ScooterBeast

Don't Insult My Mother, You Troublesome Wench.

2011-02-08T00:50:00.000-08:00

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

2010-12-30T22:19:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-05T04:02:00.000-07:00

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!

2010-11-02T02:17:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-10-19T04:19:00.000-07:00

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:

... 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.

2010-10-15T17:44:00.000-07:00

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...

2010-10-09T00:47:00.000-07:00

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?

Hi, I'm Troy McClure. You might remember me from this blog.

2010-09-02T23:57:00.000-07:00

Let's just pretend I never left, shall we? I now game test for Microsoft, have money, and am going to PAX tomorrow. This is all you need to know.

More on this later.

A Reflection on Shitting (pt 1)

2010-05-30T11:53:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure if this counts as a "from the vault" or not, as I originally wrote this specifically for this blog. At the same time, I wrote it a few months ago. For some reason, I never published it. And yes, this is only part 1. there are many, many types of shit, and I shall regale you with descriptions of all of them.

For about the past 24 hours, I have been sick as a dog with a particularly fail stomach virus. It has caused me to projectile vomit repeatedly, including once into a paper bag when the bathroom was in use. But maybe even worse then that is what it has done to my bowls, a most unpleasant occurrence. Diarrhea beyond diarrhea. Essentially, I've been pissing brown out my ass every hour or so. Sometimes, involuntarily. Sharting in my sleep is... well... less fun then a roller-coaster, but more fun then wrestling Magic Johnson in a pit full of hypodermic needles.

And with my spectacularly awful, liquid feces, I have had cause to look back and reminisce on better times, when my ass squeezed out solid, glorious matter. I think back to the days when I had cause to name my various types of shit, and smile. And now, I shall pass it on to you. Not the virus, the names. Of shit. And... yeah.

The Yogurt Snake: The long, soft, uniform shit that coils up in the little lower bowl. The kind that looks like a really long, soft tootsie roll. Just think about that the next time you eat a tootsie roll, and try not to gag.

Uncorking the Barrel: A combination of solid and liquid shit, this one is actually one of the only fun ways to have diarrhea. It's exactly what it sounds like. You push out a tiny lump of nutty goodness, which was the only thing keeping a veritable lake of vile, sloshing shit-essence back. This one actually has two variants: The Krakatoa, where the turd plug is forcibly expelled from your ass by a pent-up fart, which is then released in one massive blast, and The Champagne Shotgun, a combination of the two.

The Frankenstein: A turd obviously made of several smaller ones, mushed up together. Upon examination of the "skin" of the shit, you will find that the cracks are not actually cracks created by pressing it through your corn-hole, but rather the points where shit has melded to shit, like when you press bits of play-dough against each other.

Running the Chocolate Marathon: The kind of shit that will leave you in the bathroom for damn near an hour, maybe more. Not because you are reading on the can, or simply relaxing on your throne, but an hour of straight shitting. Often leads to...

The Breacher: A shit massive enough to break the surface of the water in a standard toilet. Low-flow crappers don't count. This one can be combined with pretty much any other shit, as it is a measure of size, not type. So when recounting your shit to friends and family, you would refer to it as a "Breaching *blank*"

The Anal Rainbow: Have you ever taken a peek into the shitter, only to be astounded by the sheer cornucopia of colors? Not just one color, but a plethora? I once had a log slowly transition from brown to green, to blue, as if my shit-printer ran out of ink. You heard me right. Not only did I shit three colors, one of them was fucking BLUE.

Review: Game: Alan Wake

2010-05-16T01:04:00.000-07:00

About a year ago, back when the acclaimed survival-horror game "Dead Space" came out, I gave it a try. In my room, alone, at night, with the lights off, I turned my Xbox 360 on and entered the shoes of an engineer exploring an alien-infested ship.

30 minutes later, the console is off, the lights are on, and I've got the covers pulled up to my eyes. Needless to say, I was far too scared to continue playing.

I will be the first to admit that horror games are my bane. My kryptonite. My Achilles heel. So when I saw how awesome Alan Wake, the most recent game by Remedy, the makers of the successful "Max Payne" series, looked, I was very sad.

"It looks so good," I thought, "but it also looks rather terrifying. There's no way I'll be able to play it."

But as time went on and Alan Wake looked better and better, I became more and more determined to play this game. So when I finally got my hands on it, I did all I could to make it as un-scary as possible. I played only during the day, with the lights on, while someone else was in the room. And dear lord, am I glad that I did.

Labeled as a psychological action thriller, the game more than lives up to its name. Drawing on various sources for story and feel, such as Lost, the X Files, Twin Peaks, and anything ever written by Stephan King, the game is action-packed, thrilling, and has quite the psychological bent to it. Allow me to explain...

The first words uttered in the game are "Stephan King once said..." Already off to a fantastic start. It then gets better as you find out that you play the part of best-selling writer Alan Wake, on vacation to the idyllic small Washington (represent!) town of Bright Falls. On his first night in the town, his wife is kidnapped, and he loses consciousness. He awakes at the wheel of a crashed car one week later, with no memory of the past seven days. As he stumbles about in the dark woods, he discovers a page of manuscript. One that he apparently wrote, but does not remember writing. The page details how he will be attacked by an axe-wielding psychopath, shrouded with some sort of living darkness. And sure enough, he is attacked. As the story unfolds, it goes according to a plot he apparently wrote, one which spells disaster for the small town.

The story is one of the best I have ever seen in a video game. I would love to tell you exactly why it is so fantastic, but to do so would spoil it, and I refuse to do that. Let's just say it ridiculously fantastic, shall we?

And the combat... in order to defeat the enemies known as the "Taken", you have to burn the enshrouding darkness off of them with a flashlight, rendering them vulnerable to pistol rounds, shotgun shot, and a hefty dose of hunting rifle. While this sounds like it would quickly get dull, it really doesn't. Instead, it makes the combat just a bit more terrifying, because being surrounded by a bunch of enemies that are completely unaffected by your attacks is pretty damn awful.

The game progresses in an episodic format, with a "Last time on Alan Wake" segment at the beginning of each new chapter to recap the story so far. As I said, the game is partially based off of shows like Twin Peaks. Thank the gods that the soundtrack isn't. Instead, several original songs combined with several classic songs ("Put da lime in da coconut...") make up a really great soundtrack. And once you play the chapter involving the rock stage, you will understand why I want the song "Children of the Elder God" as the soundtrack to my life.

This may be my new favorite game. Ever. And though I (obviously) have not played all the games that will come out this year, I can almost guarantee you that this will be my personal pick for Game of the Year. I give Alan Wake a 10 of 10. (Yes, a real rating. Don't get used to it.)

Review: Movie: Robin Hood

2010-05-12T13:52:00.000-07:00

When I went to see Ridley Scott's latest movie, a little film entitled "Robin Hood", starring Russel Crowe, I was lead to expect one thing, and one thing only. I did not receive what I was promised. And do you know why this is a very, very sad thing?

It's sad because the only thing I was expecting was Robin Hood.

You heard me right. While the movie had plentiful amounts of Robin, it had so little Hood that I think it should be renamed, "Y'know that story about that 'steal from the rich, give to the poor' guy? Well, this movie has similarly named characters!"

In the previews, King John announces that Robin Hood is an outlaw, the Sheriff of Nottingham nails up a wanted poster, and much fighting ensues. This follows the classic Robin Hood storyline quite well. Do you know when in the movie King John says that Robin Hood is an outlaw? The last 10 minutes.

Aside from the fact that Robin did no Hooding, there are several other problems I have with this film. First of all, because this is America, they had to add explosions. Giant, fiery explosions. In the middle of 12th century France. Second, they decided that Robin Hood's past wasn't mysterious enough. So they decided to make his long-lost father a freedom-loving stone-mason who wrote the Magna Carta years before it actually existed and was promptly killed by the evil tyrannical king. Of course.

They also decided that the story of Robin Hood wasn't complex enough. Instead of Robin Hood being Robin of Locksley, getting pissed-off by King John over-taxing the peasants, and so proceeding to steal from the rich and give to the poor, he got a bit of a backstory-makeover. Now he's an archer named Robin Longstride who finds Robin of Loxley half dead after a French ambush, takes his stuff, and then pretends to be Robin of Loxley. At the behest of Loxley, he brings his sword back to his dad in Nottingham, where Marian waits to be the love interest. MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE HALL OF JUSTIC- I MEAN LONDON... we discover that King John is a giant nepotistic douche (at least they got that part right), which backfires when his now-powerful buddy makes a deal with France to get England pissed off at John so France can invade.

Comitus- I mean Prince John... is not a lion in this version. Sad = me.

MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE HALL OF NOTTINGHAM... Robin finds out his dad was some super-awesome God of Freedom and king-fighting. Then the King's backstabbing buddy begins his wedge driving by burning a bunch of villages. The last one he tries to burn is Nottingham. So Robin and some old Crusader buddies fight them off, while Friar Tuck kills a bunch of soldiers with bees. Him being a man of the cloth and all, the only thing running through my mind at this point is, "Let he who is without sin cast the first bees." I laugh.

Then everyone and their dog goes and fights off the short lived (and historically non-existent) French invasion, King John burns the Magna Carta, and declares Robin an outlaw. In the last 3 minutes of the movie. The gang of Merry Men, Sherwood Forest, and being an outlaw are only briefly mentioned before a fade to black. The movie was okay, but was not "Robin Hood." Maybe if they had called it "Robin Hood Begins" or something like that, I would be less pissed. Instead, I went to a movie expecting "Robin Hood", and got "A guy named Robin pretending to be another guy named Robin who's father wrote the Magna Carta amid a backdrop of old English politics." Fail. I give this movie a "Disappointing" out of 10.

Review: Book: The Kama FUCKING (no pun intended) Sutra!

2010-05-08T00:54:00.000-07:00

Keep in mind, I wrote this for the school paper, and it was recently published nearly word for word (some of the fucks pulled out, but what do you expect). It has since gained both notoriety and populatrity amongst the students, and weirdly enough, several parents of the staff. And may I just say, this was one fun story to write.

The first of May approacheth, and that means it's time to bust out the old penis allegory May Pole, string ribbons from the top, and have young women of child-baring age dance about it in a festival of fucking. In honor of this auspicious day, I wanted to review something with a slightly erotic lilt to it. Then I decided to forget that "slightly" bit and go with the single most erotic subject I can review, without delving into the sordid and ever so populous realm of internet porn. I decided to review that first and greatest how-to sex manual, the Kama Sutra.

Upon beginning my read of the Kama Sutra, I encountered three surprises: 1) The book is rather long, 2) it's not all about sex, and 3) it's written in goddamn prose. Interestingly enough, only one of the seven parts of the book relates to sexual positions; much of the rest is teaching men how to make themselves attractive to women, catching a wife (or twelve), and proper conduct when around hookers, the King's Harem, and other men's wives. While the hooker and harem bits make for interesting reads, I don't need help making myself attractive to women. They just flock to me like flies to a malodorous heap of excrement. Perhaps that wasn't the most apt simile...

And damn it all to hell, the prose. The Iliad and the Odyssey were an ordeal, and now I have to read the prose of a millennia-dead Indian sage trying to write "Women for Dummies." The non-pornographic bits took a herculean effort just to muscle through, and as for absorbing the information... let's just say there needs to be Cliff's Notes for the boring parts. They take up most of the book and pretty much just buffer the pretty drawings of rampant humping from the dust covers.

But when you do get to the good part, boy oh boy are you in for a wild ride. Before I read the Kama Sutra, I thought I was pretty up to speed on things. I mean, I'm not naive. I've seen the Internet. When it comes to bumping uglies people can get fairly creative, even if they are a pair of desperate crack addicts making a sex film to support their habit, sobbing deeply on the inside as their inner child shoots itself in the head. But the crack-addled minds of porn stars and their "directors" have nothing on the Wisdom of the Ages collected in the Kama Sutra.

There is something for everyone in the Kama Sutra. You think I'm exaggerating? Let me describe to you what the Kama Sutra calls "giving a blow." It's not what you think. At all. It's where the woman forcibly yanks the man's wang out of her and fucking punches it. And when you think about it, the way they use the term "blow" in the Kama Sutra makes more sense than it does in common sexual terminology.

How about another example, one that I don't think would be particularly comfortable for any of the parties involved: "When both the legs of the woman are contracted, and placed on her stomach, it is called 'crab's position'." One look at the included illustration revealed that this pretty much means trying to churn her butter while both partners are in the fetal position. Like I said, uncomfortable. But beyond even that is "The Turning Position." From what I can tell, this entails the man, while joined to the woman tighter than a trailer hitch in sub-zero weather, flipping his leg over her, so that his junk points backwards, through his legs. What in all hell is this nonsense. No. Just... no.

Not only are some of the positions purely mind-boggling, but some of the names are as well. Some make sense or are easy to decipher, like "Splitting the Bamboo" or "The Top" (use your imagination, the first thing you think of is probably exactly what it is), there are others that either sound more freakish than they actually are, or make no sense whatsoever. "The Fixing of a Nail", "The Mare's Position", and "Sporting of a Sparrow", just to name a few.

There is even a segment for you "swingers" out there. That's right, the Kama Sutra even gives tips on how to efficiently operate during a wild and crazy orgy. Both the positions "United Congress" and "Congress of a herd of Cows" are dedicated to multiple partner sex, and go into detail about how to properly conduct yourself while attending an orgy.

There isn't much else I can say about the Kama Sutra. Only that I have learned a lot from it (you hear that, ladies?), and will never again doubt that there will always be more sex positions. I give this book a "Dear Lord, women really bend that way?!" out of 10.

Outdone +1

2010-04-16T11:08:00.000-07:00

Today, my mom showed me a blog. This blog is rants about random subjects, using humorous language to induce hearty laughter. And MS Paint illustrations, where words are not enough.

Does this sound familiar to anyone else?

The problem is, her blog has far better MS Paint illustrations. Like, way better. There's even shading and shit. It is because of this, I believe, that she has so many more people who follow her blog than I. That being said, it may also have something to do with the fact that her posts come more often and of a higher quality than my own. I suppose I have something to aspire to, now.

This.

From the Vault: The Regulation Rap

2010-04-11T03:30:00.000-07:00

Today, I bring to you a video me and a few friends made as a final project for US Gov senior year. We were supposed to do something creative, covering something we had not covered that year. Most people did crappy, half-assed live skits. Me, Alex Chmaj, Kyle McDonell, and someone who's name has slipped my mind. We got A's, hardcore. I won't say it's anywhere near perfect, (there were some SERIOUS lip-syncing issues) but for 4 high schoolers making this in one week with a $0 budget, we did pretty damn good.

Also, the first 50 seconds are completely silent. I don't know why. I think we just had more video than music.

And here are the lyrics.
Regulation
Right:
I’m a Senator, born to serve my state,
Let me spell it out for you and articulate,
A day in my life starts at a quarter to eight,
gonna throw down some sick rhymes, now let me dictate.
In order to serve the changing needs of this Nation
We gotta throw down some dope Legislation
But to keep me away from all that earmark Temptation
You gotta have a lot of real strict Regulation

Regulation:
Regulation in the house! And in the senate, too,
I’m here to keep the senators from tryin’ to screw
With your Benjemins, Lincolns, Georges and Andrews,
I monitor their actions, keep them workin’ for you.

Chorus
Legi-Legi-Legi-Legislation,
Misa-Misa-Misappropriation,
Regu-Regu-Regu-Regulation,
Play your cards right or you’re gonna get shot.

Left:
I’m your everyday senator and I self-regulate,
You’re callin’ out Abramhov and Uncle Ted but don’t hate,
I’m here to keep it real and set the record straight,
Those fools aint nothin’, I’m worse than Watergate!
Chillen’ in my office, with my homies every day,
Every shady group with interest, today the NRA,
On and on and on the gifts go:
Home improvements,
Meals,
pizza for my bros.
Cars that aren’t slow,
Cash, a whole load,
Trips on the road,
Stocks which will grow,
Bonds fo’ sho’,
some real Expensive Clothes,
Oil rights to flow,
And Investements, yo.
It’s a two way street, exchanging gifts friend to friend,
In return for this merch my support I’ll extend,
Straight up, it’s my constituency, they’ll be with me till the end
Through that revolving door, someday I’ll be one of them.

Right:
Some lobbyists came in, they’re from the NRA,
They had tons of cool swag they wanted to give away,
Yo, Regu-Regulation why you getting’ in the way?

Regulation:
It’s all in the rules, read up and obey.

Right:
What’s this? Only gifts up to 49.99?
Then where do I go with my Lobby’n homies to dine?

Regulation:
The diner down the street I’ve heard is just fine,

Right: I’m sorry Lobbyist friends, I just don’t have the time.

Chorus

Right:
The Committee on Printing is where we are,
We keep tabs on all documents, near and far,
In this domain, I’m the printing czar,
Look at these margins, they’re in way too far.

Left:
I’m editing this bill and earmarking’s the game,
The NRA told me there’s no reason for shame,
Those fools in appropriations think that I’m lame,
But I’m passing all these riders in the COP name.
Unlike all the bills that are passed out there,
When it comes to printing paper, the man just don’t care,
I be passin’ all these riders like I’m walkin’ on air,
Will my colleagues mess with me, nah, they don’t dare.
We’re sitting here waiting for my bill to get signed,
It sailed through the senate and the house just fine,
Cause to stop the margin bill would be an absolute crime,
So my riders made it through in no real time.
That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout…

Chorus

Left:
I went ahead and I got things done,
Now everybody has the money to buy their own gun,
My lobbyist friends continue to show their appreciation,
You think this is the end, but I’ve only begun.
Cause it’s election time,
Normally I walk the line,
But now with my supporters I’ll be just fine
With my constituency and my PAC’s
I have the all the money I need.

Right:
So it’s election season, and I’m good as done,
Cause the PAC’s won’t give me no funds,
So now I’m gonna leave, and I’m gonna run,
And my constituency all want free guns.

Left:
I may have won by means a little shady,
But that don’t matter, now get over here ladies!
Together we will start a golden new age,

Reporter:
Excuse me Mr. Senator, have you seen the front page?

Left:
They asked me again and again and again,
“Hey Mr. Senator, who are your friends?”
Why didn’t you inform me about these ethics rules, Kevin?
Sir, they’ve been around since 1977.
Aww... Sh…
Sure I’ll sign your book, just give me a sec,
This one’s to Regulation, for keeping me in check.
After not getting elected, a senator’s career doesn’t end,
They get to write tons of books and to make amends.

Chorus x 4

Freaks on the Bus: A journy of self-discovery, critical thinking, and quasi-retarded cave trolls.

2010-04-10T01:10:00.000-07:00

I take the bus everyday to school. Not by choice, mind you, but because I have no license. Why do I not have a license? Because I have no car. Why do I have no car? Because I have no money. Why do I have no money? Because I have no job. Why do I have no job? Because I have no car to get to one. Science!

When I first began using the King County Metro System, I was rather afraid. I had heard horror stories of unidentified liquids, shankings, freakish odors, and sitting next to people that make Buffalo Bill seem well adjusted and normal. When I actually had ridden a few times, I came to find that most people who ride the bus are just normal people like me (as much as I can be said to be normal). However, I do on occasion encounter a Bus Freak, and the experiences are chilling. Allow me to present a casting call for society's rejects and malformed creatures:

The Mysterious Madame Mascara- An unsavory looking middle-aged woman who is on every bus at the same time, always putting her makeup on. No matter what bus I get on, there she is in the front row, applying her cheap-ass powders and lipstick and shit, apparently unaware that the only thing she could apply to her face that could make it palatable to the eye is a mummy-like cocoon of bandages. This woman could make Stevie Wonder recoil in fright. I believe she may actually be a modern-day Gorgon of some sort, which would explain her almost magical ability to be in many places at once.

Auntie Schizo- A woman that I believe to be homeless that I often come across. She is a notorious "Bus Talker", someone who feels the inexplicable need to talk to the people around her, whether they feel like participating in the conversation or not. She always has a water bottle with her, though I believe that the bottle is actually filled with either vodka or snake venom. But if she were merely a simple Bus Talker, she would not make this list. No, the reason she is memorable enough to qualify for the title of Bus Freak is the subject matter her Bus Talking consists of. She is constantly alerting the other riders and the driver to the foul misdeeds of the government, whom she claims is actively performing experiments on her. Other topics of conversation include how the figure of Aunt Jamima is actually based off of her ex-husbands mother, mating rituals of rabbits, and (I can't make this up) how it has been scientifically proven that human beings can survive solely on air, and this will cause them to live past the age of 200. She is the essence of the crazy bus-goer, and is just batshit enough to do something like drink snake venom to build up an immunity (see? I was going somewhere with that).

Sausage McDownsy- Another Bus Talker, this one is more inclined to talk about her finger-paintings then government conspiracies. Wherever she goes, she carries with her a purple Dora the Explorer rolling suitcase. I am fairly certain she uses this suitcase because she is an avid fan of the show, and because whenever she is let out of her habitat, she probably feels like an explorer. It's not often you meet a real-life cave troll, but I am fairly certain that I did. This girl is about the width of the bus, could crush an eight-year-old with a single swipe of her meaty, ham-sized hands, and suffers from some sort of metal handicap. Based on the fact that her face looks like something a preschooler would sculpt out of meatloaf and the smegma-like substance that coats SPAM, she likely has either a bad case of Down's Syndrome or a scorching case of the Ugly. Taking her conversation into account, my guess is she got hit by the Downsmobile going 120. She likes to talk to the driver about where she is going to and coming from, and she speaks with such child-like glee that it's almost cute. A single look at her reminds me that nothing about Sausage McDownsy could be remotely considered cute. Every time she comes on the bus (after I brace myself for the aftershocks) I vomit in my mouth a little, and pray to every deity I can think of that she does not notice me, lest she keep me chained in her palace, dancing in a gold bikini for her viewing pleasure.

Google has come to me with questions. I shall provide the answers.

2010-04-09T00:20:00.000-07:00

This evening (or by the time this is published, last night) I was perusing my blog's statistics. I use a thing called BlogPatrol to tell me how many views I have and how many views each page gets, pretty standards stuff. However, it also provides me with information that I don't really need or want, but can on occasion be interesting, and very rarely, even useful (remember how I went all Private Internetstigator on my step-mom? It's what I used to find the IP of the anonymous poster who I suspected to be her.).

I discovered while browsing these stats that one of the things that led people to my blog was Google. The keywords someone Googled that led them to my blog? "What can we do to overthrow our robotic overlords and their army of furry woodland creatures".

Derp?

I had no idea that we even had robotic overlords, let alone ones that could force squirrels and bunny rabbits to tyrannically oppress the human population. I figure that if it is such a pressing problem that someone would Google it, it must be very serious indeed. I read it on the internet, and the internet is always right.

So what can we do to fight back against the flood of metal and fur, to win back freedom for humanity? Here are three things you can do to fight the good fight:

1) Strike back against the oppressors. Take a sledgehammer to your computer, cover it in rare-earth magnets, shove it in your microwave for 10 minutes, then piss on your melted microwave. Congratulations, you have scored your first kill against the machines. I now suggest forming a tribe of badass freedom-fighters all decked out in guns and camo paint, living in the jungle, and talking like any action hero you've ever seen in any movie.

2) Kill every animal that crosses your path. If it's alive and not Homo Sapien Sapien, shoot it with a .45 in the face, then stomp until you are simply splashing in a puddle of whatever animal it was. I don't care if it is a cuddly kitten or an endangered whooping crane. Kill it, kill it's family, then take a shit on the bodies. Why all the pissing and shitting on corpses of your enemies? Because this is a war of attrition, and these are attacks on morale. Plus, If you've never wiped your ass on a chinchilla, you are missing out.

3) Nuke it from orbit. It's the only way to be sure. Let's face it: there are just too many animals on earth to kill with conventional methods. For every llama or hermit crab you cap in the ass, another 5 will be born. Don't forget that the robots can just keep building more of themselves. So the final solution is this: lead your group of rag-tag survivors on a last-ditch offensive to the robot base. Luckily, you will have discovered an engineering whiz who used to work at NASA, who can rewire the Robots' Mobile Doom Fortress to fly to the moon, devoid of robots. While he's doing that, you and the big tough guys kick the shit outa the robot soldiers, while the women and children load supplies into the ship (except for Sigourney Weaver, because let's face it, she'd be kicking robot ass too). The remains of humanity will then nuke the world until it is devoid of life. Congratulations, you have saved the earth from the robot oppress... actually, you kinda just fucked the world. Oh well, at least you have a moon base, Sigourney Weaver, and all the frozen pizza you could ever eat. Wait, you left the pizza on earth?! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!......

Also, a shout-out to Zaythar. I was mentioned, so now I shall mention back. There are things that will make you happy at Zaythar's Blog. And laundry baskets. *shudder*

Clash of the Titans Review. Spoiler Alert: It sucked balls.

2010-04-07T23:00:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, it's okay to tinker with source material when converting text to film. There are just some things that don't translate very well, like long inner monologues or unimportant characters that appear once in a rather inconsequential way. These are okay changes to make. It's okay to make small changes when these changes are necessary or improve the movie experience dramatically. When none of these requirements are fulfilled, but the writers of a movie decide to screw with the original story just for the hell of it, and destroy any semblance of a worthwhile film, that pisses me off. Even when this is done to another movie, this pisses me off. When this happens to a classic like Clash of the Titans, heads will roll.
Clash of the Titans is a remake that will go down in history as (in my mind, anyway) the biggest disappointment since New Coke. It started out appropriately enough with a mother and child locked in a box floating along in the middle of the sea. Oh by the way, the Gods and men are having a power struggle.

What? Hold on, maybe I don't remember either the old movie or the Ancient Greek myth, but I don't remember a war between gods and men at all, anywhere. In fact, common sense dictates that any war between gods and men would end faster than a Britney Spears marriage, due to that fact that Zeus could snap his fingers and roast an entire country with REAL LIGHTNING!

Anyway, a fisherman nets up the box, finding the mother dead and the baby well... not. Suddenly...

LET'S DO THE TIMEWARP AGAIN! (It's just a jump to the left...)

One time skip later, we find Perseus on Pandora, learning the culture of the native Na'vi, coming to fall in love with- wait, no. That was Sam Worthington's other movie. So Jake Sully redux's family views the destruction of a statue to Zeus, summoning the wrath of Hades. Logic weeps. Then Hades, for no apparent reason, decides that the family of fishermen must DIE. Because Hades, being the lord of the Underworld, must be an evil Satan analogue, therefore must be the villain. And at risk of this becoming a tangent, why is that always the case? Sure, he kidnapped, raped and married a 15-year-old, but that's small game when compared to what Zeus does, and he's supposedly the good guy. I'm just saying, lay off of Hades. 'Kay?

A bunch of stoic, manly tears of manliness later, Perseus is captured by soldiers and taken to Argos, where Queen Cassiopeia does the absolute dumbest thing an Ancient Greek mortal can do; she favorably compared her daughter's beauty to that of a Goddess. This, invariably, will get your bacon handed to you by a wrathful deity after she turns your family into spiders, blinds your husband, and covers the entire city you live in with boils, just to make the point that MORTALS ARE NOT BETTER THAN GODS. Ever, at anything.

For her insolence, Hades pops in to say that either Andromeda, Cassiopeia's daughter, must be sacrificed in 10 days, or the Kraken will be loosed upon Argos, and will break everything into tiny pieces.

It is during this announcement that Hades reveals Perseus's parentage, that he is a demigod and son of Zeus. Because of this, the Argosian King decides that he would be the best man to send on a journey to the edges of the world to find a way to kill the Kraken. So Jake Sully gets in his Avatar and heads out to the forest to- damn, I keep getting these movies confused.

So Perseus sets off on a quest alongside some nameless red-shirts, and Perseus becomes goes from humble fisherman to master swordsman in under a minute. No montage, no time lapse; he just suddenly knows how to kill things, and fortuitously finds a lightsaber. They call it a magic sword, but it's a lightsaber, a gift from the gods. Perseus refuses to use it because he wants to prove that he can do it as a man, not a demigod. That then becomes his struggle throughout the movie; his struggle to deny his god-hood. Because that was exactly how things went down in the old movie, or the myth. It was at this point in the movie that I began screaming. Not silently, to myself, but on the outside. I did not stop screaming until the credits rolled, and that was only because it would call attention to me throwing a Molotov Cocktail into the theater. This movie was so wrong and horribly written and just plain bad, it physically hurt me.

I believe I blacked out at this point, awake enough only to catch glimpses of an over-the-top (in a bad way) fight with giant scorpions; the writers confusing Calibus (a monster from the original movie) and Caliban, something totally different from Shakespeare's "The Tempest"; and Perseus tricking information out of witches that appeared to be closely related to the hand/eye thing from "Pan's Laborynth." He goes to fight Medusa in the Underworld (wrong, by the way), uses his lightsaber, and meets an Arabic wizard made of wood.

He also meets the love interest (who isn't Andromeda, but someone the writers decided to make up), who promptly is useless and dies. Hades makes his move on defeating Zeus (Liam Neeson, hell yeah) the Kraken (apparently the child of Godzilla and Cthulhu, and was honestly pretty badass looking) attacks and quickly get's "stoned" (ba-dum-tish). Perseus offs Hades, then lives happily ever after with easily overlooked love interest, who is brought back to life by Zeus, the end.

Okay, that was a hardcore spoiler, but now you don't have to see the movie. I have saved you fifteen dollars, 2 hours, and your sanity, for this is a purely awful movie. Never see it. Just watch the 1981 original, it is much better. Yeah, it has cheesy special effects and an odd C-3PO-like owl, but it makes so much more sense than this remake. On a scale of 1 to 10, I give it a resounding "No".

From the Crystal Ball of Paula Prognosticator, Alchemist, Diviner, and Occultist Extraordinaire.

2010-03-28T20:49:00.000-07:00

Oops. I haven't done anything for a while. I promise I will take my punishment tomorrow. In the meantime, I quite enjoyed writing this for the spoof edition of the Bellevue College Jibsheet, the Bullsheet. I figured it's something, right?

Dear Children,

Many of you are avid readers of this weekly column, and are true believers in the fortune-telling aspects of the stars, cards, crystals, and heiromancy (for those of you who do not regularly follow my oracles, this is the reading of animal entrails to predict future events). I come to you now with news of a great peril, for the time of reckoning is at hand. In previous columns, have had doled out advice and knowledge from beyond the veil, useful tidbits for everyday life. But now, I have come across something big. Something that will change the course of history forever.

In the third day of the third month of the third year, there shall be a time of great peril for this world. The people of the dragon shall come from the East, as in a great flood of bodies to the lands of the West. The people of the eagle shall tremble and weep, but the tide shall not be abated. The rivers and lakes and oceans will run red with blood, and the woman on the mount shall proclaim the end of days with the voice of the underworld.

For She will be the proclaimer, the first of the three Dead Ones, and she will tell the secrets of ancient rights and eldritch evils, and these will break the world. Madness will take those of greater sight, for what they see will drive them to it. Those of mundane thought shall take it unto themselves to wield the darkness revealed to them, and the wars will be without border. The woman shall come down from the top of the mount, guiding a child from outside what we see. In her other hand, she shall hold a sword, her gift to the child.

Time shall pass, and the people of the Dragon and the people of the Eagle shall die, and the world shall turn cold with their hate. When the Child of the Winter comes to the City of Angels, and the stars announce the time is near, The BEAST shall rise from the depths of the sea, and a blackness will envelop the earth. For he is NA'FAH'CTNYX, the second of the Dead Ones, and his reign will be of terror and vileness. Upon his shoulders shall ride the evils of untold origin, from times beyond the beginning and end, from further then even the stars know. And the BEAST will consume the ancient land of Ur, the Throne of Kings will be lost.
But the Child of Winter shall rise against the chaos of the BEAST, and shall slay him upon the stones of Heracles, the sword held aloft against the nightmare.

Out of the unthinkable form of the BEAST shall rise the final prophet of doom, the Harbinger. His call will be the call to arms against the dark evils brought by the BEAST. And their number shall be greater than the drops of water in the ocean, and mankind will face the hordes of deepest blackness for an age.

Then will be the time of He Who Is Last, and he shall take the name of Armageddon. And with his birth shall be sown the seeds of the last days. For his twin shall come of the deep skies, the third of the Dead Ones, called by names of BRTEFV'TA, URUTEX, and LEVIATHAN. He shall swallow the lights of the sky, and drown the stars. And Armageddon shall sound his horn, and summon his brother to us, and we shall be devoured.

But hope is not lost. For a few brief moments, the barriers between the worlds will shatter, and the Ancient Ones will stretch out a hand in kindness. If we are worthy, we shall ascend with them into a world of Light, and we shall live. But if we shun their hand, mankind shall see its own demise.

But enough about that. It really is such a downer. Besides, we must have several years, right? Next week: What are your lucky colors? Paula Prognosticator will tell you what to wear be the luckiest you can be!

Picture Party Super Happy Fun Time Yeah!

2010-02-17T20:17:00.000-08:00

In perusing my recent posts (because I need the validation) I discovered a disturbing trend. Do you know how many pictures there were in the last 5 posts? I don't, but I do know that the word/picture ration is off by a lot.

To remedy this, here are an assload of random pictures I have saved. They're all in Photobucket because it would be WAY to much work to transfer them all one by one to this page.

Enjoy.

The Executive Asshole

2010-02-12T09:17:00.000-08:00

Yeah, it's been a while. I've been busy.

Anyway, I recently turned this paper in to my Expository Writing teacher, who promptly advised me to talk to a counselor, and somehow related me to Hitler. I so wish I was joking. She did not like my paper very much. I guess I should have expected it when I titled my paper based on an Eddie Izzard joke.

Some people just don't get on well with other people. They just can't keep themselves from saying things they shouldn't, usually things that get them into large amounts of trouble with those who are sensitive or politically correct. Spiteful, hateful, and generally angry, these people roam through life causing emotional pain and strife because hey, it's fucking fun.
I am one of these people. My hobbies include: Mocking the handicapped, infuriating the religious, and poking fun at generally taboo subjects. Long story short, I am an Asshole. A Douche. A Dick, Fuckwad, Asshat, Crotch-stain, and general all-around not very nice guy.
But, unlike your average Asshole (the guy who drives slow in the left lane, who leaves his gum on the ground, who talks overly loud on the cell phone to seem important), I consider myself to be a true practitioner of the art of Dickery. One does not become such a bastion of bastardry overnight, however. It takes hard work, practice, and a single stunning realization before one can truly call themselves an Executive Asshole, as I do now.
It is that stunning realization that sets the Executive Asshole apart from your standard, run-of-the-mill Jackass. Anyone can be a douchebag, but it takes a special kind of Dickhead to understand and appreciate exactly what they are, and to not only feel no shame, but to revel in the glory and freedom attained by being an Executive Asshole. This understanding usually comes to a subject all at once, and can sometimes be an overwhelming blow, crushing some people's view of their self-worth. Those who can withstand the mental trauma emerge from the burning agony and purifying flame a new beast, a shining golden Piece of Shit, ready to loose themselves upon an unsuspecting and unworthy world.
My revelation was a singular one. I am not, as some people would say, much of a "Lady's Man." This may have something to do with my Executive status, but I cannot be sure. Several years ago, when I was about 14, I met a girl in my science class. Smooth Operator that I am, I stumbled over my own tongue, tripped over my words, and landed smack dab in the middle of an embarrassing situation involving Lasagna Day, a dead pigeon, and a hockey stick covered with tar. The exact details are lost to time, but long story short, I somehow got myself a date.
The plan was simple, efficient, and totally original. I was going to attempt a date never before conceived of by mind of man. We were to go to an institution which purveyed moving pictures displayed on a screen and ingeniously synched them to an audio recording of people talking, so as to tell stories. After this, a quick jaunt to a local hamburger eatery was in order, and the eve would be at an end. I titled this work of brilliance the "Dinner and a Movie" date.
For the purposes of this paper, let's just call the girl "Debbie." Not her real name, but I do not think she would appreciate the verbal barrage about to come her way. Deb was rather attractive, I will definitely say that for her. And the fact that she showed some kind of interest at me at the time was nothing short of astounding to me. I figured I had finally caught a break. Oh, how little I knew.
So her parents dropped her off at the movie theater, and I was there waiting for her.
"Hey Scott."
"Hey 'Debbie'." With the social grace of an autistic child, I quickly turned my back on her and bought the tickets. To what movie, I have no idea, and it really doesn't matter.
"Did you want popcorn?"
"Oh yeah! My mom, like, gave me this coupon for, like, a free popcorn, so I can get that." The look of ecstasy on her face at being able to use a coupon and constant use of the word 'like' should have been the first sign to run, but my naivety knew no bounds.
"But aren't we going to need drinks?"
"Oh yeah. Do you think, like, you could get them?" My own mom had given me quite a pile of cash, as I expected to be the one who would be paying for everything, anyway.
"Sure thing."
We entered the theater, bought our refreshments, and sat down in our seats, and enjoyed the pre-preview entertainment, complete with elevator music and inane on-screen games and trivia.
When the movie started, we sat silently watching... whatever it was. About halfway through the movie, she leaned towards me, and sensuously whispered in my ear...
"What does 'metropolis' mean?"
"What?"
"The word 'metropolis'. What does it mean?"
"It means city." This is a bad sign.
"Oh, thanks." She quietly went back to shoving her face full of popcorn.
I could not pay attention for the rest of the movie. Popcorn tasted like ashes in my mouth, and I wondered, is she a moron? Was she just playing dumb? I hope it is the latter.
You see, of all the things I hate, (a vast number of things) there is nothing I hate more than stupid people. They pollute our gene pool, use our resources, and generally sponge off of existence, giving nothing to the world but their own quasi-retarded children. If we could round them all up in camps, sterilize them, and have them work in sweat shops for the rest of their miserable lives, the world would be better off for it. Now that you have the backdrop of my hate, the play about to be performed will make a little bit more sense.
The movie ended, and we walked across the street to Red Robin's, because nothing says 'romance' like goofy shit on the walls and a 6 foot, vested bird. We were seated, ordered our food, and settled in for a good round of conversation and chit-chat.
If we could have skipped this portion all together, everyone involved would have been better off.
We begin our idle chatter as many people do. We talked about common interests.
"So, what do you like to do for fun?"
The question came a bit suddenly, with no real transition, but I responded, "Well, um... I like to read, and I write a bit. I also-"
"You like to read?" She looked stunned, as if I had just told her that I enjoy the taste of freshly smoked babies.
“Uhh… yeah? Yeah, I actually read quite a bit.”
“Ew. I can’t stand reading.”
“Huh. School must suck for you, then.” I was astounded I had not weeded this out earlier. This was the kind of bullshit that I expected out of people I dislike, not people I date. By this time, I had already decided that this would be the last date.
“Well, I don’t always hate reading, I guess.” Thank God, maybe this date can be saved! ”There are a couple very pacific things I like to read. Magazines are okay, and-“
“What was that?”
“What?”
“There are a couple what things you like to read?”
“Pacific” Unless she was trying to tell me that she liked to read oceanic things, she was using the word ‘Pacific’ instead of ‘Specific’. I died a little on the inside.
“Do you mean ‘specific’?
“It’s pacific.” And now she was trying to correct my proper language with her back-asswards dialect. This had to stop. Soon.
Luckily, at that very moment, the appetizer arrived. Now we could stop talking, and fill our faces with the deliciousness that is onion rings. Oh onion rings, is there any problem you can’t fix? Apparently, they can’t fix Debbie.
I reached for the savory rings… when she SLAPPED my hand away.
“What was that for?”
“We have to pray first.”
A silence fell. Our eyes locked. Never before in my life have I wanted to strangle someone with an onion ring, but I felt that urge now. There was so much about her that I couldn’t stand, and I had kept quite. I imagine that an aura of darkness rose about my person, as a rage filled me.
This shit ends now.
I looked her in the eye, leaned forward menacingly, and said, in a very calm and passionless voice:
“Debbie? Shut. The fuck. Up. I have had it with your bullshit. You are the single dumbest person I have ever met in my life, and I fucking detest you. You should never be allowed to breathe, let alone talk. If I hear even one more retarded syllable escape your fucktarded pie-hole, I think I’ll fucking explode. We will not talk again, we will not have any kind of interaction. I only talk to people, and I’m not sure you qualify. You are the epitome of the Dumb bitch.” I stood, Debbie looking on with a face that I cannot accurately describe. If you go out today, find someone walking their dog, and shoot the dog, the look on their face moments after you do it is the same look Debbie had. I grabbed my coat, still pissed, and said the only thing I could think of, “Madame, I bid you adieu.” Why I said it, I can’t say, but it seemed to fit.
It wasn’t until I was in my mom’s car, riding home, that I realized I had stuck her with the check. And suddenly it all crashed down on me. Holy shit. Did I really just do that? Am I really that much of a dick? Is being such a magnificent asshole supposed to feel so… so… awesome? I realized then, that if I had to live in a world populated by dumbshits, then dumbshits were going to have live in this world with an Asshole. But not just any asshole, one who really tried, one who knew what he was, and embraced it. An… Executive Asshole.
And that Asshole was me.

4 Tips for Not Looking Like a Moron on Valentine's Day

2010-01-22T19:02:00.001-08:00

Love is, according to the Beatles, all you need. I assume they are discounting food, water, and shelter, because these things seem fairly necessary as well. And every year, we celebrate this specific chemical reaction in our brains with a holiday intended to promote the joy and happiness of love, as well as to commemorate the death of Saint Valentine, of which next to nothing is known, including why he is a saint and why we are commemorating him. But, as in many things, what we intended is not what the holiday has become. It has become a day for couples to showcase themselves, saying "Look at us! We are a happy couple! We are normal!" and for the single people to silently sob themselves to sleep, ashamed at the complete and utter contempt the opposite (or in some cases, the same) sex have for them, and contemplate suicide. It has also become, in my opinion, the single most commercial holiday in our massive stable of commercial holidays. It is a holiday that exists simply to exist, where men try to buy kinky sex from their girlfriends and wives with chocolate and jewelry, and sickeningly sweet and stupid Hallmark cards because they are too lazy to put pen to paper.

And it is often men who catch more than their fair share of flack on this day, because for some reason, we don't think about the day months in advance. Maybe we have more important things on our minds, or we forget when it is, or maybe we just don't care as much as the women do. So guys, this is your friendly reminder, February 14 approaches. If you're single, I suggest a full box of Kleenex, and for those of you currently attached...

Tip #1: Make your reservations NOW.
If you are planning on going out for a fancy dinner (because you, my friend, are so very original), then you have to remember that half a billion other men are making the same plans. As there are only so many nice restaurants, you need to make sure that you schedule your dinner early, unless you want to be eating at a Red Robin with your beloved. Because nothing says 'romance' like a bunch of goofy crap on the walls and a 6 foot vest-wearing bird.

Tip #2: Make your own valentine.
Back in the High Middle Ages, when people like Chaucer and Butler invented the romantic side of the holiday, Hallmark wasn't around. These poor saps had to actually write prose and poetry to communicate their love. Or at least lust. Now think about this; These people were lucky to live to be forty, had no indoor plumbing, and only very few had any kind of formal education. And they were writing poetry. You are a college student in an age of man-made scientific miracles, if they can do it, you can do it. Get a pen and some nice paper, and write something. It doesn't have to be all that good, or rhyme, or even be original; but the fact that you have written her a poem for valentine's day will make her think you are intelligent and sensitive, even if you are a troglodyte that could offend a truck driver's sensibilities. Just don't hand her something that looks like an eight-year old finger-painted it.

Tip #3: DO NOT, FOR ANY REASON, TAKE ADVICE FROM THE INTERNET.
In researching for this article (aka: looking for tips to rip off), I discovered several websites giving out valentine's day tips. They were some of the dumbest things I have ever heard. They gave tips like "make a scrapbook of some of your best times together." If you are a man, the only time you should touch a scrapbook is to throw it into the nearest fire. Another gem was "Send a thank you card to her parents." No. Just... no.

Tip #4: Don't do anything stupid.
Not every valentine's day has to be memorable. In attempting to make the day "special", you could inadvertently turn a nice meal into your significant other vomiting into a mop bucket while a mariachi band plays "Love Stinks" while standing in a kiddy pool full of fish guts. No, I don't know how that could possibly occur, but I lost faith in the human race long ago, and fully expect someone to do something just as bad this year. So don't be that guy. Just get a dinner reservation, buy a bouquet of roses, and rent a crappy chick-flick. No risk, no gain, but no failure, either.

When you forget to post for weeks, this is how you make up for it...

2010-01-06T19:57:00.000-08:00

The thought crossed my mind that I could actually sit down and write something, but then I thought, "Well, that's a dumb idea. Whats something cool I can do? It should totally involve Wookies. And infants. And Johann Strauss. And so this was born. Enjoy.

THE WEEKLY POST THAT I PROMISED I WOULD DO EVERY WEDNESDAY!

2009-12-23T19:31:00.000-08:00

Meh, I'll do it tomorrow.

And now, for something completely different...

MiniBeast: Roger Ebert, you disapoint me.

2009-12-18T19:10:00.000-08:00

I have decided that anytime I feel the need to share something, but a) am to lazy to write a full post or b) there really isn't enough content for a full 500+ word post, I will use something tentatively called a "MiniBeast". I say tentatively because that name is rather cheesy, but at the same time, I like cheese. Especially pepperjack. But that is beside the point...

Anyway, these pint sized post (another potential name? Pint Post?) will not appear on any kind of schedule, just whenever I want to post. They will not replace the full sized Wednesday posts. And before you say anything, I know I was a day late with the last one. I have newspaper stuffs due on Wednesdays. I'll probably change the day to a weekend, just to even out my schedule a bit. I'll keep you posted.

I present to you, the first ever MiniBeast!

So ever since I first heard about this new movie Avatar, James Cameron's latest break the bank, fuck the plot I have money, blockbuster, I have been very doubtful of its quality. Okay, more then doubtful. I had absolutely no interest whatsoever in seeing this (so I thought) piece of crap film. However, the other day, I started seeing everywhere, on facebook, twitter, and... um... okay that's pretty much it, that Avatar is actually pretty good. So I did what my mom taught me to do when wondering whether or not to see a movie: consult Roger Ebert.

So I head on over to his site, (rogerebert.com) and check out what he says concerning Avatar. I start reading, and learn two very startling things. One, that Roger Ebert had very good things to say about Avatar, and two, that Mr. Ebert apparently needs a copy editor. I found several typos and grammatical errors. For example, "Avatars are not be made of Na'vi flesh". I'm sorry, does that make sense to anyone? I'm fairly certain that there wasn't supposed to be a "be" in there.

How about, "Pandora is bevy largely CGI." Derp?

I know I'm nit-picking, but this is Roger Ebert we're talking about. I think he should be held to a higher standard then the rest of us, don't you agree?

2009-12-18T00:51:00.000-08:00

I am about to reveal something that will likely incite gratuitous amounts of geek rage towards my person, and maybe endanger my very existence.

I hate the Lord of the Rings.

With all that I am.

Hobbits can go fuck themselves. But based on the actions of Frodo and Sam, they'll probably just have hairy footed buttsex. God, if their feet are that hairy, imagine their... er...

Why must my brain do these things to me?

In all honesty, the first book wasn't so bad. And I liked the movies. But if Tolkien could have put everything about hobbits into its own, separate book, then burned that book, nothing of value would be lost. If he could have made Gandalf die again and come back as Gandalf the Clear, get in a rap battle with Saurumon, have Aragorn use the ring to get massive amounts of elf pr0n, and have Tom Bombadil simply beat Sauron to death with a shovel after revealing they are brothers, that would have been so much better.

I can just picture that, too.

They're not the worst books I've ever read, though. No, that venerable title belongs to a much longer, horrifyingly dull, absolutely asstastic classic, David Copperfield.

Now you may not believe this, but it's true. One of the most respected writers of all time, creator of one of the most beloved Christmas stories, can still write absolute shit. Now I get that people are going to want to defend this piece of crap just because Charles Dickens wrote it, but it is, in all honesty, the worst book I have ever read. It's depressing, boring, and was never meant to be read as a book. It was written as a periodical, and I swear, I think that Dickens projected every person he ever hated onto poor David Copperfield, so that every week (or month or whatever) he could ruin this guy's life even more. I haven't read the book in years, and don't remember much of it, but I do remember that everything that could go wrong with his life, pretty much did. And somehow, all this pain and misery, which would usually bring a smile to my face, was somehow made boring.

I think Charles Dickens could write Jaws and put me to sleep. "Our vessel, though stout and hardy, made of finest wood brought from the English countryside, and adorned with shipwrights love evident in it's well-fitted joints and smooth veneer; I do believe it to be the finest seafaring vehicle in all of Her Majesty's dominion, previously thought to be fit for any nautical voyage, any oceanic adventure; Alas, it does not fit our needs for spacial capacity." That's something along the lines of what would happen.

That awesome email I was talking about...

2009-12-12T20:55:00.000-08:00

Okay, so remember how in my last post I talked about an awesome email my mentor sent to that hag Mrs. Sirjani? (I honestly doubt that she was a Mrs. No one would marry that) Well, I found the email in all its polite, but subtle "you're a retard", glory. The skits he refers to in the email are the ones that I turned in for my Senior Project.

Hello Liz [Sirjani],

Scott Bullock's senior project was a collection of comedy skits. While seven skits were written, only a few were selected for production by the director/editor. However Scott and I discussed all the skits and way to improve them or simplify them for production. In any event, I thought all of Scott's skits were funny, well written and I found much to enjoy about all of them.

One of my favorites, Sensitive, was a simple, reoccurring joke premise of a student that wildly overreacts when "startled" by his fellow students. The simplest greeting or touch on the shoulder sets him off with violent and completely over-the-top repercussions. With each touch or word spoken he reacts with a building intensity until he finally kills someone. Later as he is startled by Anderson Cooper's news report of his own violent rampage, he takes off to find the reporter.

In No Joke, the humor is derived from the denial of the expected circumstances. The camera follows a woman looking for Dave's Boutique into a shop. The shopkeeper explains that she's in the wrong shop and directs her down the street. She leaves but the camera stays behind. The shopkeeper returns to his work, but then realizes the camera is still here. He explains that it's still the wrong shop, explains there's no joke and throws the camera out of his store.

Ticonderoga is a comedy piece built around audience recognition of humiliation circumstances. In this fantasy sequence, two students interrupt their classwork to duel with pencils. Their imaginations get the better of them and the duel becomes so broad and outlandish that the boys are transformed into cartoon super heroes. Of course, at the height of action the boys realize that they are sill in their class with everyone looking at them about to kill each other with pencils. The meekly go back to their classwork.

As a writer of commercials [an Emmy Award winning one. So, y'know, he might know more about writing then a high school math teacher], I particularly enjoyed Probabilities. It takes the overly somber tone of many public service announcements to educate us about the frightening statistics about disease and death. The inescapable moral of course being that we're all pretty much f-ed.

I also got a real kick out of Wham-O. Another commercial parody, this one pokes fun at the "miraculous" promises made by infomercial pitchmen like Billy Mayes. This new product not only gets out stains, but repels muggers, paints your car and even provides you with an alliby for murder.

Reassuring Voice takes a spin on a cliched television trick of having disembodied voiceovers heard but ignored by the person on camera. However in this case, the ex-boyfriend's voice that's reading Becky's letter is hiding just out of sight. As Becky recognizes that she is indeed hearing a voice in her house she wisely puts the letter down and picks up another. But when she hears another voice offering her a gold credit card...

Lastly, Bet You Can't Eat Just One demonstrates our inability to resist temptation as one man is left alone with another man's potato chips. Of course he doesn't just eat a chip. He mainlines them and goes completely insane.

I found Scott's writing style to be energetic and naturalistic. His characters had clear motivations and the plot twists were unexpected while remaining relatable. I thoroughly enjoyed the skits and hope he'll continue to write for pleasure.

If any additional input for feedback would be helpful, I hope you'll let me know.

Am I the only one that thinks that that last line is particularly biting? It's as if he's saying, "Oh, you will need to let me know, because you are too fucking stupid to understand this brilliant analysis. Die in a hole." Of course, I could just be putting words into his mouth. Or words in between his lines, or something.

From the Vault: Senior Project Cover Letter

2009-12-12T01:21:00.000-08:00

My last little bit of filler. I have decided that, as opposed to my current method of posting whenever I feel like it (which is obviously working SO well), I will now make a post once a week, every Wednesday. This is in addition to the two PlatformNation articles a week I will be writing, and submitting every Monday and Friday. This is also in addition to the work I will be doing for the school paper, which will be an article or two every week, 500 words minimum. I also am working on doing one or two articles a month over at Capsule Computers. As you can see, my schedule will be packed tighter then Elton John's poo.

Anyway, to explain this paper. Every senior at my high school was required to complete a senior project in order to graduate. This project could be almost anything, but had to be approved by a pair of teachers assigned about 10 students each, called the Senior Panel, and had to take at least 60 hours to complete. My project was writing SNL-style comedy sketches, which was harder then it seems. In the final presentation, we had to do a PowerPoint, and have a portfolio made up, at the beginning of which there was to be a cover letter to your Senior Panel. I (in my infinite wisdom) decided that since my project was about funny writing, I could write a funny cover letter. Thus I present to you: The Senior Project Cover Letter.

Dear Mr. Norris and Mrs. SirJani,
    Well, I am finally finished. And while I am glad to have this project over and done with, I say this not only about the senior project, but my entire mandatory education with the public school system. When I think about it, my project, writing the scripts for a series of short skits acts as a good allegory for my educational experience. I learned things I will never have need of again, I went about learning these things in what may be the most painful way possible, I was forced to work with a pack of lovable imbeciles in order to accomplish a completely asinine goal, and in the end, it really was not worth it.
    The skills and knowledge I gained are thus: I learned how to fill a blank paper. I learned how to cope with the demonic little flashing vertical line, its haunting repetitiveness taunting me into a catatonic epileptic fit of the soul [does catatonic epileptic fit really work?], plunging me into a personal abyss, from which I may only slither with the aid of wit and total disregard for sense and sanity. And that is another thing I learned. I learned to ramble on, nearly incoherent, making it seem as if I have written much more than I really have. Most of all, though, I learned what may be the most important lesson of all: don’t trust anyone. People are week, stupid, greedy, whiny ingrates who will prate about like a bunch of witless chimps unless you repeatedly crack a whip over them while luring them forward with a plump, tasty banana. If you rely on people for anything important, they will disappoint you. I guarantee it. But that is really nothing new. I already knew that.
    Don’t get me wrong, I like to know as much about myself as I can, but this project was not really meant to be a journey of self-discovery [Keep in mind, I had to write this using a rubric. Hence the "Self-Discovery" portion]. I knew what I needed to know about myself from the start, and nothing has changed. I work well only with people who are already motivated and intelligent, anything less and I despise a person. I, myself, am not very motivated, unless being asked to do something I already intended on doing. I do not tolerate incompetency, except in myself, and then its okay. I am a great believer in the double standard, especially when comparing myself to others. These are the things I have learned throughout my life, and during my 13 years of education.
    Truth be told, I actually enjoyed about 4 of those 13 years; the other 9 were like a boiling enema, the hot jet of knowledge blasting away bits of clinging ignorance while the demon imps of socialization flayed my body with strips of what appeared to be hate, fear and prejudice, but were really the loving, uncooked baconlike bands of acceptance and tolerance [Yes, I know that whole bit didn't really make sense. When I wrote it, I assumed that the SARCASMS in my voice would come through in writing. It didn't. Also, I really wanted to use the phrase "uncooked baconlike bands".]. And now that it is over, I have found that the education and the enema have revealed much the same thing: that I have just finished a long, drawn out, painful process that has revealed a system that is full of crap [shit]. And those, my dear Senior Panel, are the true gifts of public education: cynicism, distrust, anger, and a scorching case of hemorrhoids [true story]. Long story short, I have gained little in my mandatory education that I believe that I could not have gained otherwise, and because I was never taught any kind of creative writing in school, I used an astoundingly tiny amount of knowledge from my educational gauntlet.
    I encountered many problems during my project, many of which you can likely infer from my previous complaints. Commanding heaps of biomass to shuffle and slither about in what could be described, in the loosest sense of the word, as art is no easy task [Okay, favorite line, right there]. Add in the fact that simply creating the ideas they were to convey was as daunting a task as slaying the Nemean Lion or the Calydon Boar, and nowhere near as fun. But yet another problem arose during the completion of my script: the utter failure of man’s machines. Let me tell you a story…
    Once upon a time, there was a happy, smiling boy named Scott. This was no ordinary boy, however. He was a seething mass of muscle and man-flesh, a veritable Adonis, a God amongst flies, who drew women to him like the obese to a Microsoft company picnic, and he had a portable hard drive. And on the hard drive, this Messiah-like juggernaut had put a nearly completed script. And the God-King was happy, until one day, an evil little boy named Jessie broke the hard drive and lost the script, forcing the Shining Beast of Ages to rewrite the whole thing from scratch. The End. [Another true story. CURSE YOU JESSE! THAT HARD DRIVE HAD ALL MY GAMES, VIDEOS, MUSIC, AND 30 GIGS OF PORN ON IT!]
    Now just because all I’ve done so far is complain does not mean I didn’t like any of it. I did enjoy it when some of my friends read my work, and laughed. That almost made it all worthwhile. Then the shrooms wore off, and I was angry again.
    So. You know my story, in all its horrid little details. You know all the pain and the suffering. And if you think this letter is over the top and stupid and horrible, just consider that I actually worked hard on this, to show you that my year spent writing has given me a skill I had never really worked to develop, and for that, I thank you.
                        Hoping to Graduate,
                        [Signature goes here]
                        Scott Bullock
                        Director of Veterans Affairs

As you can probably guess, this did not go over well. This letter, along with the fact that Mrs. Sirjani thought my scripts weren't funny, caused me to almost not graduate. I was forced to defend my scripts, and the raging PMS monster emailed my mentor, David Edgerton, complaining that he said that my scripts were funny, and she didn't see how they were funny. He then responded with a detailed evaluation of exactly how each skit was funny (this skit is a parody of blank, and uses blank to blank blank), and went far deeper into each skit then I did when I wrote them. It was fucking awesome. Sadly, the email was in my school email account, which has since been deleted. I also had to rewrite my cover letter, and neuter the humor out of my (if I do say so myself) fucking funny PowerPoint, which I will someday post, If I can ever figure out how to post a PowerPoint.

I then wrote what I call the "Fuck Yourself" Cover Letter, in which I leave the majority of the paper alone, and simply replace the negative parts with positive. I would put it here, but this fucker is long enough as it is.

Flaying my paper was damn painful, let me tell you. But I did end up graduating (no thanks to that ass-hat Sirjani), and I will eventually have my revenge. I feel a boiling enema should suffice.

I R Bad...

2009-11-30T11:50:00.000-08:00

Well, I've done what I promised myself I wouldn't do. I have let this blog go untended for about two weeks. Where I used to have a post at least one or two times a week, I have betrayed you, my adoring public. Or something like that.

But really, things have been pretty hectic lately. As you may know, I have been writing stories for the school paper, and have even gotten one published. Another will be published tomorrow. Surprisingly enough, they are thinking about making me a permanent fixture on the paper as a writer, and for MONEYS. I have also been brought on at PlatformNation, which is pretty fucking awesome. I've already gotten an article up on there already, about how much the idea of the DS XL pisses me off, but this is another thing you might already know.

So as you can see, I have a pretty full writing schedule. Aside from the writing, there's been school, Thanksgiving, my birthday, and my (surprisingly existent) social life to get between me and my blog.

HOWEVER!

What many of you don't know is that in about 2 weeks, I will be out of school. For a month.

That's right. For a full month, I will have nothing to do (except of course for Assassin's Creed II, Modern Warfare 2, Left4Dead 2, Dragon Age: Origins, Borderlands, and League of Legends), and will be able to devote my time entirely to fucking about. Oh, and some writing, too.

IN CONCLUSION!

Bare with me for a short while, and I will again pump out raw wordgasms into your waiting ocular cavities on a biweekly basis. Also. I am not positive that I am using the correct kind of bare at the beginning of this paragraph. I assume that you are not going to bear with me, as I am not a bear.

Unless I'm chatting online, but that is a completely different story.

8 Tips for Surviving Black Friday

2009-11-14T17:15:00.000-08:00

Another article I wrote for the school paper. Just turned it in. The funny part of this is that the editor liked my consumer tips story so much, she gave me this one as a kind of special assignment. I wonder if she'll print the tip that recommends having sex with a cashier.

The time is approaching. Warriors from across the nation ready their weapons and check their armor in preparation for their yearly quest. In homes everywhere unassuming little old ladies and spry young men gird themselves for the perils of war. But it is not swords, guns, or spears that these gladiators are armed with, but the slick and shiny carapace of a Mastercard. For the day is almost here, when Visa crosses American Express in an annual fight to the financial death. Ready yourself, for Black Friday is upon us.

For those of you with a mother who is also your sister, let me explain.

Every year, we all partake in that joyous holiday known as Christmas. We celebrate peace, love, goodwill toward men, and consumerism. It is the time we are all forced to buy those loveable imbeciles we call families mediocre gifts to try and appease both their greed and our guilt for the year. And that, Charlie Brown, is the true meaning of Christmas.

The military-industrial complex that controls the world from bunkers on the moon decided that on the day after Thanksgiving (one of the most pointless holidays in existence), every store has an enormous sale, but just for that day. This causes the average plebs to think, "Well, if I have to buy stuff, I might as well get a good deal," and they go to the stores early on that day to get their shopping done.

The problem is, there are a lot of other plebs who had the same idea. So many people show up, in fact, that pretty much every store shows some sort of profit. On charts tracking profits and losses for a particular company, profits are drawn in black ink, and so being profitable is called being "in the black." And if everyone is in the black? Black Friday.

If you are one of these plebs, then you will always be looking for that boost, that one edge you can have over the grandmothers who challenge you for those earrings your sister wants. Well, today is your lucky day, because I am what you might call an 'expert'.

Tip #1: Head out to the boonies.
No matter where you go, the store is going to be packed, filled with everyone within a 5 mile radius. The simple solution? Find somewhere with fewer people. Git yer banjo an' yer spittin jug, cus yer headin to Hicksville, population: Rednecks.

Tip #2: Hit the sports department first.
The plebs have been known to get rather violent on Black Friday. God knows why, a sale at T.J. Maxx is not THAT important, but people have died in defense of their gifts. DIED. With a d. Shopping has killed people because the sales were just that good. How do you keep from finding yourself six feet under? Just hit the sports store first and pick up football pads and a hockey stick. This should provide ample protection from the unwashed masses.

Tip #3: Go later in the day.
Yeah, some of the stuff you want might be gone, but people have gotten trampled to death in the early morning rush when they first open the doors. That G.I. Joe for your cousin Timmy just isn't worth it.

Tip #4: Be devious in your gift selection.
Don't get that hot item. If everyone wants it, you are going to get hurt trying to buy it. So instead of buying and iPhone 3Gs, just get the 3G. Fewer people want it, so it'll be easier to get. Great Aunt Phyllis can just suck it up.

Tip #5: Just stay the hell away.
Do you really need to get your gifts on Black Friday? Are you buying such expensive gifts that you NEED the sales? If you are, rethink your gift selections and just stay home that day. You can go out and get the gifts another time. Or just order off of Amazon. Then you don't even have to leave your couch, fatty.

Tip #6: Do your research.
The goal is to get in and out as fast as possible (giggity), and the best way to do that is to know beforehand what you are getting and where it is in the store. Then you can plan our your path through the store and try and get out without too much hassle. You could either walk through the store before hand, or maybe the website will have a map.

Tip #7: Get inside help.
Bribes are awesome, and the people behind the counter at some of your favorite stores are not exactly in the top pay tier, if you know what I mean. Grease their hands a bit with some green, and they might be willing to stash what you want in the back until you come in after the rush has died down. And if they aren't willing to do it for money... there are other 'favors' you could do for them.

Tip #8: Hurt people.
Sometimes the best defense is a good offense. Someone hassling you? Someone take the last Hannah Montana Movie? Is that 3 year old invading your personal bubble? All these problems and more are solved with violence. Just watch out for security cameras.

Take my advice, young Padawan, and you too can become a master of Shop-Fu. Trust me.

I'm an 'expert'.

The End Result

2009-11-11T21:13:00.000-08:00

Well, the stepmom debacle has come to an end. The day after the blog post concerning my stepmom's...
antics... I got a call from her, apologizing for what she had done. She sounded very sincere, and I agreed to forgive her, as long as that kind of shit does not happen again. We agreed to let bygones be bygones, and attempt to simply restart. I forget everything she has done to piss me off, and visa versa.

And surprisingly enough, there was absolutely no backlash from anyone, as far as I can see.

So I guess this all worked out well, in the end.

And they all lived happily ever after.

Except for the fact that we are all human, and will all die eventually.

HA! Now you're depressed!

My stepmother is a buck-toothed ass-nugget.

2009-11-07T01:29:00.000-08:00

Does this title seem harsh to you? Do you think I'm just venting because I don't like her? Am I just a douche?

Well let me tell you, I could have gone on, and it only would have gotten worse, even worse then ass-nugget, into words even my foul mouth hesitates to say. Were delving into the forbidden realm, that of the C-word, the Q-word, and even the Ω-word. That is how much I despise that whiny, loathsome bitch. And I have good reason to. She is muley in both appearance and demeanor, is a selfish hag, and believes the most ludicrous things. No, not that Jesus is Magic, so I guess I'll give her points for that, but still pretty stupid shit. She has argued that if you like electronic gadgets (cell phones, kindles, iPods, etc.) then you have no morals. She makes this claim then, when I argue that that makes no sense, begins attacking me instead of giving a reason. She begins claiming that I am not happy, and that the proof is in the fact that I swear.

...

WHAT?!

After refusing to believe me when I tell her that I am generally happy (because she is totally a psychologist and knows what happens in my innermost thoughts better then I do.) and calling me fat and smelly, I just let the argument die. Honestly, it was like arguing with a 6 year old. If this was the only shit she did though, I could handle it.

As you probably guessed, that's not the only shit she does.

When I say she's selfish, I don't just mean that as an insult. Like the seagulls from Finding Nemo (an excellent movie, I must say), it sometimes seems that all she can do is say "Mine." Case in point: When she first moved in ("A day which will live in infamy") she gave me a large paper screen to separate my doorless room from the hallway. "Ok, so far so good, she's not so bad,"
I think to myself. A few months later, I look in the pantry for something to drink, and, lo and behold, Diet Pepsi.

"Oh, joyous day! Pop at Dad's house! Woooo!" I thought.

I crack one, drink it, and that is that.

Until the next weekend, when my Dad picks me up from my Mom's house. He seems upset with me, but maybe it's all in my imagination. After all, I have done nothing wrong. We get in the car and start driving. Finally my dad tells me that I am in trouble for something. He tells me that if I admit to it, I won't be in as much trouble, classic parenting trick. (BTW, never admit. They were never going to give you a more lenient punishment. They'll just give you the one they were already going to give you, and claim that you escaped a worse fate.) This time, I honestly have no idea what I have done. Eventually, it is revealed to me that I am busted. For drinking a Diet Pepsi.

Jes raged so hard about me touching her things, that not only did I have to apologize to that mouth-breathing (No, really. She almost never closes her mouth. Her teeth are too big.) stupid-spout, but I had to buy her a new Diet Pepsi. And she takes back the screen. Petty, much? After about a year, I got it back. She does this shit all the time, with everything that she considers "hers". Which is everything. To break up this long stretch of text, here's how I see Jes...

But maybe the most infuriating thing about her is that she insults my family. To my face.
She talks shit about them, and when I tell her to stop, she says that she has the right to her opinion. She talks shit about my mom, my grandpa on my mom's side, my step-dad (who is cool and I like, so this hate is not a step-parent thing), my grandma on my dad's side, everyone. She even internet-stalks my mom, because for no particular reason, she hates her. Never before have I wanted someone to get attacked by a razor wire monster, then a lemon-juice monster, then a salt monster, in that order.

For these reasons and more, I hate her. Not only is she an evil, conniving, creature of the Dark Realm, but too look at her is to gaze upon a... hey, have you ever seen that movie, Mask? Remember that Rocky character? Kinda like that.

But the icing on the cake, the cherry on top, the Big Finale, was yet to come. Up until now, my hate of her bloated, emo, shovel-faced ways might just be figments of my imagination, maybe I hate her so much that I am just biased. Well, get ready to ride the truth-truth train, next stop, Evidenceville.

Several days ago, I made a post concerning a paper I wrote mocking a buddhist temple, here. An anonymous poster posted the following comment:

"That's pretty sad you can't see what a Buddhist temple has to offer. You, most of all, need to see it. You would know white trash considering your rank self and fat, troll-like mom and family. Did you grow up there?"

Huh. Why would anyone be so pissed at me? Judging by the "You, most of all, need to see it." line, the person knew me personally. But who do I know personally that would say this? Who reads my blog, hates my family, calls me fat and smelly and...

...

JES.

And for added effect, here's what we call "SCOOTERVISION", where everyone's worst qualities are enchanced and made funnier.

But, could it be? Could she really be an even more vile, hateful, and just plain douchy walking yeast infection then I already thought she was? Well, I had suspicions, but no proof. Maybe it really wasn't her. Maybe I'm just paranoid. Maybe pigs fly. (They do when Jes gets on a plane. BA-ZING!)

So using my handy-dandy internets, I access my blogpatrol account. For those of you who don't know, blogpatrol is an application for blogs that I use as a view counter. But luckily, it also saves information about the visitors, like IP address and shit I usually don't look at or care about. I cross-referenced the time the comment was made (18:55) with the times that visitors looked at the site. Two IP's popped up. One was someone in London, so I think we can scratch them off the list of suspects. That left only one other, we'll just say it's 98.xxx.xx.xxx . Using a site I found that can tell you where a specific IP is located, I discovered an interesting little tidbit of information... The IP is located in Everett, WA.

Huh. Everett, WA. What a coincidence! That's where my dad and Jes live! Oh look, there's even a Longitude and Latitude. Lets just stick that into Google Maps, alongside the location of Jes's house...

Woah. 1.8 miles. Considering that the IP Locater said that it's result would be 89% accurate, that is awfully close. I have one last holdout. Maybe someone who makes oddly specific guesses and lives very close to Jes randomly found my blog and didn't like that I was dissing Everett. When I go to Dad's house this weekend, I'll check the IP and see that Jes isn't that bad. Fingers crossed...

Holy shit. Someone in my dad's house made that comment. Which means either my dad hates me, or I have undeniable proof that Jes is the biggest bitch in the whole world. Now I just sit back, relax, and wait for the Dad/Jes fallout.

Bring it on, you twat.

From the Vault: My trip to the Buddhist Temple

2009-11-01T22:10:00.000-08:00

This, my friends is what we call "laziness." I had to go to a Buddhist Temple near my high school for a project in Comparative Religions, but totally forgot to write the paper. Claiming to have written it two weeks previous to the due date and simply having forgotten it at home, I then wrote this rather- erm - honest piece, and turned it in.

My trip to the Buddhist Temple.
or
How I learned to stop worrying and love the bomb
By Scott Bullock

Honestly, I did not much care for my trip to the Buddhist Temple, the name of which is rather long and very difficult to spell phonetically, so I won’t try. I will simply refer to it hear as “the BT”. That settles that. Anyway, I am trying to remember what I wrote 2 weeks ago, so bare with me here…

The building shape was sorta cool, funky and original and yadda yadda yadda. I’m sure every other student will tell you how “awe inspiring” or “spiritual” or some other lame over used descriptive phrase/adjective the temple was, and I doubt you want to hear me spout that tired old crap. Instead, I think I will tell you what I really felt about the “setting, appearance/architecture of the building.” It was an oddly shaped building, appearing very tranquil, and I hated every minute of my time there. You wanna know what impressions I got from the temple? A vague, ”huh”, while I tended to my searing headache. So, yeah, a half-hearted interest and pain. Those are my impressions.

I walked around the building. Honest, I did! Ok, maybe I skipped that part, but I had a headache, I was tired, and I wanted to finish up the trip fast so I could go home and sleep. I did, however, pick up a pamphlet. From my careless perusing of said pamphlet, I can see that the outside of the building is sooooo beautiful. Because I care sooooo much about it. Truthfully, it could be in the middle of a garbage dump, for all I care. There are trees and grass and stuff. Yay.

Y’know what I noticed most about the inside of the BT? The overpowering incense. Because my headache wasn’t bad enough already, I had to go into a place that had a powerful, nauseating smell. Great, now my head AND my stomach hurt. I’m so glad I came all the way down from Everett and went to the Temple of PAIN. Not that I mind getting away from Everett, it’s a horrible place. It has 3 things, Drugs, white trash, and NOTHING. So I guess I shouldn’t complain about having to go all the way here, it got me away from that hell hole. Oh, yeah, there were some statues, some guys dressed like Jedi that I couldn’t understand worth crap, and walls covered in colors that made my eyes want to cross of their own accord.

Personal impressions, huh? I’m pretty sure that’s what I’ve been talking about this entire time. Some guy that reminded me of Yoda asked if this was my first visit, and I said no, just to screw with them. Then I did a quick circuit around the place, looked at a bunch of statues, and left. It took all of 15 minutes. And no, I didn’t look for the Jesus statue. I wouldn’t have been able to find him anyway, he wasn’t wearing his traditional red and white striped shirt and hat. The visit was not like that of a museum, church, or any place I would like to be. It was more like a tourist trip to hell, led by a Jedi with fewer linguistic skills than a bullfrog with peanut butter stuck in its throat, while a midget pounded on my temples with tiny hammers and a hippie passed constantly in front of my nose, while I was fed a hallucinogenic donut, causing me to see horrendously garish color schemes and what appeared to be the Buddhist interpretation of the Muppet Show finger-painted on the wall. If I ever go there again, it will be too soon. Ok, so maybe this isn’t the paper I originally wrote, but this is the real paper. Can you give me a bad grade for telling the truth? I certainly hope not…
Please give me a good grade. I will be sad if you don’t. ; __ ;

The great part about this? This paper pisses off my teacher so bad, that I hear about how mad he is from a totally different teacher. He was so furious that he was ranting at other teachers about what a douche I am. He also apparently had a whole discussion about me in another of his classes. If I ever get around to telling you the story of my Senior Project, you'll learn that it actually happens quite often. Needless to say, I had to rewrite the paper, and he never really liked me after that.

And yes, I really turned this in with an emoticon on it. The whole thing is verbatim, including the title.

THE TV TELLS ME IT'S CHRISTMAS TIME

2009-10-30T17:21:00.000-07:00

This is a story I wrote for the Bellevue College school paper. We'll see if it gets printed. Anything in [brackets] wasn't in the original version. Think of it as a directors cut.

Now, I know that you don't want to hear this, but it is now the holiday season. Do you know how to tell when the holidays are upon us? Here's a test: Turn on your TV, flip channels and watch all the commercials that you can. Did you see any commercials with snow, cheery holiday music, or skyrocketing suicide rates? If you did, then it is time to break out the Egg Nog, spread cheer, and get ready for a fantastically widespread Breaking and Entering spree.

But the question remains; what to buy for the ungrateful [fucks] you call a family? Well, I don't know and can't help you. You will undoubtedly just check their Amazon Wish List, procrastinate until everything they want is gone, then just pick up several gaudy sweaters in all the wrong sizes.

But on the off chance that they don't have a Wish List for you to forget to check, here's a list of what most sane people will want. This could also be considered as a list of things YOU want. And for those of you mouth-breathers who think that an iPhone is the perfect gift for your ancient Great Aunt Phyllis (who still refers to the internet as "the information superhighway"), I have added a handy "Who to Buy For" bit.

Apple iPhone 3GS

Who to buy for: Everyone. Except Great Aunt Phyllis.

The latest rendition of the wildly popular iPhone, the 3GS features a general processing speed boost over its predecessor and video capture capabilities. These features are nice, but it is the heart of the iPhone that we all know and love that keeps it so dear to us. You know what I'm talking about; Apps. Need a map? There's an App for that. Want to crudely Photoshop [a dick on your friend's face]? There's an App for that. Have the uncontrollable urge to play the Ocarina? There's a [fucking] App for that. Give it a few years, and the iPhone commercials will be, "Open heart surgery? There's an App for that. Taser? There's an App for that. Staging an uprising against your evil iPhone overlords? There's a... nevermind."

ASUS Eee PCWho to buy for: People who need to tweet their bowel movements but don't want the hassle of a laptop that can do useful things. [Also, "Little People."]

Just as cell phones and music players have been steadily decreasing in size, the Military-Industrial complex that controls the world [via robots masquarading as world leaders] has decided that it is time computers followed suit. Enter the era of the Netbook. There are many Netbooks on the market now, but the unwashed masses seem to have gravitated towards the Eee. It can't play hefty games, store your massive collection of porn, or stop a bullet in case of an unexpected police shootout, but it does what most computer users do most of the time anyway; browse the web. It's actually pretty cool. Besides, it has an awesome name. Eee. C'mon, say it with me. Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee...

Amazon Kindle Who to buy for: People who will buy more than 250 dollars worth of books for the rest of their life.

Ah, the Kindle. It shares a special place in my heart, alongside Jessica Alba and anything Neil Gaiman has ever created. Imagine being able to download all the information in a book directly into your brain, with over 360,000 books to choose from. Would you pay 250 dollars for that service? Of course you would! Well, you're going to have to wait, because the Kindle only lets you read the books, not inject them into your head like Neo. It'll be a while before you can buy The Prince and say, "I know Machiavelli."

Video Games. Lots of them.Who to buy for: Gamers, particularly the kind that own an Xbox360. Or just give them to me.

To be more specific: Dragon Age: Origins; Assassin's Creed II; Left4Dead 2; Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2; Guitar Hero: Van Halen; Borderlands; Lego Rockband; and Bayonetta.

Notice how almost every single title here is a 2 or a II or is the newest in a long series of increasingly annoying and bizarre rhythm games. I mean, come on. LEGO Rockband? Are you going to be playing LEGO music? Are there really some songs out there that are particularly LEGO-y? And don't even get me started on DJ Hero...

Gift CardsWho to buy for: Everyone, including Great Aunt Phyllis.

The end-all be-all of gifts. Know a person likes games, but not which ones they want? Just pick up a 50 dollar Best Buy gift card. In fact, you don't even have to know what they like anymore. Just give them one of those pre-paid American Express debit cards, and you pretty much just gave them cash in pretty, plastic, internet-friendly form. [This Christmas, give the gift of carpal tunnel.]

The Thr33 LOL Piggehz

2009-10-21T14:12:00.001-07:00

Once upon a midnight dreary, as I pondered...

Oops. Let me start again.

Once upon a tiem, there were these three pigs. [Plot Hole] Who had fallen into rather inconsiderately placed vat-o-chemicals, causing them to mutate into horrendous super-pigs that can walk and speak and shit. Oh, and a wolf fell in, too. [/Plot Hole]

So anyway, these 3 pigs were walking around in this big forest, and decided that they needed to settle down and get houses so as to attract freakish mutie-pig mates. And so they began constructing houses.

The first one, Sucky McWeakling, was a pansy-ass douche and so half-assed his house by building it out of fail. And because he's just so goddamn pathetic, he decided that it was good enough. However, he did not plan for what was to happen. The aforementioned cancerous wolf-creature was slithering along, and caught a whiff of Sucky and his shit-house. Drawn by the pungent odor, he oozed up to the door.

"Little Pig, Little Pig, Let me in."

"Is that supposed to scare me? Really?" replied Sucky.

"Not really. It's just part of the formulaic exchange we are plot bound to make. This is the part where you say no, and somehow link that to your facial hair."

"Oh. Well then. Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin."

"Yeah? Well FUCK YOU!!!!111!1"

So the tumor-ridden carnivor blew a mighty gale of wind into the fail-house, and Sucky was left no option but run to his brother's house.

The brother, Mediocre McMedium (apparently the pigs were Irish) was a little more safety oriented, and slightly more ambitious in his home building. But he still didn't do much, and so had a house made of Meh.

When his brother came calling, Mediocre stuck his fuck-nugget of a brother in the basement with the cockroaches and other slimy things. Hearing that there was a wolf on the way, Mediocre also tried to make some improvements to the home, but as we all know, you can have all the meh in the world, and it will still be only meh.

So this time the wolf, tired of chasing the first brother, skipped the exchange entirely.

"Look you assholes, I just ran 3 miles after that shitwidget pig on 5 and 3/5 legs. Do you have any idea how difficult that is? Just open the fucking door so I can eat you, and lets be done."

"Not by the hair of our-"

"DON'T YOU FUCKING SAY IT YOU GODDAMN SWINE! SO HELP ME, IF YOU FINISH THAT, I WILL DEFILE YOU IN WAYS YOU CANNOT EVEN COMPREHEND! I WILL PREFORM ACTS ON YOU BODIES, LIVING AND DEAD, THAT EVEN YOUR DISEASED, FUNGAL MINDS WOULD DISINTEGRATE INTO PULPY GREEN MUSH JUST FROM THINKING ABOUT, IF YOU COMPLETE THAT SENTENCE."

"... Dude. What the fuck is your problem?" Said Mediocre through the door.

"Just fucking let me in." Mumbled the wolf.

"Negative."

"Please?"

"No."

So the wolf, thoroughly pissed, huffed and puffed and whatnot, and the meh house collapsed.

The brothers, with only one option, fled to the safety of their oldest brother's house.

This brother, Strongy MacBadass (this one's Scottish) was trained by the Army Corp of Engineers (and while this would normally mean that whatever he built would break when most needed, he's actually good at what he does) and is a fucking beast, and so built a house made of win. That is, if win is inch-thick titanium plating, reinforced outer walls, automated 50 caliber turrets, razor wire, and 5 robotic attack dogs, all powered by the limp form of Jesus strapped into a chair underneath the complex (we'll pretend here that jesus is magic).

When the wolf approached this unconquerable fortress, he had an inkling that he was well and truly fucked. But, starving by now, he strode up to the main gate. Knowing that threats and blowing (giggity) would not gain him entry, he opted for the sly method.

"UPS."

"Just leave it on the doorstep."

"No can do, buddy. I need a signature."

Strongy, no dumbass like his needle-dicked siblings, had installed a camera system in his home, and could see that this was no friendly UPS deliver-man, bearing who-knows what fantastic items from faraway lands, but was really a sadistic, malformed, odious, throbbing yellow pustule covered wolf.

"Mr. Wolf, I must ask that you vacate the premises. If you do not, I will be forced to take lethal action."

"Umm... Ok. I'll just leave then-"

"ACTIVATE SECURITY SYSTEM!"

With that, the whole compound came to life, turrets firing, flamethrowers flaming, spinning blades whirring, landmines exploding, and general mayhem ensuing. This continued for about 30 minutes or so, and when the ricochets and echos went silent, only scraps of gangrenous, green fur and clouds of sickly yellow pus remained of the wolf. And the moral of the story is this:

DISPOSE OF YOUR CHEMICAL WASTE PROPERLY.

Kai-Lan's Little Red Book

2009-10-18T19:05:00.000-07:00

I have issues with children's television. Suffice it to say I find it idiotic and retarded, but I do understand that I'm not really the target audience. Even so, there are some that, no matter what you say, are just plain fucked in the head, arse, and duodenum. I submit to the court, exhibit A:

This queertacular, sparkley monstrosity is called Boobah. Think Teletubbies, that just dropped acid and smoked a fatty. Their names are all shit like Zing Zing Zigbah or some shit, and they scare the living hell out of me. They are what nightmares are made of. In fact, let me simply quote wikipedia. "The Boohbahs are five furry, gumdrop-shaped creatures played by actors in full body costumes. Their thick, shimmery fur sparkles with tiny lights; their Kewpie doll style heads are hairless and feature big eyes with rows of lights for eyebrows. They do not speak, but instead make noises like squeaks, squeals, and clicks. The Boohbahs can retract their heads into their furry necks. Each Boohbah is a different color."

Is that not fucked up? Exhibit B:

This fresh hell is known as Yo Gaba Gaba. The entire show seems to be set in some kind of freakish Furry S&M Dungeon, run by the orange-hatted child molester. He's like the Prime Minister of Fur Suited fail.

While I have not watched long enough to establish names for each character, I believe they are, from left to right: Mr. Roboto, Demon Vibrator Gumbi, Erkle, Down's Syndrome Bear, The Brow, and Aunt Flo.

Which brings us to the main event. Most of the kid's shows that I've seen usually promote sharing, working together, and listening to adults. Y'know who shared that philosophy?

I had never realized this, until my eyes were opened by the startling boldness the communist children's show think tank showed in producing this overtly Marxist show, Ni-Hao Kai-Lan.

In this show, a little Chinese girl, Kai-lan, lives with her rather pedophilic grandfather and plays with her animal friends, consisting of a tiger, a panda-obsessed koala, a tiny monkey, a rhino (that floats around via a SINGLE balloon tied to her horn), and an elephant. Often, the animal friends will have a problem that Kai-lan needs to solve. Does she think things through to find an answer? No. Does she consult books or the internet, allowed to exist because of the people's freedom of speech? No. In true commie form, she consults her grandfather, the authority figure. And if she isn't doing that, she learns how to do things the right way from watching a bunch of ants. ANTS! What animal is more communist than ants? They all work together under one central authority for the benefit of everyone, everyone gets what they need, and none of them excel. And if an ant showed some kind of free will? The rest would turn on him and tear him to bits. THAT is the society that Kai-Lan seems to advocate is the BEST society.

Even in the episodes that appear to promote individuality, there is an undercurrent of Maoism. The tiger is upset because the elephant is bigger then him. When Kai-Lan points out that he is the fast one, he is happy that he is special. Being fast is how he is special. Being big is how the elephant is special. A self-hating koala who wants nothing more then to be a panda (Micheal Jackson, anyone?) is the how the koala is special. Notice a pattern? Everyone is special in their own way, and are good at their one thing, and you shouldn't try to be special in someone else's way. That sounds a lot like 'If the Party says you are a ballerina, you are ballerina. If the Party says you are nuclear physicist, you are nuclear physicist.' IN SOVIET RUSSIA, JOB PICKS YOU!

As you can see, the evil communist overlords are brainwashing our children with Ni-Hao Kai-Lan. If we don't stop this atrocity, we will be seeing Kai-Lan waving around a Little Red Book and attacking college students with tanks. Join me, and overthrow our mutant communist overlords...

From Space!

Brutal Legend: Buy it, Play it, get your Goddamn Face Melted

2009-10-14T21:07:00.000-07:00

I have heard a startling rumor going about the internets: that Brutal Legend isn't worth the purchase, that it gets old after an hour. My best guess, the people who said that looked something like this...

Those people wouldn't know awesome if they got butt-fucked by it. And judging by the hair, they would enjoy it. Let me give you some examples of the sheer FUCKING METAL that is Brutal Legend. One of the first bosses you kill is a giant Lovecraftian worm that you drop a giant spiky gate on, Rancor style. As you do this, Eddie Riggs (the protagonist) does a power slide, plays an air guitar solo on his battle axe, and sings, "DECAPITATION!!!"

The main base of the human resistance is a giant stonehenge made of huge, badass stone swords stuck in the ground. The name of this place? Bladehenge.

And what kind of game would you have without an antagonist? Luckily, Brutal Legend provides you with two: General Lionwhyte, the Glam Rock oppressor with hair so beautiful and long he can fly with it, and Emperor Doviculus, a very Demony Demon, as shown here...

Sexy. Maybe the most awesome of all is the way that Eddie gets transported to the mystical magical realm of FUCKING METAL. His name is Ormogoden (just pretend I know how to add an umlaut over one of those o's) the Fire Beast, and he may be even cooler then Eddie.

A lot of the negative shit that I've heard is that Brutal Legend is less a game as much as it is a way to convey famous voices, like Jack Black, Ozzy Osbourne, Lenny Kilmister, etc. And to this I give a simple, "fuck you" and ignore them. The voices are awesome, yes, but they are the cherry on top of an Ice Cream Sunday in Megan Fox's pants. Brutal Legend is not Buffalo Wings, where the wings exist only as a way to get the sauce in your mouth (giggity), it is more like someone handing you a check for $1,000,000, then telling you there's a nugget of gold at the bottom. Yeah the gold is cool, but it's just a bonus to the win of the main package.

Okay, while I love the game and think that it is definitely a worthwhile purchase, the Stage Battle bits might be a little bit off-putting to some people. To quote Kotaku:

"Players who enjoy running about, killing creatures with axes might not enjoy suddenly finding themselves in charge of collecting resources and spending points on creating an army to do the work they'd rather do themselves. I really enjoyed the RTS portions of the game, but a part of me would have rather Double Fine had just thrown in a traditional boss fight rather than have me shift gears so abruptly."

I don't know about you, but I enjoy a bit of RTS. Actually, I enjoy a lot of RTS. Fuck it, I LOVE a good RTS, and seeing one done so that it actually worked on a console made me kinda spooge. Don't get me wrong, I liked Halo Wars, but it felt like a PC RTS ported to work on the Xbox rather then a console RTS. Brutal Legend did what I have been waiting for; it found a way to play an RTS so that it felt like it was made for a console. And for me, that gives it over 9000 bonus points. Especially since it was done in such a FUCKING METAL way. Eddie Riggs gets fucking DEMON WINGS. Because it is standard procedure to make things more awesome by adding wings. Horse becomes Pegasus, lizard becomes dragon, Saytr becomes Satan, and toaster becomes After Dark Screen Saver.

All in all I have to say, just buy this fucking game. Double fine gave us Psychonauts and this, and I think that shows that they get the fucking job done. On a scale of something to something else, I give it a wholehearted FUCKING METAL!

Bring Back the Mixtape!

2009-10-06T15:17:00.000-07:00

Everyday, my friend Alex Kautzky comes to my house in the morning and picks me up in his new car. Well, not technically new (I think it has seen Pangea come and go), but he just got it. We ride for about 40 minutes to Bellevue College, and about 40 minutes home. And he has no tape player.

"But Scott!" I hear you cry, "Why would you want a tape player? Those are fucking ancient!"
And you would be right, they are ancient. But they also allow for a nifty little device that can hook up to your MP3 player, and let you listen to iPod or Zune in the car. This device is a godsend for cars that are too old to have an MP3 or accessory jack, because they will pretty much always have a tape player. But Kautzky's car is in what I call "THE NETHER ZONE" because it looks cooler then, "THE NEITHER ZONE". This is the point in time when cars were made without tape player or MP3 jack. So what to do on these long car rides?

I was forced to make a Mixtape.

Okay, not literally a MixTAPE, but the theory is the same. Now, you might realize, "Wait just a second, we make Mixtapes all the time! They're called Playlists!"

No.

Playlists and Mixtapes are very, very different. How many songs can you have on a Playlist? As many as you want. How many can you put on a Mixtape? With the CD's I'm using, about 70 minutes worth. I thought that this would suck huge raunchy donkey balls, but NEIN!

As it turns out, as long as you pick a theme, making these fucks is actually pretty fun. The hardest part? Choosing between "Wanted Dead or Alive" and "Sunshine of Your Love". Deciding between "Welcome to the Jungle" or "Paradise City". Oh, the pain.

And the fun doesn't end there. Once you've selected your songs and burned them onto the disc, you get to name your Album and add an Album cover. There are fun little ways to decide on these things (hit random in Wikipedia to find name, random in flikr or whatever to find cover, etc.), but I like to put some thought in it, and give it a personal touch. Kautzky and I are both Internet veterans, and so I thought I would base the Album on a meme from back when we were both in the shit. Get it? Internet Veterans? The Shit? Maybe we have the 20n inch stare?

Forget it...

I decided on an older meme, that of Seaking, Fuck Yeah! I altered the picture a bit, and ended up with this...

I thought that the face-paint and guitar was fucking classy. I eventually decided on this tracklist...

(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction - The Rolling Stones
Dude (Looks Like a Lady) - Aerosmith
Cherry Pie - Warrant
Dr. Feelgood - Motley Crue
We're Not Gonna Take It - Twisted Sister
Bad Medicine - Bon Jovi
Ain't Talkin 'Bout Love - Van Halen
Enter Sandman - Metallica
Man in the Box - Alice in Chains
Paranoid - Black Sabbath
Round and Round - Ratt
Anarchy in the UK - Sex Pistols
Smells Like Teen Spirit - Nirvana
(Here I Am) Rock You Like a Hurricane - The Scorpions
Sunshine of Your Love - Cream
Talk Dirty to Me - Poison
Welcome to the Jungle - Guns N' Roses
You Give Love a Bad Name - Bon Jovi
Immigrant Song - Led Zeppelin

Think you can do better? I challenge you to make a better FUCKING RAWK mixtape under 75 megs. Aaaaaand... GO!

Edit: As has been pointed out to me, when I said 75 megs, I wanted to say 75 mins. Excuse the error.

Snow White and the Seven Psycho Killers

2009-10-04T21:53:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, in a faraway land called Texas, there was a beautiful young prostitute named Snow White. Her skin was the color of uncut cocaine, her lips were as red as the district she worked in, and her hair was as black as her pimp's evil little heart. But she was a happy hooker. Everyday, she walked her bit of street, selling her body for cash, and was pleased with the happiness she brought to her customers. And every night she was beaten by her pimp, but she covered the bruises with makeup and took it all in stride.

Several blocks away, there lived an evil woman named Ann Coulter, jealous of anyone with more talent, beauty, or intelligence than herself. Unfortunately for her, this included pretty much every person on the planet. One day, when she was especially pissed about her unfortunate mule face, she began asking her television questions. She believed that it was a magic mirror, but was in reality just fucking retarded.

"Magic Mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?"

And because she was watching Fox News Network, Bill O'Reilly was the one to respond to her question.

"Snow White." Said Bill, who was as usual spouting nonsense words and gibberish.

"The hooker? Well I guess I'll just have to get rid of... um... what's the word? Oh yeah... her!"

So, using her limited verbal skills and influence with America's dumbest people, she hired a gunman to take out Snow White from the Grassy Knoll overlooking the city. And to make sure that he did the job, he was to bring back one of her ears as proof of the killing.

And so the gunman did as he was told. He waited and waited and waited. But when she was finally within his sights, he realized that she was smoke'n hot. Hoping to tap that later, he fired off a few shots at a passing presidential motorcade, blowing off the poor fellow's ear. He showed up at the scene later, retrieved the ear, and gave it to the Evil Bitch.

Assuming that she was now the most beautiful woman around, she again asked her TV the question.

"Magic Mirror on the wall, who is the fairest one of all?"

And because she was a moron and was watching a rerun, Bill again said, "Snow White."

Convinced that the TV was wrong, she pointed out that she possessed proof of Snow White's demise.

"You hold the ear of a Kennedy." said the rambling O'Reilly.

Furious at being betrayed, she used a combination of grunts and pointing gestures to communicate to her followers to kill both the Assassin and Snow White on sight. The Assassin, now on the run, decided to stop by Snow White's street. He informed her that he had been hired to kill her, but instead spared her life, and so maybe he deserved a bit of a reward.

"Oh, I just couldn't! T'Rip, my pimp, would be so very angry with me!" she said.

"C'mon! I'll only put it in for a second!"

"I don't know..."

Aware of the approaching mob of Glen Beck worshiping troglodytes, he decided to just warn her, leave, and just buy a box of Kleenex on his way to the nearest motel.

So Snow White was forced to run, away from her street, her pimp, and her life, and flee into the inexplicably nearby forest. She walked for several days, eating what she could find, until she stumbled onto a strange cottege. She tried the door, and found it unlocked.

"Hello? Is anyone home?" she called.

As she walked in and turned on the lights, she saw the most gruesome scene her whore-eyes had ever fallen upon.

Blood and pieces of flesh caked every wall, new covering old, old covering even older, until it seemed like the walls were made of some horrifying human lasagna. Limbs protruded from gaps in the floorboards, and many had what appeared to be human bite marks where hunks were not simply torn off. It was the vilest pit in all of creation, the lowest hell in which scenes of such depravity and horror were committed that the human mind can barely dwell upon them for fear of falling into madness. Those who made this disgusting den their home must be the sort of men who have been put on this planet to haunt our nightmares and plague our streets, beasts and devils wearing the skin of humans. The most sincere form of evil rests in their hearts, and woe to all those who cross their path.

"My goodness! Look at this mess!" said the innocently dumb Snow White. "This will never do. I know! I'll clean up here, and the people who live here will be so happy with me, they will let me stay!"

So she began cleaning, and as she cleaned, she sang a little song...

"Some girls like flowers,
other girls like candy,
but these gifts won't do,
when I'm feeling randy.
There's only one thing,
that makes me feel tender,
and that is to take
a big, throbbing member!

A cock! A cock, a cock, a cock,
my love for it's what makes all the girls talk.
A dong! A dong, a dong, a dong,
My heart is as big as your dick is long."

Drawn by the sound of her beautiful voice, woodland animals flocked to the cottage, to aid the fair maiden in her endeavors. The bunny rabbits began sweeping stray fingers and bits of scalp into the trash with their cute little bunny tails, the deer and mountain lions put aside their differences, and worked together to lick the people-paste off the walls, and the squirrels, birds, and baby bear cubs helped cart away the bodies. It was truly a wonderful scene, all of nature in harmony and destroying evidence in a federal investigation.

Just as Snow White and the animals were removing the last vestiges of burned children's clothing from the fireplace, they heard a different song, coming closer from across the forest.

Hi ho, hi ho, it's home from work we go...
We'll eat your auntie with a nice Chianti,
Hi ho, hi ho hi ho
Hi ho, hi ho, under our house you'll go,
Each eye? We'll pop it, and fuck the socket,
Hi ho, hi ho hi ho...

The animals, knowing who was coming, fled the home. But Snow White remained, wondering what type of people lived in the cottage.

The voices approached the house, but stopped suddenly.

"Hey, did we leave the lights on?" Said one voice.

"I dunno. I think Dahmer was the last one out." said another.

"My ass, Kaczynski! You were!"

"No it was definitely you, I was already outside gardening."

"I thought you were taking a shit?" said the first voice.

"Same thing."

"Look, I remember the lights were out when we left, " interjected yet another voice, "because I had to turn around and tell John to get his pudgy ass moving, and saw the house."

"You'd be slow too, if you were wearing a clown suit!" said another man, presumably John.

"Well, if the lights were off when we left, and on now, then someone must have gone in." Announced the first voice.

A silence dropped over the group.

"Feds?" one of the voices timidly whispered.

"No, or we'd be in custody already." the first voice said again. Judging by the way he spoke to the others, Snow White assumed he was the leader.

"Ah, so a little fly has flown into our web!" cackled an obviously mad voice. "I do need more material for my bedspread!"

"Shut up! John, Jeff, David, you go around the back and make sure they don't escape that way. Gary, Teddy, Ed, you three come with me through the front."

"I told you to call me Son of Sam..." muttered one of the voices.

"Just do it! Go!"

When the four men piled in through the front door, they were shocked by the pristine condition of their abode, and the young woman simply standing there, smiling at them.

Snow White greeted them warmly, introduced herself, and began showing them the work she had done. They followed her, mouths agape, wondering if the girl was insane. Except for one, who kept rubbing his hands together, muttering that she better not have misplaced his mother. About halfway through the tour, the other three came into the house, just as astounded as the first four. When she finished showing them her handiwork, she explained her situation, and asked for a place to sleep.

The men looked at each other, and grouped into a huddle.

"What do we do with her?"

"What we always do. Kill her, and let those who want to rape and eat the body."

"I think we could use her around here. I mean, if the feds had found the place before she cleaned it, we would have been in a mess of trouble."

"She even used the old curtains to finish my sheets!" Said the hand-wringing mutterer. "It could have taken a full four or five more women to finish, without that! I say we let her stay."

And so it was settled. Snow White would stay as their maid in return for a spare bed upstairs and meals everyday. When she asked their names, the one with the crazy hair and swastika on his forehead, with the authoritative voice she had assumed was the leader, introduced them as:

John Wayne Gacy, the Killer Clown

Jeffery Dahmer, The Monster

Ed Gein, the Skinner

Ted Kaczynski, the Unabomber

Gary Ridgeway, the Green River Killer

David Berkowitz, the Son of Sam

"And I am Charles Manson, but you can call me Charlie."

Snow White and the Seven Psycho Killers decided to celebrate their new housemate, and slaughtered the kid they had been fattening up in the basement for just such an occasion. Dahmer wanted to fuck it first, but Charlie figured that Snow White would need to get used to human flesh first, before she got a taste of it with Dahmer's "Secret Herbs and Spices."

And so life for Snow White became pleasant again. Every morning she woke up, and the men were already off hunting. She would clean up the remains of the last night's meal, bury the body out back under the shed, and would begin cleaning and preparing the killers' tools. She would wash Gacy's spare clown suit, sew curtains and trashbags and whatnot for Gein out of the skin he brought her, sharpen Dahmer's tools, and mail Kaczynski's packages. Berkowitz asked her to check his room every day for demons, and she often helped Manson plan the race war. She did, however, have to be wary of Ridgeway, as he seemed to hate prostitutes.

She settled into her new life, and thought that she was safe from that horrible Coulter woman.

Little did she know that back in the city, Coulter was consulting the TV.

"Magic Mirror on the wall, none of my followers have found Snow White! Where is she?"

"In a cottage in the woods!" Bill screamed at a bewildered guest on his show.

"Hmm, I guess I'll take care of this... ah... damn... uhhhh... myself!"

At first, she attempted to disguise herself as an evil hag, but found that she already looked like one. So she gave up on the disguise, grabbed some heroin, and set out toward the forest.

It took her some time, but she eventually found the cottage in the woods. Shuffling over to the door, she knocked. Snow White opened the door, and smiled at her.

"Oh! Hello! Did you need something?"

"Well young woman, I was wondering if I could have a bite to eat."

"Of course! Now, do you want a breast or a leg?"

"Er, leg."

"Light or dark?"

"Light, please."

"I'll just be a moment." She went back into the house. After a moment, she returned, and dropped a pale human leg on the porch. "There you go!"

Thank you, " she said, looking nervously at the leg, "how can I repay you?"

"Oh, there's no need!"

"But I must repay you somehow. How about some... cocaine?" said Coulter, holding out a handful of heroin.

Snow White literally dove into her hand, inhaling as deep as possible, wanting every grain of that wonderful, wonderful cocaine.

She backed away, contented, when a burst of blood began fountaining out her nose like a super-soaker, covering Coulter. She fell to the ground, shaking, still oozing blood. Coulter looked at her for a moment, pleased, and began walking back to the city.

Unluckily for her, a short time later the killers came home to find Snow White dead on the doorstep.

"What kind of sick bastard could have done this?" wailed Gacy.

"Only a monster could have killed such an innocent girl!" cried Kaczynski.

"The animal that did this should be killed!" said Gein.

"Well, good riddance to the hooker." snarled Ridgeway.

"Shut up Gary! We all liked her, you fuck!" said a pissed-off Dahmer.

"Go fuck and eat yourself!"

"The demons are telling me to kill you, Gary!"

Manson stepped in to control the situation. "No, Berkowitz! Killing each other won't solve anything! You need to find, and kill, whoever did this."

"We do? Why don't you ever help, Manson?! Why do we always do all the work?"

"Because I'm a planner, not a killer, douchebag! Now listen to me! My money is on that Coulter bitch Snow told us about. This blood is still fresh, so I'm guessing this was done less then an hour ago. She's probably on her way back to the city, and if we run, we can catch her while she's still in the forest!

And run they did. They ran for miles, running through their tiredness, to get revenge for their friend. After they had passed the Evil Bitch, they hid behind a rock, waiting for her to pass by.

And when she did, she discovered that she had fucked with the wrong bunch of people.

They left the remains there, in the middle of the road, and started back to the cottage. When they arrived, they moved Snow White out into the yard, and began cleaning the house. They scrubbed every inch of every surface, scrubbing everything clean of any trace of them. Gacy grabbed Coulter's hands, and began touching all the knives and doorknobs with them, giggling slightly as he did so.

They packed their things, all into neat little leather bags, courtesy of Gein, and stood around the corpse of their friend.

"I suppose we should say a few words." said a somber Manson.

"She was the best friend I ever had!" sobbed Dahmer.

"Peanut Butter." muttered a rather delirious Berkowitz.

"I wish she could have met my mother." sighed Gein.

A solitary tear rolled down the face of a silent Gacy.

"'This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad.'" quoted Kaczynski.

"I guess she wasn't so bad. For a hooker." mumbled Ridgeway.

"Suffice it to say, you will be missed, Snow. C'mon guys. The feds will find the body soon."

Led by Manson, the Seven Serial Killers marched deeper into the woods, and into the nightmares of man.

When the FBI, led by a trail of blood from the body of Anne Coulter, arrived at the cottage, they discovered the body of an unknown woman, lying in a pool of her own blood. They taped off the area, and got to work scouring the house for evidence, and finding nothing but Coulter's fingerprints everywhere. An attractive young agent was set to stand guard over the body while the others were in the house, but as he stood guard, he couldn't help but gaze at the body. She was so beautiful. He had never felt this way before about any woman, let alone a dead one. Glancing around to make sure no-one was watching, agent Bundy slowly unzipped his pants.

And so Ted Bundy learned the joys of necrophilia, and another killer was born.

The moral of this story? NEVER LISTEN TO BILL O'REILLY!

15 minutes.

2009-09-30T20:31:00.000-07:00

Well, I guess mine are up. I got to do the xbox.com Gamer Spotlight here. Woo!

Fuck Twilight.

2009-09-28T20:15:00.000-07:00

The title pretty much sums up my feelings concerning this absolutely clown-tarded series. I mean, I don't think Stephanie Meyers could shitify the vampire genre any more then she did. Sparkly vampires? Teenaged emo-faggery? Some douchey douche vampire who refuses to drink human blood and instead knocks them up?
Agreed, Picard. Agreed hardcore.

I mean, Cheesus H. Crisp, can this mormany whore ruin vamp literature any more? Bram Stoker is not only rolling in his grave, he's fucking seizing. If Anne Rice was dead, she would be too. As it is, she's probably out in Montana somewhere, shitting in her garden Ted Kaczynski style. If you did not get that reference, then you are probably too young to be reading this.
So, back to the topic of the Whoreman- I mean Morman. Did you know that she went to Brigham Young University? That's pretty much where you go to have your brain pulled out of your ass with an ass backwards version of Christianity (a system of belief already utterly devoid of logic and smart people), and stuffed into magical satan-repelling underwear. Name tags at the ready, my annoying army of backpack and collared shirt wearing reetees!

And y'know what? I'm not the only person who thinks Twilight and Stephanie Meyers suck huge raunchy donkey balls. In fact, someone who actually has writing ability has declared it to be so. STEPHEN FUCKING KING, the god of contemporary horror writers, said, "Stephenie Meyer can’t write worth a darn. She’s not very good."

And that settles fucking that. And for good measure, lets throw in what Robert Pattinson, who plays Edward the Fagpyre has to say about Twilight.

"It was like reading her sexual fantasy, especially when she said it was based on a dream and it was like, ‘Oh I’ve had this dream about this really sexy guy,’ and she just writes this book about it. Like some things about Edward are so specific, I was just convinced, like, ‘This woman is mad. She’s completely mad and she’s in love with her own fictional creation.’ And sometimes you would feel uncomfortable reading this thing. It’s kind of a sick pleasure in a lot of ways."

That is fantastic. The funny thing is, I originally hated Twilight because it was popular. Sometimes that happens. But I decided, against my better judgment, to give this mess a chance. Then I hated it because it fucking blows. And ever since that day, I have hidden every copy of these ass-cock-shit-widget-motherfucking-train wrecks of books that I see at bookstores, grocery stores, and personal bookshelves. Join me in my crusade!

I guess this might count as a review, so I will give it a NEVER FUCKING EVEN THINK ABOUT TOUCHING ONE OF THESE BOOKS THEY WILL ROT YOUR MIND OUT OF YOUR HEAD AND GIVE YOU MULTIPLE SPOUSES AND TURN YOU EMO AND GAY. NOT THAT THERE'S ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT.

Edit: The internet's opinion of twilight can be found here.

Double Edit: EmeraldDragon, who posted this back in July at Kotaku, is an internet superhero.
"Twilight has forever changed the face of literature, after its violent beating and rape of the English language, it left the corpse to rot in a sticky puddle of its own blood and bitter tears. All subtlety is lost as it rips out the organs of plot, characterization, and basic grammar, leaving behind a hollow shell of a vapid romance that is both void of true emotions and common sense. Where Anne Rice left off with the mere neutering of Vampires as monsters, Meyers has gone and done a full gender reassignment."

Not to beat a dead horse or anything.

Review: Game: Scribblenauts

2009-09-23T17:59:00.000-07:00

One fine a-while-ago day, I was sitting in McDonalds (where me and my species, the faticus assus, of the Nerdicus family, can often be found grazing), when a friend of mine begins to tell me of a game, one which promises to be the Holy Grail, Mecca, and Land of Milk and Honey rolled into one glorious golden game. He tells me that this game will end world hunger, create a Grand Unified Theory of Everything, and will cause Paris Hilton's Stress Induced Herpes to mutate into some kind of freakish Blue Cheese-esqe rot that seals every orifice closed and turns her into something that could make John Merrick flinch.

So the days pass, and I wait for this god-like game to come out. I wait and wait and [lots more waits later] and finally, the game is released. I get it the day it comes out, I even get a DSi just to improve the experience. I play the game, and it is every bit as good as I thought it would be.

For about a day.

After a few hours, I get so sick of this game, I can't even look at it without getting kinda pissed off. And I bet you are saying, "But Scott! How can you hate this game? It is sooooooooooo goooooooood! I killed a ghost with a Proton Pack, flew in a jetpack to get up a cliff, then grappled a cat out of a tree. What's not to love?" And it is at this point that I would pull out my '9 and pop a cap in yo cracka ass fo' bein' so ignant. Lucky for you, we're on the interwebz, and I don't have an Internet 9. So instead, I'll just answer your question. Y'see, Scribblenauts does not work so much as a game, as it does as a gimmick. The whole, "make whatever you want magically appear and interact with other magically appeared/not magically appeared shit to solve puzzles" gets very, very easy. Here are the 10 objects you need to know: Wings, Pirate, Grapple, Laser, Dart Gun, Fireball, TNT, Pick (tool), Scuba, and Net. You might need rope or a vehicle occasionally, but not often enough to make it on the list. Congratulations. You have just beat the whole fucking game. Now, SHOW ME YOUR WARFACE!

And by the way, what the hell is up with the hat that Maxwell wears? It looks like some kind of penis-covered toque with speakers in it. That hat is so gay, it looks like it could suck a golf ball through a garden hose.

Now, the game isn't all bad, it's just that the good parts of the game don't have the chance to shine through the shit bits. Shit Bits include: the control system, which allows you to accidentally dump Maxwell into pits of lava while trying to grab objects; the puzzles that make no logical sense, and are solved only through truly fucked up and usually frustrating methods; and the monotony previously discussed. Those good parts include the fact that it pretty much does have EVERY FUCKING THING FOREVER, the little Easter Eggs like Longcat and om nom nom nom, and the way those object interact (like when you put a terrorist in a plane).

At the end of the day, I have to give it a HURR DURR, a low rating in my non-existant rating system. Because I'm still lazy.

Beating your Children: Now that I'm safe, I'm for it.

2009-09-17T14:01:00.000-07:00

Do you see a difference between these two photos? Because what I see is on the left, a well behaved child (relative to today's standards. Back in the day, he was a regular hell raiser) and on the right, a fatty fat tub of goth, fail, and lard. Now, what could have caused this massive gap in the behavior of these children?
Ah. That would explain it. A quick falcon-PUNCH to the face will definitely show a kid how to behave. And if that doesn't work, git yer belt, cause you got some whuppin to do.
I am firmly of the opinion that there are just some children that need a thorough beating, and that may seem odd as I am one of those kids, but now that I'm safe, I'm all for it.

An example; kids who cut themselves, commonly known as "cutters", cut themselves to "make their outer pain match their inner pain." It's blindingly obvious that they suffer from an under abundance of pain. They simply have not met their quota, and with schools cracking down on bullying and fighting, they cannot receive the physical pain usually associated with school. So it is up to the parents to supply the much needed pain. Thus is the problem of cutters solved. Then if they cut themselves, it won't be for attention. It will be for a much more appropriate purpose.

Example 2; ADD. Now, some kids really do have ADD, and honestly need the meds. Most just don't pay attention, and parents would rather blame something they have no control of instead of their parental failings. But do you know what works better on these fakers than Ritalin? Pain. If it works for dogs and horses, then I can pretty much guarantee that it'll work on kids. Pain is a great motivator, almost as good as fear, and the one-two pimp slap of fear AND pain can mold even the most unruly child into a Stepford Kid. He'll definitely get his homework done when he lives in constant fear of a brutal beating with a moccasin.

Final Example; I'm fairly certain that if you beat a child enough, it will get superpowers. This theory was put forward by a friend of mine, Corey, who claimed that it would be possible to tell a kid to run up the wall, and if he didn't, mercilessly beat him until he ran up the wall to get away from you. I like to call this the "DAMN IT JIMMY Corollary," which is that the more you beat a child, the more successful they will be. Massive beatings = superpowers.

Review: Game: Batman Arkham Asylum

2009-09-17T01:00:00.000-07:00

Batman: Arkham Asylum is probably the best superhero game I have ever played. And probably will be until they make the game "Deadpool vs. The Fourth Wall". Then god help us all.

It is also my favorite stealth game. Of course, I am not exactly a connoisseur of stealth games (I've never even played a "Thief" game) but I have played enough to know that I am not a fan of the style, and Arkham Asylum's stealth system made the original Splinter Cell seem like downright shit. Removing gun-toting enemies by stringing them up from an indoor gargoyle, then blasting his comrades into unconsciousness with a well placed helping of explosive gel nearly made me need to change my pants. Then I noticed a straggler (using my sweet-lord-you-can-take-me-now-awesome detective vision) off in a corner, and swooped down and kicked that clown-faced fuck in the face. Then I needed a change AND a towel. I may have looked similar to this...

Beautiful. My Batgasm was only intensified when in the next room I got in a fist fight with a rather inconveniently placed group of henchmen. After working several of them over with my gauntleted fists of Justice and Vengeance and the night and such, one of them went for a box on the wall and grabbed a machine gun. So, in true Batman: The Animated Series style, I rolled to avoid his spray of lead, knocked the gun out of his hands with a Batarang, then knocked his ass out, all in about 15 seconds. Then I countered his buddy's kick, breaking the bastard's leg, after which I finished off the fight with a slow-mo knee to what appeared to be the groin. Let me just say this; it is difficult to enjoy a game when I have to keep pausing and changing my pants. And I can't just not wear pants, because I once spilled syrup on a Nintendo 64 controller, and know how annoying and difficult a sticky controller can be.

And while I'm on the subject (ok, I'm not really on the subject, but just roll with it) of inconveniently placed things; who the fuck decorated Arkham Asylum? And designed it, for that matter? Who puts gargoyles on the inside of a building, then fills it with crazy people? These are people who see monsters crawling out of toothpaste tubes, do we really need to put images of demons on the walls where they are to be housed? And how about the sewer system? The whole complex is built on a BRICK sewer system, barely able to support its own weight, and has huge fucking fallen columns all over the place! How much did they pay to bribe THAT safety inspector?

Aaaaanyway...

Another nice thing about the game is that while the story doesn't last for very long, the Riddler has put shit everywhere for you to find. Finding said shit gets you more shit, like challenge modes, character models and shit.
Shit.
Finding all of it takes a while, and I really don't feel like taking the time to do it, but if I did I could probably spend a few more hours getting all of it. Which is nice.

I'm sorry. I just love Deadpool so much. It is very difficult for me to say anything about comics, comic characters, or yellow boxes without mentioning him. Ok, getting back on track now.

All in all, Batman: Arkham Asylum is now one of my favorite games. It really lets me feel like I'm Batman, that I have absolute control over his actions, that whatever I want to do, he can do. While it isn't quite that way, they do let you do anything you would actually want to do. Since all I wanted to do was beat the fuck outa baddies with bitch'n gadgets, I was fairly fulfilled.

Once again, I'm too lazy to devise a rating system. I give this game a 12.

Review: Comic: Transmetropolitan Collections 1,2, & 3

2009-09-14T11:36:00.000-07:00

"You want to know about voting. I'm here to tell you about voting."
"Imagine you're locked in a huge underground nightclub filled with sinners, whores, freaks and unnameable things that rape pit bulls for fun. And you ain't allowed out until you all vote on what you're going to do tonight. YOU like to put your feet up and watch 'Republican Party Reservation' [a soap opera]. THEY like to have sex with normal people using knives, guns, and brand new sexual organs that you did not know existed."
"So you vote for television, and everyone else, as far as your eye can see, votes to fuck you with switchblades."
"THAT'S voting. You're welcome." THIS AD PAID FOR BY INFORM, HELPING YOUNG PEOPLE UNDERSTAND POLITICS.

If that doesn't make you laugh, then you can just get the fuck out. Like now.

That little excerpt is from the the third collection of Transmetropolitan, entitled "Year of the Bastard" by Warren Ellis. One of the greatest comics ever to grace mine eyes.

Revolving around the misadventures of the holy-fuck-awesome journalist Spider Jerusalem, the whole series takes place in the far future, with New York having grown to ludicrous size and now being referred to only as "The City". Drugs, sex, and violence abound, and the government steps in to do something only if they think there is a vote in it.

Spider, having spent 5 years in a mountain retreat, is forced to come out of his early retirement when his editor, known affectionately as "the whorehopper" calls him and threatens to sue over the 2 remaining books in his contract. So spider is forced back to the City, where he quickly gets a job with a major paper, punches a receptionist, and reverses a police-instigated riot using only his computer.

And just to make him more awesome, he isn't allowed to have a phone, because the last time he was left alone with a phone in Prague, 9 politicians killed themselves. When he finally does get hold of a phone, he shows late-night call-in shows the meaning of the word "raped". After which he is thoroughly exhausted, and needs to recharge his batteries by dressing like Jesus, going to a religion convention, and destroying the whole establishment. Thus ends the first collection, Back on the street.The second collection runs through Spider's run in with his ex-wife (who had her head frozen with orders not to be brought back until Spider is dead) and those who she has set on Spider's trail. It also details several of the Reservations, places where past cultures and civilizations are preserved, and the people in them have no idea there is an outside world. Not as good as the first and third collections, Lust for Life is still fucking godly.
The third collection begins the main story arc of the series, when spider begins to cover politics in his column, "I hate it here." Now becoming embroiled in the world of politics, Spider find's that it is just as fucking evil as he remembers it. With presidential candidates Joe Heller the Neo-Nazi and Gary Callahan "The Smiler" up at bat to take down the President (whom Spider named the Beast) It truly is a good year for bastards. And their running mates.
So far, I give this comic a Yes. Because I'm too lazy to actually make any kind of rating system.
Read this shit. Just do it. You'll see what I mean.

Coming Soon (giggity)

2009-09-14T01:51:00.000-07:00

Reviews for: Batman Arkham Asylum; the first, second, and third collections of Warren Ellis's Transmetropolitan (spoiler: HOLY FUCKING SHIT SOUND THE BADASS ALARM THIS COMIC IS OF THE FUCKING CHAIN); and why more parents should beat their kids. More at 11.

The First Post...

2009-09-14T00:58:00.000-07:00

Well boys and girls, welcome to the brand new blog. Because blogs are the total hip-and-happening thing right now, right? Blogs aren't outdated and ignored, right?

Right?!

Damn...

Anyways, the whole reason I started a new blog was because I started the old one back in the day when I was 15 or something. Now I know that it's only been about 3 years, but not only does that seem like a long time to a person where 3 years represents over 10 percent of his lifetime, it's also, like, 80 fucking years in internet time. It also included a whole buttload of faggotry, so I figured I'd just pretend it never happened. Sorta like that time in Vegas.

In addition to my usual dipshititude, I will, for sheer shits and giggles (and maybe a PAX10 Media Pass?)review shit. This includes games, movies, music, people, and pretty much anything I get pissed off at. Expect to see titles like, "Review: Big Fatasses who need to put down the fucking fork."

Classy, no?