Don't Insult My Mother, You Troublesome Wench.

This post is in response to poster lizee89 on my mother's blog, Bad Mommy. Due to that site's retarded commenting system, the message got garbled. Here it is in full.

Well. Let's see here, where to begin? I have so much to say, it's actually quite the conundrum.
Wait.
I know the perfect way to start this off!


Dear Miserable Uppity Twat,

Hi. You might know me as "Kid #1." Let me tell you a bit about myself, before I begin the pointless (but ever so satisfying) name-calling and insults.
I am 19 years old. I attend a decent 2-year college, where I get pretty damn good grades. I'm not addicted to anything, I haven't knocked anyone up, and I am happy to say that I am totally free of any criminal record. I play instruments. I am sociable. I have a group of close friends from all social strata and economic backgrounds. I am reasonably accepting of other people, and their viewpoints. Though I'm sometimes stubborn, I admit when people have better ideas than me, or can do something better than me.

I am a bit of an underachiever, sometimes. I can be lazy. I get nearly orgasmic joy from pissing off idiots and ignorant douches (which is why I'm absolutely loving this).

One time, when I was in 3rd grade, I stole a stamp from another student's desk, and when I was afraid of getting caught, planted it on someone else, who promptly took the fall. Rather than being ashamed, I was sort of proud, and still kind of am.

I once forged my mother's signature, so she wouldn't find out I had poor grades. The resulting punishment could be considered biblical, and are still whispered of in the back-alleys of Everett.

Now I ask you: did a bad mother raise me? Does it look like I was raised poorly? Does it appear she ever neglected me to go score crack, or beat me with a belt for spilling her beer? Does it seem like she ever put me down for not being good enough? Or made me feel bad about myself? No, she didn't. She was, and is, an excellent mother. I take after her in nearly every way. We often joke that I'm basically her, with different naughty bits. An insult to her is an insult to me. So maybe that will explain why I'm about to get a bit irate up in here.

You listen to me, you asinine crotch-stain of a human being. You have not only insulted my mother, but because you impugned her motherhood skills, you also insulted both of my sisters, and myself. That alone merits you a special verbal assault, and my utmost wish that you be taken into the back lot and shot. No, not shot. Held down and filled with wasps. No, fuck that, still not heinous enough. You should be effectively keel hauled by a semi-truck over 20 miles of razor wire and lemon juice, the end of which is a dive into a carcinogenic vat of excrement and irradiated Nutella. And then set on fire.

My personal wishes aside, you have proven yourself to be a person of dubious intellect, despite your profuse statements to the contrary. It's been said already, but what the hell, it bears repeating. You know not what the fuck you speaketh of, vile trollop. Oh, you work with kids? That makes you an expert? An inbred dicksneeze with the IQ of an autistic goldfish (which I'm not sure you aren't) can work with kids, and so long as they haven't molested any of them in the past 3 months, can continue to do so indefinitely. Hell, they're even legally allowed to draw opinions! Working with children and being a parent are two entirely different animals. I'm barely 19, and even I know that, how moronic and ignorant must that make you?

Now, I know you didn't know this, but HeyJoelle happens to be Communications major. Trixie is a writer. Fuck, even I get paid to write, and you chose to come here and spew what I can only call dim-witted assfuckery, the like of which has not been seen in aeons. More importantly, you have the audacity to do it while treating the English language like your own personal Frankenstein's Monster. I can imagine more eloquent writing out of blocks of fucking cheese. That's right, a cube of Monterey Jack has a better shot of creating something worth reading than you. That doesn't even make logical sense, yet somehow I believe it. Then you dare accuse professionals of not recognizing the god-like genius of your piecemeal sentence structure and infantile grammar? What, you're such a good writer, you get to shit on paper and call it prose? Fuck you, you slovenly, illiterate whore.

Well, I've said all I have to say. I've let it all out. It felt good. Thank you for that chance.

Now insult my mother again, and I will find your real name, steal all your passwords, and fill your Facebook with so much goat porn you crash Brazil's entire digital infrastructure every time you log on. And I can do it, too. Try me.

Cunt.

:)

Suck My Dick, You Miserable Shits: A Love Poem

Here's something I don't quite understand:

I've looked back at several of my previous posts. All the way back to the start of this useless blog. Hell, all the way back to the beginning of the useless blog before this one, even. And do you know what I discovered?

Aside from a select smattering of "From the Vault" and similar posts, I have been trying to please you, the humble reader.

I saw this and I finally wondered, "Why do I do it?" It's not like I get payed for this shit, so it's not like I need a way to improve traffic. I certainly don't do this because I need the validation of traffic and page views. I like (read: fucking love) the attention I get, what little I can glean from you miserly shits and your non-comment-leaving ways, but that still isn't really the reason I wanted to please you, the blog-reading public. I thought long and hard on this subject, and I came to a simple conclusion. Why do I aim to please you?

I have no idea.

Failing to answer this simple question, I tried another one. A similar question, to be sure, but different enough that I believed I could answer it. "Why should I do it?" This question was easy to answer. I shouldn't.

You see, I didn't start blogging for attention. I did it because I love the sound of my own voice, but talking to myself in public raises some eyebrows, so I had to settle for loving the words I write. I love nothing more than thinking up clever (or at least what I deemed to be clever at the time) ways of saying the things that pop into my head. Often, I also used to find it amusing to say things that piss people off for the simple pleasure of pissing them off. Hell, I still find that amusing. Quadriplegics are just lazy. Breast cancer is for whiners. Glen Beck loves wart-ridden, unwashed horse-cock. 

A while back, I asked for opinions on what I should write about. I got one response, from my uncle. I'm not really sure what I expected, but it still sorta pissed me off. So fuck you, loyal shit-eating readers. But I love you. No, really. I can't write what I know won't be read, so if you weren't here, I wouldn't be able to write. And sometimes, I have to write. It's what I do. It's really my only talent. If I couldn't write, I'd just be another middle-class white kid in a community college, impotently whining to my friends and family about things that annoy me. I would surely sink into anonymity and lead a perfectly average, disappointingly pedestrian, depressingly unimpressive life. I still probably will. Lucky for me, I do possess an above average ability to combine words into sentences that don't grate on the nerves like seeing a cat's asshole first thing in the morning. So lucky you, now I get to impotently whine to total strangers and internet people about things that annoy me. And I intend to do so.

So I've decided. Fuck you. All of you. Every last dog-fucking one of you. I am not here to amuse you, you are here to amuse me. You are here to listen to me piss and moan about whatever irritates my bowls at any particular moment, and you are here to like it. I am here to scream obscenities and petty insults, and you are here to lavish me with praise for my witty and intelligent scripture, even when it isn't witty and intelligent. Especially when it isn't witty and intelligent. If you disagree with me, than you can fuck off and die, you vile penguin-fondling miscreant. 

This is the end of "Hey guys, look at what I wrote! I drew a picture in paint! Aren't I fucking ZANY AND WILD! PLEASE LOVE ME!" I'm done with that. I don't know how often I'll update this blog, but I don't answer to you. If you think I've become a self-absorbed, arrogant, foul-mouthed and strikingly handsome college student, then you're wrong. I've always been this way, but now I don't give a flying fuck what you think of me. I'm here because I like to write, and I'm sick of trying to make nicey-nice and write what I think other people want to read. I've decided to write for me, not anyone else, as pathetic as that sounds. 

Yours in spite,

Scooter

  

NaNoWriMo: The world's most obnoxious accronym for the world's coolest month

Unbeknownst to me, National Novel Writing Month began Nov. 1.

The goal: to write a 50,000 word novel (175 pages) in 30 days. No editing, no revising, and no second-guessing; just plow through the shitty first draft.

Yesterday, I signed up at this site to participate (although I am 3 days behind. blech), and I will do my best to hold to my effort. So far, I have about 2000 words down, with only 48,000 more to go. I figure that if I write 2000 words a day, I should be able to hit the 50,000 mark with a bit of time to spare. The problem is, I simply started writing. I have no idea where this novel is heading.

As of now, it's a fantasy story about a man named Mat who has recently graduated from Magical College and become a Mage. To fulfill ancient tradition, he has to go back to his home and present his family with a gift, something he does not look forward to in the slightest, because he would rather be off doing magey things and gallivanting about. Oh, and his family sorta kinda hates him because he may have accidentally burned his house down when he was 12. With his mom in it. Aaaand the townsfolk might have held him locked in a closet for a year before attempting to drown him, to be saved only by a roving Archmage, due to the fact that he was born into a particularly superstitious, magic-hating part of the world.

Did I mention the sudden, unfortunate war that breaks out around his hometown while he's visiting, effectively cutting him off from the rest of the world and threatening to destroy the little town? Because that happens too.

I think it does, anyway. I've only written to the part where he's traveling home, and most of that stuff hasn't really been discussed yet. I'm just playing it by ear.

But there are italics. Lots of italics.  What that means, I'll let you guess.

Holy shit, it's a podcast! IT'S A PODCAST!

You may (or may not) have heard that me and my internet-famous mother, Trixie, are starting a podcast called Minivan to Hell. Every week, we each review 3 things; be they games, movies, books, tv shows, restaurants, what ever; and try to embarrass each other with stories of days of yore. It's good, I promise.

Anyway, our first podcast is up, and it currently resides here. The site (and podcast, for that matter) will improve over the next few weeks, as we learn what in balls it is we're doing.

You should check it out.

You are about to overdose on classiness.

Being classy usually isn't easy. You have to dress nicely, be well groomed, have an in-depth knowledge of various types of alcohol, and exude an air of confidence, intelligence, and charm. Some paragons of classiness include:

James Bond

Humphrey Bogart

Don Draper

Frank Sinatra

Based on these examples, I have developed a graph that demonstrates the perceived classiness of certain traits:

It is important to point out that classy attributes stack. Just wearing a fedora is classy, but wearing a suit AND fedora AND smoking makes you extra classy. 

If you don't want to spend the time (or money, suits are expensive) to actually become classy, you can instantly create a classy mood around you by opening up these 3 tabs in your browser:

1. On the first tab
2. On another tab
3. On the last

... and adjusting the volumes. And there you have it. Instant class. You're welcome.

You stay classy, San Diego.


Instant Class stolen from here.

3 ways to end a phone call.

The other day, I found myself unable to get off the phone.

No, I was not entranced by the conversation, and no my iPhone was not super-glued to my face; the problem was that neither me nor the party on the other end of the line could find an appropriate way to end the conversation, leading to a slow stagnation of the conversation that ended with an exchange of monosyllabic grunts and pseudo-words.

Sometimes, a phone call has a natural stopping point. You have each said what you needed to say, and a quick round of goodbyes ends the conversation. Maybe one of you says, "Well, glad we cleared that up. See you Monday, Jimmy." *Click*. Or perhaps you speak up with "I'd love to chat longer, Jim, but I have to drop a chunky one like Glen Beck needs an ice pick through the eye." *Click*. But sometimes, there are just those calls that don't want to end, and you can't just, y'know, end it. It's like a house guest that has far out-stayed their welcome, but isn't someone you can just tell to get the fuck out. 

So for my own sake, and I suppose for everyone's sake, I've compiled a short list of ways to handle these overlong, awkward phone conversations.

Fake a connection loss.

Sure, it's cheesy and kind of a dick move, but sometimes it's absolutely worth it. To make it believable,  you should probably start setting up for your false dropped call somewhere in the middle of the conversation. Respond to something you heard them say perfectly fine with "What was that? I'm having trouble hearing you, my connection is a bucket of shit."

Continue to have difficulty hearing them throughout the call, until it seems like the conversation is nearing the event horizon. Then, start yelling a couple of random words and rubbing the phone on your carpet (giggity). Start screeching into the mouthpiece until you're sure your telephonic counterpart is thoroughly confused, then hang up. They may try to call you back, feeling obligated to finish the conversation. Plant your fingers securely in your ears, and repeat after me, "La la la la la, I'm can't hear you, la la la la." Of course, if you have AT&T, you might not have to fake your dropped call at all!

Lie. Outrageously.

Sometimes, the best way to politely excuse yourself from a never-ending conversation is to tell whoever is on the other line that you are very sorry, but some pressing matter requires your attention, and you have to go. Now, this method is probably older then the telephone. I imagine Indians, while sending smoke signals to each other, sent messages like, "Sorry, Dances with Pants, I have to leave. I'm being forcibly penetrated by a buffalo." This being the case, a simple lie will not do. If it's obvious that you are lying so you don't have to talk to them, you may end up inadvertently offending your buddy/boss/great-grandmother. So when you lie, make it so ridiculously unbelievable, they have to believe it.

Submit to the awkwardness, and mumble out some sort of halfhearted goodbye.

Sometimes, you just have to bite the bullet and miserably stutter out "Well, I'll talk to you later then." Or, "Um... yeah. I guess... uh... bye?"

It can be painful, vomit-inducing, and sometimes fatal, but there comes a time when a lie or falsely dropped call just won't cut it. Sometimes you just have to up and accept the awkwardness of the whole conversation, and muscle your way through the goodbye phase. Then grab a blanket and a cup of hot chocolate, and huddle into a ball, sobbing deeply over the pain of that utter failure of a phone call. Go ahead, cry it all out. You've earned it.

I think I figured out the problem here...

2 bits of information.

1) I no longer have a job. This makes me quite sad, as I was planning on moving out this December. So there's that.

I refuse to believe that there is absolutely no silver-lining in this, as that would just be too depressing. So I'm going to assume that this is a sign from Zeus to (besides find a new job) spend some more time writing. This leads me to point number...

2) This blog has hardly been touched in several months. I blame this on 3 things; my inherent laziness, my job, and a general lack of focus for scooterbeast.com. Recently, me trying to write a post is me thinking, "Hey. I have some free time! This is a great chance to write a post!" and sitting down at my laptop with a big grin.

12 minutes later, the same grin is etched painfully across my face, a gruesome mask of stretched skin and dead, dead eyes. In my mind, a single neon phrase burns in the darkness... What the fuck do I write?

A good question, and one that is not easily answered. You see, "a guy and his opinion on shit" isn't really much of a guide when it comes to writing. At least, not for me. I need more of a theme, something to write ABOUT. A little structure is always nice. One idea I had was becoming a free²lancer. What is a free²lancer? Someone who is a freelancer, but for free! A free-freelancer! A free²lancer!

...


Okay, it's just a fancy (and somewhat irritating) way of saying that I would write whatever people told me to write. Like, people would e-mail me ideas for posts, and I would take the best "assignments." And it could be anything from "Gandalf explaining superstring theory while drunk," to "a script for a buddy-cop movie starring Ghengis Khan and Cookie Monster," or even "an intellectual discourse on dildos."

It's kind of a weird idea, but it's all I've got, for now. Any better suggestions?