Monday, October 31, 2005
Back from the dead
Not sure if these are true, but they are amusing. Via Yoke.

Lady Luck may be fickle, but she certainly has a sense of humor.

UNPLEASANT THINGS seem to happen sometimes in Romania. An 18-year-old girl, declared clinically dead in 1992, regained consciousness while being raped on a slab by a necrophiliac mortuary attendant in Bucharest. Police arrested the shocked rapist, but the parents refused to press charges because their daughter "owed her life to him."

TWO MORGUE ATTENDANTS playing chess on the night shift got the shock of their lives when one of the "corpses" sat up and moved one of the chess pieces. Miguel Garcia had suffered a heart attack and been pronounced dead, but came to on the slab. Disoriented, he grabbed the first thing he saw -- the black bishop. He moved it three squares and dropped it. (How his move affected the chess game isn't known.)

WHEN A TIRE BURST in 1977, the hearse carrying Gerry Allison to his funeral on the outskirts of Los Angeles overturned and crashed tail-first into the front window of a rival undertaker's parlour. The hearse doors burst open and flung the coffin through the window. Bystanders were astonished to see Allison, dressed in white burial robes, step out of the shattered glass. The crash had brought him out of a coma that doctors had mistaken for death.

A SUSPECTED DRUG DEALER fired at the chest of agent Carlos Montalvo of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms in Westland Shopping Mall, Hialeah, Florida, in 1987. But, incredibly, the bullet was stopped by Montalvo's own gun, lodging in the empty barrel. The agent was treated for facial cuts inflicted by fragments from his 9mm Sig Sauer pistol.

IT LOOKED LIKE DIVINE INTERVENTION when a gunman opened fire at Helen Chavez's car in Los Angeles in 1998. The bullet deflected off a tiny statuette of Christ on the dashboard, and missed her completely.

PATROLMAN TED CARLTON was chasing two escaped convicts in Oklahoma City in 1975 when a bullet smashed through his car windscreen. That reduced the bullet's energy just enough that it was finally stopped by the thin metal frames of his spectacles, and his only injury was a gashed cheek.

A STASH OF CREDIT CARDS rescued 62-year-old Herb Kravitz when a mugger in North Brunswick, New Jersey, blasted him in the chest in April 1993. The bullet ricocheted off his card-crammed wallet, and he escaped without even a bruise.

HER PARENTS didn't like it, but Hayley Chidgey, 15, had a belly-ring put in anyway. Two weeks later, as she walked home in Harefield, Middlesex, in September 1997, she was struck by two lightning bolts, and her passion for body-piercing saved her life. Doctors at the Royal London Hospital told her that she survived because the jewelry diverted the electric charge, and stopped its travelling through her inside her chest.

DECLARED DEAD after falling into a coma in July 1997, Abdel-Sattar Badawi was placed in a coffin and taken to the hospital's refrigerated morgue in Menoufia, Egypt. For 12 hours he lay there, before waking up. Climbing out of the coffin, he began shouting for help, and eventually three hospital employees came along to collect another body. They found him standing there, and one of the three, a paramedic, promptly collapsed with shock and died. His body was placed in the same coffin, and Badawi hurriedly left the premises.

MALE READERS may want to skip this story. Angel Santana, 51, was shot with a .357 caliber Magnum pistol in January 1990, during a struggle with one of the three men holding up the New York store where he worked. The bullet lodged in his trouser zipper and, according to police spokesman Fred Weiner, the robbers were so shocked that they fled, dropping the gun. Santana, unsurprisingly, was treated for trauma in hospital.
Only one thing smells like bacon--


And that's bacon!
Sunday, October 30, 2005
Oh damnation
Halloween parties were last nite. AND I DIDNT GET ANY PICTURES OF MY PAC GHOST!

...shit.
Saturday, October 29, 2005
If you see this your eyes will melt out





And that's Bunny in the boots.
Friday, October 28, 2005
Dont Go Messin With A....
SON OF A BIIIITCH!

Whoever said whatever lingo we say is stupid must obviously be stupid themselves. By stupid, I mean insecure. And by insecure, they are retardedly stupid. Its an endless snake eating its tail, if it had one since its an endless snake. Im pretty sure our Ebonical slang came from post-house time and during the UNI days and the van. I remember andy sayin izzle on everything.

Lighting is amazing, Tim. Look at any "good" cinematographal movie and notice lighting. Take Requim for a Dream (sic). Especially Mamma, who goes to being cracked out. At the beginnin of the movie, her apartment is lit up like its got life and glass everywhere. At teh end, its damn dark and dead. And especially in the hospital- they put florescent lights around her and made sure her eyes didnt catch any light. A lot of movies dont use extensive makeup to make a scene. They just fuck with the lighting. And by fuck with lighting, I mean they unscrew the bulbs and fuck the hole. Literally.

I get to go drop kick the god damn bank again. And I need to cartwheel a job into existance. Fast. Cuz Im jobless again and moneyless as of... OH ! Now.

Piss shit fucking god damn. Any cock slobbin cuntfucks want to fag flag our site can bite my hobo ass.
Aw, she thinks the TV is her dad...
I'm about to notify Blogger about objectionable content up in heah! What the hell is up with that? That button in the upper right? Does that mean you can alert Blogger to anyblogger's objectionable content? Like, if you don't like bananas and then there's a picture of not only two bananas but two bananas with cartoon faces having sex, that you can notify Blogger?

Whatever.

These issues really do not concern me.

Obviously.

It was recently pointed out to me that we all talk like gangstas a lot. This gangster speak includes phrases such as

"Fizzuck."
"Bizitch slap!"
"Whiziskey."

And of course:

"Fo shizzle."

And the pointer outer thought we were cooler than this, for this was the in thing years ago, and the people who were doing said in thing were not even all that in themselves; rather, they wanted to be. They wanted to cap each other but all they were armed with were rubber bands.

But we're cool . . . right? Don't we do these stupid things ironically? And mockingly? Like saying ballllllls? Or did the novelty wear away after the first four utterances, and beneath its slick shiny surface our corroded, stupid innards were exposed?

This concerns me a bit more than the Blogger notification, but not that much more.

Not so much more that you should be concerned.

But hey: the point of this post: the point: the reason I began writing right now, immediately upon my return from lunch:

I can not remember right now, so I will say this: Andy, if you get this before you collect me today, know that Amish may be late. "If we're late it's my fault," he said, and in that phrase I immediately teleported to him, saw his surroundings, and knew that he was probably barricaded in his bunker of a bedroom, surrounded by porn mags that have been suspended from the ceiling, furiously masturbating, with an audio recording of car noise playing in the background. That son of a bitch.

That lying

son

of

a

bitch.

At least he's not the son of a whore.

I swear there's a point to this. Hmm. Have you ever noticed how different bathroom lighting can completely change the way you look? How in some lighting you look washed out and undead and bloated, and then you go to a different bathroom and this time you're lit from above and the side and suddenly you want to throw down that handsoap and reach for yourself and start making out with yourself right there on the sink, stripping clothes, ripping teeth from zippers, biting necks, kicking hot water faucets.

Someone asked what I thought of my appearance the other day and I came up with this: 30% of the time I feel dog ugly, 15% I feel godly hot, and the rest of the time is somewhere in between. As I always look dog ugly in photos, I assume that this fluctuation is a natural sort of pattern inherent in all people. Or maybe it's affected by your personality; maybe if you actually believe you're more attractive, you feel more attractive more often, regardless of nastiness. Ideas?

Yesterday would have been Carol's and my anniversary, and I wonder if she noticed.

Halloween will be the anniversary of Halloween, which is the greatest and best of holidays. Because I have forgotten the point of this post, and because it has dragged on far too long, ink dripping down the screen like jizzum and blood from Amish's rectum after he tried to solicit that frat house for UNICEF, I will close with this:

Why I Hate Some Popular Holidays that are Not Halloween

1) Because you have to go home for them, unless you're me, and then you try your damnedest to get entangled in as many conflicting holiday plans as possible.

2) Because you have to gorge yourself at a table with too many people to hold a decent conversation, and afterward there's a mass retiring to the living room for old copies of Trivial Pursuit and, one year, freakin' Mastermind.

3) Because the stores are ALWAYS closed. Me and Dave, after watching It's a Wonderful Life at The House: we try to go to a store but what's open? Casey's. I believe that Bigger drove us. God bless you, Bigger, wherever you are.
Words that come out of my mouth, and what's happening in my brain
Here's a little story for you all. A story of me humiliating myself in front of everyone. (Not that that doesn't happen very often.)

It all starts in class. I was sitting at my desk, sort of working when my professor comes over to ask how our efforts to drum up subjects for our upcoming testing is going.

My verbal response looked like this: "It's going good, we're lining up a few testers, ..."

I pause, I don't feel tester is appropriate. Mainly because this is flashing in my head: employer, employee. Tester = employer, so tester = me. Employee should =

And out of my mouth, "testees." Everyone laughs and I wonder why for a moment.

So much for thinking before you speak...
Thursday, October 27, 2005
This one is definitely the worst of all.
Day Late. Dollar short.

Curteousy TKT.
Little Goats a-Climbin'


From today's NYT.
I wish I had some cud here.
To chew.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Is this Dave? I have no idea.
I just got a text message from a 720 number that said:

"WHERE IS YOUR GOD NOW?!"
More from Andy's Future

Also, the Penny Press's British/American Dictionary lists the following definition:

Bran-tub: A tub filled with bran in which presents are concealed.

???
Now he hungers for a different grilled meat

It's Halloween.

Yes, I'm excited too! I just wet my pants! Look at that slowly expanding dark spot!

This is what I'm going to do to you if you are Andy: I am going to purchase the Burger King mask, and when you are drunk and passed out I will creep into your room on the tippiest of toes, so stealthy, and hover over you in the night. And I will breathe heavily. And when you open your eyes you will see the shadowy face of that hated and feared King of Burgers, and at that point I will turn on the flashlight I've been aiming at my masked face the entire time, and the light will course through the red filter and turn the plasticy crags and curls of my face and hair a bloody crimson and NOW WHO'S GOING TO WET HIMSELF?! HUH?!

Or maybe if the King mask remains sold out I will dress as an Oompa Loompa, which you also fear.

Or maybe a prohibition agent.

. . .

You will never spend a night alone again.
Woah. That chick lost her legs.
Aeon Flux. Girl just lost her legs. VERY FUCKED UP

Speaking of which... a Supervillain cartoon is happening. Like SERIOULSY HAPPENING. You all want to do some voices? Seriously. Pharaoh, Overcoat, Dr. McCombs, Malefficient, those all. Serioulsy COMMENT BACK. We migh tneed a female voice too.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Beating Out a Saucy Conga Rhythm
I swear, this post will have nothing to do with bathrooms, Black Betty, or the filthy whore who is Andy.

Andy may actually be mentioned.

Robots who travel into the past to kill Andy also will not be mentioned, but robots who travel into the past to kill other heads of state may and probably will be mentioned.

This sort of thing happens all the time.

Like this Halloween, for example. My good friend the Coal-Powered Robotic Abe Lincoln Who Was Sent into the Past to Kill and Destroy the True Abe Lincoln With a Modern-Day Automatic Pistol tells me he'll be around. Will he be drinking out of the skull of the true Lincoln? He might be! That wacky robotic bastard! Will he use the ex-President's bleached femurs to beat out a saucy conga rhythm? Who knows!

. . .

This is the most hated event at any job. You do not want this to happen. If this happens it sets a precedent and you may as well place your head in the supply closet door now and slam and slam and slam until bitter unkind consciousness bleeds from your ears.

The thing in question is when you've completed all your work and your boss congratulates you and then says, "Hmm, I guess you'll need a project," and then crosses her arm and touched her chin and stares and hums and thinks while she tries so hard to come up with some busy work for you, some busy work that is so integral to the organization's success that it takes her thirty seconds to come up with it.

This hasn't happened for a while.

You learn never to finish any project until the last minute.

. . .

Today we're supposed to call Metro shopping centers and find out how much they pay their shopping cart attendants. One of our counselors thinks her client is being underpaid in the competitive field of Shopping Cart Retrieval, and is actually concerned and curious about the wage market:

It might be interesting to find out what the other Target stores pay. I’d like to see how this client’s current level of pay compares to similar positions with other employers in the Metro area.

Damn.
Monday, October 24, 2005
Yet Another Dispatch from the Bathroom
OH HOLY JEEBUS.

This is going to be about an apocalyptic experience in the 1st Floor Restroom, so if that sounds disgusting, don't read this.

After lunch I stopped in to get some napkins. This big fat janitor man trundled in after me and locked himself in the one stall. Okay.

Just walked back in—34 minutes later—and he's still in there. I recognize the shoes. The floor at his feet is littered with scraps of TP, an empty roll, bigger scraps. And the smell: it's like Rick Moranis shrank me down and his neighbor came over and shoved me into his rectum. There are probably visible poo particles floating in the air around this guy's face. Fucking so bad that I walked out and walked to the OTHER SIDE of the building to get a NAPKIN to clean up some water rings on the desk. Oh, man. Oh.

. . .

Here's something you should never do: a google image search for 'amputation.'
Get out the gun, Zombie Lincoln is a-comin.
Have you seen those Snickers fun-size candy bar bags with the Star Wars tie-in? Each little candy bar has a trivia question on it, with a little white answer slot. The answer glows in the dark.

The first question was something about Dooku, but the second question made me livid. Who is R2D2's master? it asked. I wanted to scream at the candy bar: You dare ask me this bullshit?!I am his master! Me! Meeeeeeeeee!"

But then I would have been ejected from the bus.

. . .

What the hell is up with foul play? Is there a more understated term in the law? Whenever I read some news report where police suspect foul play, I imagine two adults fighting over a lolly pop, until one of them pulls out a sawn off shotgun and shoots the other's jaw bone across the room.
The Black Squirrel of Avalon
Wes may remember this from days of yore.











The Black Squirrel of Avalon has been spotted in Cambridgeshire!

He's a wiley one! That black squirrel has traveled halfway around the world in search of The Maltese Acorn, which his ancestor used to defeat the Nazis.

Speaking of Maltese, I've had The Maltese Falcon on loan from the Des Moines Public Library for the last three weeks and they are not pleased. You know it's bad when they don't even include your late fee amount in the overdue notices. It's like they're saying, "Dude, you don't even want to know!"
Sunday, October 23, 2005
Myspace is hilarious. Not to bash it, but Ive realized people check their MS like ...80 or 90 times a day. Especially since we are around computers all day, its seriously 80 or 90 times. I remember checking the blog about 12 or 14 times a day, but Damn.

Here i go now. to check it.
After seeing a girl on myspace Ryan was talking to:
Amish: I would not be caught dead with that girl.

Me: That deformed queen of the sea cows.

Amish: I would not be caught DEAD with her.

Ryan: You wouldn't be caught dead with your own hand.

Amish: ...actually, I probably will.
Saturday, October 22, 2005
I just burned my tongue
Im not at a party. Boo hoo for me.

Why Alien Loves Predator with Godzilla.
Friday, October 21, 2005
No...my destiny...thwarted...by a MACHINE!
You...you son-of-a-bitch!

You'll never get away with this!

There must still be time for me to get back on course...

I just...can't...ugh...NOOOOOO!

I knew you seemed different after that night!
Stranger somehow, more mechanical.

You better run back to the future RoboDicks...because I'm coming for you, and nothing will keep me from getting my vengence.

Not even time.
My work here is finished, and tonight I return to the future.
In your future—my past—A. R. Judge is the leader of the Reformed United States. Following the 2014 dissolution of the European Union and the Reconstitution of the 3rd Reich in 2018, the United States waned in power and nearly crumbled in a series of wars fought on domestic soil. New York was leveled by a trio of nuclear devices. Smallpox was released into the larger Midwestern cities. Judge's girlfriend died, Judge joined the military's dwindling numbers, and the rest is history. Complete history, now.

My birth occurred in the backroom of a Seattle speakeasy over several months. After A. R. Judge's Drying of the World campaign, such bars were illegal, but ours was disguised as a tiny used book shop. The bar was only one of thousands in the state, tens of thousands in the nation, a tiny segment of a growing confederacy. Our membership roles claimed drunks, of course, but also doctors and scientists and engineers.

I was cobbled from empty beer cans, from wooden shipping crates. My legs were cored with barstool wood; my head was formed of melted and reshaped bottle glass. The shell of my body was weak, but into it went one of the future's most powerful computers. And into my hands went ten poisonous needles, one for each finger.

I was sent across the country, to the new center of state. My mission was to destroy the President, but I was shot down by his bodyguards and lackeys. My parts were taken in for examination, but one of the official scientists—one of our moles—retrieved my computer brain, and returned it to the bar on the West Coast.

The assassination attempt thrilled our co-conspirators, and now, with more funding, they were able to construct a new body for my advanced computer brain, a body forged of Dolomite and Titanium, shot full of liquid metal capable of healing old wounds. They wound me with incredible reflexes. They reinserted my computer brain. And this time they sent me back in time.

The goal: not to destroy the future President, but to ruin him for the future.

I appeared at the University of Northern Iowa. My body was incredible, was new, but it was obvious a man-made device, out of place in this, the past. I had a target—a potential host body with close access to Andrew Judge—and I found him on the campus, at night, on the phone with his ex-girlfriend (an M. McLain). I rushed him, removed a pen from his hand, and gouged it into his back. I slit a seam to his neck and peeled off the skin, my new suit. I slipped it in, stuffed meat into the right places, and finally I looked just like him.

My brain had been pre-loaded with every biography written on the future's great leader, and so I knew where to go, which room he and the host body had shared. I also knew that the formative experience of his life was only days away.

His girlfriend had just broken up with him. He was desperate, was too sad to drink. This was supposed to be the point at which he sobered up, put away the booze, and began to train his body and mind for the future leader he would become. But now, something else would happen: I would pour him drinks, and keep him sloshed, until he was too far gone to come back.

My creators have a way of communicating with me—an audio device that is unhindered by the gap in time. The rule has always been to let me do the contacting, to avoid exposure. But last night they were too excited—there was a shimmer to their reality, a thinness to the world. Things were changing at the foundation of their world, and the past was being reformed.

My goal is accomplished.

I'm off to the future to seduce your future wife with my pheromone-steaming robot body, Judge. Don’t worry; you'll be too drunk to notice.
Weirdness
Last night was very strange.

I don’t think I’ve told anyone about this (since I am not nearly as open with sharing my dreams as Cricket is), but I’ve had a reoccurring dream for the last four years or so. I probably have this dream once or twice a month and it’s always very vivid.

In this dream I am a great military leader. At the beginning of the dream I’m in battle. I'm screaming out orders to my men and firing my M16A3 at an onrushing swarm of enemy soldiers.

My twenty soldiers and I are pinned down on the outskirts of a desert city, we're being closed in on by close to 150 heavily armed infantrymen. Bullets zip over our heads and kick up the dirt all around us. The only thing keeping us alive is a shallow hole we dug haphazardly in the sand during our retreat. We hunker down in the hole just waiting for the enemy soldiers to close in and kill us.

In a moment of brilliance (or stupidity) I decide we’re going to charge the enemy. We're going to go down fighting. I bark to the man next to me and tell him to spread the word. I want all my men to each toss a grenade as close to the front of the enemy line as they can. I count off loudly...1...2....3.

We toss.

The grenades fly up and drop to the ground between us and the enemy. Multiple explosions. Dust fills the gap between us.

In the confusion of the explosions and dust, the bullets stop coming.

I call for the charge.

We bolt out of our hole and rush the enemy soldiers—guns blazing! We can hardly see anything through the dust, but we keep firing. I don’t take my finger from the trigger until I run out of ammo, then I jam another clip in the rifle and start firing again—just trying to get off as many rounds as I can before I’m gunned down.

Then, before we know what happened, we’re on the other side of the dust cloud. Over a hundred enemy soldiers lay dead in the sand. We did it!

---------------------------------------------------------

The dream fades and suddenly I’m in an office with a bunch of guys in military uniforms. They’re all huddled around a map of Europe and they’re asking me questions. I give them the answers with an audible pride.

They ask, “How long until the area is secure?” “How many troops will we need to leave?” “Why hasn’t France retaliated?” “Why did you hit England so hard?” “Are you sure we can trust the Irish?”

I answer all their questions with an easy confidence. I’ve got the whole situation under control. Nothing will go wrong.

Nothing will stop me.

---------------------------------------------------------------
Finally, the dream ends with me in a very large office.

The ceilings are high enough to allow a giraffe clearance. Behind my desk is a huge segmented window overlooking a city. The city is clean, smooth and busy. It looks like an anthill—full of movement and purpose. I marvel at it and, somehow, I know it is mine. I built it.

A man wearing an expensive suit and a loosened tie enters the room.

He saunters over, walking with a noticeable sway, to where I stand at the window. He’s drunk.

I am filled with a sudden rage.

“Good evening, sir.”, he says. “Would you care for a scotch?”

He holds a glass out to me. My hand flashes from my side and backhands the glass across the room.

“How dare you offer me alcohol!”

I say ‘alcohol’ but I might as well be referring to a dish that contains fried human baby for all the venom that soaks the word. I turn toward the interloper and glare. He shrinks and begins to make a shaking apology.

“I..I..I’m sorry sir, it won’t...”, he starts to say, but my rage only builds.

“You’re certainly right it won’t happen again! Do you know why?”

He hesitates, then offers a sniveling “Why sir?”

“BECAUSE I’M GOING TO OUTLAW ALCOHOL!”

My roar fills the expanse of the room and echoes, giving the declaration an air of finality.

But my diatribe isn’t finished.

“I’m going to make it impossible to get so much as a bottle of rubbing alcohol without the proper authorization! Back in the 1930’s they failed to keep booze illegal. They allowed too many smugglers and criminals to keep the supply coming and they failed to maintain a sober country. Where they failed, I will not. DEATH to anyone who imbibes alcohol!”

The sniveler tries to talk me out of it. “But sir, what about all the revenue created by the alcohol industry? What about the millions upon millions of the world’s citizens who enjoy alcohol? Your own church, sir, uses alcohol in its ceremonies. Surely you can’t be serious.”

My rage burns all the hotter.

“Oh, you don’t think I’m serious? I’ve been sober my entire life and have become the most successful man in the world. I single-handedly built the world we know from the bottom up. The peace and prosperity that those booze-loving citizens enjoy is due to my sober perseverance. And all the while I’ve watched drunks like you stumble their way through life with no purpose. Alcohol is the last poison left in this world, and I plan to purge it like I purged the others. People don’t need alcohol—they need order—and I will give it to them!”

As I finish saying this, I pull a pistol from underneath my coat and put it to the drunk’s forehead. Before he can utter any protest I pull the trigger and watch as his brains spatter the papers on my desk.

I put the gun away and reach for my communicator.

“Jessica, could you please have a cleaning crew sent to my office? Yes, right away. I’m also going to need to find a new personal aide, could you make the arrangements? Get the press secretary up here as well; I’m going to have an important announcement to make. Thank you Jessica.”

“Oh, and Jessica, could you please push my daily enema up to 10:30 tomorrow morning? Yes, I’m going to need to be extra clean.”

The dream begins to fade and the last words I hear are my own.

“From this moment forward the planet Earth will be free from the poison shackles of alcohol!”

-------------------------------------------------
So that’s the dream.

Now, you may be asking yourself what that has to do with last night being strange.

Well, Tim and I were sitting in my living room drinking and playing Halo and all of a sudden I hear a man’s voice. At first I thought it was his cellphone set to high volume but then I looked down and I thought it sounded like the voice was coming from Tim’s watch! I couldn’t believe it!

And here’s the strangest thing: The voice coming from Tim’s watch sounded EXACTLY like the voice of the man I shot in my dream. Very spooky!

I remember Tim jumping up and saying something about needing to go to the bathroom and then I really don’t remember much after that. I was pretty drunk, so I guess I was just hallucinating. It was really weird though.

So what’s everyone doing this weekend? Are Wes and Amish coming up to drink with us? I hear Amish may be heartbroken and you know what best cures heartbreak: an eighty-dollar bottle of whiskey.

Yeah, that’s right. Let’s drown them sorrows with style!
That's so freakin subtly creepy
Mary Roach discusses her new book Spook over at Salon, and mentions this ghosty story:

There was this story in "Spook" -- we took it out because it was not that gripping -- but I used to live in a house that was supposedly haunted. And one time I came into the kitchen and there was in the middle of the table, in the morning, this little Valentine's Day [candy] heart. You know, the ones that are printed. It said "No use" -- which is kind of a downer for a Valentine's Day message. And I thought that was weird because the bowl of hearts was in the other room. I asked my boyfriend at the time, and he didn't know anything about it. I decided it was the lady who died in the house and who, according to the upstairs neighbors, would sometimes make the doors open and shut.
Tim is the son of a dog that was whored out to men

My airship is still rendering. I started at 8:40 and now it has 18 mins to go.

Son of a dog that was whored out to men, otherwize known as Tim.

---

OH! I got Munchkin started up here. Everyone and their whored-out canines love it. Ever so much that we plan on buying all the expansions and putting them all together for instant madness. Its like playing word search at the library of congress. Only less boring.

And you all should seriously look into Heroscape (Pronounced Here Oh Scah Pee) and into playing it. The latest expansion has Highland Warriors and Gorilla Soldiers. Seriously. Gorillas with guns. Not the ones that hang out in the jungles. The ones that throw barrels at construction workers. Yes. THOSE Gorillas.
This is so like my dad.
Overheard from the next cubicle, wife talking to her husband about how the husband has no idea what to get for his son's birthday:

HER: No, you have to get out there and shop. Just . . . find something that reminds you of him.

HIM: We might have something here . . .

HER: Come on, think birthday present.

HIM: …(mumbling a guess)

HER: …keychain? A keychain?

HIM: Well?

HER: Keychain?
New Title: How Andy is, himself a huge Whore
There is this Portishead lyric that I CAN NOT figure out. No matter how many times I listen to it, it always comes across as:

where the moooooooon beats the Jew

which is, of course, ridiculous. The moon can't beat any Jew. It doesn't have any freakin arms!

This makes the moon a prime target for sexual assault, robbery, pickpocketry, nosepickery, and assgrabbery.

This just in: Andy is, himself, a huge WHORE.
The Headless Researcher
Well, David, maybe if you'd built a real airship instead of rendering one for the special little people in your head, you wouldn't have to go with anyone to the airport. Because you could all just take the WellsHawk.

Recently I was charged with Wacky Scheme Development for Pharaoh. Try as I might, I can not develop a sufficiently wacky scheme! I think this is because my schemes all work well in a texual medium, but do not translate well into cartoony visuals. For example, I considered having Pharaoh conscript a legion of vagabonds, drunks, incontinent old men, shoe shiners, newspaper peddlers, bag men, porters, animal handlers, male prostitutes, and the dreaded Dead Beat Dads, then deploying them into the heart of the Midwest. They would scour dating services and then take all the grossly obese/grossly disfigured/grossly socially inept women of the United States out on the town, where they would of course make a hideous mess of things. Then, when these women were disapponited and even more desperate than before, Pharaoh himself would mass-invite them to his carnal temple of love. When they arrived, he would have them all wound in gauze and buried, for a week, in the sand. When they emerged, they would be his mindless slaves, and hot to boot. They would be released on the powerful men of the world.

At this point, I start feeling ridiculous.

. . .

This is my favorite part of the year, this near-Halloween time, and I'm hardly enjoying it at all. Where the fuck are the headless horsemen? No one is trying to cut off my head.

I really wish they sold orange beer for Halloween. That would make parties infinitely better.

To the food coloring!

. . .

Andy, bring my damn gloves to lunch!

...fucking thief...
The wonder that is not sleeping when you need to
Ah. Nothing beats the feeling of having to wake up at six-thirty am and NOT sleeping at all, despite the fact that I went to bed roughly at 1230.

Finished an animation of the airship. Whoohoo! Now I must render it. After, of course, I haul someone to the airport. Well Im not doin the hauling, Im doing the ridin with.

Bleh.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Report: 92 Percent Of Souls In Hell There On Drug Charges

This amused the hell out of me.


Get it? Hell? AH HA HA!
Calllllifoooornia
A guy who's seen every videogame movie adaptation.

Fifty thousand on Double Dragon!
Have you always wanted to make your own anvil?
Well now you can!
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Horzxe
With uproarious laughter
The new Juice might as well have been written by Tim and I. In fact, I am certain we would have made it 2000 leagues better.

And the same people probably would have appeared in it.

I shouldn't be surprised to find some familiar names and faces in this issue of Juice, though, because it happens to be the bar guide.

Stefanie, Alyssa, TJ Spurgin...countless faces that I recognize but can't put names to.

There is a creepy picture of TJ at The Garden giving the 'come hither' motion to someone off camera.

Alyssa is quoted as saying, "If you want a bar like Drink, go to Drink. If you want a good bar, go to the Lift."

I would have said, "If you want a boring bar, go to The Lift." but then again, I've only been there twice, so I probably should just be quiet. I don't want to offend the die-hard devotees of iPod Monday.

I should mention that when I read her quote to a pair of my co-workers they responded with uproarious laughter.

Did you people know that Vaudville Mews was smoke-free? Of course you did. Molly and I are probably the only two people in Des Moines who didn't know. Cause we totally smoked in there. I can't believe the smoke nazis didn't tear us apart.

Juice also pointed out the strangely small number of pool tables at Rack & Roll. It's called RACK and fricking ROLL and they have THREE pool tables. Isn't there some truth-in-advertising law they're breaking?

And they never mention either Stix location, which I believe is probably the best bar in Des Moines after High Life.

I just decided I'm going to quit my job and fulfill my dream of wandering the country hustling pool in various bars. It would be GLORIOUS! I wake up in the front seat of my car, still hung over from the night before. Big black bruise on the side of my face where a pool cue had connected with my cheekbone.

I pull a bottle of Black Velvet from under the seat and take a swig.

Pull a smoke from the pack on the dashboard and stick in my mouth. I light it and inhale. The dirty tar covers the taste of vomit in my mouth.

I lean back in the seat and fish the keys from my hip pocket. While I drunkenly fumble with the keys my mind begins to clear and I remember the night before. I and my trusty, custom made two-piece pool cue had trounced on a bar full of bikers and taken them for everything they had. Unfortunately I used most of the money to buy myself glasses of whiskey, and was far too drunk to do anything about it when the bikers decide that if they can't beat me at pool, they'll settle for just beating me.

It will be at this moment that I will realize that I would have been better off drinking martinis at The Lift.

Actually, scratch all that. I'll just hustle pool at Drink. Bunch of rich kids who don't know how to play but sure know how to arrogantly lay down some cash trying to impress their girl.

Oh yeah, that's definitely the way to go.

What the fuck was I thinking hustling bikers in the first place? They're FUCKING BIKERS! What did I think would happen? Of course I'd spend the next day trying to pull the bottom half of my pool cue out of my ass. Duh.
Well, holy fuck!
Chicago Trib: "Weight loss can give sex life a lift!"
Stupidity Squared
I haven't been posting much lately. Sorry. There have been so many lovely stories I could have told you since the last time I posted.

Unfortunately I chose to make my return to share this little nugget with you:

Stefanie, the girl I used to have as an assistant until my workload no longer required it, has amazed me yet again. I was sure that there was no possible way she could convince me that she was any stupider than I already believed her to be.

Well, she has done it.

About ten minutes ago she came into my cube, breath reeking, and informed me that she had puked in her trash can.

An hour before that she had told me that she took 750mgs of morphine at lunch.

She blamed the puking on the Burger King food.
A Vicious Roundhouse Slap.
Okay, we really need to film that slapping movie. The next weekend that I don’t go to Cedar Falls and John doesn't go to Cedar Falls and Christine doesn't come to Ames, we should film it. Assuming John is free and can get the camera, and Amish can get here.

This concept was born the day we went to find Indian food, so in case you've forgotten:

It's a series of very brief sketches involving Amish getting slapped.

For example:

AMISH AND A GIRL SIT ON OPPOSITE SIDES OF A TABLE IN A FINE RESTAURANT. BOTH WEAR DECENT CLOTHES AND SMILE POLITELY; IT'S OBVIOUS THIS IS A 2ND OR 3RD DATE BETWEEN TWO PEOPLE WHO LIKE EACH OTHER.

HER: So listen, I want to tell you something.

AMISH: What's that?

HER: I . . . SHE LOOKS DOWN, SHY. THEN SMILES WIDE, EMBARRASSED. I really like you.

AMISH: I really like you too.

THEY STARE AT EACH OTHER, GRINNING. THEN, STILL SMILING, SHE REACHES OVER AND VICIOUSLY SLAPS HIM OUT OF HIS CHAIR.

Or this one:

AMISH STANDS IN AN APARTMENT, LISTENING TO ANDY PRATTLE ON. ANDY STANDS IN THE DOORWAY, WEARING A TIE, HOLDING THE BOOK OF MORMON.

ANDY: --and that's the revelation given to Joseph Smith. Do you believe?

AMISH: Well . . . I think I might.

ANDY: (extending hand) Welcome to the true faith, brother!

AMISH REACHES FOR HIS HAND BUT WITH THE OTHER HAND, ANDY DELIVERS A VICIOUS ROUNDHOUSE SLAP.

or this one:

AMISH STANDS IN THE RAIN, ON THE STREET, SALUTING THE AMERICAN FLAG. THIS IS OBVIOUSLY A WRENCHING MOMENT FOR HIM; MAYBE HE JUST GOT BACK FROM THE WAR, MAYBE HIS BROTHER WAS SHOT TO ALL FUCK IN IRAQ. MAYBE IT'S RAINING RIGHT NOW. ALL THAT MATTERS IS THIS: I AM JOGGING. I AM JOGGING FAR DOWN THE STREET, BUT I GET CLOSER, AND AMISH KEEPS SALUTING. WHEN I JOG BY I LUNGE, UNEXPECTEDLY, AND SLAP THE BEJESUS OUT OF HIM.

And of course, there's that one where Amish gets cancer. But that's in the previous post.
Hemerrhoids; Tackling the Governor; The Waterlogged Undead; Comics
More dispatches from the bathroom:

8:05 AM: Upon arriving to work, stopped into the one remaining bathroom to remove a piece of pizza crust from my teeth. Stepped into restroom to be greeted by panting, labored breathing. Attempted to walk directly to mirror but couldn't help noticing pair of pants crumpled beneath wall of the stall. Subject in stall still wore shoes, but pants had been completely removed and were almost entirely outside the stall, in the bathroom proper. Also on the floor: an industrial size white tube or bottle of medication.

Stole pants. Stamped on medication, squirting goo all over unseen subject.

8:15 AM (non-bathroom dispatch): Some lady just now walked by and stared into my cubicle. Not only did she spy on me, but she was wearing a horizontal stripy black-and-light-yellow shirt. Get the hell out of here, Bee Woman!

Here is an event the State is hosting:

Mardi Gras in the Museum -- a Benefit Event for Iowa’s Gulf States Relief Fund

Saturday, October 22, from 6 to 10 PM at the State Historical Building, 600 E. Locust St., Des Moines

Music by the Party Gras Classic Jazz Band, the Heartland Youth Choir and Calle Sur

Cajun-inspired food from your favorite Des Moines restaurants

Wine, beer and soft drinks

Now, you know how I feel about those damned New Orleanseans. The idea is not mine, but I am on the planning board for the Mardi Gras meets Undead Waterlogged Sea Zombies party.

I don't actually hate the New Orleanseans. But I will attend the MG/UWSZ party.

But back to the subject: I am so tempted to go to this State-sponsored museum drunkery. I'd get bombed on wine, beer and soft drinks and tackle the governor into a display of Iowa's legal code. "Vilsackvilsack," he'd say, and then the pounding of footsteps on the marble floor would alart him. He'd glance up. "Vilsack?" he'd say, and then I'd leap headlong into his torso, capture him in a bearhug, and we'd both tumble into an 8 x 8 State Flag.

Do you remember me talking about the old woman here with really nice legs? This lady is probably 65 and damn, she has some fine legs. Well, I have found another! There are two of these people here!

Blame it on stem cell research.

Is anyone coming this weekend? (That really means "Wes, what are you doing?" since Amish doesn't understand what the "magic electric computo-box" is and . . . well, Kevin already lives here.)

Is Andy returning to Albia?

Is Kevin going a-ghost hunting?

Here is your food and drink review: yesterday Andy and I met for pizza. I summoned the Dark Forces and requested a pizza-bearing portal to open at a bus bench on E. 6th at precisely 12:15. When the pizza came—delivered by some kid in a Baretta instead of by the dark hand of Thanator—this bag lady started tailing me. I sat there for a while, waiting for Andy, and she stood there, staring in a display window. The display window was completely boarded up and blank. That woman wanted my pizza.

Post pizza, we went to Gong Fu Tea. Have you heard of Gong Fu Tea? It's an excellent place. The environment, I mean, the actual place. They have empty crates as decoration, which is good enough for me. And the tea—they brew it in little pots that they put on top of your cup. And then they push a button and the tea comes out the bottom! of the pot, and splashes into your cup! The pot urinates delicious tea into your cup!

Here are some things I would draw if I were John or Dave. Some of these scenarios you will already be familiar with:

AMISH'S TRIP TO THE DOCTOR

PANEL ONE: Amish sits on examination table, doctor stands. Both look grave. Amish is not wearing a shirt. Doctor: Amish, I'm afraid you have . . . cancer.

PANEL TWO: Amish gapes, devastated.

PANEL THREE: Doctor lays into Amish with a vicious, brutal slap, rocking his body off the table and into the wall. Sound effect: SLAPPO!

. . .

LAST SATURDAY'S TRIP TO PIZZA HUT (ALMOST A TRUE STORY)

PANEL ONE: Group of adults sitting around a restaurant table, eating pizza, looking happy and conversational.

PANEL TWO: Group of children in birthday hats sits behind group of adults. Cake in center of table. Noisemakers in hands. Raucousness.

PANEL THREE: Adults, one in particular, getting annoyed.

PANEL FOUR: Most annoyed adult snapping, fingers twisted into claws, eyes squinted in rage.

PANEL FIVE: Adult leaping onto kid's table, tearing off shirt, furious. Kids shocked.

PANEL SIX: Adult smashing the cake against his chest and face, kids screaming and running.

PANEL SEVEN: Adult, covered in cake, half nude, with disembodied arm in mouth; birthday hats all over the table, pieces of children and birthday cake mess.

. . .

A GREETING

PANEL ONE: Two businessmen at a bus stop. First businessman: Hello!

PANEL TWO: Other businessman: Hello!

PANEL THREE: Their faces contort as their chests and suits burst open, and eldritch aliens claw their ways out of their chests.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Cell Phones are the least of your problems... What about the popcorn?!

blogged this on myspace as well. Original comic from poorlyDrawn.com
Gooey Pumpkins
Pumpkins are the wierdest of all the gourds. Sometimes pumpkins last from the beginning of October to the end of November but then there are the majority that turn to melted jello after a week. Pumpkin yack is prolly the foulest material on the planet (next to someone's relations, but we wont go there).

Im soooooooooooooooooooooooooo tired. And soooooooooooooooooooooooooooo poor.
Don't stand under them
It's a dream post again. This one is beyond wierd and partially lucid...

I start remembering at a spot where I'm riding in a car with family. We're in a city, and a district that's doing a lot of construction, high rise style. So of course my dad wants to find a good parking space... right next to a construction vehicle. A large, "if it were hollowed out it'd be a duplex" kind of vehicle. It looked like a large scooping type of thing, with the main articulated arm sticking out of the swiveling body. But there were four more scoops out like feet around it. No wheels, no tracks.

We park next to it. Right next to it. Then the thing gets up and moves away on it's scoop legs. Not slowly either, but quickly and fluidly. Moves to the next spot it's needed.

But it's not just one high rise, but a whole cluster of the things. Block after block is girders stretching into the sky. There are more of these spider machines above us working on the buildings. They could lift themselves vertically to high floors. So imagine mobile duplexes flitting around at speeds quite unusual for a duplex. Also imagine waiting for one to slip and fall while being under them...

Thankfully we found the office-megastore we were looking for amid this growth. Amid all these people looking for office supplies I manage to run into the only one who likes to wear adult diapers on a regular basis, and likes to share that fact... If I've never seen the face of lunacy before, my dream has just fit that bill... God that laugh is going to haunt me...

So I quickly get away from there and end up at a place not unlike billy joe's, where I'm informed aliens are trying to sneak onto earth and we know where that will be.

Anything to get me away from the diapered one...

Thankfully I seem to own an old modified submarine + crew.

Scenes change as I'm now looking at a small VTOL landing on water, sinking into a maw just under the water. (I realize that such a hangar isn't practical, but it was there) I'm on the bridge welcoming the pilot back, chatting with the crew and going to get some food.

I take a squad and go look for the aliens. The search goes poorly, but dan akroyd, who aparently is my merc superior shows up and gives me a hand.

The end because I have to go to class.
Monday, October 17, 2005
Success!
Somehow I've just managed to flip a burger with the lid of my forman!

Amazing!

... Sounds like a dr. wierd segment...
A list of commonly broken Iowa laws, along with penalties.
Boom!
I shot your mom in the face...but not with a gun.
Theres a new Samuel L. Jackson movie coming out. Its called Snakes on a Plane. No shit. A killer releases snakes on a plane to kill everyone.

So from now on instead of saying "Shit happens," Im going to say "Snakes on a plane." For example:

"Hey! You just blew up my SUV!"
(me)"Snakes on a plane, man. Snakes on a plane."
"Fuck you! Ill rape your mom in the mouth for that disgrace

"...snakes on a plane, man."
Boom, you're shot in the face. Andy and John have already heard this . . . sort of.
I wanted to invent a new figure of speech:

"That's like fuckin a horse with a prosthetic leg."

And I'd say it in every circumstance. It would have no real meaning, so let's say I'm at the new central library, returning three books that are a couple months overdue, and some non-cute girl (an NCG-entity, or NCG) approaches me.

"Man," she says. "You are hot as hell." One hand strokes her hair while the other brushes her thigh. She is horny for me. Horny as hell. "Wanna help me locate . . . the romance section?"

Then I scoff and walk away. "That would be like fuckin a horse with a prosthetic leg," I'd say.

Or let's say I order a double mushroom pizza. I'm playing halo, playing halo, shooting everyone in the face, boom, you're shot in the face, and after 45 minutes there's a knock at the door. The pizza man is here, and he has brought me a cheese pizza. He offers to return the pizza and bring a different one. "Nah," I say, "that'd be like fuckin a horse with a prosthetic leg."

The problem, of course, is that you may wonder: do I intend to operate a prosthetic leg for the pleasure of a horse (leg as pleasure device) or do I intend to hunt down a 3-legged horse and "love" it (leg as assistive device, Unrelated to Fucking (UtF)?

I've found no way around this.
Friday, October 14, 2005
Today from McSweeney's
How to Deal with an Ex-Nazi Neighbor

And Ill-Fated Names for Stores:

4. Ye Olde Shoppe O' Shite

5. Porkers: A Place for Fat Women
Heard just now from the bathroom, loud enoug to echo through the door, down the hall, through the metal walls, and into my cubicle, from whence--
--I followed it (almost) to its source:

"Oh--

Oh God.

(louder)Oh God!

(stops for a moment, as I enter hallway, look around)

Ooooh, fuck.

Ooooh, God. God!

Oh, God.

(louder, as I approach bathroom with extreme caution)

Ooooh, no! Fuck, no!

God!

(I retreat)

God!"
Solonguino, Protect My Juevos...(sic)
Conceptual Storytelling requires me to write a script. I decided to make a script from the archival documents of the Burger Comics. This has lead me to realize several things:

1) WTF ever happened to Patron Saint of Ball Cutting, Solonguino?
2) What happed to Wes being called Bob?
3) Why cant we rediscover the O'Brien Jacket?
4) Will cow, cheese, spam, and Shim jokes ever return?

Ive also realized that the comics, although primitive and lousey with jokes, it actually involves several archetypes of the Hero of A Thousand Faces fame (Joseph Cambell, dolts). Cid Godspeed, Pox Boulder, and Doc O'Brien were the epitomy of the mentors (Obi-Wan or Morpheus) and Nick and I were constantly being the shapeshifters (Think Lando). The point being Ill actually have a script ready by thanxgiving so just toy with the idea of "What archetype will I be?"
The sort of thought that wins me all the action. That's right. ALL of it.
Was just thinking about the Bilbo Baggins song--actually it was stuck in my head all yesterday afternoon, I have no idea why--and I have to take issue with Mr. Nimoy's lyrics. Was Bilbo truly the "bravest little hobbit of them all?" I think one could easily and persuasively argue that Frodo, or certainly Sam, were the braver of the hobbits.

Surely this sort of deep thought is what wins me attention with the ledddies.
JC is PISSED
For everyone who hates--FUCKING HATES!--paying your energy bill, I just found out MidAmerican has an office at 666 Grand Avenue! SWEET JESUS! Every time you turn on your nightlight, you are feeding money into the greedy gaping maw of the Dark Lord Himself.

Way to go, fucker.

Jesus is pissed.
Well.........you'll never touch a hot dog again.
By law, excess anatomy like brains, eyeballs, bones, teeth, gums, ears, snouts, intestines and other organs are allegedly placed in a leftover mix called "souse," which goes on to feed creatures lower on the food chain. If a manufacturer chooses to add any of these rather distasteful ingredients to his hot dog recipe, they must be labeled as containing "meat byproducts."

Skeletal muscle is the chief ingredient. Mass-produced hot dogs are made in staggering quantities thanks, or no thanks, to AMR (Advanced Meat Recovery technology). It is within this alien technological environment that skeletal meat is turned into hot dog filling, or MSM (Mechanically Separated Meat.) To make MSM, the bones that remain after the primal cuts have been cut away are forced through an enormous sieve under intense pressure. What comes out the other side is a pinkish, paste-like product that we eventually dress with mustard and relish.

(article)
Sidewinder
Remember those motherfucking coffee brownies? The enchanted speech brownies? My coworker just threw a brownie at me and it was good, it was one of the top five brownies of my life. But it was not the #1 brownie. That would be the high school speech coffee brownie.

Which we never duplicated. We never got the alchemy to work, and always ended up with soggy groundsy catastrophes. But it's time to try again. It's time to make those damned things. Or, really, next weekend is the time to make them.

. . .

Even as you read this (assuming you read it in the morning), Andy is hunched over some computer in West Des Moines, tapping sweat onto some plastic-y keyboard, his ears gripped in headphones. Is he skipping work for some massive pr0n binge? No, he is taking the GRE. Try to beat my score of 2140, bitch.

I didn't actually get that score.

No one can actually get that score.

Good luck, Goathead.

. . .

Goathead reported a sighting of my doppelganger in Barnes and Noble. And now, someone just stopped by to tell me that I got pulled over two nights ago outside Casey's in Ankeny. But no: it was the doppelganger again, encroaching on my home turf. Alyssa, if someone comes to the apartment claiming to be me without keys, and asking you to let him in . . . you might want to fire a few shotgun rounds through the door first.

. . .

I found an instance of "whorehopper" predating Ellis's Transmet in Fear and Loathing, from 1971. I'm going to hunt this word down to its origin.

. . .

Boingboing's linked a couple times to an online set of serialized zombie novels, starting with Monster Island. I dismissed them at first because the writing's fairly . . . um . . . unshiny, but yesterday I said what the fuck and read a bit of the first one, and the story's not so bad, if you follow the axiom that a zombie story with some new ideas and some gory feasts, despite bad writing or filming or whatever, is still worth checking out.

. . .

To hell with you!
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Would any of you computer suave folk know how to bypass Cisco Clean Agent for Crashetron (Win98) or any sort of Linux I can get for it? This would explain my lack of postings: no internet in my roomy room.
Dead
Dead.

That's what this place is.

Dead like a deer hit by three semi's traveling in some sort of echleon formation down some freeway, passing bits of deer between them.

*this graphic mental image brought to you by: Cricket*
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
A Spidry Situation
One of my writing courses at UNI was really terrible. It was overpacked, full of obnoxious grad students and pompous asses and preppy girls who wouldn't stop gossiping. In addition, the teacher was a pushover and soft-voiced and really could do nothing to control anything.

The only thing of value I learend was that the most pompous people in the English Department were without fail the worst writers. The only person out of the 25 whose work was better than mine was Claire Mayo, who wrote a piece called "Pink" that probably could have been published in 95% of the literary magazines in this country. And that's not me being arrogant; I submitted decent stories for that class, nothing impressive. It's me saying that everyone else's writing BLEW.

But the point is: I asked that professor for a grad school letter of recommendation. And she asked me if I'd mind being a witness—the university is going to can her or something for being a bad prof, and she's looking for people to point out that her classes were overfull and particularly hard to control and full of idiots. So I said, okay. And then she started talking more—asking me quesitons about people whose names I didn't recognize, and then today she talked about a pop bottle throwing incident, and the final meeting in Baker Auditorium, and I realized—I wasn't even in the class she's thinking of.

So my options: contact her and apologize for accidentally agreeing with her confused memories, or just ride it out and answer questions when UNI calls and hope they don't notice I wasn't even in the class. I think my class was just as fucked up, so I can effectively fake it. But if they look at the rosters, things'll get spidery.

That's a new adjective I just made up, by the way.

Spidery.

Let's make that "spidry."
A Mysterious Location
Does anyone know what the hell the Conga Room is, in Clive? I have a $9 debit charge from last Wednesday, but I've never even heard of the place. Granted, it sounds like the sort of boozy flophouse I would frequent.

Any clues?
Retarded children humping doorknobs
I am unable to access the internet at this time from my RA room. Why? Because the school's monitoring-your-internet-illegally-in-disguise-of-safe-surfing login program DOESNT support Win98. This means I have to go to the school and PLEAD with the fucktard assclowns in Tech Support to let my computer get on the system. I dont fuckin understand. The computer I type on at this minute is WINDOWS 98 but its at the front desk...yet it has NO issue with it. The tech guy here says he can "probably" put Linux on my computer and get it online. However, this would wipe out all of Crashetron and more then likely not work cuz its Gateway and they did change their name to Gayway not too long ago. And the school letting me have my housing money back? Aint happening. Why? Cuz they take it in their asses and letting me have my loan money is the equivelance of having Jesus come and sodomize Santa for a snuff film: inconfuckincievable.

I had a little pissy hiss fit last nite. People wanted to go play DDR at some nickel arcade and Im apparently the only person with a car. Anywhere. So we get to teh place and its switched to winter hours: closed for well over an hour. I didnt want to go but I got dragged into it. And for what? Heartbreak and dissapointment at the hands of winter hours. And it got turned around as to be my fault. W. T. F.

One thing does make me happy: go to Google (or as my people call it, the G double O gle), type in " failure ", and search, then let the hilarity ensue.

As a walrus once said, "Call the police..."
Monday, October 10, 2005
Not much to say, just thought I'd post and let you all know I'm alive, and after my physical today I can say that I am indeed well. (Pending contradictory results of bloodtests that is) Classes are going well, as is work.
That is all.
Blah
The men's bathroom here says either

DAVE TAKES THE HOG

or

DAVE TAKES THE HUG

or possibly

DAVE TAKES THE HAG

And I can't decide which is the weirdest, and which is most likely.

I am astoundingly sick today.
Sea Hobo
Any one of these people could be Lucas 30 years from now.
Sunday, October 09, 2005
Waffles are pancakes with syrup traps

I HATE THIS FUCKING JERKOFF.

Im now living in a new room for the 3rd time this year. I hate moving in the same building. Its like runnin around a car with a shovel--stupid and pointless.

Denver is to get 3-6" of snow tonite/tomrrow. Fun times for all.
Friday, October 07, 2005
That man killed and ate the last unicorns
Ive been screwed. My Character Animation class is actually a 3d char animation class. WTF.

So, financial aid has given me the options of bending over & taking it in the ass or gettin on my knees and suckahatchi. Apparently, all my aid since March hasnt been applied to my tuition. This means im caught up in $12k of debt. Apparently Ive been approved for all my loans and grants and etc, but its never been dispersed. Im going to disperse Black Betty on those fucks, but not in the mouth. Im talking down there *points to genetals and anal area*
What the hell!
The NYT does Des Moines, including Java Joe's and the high life fucking lounge. What the hell?!
I just found the destiny of Rominger's baby
Sean Anthony Rominger's niche: Albia's only licensed taxidermist.

Albia has no taxidermists!

It's a travesty!

Who will stuff the corpses of woodland animals? And I don't mean . . . you know . . . with "love."
Thursday, October 06, 2005
The Devil's Game
Poker night this weekend? Yes. Yes, that's what I thought. You want to play poker this weekend, and you probably want to play it at my apartment. Or what's that? You want to play it at Andy's apartment?

Listen, you: I don't care where we play it.

$5 buy-in, we'll try to find chips or something. Wait: $7 buy-in, unless you bring some chips. Or maybe we can all go down to Target and split some chips...

Good god, man. I can't figure everything out.

Here, if that's not enough to inspire you, read Stephen Elliot's Poker Report.
Thank you Tim for making my day less boring
Another short story from the website Tim linked to, "What Color is Your Parachute." Shawk NEEDS to read this.

I'll show you why:

You lament the decision to forsake an MFA in Poetry for an MBA in Finance. You soberly contemplate what would have been so risky about starting up your own business, being a farmer, a yodeler, a puppeteer. Surely there had to be someone in some claustrophobic cubicle in every city or county in every state in America who longed to stand naked on their desktop and shout, “I wanted to be a puppeteer! I should have been a puppeteer, goddamn it!”
Short Story
Bizarro.
Excerpt from a John Hodgman fake history book--
Philadelphia was one of the 13 East Coast cities called “home” by
Edgar Allen Poe, and it was here that he hosted the first of his many
Christmas Literary Extravaganzas. Held in 1839, it was, by contemporary
accounts, a grand affair, involving feats of literary memorization and
drunken sword canery, and a chorus line of murderous orangutans. Poe
was dressed as Santa Claus, but at this point in his career this was
hardly unusual. After reciting Tamerlane, he famously brought out his
child bride Virginia and seated her on his lap. What would you like
from Santa this year, he asked. And she replied “the modern detective
story.” And so he invented then and there, writing The Murders in the
Rue Morgue using only a checkers board, a bottle of brandy, a map of
Paris. At this point, the Police chased Poe back to Baltimore.
Whore!
My freshman year of college, I acted in a play with this scrawny little blonde kid who always wore a scarf. What a dork, I thought. What a freaking dork. And then November rolled around and I walked to class and touched my neck and brittle, pinkish chips of iced flesh fell away, like paint chips from a house, and I bought a scarf.

And now whenever I dash across a busy street and my scarf billows out to the side I feel like a ninja. I should be rolling across that damn street; I should be leaping onto the hood of an Impala, kicking my way over top of a Beemer and landing safely on the other side of Grand. But then I realize that no, I am not a ninja; I am just a dork with a scarf.

. . .

As some of you know, I am applying to Institutions of Graduate Education. In the past I was cocky and certain of success; now, however, I will not be surprised if the only place that accepts me is ISU.

But I take comfort in knowing that if I fail, I can probably continue to work for the government, and pay exorbiant rental fees for a place downtown, where I will fulfill my destiny as the Master Drunk. Or near bookstores in WDM, where I will fulfill my destiny as the Master Nerd. Or in New York or SF or elsewhere where I will fulfill my destiny as the Master Hobo.

Grad schools really want you to apply electronically lately. Check this out (my favorite part is in parentheses):

If filing online simply will not be possible for you, you may download
and print the application from a PDF (Adobe Acrobat) document here:
http://gradsch.syr.edu/admission/appdownload.htm . You should fill in
the SUID number above on that form. (If it happens that even using a
PDF will not be possible for you, you may request that a printed
application form be mailed to you by using the "reply" function in your
email software. Please be sure to include this message in your
auto-reply.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
Like the Man with 3 Testicles, I dont know what to do with myself
I hate having to be creative. I have to write a story. And then turn it into a screen play. Whoo hooo! Yes, but FOES doesnt translate well into a movie, nor does Denally (not a full length one at least) Maybe I should go the route of Final Phallicy? Mayhaps. Ill figure it out. But in the meantime, Ill take any ideas.

Do you non-bil/morgan/martin/kelly/out of town folks remember the Saluting Man? He was the calico man made from many people from magazines I "turned in" for a grade and got an A out of. I remembered him out of the blue the other day and almost ran off the road in glee.
Attach the stone of triumph
Welcome, my children.

Do you think I should be a priest? Wouldn't that be badass? Like a superweird priest . . . the sort of priest who's a hobo wandering around and stumbles upon an abandoned gothic church and takes up residence and five years later, when a carfull of prom girls breaks down outside, comes to the door wearing a roman collar and a robe, holding a candle, and invites them in.

Now there's a plot for a horror movie.

In an unusual event, I will be around this weekend, and completely available. What this means is, if you're Wes and Amish, you should come here. And if you're in Des Moines, you should do something with us. I'm not guaranteeing that I'll leave the kiddy pool of tapioca and the SuperSoaker of everclear out of the equation, but I'll try.

A quote from that book I'm reading:

I stand here and wonder how you read and write when you're blind. I guess you etch lines that you can feel with your fingers, like in clay or something. Or cheese, carry cheese around all the time.

So is anyone else actually going to zombie it up Saturday? I am all for zombieing it up. I just want to have someone turn me into the walking dead. Man, I will be a drooling, brain-biting machine.

Okay, I'm talking about dreams now: Fadoir is rich. We're all at his apartment. He proposes a toast to the day he met Ryan and Andy and I, confused, accidentally break a $60 bottle of wine. That sucked.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Zombies in Des Moines
Bunny just sent me a very intriguing email:

Did you know about this?? Want to be a zombie extra in a movie they are filming in DSM called "The Wait" ? Saturday at 5pm at Colby Park in Windsor Heights. They need about 125 people.

So of course I asked how she knew about this, and she replied:

It was in the paper:) The Waukee Register Section Front page blurb. I thought you'd be interested along with your other zombie infatuated friends. For more info email Josh Brown at jbrown@3bpictures.com

Someone needs to email that man!

I did a little quick Google research and found this article about the movie.

So who wants to be a zombie in some B horror flick? Eh? Com'n guys, don't be shy.

UPDATE:

Bunny just got an email from jbrown@3bpictures.com, here's what he said:

Hi Beth!

Most everything was in that article for the time being. Anyone under 18 will probably need a parent or guardian to sign our release form, but other than that you just need to be at the location listed in the article at 5pm. We have some paper, some instructions, and other stuff
to get out of the way, then zombies will be sorted into teams and given directions for what to do.

Unfortunately, with the movie biz, what the zombies can expect to do alot of is to wait around.
Hope to see you there!

Josh
3B Entertainment

There you have it kids. I know you're all practicing your 'drool, moan and stagger' right now.
some lit stuff
That author I mentioned earlier--DBC Pierre--on winning the Man Booker Prize:

It seemed like a long shot. Put it this way: the moment I sat down to write the line, "Honey, I Butt-Fucked the Family," the Booker Prize wasn't the very first thing that passed through my mind.
I've glutted myself on peanut M&Ms. Seriously.
How scratch & sniff works.

My book recommendation of the week is Vernon God Little, by DBC Pierre. The basic premise is that there's a school shooting. It's darkly awesome and funny so far. Read a review for it right before I broke up with Carol, and reading it brings me back to the boozy air-conditioning of her apartment in Cedar Falls.

I know half of you came close to shooting up the school yourselves.

So guess who gave birth Thursday?

The name is SeanAnthony something Rominger. Or Shaun Anthony something Rominger. Or something like that. I guess we'll call him SARs.
Damn dreams
What the hell? Why do I keep having vivid zombie dreams?!

This time, the zombies were widespread, uncontainable, but dumb as hell and slower than snails. They'd have to flood you into a box canyon covered in grease so you couldn't climb the walls, that's how slow they mmoved.

At anyrate, I found myself in my parents new town (towns by the way were still habitable, soundproofing homes and blacking out windows made sure the zombies didn't realize you were there and try to come knocking, and there were the domed cities that were zombie free". In towns at least, the zombie hoards were rare. They were more like a more frequent stray animal in the streets. Still, it had a bizarre effect on the world, going out was a risk though you were mostly safe if you were smart. There were those who went out though. Like police, but more like dogcatchers. Being driven around by their partner in some sort of van, taking out strays as they popped up and being a first response/distraction for a horde until the heavy guns could come in.

I was one of those in my dream, first day on the job too. Mr. Bitterman had been seen roaming the streets. No one had seen him in awhile and he lived alone. Guess no one noticed when he died. They were noticing him now though. I felt bad, I knew the guy. I didn't want to shoot him. Ultimately I learned the ropes though, dropped myself off way too close and nearly got caught by Mr. Bitterman.
Monday, October 03, 2005
What I found today on boingboing
Cryptozoology!
Expensive Projects
Dave, you should just see how deeply in debt you can go, and embrace your life as the Negative 6 Million Dollar Man. Once you get deep enough, it'll be almost hip. People will be like, see that guy drinking the Mr. Pib? I hear he owes some school $300,000! No way! Yes way! No way! Yes! It's fucking true!

I'm really curious to see what's up with Ryan's unclaimed mail. It just gave me an excellent idea: I need to write a novel that's told through mail. By which I mean you'd pay for the novel and then receive it, in bundles, and it'd be individually packaged communications directed toward some character—like at first some innocuous sounding correspondence from different people, and then some weird bills, and notices from the government and warnings and bills and fines and maybe a package—it would probably have to be a mystery story.

that could be an expensive project.

I'm half serious about the other idea born this weekend: a Des Moines-based tabloid. You know how City View competes with the Register? We need a third publication to bitch about both of them: the Underbelly, Des Moines's only tabloid newspaper. Maybe we could start out on the web? My web design skills are pretty undelicious, unfortunately. They're like the brussels sprouts of web design.

One of the people who always mocks my fingerless hobo typing gloves just moaned about how her hands are so frozen in here. Oh! So sorry! If only there were some garment that protected your hands and still allowed you to type! What fool would have something like that?

Not me, because I left mine in my car. In Ankeny. Fuck.
Venture: "Cant you just magic this away?" Orpheus: "Not as much as you can science it away!"
So I survived the first weekend as an RA. Very freaking rough. I had to deliver the ol' Toe to a couple unruley frat boys. Otherwize, it was ok.

I get my own room this week. As soon as the 1st floor ruffiant moves out. The most hand jobbery of all this is that I live next to one of the RAs that are leaving. But instead of just transferring me next door, they move me down a floor and on the opposite side of the building.

School also starts this week. And my never-fruitful quest to find a job. Grargh. Not to mention the neverending quest to find woman. I am going to start my goal, as well, to use the school's resources and get out of here before i go tremendously into debt.
Saturday, October 01, 2005
Ryan, you might want to read this
Ryan, I'm thinking you should have come to get your mail...you got more while I was in Texas. It seems the Iowa Revenue Service wants paid, and it also seems you are no longer allowed to drive...What did you do?

Oh, if anyone else sees this and talks to Ryan, you might want to drive him over here.

Hell, somebody give me an address, and I'll take it to him.