A collection of short stories, idioms, ponderings, and opium-induced Miget-bears

Time to Change the Tone

2010-11-25T21:44:00.000-08:00

Light some candles. Stoke the fire. Put on some Barry White. Aww... yeah. It's on.

My life is fucking amazing. There are new girls in my life. There are new goals and all kinds of new goodness. I won't go into the details, but suffice it to say that I can now walk into any bar, club, or restaurant in town and order a hand-job on-the-house.

That may be overstated. But you get the idea.

On a different note, I just went to see the new Harry Potter Movie... by myself. Does that make me slightly less debonair? No. But it does renew my reservation near the head-table in the Hall of Nerd-dom after the rapture. At least I can keep wearing my top hat.

Stay Thirsty.

So this is Catharsis

2010-08-27T20:37:00.000-07:00

I was just broken up with. It was an amiable affair. There was no yelling--no shouting--no ill will of any kind. Just the quite understanding of two people, that the road diverged. It was an emotional event. One that I'll not soon cease to think about. The words hang in my mind. "We're not doing well." I knew what that meant. I saw it coming like the nimbi that betray the rough seas of destruction. And I cried. I cried like--well--a man facing the loss of--well--just loss. Is there any other kind? Though remain close, we will. For there is no reason not to remain so. In fact, t'would be a travesty (one that I'm afraid I could not bear) to do otherwise. I do not feel as if I left anything unsaid. And this brings be comfort. There is still love in the house of we. Though a love all together of a different sort.

Neither party knows what lies ahead--nor where their roads may lead. Who knows? They may trudge upon the trodden to find themselves once again in the land of milk and honey--together--walking down a road.

Ode to Venus

2007-11-07T13:12:00.000-08:00

Woe to the deity who's light doth shine. Woe to the girl who, with kind lips, did beam at me so. Woe to me. For I do not know her name. A girl smiled at me today. A gorgeous girl. A girl who looked into my eyes as if to say, "Hello old friend. Let us sit a while, and chatter--and chatter about our days--for they have been long. Just as I long for thy company, and thy brawny caress." Oh Venus! Aphrodite! Calypso; if thou wouldst but find me again, whilst I am in life, oh what a happy baby duck I'd be. Quack, Quack, my darling. And splash I'd go. And the peasants would feast and rejoice, amidst the clamorous, slippery slope of amour. If you'd but call my name--just whisper--slight even to the moth; my heart would melt as the coldest snow saw the larks' return. Oh what a happy day that'd be. Oh joyous day, why do you elude me? I'd've spoken to you, my nymph. But alas! I was accosted--by pirates! ...pirates who wanted me to give money to save the environment. Who do they think they're kidding? This be-ist not grade school! Even the youngest youngling knows, the environment is forfeit! And its progeny condemned to servitude. Mother nature has failed. Haha! If she didn't want us to pave her fields, and sodomize her goats--she would have told us; given us some ill sign--like extinctifying the majestic Dodo--or cancer. But, my love, I digress. Tis the disease of the wise and of the foolish. A paradox? No greater than the paradox of love. Of which, I'm sure, you well know. For love is blind. And so who better to lead we who cannot see. But my mysterious mistress of the light, I'll soon bid you adieu. Fret not my darling. For soon we shall see, in slumber, what dreams may come. To bring courage, perchance? For courage lies not in the willingness of brawn to clash, but in facing the pangs of love with levity, and sorrow.

My personality is like Lance Armstrong in the Tour de France...

2007-02-11T13:25:00.000-08:00

It wins every time and it defeated ball-cancer!

Where's the Canary?

2007-01-23T10:16:00.000-08:00

So my situation has not improved much. That is to say none. Somebody should write a book.

I think I will.

Jibber Jabber
All the day
I can find nobody
To play with my ray-gun

Ok, so the book sort of turned into a poem. Deal with it.

Also, "ray-gun" = penis. I just thought you'd like to know.

-End Transmission-

Ooou bitches. You wish you had mad skills.

2007-01-22T19:14:00.000-08:00

Lord I'm girl crazy.

I mean Lawsy.

Lawsy, Lawsy, Lawsy.

I say, hab mercy on ma' soul!

Those of you who understand where I'm comin' from, gimme a hell yeah.

I say Goddamit, GIMME a hells yeah!

This has been my poem...

on the nature of black holes.

2006-12-05T22:03:00.000-08:00

So this is totally radical. But I'm going to recite to you, a story. Now, now. I know this is something new. But trying new things is how we participate in the march of progress. Without the invention of Eli Whitney's cotton gin, would the pursecution of the black man have shown a young America the wrong way to do things so she might throw those ways out, and find new and more subtle ways to subdue the black man? I rest my case.

So there once was a miner named Jim.
He mined all his coal in the dim.
He slipped on his back, And heard the coal crack.
And now all the boys call him Kim.

Killer Bees...

2006-04-22T19:01:00.000-07:00

Killer bees should drop it like it's hot. What do I mean? No, I'm asking you. I suppose that you couldn't know that, anymore than I could know what's in your mouth right now. Hey, there's a fun game. Let us play "What's in Uncle A-funk's aorta." Alright, go ahead and guess. No, it's not blood. Geuss again. No, it' not the 1979 Denver Broncos. I'll give you one more chance, OK? Yesss... you got it! Sweet! It is the soul of former-Pope John Paul the second. That's a funny sort of title. It could be a way of denoting that he was the second consecutive "John Paul" in a line of unorigionality stretching back to 'George Dubya.' It works on several levels. Levels of damnation, possibly. Damnation goes great with a side of butter-beans... or wrath. Which, coincidentally, is the subject of this post. No, not literally a post; like a fence post, or a crucifix; but a post like... you know... like you post something; like in the Sunday paper, you post an ad or... a mutilated puppy carcass covered in vomit and Herpes-pee. I should have left freckles at home. He doesn't even like sorority girls.

To Booze or Not to Booze...

2006-03-20T11:56:00.000-08:00

Ok, so it's ten o'clock and I'm sitting in my apartment debating whether or not, I should get some work done (as I'm currently working for a publishing company) or if I should just hit the bottle. Choices, choices everywhere, but not the time to think. Let us not kid ourselves. Or rather, let me not kid you. I'm probably gonna tie one on. But before I do, my recusant readers, Uncle A-funk will tell you a bed-time story. Let us begin.

So, like most tales, we begin ours with, on the horizon, the prospect of booze. And thus it was, in days of old; when knights errant gallivanted across the country-side in search of dames and dafty looking dorsals. Yes, they sought out the mysterious and illusive Mountain Orcas. A migratory species, they found shelter, for nine-twelfths of the year, in the Caucus Mountains. And being beings of much leisure, these once proud Orcas found much time in the world to frolic and sing happy songs on the plains of neighboring lands. But their love of merriment would be their undoing. For lo, did the mighty Orcas love their draught. And it was so, that when a great preponderance of belligerence was accumulated, that the knights errant would be called into service by the evil and wicked neighboring countrymen. And then a great wave of fear would shudder through every Mountain Orca, especially the younglings. For if they, by some unhappy chance, were to have a run in with a knight, they would surely be seized on the spot and given an MIP. No sway of desire over this prospect was held with any Orca. And so the eldest of the Orcas gathered together and held a great council from night ‘til morn and morn ‘til eve. For eighty-seven and one-half days they deliberated and squabbled and boomed upon high with mighty voices, just what should be done about their unhappy neighbors and the unpleasant knights which they held in pocket. Finally, with a great sigh of relief, the Orcas’ Shaman, Berulselad, who had been sitting uncomfortably near a wall of their yurt… totally ripped ass. And the other elders sat in silent suffering as if nothing had happened. But they all knew it was Berulselad. And when enough suffering was had, Berulselad spake unto them, “Fellow brethren, great wisdom is held within thine walls. But for what has thus been done by our neighboring-landsmen, we do toil so.” He began again, “And so it was after only great deliberation, that I did rip ass. For the good of the Land, I felt it was necessary. It is necessary that we reflect upon this stench, as the wise should, so that we’ll not deal to swiftly, the punishment our enemy so rightly has earned.” Another elder, Craggulinus: leader of the 3rd company widgets and special forces sack-race team leader, spake unto Beruselad, “Yo dawg, you bess ‘splain da dizzle ‘cause I’m ‘bout ta git da crunk posse an’ caps be flyin’ like white women ta JC Penny on tax free weekend. So jus’ whatcha gonna do… bad boy?” Berulselad spake back, “Calm yourself brother Craggulinus. I propose that we construct a great war-machine, with the finest popsicle sticks and Elmer’s glue to be had. It shall invoke every morsel of flatulence that our great forefathers once expelled. Yes, it shall be a wind maker. And it shall be called “Farty McGee.” And it will unleash poots so foul that even the mightiest and olfactorally challenged of our neighbors will cower and run to the farthest reaches of this world in disgust and fear. And thus, will they be punished for their presumptuousness. “Here, Here!” the other elders chimed. And so it was that the noble Orcan race built the titan known as Farty McGee. And he did “wreak” havoc on the lands of any that opposed the nocturnal activities of the Orcas. But some creatures, who loathed the Orcas more than their own miserable lives, did linger in spite of the stench. And so the youngling, Phraleron, did construct a shirt of matches to adorn the trees of the land. He instructed the lingering creatures that if they did not leave, he would ignite the trees in which they lived. This persuaded the creatures. And for a time, it seemed a good thing. The Orcas did prance and make merriment and foster promiscuity in the public restrooms of the Land. But for one fateful day, the Orcas did loathe. For on this day, they would meet their bane. A volcano, that had lain dormant for a thousand years, erupted on the far side of the earth. It sent a cloud of Sulfurous gas into the atmosphere. The gas choked flocks of woolly-geese flying north for the winter. The woolly-geese fell from the sky knocking down the shirted trees. The strike-anywhere match-heads of the shirted trees did ignite and flame. The mixture of methane and oxygen, made possible by Farty McGee, did catch fire and the earth was ripped asunder, eradicating the noble Mountain Orcan race from the Earth.

In later years, descendants of the Mountain Orcas, the Canadians, did learn of their great heritage and the bane of their ancestors: volcanoes. But Canadian scientists realized that it was not the volcano alone, that killed their ancestors… it was the oxygen. Without it, no fire could have started and the Orcas would still be frolicking and fornicating with dolphins today. And so it is that all Canadians, both large and small, hate oxygen and would rather die than disgrace their lungs with its putrid presence.

Berulselad be praised.

End Transmission.

On My Mind This Morn.

2006-03-08T08:04:00.000-08:00

So when the initiation of this blog was first contemplated, the goal was a simple one: to share my thoughts on life in order to add to the hilarity and happiness of the world. This being as it was, I decided long winters ago, that this web diary would not become an outlet for my daily affairs. I did not want to own one of your run-of-the-mill blogs. I did not want to be associated with something that contained only mediocre mental dialogue or half-witted commentary on why the number of hotdogs don't match the number of hotdog buns, in their respective packages. This is, of course, why my posting has been so sparce and sporatic. But I now find myself torn... between holding true to my initial virtues, and the desire to express feelings in the most direct way that I know how. And so, it is with heavy heart that I now do so. And so I begin.

I like this girl. And it would seem that she likes me. It was established, that she would call me as soon as she finds out when she is unavaliable. And it's only been three days. But son of a bitch, the waiting is killing me. I mean... it's really killing me. One might even say that it's "killing me softly." She is the first thing on my mind when I awake from slumber. And she is the final thought in my mind when I'm layed abed. Our shared commonality, if layed end to end, could span the vastest of oceans. And I feel... well, we'll just say that, about her, I feel. Though, in the whole of my heart I find no end, still I die, ever in the absence of warmth's embrace. And thus I wait.

End Transmission.

A Perfectly Normal Query.

2006-01-31T20:38:00.000-08:00

Well this was too big to put in my profile. So I thought I'd better just post it. The question presented to me was, "Well, maybe they don't need them, but don't you think that some fish might like a bicycle?" Here is my response:

That would be the most inconsiderate gift you could give a fish! I mean, you don't give a red motorcycle to a quadriplegic do you? Cause then he's like, "What a beautiful motorcycle. It's just like the one I was on when I PARALYZED ALL OF MY APPENDAGES! YOU INCONSIDERATE BASTARD! I'LL KILL YOU! And then he tries to jump out of his wheelchair to make good on his vow. But then he remembers that he's paralyzed. And so he just falls out of his wheel chair onto the street. And a go-cart runs over his head. But it's too light to smash his skull. So the guy has to spend the rest of his life roaming the earth without cause or reason to live; a broken shell of a man, with quadriplegia, and no face. Remember him.

It Puts the Lotion in the Basket.

2006-01-31T13:47:00.000-08:00

Well, I've recieved identical comments for two of my previous posts. They were left by different people. Here's what they both said: "I read over your blog, and i found it inquisitive, you may find my blog interesting... So please Click Here To Read My Blog." So let us discuss what was said (I'm speaking through my clenched teeth). The second pronoun "I," is typed in it's lower case form. This usually doesn't bother me. For I realize that sometimes people are in a hurry and they just want to share a small afterthought with me. Fine. Next we find the adjective "inquisitive," describing this blog. Ok, I'll bite. I suppose that some may read a few of my posts and find them vying some of lifes idiosyncracies. But to say that the entire system of writing, that is mine, bears an inquisitive nature is a bit of a stretch. And then we come to the comma splice. *utters a sigh of grief* Based on the structural and grammatical atrocity of this sentence... somebody is bull-shitting. I hate bull-shit. It's a waste of my time and the methane produced, further destroys the layer of ozone surrounding our beloved earth. That's what gives all those poor Aussies skin-cancer. There ain't no coming back from that shit. It's like... your neighbor vacations in Australia. And your all excited that she's returned. And you say to her one day in the yard, "Hey Judy! Whadya bring me from the land of the didgeridoo?" And she says, "Skin-cancer." And then she bursts into tears and screams, "Why, God! Why have you forsaken me!?! Ahuh-huh-huh... I was a good girl! I never bull-shited anybody in my life!" And later that night... she eats a bottle of rat poison and slowly dies to the smooth jazz of Kenny G... timing her bouts of vomiting to his crappy sax. And her four year old child can't reach the stereo to turn off Kenny G. And so, he finds mommy's 45 in her naughty draw. And he puts one right between his cute little eyes. Because listening to Kenny G isn't worse than death... but it's close. Why would anyone wish that on Judy and little Enoch? I'm not sure. But maybe it's because they're bastards... or Kenny G. After all, fat-lady suits are hard to find.

Excuse me "secret agent"?

2006-01-12T12:29:00.000-08:00

Well, the time has finally come for someone to address all of the secret agent ninjas roaming around. How can I tell that they are secret agent ninjas, you ask? The answer is elementary: they all wear ridiculously huge and gaudy sunglasses. Why have girls decided to don those clown glasses. I realize that their favorite stupid whores of Hollywood (i.e. Paris Hilton etc.) wear them, but does that mean that we all have to suffer? Let me tell you ladies what those glasses do for you. They show me and the rest of your peers, that you like being detached from the world. You like appearing expressionless and cold. Say I'm the man of your dreams, the man that you've kept your legs crossed for, and the man for whom you've retained your virginal pedals (I know it's ridiculous, but stay with me on this one). As I walk towards you, beams of light dance across the ground in front of me, spelling out the word "love" in huge bubbly letters and in place of the "O" lies a heart shape. I see you and send you a very cordial hello accompanied by a moderate smile. Seeing that even the sun knows that this meeting is not random coincidence, but indeed has been fortuitously ordained by the gods, you send an equally cordial hello and genuine smile back to me. I dismiss your greeting and think nothing of it. Why did I do this? Why did I deprive you of true love and the gods of their cosmic opportunity to reach a state of otherworldly drunkenness at their bi-weekly marriage celebration? The answer is this: I simply could not decipher if your smile was genuine or not. But why couldn't I, you ask? It's very simple. When you smile genuinely, tiny muscles near the outside of your eyes and above your cheeks contract causing little wrinkles to form just outside of your eyes (between your eye and your ear). Not being able to see these muscle contractions I dismiss your smile as insincere. So what's the moral of the story? If you want the man of your dreams (me, for the purposes of this story) to uncross your legs and give you excruciating joy, lasting an entire 8 hours: lose the glasses and let me see those beautiful gems... that or use my face to play boob-bongos on your chest. I'm pretty sure that would work too.

End Transmission.

My Inaugural Speech as the President of the World

2005-11-20T19:17:00.000-08:00

Maybe, I should take this new-found time to add to the clarity of the world. It has been brought to my attention that not all people are really people. Some, which we niavely think to be people worthy of water-bearing sustinance, are actually parasites that sap the life force from the world. Beings whose depravity runs so deep, that their very existence can be likened to a gangrenous sore that seeds the atmosphere to infect the air which keeps us. This being as it is, we should take it upon ourselves to look to their children as a source of sexual satifaction, hunger relief, and then of course, after nine hours: toilet foder, which we will then feed to Mexicans. We must do everything within our power, even enlisting the divinity of demigods, to keep these barbarous beings from encroaching upon our freedom. Verily, this must include making jewelery out of their genitalia, adorning our bodies with the instestines of beloved pets, and I do not believe that eating their children can be stressed enough. We must enslave their elderly and train them to catch darts in their chest; every night returning to bamboo cages to eat a half-bucket of fish heads. American goods must be imported... from China to aid our cause. The military of this world must be used as human shields to block the death rays and hurled fecal matter of our enemy. They are a savage people with pointy teeth and crazy eyes. Their women have been known to become so belligerent that most have grown testicles and chin pubes. Everynight, just before the worshiping of Beelzebub, they must drink the urine of young mountain orcas to retain their strength. My fellow Earthlings, we must unite against our common enemy... the non-albinos. I think you'll agree. Every non-albino man, woman, child, and hermaphrodite must be stricken from this earth with all the furry of the Four Horsemen. And in the end we troglodytes will be free to roam the Earth in relative peace with our neighbors and tranquility with nature. At least... until the next President Bush. KAPLAH!

Pasta Power!

2005-08-02T12:06:00.000-07:00

Well, I've really done it now. I've eaten too much pasta and now I can't think. Example: I was lieing on my floor and my phone started to vibrate. I became so disoriented by the sound that it took me a full ten seconds to locate it. It was in front of me. Eating too much has become a real problem for me the past week or so. I wouldn't recommend it. Anywho, what is up my negroes? *emphasis on caucasian pronunciation* How are things going with me, you ask? Fairly great, I would say. Well, I mean my anis is not being reamed by a hot poker controlled by a russian loan shark. I am also forunate enough not have any cactus needles shoved up my pee-hole. So all things considered, I'm more fortunate than most. I hope that you can say the same. But don't say it too loud... at the dinner table... with the Pope. Just stare to your pasta. The conversation will move to matters of foriegn affairs. Then ask if he wants to make out.

End Transmission.

Whatsakadoozle!

2005-05-24T22:46:00.000-07:00

I have exciting news! This girl on theFacebook added me as a friend. I was in a class with her best friend and therefore heard humorous tales of said girl. I decided that I would send her a messege because... huh? My communikae said this:

It's nice to... sort of... almost meet you. [Best friend girl] spoke of you semi-frequently in our 2D Design class. I say semi-frequently because I could just be remembering one time that she spoke of you and multiplying it in my head. I do that. Anywhoodle, I guess I should address why you are being sent this communikae. I am writing to you from a moonbase orbiting Trebulos 5 in the McFarien system. It's the second star to the left and straight on 'til mornin'. I am being held captive in the highest room of the tallest tower of Jarlon Grimstone's palace. (and not just my attention mind you. No, no... I'm a prisoner) I know this is a strange thing to ask a stranger... in a strange manner... with strange moon people... straaaaange. But ask I must. I need you to "borrow" a spacecraft with hyperspace capability and lots of Top Ramen (it's a long trip) from The Heaven on Earth Day Spa and Taxidermy Lodge in Paris... Texas. Then travel here and rescue me from my would-be suitor. All of this you must do before the dawning of the second day in the Oprah Winfrey Kinta Cloth Calender (2nd edition). For if you [Girl], do not, I fear that Lord Jarlon will wed me. I am not sure why he has chosen me, but I suspect it is because of my sweet ass. Oh what a very,very spankable, sweet ass I have. Help me [Star Wars Reference]. You're my only hope. End Transmission.

This was her response:

I was actually wondering about that... Your tracking device was somehow removed from your right butt cheek and tied to a Garlophostegus in the Brenack Galaxy. Let's just say that wasn't a pleasant surprise. Lucky for you, I am back on track and way ahead of you. I've already acquired a space ship that is capable of Ludicrous Speed (Yes, it is possible) and am currently travelling at an unbelievably fast pace to Trebulos 5. Unfortunately, my ship runs off beef boullion cubes, which are not nearly as efficent as Ramen fueled ships obviously, so I will need to make a stop somewhere around Kremmlakk 35 1/2 to procure more boullion. Jarlon doesn't stand a chance. End transmission.

Ho... lee... Crap. It is rare that someone plays along with my incoherent ramblings, crazy talk, and/or generally disarrayed thought patterns. Hopefully she will continue to build onto the story as is my goal. I commend her on her choice of proper nouns. Nice spellings. The story is solid, yet playful. Outlandish, complex..., brilliant. I have a feeling that future communication with her will be great fun.

This is A-funk signing out for the P.M.S. (pre-marital sex) Prickofore... inches.

P.S. I leave for a cruise tomorrow.

I have not packed a thing.

I should get my shit together.

I don't have time for this

2005-05-16T11:03:00.000-07:00

I really don't. I have more tagible things to do, but I feel that I have neglected you dear cyberspace. The very cyberspace that weened me through my formative years as a female bearded body piercing enthusiast, tantric contortionist, yogurt producing pharmacist, and fire crapping circus midget by nurturing my insatiable desire for porn. Cyberspace, I love you. You dear cyberspace, who gave a nine year old boy a glimpse of the world he could only dream of, unfettered, uninhibited, and without proper support. You showed me a world that was not propped up with wires and pads. But rather, a world whose big saggy ya-ya's were in my face and undulating rapidly. Many names are you known by, "The internet, the web, the narcotic emporium of Robert Downy Jr." These names do you call your own. But to me you are simply... Papa.(a single tear runs slowly down the work of art that is my face) It is true. My face is made of plaster and sequins. And yes it does suck when I get caught in the rain with no umbrella or china man to follow me around with a palm branch and pre-chew my mac n' cheese. But you dear friend, are missing the point. The internet is for porn!

Mesonoxian means "of or related to midnight"

2005-04-04T22:10:00.000-07:00

People are starting to get annoyed that I don't have a regular writing schedule. Now I could say that I'm terribly sorry. I could say that I will do better. I could blow enough smoke up your ass to make the poe poe's wanna search your person. But to be honest... screw you! And your "I'm to good to wait on some guy who is only occassionally clever to come up with some A material" attitude. I don't need your approval to know I have a three and three-eighths inch love sausage, mouth watering acne, and a third nipple. Oh, yeah it's hot!

Judging from the awkward silence, I crossed a line. Allow me to retract my previous statement. I love all people. Even when they spit in my burger after coping an attitude with me because their life has not turned out as they planned. They were gonna be famous. They were gonna be rich. They were gonna have their cake and eat it to. Well I got news for ya kiddies. Life isn't a cream cheese danish. Life is a 300 pound, middle aged, comic book avid who lives in his mothers basement waiting for his girlfriend that he met online to message him.

You are his 20 sided die.

To make it in this life you've got to have goals, interests, dreams. Hard work and perseverance are the keys. And maybe not getting knocked up after prom from a guy whose only aspiration in life was to be lead guitarist in a Led Zepplin cover band... maybe that would have helped too. But I won't hold it against you. I love you dearly. I just have one tiny insignificant favor to ask.

Leave your baggage at the bus stop and gimme my friggin' triple patty melt.

Tale of Two Cities

2005-03-24T14:34:00.000-08:00

I shall now share with you a legend that has been meticulously passed down through eons of memory. Keepers of this knowledge had to endure excrutiating pain and personal embaracement to dicipline their minds enough just to store it. A secret so closely gaurded that when faced with the notion of divulging it's inner workings, men would deficate on themselves and then burst into flames. This knowledge has been the cornerstone of Angolian mysticism for centuries. You might be asking yourselves right about now, "But if what you claim is true, then how are you able to resist being so consumed by your inner monologue that you release the contents of your bowels and building pressure in your brain until climactically it causes your head to explode?" The answer is simple. I have no soul.

Like most stories we begin our tale in feudal Japan. It was a time of shameless promiscuity, severely rampant hallucinogens, and wandering vagrants who traveled under the guise of soulful flute players searching for enlightenment and a rare grain known only as Kung Fu Crunch. Most of the great flute players studied under the tutilage of a great Ninja master called Mr. Roboto. Unknown to his students Mr. Roboto was actually from the future. The year 40001 a.s.s to be precise. He had intended to travel to Bethel, New York, 1969 but there was a little misunderstanding between the flux capacitor and his brass knuckles. He had learned of the mythical Woodstock through his burned out hippy parents and wished to "drop a little acid". Coincidentally his time machine mechanic had been doing that very thing when he programed the machine. As result the time machine (which was designed in the likeness of a 21st century Mini Cooper) thought that his name was Reginald Cornelius III and that his driver's name was Michael.

On the other side of the known world existed a little place called... Jersey. In this ruthless land of pop rocks and coke, there lived a brutal overlord called Jarlon Grimstone. Now Jarlon was a fearsome warrior with a glare that could make a statue crap its pants. One day Mr. Roboto and his legion of the worlds deadliest ninjas caught wind that this Lord Grimstone was hording entire silos of the rare Kung Fu Crunch. They decided to steal the valuable grain under the cover of darkness. When the ninjas arrived, however, Lord Grimstone was waiting for them. He had been informed of the ninjas plan to steal his most coveted possesion by his assasin spies, Tyrone and La'Quisha. The ninjas acted quickly and used their master welding skills to build a gigantic steel cage around their Master and Lord Grimstone. For 40 days and 40 nights the foes battled the ultimate battle. Good against evil. And in the end only one rival remained. Jarlon Grimstone... was dead. He had been striken down by a stray bullet that a Mexican had fired into the air. For, ironically, it was "El Dia de Muerte"... the day of the dead.

Mr. Roboto and the ninjas felt that the only fair thing to do was to give all of the Ku Fu Crunch to the Mexicans who had succeded where they had failed. And to this day that is why ninjas and Mexicans don't get along.

Mesonoxian Nonsense

2005-03-22T22:49:00.000-08:00

Well, I suppose I'll begin with saying that I have no clue what I am about to say or, really, any notion of why I'm typing right now. I shouldn't be. I should be drawing for my design class tomorrow. The assignment is to copy an old master piece in ink. I'm nowhere near ready. I need 144 square inches drawn for tomorrow. I am currently on numer 12. I should really get crackin'. Since I was unable to motivate myself enough to work in any satire, cynicism, absurdity, or furbies, I will leave you with a question which will be answered in a later post. Here you go: Why were there 3,000 Mexicans at the Alamo?

Oh... My... God...

2005-03-20T20:34:00.000-08:00

Holy Crap! On this night I stumbled upon the most hilarious, disturbing, irreverent show ever! It comes on MTV2 and it's called Wonder Showzen and it's friggin awesome! It's presented kind of like a Sesame Street for adults. You should have seen all the disclaimers. They were thick as wetbacks and lawn gnomes in a white guys yard. They had eight year old kids say things like, "don't litter or else God will tear your face off and feed it to a goat, I don't know what you been smoking... but there ain't no such thing as God," and "space is for white people."

There were so many isanely sweet things. For examlple, an incredibly intelligent duck with a talking asshole. No, really this duck built a time machine so that he could stop Einstien from working on the Manhattan project and thus allow humanity to keep a little bit of it's innosence. The duck decides to cut open Al's skull and let his asshole squeeze a huge Cleaveland steamer on his brain. He then stitches Albert up.

Two soul less plastic surgeons travel to extremely hostile, third world countries and perform dangerous and wholey unnessecary surgury on completely grotesque, battle torn and emaciated people.

A little girls sings this song to a yellow puppet. "All you gotta do is pretend to believe and you'll meet God up in Heaven." Various children were then presented with the question, "What is Heaven?" These are just some of their answers, "Self deception, when you order chicken mcnuggets and you get a switchblade, a day without my pills, pills, PILLS," and finally "I'll never know".

A very confident child states that "Cows are reincarnated Hindus." We are then shown dairy cows being milked and one clever little boy says, "this reminds me of something Freud said... about your mom."

Two Children sacrafice thier returning parents in the name of Lord Cromdor.

God destroys the world and gives this as his reasoning. "I didn't like the way you honky ass crackers was keepin' the black man down!" After this, the Lord loses a game of Paper, Rock, Scissors and is unable to cope with his first encounter with failure. Shortly there after he shoots himself in the face. The little girl and puppet that won the game of Rowshambo then ponder what to do with the Lords body and state that they are both hungry. We then see these two sitting on a park bench with other children eating what appears to be huge turkey legs. The show leaves us with a huge bottle of BBQ sauce that has written on the label, "Lordy, that lord meat is ass kickin' hot."

I believe that I have found my new favorite show.

Naked Drinking Coffee

2005-03-19T22:42:00.000-08:00

Naked Drinking Coffee

Waza Woozle?

2005-03-19T21:18:00.000-08:00

It would seem that I have been neglecting all of my die hard fans out there. And yes, by that I mean ceiling fans that on occasion leave me with painful and unsightly welts on my forehead.

Ah spring break... It takes so long to get here and then it's gone in a flash. All STD's should be so lucky. I bought a porn the other day. Not because I felt like porn, but because I thought the plot was crazy awesome. The camera work is artfully done when your not staring at a close up of penile/vaginal nonsense. I must say however, that most of the acting is horrendously subpar to say the least. All save one. There is a scene in The Girl Next Door where we watch a clip of a porno that contains said girl. This clip involves a karate master who is hokey to an extreme. That man is in the film I bought and ironically he is the best actor in it. He isn't just good because everyone else is so bad. He really had me convinced that his character was real. Unfortunately, as I would find out rather quickly, for all of my praise of his acting ability the man of which I speak has a somewhat misshapen penis. Any whoodle, my lids are sagging worse than a seventy-six year old woman's double D's. I could try to combat this attribution with a stapler, but to take the cowards way out I think I'll just go to sleep.

Six Minutes of Fun and Adventure

2005-01-27T18:22:00.000-08:00

The following applies to the… following. The numbers one through ten signify a word’s definition as stated by the mighty –tionary of Dic. However the letter “A” signifies a far more pertinent delineation of said word. And if the playground rule that “first is the worst, second is the best, and third is the one with the hairy chest” is adhered to, I think you will find that my interpretation is indeed, the best and does not have in any way, shape, or form follicles growing upon it’s pectorals. I hereby certify that this statement is for true and take this oath developed by Reverend Lovejoy. “If I withhold the truth may I go straight to Hell where I will eat naught but burning hot coals and drink naught but burning hot cola; where fiery demons will punch me in the back; where my soul will be chopped into confetti and strewn upon a parade of murderers and single mothers; where my tongue will be torn out by ravenous birds.”

x insert signature of Author
witness insert signature of witness

1. Balance: an aesthetically pleasing integration of elements
A. A situation where the figurative “weight” or focus of a composition is (relatively) evenly distributed. No portion of a piece of work should accentuate an awkward empty space or an underdeveloped aspect. That is not to say that the piece should not have a focal point; simply that the viewer’s attention should not be forced to that point due to lack of complexity.

2. Symmetry: correspondence in size, shape, and relative position of parts on opposite sides of a dividing line or median plane or about a center or axis
A. Symmetry is the easiest way to create balance. It is characterized by the same lines, shapes, and colors along one or more axes. If you were to place paint on a piece of paper and fold that paper in half, you would see an example of this when you unfolded the page. However, you could not achieve the same result with a headshot of David Bowie.

3. Asymmetry: not symmetrical
A. Just the opposite of above definition. There are only so many things you can say about symmetry and its arch-nemesis, asymmetry. You could say that things that do not portray the characteristics of symmetry must invariably be asymmetrical. That is, things that are not the same along any axis are asymmetrical. Example: Adrien Brody’s nose.

4. Movement: the quality (as in a painting or sculpture) of representing or suggesting motion
A. “The quality (as in a painting or sculpture) of representing or suggesting motion,” that’s a fairly competent definition. But movement can also make a piece seem to be more than it is. Movement can make a 2-dimensional composition seem alive, vibrant, and full of vigor. Movement is essential for bringing a piece to life (Dr. Frankenstein, How to Succeed Where God Has Failed, pg 1).

5. Isolation: the condition of being isolated
A. An aspect that is singled out in such a way that calls attention to itself or appears to be taking a time-out from the rest of the page. An object or subject may appear to be isolated through a variety of methods from contrasting color to stark value differences. Also: a particular feeling given from a composition, similar to what Tom Hanks recently felt in the summer blockbuster Cast Away.

6. Progression: a continuous and connected series
A. This can be somewhat related to movement and sometimes aids in portraying movement, although a slightly different type. Progression helps the viewer’s eye to naturally move from one point to the next by gradually changing size and/or color. Thus, making the work seem to “flow.” Luckily Art has no gender.

7. 2-D: lacking depth of characterization
A. Marked by length and width but lacking definition of the z-axis. This gives the project a flat appearance. Often times the illusion of 3-dimensionality may be produced on a 2-dimensional surface through the use of perspective.

8. 3-D: giving the illusion of depth or varying distances -- used of an image or a pictorial representation especially when this illusion is enhanced by stereoscopic means
A. Anything that is not numbered in dimensionality 1, 2, 4, or based in theoretical physics is most likely 3 dimensional, unless that dimensionality has a negative sign in front of it which is simply preposterous. Three dimensional objects have a certain air of je ne sais quoi… tangibility about them. They are measurable on three axes (length, width, and depth).

9. Art: the conscious use of skill and creative imagination especially in the production of aesthetic objects
A. This is, in my opinion, the hardest of this list to define. I think more than skill, creative imagination, and even experience; it requires talent, motivation, and a desire for self-expression. I feel that if the artist defines his or her work as Art then it is. I think Artist’s define Art, not the other way around.

10. Composition: the act or process of composing specifically: arrangement into specific proportion or relation and especially into artistic form
A. A cohesive body expressing creativity, imagination, political, social, ethical, and/or other views the artist desires to covey. A composition should utilize a combination of technique and medium to evoke the desired thoughts, emotions, and/or Ewoks. Yes, they are possible to manifest. It just requires blood, sweat, and a little elbow grease. You combine them in a two quart casserole dish with three cups of flour, two of sugar, and one liter of unicorn tears. Bake at 350 for 45 min. or until your up to your knees in little midget bears.

This was my WTF of the day many days ago.

2005-01-15T09:33:00.000-08:00

I was about to turn off my T.V. when I had this strange urge to flip to the news. When I did so, a pretty, Asian reporter was informing the commoners of a 17 year old boy that was arrested for arson and possession of "explosive components". I feel that "possession of explosive components" is a vague and hence invalid charge. Indeed it is my opinion that that particular charge, as it is stated, is a mixture of horse manure, llama dribble, and herpes sore secretions. To put it more elaborately I feel that whatever highly overpaid government committee that made that crock-o-shit up, should be forced to endure several long and arduous sessions of agony and torment that are not to exclude Mongolian Acid Baths, Malagasy Anal Reaming Monkeys, and Fijian Scrotal Clamps. Oh, and their wives should be framed for some terrible atrocity that would leave a jury with no other choice but to sentence them to a lifetime spent in the servitude of fat, greasy, Hungarian monks who eat nothing but kielbasa and raw cabbage all day. These monks would then force them to clean vile and putred outhouses with handfuls of sand and metal shavings until their fingers are raw and bleeding; thus tenderly guiding the young ones that are left behind into a life of crime, copulation with unwitting cell mates, and crank. My justification is this. "Explosives" can be made out of a million and one perfectly legal things. Thus, turning a million and one perfectly legal things into "potential explosive components". So there is no telling what you’re going to use that bag of Sodium Nitrate for. I could fertilize my lawn... or blow up a federal building. It's my right as a human being to choose to keep up with my landscaping or attempt to snuff out hundreds of lives. Bottom Line: You can't arrest someone for a crime that they have not yet committed! What the Fuck Coppers!

Critic Extraordinare

2005-01-12T21:16:00.000-08:00

My friend Marisa works for the University newspaper and she was asked to write a review of Lemony Snicket's Series of Unfortunate Events. She really wanted to make it funny so she ever so humbly asked me to colaborate with her on the matter. So I, ever so humbly accepted. As we were writing she encouraged me to apply for a writing position at her beloved paper. I think I might. But enough of this crap. I present to you my little bastard...I mean, "love child."

Lemony Snicket’s Series of Unfortunate Events
Starring: Jim Carey, Billy Connolly, Meryl Streep, and Jude law
Rated PG
Director: Brad Siberling
5 stars

No matter how many times Lemony Snicket cautions you that his Series of Unfortunate Events is not a story about a happy little elf, you can’t help but feel compelled to stick around to see what the silver screen holds for you. What appears to be a light-hearted children’s story at first glance, quickly reveals itself to be a rather twisted and diabolical tale reminiscent of the Brothers Grim. The story is based upon a series of books written by Lemony Snicket (aka Daniel Handler) about three young children known as the Baudelaire orphans. Although orphaned at young ages by a fire, these three protagonists show remarkable resilience throughout the various tribulations caused by the talentless arsonist Count Olaf.
Olaf is played by the brilliant yet harebrained, Jim Carey. Carey, it would seem, was birthed with the notion that one day he would be destined to become a comedic mastermind and a man from the moon thus ensuring his role for the part of Count Olaf. Whereas Carey is the villain, one cannot help but love his hysterical over-the-top antics. For someone not to overdo the part of Count Olaf, would in fact be under-doing it. Jude Law’s well executed narration at the beginning and throughout this movie is careful to present the movie as a story on film rather than a film about a story. Each Baudelaire is endowed with their own unique skills that prove to be more like super powers when executed. Violet, the eldest Baudelaire, is a fourteen year old female MacGyver while her brother Klaus is a bookworm with amazing retention and the youngest, Sunny, can do little more than recite Shakespeare in baby babble and bite things. These modern day Dorothy’s voyage over seemingly insurmountable obstacles only to discover that there truly is no place like home.
On their journey through the plethora of Tim Burtonesque scenery, the Baudelaires engage life in lavishly constructed and conceptual environments. Overall, the technical aspects of this film were terrific from the outlandish makeup to the wild and crazy costumes. Even the credits deserve mounds of credit and the props are certainly worthy of “mad props.”

Sausage Arms

2005-01-12T01:58:00.000-08:00

Well, school is about to start again. Back to the coal mines as it would seem. Actually I rather enjoy this opportunity to learn of things both practical and fantastical. Even so, it has been a nice little break from the sometimes frantic university life. I visited with my friend Audrey (not Hepburn mind you) the other day and she informed me that she was having, what she called, a "fat day. " I exclaimed, " A fat day!? Why, whatever do you mean?" I was rather taken aback to say the least. I thought, "Girls have the ability to change their fat to muscle ratio on a daily basis!? That's amazing! Human females must have evolved this out of the necessity to serve as the 'big fat friend' in certain situations. Thus effectively blocking ones cock and saving her beloved friend from a night of excruciating and orgasmic bliss. I had no idea that such a thing existed." She then informed me that a "fat day" is just one of the many "days" that human females have the priveledge of partaking in. A fat day (or night as the case may be) is simply a day that a young woman feels particularly obese. There are apparently "ugly days" and "I hate everything about everyone days" as well.

~TIME LAPSE~

All right I have arrived in the present again. I just went for a little ride in my new best friend, Goraque's time convertable. It came complete with all leather interior, flux capacitor, and a six cassete tape changer. We had a marvelous time (pun intended) cruising all of the back streets of his culturally integrated and economically deseased childhood interplanetary projects . Goraque pointed out his 7th grade subspace teacher walking down the avenue, looking particularly reputable so, we simultaneously shouted "Hey honey. How much?" She retorted,"$26.50." And that's all I have to say about that.

End Transmission

What the crap!?

2005-01-07T11:53:00.000-08:00

I'm not certain as to how this Blog thingy is supposed to work. Is it or is it not supposed to kick you in the crotch and then sodomize your gerbil. Cause if it's not then lemmiwinks is gonna be supremely pissed.

I was informed by several of my friends and family members (and in some cases both) that I should obtain, what is known throughout the land, as a Blog. So here I am. Drowning in a vast expanse of emotional turmoil brought about by the innerworkings (or inner-not-workings as the case may be) of a site that would appear to the untrained eye to be a fairly straight forward and simplistic way of conveying ones inner most thoughts to a wide variety of beggars and thieves... er, um... the many upstanding inhabitants of cyberspace.

I'll admitt the previous paragraph did seem a bit cynical. Forgive me. For if you, reader, do not I will have lost my very last strand of hope that someone in this crazy world will understand and take pity on my incoherent babblings. I will be forced to borrow under the earth. Years of hardship will sculpt my body into a temple of vengence. I will eventually emerge forth from the depths leading an army of mole people and other various giant rodents to victory. Enslaving any we encounter and razing all cities that oppose the age of the Great Mole King. Yes, it is I! Ratcliff! Slayer of the Goblin witch Mordra and Avenger of the Underlings!

Alright maybe I got carried away. The point is... the point is... well shit, I guess I'll have to embark on a journey in search of a point to all this madness.

End Transmission