A few days shy of one month ago, I had planned on documenting a fascinating article concerning the future of cybernetic implants and my goals of creating a extra-human species to transcend the commoners that take up what many would call "Meatspace." Unfortunately, a vile creature of horrible repute took siege and held fort upon my desk and prevented me from committing to my plans.
I hate spiders. Some people may fear snakes, and others fear public restrooms, and an even greater number of people fear quirky, comedic musicians. Almost not unlike Chuck Norris, I have but one fear. I will gladly tackle chain-saw wielding clowns with blood-stained hockey masks, disembodied alien-zombies that are also on fire, and even soccer-mom-esque female presidential candidates who lie and low blow. These things are weak, petty examples of the Universe's true evil; the arachnid.
I understand that not all arachnids are spiders, but as far as the topic is concerned, and to allow for much easier identifying in a crisis, anything with eight fucking legs is considered a terrorist and will need to be escorted off my plane. Ever since spring has granted us warmer weather, these malevolent scourge-crawlers unearthed themselves once again from their dank, peccant dwellings. They take refuge upon my otherwise laboratory-style ceilings awaiting a small creature, such as a squirrel or an elk, to pass by so that they may feed. It is quite difficult to free an elk from the clutches of a spider with the help of only a Swiffer mop. You may derive from this imagery that my habitat has a slight infestation, but I promise you that is far from the truth. I've developed a weapon against them. While it's effectiveness is only temporary, it is also quick. Tilex Mold and Mildew is essentially a complete system of solutions for dealing with both shower scum and spiders, and leaves a fresh lime scent.
One may wonder what makes spiders the Universal symbol for evil. I suggest that they were the foul creatures that caused the previous Universe to end, and that has yet to satisfy their thirst for destruction. This is merely speculation; another theory, known as Charlotte's Theory, suggest that spiders are trying to manipulate farm animals to hunt down humans and extract their bodily fluids. A side note of this theory also explains that spiders can reproduce hundreds of thousands of offspring without mating. How can a tiny creature produce yards upon yards of a nearly indestructible material, and why does it choose to weave it into satanical patterns? Obviously it is every spider's goal to summon firey demons from the black nether to rip the very fabric of space out from under us. Or they just really like the taste of elk meat.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Rainbow Connection
My non-professional job experiences aren't just limited to discount grocery. For a short time of my life, I took up the most exotic, chic title known to mankind. That's right, I was a door to door salesman.
Your mom or grandmother (depending on the reader's demographic) may have heard of the contraption I was employed to distribute. Let us hop into the Way Back machine, and bask in the events that lead up to this adventure.
The job market is a lot like a dismemberment competition. The more you prepare for it, the less chance you'll have of success. Using this analogy, college is much like lopping your head off. I had struggled for nearly a year searching for a local job that wasn't in the dog food industry. I received a BA in Fine Art, specifically, computer art, and tried to roll with it. Unfortunately, nobody wanted to hire someone with a background that consisted of education. During many interviews, I was told I was overqualified, and rejected. Now one might think that a Bachelor's degree isn't that big of a deal, but in my backwater hometown, it's a sure sign of witchcraft.
At last I found a listing for an undisclosed job offering a highly disclosed amount of money per week. I jumped the proverbial shark to check it out, and was hired without an interview. Instead, the sales pitch was cast upon the half-dozen new recruits, and the brain washing began.
The Rainbow Clean-Air Cleaning System.
Basically, that's a pretty way to say over-glorified vacuum.
(Image courtesy of http://www.thevacuumcenter.com)
We were impressed. Of course we were impressed. Six sweaty guys in suits in the middle of summer in a tiny room in a small brick office will be impressed when presented something that removes odors from the air. After a couple days of intense training on the features of the Rainbow and it's ability to suck dirt, we were destined to enter the world of doorstep marketing. I gathered my first set of leads; neighbors, immediate family, and former teachers. With the exception of my mother, who vacuums four times a day, these leads were only allowing me into the house as a gesture of assisting me on my long road of salesmanship. Let's face it; nobody wants to pay for a $2,000 vacuum, with the exception of my mom. Nobody needs the Rainbow's patented separator device, which is essentially a grooved spinning thing found in most Lego Technic sets.
This is basically what spins the water,
keeping the dirt from coming back out of the Rainbow. Fascinating, no?
(Image courtesy of http://www.active-robots.com)
Beyond the overpriced hunk of reinforced carbon fiber, the sketchy and over-rehearsed sales pitch, and the way we gathered new leads by knocking on doors and signing people up for fake contests, the job was highly profitable. At least, that was what we were told. District meetings where someone with a fancy smart phone would brag about how wealthy he is captivated even the most unsuccessful Rainbow Sales Drone. Evidently, enough Rainbow Cleaners have been sold to make several people multi-millionaires. I even bought the idea myself. There were days where I came home with a thousand bucks stashed in my pants, but most of the time, my gain was less than zero. In that industry, you make nothing unless you sell. The eighty mile round trip to the office certainly wasn't rational on my behalf. I suppose I took some joy in knowing I couldn't get fired from such a job. Going home at night knowing you just put a family of Mennonites in severe debt is an extraordinary feeling altogether.
Your mom or grandmother (depending on the reader's demographic) may have heard of the contraption I was employed to distribute. Let us hop into the Way Back machine, and bask in the events that lead up to this adventure.
The job market is a lot like a dismemberment competition. The more you prepare for it, the less chance you'll have of success. Using this analogy, college is much like lopping your head off. I had struggled for nearly a year searching for a local job that wasn't in the dog food industry. I received a BA in Fine Art, specifically, computer art, and tried to roll with it. Unfortunately, nobody wanted to hire someone with a background that consisted of education. During many interviews, I was told I was overqualified, and rejected. Now one might think that a Bachelor's degree isn't that big of a deal, but in my backwater hometown, it's a sure sign of witchcraft.
At last I found a listing for an undisclosed job offering a highly disclosed amount of money per week. I jumped the proverbial shark to check it out, and was hired without an interview. Instead, the sales pitch was cast upon the half-dozen new recruits, and the brain washing began.
The Rainbow Clean-Air Cleaning System.
Basically, that's a pretty way to say over-glorified vacuum.
(Image courtesy of http://www.thevacuumcenter.com)
We were impressed. Of course we were impressed. Six sweaty guys in suits in the middle of summer in a tiny room in a small brick office will be impressed when presented something that removes odors from the air. After a couple days of intense training on the features of the Rainbow and it's ability to suck dirt, we were destined to enter the world of doorstep marketing. I gathered my first set of leads; neighbors, immediate family, and former teachers. With the exception of my mother, who vacuums four times a day, these leads were only allowing me into the house as a gesture of assisting me on my long road of salesmanship. Let's face it; nobody wants to pay for a $2,000 vacuum, with the exception of my mom. Nobody needs the Rainbow's patented separator device, which is essentially a grooved spinning thing found in most Lego Technic sets.
This is basically what spins the water,
keeping the dirt from coming back out of the Rainbow. Fascinating, no?
(Image courtesy of http://www.active-robots.com)
Beyond the overpriced hunk of reinforced carbon fiber, the sketchy and over-rehearsed sales pitch, and the way we gathered new leads by knocking on doors and signing people up for fake contests, the job was highly profitable. At least, that was what we were told. District meetings where someone with a fancy smart phone would brag about how wealthy he is captivated even the most unsuccessful Rainbow Sales Drone. Evidently, enough Rainbow Cleaners have been sold to make several people multi-millionaires. I even bought the idea myself. There were days where I came home with a thousand bucks stashed in my pants, but most of the time, my gain was less than zero. In that industry, you make nothing unless you sell. The eighty mile round trip to the office certainly wasn't rational on my behalf. I suppose I took some joy in knowing I couldn't get fired from such a job. Going home at night knowing you just put a family of Mennonites in severe debt is an extraordinary feeling altogether.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
An Open Letter from the first Goomba
This open letter is both a means to connect with those out there who feel they have been stepped on by others, and to cast the public eye towards a situation that has been left widely unnoticed for far too long.
Dear Man with the Moustache,
To me, the most critical thing in life is to be happy with what one has. About two feet tall, soft and brown, with a thick unibrow; I didn't have much to work with. Not to mention I suffer from a hereditary deficiency of sorts that leaves me with two unsightly fangs sticking over my upper lip. No dentist dares touch them, as they are impacted into the base of my brainstem. I live a quiet life, not entirely alone, but I often wander by myself, shuffling and side-stepping leisurely. I enjoy looking up at the clouds. They all look like big white bushes to me. I stay out of the politics of the world around me; I know a tyrannical turtle-dinosaur thing has been raking in a lot of votes. Most of my neighbors hail his name, I can hear them on the other side of the pipes clamoring on about how great this new revolution will be. I suppose my civic pride is not as strong, but the fact that these folks are spoon-fed Koopa propaganda from birth is a little unnerving. Frankly, I don't care what castle the princess is in, but I'd gladly let the next guy to walk through know if it would mean a little piece and quiet around here. I'm rambling again, I'll get to the point.
I've got a nice plot of land, living at the edge of 1-1 Mushroom Way. I've got a few coins stashed away for a rainy day (or if I find an orthodontist who thinks he can help me with my fangs). I've got some neighbors to my right, but nothing but a vast beautiful expanse to my left. I hear nobody has even traveled that far down the path; I've been told for some reason that it's simply impossible. I was feeling courageous.
I woke up early one morning, did my stretches, completed a crossword puzzle, and packed a sandwich. I was going to get the nerve to do what no Goomba has done before. I was going to shuffle to the left until the stage flagpole was hardly a dot on the horizon. It was time I made a name for myself. That's when I met… him.
My attacker was eyeing me. Normally I would have nodded a kind 'good morning' to any stranger, but I felt very uncomfortable with his dastardly stare. I kept going, not knowing how to react otherwise. The path was narrow, and he was standing with his legs gated. Just the way he looked at me, I knew he hated me. You could see this immense anger in his eyes. It didn't matter who I was, there was nothing I would have ever been able to do to change his baseless opinion about me. Why did he hate me? Was I different? Has he never seen a Goomba before? Did I say or do something that could be translated into something that sour? I kept trotting, slowly, tapping my feet on the solid brick. That's when he started to run.
I could see him clearly, as if time were slow and the air thick like tar. He ran at me, his red overalls (or were they blue? Goombas are very colorblind) kicking the air as he dashed in my direction. I could see his gritted teeth showing under his moustache. His intentions were ungodly.
Tell me, what would drive someone to hate someone else so much without any provoking? Why does this exist in nature? Why can't we all be in this together? Life is hard enough with disease, carnivorous plants, and bottomless pits to be at war with one another, especially as individuals. I could hardly react to his swift and unexpected actions. He leaped in the air from nearly thirty feet away, and an instant later was plummeting down from the sky towards my head. He came at me with such an angle that his knee impacted the side of my soft, malleable head. Fortunately, Goombas are built to bump into things; a direct concussion from above or a hot flame can do us in without any hesitation, but we can take plenty of abuse from any other angle. The moment he made contact, he flew into a madman's rage. His red (or was it green?) hat flipped off his head as he waved his arms and legs in the air, and he propelled himself off the path down into the great unknown. I stood there, safe, but broken.
Perplexed? Confused? Suffering from shock? For some reason or another, I drove that man into a blood-lusting rage. While his actions were unexplainable as much as they were incoherent, I still felt like I was at fault. Somehow, I made him that way. I should have done something different, I should have been something different. It has been tearing me up from the inside ever since. I've felt… incapable. I don't even feel like a Goomba anymore, as if I were just some object or soulless sprite. I just want to connect to other Goombas, or anyone for that matter, who understands, but I'm not sure if anyone does. Why would you shatter someone's life like this?
Dear Man with the Moustache,
To me, the most critical thing in life is to be happy with what one has. About two feet tall, soft and brown, with a thick unibrow; I didn't have much to work with. Not to mention I suffer from a hereditary deficiency of sorts that leaves me with two unsightly fangs sticking over my upper lip. No dentist dares touch them, as they are impacted into the base of my brainstem. I live a quiet life, not entirely alone, but I often wander by myself, shuffling and side-stepping leisurely. I enjoy looking up at the clouds. They all look like big white bushes to me. I stay out of the politics of the world around me; I know a tyrannical turtle-dinosaur thing has been raking in a lot of votes. Most of my neighbors hail his name, I can hear them on the other side of the pipes clamoring on about how great this new revolution will be. I suppose my civic pride is not as strong, but the fact that these folks are spoon-fed Koopa propaganda from birth is a little unnerving. Frankly, I don't care what castle the princess is in, but I'd gladly let the next guy to walk through know if it would mean a little piece and quiet around here. I'm rambling again, I'll get to the point.
I've got a nice plot of land, living at the edge of 1-1 Mushroom Way. I've got a few coins stashed away for a rainy day (or if I find an orthodontist who thinks he can help me with my fangs). I've got some neighbors to my right, but nothing but a vast beautiful expanse to my left. I hear nobody has even traveled that far down the path; I've been told for some reason that it's simply impossible. I was feeling courageous.
I woke up early one morning, did my stretches, completed a crossword puzzle, and packed a sandwich. I was going to get the nerve to do what no Goomba has done before. I was going to shuffle to the left until the stage flagpole was hardly a dot on the horizon. It was time I made a name for myself. That's when I met… him.
My attacker was eyeing me. Normally I would have nodded a kind 'good morning' to any stranger, but I felt very uncomfortable with his dastardly stare. I kept going, not knowing how to react otherwise. The path was narrow, and he was standing with his legs gated. Just the way he looked at me, I knew he hated me. You could see this immense anger in his eyes. It didn't matter who I was, there was nothing I would have ever been able to do to change his baseless opinion about me. Why did he hate me? Was I different? Has he never seen a Goomba before? Did I say or do something that could be translated into something that sour? I kept trotting, slowly, tapping my feet on the solid brick. That's when he started to run.
I could see him clearly, as if time were slow and the air thick like tar. He ran at me, his red overalls (or were they blue? Goombas are very colorblind) kicking the air as he dashed in my direction. I could see his gritted teeth showing under his moustache. His intentions were ungodly.
Tell me, what would drive someone to hate someone else so much without any provoking? Why does this exist in nature? Why can't we all be in this together? Life is hard enough with disease, carnivorous plants, and bottomless pits to be at war with one another, especially as individuals. I could hardly react to his swift and unexpected actions. He leaped in the air from nearly thirty feet away, and an instant later was plummeting down from the sky towards my head. He came at me with such an angle that his knee impacted the side of my soft, malleable head. Fortunately, Goombas are built to bump into things; a direct concussion from above or a hot flame can do us in without any hesitation, but we can take plenty of abuse from any other angle. The moment he made contact, he flew into a madman's rage. His red (or was it green?) hat flipped off his head as he waved his arms and legs in the air, and he propelled himself off the path down into the great unknown. I stood there, safe, but broken.
Perplexed? Confused? Suffering from shock? For some reason or another, I drove that man into a blood-lusting rage. While his actions were unexplainable as much as they were incoherent, I still felt like I was at fault. Somehow, I made him that way. I should have done something different, I should have been something different. It has been tearing me up from the inside ever since. I've felt… incapable. I don't even feel like a Goomba anymore, as if I were just some object or soulless sprite. I just want to connect to other Goombas, or anyone for that matter, who understands, but I'm not sure if anyone does. Why would you shatter someone's life like this?
Monday, April 7, 2008
When You're At the Bottom
I'm not one to say I've lived a very hard life. There are individuals who have not been as fortunate as myself, and they've developed their own backwater mutant society, where weight correlates to one's position in the hierarchy. While discovery and integrity push some of us forwards, those left behind seem to flourish in greater numbers with no hint of natural selection in sight.
I grew up in a very unforgiving town. Don't let the vast number of used car lots fool you; the advanced physics behind the wheel stirred the locals into a concourse of club-wielding banshees. They accepted television very quickly as their God, perhaps somewhat in fear, otherwise as an arbitrary piaculum. Just as long as they did not have to better themselves in any way, life was perfect as is. My hometown is much like the dark undercity of a corrupted metropolis, but without the buildings. Instead of motorcycles, the local street gangs were known to operate deer.
For most, life was very simple. A parcel labeled "EBT" arrived monthly that was surprisingly not edible, but could be taken to the largest of burrows in exchange for Wonder Bread, Sour Patch Kids, and diet soda. It kept occupied the denizen collective, allowing the culture to assume a hunter/gathering tradition. They donned skins trapped from a burrow known as Wal-Mart, which they wore to the food burrows, where they exchanged the magical sliding money card for food. The most elaborate zoos couldn't simulate a more primeval environment. I played a role in this of course. Back then, I was essentially a part time zoo-keeper. I cleaned and maintained the most accessible of the food burrows; Save A Lot.
Save A Lot is a large national chain that caters to shoppers who aren't too ashamed of their lot in life to go to a Save A Lot in the first place. Once inside, you'll find knockoffs to every branded consumable you can think of. Some product names are offensive, while others range from borderline racist all the way to Asian street vendor. You'll find no shame on Save A Lot's behalf with product brandings such as Bubba-Cola, Dr. Pop, Pinaz (an intoxicating carbonated pineapple simulation for your mouth, named using red-neck's argot for a word meaning "male genitals"), Almost Butter, and Bar-S "Practically no Toes" Hot Dogs. While these brands may cater to the NASCAR watching, rifle wielding, Looney Tunes attitude oversized t-shirt wearing crowd, don't be fooled; these products are made with love. And a small portion of factory worker hair.
For six years of my adolescence, I worked at Save A Lot. During the later half of my employment there, the store was handed over to a clan of new owners. All of the employees were fired and rehired, to bring forth some kind of feel-good relationship with the new overlords. A new nepotistical caste system was formed, granting rights to anyone of the Owner's bloodline or those who were performing secret acts of indecency for members of the Owner's bloodline in the back office, meat room, or produce cooler. While on the floor, I observed incest and gender-confusion among the customers. Inside the sanctity of the back room though, darker arts were performed. I'd use the technical term to describe them, but my editor tells me I'm not allowed.
If you take a young Save A Lot employee and stand him or her next to a very seasoned marine, you will find that the Save A Lot employee is far better versed in watching old women scoop their own feces out of their pants and stash it behind a peanut butter display. A marine might not know how to effectively stop a man from pushing the cart return area across the parking lot with his station wagon. Furthermore, the Save A Lot employee knows who the terrorists will be as they walk in the door; subtle differences in stench offer many clues that no other occupation could train a person to pick up.
It is because of these few, proud grocery store employees that my irrelevant hometown can sustain life and balance outside of the wild-game season. It turns out that the primates can in fact use applied knowledge to receive their food pellets in an organized manor. Science triumphs again.
I grew up in a very unforgiving town. Don't let the vast number of used car lots fool you; the advanced physics behind the wheel stirred the locals into a concourse of club-wielding banshees. They accepted television very quickly as their God, perhaps somewhat in fear, otherwise as an arbitrary piaculum. Just as long as they did not have to better themselves in any way, life was perfect as is. My hometown is much like the dark undercity of a corrupted metropolis, but without the buildings. Instead of motorcycles, the local street gangs were known to operate deer.
For most, life was very simple. A parcel labeled "EBT" arrived monthly that was surprisingly not edible, but could be taken to the largest of burrows in exchange for Wonder Bread, Sour Patch Kids, and diet soda. It kept occupied the denizen collective, allowing the culture to assume a hunter/gathering tradition. They donned skins trapped from a burrow known as Wal-Mart, which they wore to the food burrows, where they exchanged the magical sliding money card for food. The most elaborate zoos couldn't simulate a more primeval environment. I played a role in this of course. Back then, I was essentially a part time zoo-keeper. I cleaned and maintained the most accessible of the food burrows; Save A Lot.
Save A Lot is a large national chain that caters to shoppers who aren't too ashamed of their lot in life to go to a Save A Lot in the first place. Once inside, you'll find knockoffs to every branded consumable you can think of. Some product names are offensive, while others range from borderline racist all the way to Asian street vendor. You'll find no shame on Save A Lot's behalf with product brandings such as Bubba-Cola, Dr. Pop, Pinaz (an intoxicating carbonated pineapple simulation for your mouth, named using red-neck's argot for a word meaning "male genitals"), Almost Butter, and Bar-S "Practically no Toes" Hot Dogs. While these brands may cater to the NASCAR watching, rifle wielding, Looney Tunes attitude oversized t-shirt wearing crowd, don't be fooled; these products are made with love. And a small portion of factory worker hair.
This is a prime example of Save A Lot's incredibly powerful audience-targeting initiative. Mountain Holler is known for it's diet Mountain Dew-like taste, but with a sustainable aftertaste that is similar to iodine. It is also clearly the radical citrus thirst blaster due to it's concentration of solar radiation. (Photo courtesy of http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Mountain_Holler.jpg)
For six years of my adolescence, I worked at Save A Lot. During the later half of my employment there, the store was handed over to a clan of new owners. All of the employees were fired and rehired, to bring forth some kind of feel-good relationship with the new overlords. A new nepotistical caste system was formed, granting rights to anyone of the Owner's bloodline or those who were performing secret acts of indecency for members of the Owner's bloodline in the back office, meat room, or produce cooler. While on the floor, I observed incest and gender-confusion among the customers. Inside the sanctity of the back room though, darker arts were performed. I'd use the technical term to describe them, but my editor tells me I'm not allowed.
If you take a young Save A Lot employee and stand him or her next to a very seasoned marine, you will find that the Save A Lot employee is far better versed in watching old women scoop their own feces out of their pants and stash it behind a peanut butter display. A marine might not know how to effectively stop a man from pushing the cart return area across the parking lot with his station wagon. Furthermore, the Save A Lot employee knows who the terrorists will be as they walk in the door; subtle differences in stench offer many clues that no other occupation could train a person to pick up.
It is because of these few, proud grocery store employees that my irrelevant hometown can sustain life and balance outside of the wild-game season. It turns out that the primates can in fact use applied knowledge to receive their food pellets in an organized manor. Science triumphs again.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Rez Me
My one-man raid experienced a full wipe thanks to an accidental discharge of an area effect cast. It pulled some epic pats; I didn't hold up for long. Since I hate taking blame, and there were no Pugs around, I blame the faulty, cheating Mobs that are around every corner in the dungeon of life. With great fortune, the opportunity has inspired me to completely re-roll my toon. You may have no idea what I'm talking about, but if you do, my glee for you is substantial. So here I am, starting out with a satchel, a bedroll, some random crap that won't be any good to me before long, and an empty book. What will I encounter first?
I woke up yesterday with the realization that I've been looking at everything the wrong way lately. My immediate conclusion to this was simple; anything that I don't have direct control over falls into the category called "retarded anyways." For example, gas prices? Retarded anyways. There's no need for concern at all. America's drastic recession? Retarded anyways. Youtube comments? The new Eminem Album? Fox news? Retarded anyways. Even the activation of the deadly Large Hadron Collider which will either tear the Earth apart and stuff it into a single atom or convert its entire mass into strange matter doesn't bother me, and that's merely a month away.
With this new outlook, I realize how frivolous the rest of the world seems. I wonder how others don't come to grips with this. These days, there are so many words and ideas that are so hard for society to take. I'm looking at you, terrorism, Christmas, and nanotechnology. With so many subjects considered tongue-in-cheek, and so many drones trying to be politically correct, I feel my new point of view will cause some of the most entertaining controversy and I relish that idea. I'm pretty sure that means I pose a dangerous threat to modern society. The men in black suits will someday bust down my door and chain me to a desk to use my rogue ways as intelligence to find other assholes like me so they can be taken to the proper authorities and decommissioned. Even then, I will rename all my captors to "Susie" and discuss events I've held with their mothers.
Of course, I assume too much. In reality I'll probably instead face either misinterpretation, or nobody reading this at all anyway.
As I mentioned, I had this light-seeing experience yesterday. That is, yesterday of writing this. Of course, I'm sure I won't post it for another two days. It will sit on my hard drive and witness several virus scans before I decide to publish it on the Intertron. I'm far too important and handsome to not procrastinate. You're witnessing a full restoration of the Lynk. It will be a slow process, like a dot-matrix printer, or the waitress at Denny's. Everything in my life seems so much better now that I'm not taking it seriously.
I woke up yesterday with the realization that I've been looking at everything the wrong way lately. My immediate conclusion to this was simple; anything that I don't have direct control over falls into the category called "retarded anyways." For example, gas prices? Retarded anyways. There's no need for concern at all. America's drastic recession? Retarded anyways. Youtube comments? The new Eminem Album? Fox news? Retarded anyways. Even the activation of the deadly Large Hadron Collider which will either tear the Earth apart and stuff it into a single atom or convert its entire mass into strange matter doesn't bother me, and that's merely a month away.
With this new outlook, I realize how frivolous the rest of the world seems. I wonder how others don't come to grips with this. These days, there are so many words and ideas that are so hard for society to take. I'm looking at you, terrorism, Christmas, and nanotechnology. With so many subjects considered tongue-in-cheek, and so many drones trying to be politically correct, I feel my new point of view will cause some of the most entertaining controversy and I relish that idea. I'm pretty sure that means I pose a dangerous threat to modern society. The men in black suits will someday bust down my door and chain me to a desk to use my rogue ways as intelligence to find other assholes like me so they can be taken to the proper authorities and decommissioned. Even then, I will rename all my captors to "Susie" and discuss events I've held with their mothers.
Of course, I assume too much. In reality I'll probably instead face either misinterpretation, or nobody reading this at all anyway.
As I mentioned, I had this light-seeing experience yesterday. That is, yesterday of writing this. Of course, I'm sure I won't post it for another two days. It will sit on my hard drive and witness several virus scans before I decide to publish it on the Intertron. I'm far too important and handsome to not procrastinate. You're witnessing a full restoration of the Lynk. It will be a slow process, like a dot-matrix printer, or the waitress at Denny's. Everything in my life seems so much better now that I'm not taking it seriously.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Nobody Told Me
I recently treated myself to The Orange Box, which claims with a quote from IGN.com to be "The best deal in videogame history." I cannot agree more. Nobody told me Half-Life 2 was so incredible. It sort of brought me back to the days of Red Faction, and I haven't played a good FPS on the PC since the latest Doom incarnation.
I'm still a little uncertain what to make of this world-wide-weblog. Don't expect a revelation anytime soon though. I'm running to the mall to wait in line for my preorder of Super Smash Bros. Brawl in just a few minutes, and it is likely nobody will see or here from me outside my habitat for quite some time.
I'm still a little uncertain what to make of this world-wide-weblog. Don't expect a revelation anytime soon though. I'm running to the mall to wait in line for my preorder of Super Smash Bros. Brawl in just a few minutes, and it is likely nobody will see or here from me outside my habitat for quite some time.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
I Have Lists
There's so much I've been wanting to talk about. Ray Kurzweil, Super Smash Bros. Brawl, Jack Thompson and his attempt to blame video games on yet another tragic shooting, my recent excursions to the laundromat… And while these topics may be very fascinating, I've been so busy scheduling my life that I haven't had time to do anything.
I'm beginning to see a pattern here. I can safely say one of my specialties is having no ability to dispatch my free time. Perhaps my discovery of Fark, Digg, and Youtube play a role in hindering my productivity, but I have no actual facts to back that up. I've started to build massive lists, tasks, and lifestyle elements to adhere to. My Outlook .pst file is probably nearing it's limit, despite the fact that I don't download my mail through Outlook. I enjoy having a managed array of structure in my life. It never keeps me from slacking off, but at least I get something done by the end of the day. I plan on buying a small filing cabinet with forty-three folders in it. Perhaps I've been holding onto these tiny quirks far too long. I've discovered that once I begin to delve deep into the world of calendars and tentative appointments and priority statuses, I become a tad bit obsessed. Due to a few follow-up tasks I put in one of my personal to-do lists, I've managed to get myself a new part time job, at the cost of a few hours of sleep. Throwing this all into an excel document, the results clearly state that I am screwed.
Perhaps I am hatching into a yuppie. I do own a bluetooth earpiece for my fancy Windows Mobile Smartphone. Let's hope it is just a phase. I have scheduled an hour next Wednesday to ponder this, but I may have to move it… hold on, I've got to take this call.
Before I head out for the night and face the cold to play for the townies on the icy streets of Oneonta, I'd like to drop a link to a fantastic site I first stumbled upon a few months ago. I've made it one of my dailies, and I hope you do too. Anchor Marta Costello sums up the day's Gnooze (the G is silent) in about three minutes. Marta lays the news down in her own words (often through some of the best paraphrasing known to man) for a very fresh take on comedy news casting. I predict she will someday be the third installment of the Stewart-Colbert-Costello Trifecta that has been prophesized since the dawn of ages. This is what the Internet is all about, people. Check it out.
I'm beginning to see a pattern here. I can safely say one of my specialties is having no ability to dispatch my free time. Perhaps my discovery of Fark, Digg, and Youtube play a role in hindering my productivity, but I have no actual facts to back that up. I've started to build massive lists, tasks, and lifestyle elements to adhere to. My Outlook .pst file is probably nearing it's limit, despite the fact that I don't download my mail through Outlook. I enjoy having a managed array of structure in my life. It never keeps me from slacking off, but at least I get something done by the end of the day. I plan on buying a small filing cabinet with forty-three folders in it. Perhaps I've been holding onto these tiny quirks far too long. I've discovered that once I begin to delve deep into the world of calendars and tentative appointments and priority statuses, I become a tad bit obsessed. Due to a few follow-up tasks I put in one of my personal to-do lists, I've managed to get myself a new part time job, at the cost of a few hours of sleep. Throwing this all into an excel document, the results clearly state that I am screwed.
Perhaps I am hatching into a yuppie. I do own a bluetooth earpiece for my fancy Windows Mobile Smartphone. Let's hope it is just a phase. I have scheduled an hour next Wednesday to ponder this, but I may have to move it… hold on, I've got to take this call.
Before I head out for the night and face the cold to play for the townies on the icy streets of Oneonta, I'd like to drop a link to a fantastic site I first stumbled upon a few months ago. I've made it one of my dailies, and I hope you do too. Anchor Marta Costello sums up the day's Gnooze (the G is silent) in about three minutes. Marta lays the news down in her own words (often through some of the best paraphrasing known to man) for a very fresh take on comedy news casting. I predict she will someday be the third installment of the Stewart-Colbert-Costello Trifecta that has been prophesized since the dawn of ages. This is what the Internet is all about, people. Check it out.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
The Sexbox and the Unknown
An infection of sorts has recently been allowed to permeate my sinuses and has granted me time to add a little more content to this work in progress. Today I'd like to talk about recent happenings in the media, the fundamental flaws in investigative reporting, and I will wrap it up with a gentle story about family togetherness. Please scroll slowly to continue.
For the better part of human history, bored, hungry journalists everywhere have been collecting their spoon-fed opinions and publishing them in whatever media they get paid for. This has been growing and contorting outwards increasingly over the past several years. Experts believe that by the year 2014, all news broadcasts will consist solely of name calling, randomly generated phrases, and hand-picked target audience sensationalism. I researched this for forty seconds this morning while brushing my hair, so I know what I am talking about.
Over the past two weeks, the buzzword of the news has been the cleverly pieced-together moniker, "Sexbox." This crafted title is a play on words, combining the dangerous word "sex," with the word "xbox," which is also known as "orgasmic-rape-simulator" in the more uppity professional fields. Mass Effect, which came out months ago, is stealing the spotlight due to graphic content. Experts and reporters and people with doctorates have been up in arms over full, completely customizable porn scenes that children can direct and play out their most wild fantasies over and over again. I believe what they are talking about is the two minute love scene that, depending on your subtle actions throughout the thirty hours of gameplay, might flash the side of a boob for a few seconds. In otherwords, think VH1's spring break, only with dignity, and less side boob.
I am unsure who started this entire debate; my first exposure to this was the highly unimportant Kevin McCullough, a columnist for townhall.com. It appears the article no longer exists within that domain, and it is a pity, I would love to show you all how not to cast the news. McCullough basically made accusations about the "realistic sex acts" embedded in the game, including homosexual activity that may turn our god-fearing world inside out. What he didn't mention was his lack of research or his understanding of the situation. Of course, Penny Arcade linked to his article, and thousands (if not more) gamers flooded his inbox and comments. He later posted a rebuttal for the comments in his blog, insulting gamers with name calling, and best of all, comparing his lack of research to a "strip club at the end of the block or hookers knocking at the door." Lastly, he issued an apology for his baseless rant, although it wasn't very convincing.
Fox news displayed a panel of uninformed, who's research consisted of a quick look at the Mass Effect website, verses Geoff Keighley, a game industry expert. Being Fox news, Keighley was only given a few sentences, while a psychology expert who again, had no experience and hardly any research under her belt, has the gall to call him "darling," after trying to push the dangers of sexism which aren't even relevant to Mass Effect. Frankly, I would be embarrassed if I went to discuss something I had no knowledge on for Fox News, but mostly due to the fact that I'd be on Fox News. Of course, the rest of the panel had no idea what they were talking about either, and passed the blame from one silly cliché to another. If a job could be that easy, I must be in the wrong industry.
It is very obvious that side boobs and naughty words and suggested themes and violence are training America's youth to be sadistic, murdering rapists. That part I am completely clear on. In fact, it's pretty obvious considering the fact that there had never been violence in the world until 1986, when Nintendo Entertainment Systems started to invade the homes of happy families. Oh wait, before that, the cinemas were blamed, and television, and rock and roll. Something must always be blamed to keep the little darling snowflakes safe.
In lighter news, I introduced my father to World of Warcraft. He has always been a fan of the Warcraft series (seemingly unlike most people who play World of Warcraft) and I think he is getting the hang of it. I've been playing on and off for a couple years now. I have several alternate characters, but my main is a loveable little gnome mage named Lynkmatic.
To celebrate my dad's arrival to Azeroth, I rolled Lynkovic, my gnome's evil warlock twin. I ran to the human starting area, predicting with accuracy that my dad would role a human warrior, and we did some questing before he decided to run off and explore on his own. It was fantastic.
My mother, being a video game hater, is completely against the idea, and suggests the idea that Satan might have his hand in all of this. I believe she falls for everything Fox News tells her.
For the better part of human history, bored, hungry journalists everywhere have been collecting their spoon-fed opinions and publishing them in whatever media they get paid for. This has been growing and contorting outwards increasingly over the past several years. Experts believe that by the year 2014, all news broadcasts will consist solely of name calling, randomly generated phrases, and hand-picked target audience sensationalism. I researched this for forty seconds this morning while brushing my hair, so I know what I am talking about.
Over the past two weeks, the buzzword of the news has been the cleverly pieced-together moniker, "Sexbox." This crafted title is a play on words, combining the dangerous word "sex," with the word "xbox," which is also known as "orgasmic-rape-simulator" in the more uppity professional fields. Mass Effect, which came out months ago, is stealing the spotlight due to graphic content. Experts and reporters and people with doctorates have been up in arms over full, completely customizable porn scenes that children can direct and play out their most wild fantasies over and over again. I believe what they are talking about is the two minute love scene that, depending on your subtle actions throughout the thirty hours of gameplay, might flash the side of a boob for a few seconds. In otherwords, think VH1's spring break, only with dignity, and less side boob.
I am unsure who started this entire debate; my first exposure to this was the highly unimportant Kevin McCullough, a columnist for townhall.com. It appears the article no longer exists within that domain, and it is a pity, I would love to show you all how not to cast the news. McCullough basically made accusations about the "realistic sex acts" embedded in the game, including homosexual activity that may turn our god-fearing world inside out. What he didn't mention was his lack of research or his understanding of the situation. Of course, Penny Arcade linked to his article, and thousands (if not more) gamers flooded his inbox and comments. He later posted a rebuttal for the comments in his blog, insulting gamers with name calling, and best of all, comparing his lack of research to a "strip club at the end of the block or hookers knocking at the door." Lastly, he issued an apology for his baseless rant, although it wasn't very convincing.
Fox news displayed a panel of uninformed, who's research consisted of a quick look at the Mass Effect website, verses Geoff Keighley, a game industry expert. Being Fox news, Keighley was only given a few sentences, while a psychology expert who again, had no experience and hardly any research under her belt, has the gall to call him "darling," after trying to push the dangers of sexism which aren't even relevant to Mass Effect. Frankly, I would be embarrassed if I went to discuss something I had no knowledge on for Fox News, but mostly due to the fact that I'd be on Fox News. Of course, the rest of the panel had no idea what they were talking about either, and passed the blame from one silly cliché to another. If a job could be that easy, I must be in the wrong industry.
It is very obvious that side boobs and naughty words and suggested themes and violence are training America's youth to be sadistic, murdering rapists. That part I am completely clear on. In fact, it's pretty obvious considering the fact that there had never been violence in the world until 1986, when Nintendo Entertainment Systems started to invade the homes of happy families. Oh wait, before that, the cinemas were blamed, and television, and rock and roll. Something must always be blamed to keep the little darling snowflakes safe.
In lighter news, I introduced my father to World of Warcraft. He has always been a fan of the Warcraft series (seemingly unlike most people who play World of Warcraft) and I think he is getting the hang of it. I've been playing on and off for a couple years now. I have several alternate characters, but my main is a loveable little gnome mage named Lynkmatic.
To celebrate my dad's arrival to Azeroth, I rolled Lynkovic, my gnome's evil warlock twin. I ran to the human starting area, predicting with accuracy that my dad would role a human warrior, and we did some questing before he decided to run off and explore on his own. It was fantastic.
My mother, being a video game hater, is completely against the idea, and suggests the idea that Satan might have his hand in all of this. I believe she falls for everything Fox News tells her.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Lynk Vs. The Zeitgeist
I hope everyone had an ebullient, spirited, but unscathed New Years. Personally, I brought in the new year by incorrectly scripting "2007" on my last check. I also discovered I LARP after three Red Bulls and half a pound of cheese. Moving on.
I don't normally give myself resolutions for the new year. Too often have I seen friends suffer through a year due to their incredibly strong will and an honest-sounding resolution, e.g., giving up all foods with high fructose corn syrup. It is a very worthy endeavor, but you starve yourself in the process. I prefer to give myself quests, with a mission here or there for good measure.
My first quest, as quixotic (I do hope you know that is my favorite word in the English language) as it sounds, is to become self-employed, part time. I want to buckle down hard and work on my art, and apply it all into a webcomic. I've done this before, but never for more than a month or two. I'd like to work at it, get a few dozen strips back-burned, and go live by the summer. My biggest concern was always periodic updates issued three times per week. Looking at the webcomic world, I realize that's a job for Penny-Arcade and Ctrl-Alt-Delete. Until I earn a living off it, I will have to work in my spare time, and updates won't be as uniform. Now that I am okay with that, I just need to get cracking, as they say.
My second quest is to continue my studies of the general moral and intellectual characteristics of the modern world. I am not a very proficient reader of the zeitgeist, and I plan to change that. More over, I plan to become increasingly gregarious in the process. While this has been planned for a long while, the details I've recently hashed out sound like they will garner better results. I've determined that it is strictly a state of mind leading to an issue of charisma, and adjusting my internal processing while in an unfamiliar situation is all I need to pitch my gnomic adages. That, and it's important to remember that the bibulous don't judge the next day.
I don't normally give myself resolutions for the new year. Too often have I seen friends suffer through a year due to their incredibly strong will and an honest-sounding resolution, e.g., giving up all foods with high fructose corn syrup. It is a very worthy endeavor, but you starve yourself in the process. I prefer to give myself quests, with a mission here or there for good measure.
My first quest, as quixotic (I do hope you know that is my favorite word in the English language) as it sounds, is to become self-employed, part time. I want to buckle down hard and work on my art, and apply it all into a webcomic. I've done this before, but never for more than a month or two. I'd like to work at it, get a few dozen strips back-burned, and go live by the summer. My biggest concern was always periodic updates issued three times per week. Looking at the webcomic world, I realize that's a job for Penny-Arcade and Ctrl-Alt-Delete. Until I earn a living off it, I will have to work in my spare time, and updates won't be as uniform. Now that I am okay with that, I just need to get cracking, as they say.
My second quest is to continue my studies of the general moral and intellectual characteristics of the modern world. I am not a very proficient reader of the zeitgeist, and I plan to change that. More over, I plan to become increasingly gregarious in the process. While this has been planned for a long while, the details I've recently hashed out sound like they will garner better results. I've determined that it is strictly a state of mind leading to an issue of charisma, and adjusting my internal processing while in an unfamiliar situation is all I need to pitch my gnomic adages. That, and it's important to remember that the bibulous don't judge the next day.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Happy... you know.
If it's okay, I'd like to wish some of you a safe and happy continuance. May your days be Merry and Bright, assuming you like it when days consist of modifiers such as Merry and Bright. Only if, of course, you prefer to enjoy your days as opposed to not enjoying them. If else, please, stay indoors for a while.
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