Category Archives: Random

My Card

A friend told me to go down to a little pub called the Benny’s Boat Saloon. Biggest fucking mirror in town.
Pool tables clustered by pastel polo shirts and popped collars. They’re killing time until the beerpong tournament at 10. A roar of ‘OH!’ and ‘SHIT!’ and ‘TEABAGGING YOUR FUCKING FAGGY ASS’ erupts every time a player sinks a shot, or barely misses. I wish I were kidding — The same exclamations.
Every time.
The bar itself is somewhere between a old west saloon and a soda fountain. The stools that line the bar are stationary brushed metal femurs topped by candy red, glittery red toadstools. And their backline is a dark stained wood bar worn by shot after shot of lost whiskey. Two library stacks of liquor bottles were on each side of the gigantic mirror. HRD to Jose — they’re all there. Between them was a step-stack of liquor bottles, evenly spaced. These are the prized possessions. There’s some Don Julio, some Glen 15, and a liquor named Kleine Feichling among dusty dark bottles with faded labels. No doubt folks have walked out of here trashed only to wake up hours later with a three digit tab in their pockets.
College kids.
Top shelf — a misnomer as it only reaches about half way between the bold white painted B and N that bookend the huge oval mirror.
A pirate ship in a gallon jug looms above the top shelf liquor and in front of the enormous Benny’s Boat Saloon mirror. You can barely read it the decal. And I may be the second in history to have seen it.
Mary in a mirror.
Benny’s Boat. Aurora, OR. I say it extra slow in my head to acknowledge its span.
Places with names like that better have a story or I’m never coming back. The possessive form tells me that Benny better own that ship in a bottle above the top shelf liquor. That or the owner’s son went sailing to the San Juan islands only to arrive there, and to vanish into thin air after the first night. The only remnant of him was his boat, still tethered to the dock.
Benny’s Boat.
I’ve already written the pitch to the networks.
The stout man behind the bar looks like a dealer off of a gambling steamship. I see what they did there. His mustache is waxed to spearlike points that curl up toward his bright grey eyes.
Whalatbee?!
What’ll it be?
It wasn’t that loud, chief. I ask for a Pendleton-coke.
MNYA! Afahynchyois!
Ah. A fine choice.
He better work as an auctioneer for his day job.
Or at a circus.
Ringmaster.
I imagine his head wet from the gaping maw of a lion, and am interrupted by a clinking short dark icy drink rocking to and fro in the glas. Not a drip on the bar.
Dahyeea!
There you are.
I nod. Thanks.
I don’t normally meet people like this. I think I’m nervous. I was told to go to this bar, order a drink, and wait. I asked how they would know who I was. I was told not to worry. Like being told ‘maybe’ when asking someone out on a date. Maddening.
But it wasn’t before the first smokey sip of my drink passed my lips that a vise grip caught my free arm. I almost spill my drink. I am spinning to ask the person what the big idea is. Then I see a bony finger in front of two zipped lips. The grip on my arm loosened.
He sat on the shiny toadstool next to me. I couldn’t blink. I was pissed.
He held up a small white card. The black, perfectly centered, impossibly small type asked:
Can you read English fluently?
I cock an eyebrow. He cocks an eyebrow. I nod. And am about to lace into him again.
His finger whips in front of his pursed lips again. He seemed to turn the volume down for the whole circus. Popped collars in fuzzy muffled bassy tones.
His card flipped over between his index and middle fingers expertly. The brick of small type filled the back of the card save a small box of white space near the top.
Write your cellphone number in the space provided.
Space.
I will contact you with a number. Use it to order. When you order you will not say anything other than ‘Do you want to play some games?’ ‘Don’t you hate the radio?’ and ‘Are you free?’ The first is for an order. The second is to meet. The final should only be used if our relationship is in danger. Remember each verbatim. When you have done so, look at me in the eyes and say ‘I don’t remember.’
He insistently waves the card at me. I put two fingers on it and realize my eyebrow is aching from being raised for so long. I see my reflection in those dark black sunglasses and ask ‘Who the fu–?’
I only noticed that the card had been yanked from my fingertips when they started to burn. I looked to see if they were on fire and was disappointed to realize this dude had really knew how to take something back. I didn’t even get the satisfaction of finishing the expletive it was so fast.
The door to the bar shut. Dust was pulled off of the top shelf bottles.
I was looking just above the top shelf, and gaze into neglect by rarity.
And somewhere far away a popped collar screams FUCKING FAG, FUCKING TEABAGGED YOU!

Solving the World’s Problems, One at a Time : Vol I Issue 1 | Megan Fox’s Career

My buddy Nick and I brainstorm how to save Megan Fox’s career.
You’re Welcome.

I'm tiny.It seems as though Hollywood has given Megan the finger and told her ‘RTFM OMFG DIAF!!!!1!!one!!!’, so what is going to be the big PR coup that will resurrect her career… or will it take more than that?


Nick's tiny too. WTF IS GOING ON HERE?!

beverly hills chihuahua 2, and subsequent accidental death and ressurection in the span of 3 days.

actually. no. scratch that. you ever see the movie ‘Punchline’? with Tom Hanks and Sally Fields… they pretty much hook up and are the romantic couple for the movie… flash forward, ‘Forrest Gump’ where Sally Fields plays Tom Hanks’ mom… if there were ever a movie to bridge the gap between the two, Megan Fox would have to do it.

Teensie weensie.

Transformers: Zeo Ninja Force Plus Alpha

It’s 30xx and Megaman just got butt-humped by Optimus Integer. 1000101011 (Megan Fox) is sold into slavery by her uncle Owen and her aunt Anakin. Before being transported to the final oasis, Las Atlantis Falconbreath, 1000101011 is suddenly and heroically rescued by the transformer Fumblewasp Hogherpes. Safe at the Transformer HQ, Optimus Integer reveals to 1000101011 that she is the key to the Allvibe – the source of all happiness and wetness on Prince, formerly the planet known as Earth. However, the Decepticons are well awares of her powers and wish to extract it through violent sensual massage (read: tenticles). The HQ is attacked by Decepticons, led by Ultratron, and 1000101011 is punted like a football across the oasis-scape. A pterodactyl swoops in and fetches her out of mid-air and brings her to its nest. 1000101011 wakes among ginormous eggs and panics. The pterodactyl, in a milky Scottish accent, reassures her that everything is going to be just fine, and the Autobots are on the way. She asks how it could know such a thing, and the pterodactyl removes its dermis to reveal it is Sam Witwicky (Shia Lebeauf). Sam Witwickydactyl also reveals that nearly two thousand years ago, he ate one of Mikaela’s ovaries after getting drunk off of Allspark. The result was a tremendous explosion, and the folding of time. Finally, he goes on to explain that he is not only her former lover, but her father, grandfather, and mother. In the final scene of the film, Ultratron farts and 1000101011 disintegrates. The End.

You don’t know me. But I know you like kittens.

You could stalk me, sure.

I have plenty of information scattered all over the interwebz, and if you really wanted to know something, you could find it, I’m sure.

But with all the information, I find solace in anonymity. I find that what I really am is not contained in the words on a blog, a micro-blog, a tattoo your mother refuses to show you. I am a many tailed beast with talons. Huge effing talons. Ones that Zeus would look at and be all like, ‘DAIIIIIIIIIM BOYEEEEE! Those are some bitchin talons!’ Zeus is down for talons like that. Little known fact.

I digress. I think that people flip the eff out when they finally realize what it is to be on the internet. That is, as soon as you set foot in the abyss, you begin to leave fluorescent footprints.

You then have two choices:

Panic like everyone else, and give in to the media fear monster.

Or…

You could ruck up, censor yourself a bit, and use your effing head.

Some people take another route. They simply remain ignorant to the implications of their internet presence, and hurt themselves and others in the process.

As a for instance, take little Jimoan. Jimoan just got a Twitter account, got out of college and is about to go searching for a job! Everyone is stoked for Jimoan as the world is wide open; full of opportunities for folks like Jimoan! Ohemgee! Jimoan doesn’t understand the mighty power of Twitter and begins to post really silly things.

‘I’m on the couch. lol’

‘I’m eating toast. rofl’

‘I’m looking at cat pictures. omfgroflmaortfmbbqirl’

Then Jimoan gets sassy and begins posting very personal things.

‘I’m on the couch counting all the money I just took from an old lady on her Rascal. I punched her in the eye. lol’

‘I’m eating toast after smoking the fattest bowl of marijuana in the history of history. rofl420 I also sell to minors.’

And who could forget the classic

‘I’m looking at cat pictures while scheming chatrooms for underage girls and doing lines of coke off a panda’s shorn ass. ‘\.=. roflmoar15getsyou20!’

Jimoan had a successful interview with Company Sarc. They enjoyed how Jimoan was really down with new things, and how they didn’t wear tennis shoes to the interview. Jimoan was a shoe in for management and was already up for a promotion even though Jimoan didn’t even have the job yet! That’s really something, Jimoan!

But what Jimoan didn’t know is that Company Sarc also looked at applicants and their online presence. Company Sarc was disappointed when they saw Jimoan’s profile pic on Facebook was of them holding a gun to a puppy. The puppy didn’t even have a collar! Company Sarc was also disappointed in Jimoan’s latest tweet ‘I am going to face fuck the shit out of this company I just interviewed for. Hello embezzlement, goodbye selling Meth to elementary school kids!’ They were also sad to see that their MySpace profile sported a video of a sneezing panda. For shame, Jimoan. For shame, indeed.

Jimoan didn’t get called back by Company Sarc. Instead, Jimoan turned to huffing ozone, got Ebola, and began eating brains — effectively beginning the zombie apocalypse.

So, before you go and update your Twitter with how much you are going to drink at work today, think about the pending zombie apocalypse.

Trust me, you don’t want to be that person, highALLday420wEdsmOkR69

This statement is false.

I find it interesting that we go out of our way to not lie to folks, yet we lie on a daily basis.

In this vein, I found it interesting growing up having adults tell me to always tell the truth, to never lie, and to be forthcoming in my faults. While I appreciate the sentiment, the truth is lying is a part of human nature at its fundament. Let’s explore this, shall we?

First, the classic example:

Someone you care about (romantically or otherwise) asks you a question regarding their general appearance. Often, the question posed to you is phrased as something like:

‘Do these dragon wings make me look stupid?’

Naturally, you’d want to let them know that dragon wings went out of style a long time ago, and that Jesus rode dinosaurs. However, you will inevitably be corralled into saying:

‘No, those dragon wings make you look badass. Can we LARP sometime?’

The problem with the question is in its inherent ability to make the inquisitor feel like a jackass, otherwise bring them down. What’s more is these questions often have a followup statement to the tune of ‘Be honest.’ However, if you were honest, they would likely be hurt as they probably spent an obscene amount of time and money making said dragon wings. To tell them that they make them look stupid would also be an assault on their taste, purchasing savvy, and/or craftsmanship. As for anyone who takes pride in what they use to represent themselves, it would be a devastating blow to their ego.

So, we opt out of the hurt and let them find out for themselves. The individual posing the question confides in you, and the opinion of others is not nearly as hurtful (at least in adulthood under the guise that they can handle outsider criticism).

We are aware of the caveats and choose to avoid them for the sake of someone else’s ego. Lying is the path of least resistance, and oh so practical.

Now let’s examine a second instance that is a little more abstract and, in this author’s opinion, far more pertinent.

Memories. They may be like the corners of your mind, but that mind mutherfuker is humongous. In attempting to recall a memory, we ask ourselves the who, what, where, when, why, and how. The end result will always be a lie. This time, it’s not you protecting someone else, but rather it is you trying to do yourself a positive service. Unfortunately, remembering is a fool’s errand.

Some years ago, I came to a metaphor that I visit frequently as an explanation of memory and memories at large. The memory is a virgin patch of skin. It is free of marring, blemish, and stain. Our recalling of memory is a heinous, ragged shard of glass. As we recall a memory, the glass approaches the surface of the untouched skin. And them moment one begins recalling the detail of a memory, the glass digs in. The more details we attempt to excavate from underneath, the more violent the search becomes. The shard rips and tears at the skin, leaving it bloodied, torn and scarred. The aftermath is a permanent array of scars and gouges that will never heal, and the memory is forever defiled.

I look at memory this way in light of how large a myriad of stimuli are attached to any one memory. Detectives will tell you that witness recounts of details are often skewed, hardly accurate. Instead of taking a witness’ statement as fact, it is more of a guide that will hopefully lead to the truth. The fact is, we will never remember each tiny detail about a moment in time. We are bombarded with stimuli every fraction of a second. From the color of someone’s shoelaces, to the temperature of the atmosphere outside the body, it would be impossible for us to remember exactly where we were, what we saw, tasted, smelled, etc. As a result, when we attempt to recall a moment in time, we betray it. Our brain fills in the gaps presented by our lack of sense comprehension, and that moment in time is no longer a truth. Instead, it is a fabrication that is supported only by a smidgen of real recall. So, when you tell the story about the time when you were pulled over by a police officer only to be let off with a warning, you are really only telling what your mind perceives to be the overall theme of the story. Which brings us to the final metaphysical mind-eff.

Perception is a dirty, dirty thing. Through the Allegory of the Cave, we can appreciate that what we experience is passed through a host of filters presented by our brains. The end result is only a part of what is truly experienced, and is merely an interpretation of our functioning senses. So, can we say that what we experienced is true, or real? That is a question for philosophers to scrutinize. Moreover, this author would suggest it your job as a human to approach this question in earnest. In the end, your perception colors your memory, and is a major detractor from genuinely revisiting a moment in time. Perception changes the zero-point in time where an experience occurs, and fundamentally changes what one remembers of a moment from then on.

Ultimately, it is absurd for us to expect to recall a moment in perfect clarity. And if we attempt to remember something, we are lying to ourselves.

I don’t expect this to reveal some profound truth to you, the reader. Instead, I am urging you to carefully consider ever deterring yourself or an outside party from lying.

We do it all the time.

Twitter, I don’t feel funny anymore

Twitter, I don’t feel funny anymore

Normally this isn’t a problem.

Example: You go to the genitals doctor, and you’re all like ‘Hey! It used to feel like I was peeing meteors, but now I don’t feel funny anymore!’

That would otherwise be regarded as a win. In my case, it’s more like performance anxiety as a result of blas√©¬†traffic.

Recently, The Loser Table has made it a habit of recording our lunchcapades. Unfortunately, as soon as one of our iPhones is set to record, I fall flat. It’s like someone steals my funny bone and beats me with it. For those concerned with anatomy, the funny bone is located in the chest, and it keeps the heart in place.

I digress.

I have found that social networking sites have been doing some sort of mythical game of musical chairs where one site is pitted against the other for traffic. More specifically, folks will go to Twitter on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays; Facebook on Tuesdays and Thursdays. (Note: MySpace not listed — populated by crickets and pedophiles. Neither of which count.) So, when I dive into a tweet tirade, I almost expect that someone will see it, maybe get a chuckle. Then I’m reminded that I suck at being funny in more than 139 characters, and turn to hummus and Doritos to cope. Facebook is a little more sensitive as it includes family for most of us users. And for most of us, we don’t want our families knowing that we are talking about how much so-and-so’s toupee smells like cheese and burning cats. Twitter was supposed to be a refuge for such divulging. Alas, so-and-so only wears their toupee on Tuesdays and Thursdays because they are covering cats in pepperjack and throwing them into cars covered in gasoline, and they wouldn’t want to get their scalp all sooty.

I don’t have an uncle like that, but I read your tweet feed and you should call the cops.

Ahem.

I think that the Twitter bubble has burst, and we’re left to pick up the pieces.

Fail Whale Demands a Sacrifice

Fail Whale Demands a Sacrifice

I see loads and loads of terrific tweets filling my feed. Problem is, the audience is not there. People have been desensitized to hilarity. Quips and clever anecdotes are no longer readable as they have already been done.

What are we to do now?

The answer is so deceptively simple, it’s absurd. I was watching Shutter Island in theaters some weeks ago, and it came to me:

Do a reboot of all the funny and profound tweets.

I would like to thank Hollywood writers for giving me the idea. And no, Hollywood, you may not collect internet money on my idea. It’s not yours. However, you may collect on Ironman, Batman and any other 80s phenomenon you wish. In fact, why not make a reboot of Uncle Buck. Only this time, Buck will be addicted to meth.

Getting to the point, I plan on going back to my first tweet and rewriting each subsequent tweet with a Shyamalan twist that will make you shit yourself.

For example, my first tweet:

‘This is a test’

I will reboot this tweet with CGI, a young virile cast, and a bigger budget. The new tweet should look something like this:

‘This is a zombie Tiger Michael Peter Jackson test’

This new and improved tweet will be sure to revive Twitter, and restore it to its former glory of thoughtful, provocative tweets.

I know what you’re thinking. No, I will not move to Hollywood and write movies. But you know what I will do? I will fart glitter all over a script written in the early sixties and make it into a blockbuster hit. Problem solved.

Bonus: I crap unicorns.

Pink and Blue : The Great Purging

Answer to formspring.me question:

Do you know why traditionally pink is for girls and blue is for boys?

I know everything. So, duh. Of course I know why.

The Great Purging Begins

The Great Purging Begins

It all began some 10,000 years ago. There was an event later dubbed as The Great Purging. In said event, it was the ultimate battle of the sexes. Such was the emotional and intellectual evolution of the human specie at that time, each brought little to the table in terms of what we would call ‘progressive thought’. This was mostly grounded in how humans considered only the necessities, activities appealing to the brain stem, or ‘the reptilian brain’. That said, humans often resorted to brutal violence in the face of adversity. Even stubbing ones toe on a stone led to a tribe-wide bloodbath steeped in frustration and angst alive.

The Great Purging came about as an after effect from a clash among young leaders of two different tribes. One was male, the other female. Both were apt in their abilities of foraging, hunting, and being generally badass. Since sexual urges did not truly form until later in human development, the two leaders saw no attraction in one another. Their roles as leaders further blackened their friendship — they were both leaders, commanders. During a training exercise led by chieftains of their respective tribes, the two were to clash in mortal combat, further improving their physical prowess and defense against the great unknown. When signaled, the war game began. The two tumbled and contorted. Screams and grunts of power emitted from both. There were witnesses who wet themselves in awe of the mastery both held. And they remained quiet as the game went on; rousing a conflict between tribes in competition was not allowed. Such acts sullied the meaning of the exercise.

Deadlocked. Hands around each others shoulders and throats. Their feet were stone slabs pressing into the earth, their toes were talons. Then suddenly, the deadlock turned into a tumble. The two fell onto their sides, and the force produced between them brought their faces to a point of collision. Their lips touched. Immediately, they drew back from one another. This had not happened in such an exercise, and for something so uncouth to occur in a brawl, the crowd and chieftains stood startled, mirroring the surprise in the young combatants.

They were on their feet as soon as they were on the ground. Anger blazed in the two pair of eyes. Simultaneously, they declared that the opposite had touched lips with them in order to poison them. The crowd gasped. The chieftains were dumb. The two continued their argument in grunts and spasms expressing their discontent. They looked to their respective chieftains for an answer. They wanted blood.

It became a question of which gender had poisoned the other. Each tribe sought out and slaughtered the mass of the opposite gender in their now rival tribes. Supporters of the female chieftain-in-training wore shirts with the faded blood of the many males slain as trophies and gruesome banners to the opposition.

The males came together with the young male chieftain-in-training. They recognized that the women were far too crafty to take head-to-head. Their numbers were thinning. So, they took to the ground at night, hiding in trees during the day. Their many nights of crawling on their bellies mixed with the mud, dead grasses, and fruits of the colon led to their clothing appearing much darker than normal. In the moonlight, the attacking groups of men appeared a menacing blue in the moonlight.

This fighting brought other tribes to segregate. Men ran from their fellow women in the daylight. Their intent was to never meet again.

Both sides had to reach a conclusion after their numbers dwindled deadly thin from the ages of war and conflict. Reproduction was a necessary evil that was dedicated to outcasts of male and female tribes, and such became scarce. The now-chieftain children met for conversation regarding an end to the bloodshed. They agreed that the survival of the specie lay in their resolution. Furthermore, they agreed that no conflict was necessary since no chieftain had been poisoned by their lips touching that fateful day.

The chieftains called a meeting of the two great tribes. At this great gathering, the two shook hands, and before their respective tribes, they met lips. The single act was affirmation of trust and recognition that we are a united specie struggling for survival. The masses rejoiced, peace restored.

So, women wear pink because they are bloodthirsty killers, men wear blue to pay respect to their gender ancestors crawling the earth.

I’m probably totally off, but it’s what a unicorn told me once. A trustworthy unicorn.

On Violence in Videogames

Another head explodes, and gallons (henceforth defeating the once known measurement of *pints*) of blood spray in every which way.

And then I move on to the next zombie to grease.

Now, I have spent a lot of time playing video games during my short life. By ‘a lot,’ I mean I may have spent over a year’s time in front of a boob tube trying to get someone or something to some sort of end. That’s a long time… but I digress. In that time, I have played violent, ‘kiddy,’ and bible-based (Yes, I said bible-based) games, and I have come to a conclusion about video game violence.

Number one, and prolly most importantly: these are games, folks. If every time I grease a zombie, an angel loses its wings, or a chihuaua dies on another continent, then I may stop playing. Poor angels. Don’t care about the snot dog as much. In any case, video games do not directly correlate to real life.

Or does it?

When Columbine went down, one of the first things that police looked for (outside of blueprints for making homemade bombs) was the kind of software these kids surrounded themselves with. What did news reports cling to that night at 6? Doom 2 for the PC: A pixelated and arduous journey into the depths of hell, which aparently is, in fact, Mars. I didn’t hear enough about how violent the game was, and how disgusting it was. Opponents to video game violence claim that someone who does an act in a video game will be compelled at one time or another to enact their escapades in a non-digital world — the real one.

However, this point of contention dismisses a single and fundamental element about human behavior: If you do something, you want to do it. A video game does not make you kill people. ‘Catcher in the Rye’ does not make you want to drop John Lennon. And the news does not make your children want to roll on E. So, kids that want to shoot up a school will shoot up a school because that is their perogative.

So, why do we have such violent games, Brent?

I’m glad you asked.

I want to be the first to say that there is something cathartic about leveling a city, greasing multitudes of enemies, and defeating a final boss for the sake of ending their terrible reign. In other words, video games can be a non-violent outlet to rage or grief. True, it sounds like a stretch, but I believe in it. We all release stress and anxiety in our own ways: Some play games, some starve themselves, some eat, some sleep, some write, some exercise… you get the picture.

What does it mean for violence? It means that graphic intensity is in place to create a next-to-reality feel to clearly fictional and surreal situations. It is a grounding mechanism. In a way, making games more realistic is a proof to reality. That is, our feeble attempts to recreate reality accurately fall flat on their faces time and time again, because we cannot reproduce what is absolutely real. Grasping for reality affirms reality as an existing player, as it were. Some bar the bridge between the two with varying results…

However, a choice is still a choice, and no one can be blamed for an idea that a separate agent executed out of rage.