Prevyet

No entry today. Why? Because fuck you, that's why!

PS. I love all of you. Except you. Yeah, you know who you are. Just kidding, I love you too. I'll be back tomorrow with an entry on masturbation, because that's what we all love.

It's a small world after all.

In the time it took for me to recover from this illness, which I still haven't, I've thought of a series of left field topics to rant about, most of which I scrapped because they didn't pass the "Utterly Retarded" test. A few of these topics included Guitar Hero, the problems you encounter when having sex with Mermaids, canker sores, Disneyland, black tar heroin, the futility of abstinence, Voltron, the Loch Ness monster, General Custer, and what to do when you're surrounded by a pod of hungry orcas. I don't know how half these fucking topics came into my head, but what're you going to do, eh? So instead of ranting about bullshit, I will instead recount a dream I had in excruciating detail.

I'm in a shopping center, with a crowd of people from RYLA surrounding a single man with a guitar. I don't know who this man is, so I move in closer for a better look. It's my trig teacher, Jeff O'Connell, and he's playing Windowpane, by Opeth. So I walk into one of the stores and I pick up what appears to be a morpher from Power Rangers. I go back outside and see everyone has one too. The music that Mr. O'Connell is playing suddenly makes everyone morph into Power Rangers. Suddenly, a bunch of military transport vehicles come and everyone starts to move in. I get into a convoy with a bunch of Asian guys. I sit in the right side of the truck.

Anyway, so we're on the highway for some reason, traveling through what appears to be the City of Angels. For some weird reason we end up in Times Square. At this point, the driver of the convoy stops and asks us all what we want to eat. Everyone wants fried chicken. I say "Well, I know there's a coupon there for Popcorn Chicken, so I'll have that." The driver starts yelling at me, so the guy sitting behind me starts to strangle me with piano wire. But I throw him over my shoulder and tell him to knock it off. Suddenly, we end up in the countryside, and the driver turns into my old schoolbus driver, crazy-ass Mrs. Dolores. The guy in the passenger seat, who happens to be one of the counselors from camp, decides to take the poster I'm holding and rip it up. He throws it out the window.

And here's where things get fucking trippy. The ripped up poster seems to have a mind of its own and reforms, making various things explode around us. It leaves us alone after a while. Anyway, so we continue to drive before we're stopped at a checkpoint, manned by Frieza from Dragonball Z and various Beetleborgs. They look inside the vehicle and wave us along to this French villa in the middle of nowhere.

Then I meet up with all the rest of the guys from the convoy and from the shopping center and this monster guy comes down. Suddenly, Austin steps out and decides we should all morph. He becomes the original Yellow Ranger, who, unintentionally, was Asian:



I morph into the Red Ranger and everyone decides to strike a pose. The monster turns out to be Tommy Lee Jones (seriously, what the fuck? I guess I shouldn't watch Men in Black right before night-night), so nobody is worried anymore. I make small talk with him before going over to the crowd of Pink Rangers in the corner and impressing them with my Red Ranger status.

So then Tommy Lee Jones decides to lead me over to a statue of Natalie Portman and a VHS collection of all her movies. Me and TLJ start flirting with a statue of Natalie Portman, who is surprisingly quiet.

Then I go to sit down to dinner with the people who own the villa, they're serving glow-in-the-dark worms for supper. I watch their 6-month old kid play GTA4 for a bit.

And then I woke up.

PS. The Black Ranger from the original Power Rangers series was hilariously a negro. Saban switched shit up in the second season by making the Yellow Ranger black and the Black Ranger yellow. Fucking racists.

Rock n' roll ain't noise pollution

I'm sick as shit right now. I had chills for hours last night and had this bump on my neck that I thought was cancer. Turns out it was just a swollen lymph node, but my panicky ass kind of jumped to conclusions. So I've absolutely nothing to do, other than loaf around the house. I played a little Guitar Hero earlier, and that's when I thought of a topic for the blog. I was just going to have word diarrhea by slamming on the keyboard, but I suppose that'd be a lot less funny.

I love Guitar Hero and Rock Band. These games have transcended abstract boundaries and have become cultural phenomenon (phenomena? Irregular plurals can moisturize my nutsack). Besides being a ton of fun to play, the games also allow people to experience new kinds of music, mostly rock, but there's always a nice variety to the music found in these games. Hell, if it weren't for Guitar Hero, I wouldn't be listening to shit like Primus, Pantera, and Freezepop. These games aren't just great for a drunken party where everyone's cramped from Twister, they're a way for artists to reach a new audience. And it's brilliant.

That said, these music games are a double-edged sword. Or something like that. While Guitar Hero and Rock Band have provided hours of fun and rockin' times, they've also bred a new kind of video game elitist. Video game elitists have been with us since Basilosaurs populated the oceans, but these are special in the sense that they're patronizing twats. This special breed of asshole can be observed in their natural habitat, on forums and YouTube comments. Yeah, I know you can beat Through Fire and Flames on Expert. Yes, it's impressive. Yeah, I saw your video. Now shut the hell up. It's remarkable that you did it, but I don't need to be constantly reminded of your supposed awesome-ness. When you need to constantly tell me how cool you are because you five-starred Raining Blood, the vibe I'm getting from you is one of insecurity.

On top of that, when I ask for help, I don't need you to boast heartily about how you already beat it with no problems. I know you fucking beat it, that's why I need help. My reckoning on this issue? You may be good at Guitar Hero, but you're still a dick. Kind of like the villain from The Karate Kid who cheated at the end.

It's been a while since I saw that movie, so I'm probably wrong.

Anyway, rant over. I've been wanting to deride these fartsuckers for a while now; they're all over the Internets. Not that my inarticulate tirade is going to do anything to prevent them from reproducing...

PS. Guitar Hero: World Tour looks like the shit, but I don't have any room for more fake instruments. At this rate, my room's going to be so full of plastic guitars and drums, there will be no space for my gimp to sleep!

Blades don't need reloading

I'm a big fan of dystopian literature; it's fascinating to see what atrocities humankind is capable of in the face of catastrophe. In most stories, you really see a 'Heart of Darkness' manifest in characters. Jack in Lord of the Flies is one example. When crisis erupts, and everything is destroyed, you can count on mankind to completely fuck up in the attempted reconstruction; it's a process of throwing things at the wall and seeing what sticks.

As interesting as all that shit is, my all-time favorite apocalypse scenario is the zombie invasion. Though there are a myriad of explanations as to how these rotting flesh eaters come to life (irony!), my personal favorite is the tampering of biological weapons and testing. In the stories that give rise to the undead this way there's a delicious little theme that I think everyone should be aware of. It's pretty much common sense, but over the course of centuries we're still trying to change it. What is that theme?

Don't fuck with Mother Nature.

My hatred for mankind notwithstanding, I take sadistic pleasure in seeing those who decide to manipulate the natural forces of the Earth and then get bit in the ass, most times literally. Land of the Dead, and all the Romero movies, I think are brilliant in the way they show the collapse of society as a result of experimenting with things that should be left alone. The other side of the coin is what society is going to be like in the face of damn near insurmountable disaster. Again, being the literary fag I am, I'm going to cite Lord of the Flies as an example. The kids attempt to gain control over their surroundings, to manipulate and play with the the props, so to speak, they're given, but in the end, the darkness of man, and to an extent, the forces of nature collude to make sure this ideal becomes the next Chinese Democracy.

God-awful metaphor, but I'm still sick, so go play in the meat processor.

But my point is simple enough for people with an extra set of chromosomes to understand, even if I didn't illustrate it needlessly with a reference to a band that jumped the shark. Mother Nature is a kind mother to us all. She is benevolent until she decides to unleash hurricanes and cyclones upon her unsuspecting children, undoubtedly because she's on the rag. But when you try to steal a five out of her purse, that's when she gets really pissed off and raises the dead to devour your goddamn brains.

I don't know where I'm going with this, so...poka!

PS. My attempts at learning Russian have yielded very little fruit. But once I master it, I'll be certifiably 189% more badass than the rest of you shit-slinging apes.

zombie

Sick. Cannot think of something to say. Please give me something to make me not sick and I will provide free reading material for you.

PS.uggggggghhhhhhhhhhh brains

Divorce kicks ass

In the wake of California's decision to allow gay marriage, I would like to take the opportunity to congratulate all the gay couples who have managed to join the fucking club, the vapid suck-hole that is marriage. Congratulations, you managed to secure a right that so completely drains you of all energy and brings negligible amounts of happiness. Now enjoy the misery-ridden partnership you'll lead with the person you decided to bestow this dubious honor of marriage upon.

When the flames of controversy arose from the issue of gay marriage arose vengefully like a PMS-ing, feminist hambeast, the argument that straight couples, as well as religious groups who are incidentally stuck so far up their own ass they're in danger of macking with their small intestine, was that marriage is a union between "a man and a woman." So effectively, they're trying to defend, to hold onto the abstract declarations they made and keep it exclusively to themselves. Why are you proud of being chained to another person? Why would you be proud of a minor tax break? Why are you proud of having a minister declare you lovers for life? Why does that shit matter? When you love someone, are you that insecure about that love that you need a minister and your whole damn family to watch you declare it? When you feel intense emotions about someone else, why isn't it enough just to say it everyday, instead of having it declared in front of a crowd of people, who honestly don't give a shit about you and probably just crashed for the free liquor.

I was being flippant in the first paragraph; the struggle for gay marriage is symbolic of trying to gain equal opportunity for gays. I sympathize wholeheartedly, gays should definitely be treated like anyone else, and a bunch of ignorant twats in silly robes and hats large enough to house a family of squirrels and their illegitimate offspring say they shouldn't. And because we're all a happy goddamn herd, we have to follow what this official says. Open your fucking eyes people. Think for yourself. Homosexuals are people, they're not animals, they're not the scum of the earth. The only difference between us and them is that they prefer to enter the club through the back, rather than having to talk to the bouncer up front.

Goddamn, that was a terrible metaphor.

I suppose it's pretty cliché ranting about gay marriage, being that it's been more beaten than that dead horse I keep in my shed, but I wanted to express my distaste for meaningless declarations. Especially since that declaration ensures that you're going to be bored for the rest of your life, unless you're one of those fucking freaks who are happily married. And even those who claim they're happily married are probably lying. Gays, welcome to the fold. Enjoy the however many years of misery marriage is going to bring you. In the end, it doesn't even matter.

PS. I just quoted a Linkin Park song. I suppose it would be prudent to kill myself right about now.

Beauty often seduces us on the road to the truth.

It's only been a few days, but I've already got Writer's Block for the blog, which is impressive considering that each entry is just me violently expelling my thoughts onto e-paper. So it is now time for a change of pace!

I downed the last dregs of my drink, looking shiftily around the bar. She had beckoned to me ten minutes ago, seductively giving me "the eyes," telling me softly in my ear so that the rest of these mooks couldn't hear that she knew something I didn't. Something about Deputy Spade. She had told me to meet her in the motel down the road in room 1134. It was probably a trap, but this dame couldn't be out for blood. No, there was something in her eyes that suggested she wanted something else. Something I slyly deduced that only I could offer to her. This was going to end the way I wanted it, no doubt about that.

I got up from my seat and tip Moe before walking outside and lighting a cigarette. The rain came down in torrents, like God himself was unleashing his wrath, the purging power of water among the corrupt, those who can't be salvaged, like myself. Fuck the water, I thought. Nothing can help you redeem yourself in this world. Nothing except your own desires. The only thing that can cleanse you is the soap that you bring.

I continued to walk down the street, passing overflowing garbage cans and bums crying out for spare change to feed their alcoholism. I kept my hat tipped low, masking my face, hoping to hide myself from the squalid world that laid out before me. I heard my own footsteps echoing in the rain, clunk clunk. The final key to my problems was right in front of me, I was about to crack the case. And yet I hesitated; I walked slower, puffing my cigarette slowly. The prize was right in front of me, I just had to grab it. Why didn't I want it? I worked for it, rode a bumpy road for miles on end, and when I here, I began to slow down. Strange it may sound, but there was a part of me that wanted to stay ignorant, to not wrap up the mystery.

Regardless, I trooped on. I saw the flickering neon sign of the Aloha Motel, flashing erratically like thunder. I crossed the street and walked to the motel, searching for Room 1134. Again, I began to slow down, my cigarette was beginning to die out. I flicked it to the parking lot and stopped in front of the room. I let out a sigh, looked up. It was over, I thought. I knocked.

I heard a sultry voice utter the magic words I was looking for. I creaked open the door and saw her, looking positively stunning. This dame was hot. I asked her what she wanted to see me for, to which she whispered something about important things. Before I knew it, we were in each other's naked caress. She continued to speak softly into my ears, but I didn't respond, I didn't listen. I was too occupied with what was going on in front of me that I paid whatever she had to say no heed. Animality, beastial desires had seized control of me, all I wanted to do was ravage her.

And then all I could feel was cold. Treacherous dame. I fell back onto the floor, saw her dialing into a phone and going into the bathroom. I smelled gunsmoke. Damn, I was a fool. Damn.

PS. Being completely devoid of ideas will usually result in me doing this. Writing nonsensical fiction, bad poetry, and other bullshit. I want to experiment, like a 14-year old closet homosexual. Speaking of which, tomorrow we return to our regularly scheduled programming. So stay tuned, cockmunchers.

Unleash the turgid ballard!

As I sit here consuming a veritable monstrosity of a burrito from Chipotle, most likely forged from the orgasm mines of Hephaestus himself, so large that God takes a breather in between bites, I am stricken by memories of douchebaggery concerning this type of cuisine, what could be called an amalgamation of Mexican and American fare. I've remembered when I sat there, devouring this edible jewel from heaven and having a cockhead walk up to me and say "Oh man, that's a Chipotle burrito, isn't it? Man, that ain't authentic Mexican!"

And suddenly the food I've been vigorously masticating ends up splattered all over the guy's face.

Does it really matter if something is "authentic" or not? Is it that big a deal that the Mexican food you're eating has to come from the sweat-lined palms of an immigrant who can barely say "Hello?" Does that somehow make it better? If I went down to Tijuana someday (don't know why I would, to be honest. If I wanted to get stabbed, I could just run down to Oakland and spew racist propoganda) and saw people making burritos, substituting their very excrement for the deliciously tangy Barbacoa from Chipotle, I'd take the "false" burrito every goddamn day of the week. That's certainly "authentic," but when I'm not about to consume feces in a soft, tortilla shell.

This pretentious cockery annoys me; pretension irks me in general. I shouldn't be talking, though, I suppose. I am guilty of using ten-dollar words when a five-dollar word suffices, but I rationalize it as being funny, as opposed to people telling you the food you're eating or the clothes you're wearing are inferior in some abstract regard.

Last couple of blog entries have been rather angry and depressed, huh? I should probably do something about that.

PS. The chances of me being upbeat in a blog are slim to none. You have a better chance of ejaculating Rockstar when you climax.

It's dark, and hell is cold.

If there's anything I'm proud of, it's my stalwart rationality. That and my sexy ass collection of shirts, but I digress. In this bizarre world, I'm not really seeing that in people. I warned you I might sound like a patronizing dickwhistle, but bear with me, I'm not trying to look down on anyone.

I can't understand why people cling to the divine, to supernatural explanations, and to convenient and comfortable platitudes when they're presented the clear truth. Why do we, as a collective species have an affinity for spiritual bullshit when cold, hard fact is right there in front of us, waiting to be comprehended? Is it rational to believe in assertions that have absolutely no grounding in the physical world? My rant, my musing, is going to focus on why I think people refuse to accept that which has already been established.

I can grasp the concept that people want to believe in certain things, but simply denying facts that have damn well near irrefutable evidence is just stupid. I've attempted to avoid religious shit, but at this point, if I were to pussyfoot around it, I'd seem like more of a twat. So I'm going to be blunt. I fucking hate Creationism, intelligent design, whatever you want to call it. Of course, my moniker for it is "Bullshit that the people swallow because it's easy to grasp and appeals to them on a personal level."

Why, oh why do people buy into Creationism? Is our hubris so great that it's not possible for us to believe that monkeys were our ancestors? Do we gain some sort of fucking title, some retarded sense of pride when we believe the almighty jizz of God was responsible for our being? I believe the wise Marcellus Wallace once said "Fuck pride. Pride only hurts. It never helps." But seriously, we have established, for a long time now, that evolution is fact. Darwin's observations in the Galapagos and most, if not all, subsequent studies have determined that evolution is a natural phenomenon, not unlike earthquakes or illegal immigrants. And yet, a good portion of Americans refuse to believe it. For shit's sake, some parents in Kansas held a rally to burn Pokemon paraphenalia because they thought it promoted evolution! Teachers are being fired when they teach evolution, as opposed to Creationism. People from Kansas who don't buy into that shit have probably already moved...

I wonder why we're denying it. Perhaps it's because people think we're better than monkeys, better than most species that populate the earth. I've heard some douchefaces go "Iunno bout choo, but I ain't never come from no monkey." The use of the triple negative is damning enough, but it's incredibly arrogant to think we're better than most species on this planet. Have you ever gone up against a grizzly bear? Those fuckers will rip you several new assholes, use your colon as a decorative banner for their hibernation cave, and then admire it's new hat, composed of several of your internal organs. Listen to me talk about arrogance, heh.

Is it possible that people don't want to comprehend the intricacies of natural selection? Is it that much easier to believe that God decided to masturbate one day and when he climaxed everything was created? Darwin's theory isn't that hard to digest, I'll give you an abridged version:



Heh, on a totally seriously note, all you need to know is that animals adapt to their environment over a period of time, based on selective pressures within that environment. Favorable traits best suited to the environment are passed on, while detrimental ones fade away. It's not that simple, but that's the gist of it. And makes a hell of a lot more sense than an omnipotent being accidentally forgetting to use Kleenex as he got off.

At this point, I sound like a religion-bashing cuntbucket, because that's what I am. I do indeed abhor religion, but that's a story for another time. I'm sure there are some reasonable arguments against evolution, but I honestly have never seen one. I would love to know what they could be. I leave you with a quote by Carl Sagan.

"Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence."

PS. Carl Sagan was a badass, but he wrote the book that eventually became the movie Contact, and that is just un-fucking-forgivable. He did smoke weed though, so he must be cool, or something.

First blog

Hello, all. Welcome to my very first blog. Tis a momentous occasion, to be sure. A person making a blog on the internet, communicating what are most likely very cliched ideas to a tiny crowd? Stop the presses and send Mr. Hearst a telegram.

Perhaps you're wondering why I decided to make a blog? In general, I'm not a big fan of social networking, let alone blogging. But I contemplated this for a while, wondering whether it would be worth it, weighing pros and cons, what have you. So I decided to go through with it. I figure that if I update it daily, my writing skills won't get rusty. I hold the opinion that there's nothing greater than words. Ideas couldn't be communicated, thoughts couldn't be articulated. It's absolutely critical to know how to not only write, but write well. In the end, this blog was created for the sole reason of letting me whet my skills to a razor edge, as well as letting the world know my opinions on various matters. Not that they care of course. Reading about opinions isn't always the most exciting thing, so I shall try my best to sprinkle my rants with colorful jokes, sarcasm, metaphors, and pretentious use of large words.

I may come off as a condescending asshole, but trust me, I'm fairly humble, I swear.

Bear with me though. I'm going to update this fucker everyday.

Seacrest out.

PS. Fuck Ryan Seacrest.