounding like a complete dumb ass? Are you a Mormon? If any of these things describe you then it's hopeless. You're fucked. Just go back to your parents basement and continue to watch Designing Women on Lifetime whilst attempting to coerce your pillow into sex.
Just kidding! If you're still here, then there is hope. Really, the only secret to attaining a better personality is to have confidence as well as a sense of humor. And money. Because you know as well as I that the odds are slim that people will really like you for who you are, and it's going to take a lot of tens to buy friends.
Now, you're on the road to success. Grand things lye in wait, so go out, get drunk, and have unprotected/promiscuous sex. Remember, this isn't wrong, because God wanted us to procreate (why else was I given this thing between my legs?), and according to my highly religious roommate, Jesus had a tendency to get hammered.
Have fun. Be safe. Love nature.
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Tuesday, July 29, 2003 |
Because I have a strong command over sundry magical forces, I was able to bring Blogger back from the depths of the Netherworld, even as I am on a strenuous quest to find an extremely elusive video game. That's how powerful my magic is. See, you just don't want to fuck with me. Because I can be completely preoccupied with hunting after something in a epic journey with no real perils other than unhelpful and unhygenic cashiers and bad gas mileage and still find time to use voodoo powers to make sure things don't go to hell in a handbasket, or any other kind of basket for that matter, around here. Except for maybe wicker baskets, I haven't quite gotten a mastery over those things yet. Tricky little things with their weaved flexible branches and twigs. Make terrible chairs as well. Oh...an for the record, don't think my current quest isn't dangerous just because of the aforementioned "perils". Ignorance combined with poor hygiene and dirty air filters are some of the more subtle threats to not only our country's economy but the universe at large! However, these dangers will not keep me from continuing to inform you of my quest's progress in a couple days.
Now, Brandon just better deliver his promised post because even though I am on a mystical crusade with only one pair of clothing and no personal belongings, I should note that I always keep by my side my trusted scimitar, the legendary Bane of Connecticut's Suburbia.
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Monday, July 28, 2003 |
Because Blogger sucks, my post originally schedualed for today will not appear. I think it's okay, since Homestarrunner.com didn't update today either. Lazy bastards.
In the mean time, I implore you to check your local store that sells DVD's for Drop Dead Fred. It's one of those movie's I used to watch almost every day because I couldn't afford my own copy of Ghostbusters.
With all luck, an actual post tomorrow.
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Thursday, July 24, 2003 |
Today was momentous to say the least. I embarked on a quest that I was not prepared for in the least nor was entirely inclined to go on in the first place. I'm not sure what exactly made me offer to my brother that we take off into the world of adventure and adversity this early afternoon, but perhaps that's what a "calling" is. The powers that be knew that I was made for this journey, that it was my destiny, that one way or another I would complete it. Either I would go along nicely and end up boning the princess or I would resist, fall in numerous pits of lava, get bitten by huge plants, pummeled by a giant gorilla, and finally stumble onto victory only after losing all will to live. Don't get me wrong; I love monkeys, gorillas, and almost all primates in fact, except for humans. However, the trouble with gorillas is that they're often accompanied by bananas, and God damn it if I haven't sworn to fight the bananas and all they stand for until they either overwhelm me with their high amounts of potassium, give me the slip into a dirty gutter somewhere, or I expire in a non-banana related death. I have of course left out the "victory" option as a result for that particular side quest of mine. I'm willing to accept the fact that there are just too many bananas out there for one man to consume, therefore ensuring my ultimate failure, and for some reason other people just don't accept the prospect of eating all the bananas within sight range with as much zeal as I. So, given my hatred for the banana kind, I unfortunately turned my back to my simian friends and opted to take the gorilla free path, grabbing the quest by the pigtails and pounded it from the back.
I had planned to go out with my girlfriend today, but it seems my destiny wasn't having that, as she said she had to go out and have sex with six different guys or some other "washing my hair" type of excuse. So that left me with an afternoon and total boredom... in a moment of temporary lack of vision I stumbled downstairs and asked my brother if he wanted to go out to get that new Star Wars game, Knights of the Old Republic. KOTOR. He had mentioned to me earlier today that he wanted to go out and get it; however, at the time I was going out with my girlfriend but since she had to attend her sexual deviance club, I now had nothing to do and in absolute desperation succumbed to my destiny calling in my mind. A grave error... but the thing with destiny is, you really can't avoid it. It's going to catch up to you sooner or later so you might as well just accept it, especially when you keep in mind my banana affliction as noted previously.
At any rate, my brother was eager to go and I figured this would be a short little trip, which would end me up with a new Xbox game for free, thus completely solving my boredom problem. I did not understand at the time to what extent my boredom problem would be solved... even before he bought the game! Our town is a nice little residential area; unfortunately, it seems whoever built Simsbury in Simcity 2000 placed all the residential zoning in one block and all the commercial zoning in another block far, far away. There is really nowhere that you can buy anything in Simsbury, unless you're looking for antiques or Chinese food. I mean, I would have settled for some pork fried rice or a 100 year old, overpriced, useless trivet but my brother had his heart set on this game. So we had to take a short drive to the next town over, which takes about 15 minutes. That was 15 minutes I was willing to lose for the sake of giving me something to do for the rest of the day. Now, the irony seems to be positively brimming, but at the time I was completely retarded.
My brother had a gift certificate to Strawberries, so we planned to go there to get the game. Into Strawberries we go... magnificent. All is looking well as we head towards the looming wall of Xbox games. There were so many to choose from, they simply must have it! Now, the problem with this and any other big display of video games is that it's usually impossible to just pick out the one you want. You have to go up and down the aisle, looking at each damned box until you finally find the one you're looking for. We took to this tedious task for the sake of KOTOR, but as we looked at more and more boxes and didn't see our sought after prize, we began to worry.
Austin: They don't have it...they don't have KOTOR! Aaron: Yeah, yeah they do. They must. It's a new game; they must have it. Austin: Maybe it's sold out! Look there! An empty space! It's the only empty space! That's where KOTOR was! Aaron:They must have it! Austin: They don't! They're sold out! Fuck! Fuck! Aaron:THEY MUST HAVE IT! Austin: I'm telling you, they don't! Relax! Aaron: Oh, I'm calm. I was just imitating you. Here, why don't you just get Shrek Super Party? That looks fun. Austin: That looks like it got shit for reviews. Screw Shrek, Vader could have killed him. Aaron: An ogre?! No...ogre's have layers, like onions. Austin: I'm going to ask the lady if they have any in the back.
In all my days, I have never had any success with the "ask if they have any in the back" technique. It just doesn't work. It's an idealistic notion, sure, it would be nice if it did work, but that's not the way the world works. You can't just make something you want appear in the secretive dark room, have an employee go mucking around in the mystery and come out victorious, trumpets blasting, item in hand, glowing with the radiance of the Heavens. So that's why I don't do it anymore, and sure enough, my brother came back beaten, but not a broken man. He suggested we go to EB, which was just two stores down, and since I hadn't filled up my walking quota for the day I decided we might as well. I might add though, the walking quota is not something I go out of my way to fill up, I much prefer the sitting quota; however, at the moment it is on overflow.
We walked into the local Electronics Boutique, which I didn't even know was there up until recently. I suppose part of the reason is because it just wasn't there up until recently, but also it is small enough that a low to the ground cloud or haze of a hot day can obscure its location, making it disappear into the mists and all inside at the time will be trapped there for a thousand years! Or until closing time, when the fat fanboys running the counter will toss them out so that they can play all the reserve copies of Soul Calibur II and trade Yu-Gi-Oh cards. Oh, and while I'm at it, I've been trying to trade my Garoozis for a while, so if you want it let's talk.
This particular EB should have "Narrow Corridor Version!" written on the sign. Granted, I've never actually seen a spacious Electronics Boutique. They're all far too small, packed to the gills with all kinds of merchandise, some that boggles the mind as to who actually even buys it. I mean seriously, who actually would buy action figures of the Beatles? They don't even have spikes and teeth like the KISS figurines. But anyway, this EB is probably the smallest in existence, in fact, it seems likely to me that the store next to it simply decided to rent out their closet. Before you enter, you have to drink a magical tea that causes you to shrink down to less than half your size, and even then it's hard to fit through the mouse hole they have been using for an entrance. After cramming ourselves through the miniscule opening, we inched over to the Xbox games...that is to say, when we got inside we found our two bodies filled the entire room, which should probably be referred to as a "nook" or "crevice" instead, thus giving ourselves access to the entire store, so basically we just looked in the direction of the Xbox games. Our eyes became ablaze with wonder as we saw the words "Star" and "Wars" emblazoned on a box. Surely enough, it was KOTOR. My brother anxiously snatched the box off the shelf, turned around, and placed it on the counter.
Now, I've bought games at EB before, and even if there isn't a line it still takes forever to make a transaction. The various offers the hired slob wants to get you to sign your soul away for are so great in number they cause the mind to reel.
Employee: Do you want to be a member of the EB Games Club, it's only 7.99 with the purchase of this game and allows you to get a 1.2% discount on all used games, assuming they are scratched beyond all recognition and the booklet has been reduced to a shred and probably belongs to an entirely different game, perhaps not even for the same platform? Aaron: No. Employee: Are you sure? Aaron: Yes. Employee: If you do then you can become a member of the Deluxe EB Games Club, for only 5.99 after the 7.99 more with the purchase of this game, you can then get a 2% discount on used games that actually work? Aaron: No. Employee: Are you sure? Aaron: Yes. Employee: If you do then you are then eligible to join the Super Deluxe EB Games Club, for only 3.99 more after the 5.99 more after the 7.99 more with the purchase of this game and allows you to get a 5% discount on used games... Aaron: No. Employee: ...and you can sell select used games and we might actually give you money for it! Aaron: How much if I sell this game right after I buy it? Employee: Hmm...I might be able to give you three dollars for that... I'd have to call the manager. So, are you interested? Aaron: No. Employee: Okay, well, do you want to receive our newsletter? Aaron: No. Employee: It's a bi-daily newsletter that includes news on the latest games, newest releases, and has some promotional offers and discounts that are for products that nobody wants and are therefore completely useless. Aaron: No. Employee: Also, by signing up for the newsletter you are automatically entered into our monthly sweepstakes which has impossible odds of winning since we put all the entries through a paper shredder and give the prizes to ourselves... Aaron: No. Employee: ...and your email is sold to numerous advertisers... Aaron: No. Employee: ...and you automatically sell your soul to the Lord of the Underworld. Aaron: No. God, no. Employee: Do you want to buy this game? Aaron: No. I mean yes. Yes. Please just let me buy the game. Employee: Are you a member of the EB Games Club? Aaron: No. Employee: Okay, well then this is going to cost 85.99, but if you sign up for the Deluxe EB Games Club, for only 13.98 after the purchase of this game I can sell you this game for the suggested retail price.
It's really hard to be a nerd, and that's before the locker room violations and cafeteria pudding incidents. So, as my brother was haggling with the employee I turned slightly to the left and started playing with the Gamecube display, deciding to fill my time by playing, or at least trying to play the new Wario World. As I was tinkering, my brother walked over announcing that they don't have any more copies of KOTOR in stock, and yet still have the display boxes up in order to fool unsuspecting customers and lure them into the trap of buying an EB Games Club membership. So we decided to leave, and that was just as well since I couldn't really figure out how to play Wario World. I got stuck at the screen that says "Press Start to Continue" and was trying to find the solution in a walkthrough guide, but ran out of time. I'll be back, Wario.
My brother was hell bent on getting this game now that we were out, so we decided to check the following stores: Blockbuster, Walmart, and KB Toys. None of them had KOTOR, or even made the quasi-effort that EB did. And that was it. No KOTOR. We were all out of stores. As we got into the car after KB smacked us in the face, my brother announces, "We're going to Enfield!" We? Who? Wait, you mean you and me? Now, I could have just said no and gone home. It was 4:15 in the afternoon and we had already been out searching for this game for an hour with no luck whatsoever. Enfield was a 45 minute drive from Avon, and unfortunately, the closest place that had some hope of providing KOTOR. I'm not sure why I kept driving past our house and in the direction of Enfield instead of just going home and waiting to get KOTOR some other day. I'm not sure why I left a message on our answering machine at home for our mother saying, "Hi, Mom. It's Aaron. We are on a mission to find KOTOR. Austin insists that we must go to Enfield. I don't think I'll have time to come home after this so I'll be driving straight to college. It'd be good if you or Dad could drop my stuff off there. Bye." I had successfully diverted my boredom for some time, and that's all I was after in the first place. But something had a hold on me, and I willingly accepted to drive for another 45 minutes, probably only to meet failure again. Before this time, it was not apparent to me that this was a quest but now it was clear. I was meant to find this game, at all costs, even if that meant using a quarter of a tank of gas. And as quests go, this one was fairly epic in scope, although there were no dragons or chain mail as of yet. But perhaps Enfield would be home to all new perils, even though I had my doubts as to its ability to provide anything more sinister than the Electronic Boutique employees. ...to be continued
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Tuesday, July 22, 2003 |
As I sat down to write a pseudo-review of Pirates of the Caribbean I realized it probably wouldn't be worth reading since it didn't suck (Interested in "suck" and "summer movies"? Something Like Tripe recommends The Hulk!) and I wasn't ashamed to admit that I saw it (insert another lame Hulk joke). Suffice to say, the post probably wouldn't be all that funny, or even any fun to read. In fact, you might finish reading it thinking that you wish you never had, or even that it had never come into its poor, depressed existence, somewhat like one might have felt leaving The Hulk. ...Not that I know, I mean, I didn't see it... that's just what I heard.
Oh wait... I reviewed The Hulk didn't I? I guess I forgot to delete that entry. Disregard all mention of me seeing The Hulk! I'm still young! I still have things left living for! On the other hand, it could be argued that I gave up that privilege after sitting through The Hulk. But if God's going to kill me, I wish he would just go ahead and do it instead of torturing me by having me live in my own misery and self hatred. I'm cold and I'm ashamed, lying naked on the floor. That wasn't really a joke right there, more like a stupid reference to an annoying pop song but it's probably lost on most of the people who read that since they aren't losers and don't listen to buttery commercial pop radio stations. I don't either, though! Only when I'm in the car with my mom! Er, what I meant was... I don't go anywhere with my mom! I don't have a mom! I killed my parents! Yeah... yeah... that sounds cool enough. Totally dead, dude. Yeah, you know it. Wood chipper. Yep. Totally.
Despite the gruesome murder of my parents, I still had no review of Pirates of the Caribbean not to mention a funny review of the Pirates of the Caribbean. And if it's not funny, why bother reading it at all? Seriously, if you want to read some kind of "serious" review that takes a look at the movie's cinematic "merit" along with the actors' "talent" you can take a "walk" over "to" "that site nobody actually goes to", what's it "called"? Ain't It Cool News or "something"? Whatever, I don't actually even know what they do on that site because the huge text bothers me so much I can't even work up the courage to start reading. I don't understand the purpose of the irritating, multicolored 20 point font other than the fact that maybe it's one of those "blind-friendly" sites. Whatever it is, one thing's for sure, I've used way to many "quotation marks" in this paragraph. Let's move on and try to forget my shame. ...By that I'm referring to my most recent shame, not last night in the living room. Hell, I'm not even really embarrassed about that anymore. ...Please don't tell anybody.
I'm having a bit of a nervous breakdown at the moment since it's past noon and I haven't eaten lunch, I have to be at the eye doctor's at two, and I haven't made solid waste in over 24 hours but would really like to, and finally, I am sure there is a horde of spiders amassing somewhere and they are so looking for me. People often tell me that they think that I'm on drugs and when I assure them that I'm not they say, "Have you ever heard of that river in Egypt? DA NILE!!!" D'oh. Usually then I'll get really self conscious and quickly come back with, "Oh I mean, sure, I do heroin and crystal meth from time to time but none of the hard shit," and crack a feeble smile. It's all I can do to cover up the fact that I bailed the trick and my special meter is completely empty again. Oh, and for the record, all of the above stated calamities are of the utmost severity... well, except for the spider army, I can look past that.
Instead of reviewing Pirates of the Caribbean, since I doubt I'll ever get around to that anyway, I'd like to mention the fact that the theater in Simsbury never plays movies with black people because ultimately I think that will be funnier, mostly because it will enable me to take a few cheap shots at a minority under oppression and work my way farther into the bowels of hell. I figure if I'm definitely going there anyway, I might as well earn myself a good seat. But it is true that my local movie theater doesn't play movies with black people in it. Pirates of the Caribbean had one black person in it, who was hardly a main character but apparently that is enough. I guess the management doesn't want to attract the "wrong" crowd, which I suppose must be black people. And I'm sorry black people of the world, we'll make sure to set that right as soon as we get you those reparations for slavery.
So, in order to see Johnny Depp play with swords and wear eyeliner, which still doesn't make any amount of sense to me since he was the only pirate wearing makeup, I had to go to the movie theater in the ghetto. Well, that might be a bit of an overstatement, it's actually just a regular town that has more black people living in it than mine. But for a upper middle class white boy who was convinced that black people were nothing but fishing line, smoke, and well placed mirrors a town that has any black people is either the ghetto or a really bad dream. I think now would be an appropriate time to mention that I actually have nothing against black people, and in fact, have been known to enjoy their wackass hizza-hozzering company on more than one occassion. See, I can get down and flow and apply copious amounts of lotion to my ashy skin. I believe in equality, and I'll fight for it all the way from hell to breakfast, at KFC of course.
But because I had to see Pirates of the Caribbean in Motown, I've decided to review it appropriately. Dag yo, this movie was mad off da hizook, nah'm sayin? Know, the other day, I be watchin' this show called Snoop Dizzle Televizzle or some shit. That shit rips, yo but it ain't got none shit on badass mothafukkka Johnny Scizzorhands and his white bread Legolass bitchass. Who are y'all and when can the Duke come through? Ya'll defi-nig-ly won my movie of the year award and the year's only 7 mizonths young, son. From start to finish these hard ass guys obviously know how to get crunk and I ain't sayin that jus to get the crystal poppin'. I'm serious dawg, I be feelin this flick and dat brotha who was all skeletal an shit was heavy thuggin it to be sure. Big fukkkin' ups to Cap'n Jack Sparrow!!! I love ya'll niggaz to def! I should send them wack ass racist cats from Simsbury out y'all's way, and y'all can show them punks how to bust they guns, but I like y'all too much! I'm gon' keep this ticket stub and pass this shit over to my boys cuz as I said, y'all some cool ass white boys. I seen y'all had the brother from Toowoomba, Australia or some shit up in there doin' the Mc'Nig all over the place. Tell that brotha to call me! We got room in the van and chicken in the bucket for fine young brothas as himself over at the Ruff Rydazzz camp. As I says though, y'all ball till y'all fall, and thanx for the weed along with the picture of yo bitches. Next time, tell that bitch don't be wearing no damn clothes, ya heard dat?
Well that sure was fun. Oh snag, I gotsta go. My cat's on the back porch, and I think he wants something. He's all hollerin' an' shit. Aight, I hope he likes spicy Popeyes, and I double hope he's gots enough water fo that dry ass biscuit.
Cutting edge journalism, so hot right now.
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Saturday, July 19, 2003 |
I haven't known sunburn in years. There was one time, years and years ago when I was but a mere child that I made the mistake of getting my head shaved for the summer and got a wicked burn on my scalp, which then proceded to peel. That was amusing, though, as sunburns go, because it made my head look like a giant egg that was about to crack open. Every day I timidly and ever so gently tapped the top of my head, hoping to hear the sound of a loud gong proclaimed from the heavens, as my head split open and a lazy eyed penguin with a top hat and a cane jumped out, did a soft shoe routine in the runny yolk and then waddled into the sunset. No such luck, for a week it looked like somebody spilled milk on my head and that was it. Either that or I had really bad dandruff. Any kind of dandruff would be bad if you didn't have any hair, but the kind that comes in three inch flakes would be grounds for societal ostracizing. I took to the practice of eating them as they came up, to avoid getting blackballed at the local playground, but ended up getting made fun of and shunned for an entirely different reason. Hey, nobody ever told me it was gross to feast on your own dead flesh! Fuck you guys! So this is why I'm not particularly upset about not knowing sunburn in years.
Sure, I mean I've gotten a little pink on the shoulders and nose from time to time but I never had the completely red, blistering, peeling treatment again. And that was fine with me, since I didn't want to get the rickets and oh yeah, skin cancer or whatever that weirdass shit is they're always naysaying about. I have pretty dark skin thanks to the wonders of genetics which protects me from the accursed sun, *hisses*. I carry a bit of a natural tan all the time, so it's pretty hard for me to get sunburned, even if I'm outside a lot. And even if I do get a little pink, it'll usually turn to tan by the next day. My only weakness is the top of my head, but now that I have hair I'm basically invincible. Hell, even Superman had a weakness, but not me! Well, except for marshmallow peeps... oh God.
Now that I think about it, Superman's weakness was a humdinger. But I guess that was appropriate, because he had every power conceivable and would suddenly have a new one if the situation called for it. I mean, something had to stop this guy, and if you ever watched the Super Friends I'm sure you would find that something stopped him all the damn time. Superman would fly around a villain for 3 seconds and if the guy wasn't dead after that he would announce, "Something's...wrong...my powers aren't working! He must have kryptonite!" And sure enough, that bastard would have kryptonite. Every villain Superman ever encountered had kryptonite. Bank robbers would have goddamned kryptonite. Why else would they be bank robbers, anyway? To afford the kryptonite, duh! In the world of the Super Friends, you had to have some of that glorious green rock if you wanted to get any play time or actual confrontations with real super heroes. Otherwise, you'd get thrown into the reject bin and be left for the Wonder Twins and Gleek or even worse, Marv, Wendy, and Wonder Dog. Thankfully for most villains, kryptonite was easily obtainable, since it's not like it was an ultra rare chunk of a planet that exploded thousands of years ago on the other side of the universe. That would be sort of silly.
Come to think of it, I don't really understand how any of the Super Friends survived for as long as they did. They managed to survive against impossible odds because they could talk to squids, turn into ice cubes, talk in a monotone, and wear impossibly tight pants. Now, in all my time of knowing good combinations when I see them, I have never seen a combination as far from good as that. These guys were fucked in plain English. So it really is no surprise that they stopped making Super Friends episodes. Just look at the facts. Sooner or later all the kryptonite lying around in everybody's backyard was going to catch up to Superman. He and the other super friends, invincible as they seemed, were all going to die eventually. Or at the very least become incredibly jaded and retire. Just think, if you were Superman and could hear every crime being committed all over the globe, wouldn't you become a little apathetic? Sure, there's an out of control, eccentric, devious brain child with a monocle and fat persian cat hiding in his secret subterranean base preparing to launch a frooglepoopillion nuclear missiles into the sun but at the same time Solomon Grundy is about to run over the local humane society with a caravan of steam rollers. Which do you choose to take care of? Oops! Too late, while you were deciding the solar system was exploded and all the cats died anyway.
The Super Friends couldn't keep their act going for too long, they had some dangerous habits that would surely spell their doom. One of those times, Green Lantern would forget to make a big green "save everything, raise the dead, deus ex machina" device or Aquaman wouldn't be able to summon a huge flying whale shark to come chauffer them away from danger in time. The Super Friends had some great tactics that were particularly good at getting them into even more trouble. When they were in an intense battle, they generally began a long lecture on how their powers work and how they can use these powers to render the bad guys incapable of anything, instead of actually using their powers to render the bad guys incapable of anything.
Instead of leaving their weapons and gadgets at home for no good reason, they should have brought them with them. No longer would they have to fight incredibly strong super villains with sharpened stop signs, park benches, or power cables ripped out from under the street. Unfortunately, it seems that would only be possible for super heroes with brains. Another practice they should have stopped was after throwing their nemesis off a cliff, saying "Have a nice fall! You're done for," or bury them in rubble and say "I didn't know you liked rock 'n' roll! Your days of evil doing are over!" These sayings grew passe and frankly, utterly ridiculous, long ago when the bad guys always came back. Instead they could have said, "See you tomorrow, bad guy" or "You'll probably feel that in the morning, since you're not dead after all."
Although they did allow females on their team, they should have done intense scanning before hand to make sure none of them were prone to hysterics or carried STDs. They also should have been required to have rudimentary math skills such as adding single digit numbers and they needed to know at least half of the alphabet. This would have kept stupid girls off the team so they wouldn't get caught in obvious traps or sleep with the enemy. Also, it would have been nice if none of them ever took charge or acted like they had any authority whatsoever and didn't mind at all if one of the men "accidentally" grabbed their chest. Come to think of it, if all women were like this it wouldn't be such a bad thing.
Speaking of chests, back to the sunburn story I was rambling on about! Like I said, my skin is naturally pretty dark so I consider myself rather impervious to the sun's death rays. My girlfriend on the other hand, has been gifted with 100% Irish blood and along with that, 100% Irish skin. For those that don't know, that's the kind that burns. So she's pretty white, all the time. And if she's not being white that day, there's a good chance she's as red as Zangief or at the very least, on fire. In fact, she's usually so white that I'll use her to reflect the sun away from me. Unfortunately for her though, she usually just absorbs it into herself. But, like, I don't care. Essentially, her purpose was ultimately served.
We went to the beach about a week ago so I made sure to be a condescending jerkoff type boyfriend in the hopes that she would break up with me so I could get my mack on with the other bikini clad vixens. Now I understand why the sharks hang around the ocean, it has nothing to do with the fact that they can't breathe outside of water, the beach is a freakin' feeding frenzy! So anyway, I was constantly reminding her to put on sunscreen, mostly because then I got to rub it all over her back and by back I mean ass and tits. She of course reciprocated and reminded me to put on some, and like a complete fool I responded, "Yo, I don't burn yo. I don't need that shit. You though, you should be careful. Here, let me put some more on your back." In my defense, I was slightly worried about her, because her skin is so fair I was half expecting her to walk outside and explode from the sun's radiation. And I didn't really want brains and girl guts all over my new swim trunks. Four hours later, my girlfriend's efforts paid off and she was a beautiful brazen brown and I was more like a burning, blazin' brick. I think you normal people who don't eat pages of the Thesaurus for breakfast might describe it as burnt to a frickin' crisp.
I have never known sunburn like this. It might have been nice to keep things that way. Similarly, it might have been nice to keep the site the way it was, but we went ahead and made some "creative changes". That's an artsy way of saying, "we made big owie." First of all, a commenting system has been put in place and I highly recommend using it, and of course by that I mean if you don't use it you'll soon find your entrails wrapped seven times around your throat. For now I figure that's fairly good incentive, but if it proves to be uninspiring you can bet I can come up with something more violent. After all, I played Duke Nukem 3D. Supposedly for some people once they click the link to comment they get a mean error message, and if that's the case for you, simply refresh the page and everything should be laughing again. Generally it's a "page cannot be displayed." God... never in my life have I received such a "you suck, get the fuck out of my sight" type of remark from my computer. Also, in the area of changes, you probably notice the cute little pictures up at the top in those stupid colored blocks. Brandon is the normal person and I am the psychopath, figuring out which is which is now only a matter of interpretation! There... we went ahead and did it. We added pictures to the site. So I guess we might as well just start counting down the days to the final doom now. Just in case anybody wants to know whose fault it is when a massive cleave opens up in the earth's crust at the equator swallowing up Brazil, Central America, and all of the Pirates of the Caribbean, Brandon suggested the idea.
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Wednesday, July 16, 2003 |
With only a month and change left of summer vacation, undoubtedly you are beginning to prepare for the upcoming school year. The elite few, though, will be preparing for their first year of college. Congratulations. Anyway, I thought I'd share with you all a few of my experiences throughout the past year so that you can better learn what can make or break your first year of freedom. That, and my memory is starting to go, so I figure, what the hell, use this place to my advantage.
Good Idea: Getting your homework done on time. Bad Idea: Not going to sleep for two days cause you left everything to the last minute. I ended up falling asleep in two classes, contemplating whether or not I was actually dreaming one of them while in it, and skipped another altogether.
Good Idea: Stacking common room sofa chairs in front of someone's door, thus trapping them inside their dorm room. Bad Idea: Doing it while RA's are roaming the halls (luckily, this never happened, but just a precaution). - Remember to take a picture.
Good Idea: Going to the bathroom so you don't become constipated, freak. Bad Idea: Going to the bathroom on a Thursday night. You'll either discover people fucking in the stall, the toilet seat missing, or someone in a drunken stupor berating you cause they don't know any better.
Good Idea: Being thoughtful when speaking with your professors. Bad Idea: Not calling the cops when your professor suggests using kiddie porn as an angle for one of your photography projects.
Good Idea: Getting ass. Bad Idea: Getting ass from a girl that makes squirrel noises when your roommate (*coughmecough*) has to be up at 7 for class. The noises nor do the bunk bed shaking make sleeping any easier.
Good Idea: Having a good relationship with people in your hall. Bad Idea: Drop kicking your door in an attempt to shut everyone the hell up. Aside from ending up on your ass with the cable line ripped out of the wall, you don't accomplish much.
Good Idea: Using simple, yet effective card games to get girls drunk. Bad Idea: Ha ha, yeah right.
Good Idea: Throwing cheese nips at your drunk friends. Bad Idea: Throwing cheese nips at your drunk friend who lives in the room your standing in and proceeds to stab you in the head because she knows better. Yeah, okay. Who can hardly stand?
Bad Idea: Saying, "You know, we haven't had the fire alarm go off in awhile. That's fucking great." Good Idea: Putting on warm clothes and admitting you were a dumb ass when, hours after you said the above statement, the alarm goes off.
Good Idea: Taking showers. Bad Idea: Taking a shower and forgetting your key. The RA's will refer to you as the elusive "towel boy" for weeks to come (we still make fun of him for it).
Bad Idea: Dropping a glass bottle, 1 gallon, of wine on the floor of your dorm. Good Idea: Berating your roommate for the above by torturing him while he's high. And getting a huge thing of Fabreeze for the rug.
Bad Idea: Complaining about the model changing its position during your naked drawing class. Even Worse Idea: Allowing the model to shove their naked ass in your face when you do above.
Good Idea: Playing strip go fish. And winning. Bad Idea: Having to have other guys included in the game.
Good Idea: Art majors are allowed to play with their food. Even if it does look like a horse threw up on your plate. Bad Idea: Having to present your creation to the old guy taking your tray. That look still gives me shivers.
Good Idea: Leaving things on people's doors (amusing/disgusting signs, syringe cleaning kit). Bad Idea: Doing it to oversensitive people who lack a sense of humor (so what if everyone thinks you're a heroin addict? we laughed, didn't we?)
Good Idea: Well, jerking off I suppose. It's only natural. Bad Idea: Let's just say that most guys aren't as nice as you, so wear flip flops when you take a shower.
Sure, I've got more, but chances are I won't remember them until I do something stupid next year, which is only one month and two weeks away. And just incase you were wondering, through all this, I kept my GPA over a 3.0 and made the school's Deans List. Boo yah.
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Monday, July 14, 2003 |
Boy, are you kids lucky. This post almost wasn't going to make it, due to the incessant amount of Jedi Outcast I've been playing. Thankfully, I retreated from the path of the Dark Side, fearing that I'd spend the next week continuing that dream where an overweight, middle aged guy wearing 5 inch thick glasses comes at me with a lightsaber. Anyway, back by popular demand (happy, Aaron?)...
...The Idiot Box; 7/15-7/19 (PM)
Monday - Grab your girl/boy friend and do what nature intended. TV sucks tonight. Tuesday - 7:00, VH1; Awesomely Bad Girls: I'm picturing scantly clad musician chicks making suggestive movements with their body. But, this isn't MTV, so I've got a feeling that we'll be stuck with Celiene Dionne in a leotard. Erection, we hardly knew ye. - 8:00, CBS; Big Brother 4: This is still on? God. You'd think they would've canned it after the blonde guy from the first show was caught on camera dancing like a fairy (translation:homosexual). Primetime is no longer safe, children. - 8:00, Bravo; Cher: The Farewell Tour: If she's here who's running hell? - 8:00, ESPN; Beg, Borrow, and Deal: My sex life in 20 years. Oh wait, this isn't Women's Entertainment... - 9:00, NBC; Last Comic Standing: There're two things I detest more than anything on the face of this earth: bad comedy and reality TV. Ironically, NBC got something right by taking those two concepts and making a show. Too bad it sucks. - 9:00, USA; Bring It On: Cheerleaders. In small cheerleading uniforms. Doing flips. And kicks. And cartwheels....and....and...I need to get laid. - 9:30, PBS2; Chef!: Turnips have begun breeding at an alarming rate and will soon fulfill their quest in ruling the earth. Only one man can stop them. - 10:00, Bravo; Queer Eye for the Straight Guy: Judging by the ad in the TV guide, five gay men are going to take one straight guy and...well...let's just say once this show is done he'll never look at a cucumber the same way. - 10:30, COM; I'm With Busey: None of my friends will tell me what this show's about. They suggest that I watch it and find out, but come on. Who does that? Wednesday - 6:00, TCM; The First Traveling Saleslady: Someone forgot to inform this 'lady' that women are either found on their knees or in the kitchen. Traveling is not an option. - 6:30, Encore; Cabin Boy: Looking for a few good laughs? Check this embarrassingly cheesy (yet fun) comedy starring SNL alum Chris Elliott. - 7:00, VH1; Moments That Rocked: No, this does not include losing your virginity to your right hand. - 8:00, Disney; Leave It to Beaver: I've seen this movie almost a dozen times. Sadly, it doesn't seem to get old. - 8:30, MTV; True Life: Tonight's episode chronicles people who fantasize about animated characters during intercourse. They sure don't show shit like that on Disney. Oh, I'm sorry, did I say Disney? Thursday - 7:00, History; Modern Marvels: Recent studies have shown that my body is the 21st marvel of the modern world. Tonight's episode, though, features a bunch of rocks sitting on a patch of grass. Yippee. - 8:00, ABC; The Disco Ball: A retro special featuring top music acts of the 1970's, or better known as 'things that should've been left buried.' Hosted by Paula Abdul. - 8:00, Fox; Stupid Behavior: I think the headlining act for this show should feature a Canadian who strangles his therapist with a leather belt because people laughed at his drawing of toilet paper during a game of Pictionary. Nah, stuff like that never happens. - 8:00, Bravo; Jacob's Ladder: One reason as to why I prefer films of the comedy genre. - 11:00, TBS; Batman & Robin: NIPPLES. There, I said it. Watch at your own risk, as this quite possibly is one of the worst films ever made. Friday - 8:00, PBS2; A Flea Market Documentary: Cling to your La-Z-Boy in suspense as a 73 year old woman contemplates the purchase of a can opener. Not to be missed! - 8:00, PAX; Mary Higgins Clark's All Around the Town: I bet she is. Tramp. - 8:00, VH1; 50 Greatest Funny Moments in Music: Michael Jackson's plastic surgery and Britney Spears claiming her virginal innocence most likely to round off the top 10. - 9:00, PBS2; Great Old Amusement Parks: Alright, screw you. I can't get enough of these types of programs. Old amusement parks, hot dogs, and ice cream all seem to fascinate me one way or another. - 10:00, MTV; Spider-Man: I've got high hopes for the new animated series making it's home on MTV. As long as there are no cameo's by Justin Timberland or whatever his name is, I'm game. - 10:30, Sci-Fi; Scare Tactics: The only reality themed show that I will admit to watching. I have to admit, it had me hooked the moment I turned it on. Then again, I was too wasted to stand and moving pictures are enough to interest anyone that far gone so hey. Saturday - 12:30, CBS; Dangerous Liaisons: The original Cruel Intentions. I imagine it's not as much fun as it would be uncut, but from what I hear it's worth taking a look at. - 1:00, PBS2; Ten Secrets for Success and Inner Peace: Get out of your sister's basement and stop spending your days eating Cheetos while watching porn. Oh, and stop blaming yourself for what happened to the cat. It walked with three legs before you dropped the toaster on it. - 2:00, PBS2; Spiritual Solution to Every Problem: Still no cure for cancer. - 7:00, ABC; ER: Did you hear? The show has been picked up for another three years. Yay! - 8:00, ABC; Krippendorf's Tribe: Be forewarned: Jenna Elfman grabs Richard Dreyfuss' piece. Other than that, enjoy! - 9:00, NBC; Bowfinger: One of my favorite movies, and from what I've been able to gather it received three out of three stars. Once more proving why Steve Martin rocks socks. - 11:00, HBO; Sex In the City: Hi, my name is Brandon, and I deal in human fulfillment.
Watch responsibly.
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Monday, July 14, 2003 |
Brandon, where are you? The masses are demanding the funny and goddammit man, I am just not the man to deliver it to them! If I tried to post now and you ended up bumping my newborn brainchild in half an hour it would probably cause the Earth to crack in half and violently disgorge burning magma and all kinds of other unspeakable evils. Don't blame me! It's the masses, it's always the masses. They're a goddamned pox, I tell you.
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Thursday, July 10, 2003 |
Over time I have found several trends in my writing style. Other than the fact that Admiral Acbar always makes me laugh, I find that my best writing occurs at 2 to 3 in the morning, while I'm in church, or on the crapper. In fact, the entire first post on this site was written at about 3 am, and many other pieces of the other posts were written or thought of around that time, at church, or while I was on the toilet. Unless of course you thought everything so far was shit, in which case, I wrote it all during the day in a completely irreverent mood and my bowls were empty, and that's why it all sucks so much.
I figure whenever I get a full time job, I'm going to have to take the night shift... or the Sabbath shift, or maybe even the toilet shift but I think that's reserved for the mentally handicapped and black people. You know, that kind of thing really makes me angry. The blatant injustice that still exists in our society is an outrage. If a perfectly capable white person wants the toilet shift, then God damn it, he should be able to get it! None of this, "Oh I'm sorry, this seat is saved," crap. Please, I thought I had at last escaped that stuff when I left high school. Then again, I told myself that when I left junior high... and grade school... and day care.
I'm hoping to go into journalism, or the field you might know better as "starving to death". Fortunately, that will allow me the flexibility I need. Writing is one of the few jobs, besides masturbating, that you can actually do on the toilet. Granted, it might be terribly unhygienic, but when you think of a guy masturbating, is the first thing that comes to mind, "Wow, so clean!" So really, I think I'm just aptly playing the part.
Possibly the worst summertime activity is taking a crap in the heat. I think now I finally have an appreciation for what childbirth is like: a lot of hard, sweaty work and in the end, all you get is a pain in the ass.
On the topic of pains in the ass: writing. And I think you, and the many webmasters out there know it too. Writing sucks! The only thing worse than writing is reading. Of course, neither of them would be all that bad if anybody actually knew how to do them, but ever since the school system replaced a real curriculum with a desiccated husk, the type that an alien creature with 20 foot long pincers might leave behind, the kids just don't know the subtle nuances of the English language, such as words like "dog" and "sad". Fortunately for you and the rest of the robots, I mean, the human race, I have constructed a few "how to" lists that will keep the trouble of writing for an E/N website a thing of the past. Now, the important skills of sounding stupid, blind linking, posting up random porn and gore images, and most of all, stealing aren't going to be easy right away and will require some practice. But if there's one thing everybody learns to love, it's idiocy and dishonesty! Now let's get to it!
How To Write For An E/N Website
Traverse the wide world of E/N websites and find the topics that are covered by all of them in great length, redundantly, but most of all, poorly.
Find one that is completely unoriginal to copy for your site. This sounds like an easy task, but given the huge number of choices you will be presented with it becomes a fairly difficult chore. Finding only one idea that is completely unoriginal is nigh impossible, if not the stuff of legends by this point.
When choosing your completely unoriginal idea to steal, make sure there is no new direction you can take it in, make sure it is impossible to breathe new life into it, make sure it is rife with spelling and grammatical errors, and be damn sure to make sure it isn't funny at all.
Extra points for entries that use the words "cock" and "teh" so much that you actually have to spend time looking for any other words.
Take advantage of breaking news items like the fact that Brittany Spears had sex with Justin Timberlake to note that you are "so going to get up in that" and post dozens of fake nudes. Along with the 700 other websites that will do the exact same thing, you'll be the first to have it!
Oh, and it doesn't have to make sense or even be in the English language! So go wild! But don't take that as "Go wild and use your imagination and creativity" because those two words are big no-nos in E/N. However, replacing them with safe alternatives such as "ability to regurgitate the same tired material" and "lack of personality" will get you plenty of link swaps with other shameful excuses for entertainment and probably several hundred emails calling you a faggot. That's a good thing!
Remember to blind link every other word to a random worthless piece of web garbage or a picture of some sloppy tits. Don't be fooled, though, people don't actually like sloppy tits, this is for your pleasure only. Nudity will not keep people coming back to your site, it's their own lack of job, social life, or self respect. This is also why it's useless to try to come up with original and entertaining articles. Nobody's actually going to read them anyway.
And when I said "this is for your pleasure only" I meant, "do it because it's a requirement." You're not supposed to actually enjoy your website, in fact, you should point out how much you think going on the internet is gay in every post and then talk about drugs and beer.
If you plan on updating very infrequently, which you should, make sure the quality of your updates is even poorer. The idea is to make people wait for something so long that by the time you deliver it's an even bigger disappointment than the last. I call this the "Star Wars: Episode 1 Rule".
How To Write For A Blog
Writing for a blog is somewhat easier than writing for an E/N site because instead of trolling through numerous websites that by simply viewing are carving your name into a free ticket to hell, you can get all your material from your day-to-day sufferings.
Granted, you're probably an upper middle class white person who doesn't actually know what suffering is, so you have to pretend that when the cafeteria doesn't have sloppy joes it means your life is over and that your parents are the worst parents ever.
If you can't seem to ever get a boyfriend or girlfriend and the other sex just seems magnetically repulsed from you, consider asking your doctor for some prescription acne medication! Oh, and you can also feel free to discuss this on a regular/annoyingly regular basis on your blog.
The hardest part about blog writing is learning to act. You must be a drama queen. Everything must be a big deal. However, if by any chance anything truly important happens to you, ignore it completely and move on to something like "the pretty girl in my Algebra class wasn't in school today... I think I'm going to slit my wrists." If you must talk about an important event, grant it a sentence and make sure you sound completely disinterested. This might be difficult because it's hard enough to express emotion through writing, without the added caveat that you have to type in acronyms and all sorts of strange otherworldly hieroglyphics.
Be sure that you're repetitive. Try to develop a theme, such as talking about the same damn thing in every post. Here's one example to help get you started, "i want to kill myself, plz donate to paypal!!!"
Which brings me to my next and perhaps most important point. The purpose of a blog is to describe to the world how bad your life is and how much you hate yourself. Remember, everybody hates you but that's okay because you hate everybody back. This is your chance to complain about everything, which you probably do offline too. If you happen to think that your life isn't so bad, I'm sorry kid, but I don't think a blog is for you. It might be time to start thinking of the glass as half empty.
Somebody asked me what exactly Something Like Tripe was besides Brandon's stories and my rantings. There is nothing else. Truly, nothing. You can call it E/N or you can call it a blog, but either way there is an entirely different writing process that goes into creating your source of near constant edification and entertainment.
How To Write For Something Like Tripe
Sit on toilet
Let it flow
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Monday, July 07, 2003 |
Now, I'd hate for you to get the impression that this is turning into a solely news satire site, or even worse one of those dreaded, dry, news "analysis" sites, because I'm here to tell you sweet cheeks, that just isn't true! Something Like Tripe, which in acronym form is humorously SLT... get it, almost like SLUT... yeah... just like that was almost funny, will not change, it will remain a site where that deserting bastard Brandon and I can make fun of whatever's on our minds because this essential difference between you and me remains: I'm writing this article and you're not, fucko! So nya-hah. However, this was an opportunity simply too good to pass up.
"Chileans who found a huge blob of flesh washed up on a remote Pacific beach said on Thursday they would send samples of the specimen to foreign scientists to sort out if it is a rare giant octopus or part of a whale carcass. Scientists have been boggled by the 40-foot-long (12-meter) mass of gray, gelatinous flesh that was first spotted over a week ago near Puerto Montt, about 600 miles (1,000 km) south of the capital, Santiago." Might I just add, what the fuck?
The scientists commented on how this blob has created a lot of interest internationally. Yeah, no shit. It's not every day a 40 foot long pile of congealed refuse slithers up onto the beach and dies. People are wondering where the rest of this thing's family is and which beaches they'll wash up onto or even worse, which oil tankers they will consume. Any time some weird unintelligable lump of pudding is discovered everybody wants to know whether or not it's got the capability to kill us all. We don't want to die! It had better be a goddamned piece of whale blubber. ...Wait, I take that back. Maybe it's a mutant piece of whale blubber that has become sentient and has inched its way onto dry land to start a gelatinous massacre...with swords!
Suffice to say, the theories are flying. The whale blubber one seems the safest and most reasonable. And I'm of course referring to the mutant whale blubber theory, the other one is just a little too far fetched, don't you think? But the question remains, how the hell did the whale disgorge his blubber like that? Ate some bad kelp and rocked the underwater porcelain? Maybe it was some sort of transformer whale, where the blubber, whale, and blowhole are all separate creatures but then come together to form the powerful, nigh indestructible complete Baleenicon! I can hear it now, "Transformers: Sea food in disguise." After that, people say it might be a huge decomposed octopus that fishermen refer to as the "Bermuda Blob". Well, thanks for telling us about this thing beforehand and giving us a little helpful forewarning, assholes! I guess it's not fair to blame them, the damn thing probably ate everybody who had ever seen it. Just check that thing out, it is one big octopussy. I wouldn't mind getting a look at this globule myself, if only to thank it for giving me the excuse to say big octopussy. Hah. Haha.
Speaking of which, which came first, the word "octopus" or the word "you know what"? I'm just wondering. And an interesting side note, both of those things are on my top 5 list of things to eat!
Also, who the hell was in charge of the "Whale Naming Committee"? Because they had a serious trash mouth. Just look at some of the names for whales out there, we've got the sperm whale, the humpback whale, the reverse missionary piledriver whale... I just don't understand why! What about those creatures lends themselves to those names? I mean, my sperm definitely doesn't look like a sperm whale, but I suppose... what? You mean that's not normal? Aw shucks.
I have a few theories myself about the sea sac, and I think they're at least as plausible as the big octopussy ...pffffff *snicker*.... one or the whale blubber one, which I again mean the mutant whale blubber one. Let's talk about growths for a minute. They're everywhere. I'm not a statistical man, but I'd gather 90% of human beings have had a growth of some kind. I'm counting everything here- warts, tumors, boils, birthmarks, moles, and then there's just "growths". The "growths" are are certain type of growth that encompass things that are far too grotesque to call anything else. Many people often dismiss such growths, figuring that they will go away on their own, or if you simply apply some sort of cream it will disappear. This is commonly believed mostly because that's how things appear to happen. Unfortunately, things are not always as they appear. *insert thunder crack* And here we come back to our friend, the ambiguous sea vesicle. Perhaps it is an ocean wart, and the ocean applied a little wart medication to it and so it fell off and washed up on the beach. I suppose we should be pretty pissed off at the ocean for dropping its dead skin all over our land, but I'm inclined to believe its only fair since we throw all our shit in the ocean. Think of it this way, if somebody was constantly throwing garbage at you, wouldn't you eventually rip off a big, ugly wart and throw it at them? It makes sense.
And what about the X-Men? Naturally, you must remember The Blob. He was the ridiculous super villain that was grotesquely obese and burped whenever the X-Men punched him. And of all super villains, he was the one wearing the spandex leotard instead of a long, flowing cape that he could have wrapped around to cover up his rippling thunder thighs. I was considering the possibility that our ocean blister might have been a dead, ship wrecked Blob, but upon deeper meditation I believe this is completely unbelievable, and that discovery has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that The Blob is a comic book character. Originally I thought he might have gone for a bit of a swim but then sank to the bottom and drowned. However, given the obscene amount of fat on The Blob, he would have probably been so buoyent that he would not only have floated on the ocean, he would have probably bounced right off and into a high earth orbit. If The Blob is dead, we're certainly not going to find him off the coast of Chile, but rather, off the coast of the Moon. But if one day in the future an overpowering smell of bacon blows across the Earth, we'll know that The Blob had drifted over to the sun and been fittingly fried into the meat product that he so enjoyed.
Lastly, I'm really hoping that the giant sea spume has something to do with the giant squid. Just because then my theories about the giant squid being a evil, scheming mastermind would finally be proven true and we could go on to launch an appropriately giant genocide. I figure this rubbery, 40 foot long blob isn't the squid itself, but a huge net, a lure if you will, set out by the giant squid. He's hoping to get a few scientists or *gasp* maybe even a team of scientists onto the blob, whereupon he'll drag it into the sea and ravenously cleave their fragile limbs to ribbons with his stalwart jaws. I mean, I don't know, that's just what he told me.
Did you know that squids have beaks? That makes them sort of like a bird. Crazy, huh? Even crazier is what I saw on the Discovery channel last night. Scientists let their curiosity get the best of them, like a kitten caught in a woodchipper, and have captured the first giant squid larvae and are nuturing it in some secret lab. It's steadily growing, and the scientists are quite psyched...for now. But just wait until the squid is fully grown, and clambers out of the petri dish and pounds all of the lab workers into a big brainy mess. The only one that won't become a victim to the squid's fury is a 600 pound sap named Jeff who the other scientists had always assumed was just a tumor. Once Jeff is done greedily devouring all the brains, he'll call up other scientists in the area and ask them where he could get the recipe for the great spaghetti they had dropped by. The other scientists will soon realize what Jeff had done, and they'll quickly released him into Lake Eerie as punishment for eating other human's brains. Of course, they won't realize that Jeff is so fat, elephantine even, that he is more buoyant than a male sea lion (but not as fat as The Blob, thus keeping him from attaining any real altitude), so he'll float ashore, and decide to start his own Italian restaurant called "Jeff's Tasty Red Noodles". And meanwhile, the giant squid lurks in the shadows, beak glistening in the intruding light, quietly waiting to ambush its next hapless victim.
Perhaps the funniest part about this whole blob fiasco is the fact that the researchers in Chili can't even get to the heap of glop. Sergio Letelier, a researcher at the Museum of Natural History in Santiago, said, "we don't even have money for the bus, let alone a plane fare. It's pathetic." Pathetic, indeed Sergio. Poor people are a hoot.
On a completely unrelated note, I've finally put up a new poll. After 76 votes all essentially saying that this website sucks, I had had quite enough of your insults and put up a poll on a topic I can stomach a little more easily. And on the topic of stomaching things easily, I'm sure the giant squid will appreciate the fact that Brandon is cruising in Bermuda instead of making funny here and put him to equally good use. Chomp on that.
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Sunday, July 06, 2003 |
Sadly, the police caught me working the corner the other night. Therefore, I will not return until next Sunday. I'm totally confident that Aaron can hold down the fort in my absence.
Pray for my safe return. Until then, watch this. It really makes me wonder.
Courage.
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Friday, July 04, 2003 |
I'm going to title this article, "Aaron Dictates What Is Cool"...and coincidentally, it is by me, Aaron. Fascinating stuff this English language is.
In my meandering experience, I have found that what is often considered "cool" by the majority of society or by those stylish and ever chic fashion gurus who live in the floating mansions in Encino are the same things that I thought were cool at one point which inevitably became another sappy trend that are doomed to have all their originality and neatness factor sucked completely dry by the ever thirsting demands of a collective popular culture that just refuses to quit sucking. I also find that extremely long sentences with multiple subjects, antecedents, and other sorts of grammatical froo-froo are quite cool. At any rate, here is a bit of a list of things that are now considered cool, when in fact they are rather ridiculous. Please do note that although several of the items I did indeed at one time consider cool, this is not always the case, as my hatred for many of the following has only escalated to levels I never thought possible thanks to their newfound popularity. I don't know what it is, but whenever I find a teenie-bopper sporting anything at all I get the sudden urge to spew liquid fire. I think it might be caused by some sort of chemical imbalance. But hey, not going to the doctor for potentially dangerous and fatal conditions is pretty punk, right? And punk is so fucking cool these days.
Retro T-shirts You know what I'm talking about, those t-shirts with the retro-styled graphics on them. Shirts with pictures of gas stations or Rainbow Brite on them have suddenly become quite the rage. Granted, I have somewhat of a collection of similar types of t-shirts which I have now become very ashamed of. I grit my teeth every time I reach for the coveted Gumby shirt, knowing that by putting it on I might as well be letting the terrorists win. I'm so sickened by my t-shirt collection that I'm blushing right now as I write this knowing that I'm a perpetrator of a fashion crime that I am at the very moment condemning, although that could also be due to the fact that the sexy soccer mom next door saw me masturbating in the bushes the other day and refuses to smile and wave at me when we both go to get the mail every day since. It's pretty embarrassing to have the entire neighborhood, including all of the kindergarteners, call you "weed wacker". Everybody has primal urges! It's not such a bad thing to succumb to them once and a while to keep them from welling up inside you to the point of bustification. People who keep their primal urges pent up inside end up knocking over Quickie Marts and blowing up clowns at little kids' birthday parties. THINK OF TEH CHILDREN!!1
Ties on Chicks I forgot to mention in the last entry that I blame Avril Lavigne in part for the reason why I can't wear retro t-shirts anymore. Man would I like to cook her ugly hole between her legs over an open fire. It seems that this queer named wannabe's wrath is so encompassing it has affected more than just the MTV nut massaging masses. Chicks that claim to hate MTV, conforming, Republicans, normal people (including everybody who isn't at the very least bi-curious), love, the beautiful things in life, and life itself are flocking to this fashion statement like moths to a light fixture. I don't know if it's another one of those damned women's liberation statements, but if it is, listen up women of the world: you were always allowed to wear ties, but previously you always chose not to because you had not lost all of your sense and dignity yet. Women wearing ties is not a slap in the face to men everywhere, a sort of "women can do everything men can do" type of statement. No...it is a ridiculous looking fashion that has just got to die. And also, women can't do everything men can do. I've never seen a woman jack off...well, except for on the internet but that's where the laws of nature and crimes against God aren't applicable. Apparently global warming has begun to show its adverse effects and is cooking the minds of previously fashion sensitive femme fatales. The sad, unfortunate female gender. Guys never do stupid things like that, besides not banding together to run Nascar out of the known world and having sex with sheep and monkeys, spreading herpes and AIDS, contributing a few more banes to humanity ensuring our ultimate destruction one way or another. Blame it on Jane Goodall if you want, but I'm willing to accept my gender's sexual weaknesses and I know somebody with a penis was responsible for violating those poor baboons' bottoms. How else could they get so freakin' bruised?
Pink on Guys I read some time last year that 2003 would see that the color pink would finally receive its propers from men everywhere. I scoffed at the idea as I brushed the dust off of my old pink sports jacket. But lo and behold, I am beginning to see a lot of pink on guys. Perhaps I had always seen it, but before I had discredited the poor saps as faggots or color blind shmucks, and only now I have begun to appreciate its stylishness thanks to an article some college intern wrote coming off of a 3 day weekend bender. So I'm not sure if pink really is cool, but it seems to me that a lot of guys are wearing pink these days for some reason, guys that don't look like faggots or color blind shmucks...but these days you really never can tell, can you? They're everywhere! The color blind people, I mean. There was a time that I could walk about the outside world wearing my pink sports jacket feeling like a goddamned revolutionary. People would eyeball me, looking at me like I was some kind of a faggot or color blind shmuck and I would just laugh, or wink at them depending on how saucy I was feeling that particular day. Now though, the pink jacket has become legendary among most circles. People tell me, "smooth jacket, Aaron", or "Oh I just love it when you wear that jacket." My friend Brendan told me, "Man, I'm telling you, you've gotta wear that every day!" I used to be afraid to wear the pink jacket too often, not out of fear of Matthew Shepherd's murderers, but simply because the shock value would wear off. Unfortunately, it seems that it already has! Girls think the pink jacket is sexy! They're attracted to a blatantly homosexual article of clothing! Although I suppose the same thing happened when big hair bands got popular. I mean, did you ever seriously look at the kinds of things Van Halen would wear? HAH! No you didn't! It's impossible to look at a thirty year old man with huge hair wearing a lavender spandex leotard covered with sparkly moon and star sequins and take him seriously. I really don't know about the whole pink being cool thing, but pretty soon I'm afraid that I might be considered cool, in which case the universe will surely implode! Hey, at least those stupid chicks with the ties will be happy.
Jean Jackets The fact that this article of clothing is cool again is really no surprise. Jean jackets' coolness is like a sine curve. For a year or two they're super popular, and then everybody throws them in a box in the back of the closet for another couple years. Each time the style of jacket is slightly modified, but it's always essentially the same jacket. Back in the early nineties when grunge got huge, ripped up jean jackets were the icing on a very homeless looking cake. The last incarnation of jean jackets before that were the hideous white, acid washed ones. I don't know whose idea white jeans were, but they deserve to be acid washed. Honestly, nobody wants to look like Michael Jackson, not even Michael Jackson wants to look like Michael Jackson, that's why he's had dozens of plastic surgeries and got his entire epidermis acid washed. Now the cool jean jacket style is the "sandblasted" look, you know, like you were rolling in the dirt and then got hit with a magical flying block of cement moving through the sky at sonic speeds. I actually know a guy who that happened to, and suffice to say, he doesn't go walking around construction sites anymore. ...Because he's dead. He doesn't really go walking around anywhere anymore.
The Gays The other day I saw an advertisement for a new TV show called "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" which entails sending a group of homosexuals on a search and makeover mission. They find straight guys and make them look gay. It's demented! One must wonder if Rome had this type of entertainment before the fall. Don't chalk it up to barbarous lion feedings or vomitoriums, America's been feeding people to lions and throwing up for centuries. But the gays...I think the gays are cause for concern. It's obvious, since the 90's it's become increasingly cool to like having sex with another man's butthole. There was a time when we fed homosexuals to lions, but no more! Now we give them their own TV shows and even worse, treat them like normal human beings. Even in highschools, where you could almost always count on gay kids getting tortured, they're getting slightly better treatment. Instead of killing them, now the jocks just make fun of fags. Species, I think it's time to take a stand! Let's rise up and force the homosexuals to turn to the priesthood! That way they'll all be regular, God-fearing good people who would never dream of putting their hands in little boys' underwear.
Tight Pants It's going to be dangerous in coming days...you're never going to be able to tell the 12 and 13 year old crowd from the rest of society now that tight pants are coming into style. Previously, the tweens were always adorned in pants that encompassed several city blocks, making them easily recognizable and even easier targets. However, that's really the only bad thing I have to say about this new, cool thing. Frankly, it's about damn time that huge pants rolled over and died. You'd think that after the first few kids got caught in an escalator and dragged into the 4th dimension people would realize that it was time for these pants to go. But then again, dying has always been cool, at least to the depressed high school crowd. If there is one piece of advice that will never get old: if you want to get attention and have people show that they love you, kill yourself. Remember in the mid-nineties when your pants were considered tight if you could still see your shoes? And remember how shorts weren't baggy enough unless they actually looked like pants? That all went just a little too far. And of course by a little too far I mean WAY TOO FUCKING FAR. For a period of two or three years when the style peaked, it really looked like the entire teenage population got up one day, put on a pair of pants and then proceeded to shit in them every frickin' day for 2 years. Everybody looked like they were carrying a dump in their drawers! I admit to it, I thought it looked cool too, but I'm not proud of it. Self defecation is not cool, folks! Honestly! I don't care who the hell you talk to, but that shit went out with Magic the Gathering cards. Once those 48 hour straight tournaments ended, there was no more need for crapping in your pants and without that kind of necessity the demand just rapidly dropped for pants that could hold such a heavy burden. It was a dark time, nonetheless. I remember one day I was wearing a particular ridiculously sized pair of pants, and a guy I knew came up to me and said, "Hey Aaron, rocking the hippie look, huh?" And I was like, "...hippie...uh...what?" He said, "You know, you got the really baggy pants." I said, "Oh," but I thought, "Man this kid is a fucking idiot." Not because he had no concept of what a hippie was, but because I could totally see his shoes and his ass crack was not in plain view. NO STYLE.
Penis Enlargement I get so many emails daily about this that I'm really starting to believe it must be the cool thing to do. Either that or sending out emails about penis enlargement is the cool thing to do. You know, sometimes the ads really start to get to me. Maybe I really do have a small penis! But then I think to myself, they're sending this email to tons of people. There's obviously a huge market for penis enlargement. I can't be the only one with a small pecker...OR AM I?! WHAT IF I'M THE ONLY ONE ON THE MAILING LIST?! FUCK! They always tell me, "5 out of 7 women are unsatisfied with the length of their partner's penis". Now, they don't mention how many of those women are lesbians, which would allow for some crafty statistic botching, but assuming that all of those 7 women are straight leads me to a bit of worrying. I've dated more than 7 girls in my time, that means that there are at the very least 7 people who have actually seen my penis and 5 people out there who think it's too small! Now, I know that logic is a little screwy, because after all, I don't just go showing every girl I go out with my dick... *ahem*. Well, I won't anymore anyway until my new weights and herbal extracts come in the mail. Any day now!
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Wednesday, July 02, 2003 |
Sometimes I really feel bad for those poor bastards "in a galaxy far, far away." You probably have no idea what I'm talking about, but that's understandable, considering George Lucas doesn't tell you about the intergalactic shenanigans that occur when the camera's aren't rolling. Fortunately, I've had nothing better to do in the past 40 something days than watch Star Wars religiously (sans a goat and candles), so I've jotted down three things and came up with this tripe below. Reading it will only make you that much more entertaining at parties. Well, at least more entertaining than the guy throwing Cheese Nips at unsuspecting drunks.
When I watch Star Wars, I wonder....
1. Does the Empire wash their windows? With all the planets they obliterate and vessels they destroy, don't you think that maybe some of that debris would start to congregate and make it impossible to see out of the damn windshield? I don't know about you, but the thought of a battle station the size of a small moon flying across the galaxy with a fogged up windshield makes me slightly nervous. Why do you think that Super Star Destroyer crashed into the Death Star during Return of the Jedi? Exactly. Stormtrooper 1138 fucked up.
Stormtrooper 1138: [pointing to dead trooper on floor] What happened to Frank? Stormtrooper1126: Missed a spot while shining the bay floors. Vader found his lack of faith disturbing. Stormtrooper 1138: Oh. Stormtrooper 9108: Hey Bill, weren't you supposed to squeegee the windows down before we engaged the Rebel Fleet at point blank range? Stormtrooper 1138: Fuck! I thought it was Thursday! Vader is gonna be pissed. *alarm sounds* Stormtrooper 1126: Eh, yup, too late for that now. Look out the window. Stormtrooper 1138: WHAT!? Stormtrooper 9108: Oohh yeah, look at that. [whistles] Yup, we're going headfirst into the freakin' battle station. Good going, shit for brains. Stormtrooper 1126: Yeah, I think you're up for a promotion! Stormtrooper 1138: ....
I guess someone really did pay for their "lack of vision."
Pun intended.
2. Why is there a jawa in Jabba's Palace? As tribal scavengers, you can't help but wonder how the hell he wound up working for a giant slug whose central preoccupation revolves around biting the heads off of squiggly things. Remember the scene in A New Hope when Luke and Obi-Wan find all of those jawas massacred by Imperial troops? My guess is that he came back from lunch at the wrong time and had to consider an alternate career path.
Jawa Mark: [approaching Sand Crawler, littered with corpses] Hey guys, some poor sap threw away all these perfectly good bags of...... *dead jawa slowly falls onto sand with a thud* Jawa Mark: .....funyuns...
3. What would the Leia in the slave girl outfit do differently to me than the Leia in white gowns? This one thought alone eases me to sleep at night.
That's it. By the by, check out vutant, because not only do they have a new layout up, but I figured I'd return the favor of mentioning them in a post...
"His formerly glorious website now lies in ruin thanks to staff writers who wrote only 35% of the total content." ...seeing as how Dar mentioned me only a few short weeks ago. I'm on the fast track to publicity whore. And it feels so good.
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Tuesday, July 01, 2003 |
If this was a yearbook picture, it would be one about which you would say to your friends, "Haha, look at Joe Parker! He's going to grow up and kill people with swords."
And you would, in fact, be completely right. On Sunday morning, shoppers went running from a grocery store in Irvine, California as the police rushed in to try to subdue Joseph Hunter Parker who was busy cutting people up with a samurai sword. Also, he was wearing a trenchcoat and beret. I suppose he thought they were enchanted items which would fortify his accuracy +5, armor +10 and style +100. Maybe so, but he ended up getting shot and apparently the trenchcoat did not give him any experience points in not dying. By that time, he had already gutted an employee and two customers but was shot down before he could perform the ritual of Hari-Kiri on himself like a true samurai. I'm sure he died a noble death in the hospital bed, while the nurses snickered, "This was the guy who thought he was a ninja."
His mother said that he was schizophrenic and that he told her that voices were telling him to do bad things. Apparently, he listened to them. When he wasn't listening to the scary mean voices and murdering people for no reason at all, he collected swords and was a big fan of the Highlander movie and TV show. Coincidentally, Highlander was also a sword fighter who wore a trenchcoat. Highlander was immortal as well, and I think we can pretty much rule Joseph Parker out of that category. Bummer. I would have liked to meet the Highlander, even if he was a beret wearing frog.
In the movie Connor MacLeod, the Highlander, says, "There can only be one!" Clearly, Joseph Hunter Parker was not the one. He was just another sword collecting, trenchcoat wearing nutter. Why is it that it's always the crazy people who collect swords? Normal people just don't do it, it's only the guys who will actually use them. But I guess normal people probably don't want to collect swords because they wouldn't use them. It would just be a waste of money if you weren't going to stab anybody. Good for Joe, he sure did get his money's worth.
His sister told police that "he was kind." It seems there are several definitions of "kind" lingering around, the common one meaning "of a friendly, generous, or warm-hearted nature," and the slightly less common one meaning "apt to killing people with swords." I don't think Parker was traditionally kind, but hell, I didn't know the guy. Maybe he was very friendly and warm hearted while slashing through innocent customers' entrails. I would certainly appreciate that sort of consideration from somebody if they were murdering me. I mean, sure they're killing you, but at least they can be nice about it.
It truly is a shame that they put a stop to Parker's rampage before it could have gotten to a level of legendary hilarity. Sure, it's funny that some mongoloid who was obsessed with swords and Highlander ran into a grocery story and killed a few people with a katana while wearing a trenchcoat and a beret, but I think, and this is just my opinion, that it would have been much funnier if he had gone on to kill the entire town of Irvine, population 143,000, and it became a matter of national security. Imagine that, helicopters constantly patrolling, police blockades at every turn, Eyewitness News eating it up, nobody allowed out of their houses, children crying, Jesus crying, all because Highlander has gone berzerk and is destroying America! And meanwhile, a lonely, frightened middle aged man is hiding in a dark and dank forest, holding his head and wimpering to the voices, "Just go away...please go away...where am I and why is my ass so sore?" He would grow old and tired, and end up working on some farm in East Buttfuck, and nobody would recognize him as the renegade Highlander because he would have 5 foot long dreadlocks, and that's just his beard! Besides, nobody in East Buttfuck has TV or even electricity! Come to think of it, I'm not even sure if happiness has reached them out there yet. But this would be his life for years, and people would forget about Joseph Parker until one day...something sets him off, maybe the sun shown in his eyes a little too brightly, or the rabbit died when he "pet" it too hard, or the farmer's daughter told him that she was terrified of him because there were insects larger than her thumb crawling in and out of his hair, or he rolled a 12 but a Proto-Goblin killed his Level 34 CryptoChrist with a vorpal sword. And then the Highlander would return to kill anew, sword in hand, trenchcoat adorned, and beret nestled on his briar like hair. He would walk slowly into the sunset, a lone samurai with a lust for blood and a virgin penis.
Okay, maybe that wouldn't be hilarious, just weird, but what about this guy wasn't weird? I almost feel sorry for the poor fucker, he was just trying to live the American dream: go crazy, get sword, slay millions. Unfortunately for him, a mere 3 people dead is going to look pretty pitiful in Hell and I don't think his trenchcoat is going to keep him safe from the other citizens' idea of the meaning of the word "kind".
Speaking of which, today is Canada Day, which happens to be the only holiday I like less than Forcible Sodomy Day.
