In the immortal words of Alice Cooper, "The time in which students pursue academic wisdom has temporarily ceased for the three or four hottest months of the Gregorian calendar!" Er, it's something like that. Regardless, school's out for summer!
I approached the whole checking of my grades thing with some trepidation. I have been, surprisingly, somewhat less than cavalier about my studies this year. I signed on to the USU website, typed in my password--my password is thisisnotmypasswordatallbuttryitanywayfucker--and played a bit of Spider Solitaire while I waited for my excruciatingly slow internet to rape and pillage its way through the USU server and bring my grades, brutalized and bleeding, to my monitor. And hey, I was pleasantly surprised. I slogged my way through some seriously useless shit to get those grades. My mind would probably explode if I didn't complain just a bit about some of my experiences this school year.
First of all, one of my teachers was a complete idiot. I don't mean that in the good way, as in the village idiot who makes every villager laugh while only requiring the rape of but one virgin per year. I mean the kind of idiot who don't know jack shit. This professor was one of three with whom I had the privilege of interacting for the entire year, not just a single semester. I'll admit that the second semester was my own fault; I chose to be in her class again because my first class with her was extremely laid back. Let me explain (even if you withhold your permission, I'll explain anyway).
Ms. Lesbosprite--I decided to omit her real name; Lesbosprite will do because she had lesbian-short hair and was midget-height like a fairy--was in charge of my Professional Writing Technology course. For those of you unfamiliar with Writing, look elsewhere; I don't provide examples of that shit anywhere. The Professional aspect fits in the name because I am being trained to do dumb stuff like write instruction manuals and make pretty newsletters. The Technology bit--computers, networking, the wheel--is the one I'm going to explain. We were to learn various software programs which will undoubtedly give us an edge in the competitive workplace. I mean, what average college graduate knows an obscure program like Microsoft Word? See? That's why I'm going to be a kickass writer-person; I know Microsoft Word. Ms. Lesbosprite, however, did not. Now, I'm willing to cut her some slack. Word had recently been overhauled and the university had just acquired the newest version. All the students were complaining about how very hard it was to use--probably the same kids who bitch and moan every time Facebook changes a little. I was just getting in the groove of it; I'd had to write a paper or two, so I knew the basics. Blah, blah, blah this train of thought now officially bores me. Long story short: I had to help my technology professor adjust her margins.
Confession: I started this post a few days ago. I wasn't near a computer for a while, so I just got back to this. I bet you can tell where my thoughts tried to regroup but got Waterlooed. I'll push my brain a little bit harder--I know there was a lot of pointless shit to wade through during this past year--but I'll try to keep things a bit more succinct.
I've always considered studying literature to be something of a drag. Seriously, I don't see how Shakespeare, Faulkner and (include another person I rarely read but list anyway to sound intelligent) meant to include all the meanings we read into them. All these meanings, themes and motifs are lost on me. Oh, I can write about them; I can go on for pages about this shit, but why should I? What exactly am I learning from these dead auteurs? Ah yes, timeless messages of humanity. . . fuck those. The only thing timeless about these messages is really clever pun and/or joke! (Wow, I'm really not into this today)
That last paragraph where I said I'd stick to the point be damned! I'll bitch and moan for as many words as I want. I took a film class last semester which basically involved literary analysis but from a film perspective. We looked at issues of gender, sexuality, money, violence etc. in Hollywood films. And good for us. I had to write page after page about movies whose plots I could barely remember, but I managed to ace the class by using words like mise en scene, syuzhet and fabula. In fact, I ended up writing 8 pages--not a lot, I realize--on Memento. It wasn't the 8 pages that bothered me, though, and I still love the movie. The thing that bothered me was that I analyzed this movie frame-by-frame, looking for things that the director may or may not have intended, and then I wrote a paper about how people are greedy, women are sluts and human memory is subject to distortion. Yup, I got an 'A' for writing something I could have seen walking around campus: some sorority chick wearing a mini-skirt, complaining about her crappy new Lexus and forgetting who she blew the night before.
Ah, what an enlightening time! It's hard to describe the many ways I was enriched over the past year. I could go on about all the strange assignments--X-Files brochure, anyone?--I had to do, assignments that made me noticeably smarter. . . I find myself utterly conclusion-less at this time. Uhhhh, my life has been forever changed in a (adjective) way.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Lust, Caution: Not-Ang Lee's Take on Not-Film as Clint Eastwood Looks On
I am currently listening to a dumb bitch speak. "Speak" is a pretty generous word, but I'm feeling pretty damn generous. Her words are more intelligible than someone who's just been mouth-punched by a koala (don't steal their leaves), thus I'm noticing a definite trend. Like. Like. Like. All like. He was like. I'm like . . .
Now, I realize that "like" has become a regular part of most everyone's speak-times. Sure, we can avoid it when we write, but when we're talking that "like" just slips its way in like a frat guy telling a freshman he has real feelings for her. I admit, "like" does have benefits. It is second only to swearing in its ability to make stories that much better. Allow me to elaborate . . . all over your face. Nah, I'll just type some more. Like I was saying, "like" is a story enhancer:
"So I was talking to this douche. He was like 7 feet tall and like 300 pounds. It was all, like, muscle. So I flipped him off and was like, 'Fuck off, asshole!'"
Aside from the absolutely scintillating nature of this short piece of dialogue, there are some "likes" that need explanation. The first two "likes" make this guy seem, like, a hell of a lot bigger than he actually is/was ("was" is the word to use if you kill the douche): story enhancing method number one. The third "like" could possibly be bundled with the first two as simple exaggeration, but I see it as a concession to the audience. No one is 300 pounds of pure muscle. The vast majority of humans have things like bones, hearts, even genitals. So this third "like" is admitting that a certain amount of artistic license is being utilized.
The last "like" is the most ambiguous, thus the most problematic. That type of "like" is occasionally used to simultaneously express what the speaker intended to say and what was actually said. More often than not, however, this type of "like" is used to express the discrepancy between what one would say were one in possession of a handgun and what one truly said sans a .44 Magnum ("the most powerful handgun in the world").
Your response to this final type of "like" should be this: "You actually said that?" In most cases, the story-teller will say something akin to, "No, but I thought it!" or "Fuck no! That dude was, like, 300 pounds! But I almost said it!" Your response can be either applause--what quick wit your friend possesses!--or applause--not a typo; I mean pretend your buddy's face is your other hand.
This final "like" is the most disturbing; without a clarifying question, you're letting your friend get away with unwarranted badassitude. We mustn't allow that. It's unfair to the actual badasses out there, the ones who not only have the wit necessary to tell people off but also the .44 Magnum (which "could blow your head clean off") with which to back up said wit.
This diatribe may lead to the belief that I don't use "like" in most every conversation. Nothing could be further from the truth. There's nothing like a good "like" to make me sound like something other than a gibbering idiot--a tough person, perhaps. "You actually said that?" "I said I was like, (insert clever retort). How much clearer can I be?"
On a related but not entirely untangential (yes, it's a real word; no, don't look it up) note , I would like to propose an alternative to the rather stale "like": Lust. Hear me out (I first typed "here me out," correct were I a caveman commenting on being outside and the particular place is, in fact, "here"). We live in a Madison Avenue society in which sex sells. You, like a cigarette-smoking, bald ad executive trying to convince older women that douching with a particular brand will guarantee the procurement of multiple muscular sexual partners, are trying to sell your story. Your experiences are, in all likelihood, shit, without a touch of embellishment. Like I mentioned before, "like" can help you provide that extra glitter. But, since Uncle Freud insists that you are either thinking with your mouth, genitals or anus, adding a bit of sexuality--lust-- to your stories should help your audience accept them as literal truth. Example:
"So I was talking to this douche. He was lust 7 feet tall and lust 300 pounds. It was all, lust, muscle. So I flipped him off and was lust, 'Fuck off, asshole!'"
Now that's believable. And sexy. What an amazing combination. "Lust" is simply a more powerful version of "like," so this example is simply a more powerful version of the previous quote (for the sake of my ego, let's pretend that "like" cannot be used to compare things; only one definition of "like" suits my argument, so, lust, let's stick to it).
To wrap things up, just remember that if you've ever forgotten your handgun--and you asked yourself, "Do I feel lucky?" and came up a little short in the courage department--but want to pretend as though you've said something of consequence, just use "lust" as you relate the story to your ugly, overweight, blotchy-faced, hermaphroditic friends.
Now, I realize that "like" has become a regular part of most everyone's speak-times. Sure, we can avoid it when we write, but when we're talking that "like" just slips its way in like a frat guy telling a freshman he has real feelings for her. I admit, "like" does have benefits. It is second only to swearing in its ability to make stories that much better. Allow me to elaborate . . . all over your face. Nah, I'll just type some more. Like I was saying, "like" is a story enhancer:
"So I was talking to this douche. He was like 7 feet tall and like 300 pounds. It was all, like, muscle. So I flipped him off and was like, 'Fuck off, asshole!'"
Aside from the absolutely scintillating nature of this short piece of dialogue, there are some "likes" that need explanation. The first two "likes" make this guy seem, like, a hell of a lot bigger than he actually is/was ("was" is the word to use if you kill the douche): story enhancing method number one. The third "like" could possibly be bundled with the first two as simple exaggeration, but I see it as a concession to the audience. No one is 300 pounds of pure muscle. The vast majority of humans have things like bones, hearts, even genitals. So this third "like" is admitting that a certain amount of artistic license is being utilized.
The last "like" is the most ambiguous, thus the most problematic. That type of "like" is occasionally used to simultaneously express what the speaker intended to say and what was actually said. More often than not, however, this type of "like" is used to express the discrepancy between what one would say were one in possession of a handgun and what one truly said sans a .44 Magnum ("the most powerful handgun in the world").
Your response to this final type of "like" should be this: "You actually said that?" In most cases, the story-teller will say something akin to, "No, but I thought it!" or "Fuck no! That dude was, like, 300 pounds! But I almost said it!" Your response can be either applause--what quick wit your friend possesses!--or applause--not a typo; I mean pretend your buddy's face is your other hand.
This final "like" is the most disturbing; without a clarifying question, you're letting your friend get away with unwarranted badassitude. We mustn't allow that. It's unfair to the actual badasses out there, the ones who not only have the wit necessary to tell people off but also the .44 Magnum (which "could blow your head clean off") with which to back up said wit.
This diatribe may lead to the belief that I don't use "like" in most every conversation. Nothing could be further from the truth. There's nothing like a good "like" to make me sound like something other than a gibbering idiot--a tough person, perhaps. "You actually said that?" "I said I was like, (insert clever retort). How much clearer can I be?"
On a related but not entirely untangential (yes, it's a real word; no, don't look it up) note , I would like to propose an alternative to the rather stale "like": Lust. Hear me out (I first typed "here me out," correct were I a caveman commenting on being outside and the particular place is, in fact, "here"). We live in a Madison Avenue society in which sex sells. You, like a cigarette-smoking, bald ad executive trying to convince older women that douching with a particular brand will guarantee the procurement of multiple muscular sexual partners, are trying to sell your story. Your experiences are, in all likelihood, shit, without a touch of embellishment. Like I mentioned before, "like" can help you provide that extra glitter. But, since Uncle Freud insists that you are either thinking with your mouth, genitals or anus, adding a bit of sexuality--lust-- to your stories should help your audience accept them as literal truth. Example:
"So I was talking to this douche. He was lust 7 feet tall and lust 300 pounds. It was all, lust, muscle. So I flipped him off and was lust, 'Fuck off, asshole!'"
Now that's believable. And sexy. What an amazing combination. "Lust" is simply a more powerful version of "like," so this example is simply a more powerful version of the previous quote (for the sake of my ego, let's pretend that "like" cannot be used to compare things; only one definition of "like" suits my argument, so, lust, let's stick to it).
To wrap things up, just remember that if you've ever forgotten your handgun--and you asked yourself, "Do I feel lucky?" and came up a little short in the courage department--but want to pretend as though you've said something of consequence, just use "lust" as you relate the story to your ugly, overweight, blotchy-faced, hermaphroditic friends.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Waltzing My Way Through the Big K
I went to Kmart today. I almost drowned in sweet, sweet memories. I worked there for nigh on to two years, you see. I decided I really needed a microwave. I had coffee for breakfast and decided I wanted some leftovers from a tasty place for lunch, but I didn't want cold leftovers from a tasty place. Hence the microwave.
I drove around Logan, Utah for a while; I had just filled my car up with gas. Speaking of which, it was two dollars per gallon! That's highway robbery! When has it ever been so high? I was about to stop at Walmart, Rollback capital of the world, when I decided to quash the white trash tendencies bubbling up from deep within my soul (I get it from my mother). So I drove on. And stopped at the Big Kmart. There's a classy joint, if I do say so myself--which I do.
I got a little gray cart. Ah, I remember pushing those things into the doors. I usually pushed around eight. You could still maneuver them that way. If it was just a straight shot, though, I could manage about 14. Impressed? I am. Getting all hot and bothered, in fact. I'd do me.
The Logan store is a bit flipped around. I could still find my way, however. I worked at the Woods Cross store for about 2 years. All I had to do was pretend that I had just walked through a mirror, and the Logan K felt just like my K. I made my way to the microwaves. The cheapest one had dials on it. What the fuck? Who uses dials anymore? Who even knows how to use them? Maybe old ladies with TV's labeled VHF--UHF for all the channels above 14 or something--and fish and brownie Banquet suppers stacked up in their freezers. And that's a definite maybe. I looked at the next-cheapest one. It was black, sexy. There was a Kitchenaid there too. It was red, and it was on a mail-in rebate deal. It would be cool to have a red microwave. I could pretend I was a vampire, everything in my blood-red microwave hemoglobin-based. Alas, I don't trust mail-in rebates, so I had to put my hemophage phantasies on hold. I got the sexy blackrowave.
Here's the embarassing part of this tale. I was smiling the entire time. I hated that damn job, yet all I could scrounge up was nostalgia. It was like being back there: filling out hunting licenses by hand, talking to the Samoan lady who taught me how to say "stupid" correctly, and learning how to swear from Will, the jaded, part-time tollbooth operator who liked to straighten the boxes of tampons. I saw the layaway sign and remembered watching a lady fill out a check for her final payment. Then I told her we didn't accept checks for final layaway payments. I wonder if she ever visited us again.
That's enough of this. I hate working, but I remember all my past jobs with a certain fondness. Weird.
I drove around Logan, Utah for a while; I had just filled my car up with gas. Speaking of which, it was two dollars per gallon! That's highway robbery! When has it ever been so high? I was about to stop at Walmart, Rollback capital of the world, when I decided to quash the white trash tendencies bubbling up from deep within my soul (I get it from my mother). So I drove on. And stopped at the Big Kmart. There's a classy joint, if I do say so myself--which I do.
I got a little gray cart. Ah, I remember pushing those things into the doors. I usually pushed around eight. You could still maneuver them that way. If it was just a straight shot, though, I could manage about 14. Impressed? I am. Getting all hot and bothered, in fact. I'd do me.
The Logan store is a bit flipped around. I could still find my way, however. I worked at the Woods Cross store for about 2 years. All I had to do was pretend that I had just walked through a mirror, and the Logan K felt just like my K. I made my way to the microwaves. The cheapest one had dials on it. What the fuck? Who uses dials anymore? Who even knows how to use them? Maybe old ladies with TV's labeled VHF--UHF for all the channels above 14 or something--and fish and brownie Banquet suppers stacked up in their freezers. And that's a definite maybe. I looked at the next-cheapest one. It was black, sexy. There was a Kitchenaid there too. It was red, and it was on a mail-in rebate deal. It would be cool to have a red microwave. I could pretend I was a vampire, everything in my blood-red microwave hemoglobin-based. Alas, I don't trust mail-in rebates, so I had to put my hemophage phantasies on hold. I got the sexy blackrowave.
Here's the embarassing part of this tale. I was smiling the entire time. I hated that damn job, yet all I could scrounge up was nostalgia. It was like being back there: filling out hunting licenses by hand, talking to the Samoan lady who taught me how to say "stupid" correctly, and learning how to swear from Will, the jaded, part-time tollbooth operator who liked to straighten the boxes of tampons. I saw the layaway sign and remembered watching a lady fill out a check for her final payment. Then I told her we didn't accept checks for final layaway payments. I wonder if she ever visited us again.
That's enough of this. I hate working, but I remember all my past jobs with a certain fondness. Weird.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
A Post with Multiple References to Prostitution
I didn't expect the fact that by my fourth post, I would have nothing to say. So writing this is like me sitting on the toilet with a supposedly empty ass; there might be something in there, so I just have to sit--and push--until something glorious comes out. Yeah, glorious is definitely the right word in both situations. What can I say? I'm good at what I do.
I must say that I'm glad that we've apparently averted the pig-induced apocalypse. Even though I knew the news was blowing the whole swine flu thing out of proportion, I still took precautions. I squeezed hand sanitizer into a paper towel and wiped down the phones at work. I think my Swedish supervisor has it, and I wanted to be safe. Well, now that the flu--spelled fleaux in France--has "only" killed a couple hundred people and is abating, I guess all my gel-based preparations were unnecessary. It's also refreshing to see that the news media has basically forgot all about the Pigpocalypse. I guess it's possible the world will end later this year, when the flu might come back more virulent than before, but it's nice to have a bit of a reprieve from all the gloom and doom. It's hard to write a will when all you're thinking about is death . . .
Here's something pointless: the new Wolverine movie sucked balls, a lot of balls. Cheesiest, dumbest, most cliched movie ever. Did I mention that I truly love X-men? No? Well, I do. Going into the theater--theatre in Britain--I expected a certain level of crapitude. Hugh and his gang of shitmakers really surpassed my forecasts. I can't deny that I liked seeing some headless dude shoot red stuff out of his eyes while simultaneously being dead and destroying a nuclear reactor, but that's about as far as my enjoyment went.
I don't have anything life-changing or semi-clever to say, so I'll just reminisce about my day. How fun for me, eh? I woke up with a bit of a headache. . . no surprise there. I woke up at 11 AM . . . big fucking surprise there. I haven't awakened in AM's for a while, night-pees notwithstanding. I popped a Zicam. That's right, I got sick even after sanitizing the hell out of my workplace. Lesson learned: if the hooker has crusty snot below her nose, pay a little more for one that looks a little more fresh. Anyway, Zicam has zinc in it; apparently, zinc is good for my body when I have a cold.
Next, I decided to make myself a bowl of oatmeal. Fiber keeps me regular (not that I need any help: 3 today!). I put the oats and water in the bowl, ready to stick that bitch in the microwave for exactly two minutes. I held the bowl in my hands and looked around my kitchen. Yeah, no microwave. Since I wasn't about to boil water on the stove, I decided to dump the oats down the sink and eat treats for breakfast. I finished off the treats my mom made for my birthday. They tasted better than squashed plant genitals. Who knew?
Wow, even I'm getting bored with this. Well, that's the first 10 or so minutes of my day. Can you just imagine the rest? It was like going to Disneyland if Walt Disney was a pimp and Disneyland was actually Disneybordello. Yeah.
I just found a shirt in my closet, a shirt that I haven't even seen for a few months. I had forgotten all about it. It's bright orange with a fiery, yellow pumpkin face on it. So if you need anyone to jack your lantern, I'm your man . . . for fifty bucks (forty if you let me snort cocaine off your left middle finger's knuckle).
I have to say I'm a little impressed with myself. After thinking I had blogger's block, I managed to squeeze this one out. It's liquidy and full of skank-references. And the blog post worked out fairly well too.
P.S. Whores!
I must say that I'm glad that we've apparently averted the pig-induced apocalypse. Even though I knew the news was blowing the whole swine flu thing out of proportion, I still took precautions. I squeezed hand sanitizer into a paper towel and wiped down the phones at work. I think my Swedish supervisor has it, and I wanted to be safe. Well, now that the flu--spelled fleaux in France--has "only" killed a couple hundred people and is abating, I guess all my gel-based preparations were unnecessary. It's also refreshing to see that the news media has basically forgot all about the Pigpocalypse. I guess it's possible the world will end later this year, when the flu might come back more virulent than before, but it's nice to have a bit of a reprieve from all the gloom and doom. It's hard to write a will when all you're thinking about is death . . .
Here's something pointless: the new Wolverine movie sucked balls, a lot of balls. Cheesiest, dumbest, most cliched movie ever. Did I mention that I truly love X-men? No? Well, I do. Going into the theater--theatre in Britain--I expected a certain level of crapitude. Hugh and his gang of shitmakers really surpassed my forecasts. I can't deny that I liked seeing some headless dude shoot red stuff out of his eyes while simultaneously being dead and destroying a nuclear reactor, but that's about as far as my enjoyment went.
I don't have anything life-changing or semi-clever to say, so I'll just reminisce about my day. How fun for me, eh? I woke up with a bit of a headache. . . no surprise there. I woke up at 11 AM . . . big fucking surprise there. I haven't awakened in AM's for a while, night-pees notwithstanding. I popped a Zicam. That's right, I got sick even after sanitizing the hell out of my workplace. Lesson learned: if the hooker has crusty snot below her nose, pay a little more for one that looks a little more fresh. Anyway, Zicam has zinc in it; apparently, zinc is good for my body when I have a cold.
Next, I decided to make myself a bowl of oatmeal. Fiber keeps me regular (not that I need any help: 3 today!). I put the oats and water in the bowl, ready to stick that bitch in the microwave for exactly two minutes. I held the bowl in my hands and looked around my kitchen. Yeah, no microwave. Since I wasn't about to boil water on the stove, I decided to dump the oats down the sink and eat treats for breakfast. I finished off the treats my mom made for my birthday. They tasted better than squashed plant genitals. Who knew?
Wow, even I'm getting bored with this. Well, that's the first 10 or so minutes of my day. Can you just imagine the rest? It was like going to Disneyland if Walt Disney was a pimp and Disneyland was actually Disneybordello. Yeah.
I just found a shirt in my closet, a shirt that I haven't even seen for a few months. I had forgotten all about it. It's bright orange with a fiery, yellow pumpkin face on it. So if you need anyone to jack your lantern, I'm your man . . . for fifty bucks (forty if you let me snort cocaine off your left middle finger's knuckle).
I have to say I'm a little impressed with myself. After thinking I had blogger's block, I managed to squeeze this one out. It's liquidy and full of skank-references. And the blog post worked out fairly well too.
P.S. Whores!
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Prince Nicholas and Obama's Toilet Remnants
I spent the first few hours of my 21st birthday cleaning. In fact, I spent much of my Birthday Eve cleaning too (If Jesus' birthday gets an Eve, mine does too). However, I won't pass along many details about tidying up, just a few.
First, I went to some weird ass janitorial supply shop. Apparently, the man who owns it has made quite the living as a cleaning-person. Well, pin a stick on his dick. Pretty much all of the available cleaning products were "Dan Aslett Certified!" I suppose that's not the weird part. The oddest thing I saw was his biography . . . his cleaning-based memoirs. Now, I understand if your career is a big part of your life--I suppose I could write my memoirs about scanning toilet paper and weighing bananas--but if you've risen through the ranks of janitors and made it to the top of the tidy-bitch world, should I really be that intrigued about any advice you have to give? So you cleaned the White House toilet, and the President's a dribbler. Awesome. Frankly, I'd much rather be the lowest-of-the-low in a field like, say, law than the highest porter of all time. My guess is that the crusty urine stains of the rich and famous look quite similar to the crusty urine stains of the homeless. What useful information could this guy possibly have to give? Anyway, to make a long story short: I'm not buying his fucking book.
Since not much has happened on my birthday as of yet--'tis only 2 o'clock AM--I think I'll keep blabbing about my Birthday Eve. Continuing that motif, I should very much like to take this opportunity to relate a dream I had last night.
A nameless woman and I were being evicted from our home. Apparently we were in foreclosure or some shit. We spent much of the afternoon looking for cheap, ready-to-move-into homes that were in good shape. We ran into some weird fuckers, but nothing really suited our fancy. So we decided to get a room in a motel. We got our room key and started walking to the room. I noticed some people strapped to pool chairs, their backs on the ground with their legs up in the air. Clearly, something was amiss, but I went to my room anyway.
Since time doesn't flow logically in dreams, I'm not certain how long this woman and I stayed there. But one day we were strolling around the premises when we ran into a strange man. He had a closely cropped mustache; it ran across his entire upper lip but was extremely thin. The man, he called himself Prince Nicholas, was wearing a hat, the kind of hat you see old men wear while fishing. Prince Nicholas ran frantically around the motel grounds, pestering people, moving on when his current projects ignored him and finding more people to annoy. As he got closer, we heard what he was saying.
"I'm Prince Nicholas! Kick my ass!" he said, oddly insistent. "I'm Prince Nicholas! Kick my ass!" He repeated over and over, brandishing his khaki-covered nether region to anyone who paid him any mind.
No one was willing to kick this old man's ass; Prince Nicholas grew agitated. He sauntered up to the woman and me, insisting that we kick his ass. We, like all the other patrons, refused. Well, he really wanted his ass kicked, so he started needling into "my woman" (nevermind that I can't recall who she was). I'm not sure, but I think he started ragging about her weight. That was the last straw for her, so she indulged the man's ass-kicking wish. She gave him one swift pop to the anus, her foot like a battering ram to his butt castle.
One kick. That's all it was. But that was enough. The old man promptly collapsed to the ground and began dissolving. The floor upon which Prince Nicholas once stood began to cave in. My girl screamed, "Oh my God! It's a giant asshole!" In a wakeful state, looking back on this narrative, I'm not sure how--or why--she noticed this hole looked like an anus, but my dream-self agreed.
The motel started to quiver and shake, little bits of plaster falling from the ceiling. We ran from the newly-formed motel-butt. We turned a corner and came face-to-face with, well, a face. A giant fucking face. The motel's giant fucking face. Apparently, Prince Nicholas was this motel's manservant or something. His demise caused the motel to awaken.
We ran from the giant face. Be honest; you would too. The long rows of cars in the parking lot began to turn into legs. A hand swept by us. The people who had been strapped into the lounge chairs were now upright; the motel was standing up. The nameless woman and I ran through the exterior corridors of the motel, oddly-numbered doors flashing by.
Namless and I knew we had to leave the motel (I so wanted to write "check out", but that seemed a bit too Bruce-Willis-Diehard-witticism to me). Luckily, the motel was prime seafront property. Hell yeah! We ran toward the bay, vaulted off the second floor of the Motelman, and landed in the sea. The motel proceeded to walk into the other bay--I guess we were on a peninsula--and started to splash in the water like one of those retarded kids you see playing in wading pools. I looked at my companion and, surprisingly, neither of us was surprised at what had just happened. All that mattered was we had checked out (I couldn't help myself; cry about it, bitch) of the motel safely.
And that's the dream. What a fine fucking present from my id. I don't know what it means, and I don't really care to find out. It can't be good. I'm thinking my laundry is about done, so I think it's time I head my ass to bed. When I wake up, it will still be my birthday. I'll be moving into a new apartment and probably doing irreversible damage to my back by lifting heavy boxes the wrong way.
First, I went to some weird ass janitorial supply shop. Apparently, the man who owns it has made quite the living as a cleaning-person. Well, pin a stick on his dick. Pretty much all of the available cleaning products were "Dan Aslett Certified!" I suppose that's not the weird part. The oddest thing I saw was his biography . . . his cleaning-based memoirs. Now, I understand if your career is a big part of your life--I suppose I could write my memoirs about scanning toilet paper and weighing bananas--but if you've risen through the ranks of janitors and made it to the top of the tidy-bitch world, should I really be that intrigued about any advice you have to give? So you cleaned the White House toilet, and the President's a dribbler. Awesome. Frankly, I'd much rather be the lowest-of-the-low in a field like, say, law than the highest porter of all time. My guess is that the crusty urine stains of the rich and famous look quite similar to the crusty urine stains of the homeless. What useful information could this guy possibly have to give? Anyway, to make a long story short: I'm not buying his fucking book.
Since not much has happened on my birthday as of yet--'tis only 2 o'clock AM--I think I'll keep blabbing about my Birthday Eve. Continuing that motif, I should very much like to take this opportunity to relate a dream I had last night.
A nameless woman and I were being evicted from our home. Apparently we were in foreclosure or some shit. We spent much of the afternoon looking for cheap, ready-to-move-into homes that were in good shape. We ran into some weird fuckers, but nothing really suited our fancy. So we decided to get a room in a motel. We got our room key and started walking to the room. I noticed some people strapped to pool chairs, their backs on the ground with their legs up in the air. Clearly, something was amiss, but I went to my room anyway.
Since time doesn't flow logically in dreams, I'm not certain how long this woman and I stayed there. But one day we were strolling around the premises when we ran into a strange man. He had a closely cropped mustache; it ran across his entire upper lip but was extremely thin. The man, he called himself Prince Nicholas, was wearing a hat, the kind of hat you see old men wear while fishing. Prince Nicholas ran frantically around the motel grounds, pestering people, moving on when his current projects ignored him and finding more people to annoy. As he got closer, we heard what he was saying.
"I'm Prince Nicholas! Kick my ass!" he said, oddly insistent. "I'm Prince Nicholas! Kick my ass!" He repeated over and over, brandishing his khaki-covered nether region to anyone who paid him any mind.
No one was willing to kick this old man's ass; Prince Nicholas grew agitated. He sauntered up to the woman and me, insisting that we kick his ass. We, like all the other patrons, refused. Well, he really wanted his ass kicked, so he started needling into "my woman" (nevermind that I can't recall who she was). I'm not sure, but I think he started ragging about her weight. That was the last straw for her, so she indulged the man's ass-kicking wish. She gave him one swift pop to the anus, her foot like a battering ram to his butt castle.
One kick. That's all it was. But that was enough. The old man promptly collapsed to the ground and began dissolving. The floor upon which Prince Nicholas once stood began to cave in. My girl screamed, "Oh my God! It's a giant asshole!" In a wakeful state, looking back on this narrative, I'm not sure how--or why--she noticed this hole looked like an anus, but my dream-self agreed.
The motel started to quiver and shake, little bits of plaster falling from the ceiling. We ran from the newly-formed motel-butt. We turned a corner and came face-to-face with, well, a face. A giant fucking face. The motel's giant fucking face. Apparently, Prince Nicholas was this motel's manservant or something. His demise caused the motel to awaken.
We ran from the giant face. Be honest; you would too. The long rows of cars in the parking lot began to turn into legs. A hand swept by us. The people who had been strapped into the lounge chairs were now upright; the motel was standing up. The nameless woman and I ran through the exterior corridors of the motel, oddly-numbered doors flashing by.
Namless and I knew we had to leave the motel (I so wanted to write "check out", but that seemed a bit too Bruce-Willis-Diehard-witticism to me). Luckily, the motel was prime seafront property. Hell yeah! We ran toward the bay, vaulted off the second floor of the Motelman, and landed in the sea. The motel proceeded to walk into the other bay--I guess we were on a peninsula--and started to splash in the water like one of those retarded kids you see playing in wading pools. I looked at my companion and, surprisingly, neither of us was surprised at what had just happened. All that mattered was we had checked out (I couldn't help myself; cry about it, bitch) of the motel safely.
And that's the dream. What a fine fucking present from my id. I don't know what it means, and I don't really care to find out. It can't be good. I'm thinking my laundry is about done, so I think it's time I head my ass to bed. When I wake up, it will still be my birthday. I'll be moving into a new apartment and probably doing irreversible damage to my back by lifting heavy boxes the wrong way.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Mein Experienzen Attendingen Universitat
I once remember thinking that college was a mystical place, populated by academic wizards and the occasional child prodigy hobbits. In college, the girls had boobs; the guys had beards. Everyone looked so old and wise. Even as I graduated from high school, I wondered how I could ever fit in. Then I realized the truth: university is for retards.
I don't attend an Ivy League school. In fact, Utah State University probably isn't even in the same genus. We're not protozoa league here, but we've settled somewhat comfortably into the notion of kicking ass at mediocrity. "You lie!" you're probably saying to your dried sneeze residue-covered computer screen. "Utah State sends more projects into space than any other university in the world." Yeah, I send plenty of methane projects into space on a daily basis. "Ah, but Utah State has an exceptional engineering program," you counter, your eye twitching in anticipation of your victory over your unseen opponent, me. Mmmm, do let's calculate the maximum weight-bearing load of an elephant phallus. Although I'm sure elephant phalli are fascinating, and I'm sure their weight-bearing capabilities are unrivaled in the animal kingdom--can you imagine the pinwheel or around-the-world with a 70-ton, tusked (if "she" is tusked, I suppose our subject is a transgender pachyderm) female?--I'm still not too worried about creating the most beautiful suspension bridge or the most maze-like parking structure.
Aside from ripping on my school so much that the Beach Boys just may see fit to rape me with their 409's, I do have a definite purpose to this post. I would like to iterate--reiterate to those of you to whom I bitch on a regular basis--the reasons why the whole college experience pisses me of.
1. Each and every college student is obsessed with the word "random." It's as though their parents were Adolf and Eva; each activity, each meal was so rigidly structured during high school that graduation represented escape on par with leaving Auschwitz. "Oh my God, I can stay up late now!" or "Holy shit, I'm independent! I shall now proceed to celebrate my new-found independence by asserting myself in strange ways. First, I'm going to take pictures of my ass-ugly friends and post them in a Facebook album called 'RaNdOm' or 'randomness'. Oh, I just can't decide which! Next, I'm going to do a bunch of idiotic shit, call it random, and then calmly talk about it in class. . . " See where I'm going with this? Random is the toss of a dice, not your fucking life. Now Russian Roulette, that's random. There's a fun Facebook album.
2. College students complain about money. Fair enough, so does everyone. But don't tell me that your daddy pays for your school, and you have a scholarship but you really need a sub-par quality meal from that chain restaurant down the street. Sure, I make unintelligent choices about money (I bought a Wii, for Christ's sake), but I don't tell people about it. I leave my fiscal irresponsibility between myself and the tellers at my bank that just love to charge me overdraft fees.
3. Macaroni and fucking cheese. Top Ramen. Peanut butter and jelly. All the other various and sundry "college foods" that my fellow students love talking about. Does anyone really survive on this shit? Is it really surviving if one does? Don't tell me it's cheaper than eating right. A head of lettuce is cheap. Don't tell me it's easy. You can boil pasta and throw some sauce on it; that's easy.
4. College students are busy? No shit. People are busy. "I'm just so swamped. I have, like, a 3-page essay due in a week. I just can't wait 'til I graduate." Yeah, graduating makes everything easier. Once you have your Bachelor of Science in Whatthefuckever with a minor in Uselesscrap, your life will seriously calm down. The workplace is neither as competitive nor as stressful as college. Stick it out; you'll make it.
5. Here is my greatest letdown so far: college students are idiots. One would think that after twelve or so years of education a person might start to get a handle on things like basic math and a sense of responsibility. Oh, and you'd think that your average university attendee might have at least a basic knowledge of the language which he or she, in all likelihood, grew up speaking. You'd be wrong. College students are no smarter than high-school dropouts; they're just more motivated. The majority cannot speak correctly nor write correctly. The conventions of the English language, minor things like punctuation and syntax, seem less foreign to the foreigners than to many of my peers. "I will be writing this paper on comma splices, a comma splice occurs when a dumb person places two independent clauses together using only a comma as opposed to a conjunction or semicolon." or "Incorrect to use, I avoid dangling modifiers." There is a drift here that needs catching. Take care if it for me, will you?
I'm not saying that my college career has been bad (what could possibly have given you that impression?). I'm just saying that the antics of college-goers leave me utterly nonplussed. I'm guessing that the smart kids are off hiding in the hard sciences and math, not English. I'm guessing that the academics in any of the useful majors don't have enough time on their hands to post vitriol like this. Oh well, I'm not complaining. Rather, I'm stating truths with which I find myself upset. There's a fine difference between the two. Figure it out.
I don't attend an Ivy League school. In fact, Utah State University probably isn't even in the same genus. We're not protozoa league here, but we've settled somewhat comfortably into the notion of kicking ass at mediocrity. "You lie!" you're probably saying to your dried sneeze residue-covered computer screen. "Utah State sends more projects into space than any other university in the world." Yeah, I send plenty of methane projects into space on a daily basis. "Ah, but Utah State has an exceptional engineering program," you counter, your eye twitching in anticipation of your victory over your unseen opponent, me. Mmmm, do let's calculate the maximum weight-bearing load of an elephant phallus. Although I'm sure elephant phalli are fascinating, and I'm sure their weight-bearing capabilities are unrivaled in the animal kingdom--can you imagine the pinwheel or around-the-world with a 70-ton, tusked (if "she" is tusked, I suppose our subject is a transgender pachyderm) female?--I'm still not too worried about creating the most beautiful suspension bridge or the most maze-like parking structure.
Aside from ripping on my school so much that the Beach Boys just may see fit to rape me with their 409's, I do have a definite purpose to this post. I would like to iterate--reiterate to those of you to whom I bitch on a regular basis--the reasons why the whole college experience pisses me of.
1. Each and every college student is obsessed with the word "random." It's as though their parents were Adolf and Eva; each activity, each meal was so rigidly structured during high school that graduation represented escape on par with leaving Auschwitz. "Oh my God, I can stay up late now!" or "Holy shit, I'm independent! I shall now proceed to celebrate my new-found independence by asserting myself in strange ways. First, I'm going to take pictures of my ass-ugly friends and post them in a Facebook album called 'RaNdOm' or 'randomness'. Oh, I just can't decide which! Next, I'm going to do a bunch of idiotic shit, call it random, and then calmly talk about it in class. . . " See where I'm going with this? Random is the toss of a dice, not your fucking life. Now Russian Roulette, that's random. There's a fun Facebook album.
2. College students complain about money. Fair enough, so does everyone. But don't tell me that your daddy pays for your school, and you have a scholarship but you really need a sub-par quality meal from that chain restaurant down the street. Sure, I make unintelligent choices about money (I bought a Wii, for Christ's sake), but I don't tell people about it. I leave my fiscal irresponsibility between myself and the tellers at my bank that just love to charge me overdraft fees.
3. Macaroni and fucking cheese. Top Ramen. Peanut butter and jelly. All the other various and sundry "college foods" that my fellow students love talking about. Does anyone really survive on this shit? Is it really surviving if one does? Don't tell me it's cheaper than eating right. A head of lettuce is cheap. Don't tell me it's easy. You can boil pasta and throw some sauce on it; that's easy.
4. College students are busy? No shit. People are busy. "I'm just so swamped. I have, like, a 3-page essay due in a week. I just can't wait 'til I graduate." Yeah, graduating makes everything easier. Once you have your Bachelor of Science in Whatthefuckever with a minor in Uselesscrap, your life will seriously calm down. The workplace is neither as competitive nor as stressful as college. Stick it out; you'll make it.
5. Here is my greatest letdown so far: college students are idiots. One would think that after twelve or so years of education a person might start to get a handle on things like basic math and a sense of responsibility. Oh, and you'd think that your average university attendee might have at least a basic knowledge of the language which he or she, in all likelihood, grew up speaking. You'd be wrong. College students are no smarter than high-school dropouts; they're just more motivated. The majority cannot speak correctly nor write correctly. The conventions of the English language, minor things like punctuation and syntax, seem less foreign to the foreigners than to many of my peers. "I will be writing this paper on comma splices, a comma splice occurs when a dumb person places two independent clauses together using only a comma as opposed to a conjunction or semicolon." or "Incorrect to use, I avoid dangling modifiers." There is a drift here that needs catching. Take care if it for me, will you?
I'm not saying that my college career has been bad (what could possibly have given you that impression?). I'm just saying that the antics of college-goers leave me utterly nonplussed. I'm guessing that the smart kids are off hiding in the hard sciences and math, not English. I'm guessing that the academics in any of the useful majors don't have enough time on their hands to post vitriol like this. Oh well, I'm not complaining. Rather, I'm stating truths with which I find myself upset. There's a fine difference between the two. Figure it out.
Genesis Sans Fratricide
It's been a long time since I last blogged: three years or so if my failing mind recalls correctly. I'm not sure why I've decided to start up again. I think that I, like pretty much every other blogger, would like to take this opportunity to bitch and moan. Let us commence with the Inquisition.
I work a menial job that requires no thought and little labor on my part. I work to support my prime vices: movies and food. I'm a cashier at a big-box retailer whose box is neither as big nor as stretchy as Walmart's. I deal primarily with people, although there seems to be an unnerving number of non-humans wandering about these days; toothless, heavily made-up hooker rejects barely count as people in my book.
I'm an English major, which means I have to analyze things that were perfectly fine un-analyzed and warp them into something that that is probably more than the author intended yet less than my professor hoped for. I have a gift for writing formal yet vacuous prose--read all preceding words--a dubious honor which has enabled me to coast through much of my college career.
In my head I live alone; in reality I live with annoying people. I tend to be a magnet for unintelligent, athletic types . . . what's the word I'm searching for here? It's a word that often describes a particular group, a word for which the stereotype always proves entirely true. Chalk? Rock? . . . I'm sure it'll come to me.
I'm currently preparing to move from my current apartment. I'm having some dark chocolate feelings about it. First of all, there have been stretches of time, weeks, in which I have neither seen nor heard from my roommates. That's the bitter part. I'll miss that. The sweet part is this: moving away from the biggest fuck God ever put on this earth, a fuck who I once had the privilege of hearing being given, in his words, "the most amazing blowjob ever"; a fuck who has decided his musical talents far surpass those of your average shit musician (i.e. Mozart); a fuck with a certain propensity to make rather spectacular messes, messes by which I, as a messy person myself, am shocked. I'll stop. Too much nostalgia and I risk an aneurism. Or a hernia; trying to lift this fellow's ego just might make some of my lower intestine drop into my ballsack--or my scrotum, for the medically inclined. Once I finish reinserting the little brain blood vessels that have leaked out of my ear--damn, didn't I just warn myself about this?--I'll continue.
There. All better. I figure a rage-induced stroke or two won't hurt me all that much; Alzheimer's runs in the family, after all. Why delay the inevitable? Where was I?
I work a menial job that requires no thought and little labor on my part. I work to support my prime vices: movies and food. I'm a cashier at a big-box retailer whose box is neither as big nor as stretchy as Walmart's. I deal primarily with people, although there seems to be an unnerving number of non-humans wandering about these days; toothless, heavily made-up hooker rejects barely count as people in my book.
I'm an English major, which means I have to analyze things that were perfectly fine un-analyzed and warp them into something that that is probably more than the author intended yet less than my professor hoped for. I have a gift for writing formal yet vacuous prose--read all preceding words--a dubious honor which has enabled me to coast through much of my college career.
In my head I live alone; in reality I live with annoying people. I tend to be a magnet for unintelligent, athletic types . . . what's the word I'm searching for here? It's a word that often describes a particular group, a word for which the stereotype always proves entirely true. Chalk? Rock? . . . I'm sure it'll come to me.
I'm currently preparing to move from my current apartment. I'm having some dark chocolate feelings about it. First of all, there have been stretches of time, weeks, in which I have neither seen nor heard from my roommates. That's the bitter part. I'll miss that. The sweet part is this: moving away from the biggest fuck God ever put on this earth, a fuck who I once had the privilege of hearing being given, in his words, "the most amazing blowjob ever"; a fuck who has decided his musical talents far surpass those of your average shit musician (i.e. Mozart); a fuck with a certain propensity to make rather spectacular messes, messes by which I, as a messy person myself, am shocked. I'll stop. Too much nostalgia and I risk an aneurism. Or a hernia; trying to lift this fellow's ego just might make some of my lower intestine drop into my ballsack--or my scrotum, for the medically inclined. Once I finish reinserting the little brain blood vessels that have leaked out of my ear--damn, didn't I just warn myself about this?--I'll continue.
There. All better. I figure a rage-induced stroke or two won't hurt me all that much; Alzheimer's runs in the family, after all. Why delay the inevitable? Where was I?
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