I disapprove of image results for “culture vulture” when I specifically specify “vulture culture.” I am not interested in one vulture with artistic sensibilities and appreciation for a stereotyped and elitist definition of what culture is. I want to know about the whole communities of vultures, what they’re doing, how they think, regardless of whether the two words making up what this is called happen to rhyme. I speak of two entirely different concepts and think google should be ashamed that its software is so easily confused between such things.
Hope is coming. Not necessarily for me, not possibly not for them, but it is coming, and there is little we can do to change that.
If you’ve ever wondered how, specifically, I get away with being called “disabled,” rather than just being a socially inept, hard to please weirdo, one aspect of it relates to spending three hours making tiny, intricate changes and corrections at the 8-x pixel magnification level to cartoon fingers, wheelbarrows, big Ks and construction helmets which I will ultimately discard. That is why, despite years of unemployment and free housing accommodations I never turned out any screenplays or operas. And you’re welcome, by the way.
At this point the challenge is resisting the need to place yellow and grey stripes on the support platform or trying to make it resemble a steel beam. Neither of these are necessary or have been requested, yet it seems a waste not to.
My fingernails are so worn out from scraping cat food off things cat food needs to be scraped from that I have difficulty opening soda cans. This could be a good thing if it prevented me from opening soda cans entirely, but it is but an inconvenience, and thus only serves to annoy me before I get at the soda anyhow. Similar, surely, to how not having a twitterly page doesn’t stop me from sharing useless information of that nature. Fiddle-dee-doo, people from tv acting like poorly spelled nonsense with no context on the internet is something new. I used to get somebody’s twitter updates on my live-journal friend-like-imaginary-internet-acquaintance page maybe about two years ago and I never knew what they were about because they were always in response to someone else’s twitties, and when I did bother to look into the matters, they were themselves responding to other things I had not read. And these were, I ought to point out, the twit-spaces of non-decadent, relatively humble people I consider mentally competent. I am told these days that the official Twittist mascot is Ashton Kutcher, who I best know from ads for bad movies and probably bad products that assume he is a person I best know. I realize that’s a weak dismissal; I only came here to show that dumb picture up there. I quite assure you I have written and lost track of as much long winded kutcher-themed kommentary as any other topic I have some sort of problem with. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be. I already did.
I should post something new on Sunday. Even if I don’t do that it won’t change that I should have.
I imagine a game show titled “lowest bidder” in which only the player with the least amount of “dollars” at the end gets to keep them. I imagine this being horrible and painful to watch, yet incredibly popular.
I cough up a lot of mucus. I do not know why. I recently forced a particularly brutal cough and it was similar to the feeling one gets right after vomiting; a bit unpleasant yet incredibly relieving that the act is done. I have not vomited in years. I felt a brief bit of nostalgia. Something seems incredibly wrong with that.
Am I supposed to dig a hole?
Note to fans of non-conventional marketing: eating BUCK CHOC every day will not help you become a Latin Heart-Throb. You’re more likely to resemble the fat green anthropomorph’d M&M. Supposedly the name is actually “Two Buck Choc” and is a reference to something, but I never considered the “$2″ part of the title. I just thought it was a suggested retail price, always a touch of classiness to have irrevocably printed on the label. I didn’t even think it was a “real” brand, I thought it was just dollar store chocolate that walgreens brought in to fill space after it was determined “too” fancy to sell at the usual price but Christmas Tree Shop(s) wasn’t looking to expand into confectionery. And beside that, if read as it appears, the name is Two Dollar Buck Choc, which is about as eloquent as it is appetizing, dubious creepy model notwithstanding.
I am not of the opinion that we need kid friendly “cute” mucous characters. Although I don’t particularly find that one cute, and with such being the case I can not conceive of a reason for it to exist. It’s a dirty, ill-proportioned, unfashionable Shwreck McNugget, essentially. Unless you can guarantee me that actual shreks were slaughtered to produce such things I cannot endorse being friendly to them.
Now this creature, on the other hand and let me start again.
Now this creature, however… is just as bad. This is not an ideal mascot for teaching technique and coordination, as for to to hold any object would require pressing objects or its own “fingers” against its facial features, and that would just be uncomfortable, for both of us.
I consider that worse than the hamburger helper glove-shape-being because at no point when I saw it did I ever come up with a logical or hamburger-helping reason why it should be shaped like a glove. It just was, and was there. I never associated it with the act of grabbing, with being used as protection for an actual hand. It doesn’t have enough fingers, for one thing (that one thing being the estranged finger). The Arby’s oven mitt is similarly a matter of minimal concern because everybody hated it. My hate is fueled by love.
Maybe if you’d shut your mouth once in a while less people would try to fight you and then you wouldn’t be tired, dumb turtle.
If you would like to “register” at this site for the purpose of posting comments and potential other yet highly unlikely features in the future, you may do so at this link.
Non-registered persons may still post as freely as before. I forgot to mention that. The only benefit to going through with such a hassle seems to be the ability to post images in comments. I think. That still might not work.
You may “log out” and try to forget it ever happened at this one.
I have not tested this much (I didn’t even change the default messages) and for all I know you may end up with the power to delete the whole site, so you can’t claim it’s not worth a try. Why not log back in?
Howdy II: The Demon Darkness
I just realized I placed the text “THE ADVENTURES OF BAYOU DIZZY!” in the opening to the last comment I wrote. It was, in actuality, a separate note to myself observing the similarities between two different NES game’s unnecessary game start voice samples. A note which I happened to accidentally copy along with the intended, unrelated comment text simply because I had typed them consecutively and the proper comment had a lot of line skips in it already and I was weak from rereading it / not being able to fix it.
As most of my notes, excepting those I show to others, amount to nothing and are quickly forgotten about, often not being read over but once before I add new notes above them in my note file, I didn’t notice that bayou dizzy had gone missing. How I additionally did not notice the curiosity hovering near the top of my web-site in all capital letters, for two days, it no doubt in search of the attention my notes are so often deprived, is rather typical of the sort of thing that goes on around here.
Although I am now fully capable of correcting the error in the comment, it seems needless to do so at this point, and doubtlessly I will be astounded anew by it at some point in the future when I come across it again in search of something else that I failed to keep track of the position of.
I felt suddenly inspired to resume my old experiments with rising from graves but when I could not locate the mixes I had made with the America Online voice I was quickly demotivated. That may be for the best. Similarly on the eluse are the English accented samples that came with the AOL 2.5 “international (yet still America) edition” software that was inexplicably included with one of my previous computers.
Evidently I have [got] post.
You can go now.
People are fatter than ever, people have less money than recent evers. The solution?
Enormous, ten dollar bags of Reese Peanut Butter cups. (The Connecticut sales tax rate is six per-cent, which you’ll know adds another 59 cents to the 9.78 blurrily seen here if you’re better at maths than I am). Enhancing them in this way might be our only hope of stopping Terminator peanut butter cups from the future.
A counterpart quantity container for M&Ms, in addition to the old sizes still available. Because it was decided too much shelf space was going to competing brands at this Wal Mart.
Ooah. I have never seen an mnm bag that big before. That is atrocious. The only thing I like about this set up is that it makes the awful, awful M&M “characters” appear to be in jail.
Unfortunately, their relations with teeth, hair, occasional lips and mustaches are yet believed to be at large. That is assuming “large” is still adequate for their consumptive requirements.
I felt dirty when I bought a “medium” bag back in December. But 42 ounces, that’s like eating a cat. A cat made of chocolate. True enough, after seeing this I proceeded to procure and purchase a 24-count box of Coky Cola cans, which it is not at this time my intention to share, but I don’t expect to drink them all before August. Somebody somewhere buys 42 oz of m&ms and eats 42 oz of m&ms in the same day (perhaps in Oz), and was getting worn out opening three or two bags.
Truly, ’tis a great time to be alive.
“Zak Efron… is he one of the Jonas Brothers?” – an actual thought I had. Is my senility escalating or is that merely a logical conclusion?
I realize this page update is late, but I had to go to church.
“Church” being the name of my new fancy toilet. Excuse me, did you really think I was done posting pictures taken inside restrooms? This is a task that is bigger than any of us. If we really want to make progress, we should all be doing it. But I’m not about to start making decrees. I never fancied myself a leader.
Now there’s a the work of an authoritative figure. But I think you might be missing some key consonants up there. Possibly punctuation, as well. And how about a “please?” If you please. I’m sure somebody somewhere would be willing to trade you an S for one of your surplus Ls.
Is this necessary? I suggest to you that it is not. That’s right, you read it on bimshwel first: sometimes internet advertising is less than tasteful. I’m sure this has been an eye-opening revelation for you. Also less than tasteful: barf.
If it’s “updating their myspace pages” then I think I can pass. If they were actually my friends and actually wanted me to know something, they would tell me and I would not have to visit my space at all. I realize this material is weak, I have to unload the rest of the myspace stuff now so I don’t fall further behind in hoarding twitter jokes.
I’ve come far enough to know that even if a nonsentient domain hyphen title wanted to be my friend, if it was that one it would be time for me to give up life. But sometimes myspace people change their names for the purpose of some joke and I am well accustomed to not getting other people’s subtle jokes on the internet, so I retained a scant amount of optimism, a full year after every person I’ve ever met switched to Face Book to do the exact same non-things, except they couldn’t embed java applets, fifty youtube videos and translucent animated gif butterflies, which was fine with me.
What kind of a friends invite others to watch cnn over the internet? Meaningless, in-name-only facebook friends. Friends with as much weight behind them as that utterly unnecessary RSVP in there. Why can’t we get a new word for that, or merely spell it “ahresveepy?” That’s all people think of it as. Or we could write out “confirm your attendance,” what we actually mean, what is much more clear than empty, precocious misused abbreviated French. There is no sensible reason to prolong a tradition like this. I won’t even accept that on an invitation to a birth-day party (yes, I got one once). It’s outright offensive regarding some mopey facebook non-party non-gathering to do some thing that I could do just as easily by connecting to any station on my television system without stating my intention to do so. Get out from my business s’il vous plait (and even if vous don’t).
It is one thing to be vulgar, and it is one more thing to take Thumbelina’s name in vain, but my e-mail robots sure are getting abusive. It was nothing less than cruel to exploit my well known interest in arranging a Chernobyl summer getaway to get me to read the message. And then it dared reference 83, the suspected year of the Battle of Mons Graupius, in which 10000 of my irregular Caledonian forebears were slaughtered by more disciplined Roman forces despite greatly outnumbering them. Yeah, it’s still too soon, Lagory Corter! Why can’t you be more like my best buddy ol’ pal Ruby? (I call him Ruby instead of Rubert now because we are chums)
Evidently Chef Boiardi’s head was placed on a label at that position so that poltergeist gauntlets could force it to play a flute much too large for it in an advertisement for the Great American Can Sale at the store “Big Y.” Note that even though the store is called Big Y we don’t actually know. Much less the details regarding the flute debacle. It was a disgrace ones who could help tended not to notice, alas, what with that heathen can of Folger’s Crystals hoisting that flag whose name it has so disparaged, whose traditional moral values it has worked so tirelessly to twist and corrupt:
There’s a reason Folger doesn’t appear on his own cans! The scamp! Don’t you know there are kids who watch that stuff! Do you know what happens when kids drink coffee? They look precocious, that’s what! The best part of waking up is not 5 year olds who can memorize stuff in my cup!
Anyway, back to church. Tonight is the Saint Nunzio and Blessed Associates annual gold chain awareness Ziti Dinner.
Note to event planning committee staff member persons: toilets do not make good dinner tables.
Less than one complete day has finished itself since the initial exhibition of my previous new internet object. I did not like that being at the top of my page. I am not sure I particularly desire this audacious foolishness there, either, but at least it is finished with faster. I don’t have much to say about it. I am too appalled.
It is estimated that The Government spends two trillion greemish meepmarks (to put that in perspective, it is approximately 320 billion krippendorfian megapesos) annually on sophisticated aircraft like these and we simply cannot afford to assign them such incompetent pilots. Do disregard the rumors that the firm Pineco was unjustly granted a no-bid contract to manufacture the planes and has used substandard building materials to cut its own costs.
Also, the new These Green Eyes album Relapse to Recovery is still for sale. It is not on sale, and ordinarily I would advocate waiting until a thing was, because everything will be eventually, but sometimes pumpkins.
I am told that the new These Green Eyes album Relapse to Recovery is now for sale at places where things get sold not necessarily in Connecticut. Remember: I’m not shamelessly, flagrantly betraying what I pass off as integrity to deliver a blatantly commercial message: I’m just related to somebody in the band.
I used to love the 1980s. Now all I think of are awful songs, the same death-dealing fast food as now but with trans-fat and styrofoam, omegadouches on Vh1 channel plus Ads who think they’re better than the 80s (but are worse!), and bad intentionally plotless cartoons that have been referenced to death beyond death by onlinedom’s least adventurous jokesters.
Works whose sole redeeming quality is that they have better concept art than more recent referenceable reprehensibanality. A few months back, before my 2:am Thundarr the Barbarian (essentially, non-retarded He Man) rerun came on I accidentally saw an advertisement for a new cartoon about a kid with one tooth whose mouth was always open and somehow at the internet the next day I was less than one degree removed from a gang of
And this, my old nemesis. I have many old nemeses. I have many new nemeses. I don’t have room for them all. Somebody has to go, and this one happens to stir up within me particularly boring, non-eloquent complaints. Like so:
I am beyond the point where I hate South Park because of teen-smoker beer pong afficionados that occasionally got arrested who happened to swap meaningless character impressions in between filling me in on just how gay I was and [different] lousy radio stations [than I mentioned last time] playing brief, scratchy voiced dramas from it out of context. Somehow the musical maestrosity that earned Kyle’s Mom’s a Big Fat Bitch in D Minor spot #1 in the nightly top arbitrarily-determined quantity countdown for a solid week was lost on me. I did not understand at the time that merely by being less than two minutes long it was surely preferable to whatever the other candidates were. That was over ten years ago, before I knew this thing was a tv show that would have looked better on radio, and that I hated radio.
Now, I don’t need to resent unfortunate behavior it inspired in others. I can merely hate it because every audiovisual aspect of it is repugnant. It is a disgrace to two of my primary senses and reminds me of disgraces to the others. I can’t get close enough to it to be concerned with how funny or clever it is or was. I’m just tired of it. I want it to go away. It will not. Maybe once it does I’ll look up some transcripts –it seems inconceivable that there aren’t people who make it their personal business to type out every single syllable ever spoken on that program– but as long as those awful sights are fresh in my memory I daren’t try. I remember once I was at Tommy K’s Video and South Park was being shown on the monitor despite south park content on rentable media not yet existing, and a bunch of bobbly south park people tried to stop an erupting volcano by forming a human chain around it and then the bright red lava poured over them and then all these freakish bright white skeletons could immediately be seen floating around in it and it made me sad even though it was supposed to be funny. I remember that.
I hate those round characters with their flibbity mouths. They’re too gross and they do too many gross things to be cute, and the only things grosser than gross things are “cute” gross things. The South Parxists are not as ugly and their mouths are not as flibbity as those of the Family Guys, but I don’t watch anything on FOX* channel so I don’t see nearly as many ads for that, and when I do they tend to be partitioned to include various ugly fat man wearing white t-shirt fox cartoons so there’s less time to focus on one specific unpleasantry.
*although if they keep this up…
Somehow I only realized this year how bad the southern park’s theme song is. There’s an interesting spasm of banjo noise at the start to trick you into thinking, “oh, what’s that?” and then awful voices saying stuff attack. I could tolerate the Simpsons music if I didn’t mentally associate it with Simpsons, but Suppark’s would be irredeemable in any situation.
I remember for a while it was totally gnarlburger for people to create “south park version”s of themselves, and I hated it. First, it’s ugly. Second, it’s obviously so easy that nobody could possibly be impressed who was worth impressing. And third, do you really want to go to the south park? Every person or sentient object there is horrible and they die all the time.
And you might say to me “hey mildred, all your characters look and act the same, too.” Right. And nobody gives a steaming rolodex about my characters! It’s really easy to not ever see junk that I made. It’s even easier to not ever see non-junk that I made. I wish people would stop looking at my junk.
Eh I think I’m done for now.
This goes on, unfortunately. I realized I hated “rock” music over time but didn’t pay attention to how many unrelated paragraphs I had accumulated saying this in different ways, and that somehow this was inseparably mingled with my hatings of the last two decades. It’s really not fair that there’s never been a month of my life during which I didn’t hear any Errorsmith songs or just something about Aerosmith in general. Is it any surprise I’m a failure? How can I succeed in a world where that is how success is defined?