I've spent a week getting sauced on the 24 count case of 20 oz IBC root beers I got down at the awesomeness known as Sam's Club and haven't posted. However, I want to tell you all about the dread terror of our time. For those of you that do not know, the greatest threat modern mankind faces comes not from terrorism, not from greed, but from hippies.
That's right, those dirty, dooby-dabbling, ne'er-do-wells from the 60's have not left us. Instead they all took a cryogenic nap in a commune cave somewhere remote, only to re-emerge decades later, pickled from all the drugs and alcohol, wholly unchanged with the same old creepy stupid belief systems threatening to drag the rest of civilization into their cesspool.
After slight modification, the Gaia-Earth-Spirit-Crystal-Astral-Mother, what I'll refer to as GE-SCAM, has become the "green movement." Latching on to a simplistic color coding scheme perfected by M&M's and mimiced by the Homeland Security Department when telling us "threat levels," the hippies have provided us a blueprint for revolution characterized by the mere color green. Supposedly being green is what everyone seeks, though the last time I remember someone saying "I want to look like Gumby" was sometime around 7th grade and that was only around halloween or that "special" time when little Timmy learned about the "changes" he was undergoing and wished he could stretch himself at will.
Most of the time, the tv tells me now that I should buy something either because it's green, I'll be green, or the package was recycled into something green. My favorite color as a child was blue so I couldn't give a rip. When the die-hards pop on my tv wearing silly t-shirts and buttons, holding signs, and angrily chanting rhyming couplets on the news-screen I learn the basics of being green. These basics apparently consist of the following: Stop bathing. Don't have babies (though I think step one helps avoid that problem). Stop producing anything. Love everyone else while hating yourself. Vote Democratic. Legalize marajuana. Prohibit freedom of thought, speech, gun-ownership, property ownership, smoking, and agriculture (except for marajuana production). The only good point in all this is that if I continue to want to think and say what I want while owning something, maybe I can get by as they are stoned, chanting, unarmed and leaving me the perfect opportunity to ignore them. Let's just keep them from commanding an army.
Oh crap, too late!
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Thursday, February 12, 2009
An apportioned bunker in the woods...
There may have been a time when living amongst a wild throng of humanity appealed to me. That time was likely sometime around the zygote stage. Since then I've enjoyed a healthy mistrust of my fellow man that has congealed into a fine scab of disdain as my years in the "big city" of Chicago grow. To this end, I've decided I want a bunker in the woods.
I never liked math as a kid. It wasn't hard, really, it just bored me. 1 + 1 was always 2. Little did I know that grown-ups can wield magic as an Accountant or Politician and 1 + 1 becomes any number you want, say 1,000,000 even! That kind of math I could get behind. The Hair-Helmet-formerly-known-as-Governor-of-Illinois-Rod-Blagoyankovich (or whatever his name was) wielded some awesome math-fu here by making numbers out of thin air! He borrowed money from a future budget to balance a transit budget today, among other things. On a side note, Wimpy got busted trying that shit out at a local Bar and Grill last Friday for a burger-fee on Tuesday, however he was unelected and/or lacking a financial degree and was promptly bounced by Bluto. So in the spirit of giving math another chance, I've used it to create what I lovingly refer to as the "Asshole Equation."
The fundamental concept behind the Asshole Equation is the following: There is a fixed rate of 1 out of every 100 people you run across that is an Asshole and for every 4 people NOT an Asshole in that 100, for every 2 minutes they spend in contact with an Asshole, they become an Asshole. This has dire consequences for humanity as you might imagine.
The equation shows the potential for all of mankind to be wiped out in a plague of assholishness in mere months. In the past, population centers were not so dense. If the 1 in 100 "infected" were to try ruining your day by trying to asshole-up your neighborhood, you could rightly ignore him until he left, ostracize him, or pack him up in a box and mail him to Ted Nugent who, as it turns out, uses assholes for target practice. Now, however, you are stuck living near so many people, you are doomed to be at least within shouting distance of one true asshole, maybe more if you live in a city as large as mine. Add to this the growing broadcasting trend of reality TV and even sparsely populated areas risk infection from the airwaves as the average viewer is scientifically proven to watch a minimum of 5 minutes of any given show due to RCFMA or Remote Control Finger Muscle Atrophy.
Welcome to the bunker! My solution to this coming catastrophe is a bunker. While a cabin in the woods sounds great, I really want something on par with a cave. A place nice and warm and covered for rain that I could soundproof somehow and in which I can totally escape.
After a great deal of soul-searching, I conceded to my wife that I possess no real skills for self-sufficiency. In fact, if some more deadly, but far less interesting, armageddon comes first like a nuclear attack, my role in the post-apocolyptic society would probably be Chief Ratter. I don't like salads and I don't know how to grow the 'taters I eat with my meat so I'll have to hunt for the food I eat. Cows are big and prove difficult to kill for someone untrained in weaponry. This leaves me hunting rats, mostly with a toaster.
On second thought, I don't like the sound of Rat-dogs. Mostly because I can't make mustard and who wants a rat-dog without mustard? So a well apportioned bunker in the woods, preferrably with a generator, stores of food, and video games is what I need. Funding this sanctuary may prove hard, but we all need goals in life, I've got mine.
I never liked math as a kid. It wasn't hard, really, it just bored me. 1 + 1 was always 2. Little did I know that grown-ups can wield magic as an Accountant or Politician and 1 + 1 becomes any number you want, say 1,000,000 even! That kind of math I could get behind. The Hair-Helmet-formerly-known-as-Governor-of-Illinois-Rod-Blagoyankovich (or whatever his name was) wielded some awesome math-fu here by making numbers out of thin air! He borrowed money from a future budget to balance a transit budget today, among other things. On a side note, Wimpy got busted trying that shit out at a local Bar and Grill last Friday for a burger-fee on Tuesday, however he was unelected and/or lacking a financial degree and was promptly bounced by Bluto. So in the spirit of giving math another chance, I've used it to create what I lovingly refer to as the "Asshole Equation."
The fundamental concept behind the Asshole Equation is the following: There is a fixed rate of 1 out of every 100 people you run across that is an Asshole and for every 4 people NOT an Asshole in that 100, for every 2 minutes they spend in contact with an Asshole, they become an Asshole. This has dire consequences for humanity as you might imagine.
The equation shows the potential for all of mankind to be wiped out in a plague of assholishness in mere months. In the past, population centers were not so dense. If the 1 in 100 "infected" were to try ruining your day by trying to asshole-up your neighborhood, you could rightly ignore him until he left, ostracize him, or pack him up in a box and mail him to Ted Nugent who, as it turns out, uses assholes for target practice. Now, however, you are stuck living near so many people, you are doomed to be at least within shouting distance of one true asshole, maybe more if you live in a city as large as mine. Add to this the growing broadcasting trend of reality TV and even sparsely populated areas risk infection from the airwaves as the average viewer is scientifically proven to watch a minimum of 5 minutes of any given show due to RCFMA or Remote Control Finger Muscle Atrophy.
Welcome to the bunker! My solution to this coming catastrophe is a bunker. While a cabin in the woods sounds great, I really want something on par with a cave. A place nice and warm and covered for rain that I could soundproof somehow and in which I can totally escape.
After a great deal of soul-searching, I conceded to my wife that I possess no real skills for self-sufficiency. In fact, if some more deadly, but far less interesting, armageddon comes first like a nuclear attack, my role in the post-apocolyptic society would probably be Chief Ratter. I don't like salads and I don't know how to grow the 'taters I eat with my meat so I'll have to hunt for the food I eat. Cows are big and prove difficult to kill for someone untrained in weaponry. This leaves me hunting rats, mostly with a toaster.
On second thought, I don't like the sound of Rat-dogs. Mostly because I can't make mustard and who wants a rat-dog without mustard? So a well apportioned bunker in the woods, preferrably with a generator, stores of food, and video games is what I need. Funding this sanctuary may prove hard, but we all need goals in life, I've got mine.
How do you eat an Oreo?
Much like figuring out how many angels can dance on the head of a pin, this universal question has befuddled, rankled, and torn asunder many a civilized society. Do you just crunch it in a few bites? Do you pop the whole thing in your gob and swallow it python-whole? Do you twist the top off, eat the icing center, then eat the cookie? Do you dip it in milk?
The answer is much simpler, my friends. Pop off the top. Eat the icing. Then deposit the spit covered cookie-tops into your brother or sister's sock and underwear drawer. Thus has the wisdom obtained in my youth been passed to you.
The answer is much simpler, my friends. Pop off the top. Eat the icing. Then deposit the spit covered cookie-tops into your brother or sister's sock and underwear drawer. Thus has the wisdom obtained in my youth been passed to you.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Bunny souls!
We are coming quickly upon one of my favorite holidays, Easter. In my youngest years I was raised as an Easterchristmastarian. For the uninitiated this fun faction of the Christian religion was a self-defined group whose primary dogma went a little something like this: Giveth unto God his due in Church so long as said Church falleth on services scheduled for the holidays of Easter and/or Christmas. I think it had a lot to do about saving on expensive dress clothes. While dressing up like little Lord Fauntleroy for the day gave you the confidence to command Imperial Navies, as well as get your ass kicked from the non-Church attending heathens on the way home, the real thrill for Easter was the bunny souls!
Chocolate covered monkeys are one thing, but they can't hold a candle to the purity of a hollow chocolate rabbit. Every Easter, chocolate companies gather the souls of bunnies who died birthing colored eggs. They capture these within chocolate vessels, then sell them to parents who give all the good boys and girls the blessing in a plastic basket on Easter morning. Story goes that if you pop off the hollow chocolate rabbit head fast enough, you can capture the soul and keep it with you, safe, to deliver one day into heaven. That's what I heard anyway. I never really made it to Sunday school to get the updates on the things that didn't make it into the Bible.
Chocolate covered monkeys are one thing, but they can't hold a candle to the purity of a hollow chocolate rabbit. Every Easter, chocolate companies gather the souls of bunnies who died birthing colored eggs. They capture these within chocolate vessels, then sell them to parents who give all the good boys and girls the blessing in a plastic basket on Easter morning. Story goes that if you pop off the hollow chocolate rabbit head fast enough, you can capture the soul and keep it with you, safe, to deliver one day into heaven. That's what I heard anyway. I never really made it to Sunday school to get the updates on the things that didn't make it into the Bible.
Start of the ramble
"Every word exists for a reason. The writer specifically crafted each word to convey something specific and nothing was put to paper to be extra."
"I like chocolate, and monkeys. While the thought of chocolate covered monkeys entered my mind it somehow ultimately didn't sound tasty enough to make me steal a simian to dip in the vat of melted Hershey's I'd prepared."
How do you rectify these two quotes? On the one hand I think back to the instructor who told me the one (no, not the monkey one). On the other, I have to consider the veracity of that statement given my need to tell folks about chocolate covered monkeys. There's no deep meaning to it. However, it haunts me. I really like the idea of chocolate monkeys and while that is specific, I bet if I tried hard I could get rid of a few words, maybe nick a to or an and somewhere. You tell me.
"I like chocolate, and monkeys. While the thought of chocolate covered monkeys entered my mind it somehow ultimately didn't sound tasty enough to make me steal a simian to dip in the vat of melted Hershey's I'd prepared."
How do you rectify these two quotes? On the one hand I think back to the instructor who told me the one (no, not the monkey one). On the other, I have to consider the veracity of that statement given my need to tell folks about chocolate covered monkeys. There's no deep meaning to it. However, it haunts me. I really like the idea of chocolate monkeys and while that is specific, I bet if I tried hard I could get rid of a few words, maybe nick a to or an and somewhere. You tell me.
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