I wish I could say that when I’m too busy to post something for a few days, rather than just slacking off, that it is a good thing, but it never is.

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I forgot I could do this, too.

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Apparently sensing both my lack of direction in the world and my lack of wistful longing for the past, The Church of Latter Datter Jesus now brings me the nostalgia bible. Yes, it’s true!The Bible is coming out of the Jesus vault! All it’s missing is a doctored down grey bible to pose this one next to on a split-screen.

I remember that everything about my Cathorific religious instruction, supposedly derived from The Bible and the various sectual exceptions and alterations made over the centuries, made me feel scared. I never felt loved by Jesus so much as threatened by eternal suffering if I complained about the giant creepy statue of his hanging dead body stuck to the wall. Or merely did not memorize some weird poem or sit and stand in a weird room for an hour every weekend. And this was before I was aware of the parts about Angry God destroying people before they otherwise would have died (and then suffered) just because he felt like it. The modern, commercial approach to spreadin’ the word that the late saints take seems opposed to just about everything left that might be labeled as “pure” about western religion. Sure, I think it’s all silly made up stuff (I must be the first person on the internet who does!), but I don’t understand how anyone else could not start to think that when they see paid ads for it on television or above their email. This summer: Caffeine is The Devil. Media.fastclick.net is a-o-k, however.

I would like to make an attempt at reading a bible at some point, but not because people I don’t know, oblivious to how crazy they come across told me to.

Truth restored! Digitally re-lorded! We took out some of the lies that may or may not have been a fundamental basis of our faith!

“Oh, but that’s just the Mormons. We don’t like the Mormons. They paid the marriage company in California to ban gays and they don’t drink coffee.” Yet were they to collectively decide “okay, God changed His mind. Gays can play too,” would there be any sensible reason to just accept that from them? Saying that what they’ve been doing since whenever hasn’t actually been the path to salvation until right just now? I hate the way faith-folk resist change, but their ability to disregard change entirely when it happened before they were brought in is ever impressive. But really this isn’t about religion or Mormon religions and I just hate stupid ads.

Stupid ads, I said. This is a horrible ad. It’s an empty trashy garbage homage to other trashy homages to some scene in some movie that most of its product’s target demographic has never seen and only knows at all from rubbish reverent near-religious homages to just that specific scene. That movie was called Risky Business and it came out in 1983, the same year I came out, of a womb. You might as well make an ad that references my umbilical cord. They can say “oh it’s parody” but if they do I’ll know they’re lying because nobody who needs to explicitly label their work as parody has done it properly. And who’s that guy in the front? Does he really expect me to believe he wears such big underpants? No, he just thinks if he doesn’t have the upper halves of his legs totally covered on tv he’ll magically turn gay which is a fate worse than this, apparently. He’s seen enough Snickers ads in the same timeslot to know that. You don’t get to be the best selling chocolate bar of all the times by letting customers turn gay, after all¹.

I remember there were something near eighty ads exactly like this last year, suddenly, for no reason, all ostensibly for that guitar game (even though I assumed most of them were the exact same ad, and so why have bothered with so many?). I can confirm this because some wikipediphile has listed all of them on the page for Risky Business as if they were isolated occurrences or particularly relevant to the film. Of note (whaddaya mean? If it wasn’t notable it couldn’t be in there, right?) are that it mentions the cartoon Doug (Aka My Name is Earl the animated series²) and the film Mrs. Doubtfire, two things of which I came to not be fond through direct experience without even knowing they had done Risky Business ripoffs. I could block those bits with my mind and still have enough ennui-disgust smores left over to do the deed.

And then midway through itself page section mentions an ad with Metallica that I saw but doubted in which instead of doing the thing they kidnap other people who looked like they were going to do it, because that foyer film set is a theme park attraction or something, and then Metallica Guy says, in the ad, that they won’t do the ad and then the house explodes, just on it’s own, I guess, as the Metallicites walk away from it. Oh, go die, Metallica. You were still in the ad and accepted Activision’s dirty money. You’re just about as bad-ass as those letters kids used to send to EGM magazine with Sonic the Hedgehog beating up Mario drawn on the envelope. You’re so pouty, you wouldn’t let your songs be in the game unless you got a special version with no one else’s songs in it sold at the price of a new game. But Aerosmith, the world’s third worst old band after KC and the Sunshine That and Kiss outpouted you and did it first. That is the interpretation this presentation has led me to and I feel you are not owed a thorough investigation, even though this vague disclaimer seems to indicate that I gave you one anyway.

I can appreciate how Metallica, among other overstated modern bands that just come at me constantly, used its fame to demand that it be allowed to make really long songs, not adhering to arbitrary standards regarding length and repetition. Yes. Maybe. But I still don’t want to listen to them for hours, continuously, much less while holding a toy guitar and staring at rainbow dots. I would have those dots coming at me in my sleep if I did that, which would interfere with my normal schedule of dreaming about people not liking stuff I said on the internet.

¹ I realize that makes no sense but I laughed when I typed it so it stays.
² That makes perfect sense.

I just realized I had an earlier draft of the text of the entry following this one typed into this entry for a whole day. Now the whole world* knows I had thought of “chubby uncle” before “wacky college roommate,” before I realized the guy wasn’t very chubby and didn’t look all that much older than the young Spock. Think of all the ad revenue I lost!

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Apparently Reese’s peanut butter candy bar is made with Reese’s peanut butter. You don’t want to know what the chocolate is made with. Because you don’t care.
I once attended a school in which Reese’s peanut butter cups were a common trinket of value used to motivate students, so to prepare them for the cigarette barter systems common at many of their potential future places of residence, and a single unit was always referred to as “a ree-seez.” That made me mad. Now that reese does indeed produce a product with no name, it still makes me mad because those crum bums were saying his name wrong. It is Reese, not Reesy! They also pronounced scythe as “skeeth.”

The question is: Am I worthy? This slogan was no accident; it’s printed on the unnecessary plastic bag the bucket had been placed within, also. Now, then, while I certainly would not eat something which had been declared unfit to occupy a bucket, I likewise am not filled with anticipation at the idea of food designated as just right for a bucket, a hop, skip and a gump away from food unfit to fill anything else.

Jack Links: the only raw chicken that’s convenience store room temperature plastic bag-worthy. When did this stuff get to Connecticut? I know in The South people are more in touch with their meat. They are open to the idea that these are parts from dead animals that are only dead because people killed them to eat them. That’s part of the fun for them. In the north-east, though, it’s all about deluding one’s self. Some people have convinced themselves that lobsters don’t feel pain (that is a seven page pdf article. Just so you know). They have convinced themselves, in fact, that fish isn’t meat at all. But there’s no denying what’s in this bag is a cause of suffering. Why not have it be yours? As to whether it’s actual “meat,” if it isn’t, that’s only a result of legal shenanigans, something like “oh, this contains greater than 30% beak and feather per gram, so THEREFORE…”. If you were to attempt to pass off something with no animal flesh in it as meat, if you were in the business of deception, wouldn’t you try harder than this to make it look palatable? This is an honest product. I think the point of taking a picture of the back of this, rather than the front, which bears merely a marketing approved photograph of what this stuff is supposed to look like, only at the rear do you get a hint of its true nature. This may also be the case if you have already eaten it. However, this picture didn’t come out particularly well so you can’t see the indistinct dark brown/black bits which float about unrestrained and affix themselves to the edges of the container. So thank me. A responsible web-log-keeper would have purchased the item, consumed it and documented the experience for the sake of journalism. However, I’m no journalist and I reserve the right to delude myself that this is something other than what is popularly, unfortunately, regarded as a “blog.” I’m not going to spend my own money on something weird just because

Oh dear. I’m almost out of toilet paper.

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.

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I don’t know how to make transparent pngs. Baw.

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.

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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.

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.

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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.
Howdy.

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.
Anti-howdy.

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

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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.
Huh?
Hwah?
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.

ARRRRRRRGH TEETH

I despise the teeth on computer-made people. In actual cartoon drawing sometimes it serves an expression better for no teeth to be visible but shrek and all the fish and amazin’ adventurin’ celebrity-voiced zoo crews always have full sets of evenly sized and spaced grey teeth. It is even worse, the more stylized they are. We get these enormous, barely detailed heads with little mouths full of tiny perfect teeth. Uggggghhhhh somehow the natural distance fading and blending doesn’t happen with teeth. No matter how far away they are you still see every tooth. That isn’t necessarily the case right just now but fortunately it’s creepy enough just that there are teeth and that I see them.

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.

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“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?

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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).

I’m glad Rubert pointed out that the instructions were for sexually. I’m so sick of uninvited, unprovoked notices in my email ezone trying to tell me how to be kind and thought-provoking. You really had me worried for a bit during that dramatic pause! I am similarly sick of e-mail that starts off with “ladies -” or otherwise suggests the possibility of a non-male recipient. Everybody knows only men use the internet, and these are all men in want… naw, in need of anonymous fornicatory counseling from the illiterate. Those noble, nobul illiterate. I want to send them money. Not even in exchange for any goods or services, just to show my support for their cause. Which works out, because as I understand it that is their preferred outcome.



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.

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Howdy.

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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 EAT BEETS

(disclaimer: I do not eat beets)

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I thought it would be funny if I acted crazy and posted a psychotic rambling thing of obsessive details. I forget that this often comes across as legitimate crazy.

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Latest development: automated birth-day greetings from message forums I haven’t used in months that I’m not particularly active with when I do use them still aren’t cutting it. Robots, alas, still haven’t learned to love. Do they think I don’t know what they say about me when I’m not around? Do they think I don’t know who’s always trying to undermine my sanity by filling up my error box with broken links I fixed years ago?

If I said such a thing I’d only appear in silhouette, too. Years ago I wrote something to the effect that I did not understand why people abbreviated “Patrick” regarding this particular occasion. The full truth of the matter is that I hate it a lot. I hate the sound, I hate the look, I hate the needless informality that serves no purpose other than to be more hatable. I additionally hate all beef patties, I hate rice paddies, I hate Patti Mayonnaise, I hate pat-a-cake, I hate patios, and I only just kind of like Pad Thai. Patamon gets a special pass because it claims to be a “mokvwap,” which apparently I discovered (or at least invented the word for) without realizing.

Although This one is pushing my limit. And now that I think of it, I discovered dopes, too, and things only got worse after that.

That one at the top– who put it there? It clearly did not climb up there because it seems unaware that it is there. It also seems unaware that it is wearing a scarf. Why would it wear that? If it was capable of sensing cold there are other things it could wear before a ridiculous scarf became necessary. And the one in the middle — it thinks it’s so introspective, with its fingers all clasped up. It thinks it is smarter than other dopes! Guess what, dope: you’re still a dope! You’re just as dumb! You actually seem dumber because of your shallow attempt to appear smart. Who put a cape on it? Who created a dope-sized cape?! And why? Is this a means to distinguish it from the scarf dope? What would be the point? They’re both dopes. And the third one, it can’t read! Obviously! There is an arrow pointing this out, and were the dope not oblivious to all and also was able to read, it would know this. It has no comprehension of anything it sees. Yet it smiles. Why does it try to fool us? If you took the book from it, the thing would continue smiling. Who gave it the book? Was this just a bad book, or is there a person who truly has so little appreciation for literature as to render a work unfit for further distribution by letting a dope near it? Why have these specific, unusual fashion accessories also been targeted? What sinister, conniving, cowardly, unscrupulous fascist could possibly

 

Please don’t come over here.

On a final note, I have just the strength remaining before passing out from side effects of my Futile Rage Syndrome medication to observe that the bow tie creature’s once small and unintimidating ears have somehow expanded (though it still has no nose) to become the size dopes’ ears used to be , that position vacated as said dopes’ ears themselves inexplicably grew in size. I suppose it’s not worth asking whose fault that is. Not without arranging to have myself temporarily locked in a room lacking sharp edges first.

Revenge.

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Beets.

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Why is it such a big deal that Jay Leno is talking/has talked with The President this evening? Can’t Mr. Obama come on television anytime he wants and say anything he wants anyway he wants? It’s not Deal or no Deal, after all. That is both a unique privilege and responsibility.

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The first four pages (akadaka: the first “six” pages’ frames arranged into the actual number of pieces of paper they would fill in the unlikely as ever event I printed them out) of Aw Beans presents Energy Zone starring Nemitz who has Not Yet Appeared and Doesn’t do Much When it Shows Up reconfigured to be, it was my initial intention, less unsightly.
The writing isn’t any better, and it’s possibly worse in a couple places. Otherwise it just seems worse because it’s easier to accept that sort of thing when the pictures match. Also, as might be expected, I spent a month doing what a normal person would get done in a week, so I think I should do another page of the “real” story before returning to this.

Excuses below, comprised of the raving psychotic nuttiness I wish I was capable of actually working into a story. Aw naw!

Progress was fast enough at first that I thought it prudent to post a notice of my intent, on the side of the page there, a thing I would not normally do. I hate when people hype junk in advance. I, however, wasn’t hyping so much as trying to buy myself imaginary time from my imaginary need to provide regular page updates, and merely stating a willingness to do something does not, for me, constitute an “update,” even though by dictionary definition it does. And now, the boring part.

However, very soon afterward I ran into difficulties, one of which being my inability to stop myself from exerting effort for very long, and the other being a baffling momentary rise in demand for dopey pictures made by me unrelated to this. So much of what I do exists for no reason that when somebody specifically requests something, especially with dollars, any amount, I cannot ignore it.
Unfortunately, as a result of some pseudo-artistic “phase” (evidently I’m so cynical I can’t even use my own language without irony) I am going through, many of the images resemble opening cutscenes from gameboy advance games.
I have no idea what’s going on in the “are you keilphix kumquat?” frame. I wanted it to be interesting or odd but then realized the first interior picture should not be too odd, and everything is a mess. All I was sure of was that I did not want chess pieces in it. I meant to just make some quick temporary solution that i wouldn’t be annoyed to have wasted time on once I thought of something better.

One of the shamefully major obstacles, the reason i put the project out of my mind for two years was that the very first page included a chess board, with tiny little pieces drawn on it, in half the frames. So then I needed to trace that board, trace all the little pieces, figure out which pieces they are, and think of what they should be changed to since… even if this was about normal dopey american earth people I wouldn’t want them to be playing chess because I think chess is boring, but certainly it’s hard to have even the minimal “otherworldlyness” I am capable of if the fools play chess and on the very first page. alas. Adding a new first page before it only slightly reduces the trouble total.

And then on the third or fourth page, with the exchange between pog and the dopey lizard, I didn’t like that all. Both characters exhibited attitudes entirely inconsistent with what I have them doing later. My effort to soften that only further convoluted things.

If you have a ridiculous neck that makes you look dumb, there’s nothing smart about a big collar that’s just as ridiculous. If anything, you look twice as dumb. The best thing about this creature is that two people can strangle it at once.

Look at that idiot! It’s almost smiling even though I have challenged it with threats and insults.
G’dahh! I’ll punch it off the screen. Hold on to your paper, for bandage purposes. You’ll look like a mummy when I’m finished. Since mummies are also not allowed, you will be ordered off the premises. I think it is actually rather benevolent of me to use that on you right off the roll.

Don’t you point that at me! What is that thing FOR? I’ll yank it off! You don’t deserve it! I will strangle you again with it, fool. I will cut it off and put it in a box and you can come get it when I’ve forgiven you. You have FAILED as a monster. You aren’t scary and you can’t win fights. Punishment. Those brown pointy things are probably pieces of plastic you stuck to your head because you’re conceited and pathetic. And yet I suffer to think of how stupid you’d look without them.

Oh? OH? You’re fortunate I choose to address you at all! Beast. You should know that you have no right to stand up for your rights. Oh, and by the way that green frame doesn’t match this background at all. I don’t think it would match any background. It’s far too bright. That was your worst idea. Why do you even think you deserve a frame? You’re not special! Nobody would hang you on their wall in anything but the most literal medieval sense!

Is there a frame there? No frame! And you have no proof that is my wall. I may be borrowing it.

Thur
Is that what it has gotten to? Meat loaf dreams? Meat loaf dreams that transition into Wolfenstein dreams? How dull have I become?

Wednes
Argued with the cat. Was disgusted by its attitude.

Tuesday
I spent some time in an abandoned garage. I found the darkness welcoming, as well as the absence of Gameshow Network/Stupid Model Show Channel voices murmuring incoherently from below. I would have stayed longer but I had neglected to bring an object to assist in disposing of my nasal fluid residue, and was not yet open to the idea of using my clothing for wetness absorption. That I would have to be coerced into minutes later.

I tried lying down in the grass. I had already slipped and fallen while trying to throw a brick at a vacant resident’s pretentious yard pine tree and decided I should at least take advantage of my new position. It was not good. The grass is sharp because people cut it all the time with [inexcusably loud] machines. They only stop and leave when the grass gives up and stops growing in late November. So demoralized is the grass that it does not regain the confidence to grow again until Spring, but by then property owners have returned to cut it some more. I don’t like dirt anyway. Still, the experience was bearable enough that it may be worth trying near a place more visible to non-“association” citizens. Most people will ignore or not even see a body, but eventually someone will investigate and discover it is not dead. I will be interested to see how somebody reacts to this sort of thing. I’m guessing it will be with disappointment, both at the lameness of the prank and the lack of revelation of hidden tv cameras. No no, I just did it because my life is otherwise meaningless, yet I remain too sensible to expose my immediate acquaintances to the repercussions of violent crimes. My fear will be the last thing to go. Try again next week.

Monday, the nine:
I was outside my home, in the rain, trying to burn off some of my shame. I must have been particularly invested in the idea because as I reached the end of the road (it is a long road) I had to stop and lean against a sign and wait for my respiratory guild to reach an interim agreement. Usually I can merely slow down or stop. Unfortunately, this was not a stop sign, so I looked out of place. A car which had recently passed me stopped in the near distance and eventually hooked around and came toward me again. The driver asked if I was all right. I responded that I was a bit depressed, but this was only audible as an indistinct mumbling. I don’t think I’ve been all right in my entire life. Has anyone? A better query would have been if I was right enough for the immediate situation and I was. The violent coughing up of phlegm is actually a standard part of this routine. The next question, “do you want me to call somebody?” I responded to more voluminously, saying not to do so. Was I sure? I was. If there was anyone nearby worth talking to I would have stayed inside and done that. We parted with “you look like you’re going to pass out” and “it would be for the best,” once again not terribly audibly. It was the closest I had come to having a conversation in days. I wish I was capable of doing something so hard that I lost consciousness. It’s much better for getting attention and closer to some sort of productivity than a grief nap. I would just lie down in the road but that would be dishonest, and uncomfortable, besides.
Still, all in all the experience was a magnificent improvement over the last time I travelled in day-light and was seen, when I spoke instead to a duo of police officers who had been called forth with reports of “someone walking around in a daze.” I was not aware prior to then that it was a crime to find the clouds and scraggly tree branches more interesting than asphalt. Ehhh, I can not fault the mystery coward(s) for not recognizing me; they only live here for four months of the year.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Cliff edges continue to be sources of great danger.

I thought we were inducting a new presidente today. Why is this bloody high school graduation on every channel? How could anybody be excited to be there?

The actual inauguration bit ended before 1 pm, many channels continued with “coverage” until 3 pm, some 4pm, often with subsequent hours-long blocks of alternate coverage following, with more blocks beyond those. And today the coverage continues. You all know this Obama fellow is going to be president for a couple of years, right? It wasn’t like the debates where the day’s event, in theory, affected something, and you needed to talk about one before another one up and happened and made your stacks of speculations as irrelevant as they were wrong.

Isn’t the whole point of Ad-Aware to protect one’s self from ads? Or are huge multinational corporations heroic and exempt?

I don’t need the full version anyhow since adaware never finds anything worse than the occasional benign tracking cookie from some site I don’t remember visiting in a browser I don’t remember using, and those don’t matter anyway because they’re mostly for “collecting information” that can only be vague and misread with which to target at me more ads I won’t be looking at, and most certainly will not be clicking on if one manages to penetrate my orbs of vision. And yet I always want Adaw to find something, because I probably would not have run the program if there wasn’t a current trend in the system’s behavior that I found to be of a particularly unsatisfactory nature.

How could it get better? The old, free one is already doing absolutely nothing about as well as I can imagine such a no-thing be done. Sure, it’s a monster resource hog just because I made the mistake of “upgrading” to the 2008 edition. 2008 editions of any free program, tending to have mastered all the useful functions they were ever going to by then, set to improve instead their game of RAM-Hungry Hungry Hippos. Putting a download-size program in a big cardboard box covered with plastic filled with plastic insulation plus paper instruction sheets, feedback cards and more astounding offers isn’t going to solve my imaginary computer problems, and it certainly isn’t going to solve my overabundance of plastic and paper rubbish problems. Ehhh, if they could get me big orange bean furniture for my futuristic house boat, we might be making progress.

In November I went to the The National Big Apple Comic Convention meeting. I have since forgotten why. The only souvenir I have not in promotion for the event itself is

,
because I thought the guy who made them was giving one to me for free but then I asked anyway what it cost and he wanted five dollars for it and I would have felt bad if I didn’t buy it. I will have to show you what is inside some time.

I don’t like talking to people and leaving. It feels rude (not that posting the product of somebody’s independent labor and going “ha ha that! moving on” isn’t, but in this situation I have paid for the privilege). But staying can also seem rude. It may even be the case that if I stay it will be double, because I hate that song.

I just don’t like that whole museum that watches back setup. I’d rather be on the other side of the relationship. Then the awkwardness is someone else’s problem. Also, from a fixed position there is no pressure to keep moving. The only pressure is to move merchandise. And if there is one thing I excell at above others, it’s drawing attention to trivial things I have made and demanding money dollars and getting that.

You can’t see other displays, if you are one, but I’m probably not interested in most anyway. And if I was I wouldn’t want to spend my money so it may be better that I do not know. One time, I wanted Oreos. But also, to save money, I instead purchased Walmart brand Oreo imitations*. That proves I’m serious. It’s certainly not fun to eat these.

*I know Hydrox were invented first but I’m pretty sure Wal Mart is after Oreo customers, who are simple enough to catch but difficult to transport back to camp.

I see now among my clutter this object that I gained in Boston, advertising a “New England Fan Experience.” That’s the problem. I’m not a “fan.” George Takei’s voice is fun to imitate but I’m not in awe of his life, no.

A fan, I’ve never identified myself as one and I don’t feel like one. The conventional meetups were designed for FANS to meet their false idols and deliver praise, and buy stuff because they want it, not because they fear to upset the people who went to the trouble of making or collecting it and renting space. If all they can make me feel is pity, why didn’t I stay home and just sponsor some of those starving African children all the camera crews are so busy not feeding? And if I start actually thinking about that I’ll feel worse because I probably won’t do it.

And I wonder if anyone really considers itself a “fan” of this guy. Unless he invents pasta sauces in his spare time I’m skeptical his name and potentially imaginary profession bring much enthusiasm to the masses. If he’s anything like this Prego I’m sure his is at least an entertaining presence.

I saw Mark Evanier (he did some stuff, I hear) twice. Once upstairs near the armory (dueling apparently still a fairly common practice among the comic book club) and the second time, in the hotel lobby, where I briefly stared at him awkwardly, from a distance, wondering if I should say something (I did not). At that immediate moment it sounded like he was telling someone else about how a person had said something to him about his website, and I decided it would be peculiar if I did the same. I did think that he might be interested to know that due to my relative inexperience with the forces behind American comics he was the only name-tagged person in attendance that I knew by sight and why.

In my mind Mr. Evanier still owes me for encouraging more courageous readers to bask in the oddity of Skidoo, the not so wacky but rather boring and annoyingly improbable Skidoo, and he surely knows it, otherwise he would not have recently expressed an intention to attend less conventions outside the vicinity of N. America’s west coast this year. The strange thing is that he lives in Stockholm.

Yes, everybody in the whole prison ate the same meal at the same time and got quigley for hours because it was laced with paper laced with a thimbleful of LSD and nobody realized they were eating paper. I just thought you should know. A plausible setup would have replaced the lsd with msg, but even for a prison that would be irresponsibly draconian.

Are blind taste tests telling me I should close my eyes all day just to buy different brands of the same food? It doesn’t seem like much of a trade off. But I would have to do that, because I am already biased, and I would know what I was buying. Just for the taste tests, might I suggest disposing of your empty cans rather than placing them beside the bowls? It’s bad housekeeping first, and having the evidence gone might also help you cut back on your blind-fold budget.
Ehhh, soup is hard enough to eat drink have when I can see it, with noodles and nondescript green vegetabloids flopping all over the place. Why torture this poor sightless souper further?

This is from a recent advertisement for the Campbell soup company, which has decided to make its marketing strategy accusing its biggest competitor, Progresso, of infusing its product with Alpha-Bits. When our blind broth biter slops the Campbelled soup she claims to taste chicken meat and nondescript green vegetabloids, and when her mouth molests Progressoup, she only tastes preservatives and MSG. Quite an astounding thing to be able to do, and I think with such keen senses this person may have a bright* future as a drug sniffing dog, but what is MSG? Another ad makes it more clear…

*or dark, if she insists on keeping her eyes covered

Typical half-literate consumer in need of guidance who speaks on our behalf, reading label:
Mano…soddium glutamit? Gosh, readin’s s’hard!

Confident right woman:
UH THAT’S MSG!

Oh no! The most fearsome consonants in the land! I still don’t know what MSG is despite your helpful clarification rendering it with less information than I had before, but utterly unverified folk-nonwisdom-hearsay has let me know it is bad in some way!

That’s right! Some hypochondriac doctor went to a Chinese restaurant 40 years ago and wrote a letter to a medical journal and that proved MSG caused the holocaust, nine-eleven and Delgo!

The famous Robert Ho Man Kwok? As far as I can tell he never followed up on or was in any way pressed to prove his claim.

Because MSG killed him! And PROGRESSO is putting it in SOUP! And so are we I mean Campbell’s but not this particular variety they are advertising at the moment.

Is there anyone who can save us?

BRAAAND POWER! The world’s most trusted name in ads disguised as consumer advocacy reports that inexplicably only air during advertising blocks and are the same every time!

Hooray for brands and their power!

Oh, lombard street! This year I resolved to always wait until arbitrary declarations of number-change to attempt to stop my bad habits, so I guess I’ll have to keep requesting infirmity until 2010.

Here’s a hint to tell you a company hack might be behind something: if each and every trademark is acknowledged every single time. Is this the brand power website or the back of a box of Froot Loops?

Phrases like “sponsored by [the company whose junk we’re pushing]” are also generally worth looking into. Adding some vaguely named company ending in “group” or solutions” is merely zesty monosodium glutamate flavoring in the mix to guarantee its irresistability.

Though experts consistently agree I am no commercial artist, I am yet fascinated by the incredibly efficient buchanan group logo. That being a bee (B) with a head which is a G, the G’s open space also functioning as pleasant highlight with a normal background and a violent hemorrhage in the actual very red ad.

Notice how the woman at the front page morphs mightily depending on what place your cursor fondles the flag of. Make sure you choose the one you most closely resemble. If you are a man, why don’t you go out and split logs or something. Don’t you know shopping is woman’s work? If you want, punish yours for using the internet unsupervised.
This is not simply showing you regional spoke-people, your agent under cover, behind enemy lines, under siege, a time to kill; none have names attached, they are just hobos pulled out of boxes, well explaining their passion for the first bowl of soup they get. If they were in any way identified you might be able to look them up and find out what they were actually qualified for. Also, as far as I can tell, in the actual ad clips they’re all lost on the same supermarket set.

I do like the Philipine woman, for having something of a look of disgust in her avatar and also for evidently being the same person as the one on the package of the product she sells.

Although she’s not really selling anything, I suppose, since you practically get it for free.
It is further worth observing that the artist in residence didn’t finish whiting out the boxes of Tide in the background. Hey, it’s a rigorous job.

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Google, that’s just rude.

I have lost my concept of weird.
I’ve just had a look for the first time in about a year and it turns out that writing two full pages about the marsupwhatever video game is something I should be incredibly ashamed by. Also that every thing I’ve written since that has had a link to it at the right. That is no good. That is not right. My feet stick out of bed all night. And when I pull them in — oh dear! My head sticks out of bed up here. Some of it is funny, thankfully, but not nearly as much as I thought, and it’s mostly the image “title” comments, which most people never see.
So how has it happened that the page I put before you today lacks those comments entirely* but is an improvement content-wise, and deals with pastel colored equidae yet is less embarrassing? The answer may shock you. And so I shall not tell.

*that was yesterday. The one I put before you today is fully equipped.