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 a redundant copy of this entry on my page. I finally came up with something brief and I posted it twice. Ooeh.

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I heard recently that former Illinoyse governor Rodney “The Goya” Blagojevich had been ordered to not appear on a game show, but I don’t think he saw the situation as being so strict. In fact, he may have misunderstood it entirely.
 

 

If you hurry, you can also catch him as Spock’s wacky college roommate in the new Star Trek film.
 

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.

Ah! Almost done, but not close enough.

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Contrary to what might seem to be the case I actually write more than ever, it’s just less focused and more tiring.

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I box in yellow gox box socks.

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I am aware that the lifting device depicted in the image I posted last week is closer to a nineteenth century railroad crane than whatever it should be, but the only non-clipart construction cranes I could find had lifting things coming from the back of the unit and that interfered with what little image balance I had achieved, I thought. Considering that I did it free and not for an actual construction related project, and also that obviously whatever company is doing this construction is run by really stupid animals it seems like it should be of minimal significance. And yet I mentioned it.

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It is a bit early for me to have one of these on this entry, don’t you think?

I wonder if I shall ever be nostalgic for the 1990s. I question if that’s possible. Any potentially nostalgia-inspiring thing I liked about it I quickly retreated back to when the subsequent decade disappointed me, and nothing that I hated or was indifferent toward ever went away; they just got bigger and more plentiful. Why is Survivor still on? How is that possible? How did it ever have the audacity to include “outwit” in its masthead? All it’s ever been about has been randomly not getting voted away. If everybody on the show slacked off and put no effort into anything somebody would still have to win. Tuh. Survivor.
And… Resident Evil is still getting sequels and ripoffs, Rage against the machine is still getting national air time, Windows is still the dominant computer operating system, Macos still thinks it’s better, I’m still afraid of telephones, “Steve-O” is apparently still famous, The Disney Channel is still watched by people who are allowed to leave their homes and influence others.

At most I could have nostalgia for ten years ago when I still had nostalgia. It seems like so long past that someone could type “Skeletor” or “Optimus Prime” and I’d laugh for twenty seconds. Now they’re all over the place. “Lion-o” should still be good for a little while.

Sometime midway through the most recent year I was in cars a lot again, and somehow we had jumped ahead ten years [from the unbearable 1980s session whose mentioning this was intended to follow] and I was hearing Black Hole Sun every friggin day, and which only made them more friggin. I never realized back in 1994 how long and horrible it was. There’s a solid two minutes of just some guy saying “WHOA-ON’T YOU guhhuhum…” He keeps acting like he’s building to a finish but then trailing off because he wants David Allan Grier to continue shouting the song’s title at him for some reason. Or maybe he thinks I rely too much on my dentures. Won’t you gum? I will not. Won’t you gum? My answer is unchanged!

Around the same times I heard “Red Red Wine” in a supermarket (the perfect place to hear it) and it got cut off half way through like it usually does, because eleven forbid we air a song with any sort of progression in it. More recently I heard red x2 wine in a diner, again, totally appropriate, and again aborted before the deep voice man starts talking about breaking lions and choking monkeys. Black Hole Sun always finishes, and it has no further wilderness survival secrets to reveal.
And yet this really should make little difference to me, because the next song certainly won’t be better.

I don’t ever WAW nuhfeeeeel… like I did that day I didn’t give a beet in a boot about how that guy remembered he used to feel back in the time when I ate pancakes with ketchup, and I still don’t when yet further removed from whatever the original unspecified date was, with the additional realization that I intensely dislike the song about the man remembering his old feelings. I don’t ever want to feel the way I did that day on which I heard this song, but somehow I seem to be doing that a lot. This guy wants me to take him to the place he loves, but he already said it’s the city he lives in. It shouldn’t be my problem that this potatobrain’s sole life aspiration is to go to where he already is, and that he hasn’t even gotten that one past the most rudimentary planning phase. Sometimes he just feels it’s a good idea, providing I do the work, and that I take him all the way to where he currently is and not dump him in a ditch at some point during the journey from here to here. He hasn’t even thought it through far enough to realize that it’s nothing because he’s too busy whimpering about his feelings. Ooh, sometimes I feel this way but I might feel differently later, and I don’t want to feel like I did earlier. What could be worse than feeling like one has no purpose, no reason to live? Not using one’s tendency to state this to deprive others of reasons to live? He doesn’t want to feel like he did back when he couldn’t pout at me through my magic sound box all the time.

Would it not be more courteous of me to simply request that the radio machine be off-turned than to say nothing and then at some later point deliberately trash the musical taste of the persons I was sharing the automobile with? Could I not more effectively state my discontent by stating it? Ideally, I keep it to myself and don’t ruin someone else’s enjoyment. Except I don’t think they really enjoy it, they just have a compulsive need to have words coming at them always, and sometimes this occurs to me and I accidentally voice a complaint and then I feel bad, even when the end result ends up being what I want, the immediate stoppage of the alien noiseflow.

This has not, after all, removed the song and others like it from the radio station, nor has it removed the radio station. The songs are still out there, and I’ll probably hear them again, either in another person’s vehicle or in this one again once my grievance has been adequately forgotten. These pieces of misery are following me around. Ignoring them won’t solve the problem. Being contrary on the internet to what I perceive as public consensus doesn’t solve it either, but it does temporarily alleviate the other problem that is my need to be contrary.

Uh oh, here comes another one
Jar-uh-mee BOH gehhh… naaaa-aaaaaa uh-dayyyy. When that first appeared I didn’t know what it was about until I saw it mentioned in Mad Magazine in an article about media violence or something. I didn’t understand how Jeremy speaking once and this guy telling me many, many more times than once was inherently violent or why this grown man was reporting to me about what happened “in class today,” like I’m his mother. At least tell me what he said, for pike’s peak. Paying more attention I hear something about “picking on the boy,” but I don’t WANT to pay attention because the song’s just boring like everything else and I want to have as little awareness of it as possible. Maybe Faye Dunaway is Wiccan, but if she was going to change me into a cricket for disrespecting the song this fact is mentioned in she would have done so a long time ago.

Don’t gall MEeeedutter I found out within this past year that one was similarly about violence, specifically a child getting beated for being deaf. Well great, that really enriches my day. I found that out when I read it on some web page that quoted the person who wrote the song as saying that. Because this “meaning” is only vaguely implied and not in the part that’s easiest to understand and repeated for two minutes after the actual expositional, brief, terse verses have ended. Even if you know exactly what the guy’s saying it’s impossible to figure out what he’s talking about. When did the words change from being narration to dialogue? How do I know who’s saying it? Why is it in broken, unusual english? The picture kept will remind me that not fit to. Why is the picture kept, why is it not the picture I keep, what is it a picture of, who, if not I, kept it where during what period, and how will it remind me that who is not fit to what? It’s just stupid and maddening. And when you take away the stupid and maddenness, there’s nothing behind them (except possibly a turducken).

Yewwww want an owl but you can’t have it
No! I already have more birds in my business than I can handle. And you needn’t be spiteful when denying me this thing I do not want. All I want is silence occasionally. Is that unreasonable? The thing I want relief from mocking me for that is most unkind and only drives me further away, and I’ve been in other people’s transportation units long enough. Why don’t you go pick up my friend under the bridge? He told me he needs a lift. This song, I thought me and my brother Cobol were the only people who liked it. Now, with 50% of its known fanbase reporting an aversion to it, I don’t see how its return is justified.

The song “come out and play,” while I thankfully still cannot discern most of its words, nor feel (much less desire to feel as I might on a day when I could discern them) compelled to facsimilize any in green text, has revealed to me a melody that is the same pitch most of the way through. That, I would not even play indoors!

All request weekend — may I request you stop? Oh, ho ho.

So I wondered: why, after so many years of Train and Smashmouth and Good Cherlertt did the early 90s songs I had safely associated with my few decent memories mysteriously re-emerge and show themselves for the rubbish I was not as a child equipped –standards would have kept me from enjoying Sonic the Hedgehog “3d” bonus stages, Chef Boyardee Dinosaurs and Goof Troop– to recognize them as? My guess is that dopey guitar game is at fault. People obeyed the command to buy every identical dot-field simulator and in the process were reminded that songs also existed in the previous decade. And then the usual calls from call-enthusiasts to radio stations to demand to hear the wretched things that they listen to all day anyway merely changed to reflect the game’s influence. Listeners were initially confused at the absence of loud plastic clicking on every note, but eventually convinced themselves these were unreleased demos, and people love unreleased demos, because who needs a finished product when you can have a scrappy mess of partial thoughts? And when that was done they requested the other singles by the same bands which were not in the games. Non-singles still did not count. I suspect a Kraft konspiracy.

But I have so much more to tell you!
 

*I* don't even want to read all this | How to lose a guy in (8) days | !

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.

Am I supposed to dig a hole?

I always wanted to make my own brackets. I am so ill of using the prefabricated brackets between the P and \. I want my brackets to say something about ME! And I let it now be known that the best candy is not any of these things, but BUCK CHOC.

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.

WAAAAGAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
 

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I should post something new on Sunday. Even if I don’t do that it won’t change that I should have.

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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.

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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.

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.

popular with the robots, the amazing human digestive system | How to lose a guy in (2) days | !

“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.

candy allsorts, popular with the robots, world's finest toilets | How to lose a guy in (6) days | !

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 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.

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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 like-minded enthusiasts who could do nothing but draw pictures of the thing and its putrid single strand of hair and unwashed feetsy pajamas and giant bacterious mouth breathing all over my gag reflex for no reason other than that it was new and on tv. It had “misadventures” in its title (and I shan’t type the rest). At least when the fan art cabal was ordered to draw “Chowder” a week or two prior it was safe for me to eat food half an hour before my daily mistakes (even if under no circumstances can I eat actual chowder). And thankfully, recently there was a curious jump in the amount of people I am immediately aware of and so it is harder to find a dominating theme among the unpleasant things their own awareness recipients have to like. I used to take issue with people who thoughtlessly aped what they regarded as “anime” style, but at least, when done properly, there were solid design concepts necessary to incorporate into that.

The picture I “wanted” showed just two of those heads between a pair of ‘P’s, but I figured it wasn’t worth aggressively hunting down.
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?

I need to take a nap.

‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”

The problem isn’t writing new things, it is amassing the courage to deal with what I’ve already written. Sometimes I wish I wrote less new things, quite honestly.

‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”‘”

You have nothing to blame but your own incompetence! You should not have tried to do that! Stop faulting society for your own failures! Do not pout at people more capable than you! They can not help your inadequacy! That one has its own problems anyhow. Observe:

See here, the large one thinks it is better than the small one, but they both have the same dumb smile. They also have similar ears, but that is, hopefully, beside the point. They are almost certainly like-minded fools. I do not like their foolish minds. It is not good when the only support I can get comes in the form of a badly drawn fish already being used for support.

This is quite stupid. But we knew that. Yet it helps to reaffirm our knowledge sometimes. Why can’t any of these characters be smart? Why do they all have to be stupid?

Negative! You are not what I wanted! You get less respect than beans. You get less respect than green apples in cartoons. You get less respect than the Anthony Michael Hall season of Saturday Night Live. You get less respect than Disney’s The Black Cauldron. You get less respect than video games without army guys or zombies in them. You get less respect than chickens. You get less respect than Awesome Possum and Socket combined, assuming that low levels of respect are recorded as negative values, thus meaning that to add them together results in a lesser total figure. You get less respect than a Personal WBS Home Page. Posing with a bow tie animal does not at all improve your chances.

 


NO! YOU DON’T GET TO DO THAT! There’s already a picture of you here! You are not making a shocking entrance! Ha, ha! Vindictive typed laughter! I have beaten you this time! Unless… no! That can’t be right. Something is wrong. You’re trying to distract me from…

BANDITS WEARING BOW TIES!!!

I seem to have erred.

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Somehow, saying “thank you” actually thanks a person. That has long mystified me. If you are as confused as I am by this and want to deprive the expression of any grattitude a thankee might potentially receive from it, you should consider, as I have done lately, prefixing “thank you” with “I.” So easily transformed is “I do so appreciate you enriching my life with your deeds!” into “our committee has decreed your action adequate to merit this brief personal notice” that it scarcely seems such a transformation is possible. And even though I included the word “appreciate” in the more effective hypothetical thank, I have discovered that actually saying “I appreciate” something is worse and less human than either thank form. “I appreciate it” always seems like it will be or should be followed with “but…” and a positivity negating agent. It is like hearing of a humorous situation and remarking “that’s funny.” You might as well not acknowledge it at all!

On a related note, when I hear of a humourous situation I generally do not acknowledge it at all. Even when I consider them to be that. I would feel incredibly foolish to suddenly resort to the petty vice of “lol” after eleven years of avoiding it, but I also can’t ever bring myself to type “ha ha ha ha” in anything but an ironic or vindictive sense. The same sense one speaks “ha ha ha ha” in.

Such as: Ha ha ha ha! “Daze” is a funny way of saying “days!” You are so perceptive! Such a clever play this is on the common, non-awkward phrase that everybody uses, “working days” (such as in the context “I do work on days that are my working days”). The very thought that people who do works are so drained of enthusiasm that they appear to be “dazed…” oh, I cannot handle it! How has nobody made this association before? The connection seems so obvious! And I see also that you have placed a familiar symbol in your header where the popular ‘O’ vowel would have gone… it appears to be a clock, which, ha ha! reminds us that we dislike our working “daze,” to the extent that the passage of time seems not to occur, and we do so anxiously look to our clocks for assurance that the passage of time indeed does occur!


Yo ho ho! You have analyzed and dismissed a comic strip! One would think there’d be countless blog entries, if not entire blogsites devoted entirely to this purpose, and yet! Yours is a wit unmatched! All creations of purported entertainment should be required by law (more like LAWL) to obtain your approval first!
One two, buckle me shoe (although I do not wear shoes and my shoe alternative employs no similar manual fastening device)! You have diverted attention from your unoriginality and general lack of merit by drawing additional attention to it, thereby subverting logic itself and proving yourself a true genius and a boon to the cool realm! Rampant mediocrity is totally splendiferoso if the person responsible for it is aware of it, rather than a sign of degeneration and reprehensibility in today’s society! Dude.

Fibonacci number! And now you have confounded the issue by introducing so many irrelevant elements that your initial lamoness is forgotten! It is for the likes of you that we risk our lives in high-tech cyber combat on a day by daily basis! Jolly gould shobe, by jobe! Now please, by all means, continue with the boring part you already wrote before you decided to fall back on your confoundment gag again after failing to make the boring part more interesting!

It just seems weird to represent actual laughter with. And the popular alternative “I had to laugh at this” comes through as insincere and excessively formal. I already laughed, if indeed I did. I probably stopped before I began wondering what to say. Even in actual mouth conversation I tend to suppress mirthful outbursts. How can I tell people I don’t hate them? People are less likely to notice you aren’t laughing if you follow up someone else’s funny thing with your own funny thing. And so my only available path of action is to attempt to top everyone else’s jokes, always, forever, which is a thing that is not actually possible. And if it was people would resent it. Fortunately, it is plenty resentable anyway. I ought to know: I have sent it many times.

Ehhh… not your best work!

how did this take hours to do? | How to lose a guy in (10) days | !

I hate [the commonly accepted American interpretation of] Thai food.

Well, I do!

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March 26: first power tools of the season. Ah yes, spring has truly springed.

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Aw beans! Page 28 of whatever this is. It does not really solve anything.

I link to my old pages too much.

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I remember, a year and pieces ago, I was trapped in a car for several hours going toward a sinister destination and the radio operator gave me a break from the same dumb cds I’d heard countless times recently and instead brought up a station comprised of songs I had heard countless times not recently. Or recently, but in the context of a “retro” or “throwback” media item not indicative of society’s tastes in general for anything other than retro throwbacks.

So, almost every 1980s song I heard in that car started with the exact same DIP DAH DIP DAH DIPN DOT drum introbe. There were a good (well, adequate) few years when I was convinced the 1980s music I used to like was of a nearly consistent higher quality than the modern rubbish constantly flinging itself at me. This was maybe 1998 – 2001ish. Now I realize it’s pretty much all simplistic repetive formulaic nonsense. Thank you, culture of regurgitation, for not permitting me to not be reminded always! And yet still I identified “Electric Avenue” in under two seconds, even though it’s doubtful I’d heard it more than three times prior to then. But then, most of these are the sort where when you’ve heard them once you’ve pretty much heard everything it can throw at you three times. They have minutes to fill. OUT! IN THE STREET! Also, Private Idaho, which only has two past exposures. While preferable to moment without an end!, some trashy ska song I heard one time –under unusual circumstance not involving a radio station or the particular set of tiresome CDs I’m used to being tired of– and probably never will again, whose obscurity likely means you will not hear it ever, and there’s no sense in complaining about it, or letting my complaints about detract from the more prevalent threat, I forgot how this sentence started.

[x4]! That’s not even a song, it’s an arena chant. What a bad bad band. DEET DEET DEET DEET DEET DEET great beat, guys. I hope you don’t get sued by birds. I’d love to hear it for five minutes and then another five minutes when the next track starts. Over that I’d like to hear a basic note sequence three times followed by a fourth that’s slightly different.

This is not good. I’m forming this sort of opinion on all possible things. My tastes are impossible to satisfy. It may be unreasonable of me to expect to be satisfied. Why, were I in the business of employing double-negatives for my business I might go so far as to suggest that I cain’t get no- ARRRRRRRGH I HATE THAT SONG TOO!

Somebody who I was aware of once linked those who were aware of him to an abysmal Naruto-branded vague contextless clipfest and I couldn’t concentrate on how abysmal it was because the music bothered me so much. It was a garbage techno remix of the first half of everyone’s favorite “scary” disgraced public domain orchestra piece that isn’t Ride of the Valkyries, In the Hall of the Mountain King, but artificially elongated by using extra repetitions which made it totally intolerable. People can’t comprehend music with more than a bit of variation in too short a period, and they’re too weak to write new music, so they dumb up old stuff to suit their needs. Yes, I know that. Overclocked Remix is almost ten years old, isn’t it? But this one baffled me… It’s not as if that particular Peer Gynty excerpt is an article of music that’s hard to make disgusting by pairing with unimaginative drivel.
12-21-2010: that video is no longer there and I have forgotten what it was! I was deliberately vague in describing it for better effect so now nobody can know!

A theatrick trailer for the 2009 feature film Bride Wars, oh right, nevermind that first of all is from Bride Wars, but also shows the scene where the brides have had enough bride trade sanctions and start fighting, physically. So we’ve already seen the one bride war, and we realize the plurality in the title is inaccurate, and the movie hasn’t come out yet. The war is over. Dragon was robot And it’s just dumb fickle text-messaging marriage-enthusiasts, more concerned with wearing just the right window curtains on just the right day in November with just the right irrelevant flowers and just the right conflict-seeking redneck cousins in attendance than the serious legal agreement they are entering into, and will inevitably suffer from entering it with fickle goals and expectations, and they have that music. You spend 30 million dollars on the awful thing and you can’t pay a person to write as many seconds of proper fight music.

Somebody should have told the director that.

I wish I could show you that this was also the talk show clip, but just that one scene, in its entirety, with that music, and then with the audience having to applaud afterward. The pinnacle of the film, that which the whole thing should be building up to, and it was still awful, and the publicity campaign (henceforth referred to as “you”) showed it for free, with the expectation that this would encourage me to run out drop dollars to see that movie whose lame apex you just showed lamely (“you” now reverts to its previous owner). It was one of the saddest things I’d ever seen. It was even sadder than going quite out of one’s way to create and arrange a comic strip to fit in a specific published book format and then putting it on a free, formless web page because it ended up only being kind of good. It was yet more sad than spending many hours of many days writing the sort of pointless thing whose climax might be a description of the climax of Bride Wars. I would avoid anybody who did both those things, though.

And now I am quite sad. I am sad that this sequence of thoughts is only about one third over. I was unprepared for realizing that I dislike the music I grew up with every bit as much as the music kids “today” are growing up with and that kids before me grew up with to bring so many of my other resentments together.

JUST ONE A THOSE DAYS!
 

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