Some people are just fucking nuts; an example would be Fred Phelps. Him and his radical group slither in the grass up to funeral-motorcade for disembodied patriots, picketing the sites with slogans, such as, "Thank God for 9/11" or, again, in thankfulness to Him, for improvised explosive devices (IED's). Obviously, the man is not the most popular person on the face of the Earth, considering his website is, literally, http://www.godhatesfags.com/.
To prejudice someone for their lifestyle is in no way my concern in life, just as it's not Fred Phelps or anyone else's job to do the same to other people. If a person chooses to be homosexual or Jewish or a Fundamentalist Muslim or an orange, they have the right to do so. They also have the right to say, "You're going to hell," to anyone else, but it's no ones right to put their ideals into faith and say, "God says you're going to hell." You might have a connection with God, and that's awesome! - you love our Lord! But no one speaks for God, granted that Joan of Arc claimed she did. Besides, God didn't enlist Joan of Arc to go around clocking homosexuals or opposition of his faith over the head with a club, then instructing Joan to beat them mercilessly - though, I suppose it would be hysterical to see Joan pummeling random people, looking to the clouds and asking, "Like this, Lord - hit them like this!?" I don't think, since Jesus, has there been someone in the history of mankind who has said, "Guess what!?! Just got off the phone with Jehovah. He says you've got two options - become Christian and worship, or melt!" Frankly, I think if God, or Jesus-in-his-place, were to come down now, some drastic changes would be in order. So I like to assume that God has not necessarily thrown in the towel, but has become more lenient in what he does. Just look at masturbation. Some people claim it's sinful, but you can get away with it without Him smitting you on the spot. Back in the day, or, at least what has been stated in the Bible, if someone did something against God, they would be killed or he might level an entire providence of sinners for their actions. Unless God now has a filing system, and if you do something sinful, you get a hash-mark slashed beside your name. And maybe Heaven is like Chuck E. Cheese, where, upon reaching a certain level of sin, you are instantly placed upon a "naughty list" (You're going to hell...)
Kind of the opposite of Chuck E. Cheese, really. Instead of winning a Nerf product for 500 gold coins, you have only 500 slash-marks - fill those suckers up, and enjoy the dystopian lava-flow of hell, and don't forget the rape!
Back to the subject at hand, there are some right-headed people, and then there are iffy-people in our sane, for the most part, world. One day you might be driving down the freeway and notice a beat-up junker of a car passing by you with a "Baby's 'R' Us" bib suction-cupped to their right passenger-side window, a "Baby on board" bumper sticker, and a baby doorway jumper assembly box resting in their backseat, and that woman doesn't even fucking have a baby and does not know anyone who has birthed a human being - that woman saw the baby doorway jumper at the mall, and had (HAD) to have it! She also stores about fifty bottles of baby formula in her refrigerator, sometimes even washing off with formula sprinkled in her bath water, so she can literally smell like baby. And then there are people like me who only assume that frazzled-looking woman is like that.
For the most part, the deep south of America, and I am talking the bayou or southern Mississippi and Alabama, not "Deliverance" Georgia, is a looming preservation of how life once was and still, remarkably, remains for those few who accept...that....oh who am I fucking kidding, the deep south is full of the "old school" honest, but sometimes shady-folk, who still wish the Yankee's would have lost the war, and, sometimes, even though a few things got abolished in the 1860's, they continue to keep the mind-set their predecessors did way-back-when. In parts of the country like that, you might find a few people who think any man who wears sandals or dislikes the rebel flag are faggots or un-American. While in the restroom at the Dixie Stampede in Missouri - which is a little too close to the north to be considered the south, though, they like to think their just that - a man walked in, and, for no reason at all, as he hummed the National Anthem, he exclaimed, "those are the only colors I support - land of the free, and of the white...," in that isolated, red neck-tone we love to death! It doesn't help that our president can stand before the press and say, "If you're not with us, you're against us," and in another speech state, if you don't support the troop-serge, or support me, you're unpatriotic; un-American. By the way, I did not quote that last statement because I was unaware of its context - whether that was one statement or two. There is a difference, though, in supporting or being against war (pacificism) and supporting or opposing the troops themselves. I don't know what us "liberals," who are mostly made up of Democrats seen as Liberal because of their common distrust of Conservatives, have to say instead of the already resounding statement of, "I dislike war." It seems like every time someone says those three words, some supporter of the Iraq Conflict turns into Politiko, preserver of the Republican point-of-view, out to thwart those evil-doers who want to think independently, and dislike the title of sheep...
What ever happened to having your own fucking opinion, or, our country being a bicameral system of legislature? Bush might be a Republican president, but that does not mean the United States is now all-of-a-sudden Republican; we still have two main political parties. What's the rationalization here - are people just that dumb!? Honestly, just my opinion here, but it kind of sounds like a tyrant is in office. And maybe all it takes is for someone to get on Fox News, express their opinion, and if it cannot be countered and is not full of contradictions, then it must be right in the wrong person's eye. So maybe if Bill O'Reilly calls you a liar, and can switch the subject on you enough to blur the realm of reality, calling you out on what he knows is truth, but he would rather argue for the sake of ratings, then you should agree with him whole-heartedly because the facts are in favor of him...yet you're right....but he has unlimited resources at his disposal.....but you're right......
So I'll do what naturally gets done when someone is right, and the immature of the group decides to throw a fit - "You're wrong! You're WRONG! WRONG! WRONG! WRONG!!!" ...and change the subject...some people are just fucking nuts; an example would be Fred Phelps.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Saturday, June 16, 2007
A Couple Differences + Quick Decisions
A while back, I got into an argument with a Republican. Bunch of my friends and I meet every Friday for "game night," which means we don't have previous plans for the beginning of the weekend, so we all huddle up in my friend Steven's attic and play video games. Sounds pretty nerdy, doesn't it. It first began about two years ago when, while getting plastered at my friend Desi's, we managed to hook up an Xbox and we played the glorious "Fusion Frenzy." Then, we noticed our friend Steven was really good at video games, so we wanted to test our might against him, only this time sober. Tah Da! Game night.
Let me not get off topic ever again. My political foe brought up the subject of George W. Bush: Why you like/dislike him? Another of my friends, he's not as die-hard Republican as the person I have been talking about, said he liked G.W.B. because he told it like it is; he cared for the American people and did not care what other people thought of him - this trait was commendable. Let's get some names going, shall we! The Republicans name is Molly. The not-so Republicans name is Shaun. Molly asked how I felt about George W. Bush because she knew I was Democrat, though she called me Liberal. I guess to some people, there is no middle-ground. To quote our president, "You are either with us or against us," and that is how the argument felt right off the bat. I said to everyone and the room that I wasn't a very political person, and then corrected Molly by saying I'm Democrat, not Liberal. She said, "Same difference." I then tried to quickly change the subject by saying, "I wouldn't mind seeing Rudy win it simply because he is a politician who would want to unite both parties for one objective, and could narrow the gap between the left and right wings." That did not do anything. So, again, forced to say what I thought of our current president, I tried taking the high-road by saying, "Our foreign policy is fucked, due to circumstances in Iraq, and just the overall attitude of our current leader. He thinks he's being cute, but that also shows his lack of integrity, and it's downright childish." Of course, I get berated by Molly, and I'm not going to go into detail - I felt very uncomfortable up in the attic at that point since I was being told how-it-is by a debater.
You try and forget those awkward moments when a friend of yours tries to sway your thinking, and/or demonstrates how they can prove a point to a subject your reluctant to talk about in the first place. The last thing you need is someone who won't listen to opposing issues. I listened to Molly's, and, however ignorant or biased they might have sounded to me, I still gave her the benefit-of-the-doubt, and tried my best not to press the issue, though clearly, the issue was pressed like a new pair of pants.
I thought of this moment in my life after watching a documentary yesterday on IFC called, "The F-word". On the day of the Republican National Convention, radio show host Joe Pace joins the rallies, protests, delegates and citizens of New York City. Broadcasting his last show live, on-the-air, he goes on a one march for free speech - thanks http://www.imdb.com/ for that awesome synopsis. While covering this event no news station would touch, the character of Joe witnesses our country at a socially grim, but politically uplifting time. One part of the film, a group of Republicans with signs in-hand, who went solely to state their own opinions just like the rest of the people, were vacated from the grounds of the protest rally, for their own safety. The left wing began hitting these innocent people, calling them names, trying to start fights with them...the rallies got out of control. Police were called in, people were getting arrested, pinned to the pavement, beaten or shoved by cops, and even gassed. In the middle of the chaos were anarchists, who could be pointed out by wearing red bandannas over their faces, and their hair pinned back, fighting against cops and the left wing alike, starting fires, turning over cars, throwing projectiles - it was enough to make me sick. The last thing you need is for a peaceful rally, full of people shouting and expressing their own grievances and differential and similar opinions, and have it broken up because a group of whiny little toddlers weren't satisfied, and had to throw a fit. It all made me think of childhood really.
Remember at day care (if you were ever subjected to it) when the toys were brought out, you went to get the best toy, which was always a toy car, action figure, or doll, and someone beat you to it. Then, instead of sharing, they hogged that toy the whole play-period, and when you went to ask nicely to play with the toy because you were just learning the values of sharing, that son of a bitch had to say, "It's MY toy!" If you were like me, you just went and told the guardian about it, and sought their advice on the situation. Usually, they would go talk to the kid and try to express to them the value of sharing. But sometimes, the guardian would say, "Pick a different toy for now..." You have the option of getting upset over such a trivial thing or agreeing to the circumstances, and picking out a new toy. Debates between Republicans and Democrats are just like that. Usually the Republican takes the stance of the child who plugs his/her ears and dances around, chanting that worst of annoying phrases, "Lah, lah, lah, lah-lah," while the Democrat just raises his/her voice, shouting out random things like, "What's your plan to get us out of Iraq? We need out of that area - it is crucial to get our men and women out of Iraq - thousands upon ten-thousands of people have died, and it's obviously not about protecting the country because they are fed up with our presence there and you are endangering the lives of Americans - why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why? - listen here, I'm an official person! I'm important! Why aren't you listening to me!? Stop plugging your ears, damn'it!!!" Then, the Liberal comes up behind the Republican and pulls his pants down, the Republican turns around, lifting their pants, yelling in a shaky, embarrassed voice, "That's not nice!" at the uncaring Liberal. The Democrat, in return, kneels down behind the Republicans legs, the Liberal pushes him over, and the Republican gets up, with tears in his eyes and runs sobbing like a baby, "They double-teamed me, it's just not fair!!!" The Democrat and Liberal both laugh in unison, sharing in the moment the satisfaction of nailing the Republican, then, the Liberal, like always, sucker-punches the Democrat, and while the man is on the ground, the Liberal says, "Here's where you are wrong, along with the Republican," criticizing him about conspiracies, the truth, and contradictions in the Republican and Democrat's past statements. The Liberal then picks the Democrat up by the balls, and with a finale so grand, my testicles shrink a little, the Liberal says, "And here's how I help solve the problem," and he walks off. The Democrat ices down his inflamed nugget-pouch, while the guardian of the kids, the media, comes up to consolidate, then passes judgment more on the Republican then anyone else. Of course, the Republican plays the victim so well...
It's refreshing to know that some people still care about politics, though the averaging number of votes during the election process have dramatically gone down in the passed 10 years. People can truly make a difference only if others are willing to listen. I think one big disadvantage is when, in terms of arguing, people worry more about winning the small battles, then achieving a much larger victory. If you are going to object to every little thing said, it ends with both parties squawking, and not getting a single damn thing done. Going back to childhood, "He's a poopie-head!" "You're a poopie-head...and you eat bugs!" "I do not!" Next time you are at the polls, think the usual, 'I'm voting for a candidate with morals, who is a strong, passionate leader,' but also look for maturity.
Let me not get off topic ever again. My political foe brought up the subject of George W. Bush: Why you like/dislike him? Another of my friends, he's not as die-hard Republican as the person I have been talking about, said he liked G.W.B. because he told it like it is; he cared for the American people and did not care what other people thought of him - this trait was commendable. Let's get some names going, shall we! The Republicans name is Molly. The not-so Republicans name is Shaun. Molly asked how I felt about George W. Bush because she knew I was Democrat, though she called me Liberal. I guess to some people, there is no middle-ground. To quote our president, "You are either with us or against us," and that is how the argument felt right off the bat. I said to everyone and the room that I wasn't a very political person, and then corrected Molly by saying I'm Democrat, not Liberal. She said, "Same difference." I then tried to quickly change the subject by saying, "I wouldn't mind seeing Rudy win it simply because he is a politician who would want to unite both parties for one objective, and could narrow the gap between the left and right wings." That did not do anything. So, again, forced to say what I thought of our current president, I tried taking the high-road by saying, "Our foreign policy is fucked, due to circumstances in Iraq, and just the overall attitude of our current leader. He thinks he's being cute, but that also shows his lack of integrity, and it's downright childish." Of course, I get berated by Molly, and I'm not going to go into detail - I felt very uncomfortable up in the attic at that point since I was being told how-it-is by a debater.
You try and forget those awkward moments when a friend of yours tries to sway your thinking, and/or demonstrates how they can prove a point to a subject your reluctant to talk about in the first place. The last thing you need is someone who won't listen to opposing issues. I listened to Molly's, and, however ignorant or biased they might have sounded to me, I still gave her the benefit-of-the-doubt, and tried my best not to press the issue, though clearly, the issue was pressed like a new pair of pants.
I thought of this moment in my life after watching a documentary yesterday on IFC called, "The F-word". On the day of the Republican National Convention, radio show host Joe Pace joins the rallies, protests, delegates and citizens of New York City. Broadcasting his last show live, on-the-air, he goes on a one march for free speech - thanks http://www.imdb.com/ for that awesome synopsis. While covering this event no news station would touch, the character of Joe witnesses our country at a socially grim, but politically uplifting time. One part of the film, a group of Republicans with signs in-hand, who went solely to state their own opinions just like the rest of the people, were vacated from the grounds of the protest rally, for their own safety. The left wing began hitting these innocent people, calling them names, trying to start fights with them...the rallies got out of control. Police were called in, people were getting arrested, pinned to the pavement, beaten or shoved by cops, and even gassed. In the middle of the chaos were anarchists, who could be pointed out by wearing red bandannas over their faces, and their hair pinned back, fighting against cops and the left wing alike, starting fires, turning over cars, throwing projectiles - it was enough to make me sick. The last thing you need is for a peaceful rally, full of people shouting and expressing their own grievances and differential and similar opinions, and have it broken up because a group of whiny little toddlers weren't satisfied, and had to throw a fit. It all made me think of childhood really.
Remember at day care (if you were ever subjected to it) when the toys were brought out, you went to get the best toy, which was always a toy car, action figure, or doll, and someone beat you to it. Then, instead of sharing, they hogged that toy the whole play-period, and when you went to ask nicely to play with the toy because you were just learning the values of sharing, that son of a bitch had to say, "It's MY toy!" If you were like me, you just went and told the guardian about it, and sought their advice on the situation. Usually, they would go talk to the kid and try to express to them the value of sharing. But sometimes, the guardian would say, "Pick a different toy for now..." You have the option of getting upset over such a trivial thing or agreeing to the circumstances, and picking out a new toy. Debates between Republicans and Democrats are just like that. Usually the Republican takes the stance of the child who plugs his/her ears and dances around, chanting that worst of annoying phrases, "Lah, lah, lah, lah-lah," while the Democrat just raises his/her voice, shouting out random things like, "What's your plan to get us out of Iraq? We need out of that area - it is crucial to get our men and women out of Iraq - thousands upon ten-thousands of people have died, and it's obviously not about protecting the country because they are fed up with our presence there and you are endangering the lives of Americans - why, why, why, why, why, why, why, why? - listen here, I'm an official person! I'm important! Why aren't you listening to me!? Stop plugging your ears, damn'it!!!" Then, the Liberal comes up behind the Republican and pulls his pants down, the Republican turns around, lifting their pants, yelling in a shaky, embarrassed voice, "That's not nice!" at the uncaring Liberal. The Democrat, in return, kneels down behind the Republicans legs, the Liberal pushes him over, and the Republican gets up, with tears in his eyes and runs sobbing like a baby, "They double-teamed me, it's just not fair!!!" The Democrat and Liberal both laugh in unison, sharing in the moment the satisfaction of nailing the Republican, then, the Liberal, like always, sucker-punches the Democrat, and while the man is on the ground, the Liberal says, "Here's where you are wrong, along with the Republican," criticizing him about conspiracies, the truth, and contradictions in the Republican and Democrat's past statements. The Liberal then picks the Democrat up by the balls, and with a finale so grand, my testicles shrink a little, the Liberal says, "And here's how I help solve the problem," and he walks off. The Democrat ices down his inflamed nugget-pouch, while the guardian of the kids, the media, comes up to consolidate, then passes judgment more on the Republican then anyone else. Of course, the Republican plays the victim so well...
It's refreshing to know that some people still care about politics, though the averaging number of votes during the election process have dramatically gone down in the passed 10 years. People can truly make a difference only if others are willing to listen. I think one big disadvantage is when, in terms of arguing, people worry more about winning the small battles, then achieving a much larger victory. If you are going to object to every little thing said, it ends with both parties squawking, and not getting a single damn thing done. Going back to childhood, "He's a poopie-head!" "You're a poopie-head...and you eat bugs!" "I do not!" Next time you are at the polls, think the usual, 'I'm voting for a candidate with morals, who is a strong, passionate leader,' but also look for maturity.
Saturday, June 02, 2007
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Moments and Choices
I simplify things. In my opinion, life is separated in two categories: moments and choices. Think of a film reel. Each frame is its own individual moment, they occur randomly or planned and we as humans choose what to do in those instances. This happens to also be my basis for being supportive of abortion. A woman has the right to decide what she wants to do with her life, who she wants to have sex with, and also, she determines the livelihood of the life within her, if she were to get pregnant from said sex. We like to think that conception means "rights" for the child, but, in the most inappropriate way I can state this imaginable, the mother could easily drink a half-bottle of bleach and end it if she wanted to, or, go to a professional and end the life. It's all a matter of what she chooses, until the kid is out of her system and on its own, or (again, a terrible, unimaginable situation) until the kid is flooding in the basin of a toilet/in a trash can, aborted/the result of a forced miscarriage.
People are just fucked-up! They could have worn a condom, in another instance, they should have worn a condom, they could have easily stayed abstinent, or should have stayed abstinent until they were ready, if they were worried about getting pregnant. Sex is defined as the physical act used in conceiving a child; we interpret it as recreation more than for the use of procreation. Again, people have a decision at that moment. The Surgeon General states that the best way to not contract STDs or get pregnant is to use a condom if you must have sex, to limit your sexual partners down to the constraints of monogamy, or to engage in abstinence, but we as humans, and yes, we as Americans - we don't follow rules. So if you have sex, and get pregnant, that's entirely your fault, and not the child-spawn within you. Killing an innocent life form is no solution to an unwanted pregnancy, and if you were to choose the right solution, it should be to put the baby up for adoption once it is born. But again as humans, we are faulty. Not everyone chooses the right solution. They think, "Oh my god, ohmygod-ohmygod-ohmygod-I have to get rid of it!!!" That's not thinking straight. And they, in turn, destroy the pregnancy by having an abortion. Making right choices for people isn't anyone elses' job, but the person responsible.
Rules are there for us to follow and the government/brain-trust/powers-that-be enforce those laws, but anyone under 21 can choose to drink, any one person on the face of the Earth can choose to smoke marijuana/do heavier drugs, any person on this Earth can become a serial killer or abortionist, and, as long as no one knows about it, they won't be caught. What is at issue here is not necessarily what's right and what's wrong about abortion, most people citing that "what's wrong about abortion" is the only right - the question at hand is whether or not we want the government to have absolute power over what path we choose in life. At hand here is we can prevent murder through abolishing abortion, why can't we prevent murder altogether? Serial killers can be caught before anything happens, it's all down to how we catch a criminal - do we - screen more people for psychosis to prevent a serial killing - do we - step-up big brother's watchful eye, by surveillance; physically monitoring every citizen of the United States...that's just fucking stupid, but relatively realistic. So you've agreed to prevent one ring of murders by outlawing abortion, but you disagree with abolishing all murder in general because of how erroneous the process would be?
What about for those who need the abortion to stay alive - let's say - complications during the pregnancy give the mother one option, to abort the baby to save her own life? By outlawing a medical procedure, the mother and the baby die...when, if abortion was still an option, the mother might be able to survive, and, let's say, given the choice, could help the field of science by donating her son/daughter's fetus. It's all up in the air as far as it goes, but here's a good question, shouldn't that choice be left open? It's better to have more solutions to a problem, then none at all. One big solution to not having to worry about possibly choosing abortion is to not have sex. For those who engage in sex regularly, that's your choice - do what you please. For those who want to abort their child, that's their choice. As far as extremes go, why not outlaw sex to prevent from having unwanted kids? Obesity is a major killer in today's world, why not outlaw harmful foods? Obesity kills hundreds-of-thousands per year; it's an epidemic. Write a law that states you have to exercise at least 3-times a week. How would you enforce it, you might ask? How would you enforce anti-abortion laws?! Licensed practitioners wouldn't dare perform an illegal operation, but those "doctors" down in Mexico, who perform botched cosmetic surgery get by - they don't give a shit. Isn't it better to have a professional do something like abortion, then some whack-job in a dark alley, using unsterilized equipment, and reading step-by-step instructions printed off the Internet??? And for people who say, "Even if I did, unfortunately, get raped and get pregnant, I would still have the kid"... you don't know what you would do in that situation, unless it were real-life. That's all that needs to be said; there's no argument there...you don't know...
I like to think that if I were ever held-up at gun point that I would play off distractions, and if something did detour the shooter, I would karate-chop the person in the neck, they would go unconscious, I would then proceed, first, by picking up his/her dropped weapon, unload it, keeping the gun portion and throwing the bullets out randomly, and then escorting every other casualty from the crime scene. What would really happen would probably go along the lines of me, like a contestant in a game of "Simon Says," listening and obeying everything the shooter says. I could also see myself breathing heavily, maybe to the point of panic attack, I might even piss myself...I don't usually think about that kind of stuff because it's depressing; it's bothersome. And wouldn't you know, here's another point in my rant; I don't care about the abortion issue because it just flat-out irks me. I guess those on the front lines of the issue call to arms because, "if someone doesn't, who will stop the murder?"
You know what else is murder - sending people into a country and giving them orders to shoot anything that moves. The underlying factor of anything traumatic, violent, or just plain wrong is that if you were placed in that situation, you would not have a clue how you would react, unless physically placing yourself in that predicament. Well, I would assume if you were experienced with whatever it was that was troubling you, you might have a game-plan, but for those novices out there, and there's quite many of those, things would be a lot different. Moments like those then free-up the limited to unlimited possibilities of how to handle that certain situation. Choices arise and we pick what solution seems the best, even if it's the wrong one. Abortion is an issue that has just recently been accepted, on the terms that it's not as "hush-hush" as it was a hundred years, fifty years, or ten years ago. Then, it was a common and practiced medical treatment, like removing your tonsils. It was frowned upon, but other than that, and the whispers of who has had it done and why, the subject was never brought up at the dinner table as it frequently is today. Why? Because it wasn't an issue - or, in other words, no one cared.
Blood-letting was a common practice, where a doctor would poke a needle into one of your veins, and release a few pints of blood, or a leech/leeches were placed on you, and they drank what doctors referred to as, "excess blood." That treatment is not as common today, but in some cultures, and with some herbal practitioners, it is still in use. It's outdated, but it's not medieval, or in a sense that it is not cruel. It is believed that George Washington was treated in this manner following a story of him helping a friend out with an overturned or stuck wagon during a chill, rainy night. He caught pneumonia, and it was not until Pierre Charles Alexandre Louis demonstrated that phlebotomy didn't help cure a patient from pneumonia during the 1830's, that this form of prognosis was scrapped. As for Washington, almost 4 pounds of blood was withdrawn, contributing to his death by an infection in 1799.
Today's medical staff do not use it as a solution because of its fatality rate, yet cases of bloodletting still surface to this day. Bloodletting is still used and not griped about like abortion, but abortion is such a determining factor because it deals with babies. Kemo therapy is where doctors administer nuclear radiation to the cancer sufferer to dispel cancerous cells and tumors. Radiation is deadly to humans. If babies were cured with radiation, that solution might be stopped by the government. What's this!? Aborting a perfectly healthy child is wrong because nothing is wrong with the fetus, but the lack of the mother's interest....who's body is the fetus in? The mother's...so it's her decision, given that the baby is clinging to life by an umbilical cord. If the mother didn't want her appendix anymore, she could do away with that, and, again, there would be no fuss. Functioning correctly, the appendix is a life-form because it is made up of living cells. You cut that son of a bitch out of the woman or man, and the cells die, ultimately the appendix is useless/dead. Same principle as abortion. Moments and choices people, that's all life is.
I guess abortion has changed its purpose. No longer is it medicinal; it's seen as the wrong solution to an unwanted pregnancy. Our absence in legit reasoning has resulted in the right thing to do when facing endangerment to the baby and mother entering the wrong when dealing with morality. The only personal gain with abortion is the relief a doctor might feel in saving a patient. Let's not forget whose choice it really is; physician and mother.
People are just fucked-up! They could have worn a condom, in another instance, they should have worn a condom, they could have easily stayed abstinent, or should have stayed abstinent until they were ready, if they were worried about getting pregnant. Sex is defined as the physical act used in conceiving a child; we interpret it as recreation more than for the use of procreation. Again, people have a decision at that moment. The Surgeon General states that the best way to not contract STDs or get pregnant is to use a condom if you must have sex, to limit your sexual partners down to the constraints of monogamy, or to engage in abstinence, but we as humans, and yes, we as Americans - we don't follow rules. So if you have sex, and get pregnant, that's entirely your fault, and not the child-spawn within you. Killing an innocent life form is no solution to an unwanted pregnancy, and if you were to choose the right solution, it should be to put the baby up for adoption once it is born. But again as humans, we are faulty. Not everyone chooses the right solution. They think, "Oh my god, ohmygod-ohmygod-ohmygod-I have to get rid of it!!!" That's not thinking straight. And they, in turn, destroy the pregnancy by having an abortion. Making right choices for people isn't anyone elses' job, but the person responsible.
Rules are there for us to follow and the government/brain-trust/powers-that-be enforce those laws, but anyone under 21 can choose to drink, any one person on the face of the Earth can choose to smoke marijuana/do heavier drugs, any person on this Earth can become a serial killer or abortionist, and, as long as no one knows about it, they won't be caught. What is at issue here is not necessarily what's right and what's wrong about abortion, most people citing that "what's wrong about abortion" is the only right - the question at hand is whether or not we want the government to have absolute power over what path we choose in life. At hand here is we can prevent murder through abolishing abortion, why can't we prevent murder altogether? Serial killers can be caught before anything happens, it's all down to how we catch a criminal - do we - screen more people for psychosis to prevent a serial killing - do we - step-up big brother's watchful eye, by surveillance; physically monitoring every citizen of the United States...that's just fucking stupid, but relatively realistic. So you've agreed to prevent one ring of murders by outlawing abortion, but you disagree with abolishing all murder in general because of how erroneous the process would be?
What about for those who need the abortion to stay alive - let's say - complications during the pregnancy give the mother one option, to abort the baby to save her own life? By outlawing a medical procedure, the mother and the baby die...when, if abortion was still an option, the mother might be able to survive, and, let's say, given the choice, could help the field of science by donating her son/daughter's fetus. It's all up in the air as far as it goes, but here's a good question, shouldn't that choice be left open? It's better to have more solutions to a problem, then none at all. One big solution to not having to worry about possibly choosing abortion is to not have sex. For those who engage in sex regularly, that's your choice - do what you please. For those who want to abort their child, that's their choice. As far as extremes go, why not outlaw sex to prevent from having unwanted kids? Obesity is a major killer in today's world, why not outlaw harmful foods? Obesity kills hundreds-of-thousands per year; it's an epidemic. Write a law that states you have to exercise at least 3-times a week. How would you enforce it, you might ask? How would you enforce anti-abortion laws?! Licensed practitioners wouldn't dare perform an illegal operation, but those "doctors" down in Mexico, who perform botched cosmetic surgery get by - they don't give a shit. Isn't it better to have a professional do something like abortion, then some whack-job in a dark alley, using unsterilized equipment, and reading step-by-step instructions printed off the Internet??? And for people who say, "Even if I did, unfortunately, get raped and get pregnant, I would still have the kid"... you don't know what you would do in that situation, unless it were real-life. That's all that needs to be said; there's no argument there...you don't know...
I like to think that if I were ever held-up at gun point that I would play off distractions, and if something did detour the shooter, I would karate-chop the person in the neck, they would go unconscious, I would then proceed, first, by picking up his/her dropped weapon, unload it, keeping the gun portion and throwing the bullets out randomly, and then escorting every other casualty from the crime scene. What would really happen would probably go along the lines of me, like a contestant in a game of "Simon Says," listening and obeying everything the shooter says. I could also see myself breathing heavily, maybe to the point of panic attack, I might even piss myself...I don't usually think about that kind of stuff because it's depressing; it's bothersome. And wouldn't you know, here's another point in my rant; I don't care about the abortion issue because it just flat-out irks me. I guess those on the front lines of the issue call to arms because, "if someone doesn't, who will stop the murder?"
You know what else is murder - sending people into a country and giving them orders to shoot anything that moves. The underlying factor of anything traumatic, violent, or just plain wrong is that if you were placed in that situation, you would not have a clue how you would react, unless physically placing yourself in that predicament. Well, I would assume if you were experienced with whatever it was that was troubling you, you might have a game-plan, but for those novices out there, and there's quite many of those, things would be a lot different. Moments like those then free-up the limited to unlimited possibilities of how to handle that certain situation. Choices arise and we pick what solution seems the best, even if it's the wrong one. Abortion is an issue that has just recently been accepted, on the terms that it's not as "hush-hush" as it was a hundred years, fifty years, or ten years ago. Then, it was a common and practiced medical treatment, like removing your tonsils. It was frowned upon, but other than that, and the whispers of who has had it done and why, the subject was never brought up at the dinner table as it frequently is today. Why? Because it wasn't an issue - or, in other words, no one cared.
Blood-letting was a common practice, where a doctor would poke a needle into one of your veins, and release a few pints of blood, or a leech/leeches were placed on you, and they drank what doctors referred to as, "excess blood." That treatment is not as common today, but in some cultures, and with some herbal practitioners, it is still in use. It's outdated, but it's not medieval, or in a sense that it is not cruel. It is believed that George Washington was treated in this manner following a story of him helping a friend out with an overturned or stuck wagon during a chill, rainy night. He caught pneumonia, and it was not until Pierre Charles Alexandre Louis demonstrated that phlebotomy didn't help cure a patient from pneumonia during the 1830's, that this form of prognosis was scrapped. As for Washington, almost 4 pounds of blood was withdrawn, contributing to his death by an infection in 1799.
Today's medical staff do not use it as a solution because of its fatality rate, yet cases of bloodletting still surface to this day. Bloodletting is still used and not griped about like abortion, but abortion is such a determining factor because it deals with babies. Kemo therapy is where doctors administer nuclear radiation to the cancer sufferer to dispel cancerous cells and tumors. Radiation is deadly to humans. If babies were cured with radiation, that solution might be stopped by the government. What's this!? Aborting a perfectly healthy child is wrong because nothing is wrong with the fetus, but the lack of the mother's interest....who's body is the fetus in? The mother's...so it's her decision, given that the baby is clinging to life by an umbilical cord. If the mother didn't want her appendix anymore, she could do away with that, and, again, there would be no fuss. Functioning correctly, the appendix is a life-form because it is made up of living cells. You cut that son of a bitch out of the woman or man, and the cells die, ultimately the appendix is useless/dead. Same principle as abortion. Moments and choices people, that's all life is.
I guess abortion has changed its purpose. No longer is it medicinal; it's seen as the wrong solution to an unwanted pregnancy. Our absence in legit reasoning has resulted in the right thing to do when facing endangerment to the baby and mother entering the wrong when dealing with morality. The only personal gain with abortion is the relief a doctor might feel in saving a patient. Let's not forget whose choice it really is; physician and mother.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
'Why We Love the Spider'
Last night, in advanced, I purchased tickets to "Spiderman 3" reminded of last year, when I went to see "Pirates of the Caribbean 2" and was denied a ticket, due to the crowd that had festered around the lobby, waiting to get in themselves. When my brother and I arrived at the theatre, with our other friends waiting for us, we noticed a lapse in populace. Opening night must have harboured a better turn-out.
We entered the auditorium, beseeching upon a night of entertainment. I had read somewhere that Spiderman 3 was the most expensive movie ever made (to date)! It's final costs reaching close-to-over $500 million. Filmmakers take a giant leap when over-estimating their budget. I like to think of it as a loan, and that's exactly what it is. The studio-heads set a gross figure they think they will reach once the movie is released, and that, over-all, can equal the budget for the film. A lot of studios will jip-out on the budget of a film, for revenue, once the film hits theatres. This, in turn, makes the most money. So far, Spiderman 3 has only grossed $59 million within it's first weekend, a long-shot away from $500+ million it needs to hit for it to be labelled a success.
As far as the movie goes, it was alright. The dialogue was shitty and whenever there was supposed to be an emotional moment, the film was kind of 'blah'. It was purely a comic book, action film, though you could tell the creators of it strived to make fans and the audience happy. To argue that the director or the writers needed to step-up the pace, derive from the comic book more, or steal some of the flare that made the first and second movies well-loved would be unnecessary, mainly because the film itself is just a comic book/ the cartoon-series adaptation. The CGI was fantastic, the story seemed too rushed, but overall lack-luster. And...yeah...I realized why I, personally, love the Spiderman movies: wit. Bruce Campbell makes his famed appearance once more (which I always liked) and J.K. Simmons is always a delight in his role as J. Jonah Jameson, the Daily Bugle's high-strung editor.
If you liked the first film, you will definitely like this one as well, but if you're more of a fan of the second one, as I am, this one will seem the worst of the series. My Spiderman trilogy rank is: 2, 1, then 3...I'll flat-out say it; I worship Bruce Campbell...
We entered the auditorium, beseeching upon a night of entertainment. I had read somewhere that Spiderman 3 was the most expensive movie ever made (to date)! It's final costs reaching close-to-over $500 million. Filmmakers take a giant leap when over-estimating their budget. I like to think of it as a loan, and that's exactly what it is. The studio-heads set a gross figure they think they will reach once the movie is released, and that, over-all, can equal the budget for the film. A lot of studios will jip-out on the budget of a film, for revenue, once the film hits theatres. This, in turn, makes the most money. So far, Spiderman 3 has only grossed $59 million within it's first weekend, a long-shot away from $500+ million it needs to hit for it to be labelled a success.
As far as the movie goes, it was alright. The dialogue was shitty and whenever there was supposed to be an emotional moment, the film was kind of 'blah'. It was purely a comic book, action film, though you could tell the creators of it strived to make fans and the audience happy. To argue that the director or the writers needed to step-up the pace, derive from the comic book more, or steal some of the flare that made the first and second movies well-loved would be unnecessary, mainly because the film itself is just a comic book/ the cartoon-series adaptation. The CGI was fantastic, the story seemed too rushed, but overall lack-luster. And...yeah...I realized why I, personally, love the Spiderman movies: wit. Bruce Campbell makes his famed appearance once more (which I always liked) and J.K. Simmons is always a delight in his role as J. Jonah Jameson, the Daily Bugle's high-strung editor.
If you liked the first film, you will definitely like this one as well, but if you're more of a fan of the second one, as I am, this one will seem the worst of the series. My Spiderman trilogy rank is: 2, 1, then 3...I'll flat-out say it; I worship Bruce Campbell...
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
"I hate that fucking kid..." and Other Nonsense
I was riding up in the elevator today with my boss, and along with us were a mother and her two kids. I recognized the mother and her children, and, upon first impressions with them, I hated the littlest child of hers because he would throw tantrums in the computer lab I work in whenever the child and mother come in to fiddle with our computers. This boss, because I have two, is the king of the library, and likes to meet new patrons, and chit-chat, so he's making faces at the kids, and being all cute...
Thankfully, the kids didn't have too much of a fit in the elevator. They exited, and my boss and I continued on up to the second floor of the library. He turns to me, after noticing my reaction with the family (somewhere between horrified, thinking that I'd have to stand and listen to a baby throw a fit in the tiniest of tiny places, an elevator, and the feeling of severe hatred of children, that I have had all my life) my boss says, "Come on, those kids were cute..." I end up scowling, saying under my breath, "I hate that fucking kid..."
People aren't parental anymore. Yeah, great, bribe the fucking brat, to get him to be quiet, and expect him or her to do the same when you have nothing to barter. Kids catch on quick. The ploy is amusing to them, and they will, likely, behave after you offer them maybe an ice cream if they are good, or candy. But take them out in public, at the worst fucking times - how about early or late afternoon, the nap period, or noon, before lunch or morning...let's do fucking morning, right before they wake up and are swaying back and forth in a carrier! Tempt fate, you fucking morons! Kids wake up at odd hours. Remember Christmas morning? I remember being eight and waking up at like 4 a.m., and around 5, I'd go in to my parents' room and bug the shit out of them, until 6. I would then, start silently tearing open a present or two, and hear my mom yell, "None of those presents better be opened...." and knowing I'd be in trouble. Kids are impatient. Don't expect those booger-eaters to wait. Waiting them out is ignorant, so what do you do - you bribe them with something. And how does that help? It NEVER fucking works. You just end up raising them spoiled, and you think screaming is hell, deal with a spoiled child for an hour.
Hell, do what I do - beat the shit out of children, or humiliate them. They act up, take them to a remote area of wherever you are, and spank them. That statement comes straight from my upbringing! Or, if that doesn't work, cause them the same discomfort you are going through. If a kid wants to embarrass you, do it right back to them. Maybe pants them, or be like, "Well...daddy doesn't have enough money to buy you a toy..." and then go buy a CD or something right in front of them, only if they have a concept of money, and, in today's society, you birth those buggers, and they've already got a money clip. So then they say, "Daddy, I want this!" "Sorry, son (daughter), but I already bought this CD for myself...maybe next time, don't disappoint me, and I might just have enough money for YOU!"
You might say to yourself, "But that preludes another catastrophe." Oh, the contrary, you disgusting bastard! You instill your style of beating-the-shit-out-of-your-kids...if they pipe up; "Oh, but it's not fair! Blah blah blah, I wanted a toy!" You warn those bastards with some kind of hand gesture, or look. Get the look down! Have that set in your mind - get angry when need be. Flash them an anticipatory glare; somewhat along the lines of, “I dare you – say something else,” or, like I stated before, a hand gesture that has one sole purpose and that is to scare the living shit out of your kid once they see it, and you’re good! "You said you didn't have enough money!" "Well, bitch, that's cuz I lied!" And just laugh in their face.
My dad used to fuck with us kids. He'd say, "Today, sometime, I want to go to your grandpa's and pull weeds!" So it would be early afternoon, and we didn't want to pull weeds. We'd be upset the whole day because we would have to get out of the house, and work for a couple hours. My dad would not tell us a thing the rest of the day. That's it! He would ruin our day, and then not do anything. Next day, he might say, "Damn, those weeds at grandpa's are getting huge." We still wouldn't do anything. The next day, we thought we were out of pulling weeds, and he'd wake us up early, surprising us, telling us, "Get dressed! We're going to grandpa's..."
"To play with the kitty cats?" I would inquire.
"No, your ass will be in a field of weeds...picking them.....until that field is cleared!"
He'd do that, or, if there was something we wanted, like I remember when I was like five or six, he bought my brother and I Gameboys at Sears. Then, we also got to pick out a game. He never let us live that one down. "But I don't wanna mow the lawn!" "Yeah, well, I DIDN'T WANT to buy you guys video games, but I did!"
I already can tell I'm going to be an asshole to my kids, but I plan to also be kind of cool - one of those dads that will understand if you come home drunk, but I'll fuck with you, or, one minute be pissed off at you, but I won't hold it against you. But yeah, if you are my kid and start busting my balls, be prepared...
Thankfully, the kids didn't have too much of a fit in the elevator. They exited, and my boss and I continued on up to the second floor of the library. He turns to me, after noticing my reaction with the family (somewhere between horrified, thinking that I'd have to stand and listen to a baby throw a fit in the tiniest of tiny places, an elevator, and the feeling of severe hatred of children, that I have had all my life) my boss says, "Come on, those kids were cute..." I end up scowling, saying under my breath, "I hate that fucking kid..."
People aren't parental anymore. Yeah, great, bribe the fucking brat, to get him to be quiet, and expect him or her to do the same when you have nothing to barter. Kids catch on quick. The ploy is amusing to them, and they will, likely, behave after you offer them maybe an ice cream if they are good, or candy. But take them out in public, at the worst fucking times - how about early or late afternoon, the nap period, or noon, before lunch or morning...let's do fucking morning, right before they wake up and are swaying back and forth in a carrier! Tempt fate, you fucking morons! Kids wake up at odd hours. Remember Christmas morning? I remember being eight and waking up at like 4 a.m., and around 5, I'd go in to my parents' room and bug the shit out of them, until 6. I would then, start silently tearing open a present or two, and hear my mom yell, "None of those presents better be opened...." and knowing I'd be in trouble. Kids are impatient. Don't expect those booger-eaters to wait. Waiting them out is ignorant, so what do you do - you bribe them with something. And how does that help? It NEVER fucking works. You just end up raising them spoiled, and you think screaming is hell, deal with a spoiled child for an hour.
Hell, do what I do - beat the shit out of children, or humiliate them. They act up, take them to a remote area of wherever you are, and spank them. That statement comes straight from my upbringing! Or, if that doesn't work, cause them the same discomfort you are going through. If a kid wants to embarrass you, do it right back to them. Maybe pants them, or be like, "Well...daddy doesn't have enough money to buy you a toy..." and then go buy a CD or something right in front of them, only if they have a concept of money, and, in today's society, you birth those buggers, and they've already got a money clip. So then they say, "Daddy, I want this!" "Sorry, son (daughter), but I already bought this CD for myself...maybe next time, don't disappoint me, and I might just have enough money for YOU!"
You might say to yourself, "But that preludes another catastrophe." Oh, the contrary, you disgusting bastard! You instill your style of beating-the-shit-out-of-your-kids...if they pipe up; "Oh, but it's not fair! Blah blah blah, I wanted a toy!" You warn those bastards with some kind of hand gesture, or look. Get the look down! Have that set in your mind - get angry when need be. Flash them an anticipatory glare; somewhat along the lines of, “I dare you – say something else,” or, like I stated before, a hand gesture that has one sole purpose and that is to scare the living shit out of your kid once they see it, and you’re good! "You said you didn't have enough money!" "Well, bitch, that's cuz I lied!" And just laugh in their face.
My dad used to fuck with us kids. He'd say, "Today, sometime, I want to go to your grandpa's and pull weeds!" So it would be early afternoon, and we didn't want to pull weeds. We'd be upset the whole day because we would have to get out of the house, and work for a couple hours. My dad would not tell us a thing the rest of the day. That's it! He would ruin our day, and then not do anything. Next day, he might say, "Damn, those weeds at grandpa's are getting huge." We still wouldn't do anything. The next day, we thought we were out of pulling weeds, and he'd wake us up early, surprising us, telling us, "Get dressed! We're going to grandpa's..."
"To play with the kitty cats?" I would inquire.
"No, your ass will be in a field of weeds...picking them.....until that field is cleared!"
He'd do that, or, if there was something we wanted, like I remember when I was like five or six, he bought my brother and I Gameboys at Sears. Then, we also got to pick out a game. He never let us live that one down. "But I don't wanna mow the lawn!" "Yeah, well, I DIDN'T WANT to buy you guys video games, but I did!"
I already can tell I'm going to be an asshole to my kids, but I plan to also be kind of cool - one of those dads that will understand if you come home drunk, but I'll fuck with you, or, one minute be pissed off at you, but I won't hold it against you. But yeah, if you are my kid and start busting my balls, be prepared...
Monday, March 12, 2007
Random Thoughts
While engaged in a shower yesterday, I thought of a few things I wished I had back-in-the-day that now seem trivial in my present life. When I was like six or seven, I wanted a pogo stick. Now, if I were to bounce on a pogo stick, I'd fall on my fat ass. In the day of lore, I also wanted a yellow, robotic-and-mobile piggy-bank that, once you placed a penny or a nickle in its mouth, it acted as though it were munching it down for a snack. Afterwards, it would lick its robotic lips, then die (or stop moving until you placed another coin upon his tongue). Back then, IT....WAS....AWESOME! Today, not so cool since I've been seduced by the Nintendo DS, and a robot that eats coins can't compare to video games. It's a good thing I did not waste money on such commodities, otherwise, it would be a waste, and that coin-eating robot along with his pogo stick friend, would be sold-off or under a washer on top of the Hutch landfill.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Story Time II: The Wrath of Khan
“And as a PF Falconer commander, Worcestershire courted marine life…mounted his new wife…fucked the shit out of her…he sounded like a well loved man, who is probably burning in hell right now, getting raped by the devil…sinner!” delicately stated the Preacher. “He applied himself.”
“Lucky shit! His end came in battle. Mine will be after I drink a scotch and put a bullet in my head,” said the Preacher.
“This guy is really bad…” whispered Jake Ryan Winters, PFC and the only black on the squad.
“Let us pray. Father who art in Heaven…send this bullet, this one here,” replied the Preacher, holding on to a golden-coppery, elongated pill. “Send this bullet straight to my brain. To destroy it…when I eat it…for lunch! Don’t leave me a vegetable, you senseless bastard! I want to die, not drool all over my last days. So help me if I shoot myself, and not die, I’ll bring upon the Antichrist! Also, send this man’s soul into your arms…”
“Receive him, I mean…I’ve got to remember not to drink during my sermons…”
“Why is the Preacher dressed like a storm trooper?” asked, in a whisper, PFC Winters. But nobody cared.
Brock saluted his commander, which didn’t make a lick of sense because Worcestershire had fallen to his death in a chasm. What lied in that coffin that day was only a store front mannequin, dressed in the latest fashions from the Gap.
“Don’t salute him,” said Tyra, “I’ll find our commander. I believe he’s still alive.”
“Good luck with thee,” said Brock, sarcastically, and with that, Tyra was on her way. And Brock took a handful of boob, and shook it for good luck.
Worcester nestled; Worcester tired; Worcester without the “shire.” Against rock, trapped under rubble, granite, and covered with gray matter, he awoke to a coughing spell. He breathed in fire to sustain what little life he had left. His lungs half-extended, but most of the air was filled with a red dust, that matched the rock that buried him. He barely could move with his broken bones. The Duracell battery still clutched in his shattered hand. His body snapped like a broken rubber band. The battery had been crushed. Its acid leaked onto the hand it was in.
He looked up to the darkened void; the rock face was broke apart like a bowel movement exposed to Metamucil. Stalactites hung at their gallows. Their feet dripping water droplets filled with proteins and minerals. One such foot soaked Worcestershire’s head, washing away blood, sweat, and rock particles.
He wished he could push this weight off himself.
His eyes fought the blur to settle upon the half skeleton visible that was the Megadrode. “Help.”
And more dripping. All the stalactites must be dripping. Something was tickling his foot. “At least I’m not paralyzed…” Drip, drip, drip up his leg. He squirmed and pain shot through him. A sting.
Then the numbness. His leg felt asleep, only there was no way it could be asleep. Not even when it’s trapped under a slab of rock.
“My tongue tastes like salt.”
“My strongue spase mike phalt.”
“Ma tong.”
“Mah Jong.”
Then, the sickness.
So thirsty.
Then, the thirst. The cotton-mouth.
A flushed face.
Sweat.
One syllable words.
“Captain.”
A list of contingencies; lies, falsehoods.
“Captain.”
I’ve never seen the ocean…the salt water breeze I taste at a bright sunset. The sea like a blue colored beer, foamy toward the surface at shore. I lick it up and taste it like the sweat after working the deck.
“Captain.”
What voice is that? Do I talk out loud and speak the ramblings of a senile mind?
The voice hints a sea breeze of frightfulness. Tattered dreams such a mess. The person who speaks this voice doesn’t want to be here. Back at shore, he works a press. He’d rather write books then pull up the anchor hooks. Stare out his mind’s eye then look out port holes. And he’s young, too. A he, the voice is. Thirteen and off-set in adult clothes.
What room am I in? And these ripped sleeves? Wool pants…mine were jeans. Where’s the caked cave dust? The rocks that left me helpless? The stalactite daggers; the stalagmite fingers that point towards Heaven? All I see now is a weary voyager, and a map sprawled out in a non-lit room with its back to the horizon.
“Captain.”
Stigmata. Well, invisible. While dicking around with bastard friends, I had a nail, unsterilized, driven into my left hand. A friendly, substance helped me not realize the pain. Now, the pain was so intense, I vomited. My eyes felt red. My face dripped red. And the ham frightened me.
The pain still lasts within my hand. Probably nerve damage or something. Would a paraplegic still fell like they had their limbs? Wake up in the dead of night to rub an itch on their face, try, and not feel their hand reach their face upon stretching it.
So when I switched scenes, first was the Captain’s quarters, was it not? The word “Captain” stands out, uttered from the steward. Second, the nail incident. My imaginary one-hand crucifixion; real within my life, but a fake momentary pain. Now, the ham.
Where did it come from? What does this progression mean?
And the eyes? My eyes red, dripping red, but not blood. Like melted red crayon; thicker than wax. My stomach feels upset, like it is full of candy and the sugar rush is unnerving. Light-headed again, the downward feeling. Have you ever taken the hottest shower you could think of, then, get a sudden cold moment, where the water turns to ice? And that rush through your body feels like a hot knife through butter. It hits deep to your core. That was my feeling just now, mixed with the stomach acid two-step. All at the sight of ham.
The closest to what that swine could represent would be another moment in my life…
I remember as a teen, I got food poisoning. I couldn’t eat or I’d vomit; lose control and feel vulnerable. Feel that turning like the merry-go-round turnstiles. Burning throat from heaving. The ham smothered me like a blanket, and I hid under the covers, cowering.
Shiatsu massage needed. Neck felt crumby. Bah.
Frame by frame went visions and hallucinations. What happened?
“Captain…”
Time to enter this portrayal. Captain of a fleet, who takes me on? Darkness. Clammy. Weak. Sick to my stomach; delusional. Somewhere in my body, I was hemorrhaging. How long I had, I wouldn’t know. Medical treatment couldn’t help me now. Then, the faint sound of rocks and rubble above moving down. Something up there in the dark was coming down. I saw a faint glow; I saw through delusions reflected light off of eyes; a horrifying sight. And it was coming down for me.
I envisioned the creature landing beside my crippled body, and disemboweling me. It ripped my arm out of its socket, even completely from my torso; the muscle, veins, and whatever else bloody was dangling from my nub. I screamed absolute murder, but only to deaf ears. It lunched on my forearm, and then was fed up with the sounds from my mouth. It silenced my screams by reaching its hairy, slender arm into my mouth, shimmying it down my throat until it reached my esophagus, and all the rest of my throat components, which it ripped out. I winced, the pain so extreme, my eyes bulging. A blood vessel popped in my left eyeball. Let this horror end.
His hairy arm groped my bloody mouth, everything of mine was bloody. Then, that same grotesque hand punched through my head, destroying my brain. I screamed, and woke to find myself alone. But that scraping sound, as though someone were repelling from above on the rock walls, continued. The eye of the storm had begun. In less than an hour, whatever it was that was up there, would be down here.
My throat burned even worse. Had I, in this time frame, accidentally swallowed a gallon of Chloraseptic? Inevitably, it was my windpipe closing.
The next few scenes startled me. When was I to be the Captain? I’m so use to that lead role. Here, I’m submissive. I wake early to the sound of a screeching, which really is a negative way to start the morning. It’s more like groan, itch, rise, and cuss. Then, on a road I drive, or, more like creep my way towards work at the speed of glaciers shifting. And everyone else is the same. Breakfast is gargling water, to break apart morning flam, then an extraction of piss. Longing for holiday, in fact, a calendar hangs in my office only to count down the days to such an event. Megadrode was excitement- it was my turn to destroy. My life is ordering around, then paper work. Work has taken over my life.
“Quit complaining, officer, and climb into the sack.”
And there I stood, by the edge of a pool, bare-assed, holding my genitals. And to my own shock, in the pool, along with our company, were women, with small, itty-bitty children. The women held their infants by their bellies, their feet kicking with glee, water generating rays, and motorboat splashes. Their arms paddled to the unison of a tweeting whistle dangling from an instructor’s lips.
“That’s the youth league. They’re learning to swim upstream.”
This person in front of me was blotched head to toe in gray, color seeping though. His clothes were completely white. The pool water blue, of course. The facility, in which we stood, was aqua. Orange swim caps topped off orange swim wear on the women and the children.
“That’s it! Get in the sack.”
Before the sack was tied off at the end, over my head, I heard the chant from the instructor. “That’s it! Paddle! Paddle those oars! Fishy, fishy, fishy! You’re at the white caps now. Paddle with all your might!” TWEET! TWEET! TWEET! And the words drifted over the youths, the instructor’s lips not even moving with the words.
I was in the sack. Now pushed into the pool.
The water soaked through the burlap, flooding my oxygen. I took a final breath.
Inside the sack, I noticed I was sitting at a mahogany desk, papers drifting up to the top of the sack, where an air pocket resided. The stapler obviously sank, being metal. So did the computer and keyboard. My Monday Mug tipped over, the coffee within neutralized in the pool water.
I was running out of air quick. My lungs hungry for an inhale. A few more seconds, I’d pass out. Then arms reached for me in my cozy, wet nook. I was pulled out of the sack, me, the one that was coughing and gasping for breaths. All the contents in the bag were gone, just me and my nudity. My mouth was pressed against a puddle, my body dripping water on the cement, and my lungs filling every inch. Why was I pulled out? Just die already. And that frustration radiated in the malice I showed toward my pool-buddy playing drowning instructor.
“Lunchtime!”
And that was my only relief.
“Lucky shit! His end came in battle. Mine will be after I drink a scotch and put a bullet in my head,” said the Preacher.
“This guy is really bad…” whispered Jake Ryan Winters, PFC and the only black on the squad.
“Let us pray. Father who art in Heaven…send this bullet, this one here,” replied the Preacher, holding on to a golden-coppery, elongated pill. “Send this bullet straight to my brain. To destroy it…when I eat it…for lunch! Don’t leave me a vegetable, you senseless bastard! I want to die, not drool all over my last days. So help me if I shoot myself, and not die, I’ll bring upon the Antichrist! Also, send this man’s soul into your arms…”
“Receive him, I mean…I’ve got to remember not to drink during my sermons…”
“Why is the Preacher dressed like a storm trooper?” asked, in a whisper, PFC Winters. But nobody cared.
Brock saluted his commander, which didn’t make a lick of sense because Worcestershire had fallen to his death in a chasm. What lied in that coffin that day was only a store front mannequin, dressed in the latest fashions from the Gap.
“Don’t salute him,” said Tyra, “I’ll find our commander. I believe he’s still alive.”
“Good luck with thee,” said Brock, sarcastically, and with that, Tyra was on her way. And Brock took a handful of boob, and shook it for good luck.
Worcester nestled; Worcester tired; Worcester without the “shire.” Against rock, trapped under rubble, granite, and covered with gray matter, he awoke to a coughing spell. He breathed in fire to sustain what little life he had left. His lungs half-extended, but most of the air was filled with a red dust, that matched the rock that buried him. He barely could move with his broken bones. The Duracell battery still clutched in his shattered hand. His body snapped like a broken rubber band. The battery had been crushed. Its acid leaked onto the hand it was in.
He looked up to the darkened void; the rock face was broke apart like a bowel movement exposed to Metamucil. Stalactites hung at their gallows. Their feet dripping water droplets filled with proteins and minerals. One such foot soaked Worcestershire’s head, washing away blood, sweat, and rock particles.
He wished he could push this weight off himself.
His eyes fought the blur to settle upon the half skeleton visible that was the Megadrode. “Help.”
And more dripping. All the stalactites must be dripping. Something was tickling his foot. “At least I’m not paralyzed…” Drip, drip, drip up his leg. He squirmed and pain shot through him. A sting.
Then the numbness. His leg felt asleep, only there was no way it could be asleep. Not even when it’s trapped under a slab of rock.
“My tongue tastes like salt.”
“My strongue spase mike phalt.”
“Ma tong.”
“Mah Jong.”
Then, the sickness.
So thirsty.
Then, the thirst. The cotton-mouth.
A flushed face.
Sweat.
One syllable words.
“Captain.”
A list of contingencies; lies, falsehoods.
“Captain.”
I’ve never seen the ocean…the salt water breeze I taste at a bright sunset. The sea like a blue colored beer, foamy toward the surface at shore. I lick it up and taste it like the sweat after working the deck.
“Captain.”
What voice is that? Do I talk out loud and speak the ramblings of a senile mind?
The voice hints a sea breeze of frightfulness. Tattered dreams such a mess. The person who speaks this voice doesn’t want to be here. Back at shore, he works a press. He’d rather write books then pull up the anchor hooks. Stare out his mind’s eye then look out port holes. And he’s young, too. A he, the voice is. Thirteen and off-set in adult clothes.
What room am I in? And these ripped sleeves? Wool pants…mine were jeans. Where’s the caked cave dust? The rocks that left me helpless? The stalactite daggers; the stalagmite fingers that point towards Heaven? All I see now is a weary voyager, and a map sprawled out in a non-lit room with its back to the horizon.
“Captain.”
Stigmata. Well, invisible. While dicking around with bastard friends, I had a nail, unsterilized, driven into my left hand. A friendly, substance helped me not realize the pain. Now, the pain was so intense, I vomited. My eyes felt red. My face dripped red. And the ham frightened me.
The pain still lasts within my hand. Probably nerve damage or something. Would a paraplegic still fell like they had their limbs? Wake up in the dead of night to rub an itch on their face, try, and not feel their hand reach their face upon stretching it.
So when I switched scenes, first was the Captain’s quarters, was it not? The word “Captain” stands out, uttered from the steward. Second, the nail incident. My imaginary one-hand crucifixion; real within my life, but a fake momentary pain. Now, the ham.
Where did it come from? What does this progression mean?
And the eyes? My eyes red, dripping red, but not blood. Like melted red crayon; thicker than wax. My stomach feels upset, like it is full of candy and the sugar rush is unnerving. Light-headed again, the downward feeling. Have you ever taken the hottest shower you could think of, then, get a sudden cold moment, where the water turns to ice? And that rush through your body feels like a hot knife through butter. It hits deep to your core. That was my feeling just now, mixed with the stomach acid two-step. All at the sight of ham.
The closest to what that swine could represent would be another moment in my life…
I remember as a teen, I got food poisoning. I couldn’t eat or I’d vomit; lose control and feel vulnerable. Feel that turning like the merry-go-round turnstiles. Burning throat from heaving. The ham smothered me like a blanket, and I hid under the covers, cowering.
Shiatsu massage needed. Neck felt crumby. Bah.
Frame by frame went visions and hallucinations. What happened?
“Captain…”
Time to enter this portrayal. Captain of a fleet, who takes me on? Darkness. Clammy. Weak. Sick to my stomach; delusional. Somewhere in my body, I was hemorrhaging. How long I had, I wouldn’t know. Medical treatment couldn’t help me now. Then, the faint sound of rocks and rubble above moving down. Something up there in the dark was coming down. I saw a faint glow; I saw through delusions reflected light off of eyes; a horrifying sight. And it was coming down for me.
I envisioned the creature landing beside my crippled body, and disemboweling me. It ripped my arm out of its socket, even completely from my torso; the muscle, veins, and whatever else bloody was dangling from my nub. I screamed absolute murder, but only to deaf ears. It lunched on my forearm, and then was fed up with the sounds from my mouth. It silenced my screams by reaching its hairy, slender arm into my mouth, shimmying it down my throat until it reached my esophagus, and all the rest of my throat components, which it ripped out. I winced, the pain so extreme, my eyes bulging. A blood vessel popped in my left eyeball. Let this horror end.
His hairy arm groped my bloody mouth, everything of mine was bloody. Then, that same grotesque hand punched through my head, destroying my brain. I screamed, and woke to find myself alone. But that scraping sound, as though someone were repelling from above on the rock walls, continued. The eye of the storm had begun. In less than an hour, whatever it was that was up there, would be down here.
My throat burned even worse. Had I, in this time frame, accidentally swallowed a gallon of Chloraseptic? Inevitably, it was my windpipe closing.
The next few scenes startled me. When was I to be the Captain? I’m so use to that lead role. Here, I’m submissive. I wake early to the sound of a screeching, which really is a negative way to start the morning. It’s more like groan, itch, rise, and cuss. Then, on a road I drive, or, more like creep my way towards work at the speed of glaciers shifting. And everyone else is the same. Breakfast is gargling water, to break apart morning flam, then an extraction of piss. Longing for holiday, in fact, a calendar hangs in my office only to count down the days to such an event. Megadrode was excitement- it was my turn to destroy. My life is ordering around, then paper work. Work has taken over my life.
“Quit complaining, officer, and climb into the sack.”
And there I stood, by the edge of a pool, bare-assed, holding my genitals. And to my own shock, in the pool, along with our company, were women, with small, itty-bitty children. The women held their infants by their bellies, their feet kicking with glee, water generating rays, and motorboat splashes. Their arms paddled to the unison of a tweeting whistle dangling from an instructor’s lips.
“That’s the youth league. They’re learning to swim upstream.”
This person in front of me was blotched head to toe in gray, color seeping though. His clothes were completely white. The pool water blue, of course. The facility, in which we stood, was aqua. Orange swim caps topped off orange swim wear on the women and the children.
“That’s it! Get in the sack.”
Before the sack was tied off at the end, over my head, I heard the chant from the instructor. “That’s it! Paddle! Paddle those oars! Fishy, fishy, fishy! You’re at the white caps now. Paddle with all your might!” TWEET! TWEET! TWEET! And the words drifted over the youths, the instructor’s lips not even moving with the words.
I was in the sack. Now pushed into the pool.
The water soaked through the burlap, flooding my oxygen. I took a final breath.
Inside the sack, I noticed I was sitting at a mahogany desk, papers drifting up to the top of the sack, where an air pocket resided. The stapler obviously sank, being metal. So did the computer and keyboard. My Monday Mug tipped over, the coffee within neutralized in the pool water.
I was running out of air quick. My lungs hungry for an inhale. A few more seconds, I’d pass out. Then arms reached for me in my cozy, wet nook. I was pulled out of the sack, me, the one that was coughing and gasping for breaths. All the contents in the bag were gone, just me and my nudity. My mouth was pressed against a puddle, my body dripping water on the cement, and my lungs filling every inch. Why was I pulled out? Just die already. And that frustration radiated in the malice I showed toward my pool-buddy playing drowning instructor.
“Lunchtime!”
And that was my only relief.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
The Nap.
This has always been a requirement I would like to instill to everyone: utilize the nap. Just kind of unwind, relax, sprawled out, and vegetate for a little bit because you have got to give your brain a rest. I nap constantly; it mellows me out, that way I don't blow a fuse, or get short with anyone. Napping is a key to raising your tolerance and patience, and, what a coincidence, it helps your body raise its immunities and regulates bowel and digestive health. Healthier through sleeping? Where do I sign!
I always feel better after a nap, and its even more of a sedative if music is involved. Make sure, though, you don't fall asleep while napping, and when I say sleep, I mean for hours on end. You will end up feeling like shit. But nap for, at least, 30 minutes a day. And don't give an excuse for not doing it, like, "Well, I just don't have time to nap..." Bullshit! Make time! Trust me - you are going to feel a lot better.
(Next post: the continuance of Worcestershire in Story Time II: The Wrath of Khan)
I always feel better after a nap, and its even more of a sedative if music is involved. Make sure, though, you don't fall asleep while napping, and when I say sleep, I mean for hours on end. You will end up feeling like shit. But nap for, at least, 30 minutes a day. And don't give an excuse for not doing it, like, "Well, I just don't have time to nap..." Bullshit! Make time! Trust me - you are going to feel a lot better.
(Next post: the continuance of Worcestershire in Story Time II: The Wrath of Khan)
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Story Time I: The Great Divide
I have always wanted to write a story as a blog. Right now, a lot of things piss me off, I'm really hating my job, and am tired of bitching. So, let's have a story!
Worestershire and the Sea Witch as told by Mr. Austin Smith
"Great, leathery scrotum!" ejaculated Seafoam Worcestershire, PF Falconer commander. His eyes set upon the megadrode's mega droid shell mass. He let loose double-pistol clips that caught net-like cleft shrouded shell after shell fury from it's gun arms, and strafed immaculately from side to side, rotating like a probe droid. None who had tested its power survived the encounter. "I spit at you," seethed Worcestershire, and he threw to the metal beast, a succulent grenade. A mechanical growl coughed back satisfaction, for not even the explosive power of a grenade could penetrate like a stiff penis-encountering a flap-lipped vagina, the malarkey Megadrodes titanium-steel sweat suit. And more power-canister bullets flew like spittle from the lips of an over winded speaker.
Worcestershire dodged the attacks with finesse. "Wor, hath done thee service to thou enemy?" asked Brock Palister, co-commander/treasurer of the PF Falconer Squad. Brock stood defensive, smashed against a metal miner's cart, which was flipped upside-down in the granite tunnel, which called home for the metal robot Megadrode, who was now releasing hell upon Seafoam Worcestershire, who wore tight trousers.
Brock sensed a mechanical malfunction with the Megadrode, something mechanically maleficent...something the douche-cock scientists who created the metal beast, did not sense would flaw. The flaw was literally senseless. It ceased to sense, like senseless sense.
Tyra Broadchest's bountiful, abrasive, beautiful breasts bounced boyishly as she ran to push them against Brock's bicep. "Tell me, Brock," she orgasmed desperately, with despair snagging her every word. "How is Worcestershire?"
Brock turned to cup Tyra's breasts in comfort.
"Shall thou asketh?"
"Oh yes," pushed on Tyra. "Thou shall..."
"Hero, thou state be calm or beseeched? What say thee?" cried Brock. "Thou...I mean, I'm dodging bullets...," answered Worcestershire. Brock turned to Tyra, once more cupping her exquisite rack.
"Hearth thou, marm?" asked Brock.
"Yes! He's in need..." and with that, Tyra's top blouse button popped.
"Unzip me," replied Brock, and Tyra did, releasing his cannon.
"Oh yes..." sighed Brock, and there, he stood erect, his magnum-force rocket launcher held firm within his grasp. Tyra fiddled with it for awhile, working it hard. At last, Brock pulled away, and announced to Worcestershire and the rest of the world, "I'm coming!"
Brock's knees stiffened as he convulsed with glee. Spurt, spurt, spurt went each dollop of load, mouthful after mouthful. Each skeeted their way to their target; a money-shot to say the least. "Bull's eye!" exclaimed Brock. They ram-rodded Megadrode's backside, in an explosion of white. The megadroid exploded, but was not down for the fight, merely dazed from the attack.
"Great shot, Brock," replied Worcestershire. "You really gummed up the works!"
“So exhilarating; I’m orgasmic!” ejaculated Tyra.
Worcestershire crawled toward the sound of Tyra’s voice. “I can almost feel those breasts in my palms,” he said out loud. “You’re incorrigible,” said Tyra. Worcestershire could not wait to eat alone in his apartment, him being a culinary superhuman. He could taste the meat he had steam-cooked for that night like the bureaucratic wolves could taste the meat of the young.
The ground he clawed at with his boots felt like it could give way at any moment. Why the government would create such a destructive machine, and just leave it here in an abandoned mine because it failed to stop death. The mine had been testing grounds for the colossus, and would therefore be the grave for it as well.
“You’re almost there, Wor,” replied Tyra.
Then, the Megadrode came to life again. It shot out proximity mines from its clay-pigeon holster looking, proximity mine-cannons. And the earth underneath Worcestershire collapsed…
Tyra screamed.
Brock’s grip on Tyra’s breasts loosened…then eventually recupped.
And Worcestershire fell.
“A voyage never ends,” replied Worcestershire as he fell.
“A voyage is never-ending. One might think it ends, but it doesn’t. Those who believe nothing ends, and believe that it only changes or begins a new, survive. I’m at a new beginning; where…I don’t know yet. Like a star’s nebula, I will explode into my supernova. But give life to a new star. Where is the end in that? Where is the end in all of this?”
Worcestershire continued to fall.
“When do the stars begin again? If one must know everything, then where is the excitement in that? Don’t ask questions your whole life. Use life to explore and find the answers. And if an answer is impossible, don’t go back to asking questions, but instead, come to conclusions that might settle your mind. And why didn’t we install jet packs to our suits? I fucking told those knob-jobs in the science facility to incorporate them with our suits, but they fucking didn’t! My body is snagged onto some roots…must be like a Redwood around here or something because these roots are HUGE! I think I left a bag of popcorn in the microwave back at base…oops, I’m slipping. This robot beast is still alive, but I found its battery pack…Duracell’s…well I’ll be a son of a bitch! The roots broke. I fall. Man should have never made machines…..my bones….”
Worcestershire was silent.
Worestershire and the Sea Witch as told by Mr. Austin Smith
"Great, leathery scrotum!" ejaculated Seafoam Worcestershire, PF Falconer commander. His eyes set upon the megadrode's mega droid shell mass. He let loose double-pistol clips that caught net-like cleft shrouded shell after shell fury from it's gun arms, and strafed immaculately from side to side, rotating like a probe droid. None who had tested its power survived the encounter. "I spit at you," seethed Worcestershire, and he threw to the metal beast, a succulent grenade. A mechanical growl coughed back satisfaction, for not even the explosive power of a grenade could penetrate like a stiff penis-encountering a flap-lipped vagina, the malarkey Megadrodes titanium-steel sweat suit. And more power-canister bullets flew like spittle from the lips of an over winded speaker.
Worcestershire dodged the attacks with finesse. "Wor, hath done thee service to thou enemy?" asked Brock Palister, co-commander/treasurer of the PF Falconer Squad. Brock stood defensive, smashed against a metal miner's cart, which was flipped upside-down in the granite tunnel, which called home for the metal robot Megadrode, who was now releasing hell upon Seafoam Worcestershire, who wore tight trousers.
Brock sensed a mechanical malfunction with the Megadrode, something mechanically maleficent...something the douche-cock scientists who created the metal beast, did not sense would flaw. The flaw was literally senseless. It ceased to sense, like senseless sense.
Tyra Broadchest's bountiful, abrasive, beautiful breasts bounced boyishly as she ran to push them against Brock's bicep. "Tell me, Brock," she orgasmed desperately, with despair snagging her every word. "How is Worcestershire?"
Brock turned to cup Tyra's breasts in comfort.
"Shall thou asketh?"
"Oh yes," pushed on Tyra. "Thou shall..."
"Hero, thou state be calm or beseeched? What say thee?" cried Brock. "Thou...I mean, I'm dodging bullets...," answered Worcestershire. Brock turned to Tyra, once more cupping her exquisite rack.
"Hearth thou, marm?" asked Brock.
"Yes! He's in need..." and with that, Tyra's top blouse button popped.
"Unzip me," replied Brock, and Tyra did, releasing his cannon.
"Oh yes..." sighed Brock, and there, he stood erect, his magnum-force rocket launcher held firm within his grasp. Tyra fiddled with it for awhile, working it hard. At last, Brock pulled away, and announced to Worcestershire and the rest of the world, "I'm coming!"
Brock's knees stiffened as he convulsed with glee. Spurt, spurt, spurt went each dollop of load, mouthful after mouthful. Each skeeted their way to their target; a money-shot to say the least. "Bull's eye!" exclaimed Brock. They ram-rodded Megadrode's backside, in an explosion of white. The megadroid exploded, but was not down for the fight, merely dazed from the attack.
"Great shot, Brock," replied Worcestershire. "You really gummed up the works!"
“So exhilarating; I’m orgasmic!” ejaculated Tyra.
Worcestershire crawled toward the sound of Tyra’s voice. “I can almost feel those breasts in my palms,” he said out loud. “You’re incorrigible,” said Tyra. Worcestershire could not wait to eat alone in his apartment, him being a culinary superhuman. He could taste the meat he had steam-cooked for that night like the bureaucratic wolves could taste the meat of the young.
The ground he clawed at with his boots felt like it could give way at any moment. Why the government would create such a destructive machine, and just leave it here in an abandoned mine because it failed to stop death. The mine had been testing grounds for the colossus, and would therefore be the grave for it as well.
“You’re almost there, Wor,” replied Tyra.
Then, the Megadrode came to life again. It shot out proximity mines from its clay-pigeon holster looking, proximity mine-cannons. And the earth underneath Worcestershire collapsed…
Tyra screamed.
Brock’s grip on Tyra’s breasts loosened…then eventually recupped.
And Worcestershire fell.
“A voyage never ends,” replied Worcestershire as he fell.
“A voyage is never-ending. One might think it ends, but it doesn’t. Those who believe nothing ends, and believe that it only changes or begins a new, survive. I’m at a new beginning; where…I don’t know yet. Like a star’s nebula, I will explode into my supernova. But give life to a new star. Where is the end in that? Where is the end in all of this?”
Worcestershire continued to fall.
“When do the stars begin again? If one must know everything, then where is the excitement in that? Don’t ask questions your whole life. Use life to explore and find the answers. And if an answer is impossible, don’t go back to asking questions, but instead, come to conclusions that might settle your mind. And why didn’t we install jet packs to our suits? I fucking told those knob-jobs in the science facility to incorporate them with our suits, but they fucking didn’t! My body is snagged onto some roots…must be like a Redwood around here or something because these roots are HUGE! I think I left a bag of popcorn in the microwave back at base…oops, I’m slipping. This robot beast is still alive, but I found its battery pack…Duracell’s…well I’ll be a son of a bitch! The roots broke. I fall. Man should have never made machines…..my bones….”
Worcestershire was silent.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Fifty Incident
The price of gas is, in as few of words as possible, gay. Stations around my area aren't applicable for the rise. One thing I've found difficult, is trying to pay for gas with a fifty dollar bill. It's circulated currency still, right, or have I neglected to receive the memo stating fifty dollar bills are nonexchangeable?
Every time I pull out a "Grant", if you will, the gas station attendant squares me up, glaring at me, sometimes sighing after he/she spots the bill.
I have gone as far as to give the attendant a one-hundred dollar bill to feed his/her cash register, and I was turned down. "We don't accept anything larger than a fifty...," where, upon my ears registering what he (because at this time, it was a male) said, I replied, "...And then even then, you guys throw a fit because I've given you a fifty for thirty dollars worth of gas!" He then eyed me and said flat out, "I can't accept this bill, sir..."
In fact, he didn't accept it. What ended our spat was me saying, "This is the only bill I have in my wallet, besides a ten, so you don't really have a choice - you accept the hundred, or I get a free tank of gas..." He then, very stubbornly, swiped his Dillion's Plus card through the card reader on his computer, not once, but THREE times, typed in a top secret code, and said, "Give me the ten." If you are wondering if that man is still working at that Kwik Shop, I'm sorry to say they let him go.
It's not like the Kwik Shop doesn't have change for a hundred. In fact, I was told by an attendant-friend of mine, Kwik Shops have safes full of a couple hundred, to a thousand dollars!
Now here's where the fifty-dollar bill plays into the matter. I had just picked up my paycheck, and saw that I was depleted in the gas-situation of my car. I "filled-her-up," like they say in the moving pictures, and went in to pay for the gas. My total was twenty even. I go up to the counter to pay, the lady, the time, said, "Twenty even," and I open my wallet, and finger through four hundreds, a fifty, and a couple twenties. I go for the fifty, pull out the fifty, lay the fifty on the counter. She asks, "Sir, do you have anything smaller," while she eyes the contents of my bill-fold. "I have a twenty, but I'd rather break the fifty." "We don't accept fifties," she says, looking over my head to bare witness to the line forming behind me. "But you have change for a fifty, right?" "Yes sir, but we don't accept them."
I peer over the counter, at the contents of her register. "I count, literally, four-to-five twenties in you till, a bunch of tens, and a couple ones. Can't you break this fifty?" "We hate breaking anything larger than a twenty." "So if I gave you forty dollars, with thirty in my tank, you wouldn't break forty dollars?" "No, we would, but as far as bills, we don't accept anything over fifty." "But you have big, diesel-gusseling vehicles, and gas-gusseling trucks coming in and out of here daily. You wouldn't break a fifty if they had one, if they had more than twenty, or even forty dollars worth of gas?" "Sir, I'm not going to accept your fifty." I ended up backing down for the sake of the line behind me.
My dad had the same problem at the station closest to our house. "I had thirty-some dollars worth of gas, and she wanted two twenties. I had a fifty, or a twenty. She finally took the fifty, but I knew the only reason why she did was she was forced to."
The ultimatum: you accept my fifty dollar bill, or I get a free tank of gas - my dad has used it, and I've used it. What's the difference between the two bills, the twenty and the fifty? Just thirty single bills, six fives, three tens, a twenty and a ten...etc. Gas prices have yet to peak. Start accepting the fifties, or have a bunch of irate people. Seriously, what's easier for you? You would think one bill - the fifty - but for some reason, they'd rather deal with two twenties. It dumbfounds the shit out of me! How ignorant is this debate - accept fifties, or I get a free tank of gas?
Every time I pull out a "Grant", if you will, the gas station attendant squares me up, glaring at me, sometimes sighing after he/she spots the bill.
I have gone as far as to give the attendant a one-hundred dollar bill to feed his/her cash register, and I was turned down. "We don't accept anything larger than a fifty...," where, upon my ears registering what he (because at this time, it was a male) said, I replied, "...And then even then, you guys throw a fit because I've given you a fifty for thirty dollars worth of gas!" He then eyed me and said flat out, "I can't accept this bill, sir..."
In fact, he didn't accept it. What ended our spat was me saying, "This is the only bill I have in my wallet, besides a ten, so you don't really have a choice - you accept the hundred, or I get a free tank of gas..." He then, very stubbornly, swiped his Dillion's Plus card through the card reader on his computer, not once, but THREE times, typed in a top secret code, and said, "Give me the ten." If you are wondering if that man is still working at that Kwik Shop, I'm sorry to say they let him go.
It's not like the Kwik Shop doesn't have change for a hundred. In fact, I was told by an attendant-friend of mine, Kwik Shops have safes full of a couple hundred, to a thousand dollars!
Now here's where the fifty-dollar bill plays into the matter. I had just picked up my paycheck, and saw that I was depleted in the gas-situation of my car. I "filled-her-up," like they say in the moving pictures, and went in to pay for the gas. My total was twenty even. I go up to the counter to pay, the lady, the time, said, "Twenty even," and I open my wallet, and finger through four hundreds, a fifty, and a couple twenties. I go for the fifty, pull out the fifty, lay the fifty on the counter. She asks, "Sir, do you have anything smaller," while she eyes the contents of my bill-fold. "I have a twenty, but I'd rather break the fifty." "We don't accept fifties," she says, looking over my head to bare witness to the line forming behind me. "But you have change for a fifty, right?" "Yes sir, but we don't accept them."
I peer over the counter, at the contents of her register. "I count, literally, four-to-five twenties in you till, a bunch of tens, and a couple ones. Can't you break this fifty?" "We hate breaking anything larger than a twenty." "So if I gave you forty dollars, with thirty in my tank, you wouldn't break forty dollars?" "No, we would, but as far as bills, we don't accept anything over fifty." "But you have big, diesel-gusseling vehicles, and gas-gusseling trucks coming in and out of here daily. You wouldn't break a fifty if they had one, if they had more than twenty, or even forty dollars worth of gas?" "Sir, I'm not going to accept your fifty." I ended up backing down for the sake of the line behind me.
My dad had the same problem at the station closest to our house. "I had thirty-some dollars worth of gas, and she wanted two twenties. I had a fifty, or a twenty. She finally took the fifty, but I knew the only reason why she did was she was forced to."
The ultimatum: you accept my fifty dollar bill, or I get a free tank of gas - my dad has used it, and I've used it. What's the difference between the two bills, the twenty and the fifty? Just thirty single bills, six fives, three tens, a twenty and a ten...etc. Gas prices have yet to peak. Start accepting the fifties, or have a bunch of irate people. Seriously, what's easier for you? You would think one bill - the fifty - but for some reason, they'd rather deal with two twenties. It dumbfounds the shit out of me! How ignorant is this debate - accept fifties, or I get a free tank of gas?
Sunday, January 14, 2007
The Rant I've Been Wanting to Write
What's our stance today? How can we still be a Democracy when our president ignores the wishes of the people, and parades around like a tyrant, insisting he is correct, everyone else is ignorant, and the world is safer if he deploys thousands more of his sovereignty to a country that has no hope of reconstruction? Look at it like this: we were liberated once. We sought freedom, fought for it, lost lives in the fight to obtain it; we were once Iraq. And once we gained our independence from Great Britain, one side said, "I want to keep my slaves," another side said, "We're better than that. We can do our own field work."
We've seen opposing forces, living in the same country, loving the same national symbol, fight for differing opinions. We were once North and South. It's almost a given that once a country gains its own control, placed in front of the steering wheel for a change, if you will, and told to lead, there will be birthed opposition against a leading force, thinking they are right, the others are wrong, and sporting a much larger head than normal. We went through a civil war.
The French, in return for helping us win our war for freedom, did not ask, or simply request to stay in our country, help us run our state, and ultimately take the place of the tyrannical government that we fought so damn hard to rid ourselves of. They sailed back to their country, and, of course, we said thanks.
Why is it that the United States always wants something in return; we can't just help out a person in need, and be on our way.
Bush says, “I fully understand they could try to stop me from doing it. But I have made my decision. And we’re going forward." He wants more troops in Iraq to fight terrorism. I guess I misunderstand the terms the news, the president, the vice-president, and about everyone I know use when explaining Iraq. Which war do they refer to? The one our president says we're in against terrorism, or the one he says we're in against Iraq? Or maybe, is it the war we continue to fight at home?
Terrorist cells will remain in Iraq. When the British were overtaxing us, killing our people for no reason, and restricting what we could and could not do in our own country, the militia, I guess, was a terrorist cell against them. Now, we remain in a country we don't belong in, we've helped out all we really can, and now we are an annoyance. And the terrorists who lay down IE D's for our troops to get killed by, are basically protecting their way of life, like our militia protected America.
The troops are given orders, and those people either perform what they are told to do, or go to prison, or are tried, and sentenced with a dishonorable discharge. Nobody really wants to fight in a war. Those who say they do are trying to be noble, and there's nothing wrong in wanting to be a hero. I'm mainly just stating a fact here - our government hasn't hid this intention from us, either. We are expendable to them. What's a few lives if we can expand our so-called Democracy over the face of the globe?
It's our way or the highway - if congress wants to get in the way of "freedom", then shove them out of the way. Freedom can be many things. It can be freedom as in, Bush is free to do what he wants because he's the commander-in-chief. Freedom can be, the people have the freedom to overrule their elected official, but can't practice that freedom because they would be labelled a "terrorist" or a "national security threat," and ultimately, they destroy themselves in the process of saying what's on the minds of many Americans these days. So in an essence, Democracy isn't a government for the people, by the people; that illusion has been unearthed, and essentially dead. Real Democracy lies within one person - if that person chooses to abuse his or her authority, too bad. Are we still so blind that we can't spot the proof that one person has been given too much power?
We've seen opposing forces, living in the same country, loving the same national symbol, fight for differing opinions. We were once North and South. It's almost a given that once a country gains its own control, placed in front of the steering wheel for a change, if you will, and told to lead, there will be birthed opposition against a leading force, thinking they are right, the others are wrong, and sporting a much larger head than normal. We went through a civil war.
The French, in return for helping us win our war for freedom, did not ask, or simply request to stay in our country, help us run our state, and ultimately take the place of the tyrannical government that we fought so damn hard to rid ourselves of. They sailed back to their country, and, of course, we said thanks.
Why is it that the United States always wants something in return; we can't just help out a person in need, and be on our way.
Bush says, “I fully understand they could try to stop me from doing it. But I have made my decision. And we’re going forward." He wants more troops in Iraq to fight terrorism. I guess I misunderstand the terms the news, the president, the vice-president, and about everyone I know use when explaining Iraq. Which war do they refer to? The one our president says we're in against terrorism, or the one he says we're in against Iraq? Or maybe, is it the war we continue to fight at home?
Terrorist cells will remain in Iraq. When the British were overtaxing us, killing our people for no reason, and restricting what we could and could not do in our own country, the militia, I guess, was a terrorist cell against them. Now, we remain in a country we don't belong in, we've helped out all we really can, and now we are an annoyance. And the terrorists who lay down IE D's for our troops to get killed by, are basically protecting their way of life, like our militia protected America.
The troops are given orders, and those people either perform what they are told to do, or go to prison, or are tried, and sentenced with a dishonorable discharge. Nobody really wants to fight in a war. Those who say they do are trying to be noble, and there's nothing wrong in wanting to be a hero. I'm mainly just stating a fact here - our government hasn't hid this intention from us, either. We are expendable to them. What's a few lives if we can expand our so-called Democracy over the face of the globe?
It's our way or the highway - if congress wants to get in the way of "freedom", then shove them out of the way. Freedom can be many things. It can be freedom as in, Bush is free to do what he wants because he's the commander-in-chief. Freedom can be, the people have the freedom to overrule their elected official, but can't practice that freedom because they would be labelled a "terrorist" or a "national security threat," and ultimately, they destroy themselves in the process of saying what's on the minds of many Americans these days. So in an essence, Democracy isn't a government for the people, by the people; that illusion has been unearthed, and essentially dead. Real Democracy lies within one person - if that person chooses to abuse his or her authority, too bad. Are we still so blind that we can't spot the proof that one person has been given too much power?
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
My Only Comment...
Askinstoo said...
Hi, i was looking over your blog and didn'tquite find what I was looking for. I'm looking fordifferent ways to earn money... I did find this though...a place where you can make some nice extra cash secret shopping. I made over $900 last month having fun!
My comments:
Wow, thanks Askinstoo...I don't know if you realized this or not, but this is a fucking blog, not an employment office! Thanks for commenting and everything, but all you really want to do is scam me. Thanks, but no thanks you fucking swindler!
Hi, i was looking over your blog and didn'tquite find what I was looking for. I'm looking fordifferent ways to earn money... I did find this though...a place where you can make some nice extra cash secret shopping. I made over $900 last month having fun!
My comments:
Wow, thanks Askinstoo...I don't know if you realized this or not, but this is a fucking blog, not an employment office! Thanks for commenting and everything, but all you really want to do is scam me. Thanks, but no thanks you fucking swindler!
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Terror Bird!
I was about to do an anti-America rant, but it got cheesy, and I've just decided that part of me is too politically influenced, mainly by the corrupt speech that exits the mouths of most if not every politician out lobbying today. Instead, I'll sum up lobbyists by saying they are nothing more than finches in a dying bush, senselessly chirping away.
This bridges over into the reason why I wish I had a hawk.
I want a big, mother fucking falcon perched upon my gloved hand, dressed in the falconer's hood or whatever that little mask is called that hawks and other gaming birds wear, so they don't get wise and fly off, resorting to their wildlife tendencies.
I hate pigeons - rats with wings. If I had a hawk or said falcon above, I would never have to worry about seeing a pigeon again in my life, unless it was a pigeon carcass. Now, I realize pigeons have diseases, and if my bird-fiend were to snack all day on pigeon entrails and nothing else, I probably wouldn't have a hawk for very long. I also hate finches, and other annoying, miniature, novelty birds, unless they are parakeets or cockatoos. So my hawk should have plenty to eat.
I've hated little birds ever since I was little, and here is why.
INFLUENZA, commonly known as the Flu, is a nasty little son of a bitch, who manages to get into your system, and reek all havoc, sometimes causing you to hallucinate uncontrollably, as well as uncontrollably vomit, poop, cough, ache, sneeze, blow your nose, etc. to all icky things. I happened to hallucinate for six hours straight once with Influenza. Part of that time, I thought a flock of finches and mini-birds were outside my window enduring malfeasance, bleak-cheep-chirping away at the expense of the misery I sustained, while I tried to block out their annoyance with the assistance of many layers of blankets and pillows wrapped around my head. But the noises never stopped. I seek revenge.
My solution: acquire a hawk, falcon, or any kind of hawk-like bird. If my hawk's diet results in being all pigeon and no finch, and my hawk dies of disease, it will be an answer to my explication of what to do with the hawk once it has no purpose because it seems too cruel to lock such majestic birds up in cages like they do in zoos, and I don't want to be responsible for causing a bird-plague among other hawks and birds of prey if I were to release suggested sick bird. I would also hate for other hawks, once encountering my pansied-beast of flight, to peck at, or destroy him/her simply because they are not wild anymore. A dead bird is better than a dead bird, which is better than dead birds, I always say. If that bitch is destined to die, let it be as tragic as to die at the hands of disease.
This bridges over into the reason why I wish I had a hawk.
I want a big, mother fucking falcon perched upon my gloved hand, dressed in the falconer's hood or whatever that little mask is called that hawks and other gaming birds wear, so they don't get wise and fly off, resorting to their wildlife tendencies.
I hate pigeons - rats with wings. If I had a hawk or said falcon above, I would never have to worry about seeing a pigeon again in my life, unless it was a pigeon carcass. Now, I realize pigeons have diseases, and if my bird-fiend were to snack all day on pigeon entrails and nothing else, I probably wouldn't have a hawk for very long. I also hate finches, and other annoying, miniature, novelty birds, unless they are parakeets or cockatoos. So my hawk should have plenty to eat.
I've hated little birds ever since I was little, and here is why.
INFLUENZA, commonly known as the Flu, is a nasty little son of a bitch, who manages to get into your system, and reek all havoc, sometimes causing you to hallucinate uncontrollably, as well as uncontrollably vomit, poop, cough, ache, sneeze, blow your nose, etc. to all icky things. I happened to hallucinate for six hours straight once with Influenza. Part of that time, I thought a flock of finches and mini-birds were outside my window enduring malfeasance, bleak-cheep-chirping away at the expense of the misery I sustained, while I tried to block out their annoyance with the assistance of many layers of blankets and pillows wrapped around my head. But the noises never stopped. I seek revenge.
My solution: acquire a hawk, falcon, or any kind of hawk-like bird. If my hawk's diet results in being all pigeon and no finch, and my hawk dies of disease, it will be an answer to my explication of what to do with the hawk once it has no purpose because it seems too cruel to lock such majestic birds up in cages like they do in zoos, and I don't want to be responsible for causing a bird-plague among other hawks and birds of prey if I were to release suggested sick bird. I would also hate for other hawks, once encountering my pansied-beast of flight, to peck at, or destroy him/her simply because they are not wild anymore. A dead bird is better than a dead bird, which is better than dead birds, I always say. If that bitch is destined to die, let it be as tragic as to die at the hands of disease.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Just a General Rant EDIT
I guess I don't know anything. How does anyone actually know anything? You might say you know pain, but tell that to the mountain climber who had to make the arduous, the absolute sacrifice of sawing off his own arm to survive. Mark Swinton, a hiker, was lost in the woods of upstate Washington when he slipped and fell off the side of a cliff. He tried grabbing for the sides of the cliff while plummeting, but unfortunately, the boulder he managed to grab came loose, and when he finally reached a bottom, the boulder pinned his left arm. You can guess how he got freed.
I agree with women that child-birth is painful, but it's still a choice. You knew the outcome after nine months of pregnancy; it was not going to be a piece of cake. Think of some of the other situations with pregnancy, mainly where a girl was raped and impregnated - how difficult would it be for her?
At the same time, I hate it when people do exactly what I'm doing - that is, taking difficult and unbearable situations, that, for some reason, had to happen, and shove that down the throats of those who complain about every little thing. I'm sure a lot of Holocaust survivors can't stand to watch Survivor the television show, and witness how all the contestants think they are the ultimate survivor in life because they could stomach bugs. But it's not the Holocaust survivors' job to speak up against the show and the people on it, just because their lives were more rough.
I guess the error of my ways is to complain about being tired at my job when I have only had about five hours of sleep, and then hear another person complain about how tired they are after their newborn baby kept them up, and their ceiling is leaking. Kind of like my web-chart for patience, you could map out a single mother's past decisions and their consequences; some of those actions not being the wisest. Same with the actions of an alcoholic, or what-have-you. But for me to say my life is hard, when the only rough part of my life is working the weekends, is pretty ignorant on my part.
I just happened to think that if you would learn from your actions in the past, respectively, the consequences will be lesser or non-existent in the future. But we always seem to make the same mistakes twice.
I don't see why I have to feel sorry for other people.
(This is stolen right from CNN) "Hoping to save his stranded wife and children, James Kim decided Saturday to venture into the cold and unforgiving Oregon wilderness wearing only street clothes."
Everyone has heard of James Kim in the recent news. He was part of that lost family in the wilderness of Oregon; the mother and her child being the only two found alive in their car, him being found frozen at the bottom of a gorge. If CNN would have interviewed me about the lost man, I probably would have expressed my condolences to the family, and stated that something so traumatizing as this event will be something that will be with that family forever, but I think I would also state that, though, the father's interests and intentions were what he felt were best for the family, ultimately his decision to go out into the wild was that of drastic behavior, and not a decision of intelligence. Then, I'd thank CNN, and be on my way.
He left his family in their car, they stayed alive. The rules of survivor are as follows:
1.) Have available, or seek shelter, for protection of wildlife, the wilderness itself, from weather, or seek a shelter that traps heat, to stay warm.
A car is just that!
2.) Find food and water.
They easily had water. Take snow, place it into a container of some sort, and use your body heat to melt it. Don't eat snow. It will cool down your core body temperature and it could kill you. Once the snow is melted, drink. The only problem for them would be food, but you can last in the wilderness without food for more than a week, it's no water that will kill you.
3.) Find a heat source.
Sparingly, you can use the heater of the car. Otherwise, try and build a fire if you can.
They had about all they needed within that car. And obviously, the car wasn't that far from the main road, because a day after Mr. Kim left the safety of the car, a rescue crew was able to find the car, Mrs. Kim, and their child.
Panic had its way with Mr. Kim's mind. Obviously, being lost in the wilderness was enough to drive him mad, considering he dressed in very little clothing to trek through snow. For those climbers on Mt. Hood, you should have stayed in one location, instead of moving on, and hiking deeper into snow drifts, and forest-area. If you start getting lost try and stay in one place -- the quicker you'll be found if you stay where you are. A helicopter is not going to be able to spot you through trees. Hell, do what they do when a person gets stuck on a deserted island in the movies; try and convey a message somehow. And a snow-drift ice shelter is not that hard to dig; I've seen that shit plenty of times on the show "Man vs. Wild" on the Discovery Channel, plus jacket around arms like a plow and dig. Keep your barrings.
For three expert climbers like those that were trapped alive on Mt. Hood, and that are now probably dead, you guys sure did a shitty job of surviving. As heartless as that sounds, it's the truth. As kids lost in a shopping mall, trying to find your parents, would you have hidden or just ran around the mall, or would you have stayed in one place and sought assistance?
At least they can, or, I guess, could have said they knew what it was like to be cold...some days, I'll go outside and feel cold, but then again, I don't know anything.
I agree with women that child-birth is painful, but it's still a choice. You knew the outcome after nine months of pregnancy; it was not going to be a piece of cake. Think of some of the other situations with pregnancy, mainly where a girl was raped and impregnated - how difficult would it be for her?
At the same time, I hate it when people do exactly what I'm doing - that is, taking difficult and unbearable situations, that, for some reason, had to happen, and shove that down the throats of those who complain about every little thing. I'm sure a lot of Holocaust survivors can't stand to watch Survivor the television show, and witness how all the contestants think they are the ultimate survivor in life because they could stomach bugs. But it's not the Holocaust survivors' job to speak up against the show and the people on it, just because their lives were more rough.
I guess the error of my ways is to complain about being tired at my job when I have only had about five hours of sleep, and then hear another person complain about how tired they are after their newborn baby kept them up, and their ceiling is leaking. Kind of like my web-chart for patience, you could map out a single mother's past decisions and their consequences; some of those actions not being the wisest. Same with the actions of an alcoholic, or what-have-you. But for me to say my life is hard, when the only rough part of my life is working the weekends, is pretty ignorant on my part.
I just happened to think that if you would learn from your actions in the past, respectively, the consequences will be lesser or non-existent in the future. But we always seem to make the same mistakes twice.
I don't see why I have to feel sorry for other people.
(This is stolen right from CNN) "Hoping to save his stranded wife and children, James Kim decided Saturday to venture into the cold and unforgiving Oregon wilderness wearing only street clothes."
Everyone has heard of James Kim in the recent news. He was part of that lost family in the wilderness of Oregon; the mother and her child being the only two found alive in their car, him being found frozen at the bottom of a gorge. If CNN would have interviewed me about the lost man, I probably would have expressed my condolences to the family, and stated that something so traumatizing as this event will be something that will be with that family forever, but I think I would also state that, though, the father's interests and intentions were what he felt were best for the family, ultimately his decision to go out into the wild was that of drastic behavior, and not a decision of intelligence. Then, I'd thank CNN, and be on my way.
He left his family in their car, they stayed alive. The rules of survivor are as follows:
1.) Have available, or seek shelter, for protection of wildlife, the wilderness itself, from weather, or seek a shelter that traps heat, to stay warm.
A car is just that!
2.) Find food and water.
They easily had water. Take snow, place it into a container of some sort, and use your body heat to melt it. Don't eat snow. It will cool down your core body temperature and it could kill you. Once the snow is melted, drink. The only problem for them would be food, but you can last in the wilderness without food for more than a week, it's no water that will kill you.
3.) Find a heat source.
Sparingly, you can use the heater of the car. Otherwise, try and build a fire if you can.
They had about all they needed within that car. And obviously, the car wasn't that far from the main road, because a day after Mr. Kim left the safety of the car, a rescue crew was able to find the car, Mrs. Kim, and their child.
Panic had its way with Mr. Kim's mind. Obviously, being lost in the wilderness was enough to drive him mad, considering he dressed in very little clothing to trek through snow. For those climbers on Mt. Hood, you should have stayed in one location, instead of moving on, and hiking deeper into snow drifts, and forest-area. If you start getting lost try and stay in one place -- the quicker you'll be found if you stay where you are. A helicopter is not going to be able to spot you through trees. Hell, do what they do when a person gets stuck on a deserted island in the movies; try and convey a message somehow. And a snow-drift ice shelter is not that hard to dig; I've seen that shit plenty of times on the show "Man vs. Wild" on the Discovery Channel, plus jacket around arms like a plow and dig. Keep your barrings.
For three expert climbers like those that were trapped alive on Mt. Hood, and that are now probably dead, you guys sure did a shitty job of surviving. As heartless as that sounds, it's the truth. As kids lost in a shopping mall, trying to find your parents, would you have hidden or just ran around the mall, or would you have stayed in one place and sought assistance?
At least they can, or, I guess, could have said they knew what it was like to be cold...some days, I'll go outside and feel cold, but then again, I don't know anything.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Organization, and Crayonization
I oppose any type of organization. Sometimes a person might try and illiterate that YOU must be organized within your life; don't listen to them. I remember about a few years ago, I tried organizing my life, and when it was all over, I couldn't find anything. I was so used to clutter, and with the clutter around, I knew exactly where everything was. Under the pile of old pants, with the box of CD cases and trash, was always my headphones, and car adapter for my iPod.
Couldn't clutter be a form of organization?
I love scavenger hunts, so let's say, if I were to create a walk-through of where exactly everything was in my cluttered room, that's organization. I have a detailed map, if you will, of where things are under junk, like a treasure map, with the treasure being all the important objects under all the unimportant ones, the trash being like a file cabinet with me. To be honest, I don't have a detailed map like that, but if I did, that fits within the definition of the word organization.
I was thinking of creating a map of my room, or, at least a spreadsheet of all the DVD movies I own because right now, I just have everything in individual stacks; the stacks being one for independent films, a stack for the essential films I own, one for average movies I own, and one for those once-in-a-great-while-viewed movies I call the "lackies". But at this time in my life, I didn't have MS Excel on the computer I use periodically, and I couldn't find a decent writing utensil. But I found a crayon. It would look a little childish for now, but it's all for my reference, so the look of it didn't really matter. I realize now that a crayon is a shitty writing utensil. You can't do a fucking thing with a crayon!
Try writing your name with a crayon. Right now I am using a crayon to write my name. My name in "Crayonese" is Aushn. The fucking crayon was so bulky, and so choppy with it's writing, that the crayon spelled my name Aushn. I'm wondering why in kindergarten, the teachers always would insist you use crayons on things. Markers bled through, and God forbid the room would have a pencil or pen; some bit of normality to it because let's be honest, after kindergarten, if you continued to use a crayon in language arts, you would look like a retard. That's why you don't see people signing off on a check with crayon. If I'm asked to endorse something with my name, and don't have a writing utensil on me, and the person I'm endorsing this check to hands me a black or blue pen, I'm not going to decline the offered writing utensil because I'd rather use a fucking crayon!
The conversation could be as follows:
"Sorry, but would you happen to have an Aqua-marine blue crayon on you?"
"God no!"
"How about a 1988 macaroni and cheese? Or a '76 forest green?"
"What are you babbling about?"
"Not familiar with those standardise crayon options, eh? Fine! I'll take a magenta, between the dates of 1978 and 1999..."
"I don't have a crayon on me, sir, not one!"
"Why not?"
"Because I'm not 6 years-old..."
Why is it so important to learn to use a crayon? They don't color well at all; in fact, if you wanted to color, use colored pens or pencils, not crayons. You would start writing using a crayon, but by 2nd and 3rd grade, you have to use pencils, so why waste three years of your life on crayons? I've always hated crayons. They are waxy and leave a film-type feeling left on your fingertips after usage, they don't color in completely because they are wax, they melt, sometimes, without warning, and can burn and destroy your child's hands on contact, sometimes you'll scrape your fingernail on the crayon, and get a piece of the crayon stuck under your nail (I fucking hated that), they explode, or, will omit toxic fumes, they are asexual and can multiply out of control if you ever use the phrase 'peanut-butter and jellyfish' in hearing distance of them, they are shaped like bullets, and instill violent-tendencies within a child's brain...I don't like it! They might seem cute, but crayons are deadly and must be taken out...
***EDITOR'S NOTE***
Have you ever broke a crayon, mid-sentence, writing something out? Hi, I'm Austin Smith, from 2009! Boy was I on a streak with that one! Yes, crayons are useless, and full of disease. Just ask your doctor! And, you might find your son turning a little gay after using them, for crayons slightly resemble penises, and a lot of kids like sticking elongated shaft-like objects in their mouths.
Couldn't clutter be a form of organization?
I love scavenger hunts, so let's say, if I were to create a walk-through of where exactly everything was in my cluttered room, that's organization. I have a detailed map, if you will, of where things are under junk, like a treasure map, with the treasure being all the important objects under all the unimportant ones, the trash being like a file cabinet with me. To be honest, I don't have a detailed map like that, but if I did, that fits within the definition of the word organization.
I was thinking of creating a map of my room, or, at least a spreadsheet of all the DVD movies I own because right now, I just have everything in individual stacks; the stacks being one for independent films, a stack for the essential films I own, one for average movies I own, and one for those once-in-a-great-while-viewed movies I call the "lackies". But at this time in my life, I didn't have MS Excel on the computer I use periodically, and I couldn't find a decent writing utensil. But I found a crayon. It would look a little childish for now, but it's all for my reference, so the look of it didn't really matter. I realize now that a crayon is a shitty writing utensil. You can't do a fucking thing with a crayon!
Try writing your name with a crayon. Right now I am using a crayon to write my name. My name in "Crayonese" is Aushn. The fucking crayon was so bulky, and so choppy with it's writing, that the crayon spelled my name Aushn. I'm wondering why in kindergarten, the teachers always would insist you use crayons on things. Markers bled through, and God forbid the room would have a pencil or pen; some bit of normality to it because let's be honest, after kindergarten, if you continued to use a crayon in language arts, you would look like a retard. That's why you don't see people signing off on a check with crayon. If I'm asked to endorse something with my name, and don't have a writing utensil on me, and the person I'm endorsing this check to hands me a black or blue pen, I'm not going to decline the offered writing utensil because I'd rather use a fucking crayon!
The conversation could be as follows:
"Sorry, but would you happen to have an Aqua-marine blue crayon on you?"
"God no!"
"How about a 1988 macaroni and cheese? Or a '76 forest green?"
"What are you babbling about?"
"Not familiar with those standardise crayon options, eh? Fine! I'll take a magenta, between the dates of 1978 and 1999..."
"I don't have a crayon on me, sir, not one!"
"Why not?"
"Because I'm not 6 years-old..."
Why is it so important to learn to use a crayon? They don't color well at all; in fact, if you wanted to color, use colored pens or pencils, not crayons. You would start writing using a crayon, but by 2nd and 3rd grade, you have to use pencils, so why waste three years of your life on crayons? I've always hated crayons. They are waxy and leave a film-type feeling left on your fingertips after usage, they don't color in completely because they are wax, they melt, sometimes, without warning, and can burn and destroy your child's hands on contact, sometimes you'll scrape your fingernail on the crayon, and get a piece of the crayon stuck under your nail (I fucking hated that), they explode, or, will omit toxic fumes, they are asexual and can multiply out of control if you ever use the phrase 'peanut-butter and jellyfish' in hearing distance of them, they are shaped like bullets, and instill violent-tendencies within a child's brain...I don't like it! They might seem cute, but crayons are deadly and must be taken out...
***EDITOR'S NOTE***
Have you ever broke a crayon, mid-sentence, writing something out? Hi, I'm Austin Smith, from 2009! Boy was I on a streak with that one! Yes, crayons are useless, and full of disease. Just ask your doctor! And, you might find your son turning a little gay after using them, for crayons slightly resemble penises, and a lot of kids like sticking elongated shaft-like objects in their mouths.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Apart from Linus
It's December 7th 2006, and, like many people around this time, I am gearing up for the next holiday. It seems Thanksgiving is forgotten after everyone has mimicked the obese, and stuffed their faces full of Crisco and bacon-fat, before devouring a turkey in full. Then, grandpa loosens his belt on his pants to make room for that last piece of pumpkin pie...then explodes within seconds of finishing the last bite. The next morning, you happen to turn on the radio to hear Christmas tunes that are now labeled, "Holiday Classics". Which, on that subject just there, I've never understood the thin line advertisers and the media themselves have tread all these years. So, let me get this straight, in an ad for the Gap, you can't say Merry Christmas or the two words in the same sentence because of what again? - you might offend groups? But it's okay for you to play Christmas songs in the background, and have everyone leaping into a giant hill of fake snow. You don't see anyone playing traditional Yentl music, or any "holiday" commercials with a giddy Jewish boy, counting off the days of Chanukkah, do you?
Secretly, and I believe this to be true, our government is Christian. We sport that if you come to America, we will embrace your culture, and it's more freedom then you'll know what to do with, but behind the inviting smile, we also ask that you convert to Christianity, and learn English. This is the quick-sand portion of my rant because I firmly believe that anyone who comes to this country should learn to speak this countries' language, even if that said language stole its root words from other languages. It's quick-sand because from what I just said, that top part, about how our government is Christian, and has full backing behind the phrase, "Do what we say, not as we do," has sunk me deeper. The last thing I want is to be consumed by hypocrisy, go back on anything I've said previously, or just come off as cold-hearted, or an ignorant ass, though, everyone is entitled to their own opinion of me.
There are too many people to count out there that are concerned with, "When will the U.S. have a black president, or a woman for president," when really, I'm more interested in when we will not have a Christian president. When will a Jew come forward to lead this country that isn't Joseph Lieberman? Now there's an ignorant ass. His politics are all concerned with morals; can't have violence and sex on television, or in any other media, violent video games were invented by the devil, and, I don't know, what else? - children should continue to breast-feed until they hit 17. Isn't the U.S. like one of the only countries on this earth that have yet to break through our sexual revolution? I mean, Christ, go to Japan and they sell little teenage girls' panties from a vending machine, and no one cares. Germans love gangbangs; that's a fact! Sexuality in Europe is so open, they don't have to revolt. They have gone through that and have broken the mold, yet, we've been going through it for centuries, and we still have restrictions. I'm not saying it should be right to go out and fuck a dog, but, they charge people and arrest them for sodomy. Just a little ass-sex is illegal. Big Brother better not be watching when you ask permission to stick it in the ass.
Would we see a change if our president wasn't Christian? Would more people explore the religion that of the president of the United States?
Does it irk anyone else that we celebrate Christmas as a Christian holiday, when there is no mention of Christmas in the Holy Bible? Sure, it's the day Jesus was born, but there isn't a date set for when that event was, and Christmas was conceived from the Pagan's winter solstice, or that of the Greek holiday, the Saturnalia, the Roman's festival of Saturn. Here is Saturalia, the festival where the Romans got hammered, gave gifts to one another, before a vast orgy. Christmas was also not even celebrated by the church until 440 A.D., where the Church at Jerusalem instated it after Roman Catholicism sprang up. Before that even, the Emperor Constantine forced all pagans in his land to be baptized, so now you have renegades running a muck, crossing themselves, saying they are Christian when they still practice Paganism. So what's Constantine do, you might ask? He creates these Babylonian mystery religions in 313 A.D., which lead to the holding of the Council of Nicaea in 325 A.D. Basically, Constantine said, "Christianity is open to adopt your beliefs, Pagans, including your winter solstice festival...whatchamacallit...join our church, and you can practice that, along with some other religious crap you guys like...," and thus, the doors were opened for Christmas, or, back to what I was saying before, Saturalia, which was held for Saturn, the harvest god, and Mithras, the god of light.
(I'm just about done Tarantino-ing this whole rant, I might add)
In order to make Christianity acceptable to the heathen Pagans, as Constantine would call them, the Roman Church simply took Saturnalia, and adopted it into Christianity. It wasn't until 375 A.D., that the Church of Rome under Pope Julius I, would announce that the birth date of Christ had been "discovered" to be December 25th, and was accepted as such by the "faithful". The festival of Saturnalia and the birthday of Mithras could now be celebrated as the birthday of Christ, hence, the creation of "Christ's Mass," or whatever they probably called it, in 440 A.D.
Yeah, Constantine, to boost the numbers of people going to church, tricked Pagans into celebrating Christianity by saying they could continue to celebrate their religious winter solstice, then stole the holiday altogether, had his friend Julius come by with some fake-ass documents saying Jesus was born on December 25th, had Christmas instated as a religious holiday as the birth of Christ, further duping the Pagans and everyone else. I don't think I'd go as far as to say I've stopped celebrating Christmas as a religious holiday because who really knows if those documents suggesting Christ was born on December 25 were a lie or not, but I have shunned Santa Claus. I think it's downright perverted for a child to compare Santa to Christ, or to say Santa IS Christ. Ho ho ho Santa Claus, all dressed in red and white, is a good spirited hoax based on the real saint of Christmas who gave to the poor, and distributed presents to children. He died out a long time ago, but his spirit lives on. Jesus Christ, though he did give to the needy and do magic shows for kids, is far from Santa. The day I see a crucifix with Santa pinned to it instead of my Lord Jesus Christ, is the day I shoot myself.
Christmas will forever be another holiday where I get together with the family, with a whole lot of food on the table, and smiles around the table. It's a holiday where I'll sit down, as I usually do when I get religious, one on one with Jesus, and say thanks for what I have. Sure, at the end of Christmas, I'll have more possessions than I know what to do with, but the true meaning of Christmas to me is outside those possessions; it's love for family, friends, and the life we share.
Secretly, and I believe this to be true, our government is Christian. We sport that if you come to America, we will embrace your culture, and it's more freedom then you'll know what to do with, but behind the inviting smile, we also ask that you convert to Christianity, and learn English. This is the quick-sand portion of my rant because I firmly believe that anyone who comes to this country should learn to speak this countries' language, even if that said language stole its root words from other languages. It's quick-sand because from what I just said, that top part, about how our government is Christian, and has full backing behind the phrase, "Do what we say, not as we do," has sunk me deeper. The last thing I want is to be consumed by hypocrisy, go back on anything I've said previously, or just come off as cold-hearted, or an ignorant ass, though, everyone is entitled to their own opinion of me.
There are too many people to count out there that are concerned with, "When will the U.S. have a black president, or a woman for president," when really, I'm more interested in when we will not have a Christian president. When will a Jew come forward to lead this country that isn't Joseph Lieberman? Now there's an ignorant ass. His politics are all concerned with morals; can't have violence and sex on television, or in any other media, violent video games were invented by the devil, and, I don't know, what else? - children should continue to breast-feed until they hit 17. Isn't the U.S. like one of the only countries on this earth that have yet to break through our sexual revolution? I mean, Christ, go to Japan and they sell little teenage girls' panties from a vending machine, and no one cares. Germans love gangbangs; that's a fact! Sexuality in Europe is so open, they don't have to revolt. They have gone through that and have broken the mold, yet, we've been going through it for centuries, and we still have restrictions. I'm not saying it should be right to go out and fuck a dog, but, they charge people and arrest them for sodomy. Just a little ass-sex is illegal. Big Brother better not be watching when you ask permission to stick it in the ass.
Would we see a change if our president wasn't Christian? Would more people explore the religion that of the president of the United States?
Does it irk anyone else that we celebrate Christmas as a Christian holiday, when there is no mention of Christmas in the Holy Bible? Sure, it's the day Jesus was born, but there isn't a date set for when that event was, and Christmas was conceived from the Pagan's winter solstice, or that of the Greek holiday, the Saturnalia, the Roman's festival of Saturn. Here is Saturalia, the festival where the Romans got hammered, gave gifts to one another, before a vast orgy. Christmas was also not even celebrated by the church until 440 A.D., where the Church at Jerusalem instated it after Roman Catholicism sprang up. Before that even, the Emperor Constantine forced all pagans in his land to be baptized, so now you have renegades running a muck, crossing themselves, saying they are Christian when they still practice Paganism. So what's Constantine do, you might ask? He creates these Babylonian mystery religions in 313 A.D., which lead to the holding of the Council of Nicaea in 325 A.D. Basically, Constantine said, "Christianity is open to adopt your beliefs, Pagans, including your winter solstice festival...whatchamacallit...join our church, and you can practice that, along with some other religious crap you guys like...," and thus, the doors were opened for Christmas, or, back to what I was saying before, Saturalia, which was held for Saturn, the harvest god, and Mithras, the god of light.
(I'm just about done Tarantino-ing this whole rant, I might add)
In order to make Christianity acceptable to the heathen Pagans, as Constantine would call them, the Roman Church simply took Saturnalia, and adopted it into Christianity. It wasn't until 375 A.D., that the Church of Rome under Pope Julius I, would announce that the birth date of Christ had been "discovered" to be December 25th, and was accepted as such by the "faithful". The festival of Saturnalia and the birthday of Mithras could now be celebrated as the birthday of Christ, hence, the creation of "Christ's Mass," or whatever they probably called it, in 440 A.D.
Yeah, Constantine, to boost the numbers of people going to church, tricked Pagans into celebrating Christianity by saying they could continue to celebrate their religious winter solstice, then stole the holiday altogether, had his friend Julius come by with some fake-ass documents saying Jesus was born on December 25th, had Christmas instated as a religious holiday as the birth of Christ, further duping the Pagans and everyone else. I don't think I'd go as far as to say I've stopped celebrating Christmas as a religious holiday because who really knows if those documents suggesting Christ was born on December 25 were a lie or not, but I have shunned Santa Claus. I think it's downright perverted for a child to compare Santa to Christ, or to say Santa IS Christ. Ho ho ho Santa Claus, all dressed in red and white, is a good spirited hoax based on the real saint of Christmas who gave to the poor, and distributed presents to children. He died out a long time ago, but his spirit lives on. Jesus Christ, though he did give to the needy and do magic shows for kids, is far from Santa. The day I see a crucifix with Santa pinned to it instead of my Lord Jesus Christ, is the day I shoot myself.
Christmas will forever be another holiday where I get together with the family, with a whole lot of food on the table, and smiles around the table. It's a holiday where I'll sit down, as I usually do when I get religious, one on one with Jesus, and say thanks for what I have. Sure, at the end of Christmas, I'll have more possessions than I know what to do with, but the true meaning of Christmas to me is outside those possessions; it's love for family, friends, and the life we share.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
"Sshhh-ers" and Reason
As though I were recapping the speech I was forced to sit through during my high school graduation, presented by the very tearful valedictorian, I am here today to hash out an annoyance of mine, not necessarily a pet-peeve, but just an occurrence that baffles me to this day, by delving into the history I've had with people like the ones I'm about to tell you about now. As far as kindergarten, there always seemed to be at least two of these people among my pubescent classmates; one of them being a person I would call my friend. Back then, I would say people would have entitled them as a "Sshhh-er." They received that label when they first would mock the teacher's "sshhing" mannerism, his or her method of controlling the noise level of the room. That little kiss-ass would play teacher just to be favored, or receive two milks instead of one during the snack portion of class, right before nap.
First grade was no different, except, you might have gotten sick of the echoing sshh coming from the lips of the kiss-ass to the extent that you would mouth-off to that person. That might have gotten you tattled on. Oh yes, "The Sshhh-er" was also a "tattler".
And after your isolation from the rest of your classmates because creating the odd-ball in the class gained nothing, but that was the punishment nonetheless, and you were placed outside in the hall, and were threatened to either be quiet, or your mum would be phoned, you came strolling back in, eyes damp with tears, and "The Sshhh-er" just grinned with glee. I remember being a very vengeful youth because right after being placed in the hall myself, and being welcomed back into the group with my enemy relishing the fact that I got in trouble, a crayon-turned-projectile felt like justice to me. Then, it was back outside the room, where this time, the teacher said, "What is wrong with you? You like being in trouble?" Where, in my heart, I knew my teacher must be blind or not have brains to not notice that faggot grinning back at me. How can you let that go? "The Sshhh-er" or "Tattler" was the one getting me in trouble, taunting me to do something, and my response was to fall into the trap because vengeance has a sweet taste to it.
Some people might say, "High school was hell for me being a new face entering a new world that I felt I didn't belong in." I felt the total opposite. Elementary school was hell for me. After all those times I was placed outside of my classmates, I started to feel like the odd-ball, and nobody wanted anything to do with me because I might get them in trouble. That was the beginning of my bad reputation.
Something triggered those past memories today. I heard a few mumbles and grumbles from one side of my work place, and on the other, a sshhh! Mumbles and grumbles, and another sshhh! A "Sshhh-er" was in the room.
Why is a simple release of air through locked teeth, where your lips control the pitch, while the increase of the air current controls the amplification of the sound to any octave necessary when expressing silence? Do you realize you are making more noise then the person you are sshhh-ing? You sound like a fucking snake! Stop it; that's annoying!
Ever found it necessary to sshhh back? Then you have this power struggle between who can be louder than the other person. Who started the sshhh? So, like many of my rants prior to this one, I decided to "Google" the question. Well, apparently nobody knows the answer. But, upon thinking back to how the people acted back then, and how they are now, a lot of "The Sshhh-ers" were anal-retentive bitches; actual bitches, and weaklings. Don't you wish that your vocabulary was as advanced as it is now, then, so you could have called those pricks hard-ass, kiss-ass shitheads, or, have just said, I hope your parents die in a fiery, and horribly bloody commuter train/vehicular collision?! I know I do! Then, it's back out to the hallway with you, a phone call to your mum, and, nowadays, a talk with the school counselor about school violence and some shit. Couldn't a lot of those screwed-up, Emo, student and principal killers you read about or see on TV, who have just slaughtered everyone at their school, have been those same odd-ball kids who weren't nurtured by the school system, and shunned from the classroom because of bad behavior brought on by forces they couldn't control? It can't always be the kids who are into death metal and play violent video games because they love to kill, right?
Partly, school violence can be blamed on neglect; family neglect to teacher/student relationship neglect. After Columbine, the board of teachers and the PTA all wanted answers to why a student or students would go on a shooting-spree through a high school. School is a cut-throat endeavor that, in certain situations, can strengthen a person's character or rape it, until it is nothing more than a dried out husk. "Sshhh-ers" and "Tattlers" are bullies in their own right, censoring free-speech, then running off to Big Brother. If ever you impregnate a mate, have a child together, and place that child into an academic institution, that child better not become a "Sshhh-er" or "Tattler," unless you want that kid to immediately be home-schooled shortly after the incident.
And that shit about school shootings is no open-shut sort of deal, either. There is reason behind everything. The parents want to believe violence and explicit content on television is to blame, along with the "Marilyn Mansons" in the world. Subliminal messages in music, with my citing being Judas Priest in the eighties, when two kids committed suicide because of the lyrics, can't be blamed for persuasion. Please, how mentally stable were those kids? I've said before that I myself have witnessed subliminal advertising; it had no effect on me. Okay, so that's not the best way to support my opinion. Let's just say, if Judas Priest in fact did record their music with subliminal messages in it, hoping that some of their listeners would kill themselves, that's funny; more than at least someone, because there were two kids in the story I read way back in my Psychology class, were stupid enough to kill themselves for a band that could care less what their names were, or the lives lost. Dumb fucks!
Speaking on behalf of reason, there is reason for everything we do. For those Vegans out there, there is a reason way we "supposedly" enslave an entire race of bovines and chickens - they are fucking delicious! I'll admit, that's a very arrogant thing for me to say, but human beings are not the highest on the food-chain for nothing. It's like organized religion. A person can jump up on stage during a press conference, before being dragged off and beaten to death, and shout out, "Christianity is the only religion you should believe in if you don't want to go to hell," and the press would run it, and other religious leaders would have a field day, saying, "what the hell were you thinking, media, for running slander like that?! You do it because you yourself are Christians, and believe the outspoken protestor was right!" Of course, Christians would receive complaints from the Atheists as well because they do not believe in any form of religion. The media, in return, could say to everyone, "We can run anything because we are not regulated, and it's free speech...chew on that!"
Just like that scenario, there are people out there that are not willing to embrace a vegetarian lifestyle; some people love meat, and it's not really that either. Some people love to hunt animals for fun. I don't understand why that is, but they do it. People associated in PETA, who drive around in shopping mall parking lots, waiting for some high-socialite to walk by in a fur coat, so they can jump out of their vehicles, and drench the poor, rich bastards in red paint, are just like those Atheists, who have protested saying "under God" in the Pledge of Allegiance, and those religious leaders who order their converts to fight wars, sometimes bloody wars because they are intent on being right, and cannot be wrong. To be wrong would wreck their already religion-filled lives, defying their religion's purpose.
When actually speaking with a vegetarian on this subject, the vegetarian said he just wanted people to open up to another way of life. With that said, he also told me about how he bitched out an old lady in animal skin.
I understand he thought he was doing the right thing, but he went about it the wrong way. Make a website or something, hand out leaflets; voice your opinion in some way. Take, for instance, my blog. In this world, I'm right. Outside of my blog, I probably have people calling me a bigot or a douche - whatever the clever insult may be. I don't care. The fact that nobody comments this blog is not surprising to me because there are so many blogs out there these days; some of those being credible. Although I try to be as accredited as humanly possible, some people might skim this and think, "what a liar that guy is," or, "this fucking cock is wrong!" No, I'm really not, but I take the criticism, and I don't resort to violence or hate-mongoring. My opinion on vegetarians: do what you want with your bodies; practice whatever you see fit to practice, don't force your beliefs on your opponents, and; people killing people, people killing animals, people destroying life has all been a part of human history. You won't change that. Stick to your beliefs and you are good. Simple, but effective procedure.
Is there always a reason for whatever happens? No. However long it takes for us to realize that depends on how stubborn a person is; how long it takes before a person will stop questioning, and accept the cards that are dealt to them is anyone's guess, and, again, it all depends on the person. For those families who dealt with the death of their daughters and sons in school shootings, they need to realize that finger-pointing at different elements of society that perhaps corrupted the sane minds of those who murdered their children, is no solution. So you sued a performing artist because of their lyrics in their music. The record was not pulled from the music stores. You just took money from the artist for reimbursement for your child's death; what solace is that?
First grade was no different, except, you might have gotten sick of the echoing sshh coming from the lips of the kiss-ass to the extent that you would mouth-off to that person. That might have gotten you tattled on. Oh yes, "The Sshhh-er" was also a "tattler".
And after your isolation from the rest of your classmates because creating the odd-ball in the class gained nothing, but that was the punishment nonetheless, and you were placed outside in the hall, and were threatened to either be quiet, or your mum would be phoned, you came strolling back in, eyes damp with tears, and "The Sshhh-er" just grinned with glee. I remember being a very vengeful youth because right after being placed in the hall myself, and being welcomed back into the group with my enemy relishing the fact that I got in trouble, a crayon-turned-projectile felt like justice to me. Then, it was back outside the room, where this time, the teacher said, "What is wrong with you? You like being in trouble?" Where, in my heart, I knew my teacher must be blind or not have brains to not notice that faggot grinning back at me. How can you let that go? "The Sshhh-er" or "Tattler" was the one getting me in trouble, taunting me to do something, and my response was to fall into the trap because vengeance has a sweet taste to it.
Some people might say, "High school was hell for me being a new face entering a new world that I felt I didn't belong in." I felt the total opposite. Elementary school was hell for me. After all those times I was placed outside of my classmates, I started to feel like the odd-ball, and nobody wanted anything to do with me because I might get them in trouble. That was the beginning of my bad reputation.
Something triggered those past memories today. I heard a few mumbles and grumbles from one side of my work place, and on the other, a sshhh! Mumbles and grumbles, and another sshhh! A "Sshhh-er" was in the room.
Why is a simple release of air through locked teeth, where your lips control the pitch, while the increase of the air current controls the amplification of the sound to any octave necessary when expressing silence? Do you realize you are making more noise then the person you are sshhh-ing? You sound like a fucking snake! Stop it; that's annoying!
Ever found it necessary to sshhh back? Then you have this power struggle between who can be louder than the other person. Who started the sshhh? So, like many of my rants prior to this one, I decided to "Google" the question. Well, apparently nobody knows the answer. But, upon thinking back to how the people acted back then, and how they are now, a lot of "The Sshhh-ers" were anal-retentive bitches; actual bitches, and weaklings. Don't you wish that your vocabulary was as advanced as it is now, then, so you could have called those pricks hard-ass, kiss-ass shitheads, or, have just said, I hope your parents die in a fiery, and horribly bloody commuter train/vehicular collision?! I know I do! Then, it's back out to the hallway with you, a phone call to your mum, and, nowadays, a talk with the school counselor about school violence and some shit. Couldn't a lot of those screwed-up, Emo, student and principal killers you read about or see on TV, who have just slaughtered everyone at their school, have been those same odd-ball kids who weren't nurtured by the school system, and shunned from the classroom because of bad behavior brought on by forces they couldn't control? It can't always be the kids who are into death metal and play violent video games because they love to kill, right?
Partly, school violence can be blamed on neglect; family neglect to teacher/student relationship neglect. After Columbine, the board of teachers and the PTA all wanted answers to why a student or students would go on a shooting-spree through a high school. School is a cut-throat endeavor that, in certain situations, can strengthen a person's character or rape it, until it is nothing more than a dried out husk. "Sshhh-ers" and "Tattlers" are bullies in their own right, censoring free-speech, then running off to Big Brother. If ever you impregnate a mate, have a child together, and place that child into an academic institution, that child better not become a "Sshhh-er" or "Tattler," unless you want that kid to immediately be home-schooled shortly after the incident.
And that shit about school shootings is no open-shut sort of deal, either. There is reason behind everything. The parents want to believe violence and explicit content on television is to blame, along with the "Marilyn Mansons" in the world. Subliminal messages in music, with my citing being Judas Priest in the eighties, when two kids committed suicide because of the lyrics, can't be blamed for persuasion. Please, how mentally stable were those kids? I've said before that I myself have witnessed subliminal advertising; it had no effect on me. Okay, so that's not the best way to support my opinion. Let's just say, if Judas Priest in fact did record their music with subliminal messages in it, hoping that some of their listeners would kill themselves, that's funny; more than at least someone, because there were two kids in the story I read way back in my Psychology class, were stupid enough to kill themselves for a band that could care less what their names were, or the lives lost. Dumb fucks!
Speaking on behalf of reason, there is reason for everything we do. For those Vegans out there, there is a reason way we "supposedly" enslave an entire race of bovines and chickens - they are fucking delicious! I'll admit, that's a very arrogant thing for me to say, but human beings are not the highest on the food-chain for nothing. It's like organized religion. A person can jump up on stage during a press conference, before being dragged off and beaten to death, and shout out, "Christianity is the only religion you should believe in if you don't want to go to hell," and the press would run it, and other religious leaders would have a field day, saying, "what the hell were you thinking, media, for running slander like that?! You do it because you yourself are Christians, and believe the outspoken protestor was right!" Of course, Christians would receive complaints from the Atheists as well because they do not believe in any form of religion. The media, in return, could say to everyone, "We can run anything because we are not regulated, and it's free speech...chew on that!"
Just like that scenario, there are people out there that are not willing to embrace a vegetarian lifestyle; some people love meat, and it's not really that either. Some people love to hunt animals for fun. I don't understand why that is, but they do it. People associated in PETA, who drive around in shopping mall parking lots, waiting for some high-socialite to walk by in a fur coat, so they can jump out of their vehicles, and drench the poor, rich bastards in red paint, are just like those Atheists, who have protested saying "under God" in the Pledge of Allegiance, and those religious leaders who order their converts to fight wars, sometimes bloody wars because they are intent on being right, and cannot be wrong. To be wrong would wreck their already religion-filled lives, defying their religion's purpose.
When actually speaking with a vegetarian on this subject, the vegetarian said he just wanted people to open up to another way of life. With that said, he also told me about how he bitched out an old lady in animal skin.
I understand he thought he was doing the right thing, but he went about it the wrong way. Make a website or something, hand out leaflets; voice your opinion in some way. Take, for instance, my blog. In this world, I'm right. Outside of my blog, I probably have people calling me a bigot or a douche - whatever the clever insult may be. I don't care. The fact that nobody comments this blog is not surprising to me because there are so many blogs out there these days; some of those being credible. Although I try to be as accredited as humanly possible, some people might skim this and think, "what a liar that guy is," or, "this fucking cock is wrong!" No, I'm really not, but I take the criticism, and I don't resort to violence or hate-mongoring. My opinion on vegetarians: do what you want with your bodies; practice whatever you see fit to practice, don't force your beliefs on your opponents, and; people killing people, people killing animals, people destroying life has all been a part of human history. You won't change that. Stick to your beliefs and you are good. Simple, but effective procedure.
Is there always a reason for whatever happens? No. However long it takes for us to realize that depends on how stubborn a person is; how long it takes before a person will stop questioning, and accept the cards that are dealt to them is anyone's guess, and, again, it all depends on the person. For those families who dealt with the death of their daughters and sons in school shootings, they need to realize that finger-pointing at different elements of society that perhaps corrupted the sane minds of those who murdered their children, is no solution. So you sued a performing artist because of their lyrics in their music. The record was not pulled from the music stores. You just took money from the artist for reimbursement for your child's death; what solace is that?
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Good to the Last Drop
Remember my rant on Quality and Patience? If you don't, I'd like to type a few of excerpts.
"...Quality should be a part of realism; without Quality, our lives would be meaningless, would not be entertaining or enjoyable, much like George Orwell's classic "1984". Well, without patience, you lose a certain distinguishable intelligence. How intelligent do you look getting frustrated at a short wait? Not too intelligent at all, and how about your courteousness? Or care? Isn't care a low form of quality? To care for something is to find quality in it...you'd lose a bit of quality in the middle of losing your patience."
"If quality is attached to care, and care fits within patience, which, in itself fits within something else (I don't know how far I want to go with this) then, I would imagine more values are lost or missing when others are absent."
Is a bell ringing? I surely doubt it, so, let me just push the snowball down the hill, and we will see what all it collects, and how big it will get, shall we?
Never get impatient. For one, it invokes getting frustrated. Then, you end up getting so hot-headed you can not even think straight, which invokes ignorance. Then, you are not of a higher quality of person you once were. It's that web-effect I was talking about a long time ago, where, somewhere towards the top, is Quality followed by Patience; the official order of it all has yet to be fully uncovered.
What I've found is that people now-a-days want this and that right now. I blame simplicity. It is so simple now-a-days to pay bills, to cook, to find food, to stay warm, to find entertainment and fulfillment - all these things are right in our grasp. If you have high-speed internet, you can pay your bills online, no sweat. "Ready to Heat" meals that come out of a box or plastic can take the strain out of slaving away at a stove. Fast-food has eliminated the dependency on cooking. Ever tried starting a fire the hard way, with friction, or striking flint? It sucks. But a box of matches can easily solve your heating dilemma. I've stated it before, if you give an extrovert the stage, you've given them the world, and any egotistical prick can transform into a thespian. And fulfillment can be met with another person, so, get out there and date! The simplicity of the world today has created, in it's wake, spoiled heathens who, when dealt with not getting their way in due process, resort to arrogance and thumb-biting.
Sometimes, you just don't have the answers they are looking for, which, is like a slap to the face for these people. A well-deserved slap. That's why I have resorted to pissing these people off as much as possible. Fight fire with fire, I'll say! They want to spout a bad attitude, they will be answered with annoyance and anger.
So maybe somewhere on that chart is simplicity, yes?
Obviously, if you baby everything, you are just asking for more ignorance to come from people, in the same respect, you have people becoming accustom to everything being handed to them, and it results with people being spoiled. I say this only because of personal experience I have dealt with in the subject matter, and my own personal outlook on the philosophy.
I have heard it many times before; we do things for a reason. Another thing I have stated on this blog is the following:
"I just have found that in thinking more and more, taking what I can from other people's thoughts and associating that with the whole picture, you could go back to what I was stating about an absence in proper child-care. And in finding that answer, ask, what does a child really need?"
That's right, people. It starts in the mother fucking womb! I'm watching a little kid right now, about 4-5 years old because that's my job title really; the essence of it all is to watch people. Watch to make sure these people are not looking up inappropriate things, watch to make sure these people stay under control - I label myself "The Watcher". And, like I said up above, I'm watching at this very moment a child throw a temper-tantrum, yet, God forbid, the parents do anything about it because it's "PLAY TIME ON THE COMPUTER" for them; just like children themselves. Why is it that people have kids when they are not ready? Sex feels good. Other times, the sex is bad, and we call bad sex rape. Not cool, alright. These people obviously did not engage in a hate-sex rapefest with each other because I am pretty sure after that, the relationship would be ended.
They had this kid because they were irresponsible with sex or the condom broke, which, on a side note, do not be afraid to double wrap the tool. There is nothing wrong with that; sackers at Walmart do it all the time; the double bag. It's a safe way in keeping your groceries in check, just like two condoms would do the job in keeping the liquids in check, hell, why not three condoms?
These dumb fuckers pooped out a kid, and now because the kid can write its own name, and can spell a few words, and speak both the parents' names without pooping its pants, the parents think, "Let's let the kid run wild!" because when I think of parenthood, I also think of abandonment...wonderful job of raising a moron, folks. Let's see this kid's smoke in ten years when he decides to knock up his slack-jawed, toothless whore he calls a girlfriend, and the cycle repeats itself for generations to come.
"...Quality should be a part of realism; without Quality, our lives would be meaningless, would not be entertaining or enjoyable, much like George Orwell's classic "1984". Well, without patience, you lose a certain distinguishable intelligence. How intelligent do you look getting frustrated at a short wait? Not too intelligent at all, and how about your courteousness? Or care? Isn't care a low form of quality? To care for something is to find quality in it...you'd lose a bit of quality in the middle of losing your patience."
"If quality is attached to care, and care fits within patience, which, in itself fits within something else (I don't know how far I want to go with this) then, I would imagine more values are lost or missing when others are absent."
Is a bell ringing? I surely doubt it, so, let me just push the snowball down the hill, and we will see what all it collects, and how big it will get, shall we?
Never get impatient. For one, it invokes getting frustrated. Then, you end up getting so hot-headed you can not even think straight, which invokes ignorance. Then, you are not of a higher quality of person you once were. It's that web-effect I was talking about a long time ago, where, somewhere towards the top, is Quality followed by Patience; the official order of it all has yet to be fully uncovered.
What I've found is that people now-a-days want this and that right now. I blame simplicity. It is so simple now-a-days to pay bills, to cook, to find food, to stay warm, to find entertainment and fulfillment - all these things are right in our grasp. If you have high-speed internet, you can pay your bills online, no sweat. "Ready to Heat" meals that come out of a box or plastic can take the strain out of slaving away at a stove. Fast-food has eliminated the dependency on cooking. Ever tried starting a fire the hard way, with friction, or striking flint? It sucks. But a box of matches can easily solve your heating dilemma. I've stated it before, if you give an extrovert the stage, you've given them the world, and any egotistical prick can transform into a thespian. And fulfillment can be met with another person, so, get out there and date! The simplicity of the world today has created, in it's wake, spoiled heathens who, when dealt with not getting their way in due process, resort to arrogance and thumb-biting.
Sometimes, you just don't have the answers they are looking for, which, is like a slap to the face for these people. A well-deserved slap. That's why I have resorted to pissing these people off as much as possible. Fight fire with fire, I'll say! They want to spout a bad attitude, they will be answered with annoyance and anger.
So maybe somewhere on that chart is simplicity, yes?
Obviously, if you baby everything, you are just asking for more ignorance to come from people, in the same respect, you have people becoming accustom to everything being handed to them, and it results with people being spoiled. I say this only because of personal experience I have dealt with in the subject matter, and my own personal outlook on the philosophy.
I have heard it many times before; we do things for a reason. Another thing I have stated on this blog is the following:
"I just have found that in thinking more and more, taking what I can from other people's thoughts and associating that with the whole picture, you could go back to what I was stating about an absence in proper child-care. And in finding that answer, ask, what does a child really need?"
That's right, people. It starts in the mother fucking womb! I'm watching a little kid right now, about 4-5 years old because that's my job title really; the essence of it all is to watch people. Watch to make sure these people are not looking up inappropriate things, watch to make sure these people stay under control - I label myself "The Watcher". And, like I said up above, I'm watching at this very moment a child throw a temper-tantrum, yet, God forbid, the parents do anything about it because it's "PLAY TIME ON THE COMPUTER" for them; just like children themselves. Why is it that people have kids when they are not ready? Sex feels good. Other times, the sex is bad, and we call bad sex rape. Not cool, alright. These people obviously did not engage in a hate-sex rapefest with each other because I am pretty sure after that, the relationship would be ended.
They had this kid because they were irresponsible with sex or the condom broke, which, on a side note, do not be afraid to double wrap the tool. There is nothing wrong with that; sackers at Walmart do it all the time; the double bag. It's a safe way in keeping your groceries in check, just like two condoms would do the job in keeping the liquids in check, hell, why not three condoms?
These dumb fuckers pooped out a kid, and now because the kid can write its own name, and can spell a few words, and speak both the parents' names without pooping its pants, the parents think, "Let's let the kid run wild!" because when I think of parenthood, I also think of abandonment...wonderful job of raising a moron, folks. Let's see this kid's smoke in ten years when he decides to knock up his slack-jawed, toothless whore he calls a girlfriend, and the cycle repeats itself for generations to come.
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