Maybe I can compile a bunch of these silly notes and call that an update. No, I CAN, but I wonder if I WILL. I haven’t decided if this one counts yet, either.
I just went outside for ten minutes or so for the purpose of looking at the moon. That probably means I’m crazy. However, it might be the good crazy. Either way it probably also means that I am boring.
Last year I whined, inadvertently, on my birth-day. This year I pledge not to do that. If you don’t know when it is or had forgotten, that is fine and possibly preferable.
Yes, it’s true! I broke my own website!
While trying to block another abusive IP address with a file called “.htaccess,” I inadvertently destroyed everything. I thought the webhost people had removed the old one, but evidently it had only been set to be invisible somehow. Since I could not find the old one to work from, I couldn’t add the old data nor keep its syntax, the syntax being the disastrous element. Eight hours later, I noticed. All I could do was swap the bad htaccess for a blank one, because I appear to never have bothered to save an online copy of the most recent functioning non-blank version. And so now not only is the new comment robot not blocked, the OLD ones are UNBLOCKED. Whoopth.
WHILE the site was broken, a message instructed anyone, possibly no one, to send email to “email@example.com.” I don’t know whose address that is, but it certainly isn’t mine! I am but a webpeasant. I did sometime ago make this thing forward any email addressed to bimshwel to me, but I doubt it knows how to do that when it’s broken. Also, I haven’t been writing a page update since the last one.
page 7 of that
At last, I have uploaded three comic pages in one month! However, I did not get much else done and now expect to revert to my standard .9 or less.
I reversed the creature positions from the old ones so they would match the previous page. However, the words fit better the old way. Whoopth. Someday I’ll figure it out. Maybe that should be the title. No, I like the current one better.
I did not hate the “I had my house built BACKWARDS” line, despite its apparent untruth conflicting with the odd, unfunny compulsion I make the speaker have later; I’m sure something about the house is backwards that kumquat kould klaim makes the statement true, but this alternate version occurred to me and I didn’t want it to go to waste.
In addition to the color, I like to think I’m using this as an opportunity to correct the errors of a poorly/not at all thought out thing but that I like the eventual result of and so dare not scrap entirely. So why am I still using the same fonts I picked out on a whim almost nine years ago? I don’t adhere to them as strictly as I did when I first started hand-writing them rather than type-setting them, but you can still discern that they’re based on fonts.
You do not own me! I do not answer to you! Stop trying to take my rights awayyyyyyyyyyyyyy!
February 23: first loud, distracting power tools of the season! There’s still snow on the ground and I can’t walk outside without my coat, but if the calendar says spring it’s time to start making shrill noises that have no end.
Well, now you know why I’ve been so slow to update this site.
Also, I acknowledge in advance that a lot of this is generalizations and assumptions. The fact that I’m writing at length about frozen pizzas should tell you that I am a less than cultured individual.
What we have here is a deceased German medical doctor trying to sell an Italian product to Americans. It would be like if Yakov Smirnov started selling Yorkshire pudding to Indonesians. And you can say “uh actually Yakov Smirnov is still alive.” First of all, watch the attitude. Second, truly?
Then why, recently, on the television program 30 Rock[efeller Center], a show fond of pointless, improbable cameos, when it came time to cast in a brief role a bearded Europy-looking guy named Yakov with a funny accent who appeared to be in his 50s, did they choose… someone else? I checked his name in the credits but neglected to make a note of who it was. Whoopth. I am a student of counterfeit Yakovs, but hardly an authority. I wish my name was Yakov.
So many decisions to make! Incidootily, I used to eat Red Baron pizzas, specifically the “deep dish” variety, all the times, until my mother stopped buying them because they cost the same as bigger frozen pizzas. When I finally had one again, I didn’t like it because I reminded me of the “pizzas” sold at the Saint Vincent de Paul school cafeteria I had eaten within a few times. The same size, the same weird cheese that will come off in one piece if you bite it the wrong way, the same bright red weird sauce, and most importantly, the same weird crust that when you bite into it appears to be comprised not of a crispy mass of expanded dough, but several flimsy white layers of a thing I cannot describe. I had somehow developed a revulsion to the sight of those layers and had difficulty finishing. Only my trusty red pepperoni cubes, the one aspect the school version lacked, kept me going. I would eat those, but not actual pepperoni disc slices. It has today been revealed to me by the internet that the Red Baron pizza brand indeed got its start as a school supplier, and only became called that when somehow the things were popular enough to justify supermarket expansion, at which point, compared to “Schwan’s School Cafeteria Pizza-like-object,” calling it Red Baron made an adequate quantity of sense. Kids will eat ANYTHING if you say it’s pizza, though. I thought I was more mature and wiser, but I wasn’t, because I then reverted to my interim Jeno’s brand pizzas, which had the exact same cheese, tomato sauce and cubes. The only difference in the actual product was the absence of the creepy layer-things. The bread-product itself wasn’t of any higher quality, it was just narrower, so that I couldn’t see how it was constructed. So easily I was taken in once more! I tell you, these things’ll be the death of myself.
I’ll show them: I’ll have my body cremated. My initial plan was to have my body fed to dogs, but after a lifetime of eating frozen pizzas, particularly one ended by that, I don’t think I’ll be very nutritious.
Back to my first non-point, the problem is that “Italy” is a stereotype. The populace at large assumes –or is assumed by advertisers to assume– that Italy is still lost in the 17th century renaissance and all food is prepared for days at a time by old ladies mixing tomatoes and garlic and that green stuff in pots and such while children chase chickens through the streets which no cars drive over constantly. In fact, Italy today is fundamentally indistinguishable from any other post-industrial nation. There are paved roads, security cameras, giant buildings and McDonalds’. The number one frozen pizza title means as much there as it does here, where I am told the leader, by a huge margin is DiGiorno, despite depicting its customers as naive oafs who can’t tell the taste of a frozen pizza from a real pizza.
The sort of person lazy and devolved enough to buy a pizza from a specially programmed remote control button, with devolved taste-buds to match. The Pillsbury people claim Totino* pizzas and not DiGiorno are the highest selling, so clearly this is a thing that anybody can claim. However, Totino’s, despite having the power to taste like both a cheeseburger and a taco, never claims to taste like a pizza and in any event does not have special deals with the satellite company, so I will not be buying their product.
As to what’s being ORDERED here, obviously you’re not ordering the pizza to be delivered to you off of the television. “It’s not delivery,” after all, and if it was you could do much better. No, you merely press select to ORDER your WOMAN to bring you your FROZEN PIZZA on a FROZEN PIZZA-SIZED WOODEN PLATTER, because YOU like PIZZA and BURGERS. You know, MAN FOOD. The signal goes through the tv to your lady’s punishment helmet, administering shocks until she gets up and does her domestic duty.
WLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH! Eat that pizza! Eat it! Eat it while I scream at you from your home torture chamber! Sure, don’t even look! You didn’t have the torture chamber built right next to your kitchen with a convenient view window because you wanted to make eye contact with your victims, did you? You are the master of all: your television, your domestic propertner, your hostages. If you eat lousy pizza, it is because you CHOOSE to.
No doubt there are classical cities in Italy that have managed to retain or restore their old timey touristy appeal but… just imagine if everybody there imagined us Americonians all lived in Colonial Williamsburg and ate beans and grits every day. That’s what it would be like. And then we walk 2000 miles to Texas and hang around in saloons comparing mustaches.
Why would this fictional, frozen in time, Brigadoon-esque Italy give any dignity to the idea of frozen in grime pizza at all, much less rank them? Do we even have any idea what is considered good pizza in Italy? Do they ever EAT pizza in Italy? Does it bear any resemblance to the sort of pizza we eat here? Specifically, the sort we eat but that isn’t pictured in this site entry?
What is the quintessential “American” food? A hamburger? The number one selling hamburger almost certainly comes from a major chain, and even people who eat them will often gripe about the quality. According to a vague memory of mine I cannot substantiate the validity of, 7-11 sells more hot dogs than anywhere else. I’ve never even been IN a 7-11, much less associated the thought of the place with my occasional hunger for weird sausage with weird bread.
Hey, you, idiot off to the right: stop lifting that one slice out of the pizza before we take the picture! I don’t give a
pucky o’hare if somebody already cut around that one slice but not the rest of the pizza. Leave it alone!
But yes, Dr. Oetker pizza seen alongside another thing that should not exist: Mystic Pizza, precooked, frozen and mass produced.
Really? I think rather the movie made the pizza famous. Nobody would care, otherwise. This is not outstanding pizza. It just happened to come from a joint in a town that somebody thought would make a good setting for a forgettable romantic comedy. It could also be that I go into these places looking for my deluded idea of an Italian pizza when the people specialize in the Greek style. What they should say is “warning! we do not make Italian pizzas well!” but they don’t and present all the standard tomater sars/mozzarillo cheese options, knowing full well they cannot be trusted.
I’d like to go to Italy and eat some pasta, because I don’t like the store bought product so much, unless it has meatballs with it. Real Chinese food, however, does not need to come into my life.
As you may have figured, I will not, at this time, be ordering a Dr. Oetker pizza, Italy’s number one frozen pizza. Who eats frozen pizza while in Italy? The immigrants, evidently. And I would be if I went there, but I haven’t gone yet!
Oetker. With a name like that he should be selling snake oil or fighting Spiderm-An. True enough, more than a few supposedly competing American frozen pizzas are actually produced by the SCHWAN food company, including the famous baron (as well as Tony, who I am afraid searching for media relevant to will prolong this entry beyond a reasonable length), so perhaps I should praise the doctor for his honesty. But I won’t, because he says “ristorante” when babelfish assures me he means “Gaststätte” and an actual German speaker who left a comment on this entry tells me he just means plain old “restaurant.” Additionally, I recently started buying pizzas by Palermo, who assure me they aren’t owned by any of those other crumbumpanies. They make pizza and nothing else.
*Totino’s and Jeno’s are both Pilsbury brands that produce nearly identical products but go to different stores, a fairly common occurrence. However, they are both purported to be named after actual people, so it seems reasonable to assume one resented the other.
Oops, now I have to go to a weird place. I assume I will return eventually.
I always liked Montgomery Python, despite the internet’s efforts, but I still don’t think Eric Idle is that great a composer.
I am feeling a little better, sanity wise, for the moment. However, I now have a headache.
Saturday: I just accidentally drank some water less than half an hour after using mouthwash. I will probably be dead within the hour, but I want to let you know before I go that yes, I use mouthwash.
Friday: Being a psychopath is no fun when you’re too sensible to act on any of your constant deranged impulses.
There’s something incredibly wrong if the most intellectually stimulating thing I do all day is recreate the first few notes of the Faxanadu town music by scrolling through menus with my telephone.
Also, just that stupid little thought there is evidently 57 units too long to be permissible by twitter. I hate you, twitter. You discriminate against people who associate with sentences. That fits, but I won’t bother.
Thursday: It may shock you to know that I am capable of having personal issues that prevent me from doing things that I normally do, such as talking at length about nothing in text boxes on the internet. Still, you have my assurance that they are entirely selfish and introverted reasons.
Which means I’m not in any great trouble and I am open to being resented further.
page 37, of this. I reckon those backgrounds are subject to change. Oh, and I’ve finally decided on a title. It’s called “weird looking people falling down for no reason.”
What’s wrong with me? I think my favorite part of this sometimes is tracing over the letters in ink, which I think you’ll agree is not my strength.
I know I had a “rule” for biv v zuh at one point, but I forgot how it went.
I am trying to see if I can discreetly insert some of my old pictures into the bimshwellian national archive using the automated thing rather than a single html page that is annoying to update. In theory, this way will be easier at some point. If this somehow appears on the main page I will be most disappointed and it will be punished.
It seems to be a picture for TITASH. It is based on a true story, in the aspect that it is true I made this. It looks nice if you zoom out and squint.
I like the rock. I’m not sure it’s big enough, though.
I am trying to write the next thing, but it is very boring. So watch out.
Even Wikipedia does not know why Craig Slist wants me to support Wikipedia.
All it knows is that Jaffa Cakes are very controversial.
I think it has something to do with cakes being considered “food” and biscuits being considered snacks. If they have chocolate on them. Because that’s just the way the English do things. You couldn’t very well have your afternoon tea without cake, could you? Why it’s the most important meal of the day old boy. As it is also the only one without bacon in it, a suitable substitute is required. Next they’ll be wanting to tax our chip butties and our monocles, what?
The issue on that page is whether or no it’s relevant that Jaffa was in Palestine at the time when Jaffa cakes were invented, even though it isn’t, since these things are Jaffa-y in name only, but I suppose it doesn’t hurt to be aware. Here, though, it is only brought up to be a source of contention, because a surprisingly large amount of people have been killed over what a very small geographical region is called and this makes everything right. Jaffa has also been a part of the Byzantine and Ottoman empires, just not at the time when a silly sugary object was created elsewhere by people oblivious to the conflict.
I have eaten some. They are rather a bit like hostess cupcakes… and those are neither cookie nor cake. I’m not sure what they are. Not “natural,” certainly. They’re whatever pop tarts are. Some weird manufactured things that are too soft to be cookies, but too industrial to be cakes.
The picture on the box is, not surprisingly, enlarged to seem larger. I neglected to take a picture of this box to prove that to you, but I’ve requested that you believe stranger things than that which is printed there. “The squidgy orange bit,” as the package so regrettably refers to the squidgy orange bit as, is never centered and always has a clear seam around it which makes it look simultaneously smaller and uninvited. Yet the box claims both the biscuit itself and the orange part are considerably larger than they were at some unspecified previous point in time, a thought which upsets me. These things are schmofully inadequate as they are.
As to where I acquired Jaffa cakes, myself being a resident of some united states, I went to Big Y, the WORLD CLASS MARKET. It is a classy market of the world. It brings me classy goods from all over the world. Small, local, struggling brands from far off places often find their ways into the big y’s famous shelves.
Ahoy there, rabies! I done found the carbonated treasure yup.
Whaaaaa? Can I do nothing to change your mind? It would be a dark fact indeed if you left. The morning just doesn’t grow the same without you! You simply must stay!
Please do not be angry, Adol! That is not what I wanted at ol!
Alas, what a tragic existence! I can already feel my life pulsing toward ruin. I hate to spend valestine castle’s day alone!
Wait, come back! I have good news!
That’s the spirit. Though I think you’re supposed to drink the stuff rather than dump it and sail over it.
My vision is fine, but my eyes hurt a lot.
My mother seemed excited to have tentatively “won” $200 by betting money on a super bowl calendar, but I wonder how much money she has paid in total to rent those squares in previous years. Probably not more than $20 a year, and I don’t think she has done this more than five times, which would mean a one-hundred dollar profit. Even so, I don’t think I would watch a four hour advertisement with occasional football breaks just because you MIGHT give me $100. I want a guarantee and a contract. I reckon clicking on one of those “congratulations, you’ve won a free i-phone*” internet ads is a more solid deal.
I did not say that to my mother.
I was recently complimented on the quality of my recent entries in comparison to some other ones I did, I guess. This is something I will not stand for.
Searching my note file for “Ringo,” I find this:
I never knew John Lennon (though I apparently just missed him at a few These Green Eyes shows), but I appreciated that I didn’t hear much about George Harrison when Paul and Ringo were out doing embarrassing things. Ringo’s new song is the music equivalent of Down East magazine. What’s he know about writing songs, anyhow? I realize he’s had forty years to figure it out but… I don’t think he has. I remember he had another album some years ago and the song was something like “All you’ve got to say is la dee da, la dee da,” and it was kind of stupid, and not even in a “to do it, to do it, to do it, to do it right” kind of way. Either way our vocabulary suffers so we may as well enjoy it.
Don’t bother. We’ll find you.
Ringo seen here with backup Ringo. He needs the other Ringo to be near the front when he tends to a drum emergency because beatnik Triple-H was attacked from behind with a steel stool (I swear that makes sense).
Searching my hard drive for “ringo” turned up the pertinent accompaniment, “ringo and backup ringo.jpg,” dated January of 2008, which the calendars tell me was two years ago and not of pertinence to the ad for his more recent schtick I started this with. I have no recollection of what the song being performed here actually sounds like, which is just swell with me.
Speaking of people that aren’t Ringo, I read that Paul McCartney got dead in the 1960s, and rather than tell people, three Beatles and a guy who looked and sounded exactly like Paul that I guess they just knew and got along with as well but that nobody else knew about, somehow, recorded an album with really idiotic, tenuous clues about Paul being dead. It’s too hard to call the police and release a statement. Let’s just spend a couple months making thirty songs alongside a clone that we raised in seclusion for just this purpose.
When I heard Beetuls fans were mad (angry) about a new advertisement, I assumed it was the one in which Paul McCartney hops through a cartoon avenue playing a banjo. Now that I have thought of this issue a year or two or three later I have forgotten which ad people were actually mad at, but I still remember the banjo hop.
Hopping in general is a bad sign.
Though I assume for Mr. McCartney it was also a dollar sign.
As for why I passed my opportunity to talk pre-emptive trash about A Downeast Smile-In, I was distracted by
1800s Oval-Frame Portrait: The Movie
More old beat-notes:
Guitar Hero 5! “9.5 out of 10 [success points]. This is the Guitar Hero to own,” says some source I didn’t bother wasting brain space with learning the identity of or the reasons why i should not trust its opinion on anything. Less than three weeks ago (three months ago) I was getting the same business about “Beatles Rock Band.” That’s the sort of statement that only starts getting lobbed around when the series is so over-saturated with redundant, indistinguishable entries in so short a period of time that no sane person could afford to own them all. I remember when Nintendo Power Magazine, the Fox News of my day, said something similar about Super Street Fighter 2, and then, it couldn’t have been more than a year later, the Power was running an article about Street Fighter Alpha, featuring all the same characters and all the same moves plus a few new ones. The goals and [lack of] story progression are exactly the same. Beat X number of guys one at a time in absurd yet predictable two dimensional combat. Nintendo Power didn’t MAKE the street fighting happen, but it also didn’t take the opportunity to say “don’t you see? Buying this only encourages them.” It’s disgusting and it never ends. It still hasn’t. Dumb twits will buy slight improvements for the price of a new product for eternity
and then post whiny journals about how they’re out of money and I should pay them to draw for me, like they’re doing me a favor because they’re maniacal, decadent scoundrels. Even in a recession this is apparently the situation. True enough, Electronic Arts, who should have gone out of business back when they released Rolo to the Rescue, has sold approximately 1,037 times as many Sims 2 add-ons, but I don’t have tv ads, dorks on the internet and otherwise non-video game playing adults trying to seem hippy by gorking all up in my longitude every single fudgey time one of these gets made (these are the same adults who wouldn’t shut up about Avatar last month). There was even a Sims 3 produced and sold without me finding out. That is how it should be. I’d rather not be aware and I’m busy, besides. I only got around to finishing Star Tropics a week ago.
I shouldn’t have rushed! Yeah, ha ha, you guys. I remembered what the number on the letter was for nearly twenty years, too! All for you!
Like I could hide this in my pocket and walk out with it…?
I remember, growing around, how much my father liked them Beatles, and how I would always think “gosh I wish somebody would invent a way for me to pretend to sing and play along with these guys, preferably in the form of big cumbersome expensive pieces of plastic. I will not acknowledge that this group ever existed until that happens.”
As always, the ongoing popularity of the dot-field simulator is a mystery to me (as I like it best. I don’t have time to like it!). It’s like those awful old laserdisc games like Mad Dog McCree and Cliff Hanger that only require you to press a button at some point and the entire outcome depends on that, except instead of at some point getting to see the entire movie about guys with guns hiding behind stuff standing up and falling back behind stuff, you’re just rewarded with more dots, and not even the dippin’ kind. Or maybe it’s more like Legend of Dragoon, the depressing Final Fantasy ripoff whose sole gimmick was that your attacks wouldn’t work properly and you’d always lose unless you pressed an action key at certain intervals as your gang attacked foes. Toward the end your attacks would have up to eight steps in them, and I got pretty good at it, but I still remember the game as dull and mopey and without a whole lot to do beyond pressing a button while my guys were fighting. Making me tap along to the game’s mopey music rather than what was actually happening would not have made me like either any better. I’d sooner tap out to the challenge.
See, I’m so weak that I’m reusing old pictures of scoundrels whom I despise. Let that be a lesson to you!