Beer 'n' Porn

The Swear Jar

2008-09-16T00:59:00.001-04:00

We be the love-children of free speech. And we got us some internet access.

--The Swear Jar, A Blog for Change

theswearjar.blogspot.com

Team TSJ

Rockology 101:The Many Faces of Rock

2008-02-25T19:13:00.016-05:00

The Geezer

The DreamWalker

Rock Rage!

The Dr. Funkenstein [aka Funky McPimpin' Lips]

The Andre Shoulder

The Angus

The Jive Bite

The Buddha

El Taco Libre

The Salty Dog

Giggles McNasty

The ChuckleSnatch

The StankTooth

The Naughty Dog

The Kaiser Crush

The Lickety SwayBack

Rockawesome

JagerGlare 9000

The Sinner

Say Anything

2008-02-07T15:11:00.000-05:00

Oops, I did it again! I abandoned good sense and reason all on account of a little frustration and a fair amount of low quality gin.

This past weekend, I let myself get pulled into a shouting match with someone - specifically someone who made it known that having a shouting match was his aim. I, of underdeveloped social grace and stunted emotional everything, engaged him. And, of course, it wasn't pretty.

You know, with all the increasingly intense "democrat v republican", "liberal v conservative" jibba-jabba going back and forth, it honestly bothers me that there really isn't much honest conversation happening. I've sat there and listened to each side grandstanding, draping themselves with the flag, vilifying everyone who disagrees with their oh-so-well-thought-out perspectives, and otherwise volunteering themselves for sainthood. And, vocabulary aside [albeit woefully adjacent], these conversations don't make any attempt to rise beyond the level of playground bickering and name-calling.

Don't any of you people have any dignity?

No one is listening. And yes, I mean you, noblest reader. We're so quick to be outraged and offended at the first sign of anything contrary to our sacred sensibilities, so quick to lash out and demonize the "obviously wrong" right or the "clearly wrong" left, so quick to open our mouths to congratulate and comfort one another in our shameless anger and ignorance. Adding to the tearful hilarity, we conversationally "remove a rib" with "poor me, poor us" statements drenched in underdog self-righteousness, greedily facilitating quick and dirty self-gratification in the form of wanton intellectual and emotional auto-fellatio.

It's like people are afraid of giving ear to any idea that doesn't come pre-approved by whatever group or party with which they've opted to align themselves. It's as if we believe that our values and ideas as so fragile, so easily corrupted, that the very act of entertaining the opposition will turn us from all we've come to believe to be right and good.

Valid ideas and beliefs, however, come from thoughtful, reasoned investigations and conversations. And, frightening though it may be, that includes objective inquiries and investigations of all sides of an issue or stance coupled with unbiased critical evaluations of our own positions].

No climate is static. Political, economic, social, socioeconomic, etc. et al. - These are in constant flux. As such, we must be willing to engage in fearless evaluations and reevaluations if we ever hope to have any useful conversations about these issues. No doubt, I am a firm believer in the phrase "He that doesn't stand for something will fall for anything". I also believe, however, that one can be flexible in their understanding and approach without compromising their commitment to their beliefs and values.

Listen, people. It's how you came to believe what you believe in the first place. We strengthen ourselves when we are willing to afford ourselves a chance to honestly listen to what the other guy has to say. Hell, we're all in this together. And if no one is willing to listen themselves then they've no reason to say anything.

As Ready As We'll Ever Be...

2008-02-07T15:10:00.000-05:00

"While a majority of U.S. voters say they would vote for a black presidential candidate, many people say the United States is still not likely to put an African-American in the Oval Office quite yet."

NPR.org, 12.18.06
-----------------------------------------------------

"Although Barack Obama is different from previous African-American presidential candidates, it is still unclear if most Americans are ready to elect a black president, say two Duke University political scientists."

AScribe Newswire, 1.16.07
----------------------------------

"Is America ready for a black president?"

That's the question irrevocably tied to the Obama campaign. Are we, as a nation, ready to position an African-American at the helm? By now, I've heard countless reasoned yes's and no's, the overwhelming majority of them summed up one of two way;

"Yes, we've made enormous strides with regards to race relations in this country and a black president is a natural inevitability in that progression"

or

"No, America is stil lumbering in the infancy of our understanding and application of tolerance with regards to cultural diversity. We've not yet collectively reached the point where we can afford a minority candidate a viable opportunity for election to our highest office".

But just what does "ready" mean? I've yet to hear a single person specifically define the circumstances under which we would be qualified as "ready" for a black president. Yet everyone seems to be sure that it is or isn't "now". I, however, am not on either side of the issue because, frankly, I don't believe that readiness matters. At all.

America has NEVER been "ready" for African-American advancement.

Blacks didn't sit around discussing when America would be ready to give us civil rights. We never intended to wait until America was ready and, in fact, when it came, America was NOT ready for it. We had to march, and bleed, and riot, and die. We had to endure our children being bombed, beaten, lynched, and burned alive. We - and by we I mean those who had it in their hearts that this was a necessity, readiness be damned - had to suffer. And in the midst of that suffering, those people in the business of using readiness as the sole reason to proceed were making it known that they would not be moved and that they would never be ready. Among the unready stood the likes of Alabama Gov. George Wallace shamelessly screaming "Segregation now, segregation tomorrow and segregation forever" in his inaugural speech, poisonous words met with thunderous applause.

It was never the intention of the patriots who battled for civil rights to end racism. It was their intention to overcome it. It was their intention to achieve and progress in spite of it. Readiness was, nor shall it ever be, the issue.

The question of our readiness, however, is being treated as a valid means of qualifying a candidate - one specific candidate, in this case, Barack Obama. And, as I'm sure we're all aware, there are no shortage of people who would vote for Hillary Clinton that would have otherwise cast a vote in favor of Obama if they'd believed he had a chance of winning.

Only a handful of African-Americans have even won statewide office in the last decade. That's why Robert Ford, a black state senator from South Carolina who is an Obama fan, says he'll back Edwards or Hillary Clinton. "Obama would need 43% in some states of the white vote to win, and that's humanly impossible," Ford says. "We in the South don't believe America is ready to elect a black President."

Perry Bacon Jr., Time Magazine, 1.16.07

South Carolinian Senator Robert Ford's pseudo endorsement of Barack Obama does more harm than just about anything the opposition can muster. He disqualifies Barack Obama solely based on the color of his skin. What's more, it comes off as a perfectly valid disqualification - all because of the answer to that most asinine of questions, "Is America ready for a black president". Were readiness [or lack there of] not a consideration, I'm sure Senator Ford would have just voted for whomever he believed to be the most qualified. Instead, he forces himself to choose someone he has determined to be a lesser candidate - all due to a lack of faith.

The question is not only moot, it's dangerous as hell. It asks nothing of Obama save "What color is he?". It gives people bogus reason to discount him as a viable candidate - the majority of us would not vote for someone we believed had no chance of winning. And in the upcoming presidential election, that's what matter - the majority.

Is America ready for a black president? America, ready or not, i sin dire need of a capable, qualified leader. Period. Senator Ford and others would do well to be true to themselves and the process by voting for whom they believe would be best instead of whom they believe to be the most popular.

By the way, Senator Ford:

----------------------------------
Seventy-two percent of white Americans and 61 percent of black Americans surveyed in a new CNN/Opinion Research Corp. poll released Monday say the nation is ready for a black commander in chief.

CNN.com, 1.21.08

Make no mistake. We're as ready as we'll ever be. See you all on election day.

[Obama '08]

CT OKs the Half-Knot

2005-04-21T10:13:00.000-04:00

"I have said all along that I believe in no discrimination of any kind and I think that this bill accomplishes that, while at the same time preserving the traditional language that a marriage is between a man and a woman."
--Gov. M. Jodi Rell

It's about damn time...

HARTFORD, Conn. - The state Senate easily approved a bill that would make Connecticut the first state to recognize civil unions between same-sex couples without being pressured by the courts.(...)
A poll released Thursday found that Connecticut voters back civil unions but not gay marriage.

Civil unions were supported by 56 percent of registered voters, while 53 percent opposed marriage for same-sex couples, according to the Quinnipiac University survey. The telephone poll of 1,541 registered voters was taken from March 28 to April 4 and had an error margin of 3 percentage points.

Brian Brown, executive director of the Family Institute of Connecticut, had maintained that most voters do not support civil unions or same-sex marriage, and he called the vote "a slap in the face of democracy."

Missed it, did you? Too busy celebrating? I know... me too!

I'll highlight the stupidity to make it a little easier.

Civil unions were supported by 56 percent of registered voters, while 53 percent opposed marriage for same-sex couples, according to the Quinnipiac University survey.

Brian Brown, executive director of the Family Institute of Connecticut, had maintained that most voters do not support civil unions or same-sex marriage, and he called the vote "a slap in the face of democracy".

In other words, after years of bitching and moaing about "activist judges" a civil unions bill passes through the duly elected state legislature sans pressure from bad-evil-naughty judges... and that is a "slap in the face of democracy"!? Damn activist state legislature!... right?

Brian Brown is a sad punk ass bitch.

...and I'm inviting him to my wedding.

[Word.]

What Would Jesus Drink? and other unlikely bestsellers

2005-04-07T20:57:00.000-04:00

What Would Jesus Drink? and other unlikely bestsellers

In my quest to expand my academic horizons, I stumbled upon a number of interesting and thoroughly underrated books in a number of different genres [fiction, fairy tales, nursery rhymes, non-fiction, poetry, jokes/riddles, drawing books, How-to books, mystery, pornography, autobiographies, biographies... etc. Christian Lit., however, yielded the highest number of over looked gems and I felt it my duty as an American interested in education myself and my woefully unprepared peers to lay some of these sweet book titles on you. I've also taken the liberty of rating each book on my own scale of badassery – herein labeled "The Blasph-O-Meter". The scores range from 1 [or holier than thou] to 10 [Prince of Darkness Pick]

Here they are in no particular order:

Me and Baby Jesus
Charlene Simmons

A Colorado woman chronicles a 100 day peyote binge climaxing in a torrid sexual tryst between her and the lowly baby Jesus. Whips, paddles, chains, leather, and the occasional 3-way set against the backdrop of a marginally discernible Rocky Mountain sky make this psychedelic 1996 WTF Award winner a "must read".
7 out of 10 on the Blasph-O-Meter

How Mary Magdalene Got Her Groove Back
Emma Wilson-Harley

Mary is a highly successful, forty-something harlot in present day San Francisco who is persuaded by her colorful New York girlfriend Sharetha Watson [totally platonic] to take a well deserved, first-class vacation to Jamaica. As she soaks in the beauty of the island, she encounters a strapping, young islander, Jesus Christ. His pursuits for her turn into a hot and steamy romance that forces young Magdalene to take personal inventory of her life and try to find a balance between her desire for salvation, companionship, and sanctified schlong.
6 out of 10 on the Blasph-O-Meter

Fun with Sodomy!
Eddie Baker, Sr.

We do it every day, but we never learn all there is to know about it, nor do we ever finish mining all the pleasure that can be had with it [get it?]. Sodomy is fraught with fun, gang [bang]! How deep is too deep? Is it cool to tongue another dude's bung? What exactly is a "Backdoor Beauty"? How to I broach the subject of “DP” with my woefully inexperienced lover? These questions and many more are answered in Fun With Sodomy!
4 out of 10 on the Blasph-O-Meter

Whore Mongering for Dummies
Madam Fabulous

41 year old Fabulous, a 27 year veteran of the streets, sets the record straight... and how! Hailed as "The new Pope of Prostitution" Fab holds nothing back in this never before seen look into the world's oldest profession. Tricks, Johns, Pimps, and Scar Management are laid out in a language that we all can understand. Now, you can learn and love tricking as a player, bitch, or pimp! From crack drills and kegel exercises, to helpful tips on safety and injuries, this book is packed with information for the whore in all of us.
5 out of 10 on the Blasph-O-Meter

"Thou Shalt Not..." and other biblical typos
Dr. Sherman Payne

In this witty send-up of biblical misprints, renowned theologian and Dead Sea Scroll scholar Dr.Sherman Payne draws on a lifelong passion for Christianity and a love of errata. While most of the errata here are merely hilarious, in some instances the errors are downright injurious. Hall points out grievously flawed passages that deceive readers because they seem to be correct ["Thou shalt not kill", indeed! – lol]. Writers, readers, editors, publishers—anyone who works with words—will appreciate "Thou Shalt Not..." and other Biblical Typos. Buy it, you bitches!
2 out of 10 on the Blasph-O-Meter

What Would Jesus Drink?
Xavier DeBeers

Get wasted with The Kings of Kings as he pilots you through this book of sacred cocktails. Whether you're a cocktail veteran, or just starting out, What Would Jesus Drink? is an absolute must-have companion to any heathen bar or depressing rectory. It's got loads of recipes for favorites like the dreaded "Old Rugged Cross" and "Blood of Christ", and even a few new ones ( like the ever potent "Resurrection Sunday"), not to mention that nifty bookmark that's attached so that you don't lose your place while mixing – lest ye be damned to an eternity in Hell! This is one sacred text you won't be able to put down!
8 out of 10 on the Blasph-O-Meter

Honorable Mentions:

Horton Witnesses A Bloody Crucification
S. H. Benson
[Fiction]
4 out of 10 on the Blasph-O-Meter

Stoned!: A Guide to Marijuana & Adultery
George Bush
[How-To/Chemistry]
6 out of 10 on the Blasph-O-Meter

Pope-ology: 40 days and nights with the Vatican's only Rockstar
Armand Baski
[Biography/Sci-Fi]
1 out of 10 on the Blasph-O-Meter

The Tao of Judas
H. Tyler Hughes
[Philosophy]
11 out of 10 on the Blasph-O-Meter

Blasphemy, Blasphe-YOU!
Dexter Otis Green
[Self-Help]
Satan-tastic! on the Blasph-O-Meter

These clever and oft undervalued literally masterpieces can be picked up at your local bookstore or purchased online at www.amazon.com – word

[forward all hate mail to DexterAML@gmail.com]

Telling Lonely

2005-03-30T13:47:00.000-05:00

I grew up in a fair sized family; my mom, two brothers, and a sister. We got along ok I guess. My older brother and I were best friends for the longest time and my younger brother and sister and I managed to keep the bickering to a minimum. We were very poor growing up and I really believe that made us closer. I mean we had to rely on each other for a lot of things, sure, but hope… hope was the biggest. We fed each other hope and it kept us sane and together. But you know as close as we were, I never really felt like I belonged in this family. I know, I know, what a horrible thing to say right? But I didn’t. I’ve just always been different then the rest of them. I used to fantasize all the time about one day finding my real family or maybe one day them finding me… finding out that I was really the son of some well-to-do somebody or even just a long lost son of some other family… a family more like me.

I didn’t have many friends early on in school. Smart kids are rarely popular at that age and, aside from that, I was always in some special class for brains or somewhere being tested. My mom decided to bus my younger brother and I about 45 min out of town for school after I finished second grade. I was in a pretty unique situation in that place particularly compared to my classmates. The school was full of middle class white children for the most part and… well I was decidedly not so – lol. The real problem though was that I didn’t live in town with the kids I went to school with, dig it? So I mean I couldn’t hang out with my friends after school or anything like that. You know I really had two groups of friends; my schoolmates and my homeboys… which didn’t matter all that much in elementary school since I hadn’t been making that many friends anyway. It did begin to matter in middle school when I really started making lots of friends. I couldn’t go to birthday parties or sleepovers most of the time. No pick up

games of anything… not with my schoolmates. And things were off in another way too. Kids in school were intimidated because I was black and from the inner city and I was too much of a white boy for the guys at home. I never really made any solid friendships then. I remember feeling scared most of the time. Scared mostly that I’d never fit in on either side ever. I never felt like I could tell any one because, so far as I believed, they could never understand what it was like. So I kept quiet and stayed lonely.

In high school and college I started making real friends but by then I’d already be convinced that I was destined to be an outsider. I made friendly-like with many people and even made a few close friends. In the end, though, I ran into the exact same problem. I still felt disconnected. There was something of myself that I desperately wanted to share. And every single time I tried, things got botched. I made a mess of it. Or they didn’t get it. Or both. No matter what type of relationship I had with them. I used to think that people who hid themselves away from other people [emotionally or otherwise] were weak and/or insecure. Bitch to find out that I’m totally one of them.

That’s where my loneliness comes from. Secret secrets.

I can honestly say that I haven’t ever really shared the real me for more than a few moments. Every single time I have, I’ve paid for it – mostly with guilt. After spilling my guts, I feel overwhelmingly selfish for days. So I’ve stopped. Now, in the latter part of my youth, I’m finding myself desperately seeking intimate connections with people. And it’s selfish. I want to believe that there’s more to knowing people than the posturing that we do. I’ve found that most other people really want to share themselves in the same way that I do and, if I just listen, they’re more than willing to do so. Somehow that’s just made me feel a bit more lonely. Maybe I’m just a jealous asshole – lol.

I haven’t met anyone who’s as interested in getting to know me as I am interested in getting to know them. And I don’t blame them. It makes me feel … creepy to have that much of an interest in other people. Not in their personal lives, dig, but who they really are. I’ve been thinking lately that I do it so that people will trust me. So that maybe start to get more curious about me. [Shrug]

I’ve always had friends but no one’s ever known me. The difference between me and this growing group of “I can never be known” mystery kids is that I really want to be known. Heh – and the only thing that’s stopping me is me, right?

[Inspired by "A Room Nearby" – PBS.org]

$2.00

2005-03-11T11:51:00.000-05:00

I put my two dollars on the table, and it begins.

I always wonder how I’m supposed to get your attention, although to be truthful, that’s probably selling you short, now isn’t it? Perhaps the young ones, the rookies, the ones who stick to one side of the floor, or one group of suitors – perhaps they miss a new set of bills every so often. Not you. Of course, you make your money by being two steps ahead of the crowd, of the other dancers, of everyone. You make sure the customer at hand is getting his (or hers) money’s worth, but you know where you’re headed next. Even if the money wasn’t meant for you, it’s rare that someone is brave (or callous) enough to pull the bills back once they’re on the table. And let’s be honest – it’s a late night, another cold and crisp day in the endless New England winter, and with the booze flowing and the lights dim, there are few suitors in this place that are willing to be choosy.

It’s the reason why I’ve learned to keep my hand on my bills until the one I want – you – makes eye contact. I suppose I could be poetic about it all, speak to the inner beauty of all who have graced the stage on this night, but isn’t that what the money is for, anyway? To strip away all of the pretense and heartbreak that goes along with reconciling physical attraction with desire and emotion. On the outside, lyrics and poetry are the standard currency, and even then the money hits the table, through the indirect costs involved with first dates and initial meetings. I’m here tonight to take a break from all that, to put the Hollywood drama aside, and that’s the service you provide. Perhaps on the outside I would have to apologize for my desires, for my wants and needs – but not here, not now, not in this place. If I want one over another, so be it, and as quickly as the bills hit the table, my hand covers them up when one of your coworkers saunters by. Nothing personal – as if anything that takes place here is personal.

But you see all of this, don’t you? Out of the corner of your eye, even as another man’s hands tempt fate and wander as close as they can to the curves of your hips. It’s why you moved right on over to me once you were done – skipping the few others in between who were still deciding whether you were worth the pocket change. You saw that I wasn’t just there to take in the scenery, I was an active participant – and you know that a good show will get you a few extra bills in the bargain, won’t it? It won’t even take that much extra work, because I’ve already shown interest; maybe an extra wink, or smile, or a stray hand caressing my cheek, and you’ll double your take. And then I’ll be set up for the real sales pitch, the one that makes this your career and not just your part-time job. You’ll wait until I’m lost in the smell of your perfume, the feel of your skin, the fullness of your breasts and the curves of your legs, and then you’ll pop the question.

Imagine having me all to yourself, you’ll say. Just you and me, away from the crowds and the noise and the stale air and the spilled beer, where there won’t be any table between the two of us, there won’t be any other eyes taking in the show because it will be all for you, just you and only you, because you are in control, you are the reason why I am here, why my hair is long and flowing and my eyes are sparkling and my smile is bright white and clear, so why waste another moment here in this world when we can escape to our own little fantasy, just you and me, forever and ever, amen?

I have to admit, you almost had me. It was right when you leaned over, on your hands and knees, your long hair surrounding my face, speaking in slow and hushed tones into my ear as if I was your first, last, and only lover. Was it perfume? Some sort of body spray? Whatever it was, it was perfect. It was a pure and innocent scent, one that spoke of canopy beds and satin sheets, of early morning sunlight piercing through the curtains, of that first kiss when you’re half-asleep and still floating somewhere in the ether of dreams - of intimacy. I wanted to wrap myself up in that scent, close my eyes and let all the pain and stress disappear. For once, I wanted the fantasy to be real, and I knew that all I needed to do was to close my eyes and believe, just like some cardboard Disney storyline where everything is made perfect again with a song and a dance.

But it’s not that simple, is it? Because this isn’t a fantasy, it isn’t a dream, it’s nowhere near perfect or intimate, it’s a hole in the wall in the middle of nowhere on a cold and bitter New England night, and this is nothing more than a business transaction, buddy. Supply and demand. There’s a price to be paid, and if you’re not interested in providing the capital investment, someone else will. And the more time I spend trying to convince you, the less time I’ll have to convince the drunks in the corner to make their wallets thirty dollars lighter. So what’s it gonna be?

Of course, I smile and politely refuse. After all, honey, my money won’t buy me that canopy bed with the satin sheets, will it? That’s what I’m really in the market for. Nothing would change in the private room, you know that as well as I do. Perhaps you would let a little extra slip, or your hands would get a little bit of the wanderlust – but what would come of it? At some point, our time would be up, and you would go your way and I would go mine, and no amount of dancing or teasing would ever come close to that one perfect moment when I was lost in your scent, lost in my own private world where you were there for me because of me, not because of the money in my hand. Nothing you could do could top that – and I’m old enough now to know that for sure. So I smile and politely refuse. And you smile back, as if you knew exactly what was on my mind, as if you shared the exact same moment with me. But I know better – you’ve seen the same dopey smile on thousands of men who have come and gone over the years.

With a flip of the hair and a wave of the hand, you’re off.

Under my breath, I laugh at myself as I finish my beer.

I put another two dollars on the table, and it begins again.

Real Heroes of Mankind #1: Al Bundy

2005-03-03T23:10:00.000-05:00

Greetings, BnP enthusiasts. Welcome to the first of (hopefully) many posts detailing the lives and heroic accomplishments of the < insert epic-sounding brass theme > Real Heroes of Mankind! In the true spirit of chauvinism, these men exemplify the greatest things about being a guy. They're man's men, the epitome of guy culture, what every little boy (whether age 8 or 80) wants to be when they grow up.

Today's edition: The hero of the Chicago City Football Championship...scoring 4 touchdowns in one game! His name...Al Bundy.

His qualifications for inclusion on the list of Real Heroes of Mankind are many.

High school sports hero? Check.
Loves sports, cars, beer and girlie mags? Check.
Don't take no shit from his wife, his kids, his neighbors or anyone else? Check.

He is the Everyman. While his life may be spent stuck in a dead end job working for the same wages he did after high school, with a wife he hates, kids he doesn't want, and an annoying bitch-queen of a neighbor whose entire existence seems to be a foil for Al Bundy's happiness, he knows what he needs to be content: to come home from work, crack open a beer, put on the game, and go to sleep. At a deep level, that's what every working man wants. And since just about every man is a working man, it logically follows that that's what every man wants. To come home, have a beer, watch the game (or read a copy of Big 'Uns) and go to sleep. Maybe take a weekly excursion to the nudie bar, or host a meeting of the National Organization of Men Against Amazonian Masterhood (NO MA'AM).

So, in honor of this < dramatic music > Real Hero of Mankind, we should all follow the example of today's hero. When you come home from work, or whatever it is you do with your day, sit on your couch, click on the TV, and put your hand down your pants. It's a worthy salute to an extraordinary man.

the revolution will Not be televised.

2005-02-28T02:21:00.000-05:00

The proper steps to start the revolution are as follows.

Step 1 – Identify your Tyrant.

This step is perhaps the most important one. You need to figure out which ‘the Man’ is oppressing you. Sometimes it’s difficult, because there are generally lots of ‘the Men’ keeping the common folk down. You just need to find the most visible one, and figure out who he is. His motivations, why he eats breakfast off of the backs of slaves, what he does to people in his dungeons (or 'detention camps'), why he wears a funny looking golf shirt, et cetera. Know thy enemy, I say, and thy enemy is ‘the Man.’

Step 2 – Give your Tyrant problems.

A good way to go through this step is to start breaking laws. Start small, with jaywalking and creating a public nuisance (you can save the big ones for later). Make it very well known that his laws are bullcrap and you’re not going to stand for them. Also, stealing his car is another fabulous way of undermining his authority. You can also put intoxicants in his soup (Although bowel-loosening juice is another great choice). Let ‘the Man’ know that you are fed up with his Byzantine and Draconian laws, and you’re not going to take it anymore.

Step 3 – Form a Conspiracy

In your quest to topple ‘the Man,’ it’s important to have friends. And by friends, I mean co-conspirators. It’s so important to have a secret underground organization, and I’ll tell you why. Number 1: it’s easier to get stuff done when you have lots of people to break the work up. Number 2: you can distribute the blame along many channels, funneling it to a predetermined patsy. (It’s extremely important to not let the patsy KNOW he’s the patsy. He won’t take it well.) And number 3: if even four or five revolutionist engineers get thrown in the dungeon, never to be seen again, there’s always people on the outside to continue the work of the Revolution. And once the Revolution comes, you can always let them out when you open up the dungeons, along with the mother rapers, whack-o-loons, murderers, and other nasty (but wrongfully imprisoned) folks.

Step 4 – Drop your pants

This is the lynchpin of any good revolution. More than breaking the laws and being a general nuisance, this lets ‘the Man’ know the end is near, and he’s about to get a big steaming pile of Revolution left on his stoop. It’s really only a half-step because it’s immediately followed by

Step 4.5 – Start the Revolution

This is what you’ve been working towards for anywhere between three days and a year or so. When the Revolution begins, there will be many skirmishes, and probably some dead people. But you are secure in your resolve, because you know that although you may die on the green fields of battle, you will be remembered forever as the man (or woman) who took down ten drones with you, while all the while waddling around with your breeches around your ankles. The revolution lives on with your spirit, and once it comes, you will be commemorated with a nice statue, or at least a plaque. Once ‘the Man’ has been toppled, you can all sit around, drinking fine ales, remembering your brothers and sisters in arms, and thinking to yourselves, ‘Praise the Revolution! It’s a damn fine day!’

*end transmission*

Beat it, kids!

2005-02-20T23:14:00.000-05:00

So. Masturbation. What can I say? All the myths have pretty much been debunked and, at this stage in the game, the vast majority of us are experts. Most guys [well over 90%] beat their meat on a regular basis and 2/3 of the women folk diddle their middles frequently. It happens all over the world cutting across boundaries of sex, race, sexuality, age, and social class. It's as common as our need for love. We are a crank yankering, slot diddling species. Praise [insert deity here]! Somehow, though, we've managed to remain fairly uptight on the subject. Pulling one's pud [or the feminine equivilant] has even been deemed evil by some groups! How'd that happen?

It's easy to cast blame on religion. Hell that's certainly part of it. Clergy have made it their business to set up shop in our bedrooms whether we're with that special someone or just , quite lieterally, enjoying ourselves. But there's more to the story than that. Masturbation has never really been fashionable. Surgeon General Joycelyn Elders got the boot after her December 1994 statement that “masturbation is part of human sexuality and a part of something that perhaps should be taught”. In the 18th and 19th centuries, masturbation was blamed for 60% of what ailed us including; instanity, vision and hearing problems, epilepsy, and mental retardation. Fuck that!

Thank God some sane folk weren't willing to take that nonsense laying down. The Kinsey report [Jan 1948] not only debunked this madness but discovered that masturbation was actually beneficial! And in 1966, Masters and Johnson [tee hee] proved that pretty much everyone does it. Joycelyn Elders was right on the money. Jerking off is a part of who we all are. Hurrah for Science!

So we know it won't make you blind or furry and we're pretty sure that just about everyone has done it at least once if not regularly. Howver, we're in tacit agreement that talking about it is naughty, at least. The deal seems to be "Go on and do it but for God's sake don't talk about it!" But why not? People have been masturbating for centuries. It's a part of our collective heritage.

Tefnut and Shu were created from a load blown, swallowed, and spat out by Atum - the first being ever to exist. The Sumerrians, who invented the first written western language, make reference to the Mesopotamian god Enki beating his meat until he filled the Tigris with "water". Ancient Greek women [and men] had dildos. It's a part of our nature. Fuck, even Bonobo Chimps [with whom we share 98.6% of our genes] beat off!

So it's natural, people, and it actually serves a damn good purpose. Masturbation helps you develop a healthy, responsible sex life - and without hurting anyone [most of the time]. Folk masturbate whether they have sexual partners or not. There's just something special about self-service. Total satisfation can't be attained in the bedroom with a partner. We hold back a part of ourselves even during this most intimate of occasions. Masturbation allows us to be more honest and open about what turns our crank than any other sexual act. We don't worry about performance because we know the score when it comes to our own bodies. That special alone time helps us get in touch with what turns us on in bed which makes us more able to articulate what we like [and don't like] to our partner.

So what have we learned then? Masturbation, far from being evil, is actually pretty good for us in in more ways than one. Who cares if your dead relatives are watching or if kittens are dropping off left and right? You'll be glad you spent all that time [spanking that monkey or fingering that bearded clam] once you reach sexual dynamo status. So how 'bout we stop bashing masturbation and hop onboard the pleasure train? Whip out whatever piece you've got and share a bit of yourself with yourself. Who knows? The sex life you save may be your own.

When I Grow Up, I Want to be A Little Boy

2005-02-16T17:09:00.000-05:00

In January of this year, Boston was buried under about 44 inches of snow.

I spent the better part of that week [or so] truding through the sloppy melting remants; spinning and slipping once the winter wind chills the muck and slush on the sidewalk into merciless ice. I can hardly contend with the razor-toothed winds biting through my jeans and woefully unsuitable denim jacket - let alone prancing and dancing around like one of those bloodless spandex gripped bitches at the ice capades and damn near snapping my spine just so I can get to the bar... or to the bar... or to the bar... or to the pub. And even as the wonderful winter miracle of snow [that's right, Kozak. Sarcasm! Very good!] was being shat out on the streets and sidewalks [with me safely indoors] I was annoyed. Bristling. Splenetic. Fucking pissed.

Someone's gonna have to shovel up that shit. [God hates me]

And that got me thinking... When I was about nine, I was having similar thoughts. Though they were more like:

Someone's gonna have to shovel up that shit! No School! [Jesus make-out!]

In 4th grade, nothing beats a snow day. Not even Saturday morning cartoons. It's the 9 nine year-old boy equivilant of a death row pardon or winning lottery ticket or fantastic sex. And isn't it funny how on that day no 9 year old has trouble getting out of bed at all? We're up snow-suited and out by 8 AM, our bellies sloshing with captain crunch and hastily downed OJ ready to built snow forts and pen our names in the snow.

Now? I'm like every other 20-something urbanite. I hate snow - period. Sure, it's "beautiful" but who gives a shit. I doubt everyone would be so starry-eyed if the sky was suddently filled with falling Natalie Portmans and Brooke Burnses. I'm mean hell I guess that would be kinda hot. But beauty is no justification for shit falling from the sky. Snow fucks up my morning commute [shut it, Kozak] and any of my other plans - by which I mean heading to the bar to drink and complain about my job and America.

And the nine year old version of me had one up on 20 year old me besides appreciation for snow. He was totally carrer and goal oriented.

Q: What do you want to be when you grow up, lil' Drew?
A: A fireman, bitch! - gimme a soda! [groin kick!]

A fireman. Boom. No quiet contemplation. No moral dilemas. No parental consultation. No soul searching or spiritual questing or examination of inner children. No. None of that shit. Just an enthusiastic cry of "Fireman!" and a well executed kick to the balls. Case closed.

Don't get me wrong. There are some clear advantages to being an adult - most of them involve beer and voting but they're there. I wouldn't give those up just to fall in love with snow and cartoons again. What I do miss is the decisiveness of the younger ignorant me. I was sure I wanted to be a fireman because that's what came to mind at the time of asking. There was too much fun to be had to consider the future too carefully.

These days like most folk my age I'm gagging on indecision daily. We all go through the motions of what we believe will lead us to success [read: approval] but our hearts aren't in it. And those of us who finally decide to stop and look around at what we're making of our lives find it pretty hard to get going again. We're numb to the previous generation's feverish desire for wealth and status. We've been brought up to believe in a system that rewards those who work and study hard and, despite our best efforts, we remain hollow and unsatisfied. The rewards we fought so hard for just aren't as attractive anymore. What do I want to be when I grow up? What do I have to look forward to other than frantic paper chasing and deep-throat debt? What more is their to life then those shallow pursuits?

I've given up on being rich and successful [read: gov./parent approved]. I honestly have. And I'm not the only one. Sure, there are plenty of us plodding along snatching up degrees and sweet jobs but I'd like to believe that they're the minority... and they're hollow inside. We want satisfaction, damn it! We want our lives to have mattered to someone other than a statistician. We long for recognition and acceptance of the people we truly are regardless of our dedication to the status quo. And 20-something is about the time that we realize neither money nor degrees alone are going to help us achieve that goal. I don't think I speak for myself alone when I say that I want to be motivated by something other than dead white men on paper and fancy "Look at how smart you are" documents validating me behind glass. I want to be driven by genuine passion.

I'm realizing now that my impromptu uprooting from CT and hasty transfer to Boston were all a part of that; establishing independence, pursuing 'the dream' [damn the torpedoes!], taking the road less traveled, et cetera, ad nauseam, ad. infinitum. And I'm also realizing that, in part at least, it was bullshit impatience winning out over careful planning. It's funny – I'm sure we can all look back and see how our lust for success has driven us to make rash decisions on more than one occasion. Sure, we may feel like we're doing something, moving forward, what have you but, ultimately we end up fucking ourselves in the ass more often than not. And, thanks to the magic of hindsight, it's pretty clear afterwards that most [if not all] of that pain could have been avoided if we had just... well settled down a wee bit.

"everyone talks a good game. myself included. everyone talks about how good things are going to be. all the great things they are about to do. how they are all ready to do something once a few things are taken care of. it's all such beautiful bullshit. only justifying living in a stale existence in the present, because the future is always brighter. i fuck everything up because i'm so impatient. i don't want to wait. i want my dessert now. i shouldn't have to eat green beans just to get to it."

--K. Frenette – [sophist-o-phunk]

Sound familiar?

Look. I'm hardly advocating a forethinkers approach to life [::pointing at pot::: “Nigger!”] but I'll be damned if it doesn't have it's advantages. In the heat of the moment [which, let's face it, damn near every moment at our age] all of that is forgotten. I feel so anxious to get started NOW and reach my goals NOW – it's tough to admit that maybe I need to rethink some of my goals and plans for the future. Am I alone here?

Whatever happened to pure optimism? Does everything have to be cut with reality? When I was six, I got high on nothing but the best – the china white optimism that dreams are made of. I couldn't be touched. Dropped my ice cream cone? Whatever. Who wants to play football?

Now? I get a hit of that shit on the weekends if I'm lucky. The rest of the time I'm dry swallowing reality tablets every 4-6 hours and sporting soggy adult diapers of success to catch all my bullshit. And it's fucking hard to snatch off the foggie pampers and cork up the cornhole. Everyone will see me; naked, a little afraid, a little lonely, vulnerable, and love starved. I know I know... what am I even talking about, right? Old folks and heroin and little kids? – what a winning combination! By now, I expected to be a professional something or even an expert of sorts in one area or another. Instead, I know a little about a lot of things and, as such, am damn near unhireable.Nobody really wants a "master of none".

As a kid, life was much simpler.

When I grow up [now that I'm grown up] I hope all my dreams and aspirations are left intact. I hope I'm able to flee the undead bite of the 9 to 5 zombie. I pray that I don't fall in with the back alley apathy junkies. When I grow up, I still want to have red hot [!] hope for the future. I want to be able to dream as wildly as ever. I don't want to stop loving and missing and caring and hoping and just plain feeling for people - openly. I'm pretty sure that's important. When I grow up, I want to have toys, friends, teachers, and nap time. I want to wake up feeling “Today is the only day that matters! Time for oatmeal!” I want to watch Saturday morning cartoons in my underpants.

When I grow up, I hope I haven't forgotten how to be a little boy.

[I'm gonna go play outside]

================================
GonzoGHDSI: I love the bathroom
GonzoGHDSI: its the only place you can go

To all the girls I’ve loved before:

2005-02-15T03:14:00.000-05:00

Or, to all the girls who didn’t know I loved them before

Or, Please don’t arrest me.

Quoth my main man Eric:

The word Valentine was originally coined in 1450 AD and meant a person who was a lover, or friend that had been chosen for the upcoming year (to be sought after..). Today the meaning is slightly different, and refers to a lover or friend that need not be sought after, someone who is already engaged in such a way with you.

He’s wordy, I know. And that’s why I like him. But his valentine’s day quote got me thinking. And now that the big V is finally safe and past, like some toothsome beast slipped back underneath the current of the ocean… here we go.

I don’t like Valentine ’s Day very much. Now, this is mainly due to the fact that I’ve had very few good ones… due to timing, and extenuating circumstances. I imagine that if I had a lady fair to spend it with, I’d be more… appreciative. In a biblical sense. Mind you, I can’t really remember a particularly disastrous Valentine’s Day. I’ve never had a very memorable one, either. Most pass by, just another day on the way to forever. And my birthday. (I was born hella close to Valentine’s, so I often got bundle presents. Oh well.)

Like today. I woke up, worked, ate delicious sandwiches, fixed computers till 11:30 at night. It was pretty much every other day.

Enough about my personal itinerary. In the traditional sense, Valentine’s day has less to do with being with the one you love. (but if you can’t be… with the one you love, honey… love the one you’re with). It has more to do with the one you want to love. Which means… you guessed it… Stalkers! Here’s a group I adore! Hiding in alleys, breathing heavily, getting all hot and bothered. Gazing from a distance. Going over conversations never uttered, but for the fevered whispers in their heads. Crumpling papers, absently fondling strands of hair. Trying to cap Reagan. Here are what’s left of the world’s romantics; raving, stammering emotional zombies, turned away by a world that moves too fast. What is abandoned is of course corruptible.

Stalkers get a bad rap these days. Not without due cause, though. I mean… stabbing yourself while masturbating to a closet shrine of Fiona Apple can’t really be considered healthy. But there are those are made out to be stalkers… people who are so afraid of social stigma, or rejection, or physical intimacy, or what have you, that they have no choice but to admire from a distance. These people can’t profess their love! They’d be called creepy stalkers! Pity… Cry, O children of Man.

Now, back in the day… Stalkers got what was coming to them. Romeo… now here’s a hep cat that has no idea what’s going on. He’s in love with being in love, for god’s sake. And yet he managed to cross his stars with Juliet, and they totally pork a few times before tragically ending the relationship.

But we read Romeo and Juliet, and call it Romance. Romeo… is a lover. Not a stalker. Gone are the days of secret admirers, anonymous love letters, unlabeled gifts at your doors, the sense of thrill… that some eloquent someone is waiting in the wings, waiting for you to notice them. Those days were paved over… those days are done.

Who has time for that shit nowadays, right? Not Worker Bees John and Jane Q. they’ll do SpeedDating and online compatibility quizzes. Singles Mixers. Blind Dates. Strip all that unnecessary bullcrap out, they say! I don’t have time for it! I just need a man, a woman, I need them fast, and I need them now! I need a Tax Break! I need someone to help pay a mortgage! I need someone who is willing to hustle just as hard as I am, cause we’re a Motivated Generation! We’re Going Places! We’re Career Oriented! Where’s the lease for my VW? I need to spend a weekend… aw, shit.. I don’t know.

Everything’s going too fast.

Everything’s falling apart.

We all fall victim to this quickened, dangerous society. I find myself feeling an immediate need for a mate… and maybe it’s cause I’ve been out of that scene for a long time now. But it’s… so easy to soar out there. Take wing… send an email. Shit, carbon copy it. Talk to people thousands of miles away, instantly. And then forward them humourous links. Go on autopilot… wake up and find you’ve aged seven years. The speed at which we live our lives is like a drug… and it feels GOOD.

Maybe, for a second (if you can spare it), come inside here. The lighting’s dim. The jazz is low, and smooth. And the waiter might get to us eventually. But as you can see, he’s chatting up one of the cocktail girls. Let him be. We’re not in a rush, right? Just sit down in the dark leather chairs, feel yourself sink into the deepening cushions. Nice, right? Don’t listen to the fluttering outside… in here… it’s a steadier heartbeat, with maybe a little bit of swing.

Love… isn’t chemical. It’s not a formula. It’s not the shoes you wear, or whether or not you shaved, or put on makeup. Love isn’t presents… it isn’t jogging apparel, gym memberships, pagers, purposeful movement. Love is simply slowing down, and basking in the soft light of one another, and knowing that you’re looking into the eyes of someone who gives a damn, and knows how bad you snore, or how long it takes you to get that curl just right, but somehow, they understand, and see through to the real you.

I’ve had my fair share of crushes in the past, and even the present. I’m a distant admirer. I’ve always been intrigued by the concept of love… maybe even more than love itself. I’ve written letters that I never sent. I’ve watched people walk down aisles in white dresses, sitting less than comfortably in a church pew (I am decidedly unaccustomed to keeping still in the house of god). I don’t think I’m a stalker. But hey. Anything possible in an Age of Labels. So… if you’re out there… some prospective valentine…

I’ll say this, to no one in particular…

The way you sway when you walk is poetry… Eyes sparkling in the streetlight, (maybe blue, maybe hazel, hard to tell) under the yellow gold haze, you captivate me. I don’t know if you notice me noticing you, but maybe I’m just so wrapped up in your beauty that I can’t understand how your attention could be turned my way. I have dreamed of the shape of your teeth behind your lips, pressed fast against mine, and I smell fresh air, jasmine. I have felt the ghost of your form shift beside me, and I wake up wondering... I lay in a field, watching the summer stars, wishing your silhouette would blot them out, like an eclipse of the sky. I want to feel your heart beat in time with mine, and wonder how I got so lucky that our times could coincide. I wish for these moments to be true, and I wish for them to be remembered fondly, on an autumn walk, hand in hand. I want to see beyond the gifts and the fights, and the incompatibility, and realize that our lives are moments in sequence, and the ones worth remembering were the ones I spent with you.

Keep the thoughts… make love a more than annual occasion. Peace, kids; you are luckier than you think you are. For me… to bed, alone. Perhaps, perchance, o unknown valentine, we’ll dream about each other.

George W. Bush is A Fucking Asshole

2005-02-14T14:13:00.000-05:00

I'm gonna let this one speak for itself...

WASHINGTON, Feb. 4 /PRNewswire/ -- The following are remarks by President Bush
in a conversation on strengthening social security:

Qwest Center Omaha Arena -- Omaha, Nebraska [8:40 A.M. CST]

    THE PRESIDENT: [after intro remarks] Mary is with us. Mary Mornin. How are you, Mary?

     MS. MORNIN: I'm fine.

     THE PRESIDENT: Good. Okay, Mary, tell us about yourself.

     MS. MORNIN: Okay, I'm a divorced, single mother with three grown, adult
children. I have one child, Robbie, who is mentally challenged, and I have two
daughters.

     THE PRESIDENT: Fantastic. First of all, you've got the hardest job in
America, being a single mom.

     MS. MORNIN: Thank you. (Applause.)

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

     MS. MORNIN: ...I work three jobs and I feel like I
contribute.

     THE PRESIDENT: You work three jobs?

     MS. MORNIN: Three jobs, yes.

     THE PRESIDENT: Uniquely American, isn't it? I mean, that is fantastic that
you're doing that. (Applause.) Get any sleep? (Laughter.)

================================

Wow. What an asshole.

[if you don't get why, you probably voted for him]

Hello Again! And other worthless greetings

2005-02-11T21:49:00.000-05:00

Alright, let’s get a few things straight before I get started. That alright with you, wiggletits?

Good.

First off, as you might have noticed, Beer N’ Porn has experienced a renaissance of sorts. Content is actually fresh! Our tireless army of enslaved gorillas is working overtime; smashing their primitive hands against the keys of thousands of typewriters in a Darwinian struggle to produce quality pieces of novel copy for your perusal. The most productive primates are rewarded with snack foods and Jolt Cola™, while those who lag behind are terminated with extreme prejudice, and used as “filler” for Fenway Franks - everyone’s favorite! In this way, we hope to develop by the end of the year (through selective breeding) a race of super-simians capable of creating propaganda of such suggestive power that it BENDS THE WILL OF THE KNOWN WORLD TOWARDS OUR OWN PERVERTED GOALS!!!!!

So what does this mean for you? Nothing really, unless you are accused of harboring thoughts that are counterproductive to our revolutionary ideals, in which case you will become feed for the overlord Orangutans. Otherwise, bully for you! Welcome to the second coming of Beer N’ Porn!

To celebrate, why don’t you take a swing on over to the Beer N’ Porn message boards? That’s right, the Beer N’ Porn message boards. See, there’s these message boards, and they’re frequented by the authors of Beer N’ Porn. Which is why they are called the Beer N’ Porn message boards. If you post there, at the Beer N’ Porn message boards, maybe authors of Beer N’ Porn will answer your queries! In summation, visit the Beer N’ Porn message boards, sign up for an account, and post on our boards! Because it’s the right thing to do.

And I’m lonely.

Hold on…

[cough] [coVISIT THE BEER N PORN MESSAGE BOARDS FUCKERSugh]

Alright, now that we’ve taken care of that little issue…

--

Since when did this lovely little corner of cyberspace become the Deter Otis Green Lovefest? Oh my goodness, I guess I didn’t get enough of that Black Stallion from his very own blog. It’s not enough to have his every vile utterance available to my impressionable psyche at the click of a hyperlink – I must extol his virtues in every possible corner of the internet! I cannot go a single moment without the warm touch of his Devil’s tongue licking the impressionable lobes of my cerebral cortex.

[retch]

I know Mr. Green personally, and let me tell you, he’s the reason they added the “Red-Severe” level on the Homeland Security Advisory System ™ [Presented by Halliburton™]. You think nukes in North Korea are a scary proposition? How would you feel having a thermonuclear device strapped to your gooch, motherfucker? One with a hair trigger and no sense of taste and decorum? That’s right, that shit would blow the FUCK outta Grandma Ethel’s tea party without even PASSING THE SPLENDA. That’s what Dexter Otis Green is like in person. He’s like vaporized bits of nutsack hitting your beloved matriarch in the late afternoon sun. You best keep your Gods-damned distance.

In summation, I like Drew. He’s my “Black Friend,” which gets White People like me a $250 deduction on our Income Tax. Here’s to you, Dex, my Line 38 deduction!

--

On to OFFICIAL BEER N PORN BUSINESS.

I am constantly dismayed at the amount of de-evolution our society (meaning the United States) has gone through in the past ten years. Sometimes it’s hard to maintain a sense of perspective, what with the Salem Witch Hunt being perpetuated by the Federal Government against potty-mouths on our airwaves and television screens. The symptoms, of course, are innocuous things – like the persecution of Howard Stern, or the $1,000,000ions of dollars in fines levied against broadcasters for errant nipplage, or the censoring of pretty ladies dancing in front of Fictitious Congressional Panels during the National Celebration of Pain, Violence and Alcoholism that occurs on the First Sunday of February (Praise Jeebus, say thankya). The disease, of course, is much more serious – one born of a misplaced national ideal, and supported by an administration that realizes the importance of keeping the minds of the proles occupied with tawdry sex and unimportant gossip rather than the incompetence of the ruling party. But who am I to judge? The will of the many will outweigh the will of the few, forever and ever, amen. If you wish to live your life ensconced in a paper bag of lies and deceit, so be it.

However, think of this before you wrap yourself in your IKEA comforter and fall asleep tonight. We all remember “Seinfeld,” right? One of the top sitcoms of all time! Jerry, George, Kramer and Elaine are ingrained in the American psyche just as the Ikes, Dicks and Archies of old. Their trials and tribulations entertained us through the years, and kept our minds off our petty everyday problems.

I’ve become a sucker for the everyday ritual of “Seinfeld” sitcoms, half because my life has no meaning after becoming part of the mindless 9 to 5 workforce, but half because Senfield makes me laugh, and I enjoy the ability to fill in the gaps in my Seinfeld knowledge with the seemingly endless parade of syndicated episodes available between 6 and 8 PM, EST. A few days prior, I happened to stumble upon the Mother of All Seinfeld Episodes, and I celebrated, for there is no blessing from the Gods greater than the appearance of “The Contest.”

You know what I’m talking about. Are you master of your domain??? That’s what I thought. Hands down, this is the best Seinfeld episode ever created. And, I would wager, easily in the top 5 Situational Comedy Episodes ever aired on broadcast television EVER. It’s simple brilliance, like stumbling upon the Relativistic Theory of Gravity after years of living in a cave. You just can’t turn your eyes away from the everlasting glory.

You’ve seen it, I know you have. If you haven’t, then you’re simply too young to be on the internet. Shield your eyes and call for momma, you little brat.

Otherwise, I pose this simple question:

Can you, in all honestly, imagine a TV show devoted to the topic of IMPLICIT MASTURBATION being aired on the airwaves of Modern America?

Hmmn?

At one point during the episode, our Real American Hero Cosmo Kramer leaves Jerry’s Apartment for the sole purpose of RUBBING ONE OUT after viewing a NAKED FEMALE for only a few minutes.

Catch that?

On national TV, a respected sitcom character FLOGGED HIS DOLPHIN after a brief glance at a NUDE CARRIER OF TWO X CHROMOSOMES because he had NO CONTROL OVER HIS SEXUAL URGES.

The kicker?

This episode was nominated for several Emmies after it aired.

Think it would even make it to broadcast in Modern America?

I doubt it.

Whatever happened to the America I used to know?

-Mr. Carson

A Brief History of Love and Child Molestation

2005-02-09T17:42:00.000-05:00

Dexter…Otis…Green. A.K.A. Andrew…he is also MY friend. Our friendship began before we even met. How is this possible? Well, hold onto your butts! Here we go!

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, two of my compadres from the land East of Hartford were forced to attend the University of Connecticut ‘s summer program for incoming freshmen who might need a * push * toward the world of academia. Of course, I don’t think my friends needed this push, but that is not the issue. These friends came home on the weekends and told me stories of one of their roommates; a thin, black, scary young man who was quiet at first-a man of the introverted persuasion. As the world moved on, the young man opened up to my friends from the hood (as black people will often do). He was intrigued by a game of

Advanced

Dungeons and Dragons my friends were playing. He asked if he could play. Milo was born (only to perish in the February of 1999 in an accident with a match, I believe). The choice young Andrew made to put down his copy of Stephen King’s It to join the game of young men’s search for power and blood was the choice that changed his life forever. And ultimately mine.

Through my many discussions with my East Hartford friends, I heard of their hysterical adventures with the burly-challenged stranger. They came home with stories of “love and child molestation,” as well as the joys of pedophilia. I was dumbfounded. Now, I have always been known to hang out with nutty people. Sometimes crazy people. Most always…fucked-up people. The stories I heard about this dark one known as Drew took the whole friggin’ bakery. Never before had I heard of anyone with as few reservations as this guy. I never thought I would be lucky enough to meet him, but only time could tell…could and would.

Fast forward to the days of enlightenment: UCMB preseason. I was scared. I was intimidated. I wanted to tear out the larynx of a kid named Floyd Kellogg (he was an ass). All the same, I was enjoying myself and searching for my niche. I joined the UCMB by myself. There were no other East Hartfordites from my graduating class who joined the marching band. I befriended a couple of guys from the drumline and joined them one evening during the UCMB pizza dinner on the lawn next to one of most foul lakes (ponds) in pollution history. It was here history was made.

I sat quietly, chomping on cheesy goodness, listening to the conversation of others. It was an interesting mix of people: a stoner, a goof, a rocker, and many others…including a lanky, somewhat angered, black boy. This guy was off his rocker! His vulgar, yet cleansing language both offended me and liberated me at the same time. I wanted more. I sat and listened intently for twenty more minutes, and then it came; the thin one began to rant about love and child molestation out of nowhere. I thought to myself,

Sex with monkeys

“Oh, shit! I know this bit. I have heard this before…but where?” And then it hit me—a Frisbee thrown by a stupid trumpet player…no, no, no…I recognized the bit and asked this oh-so-skeletal one whether he knew my friends. He looked at me with

demonic

confused eyes and asked me my name. I told him. He laughed and told me he was indeed the very Andrew I heard about. What a small, friggin’ world! After our first introduction, the rest of the friendship came easy.

Days of fun and laughter with Drew quickly became months. We always had a blast. We would frequent the same parties, drink the same beer, talk about similar interests, and piss out the same windows. I couldn’t have found a better friend my first year of college. He was a nut, no doubt, but…unknown to many of our peers to this day…there is a very serious side to this emaciated, mysterious young man. It was the serious side that intrigued me. The serious side led to the formation of the D.S.S.-an organization bent on world domination and the sharing of one’s soul. Sometimes this soul sharing would lead to very deep and long (no comment) discussions, sometimes it would lead to the purchasing of a new pack of Camels. Whatever occurred during these meetings, not another soul on this planet could ever, and will ever, be able to comprehend the purely masculine compassion between its members. Friendships were formed, and some dissipated, but to this day I remain friends with Drew for more than the laughs he brings to any gathering. I remain friends with Drew because he is one of the most genuine individuals I will ever know. His brute honesty and outgoing character sometimes hide what I know from experience: Drew is an intelligent and strong but humble individual with a heart of gold and the will to fight anything thrown his way. For these reasons, as well as his devotion to being a friend at all costs, I will never willingly leave his circle. If it ever happens, it won’t really matter because I will always be there to help and be a friend when needed. The past seven years have been quite an adventure. Boston may be 90.67 miles from my current habitat, but the link between Drew and I can never be severed…I dare you to try.

And now… I offer you a look at some of the exciting moments in time Drew and I have to look back at and cherish. Some of these anecdotes may not make much sense to you, but I don’t care; this site is really for my enjoyment…not yours.

Milo
A belt being torn to shreds as Drew attempted to exit his pants in a timely fashion with intent to piss.
D.S.S.
Drew’s introduction to Jeff Motola: “Hi, I’m Jeff.”

“Ehhhhh.” (drunken moan)
Alcove
Mr. Miagi
Keys (the drama geek)
Doogan
The C.G./J.L/L.D fiasco
Vermont, Vermont, Vermont.
Ja*%$, A.K.A. The Beast
Drew, a big-boned lady, a Boston hat, making out at the Rootin’ Tootin’
Walking in a blizzard from Windsor to Ellington.
Waking up naked next to __________.
Banana-Nut!
“I am lovable…yes?”
“Gimme your wallet!”
Putting up with my Junior-year love problems
Yo-yos (complete with holster)
…And much more to come.

El Fin.

My Gay Friend Drew

2005-02-08T01:11:00.000-05:00

I have this friend… his name is Drew. I met him under the strangest of circumstances. There I was, in the forest behind Store 24 (kids, do you party there anymore? Seriously… awesome fire circle. You should go. But keep it clean, in accordance with the natural order of things). So anyway… I was there, chilling out, playing guitar, drinking beer, and there was this crazy Black man scuttling around. He eventually sidled up and introduced himself. Here is an approximate re-enactment of this meeting.

Drew: Hi, I’m Drew, I do things.

Scott: …

Drew: *drinks beer* Guitar is awesome!

Scott: Yeah. Nice to meet you Drew.

Now, I had been aware of Drew’s existence for some time. In my mind, he was named ‘that crazy black dude in front of Buckley’ If you went to school at uconn in the late 90s or early Aughts, you probably also know him as such. The Cove (alcove) was his personal fiefdom, where he sang songs and scammed cigarettes off of strangers. Now, these days, it’s been blocked off, due to some silly security initiative. Different times, different places. Maybe someday I’ll go back to Uconn, and then do a post about what’s changed. At any rate… I had friends in Buckley, and the cove is where I smoked. And I am sure that I bummed at least one or two smokes to Drew even back then, cause I’d be smoking, and he’d ask. So… I was aware of his existence, but not on any personal level.

Then was the night in the woods with the beer and the fire. Primal, baby… primal. And somehow he got a hold of my Screen name, and we began a year or so of random, monosyllabic small talk. This was my fault. In those elder days (and even now, to an extent) I warmed up very slowly to new people. VERY slowly. And then… after a year. I warmed up. Completely randomly, I began talking back at length. He was working at Uconn; I was in the area… so I stopped up and visited. We went to Schmedley’s pub and drank beers. He took a random picture of me lighting a cigarette. And the rest… is a jumbled piece of history. He moved to Windsor… I worked in Windsor… we never actually got together while this was happening… a year goes by. The next summer, Drew and I hung out A LOT. Like… a whole lot. For about a week straight he lived at my place… we both thought it was weird, but we were both too shy to bring it up. And then he went to Tolland. And stayed there for like 7 months. Now, he lives in Boston. I don’t see him nearly enough, and I miss him and want him to come home, although I am happy that he’s living out his dream, and stuff.

At some point in this several year span, Drew revealed to me that he was gay. It was weird…. At first. I’ve never had many gay friends… nor had I had many black friends (well, one. But she’s another story altogether.) But hey… whateveh. It’s not like I turn folks away for being different than I am. On with the story.

This is what surprised me about Drew being gay. He is… one of the most ‘dude’ dudes I know. He is an unrepentant drunkard and foul mouthed hategiver. He digs on the Sox and Football, and listens to Jazz with an ear I could only hope to one day approach. He burps. He skips showers and wears the same clothes all the time. His BoSox cap is rakishly cocked toward the back of his head, as if he were ready for a knife fight. (the rakishness should have tipped me off earlier, I suppose.)

Drew taught me that gay people are EVERYWHERE! Lurking in corporate offices, serving me drinks, making my socks, eating my food, smoking my cigarettes, sleeping on my couch. And hey… I’m ok with this. I’m not one to go around telling people what they should or shouldn’t do behind closed doors (or in bar bathrooms).

Drew also informed me that I’m the white devil and I should be brought to trial for my various and sundry crimes against humanity. Well, not in so many words. We often have discussions about what life would be like with different colored skin, and how much easier or more difficult some things would be.

Drew taught me that I’m a whiny bitch for being all sad that no girls like me. He puts it like this… “Imagine all the girls in the world… now… eliminate 99 percent of them… and those are MY chances of finding love and happiness.” This puts things into perspective, and causes me to want to get off of my whiny bitch ass.

Drew puts lots of things into perspective. His wisdom is at times shortsighted, and he does have an annoying desire to be right… but it is wisdom nonetheless. There are few others I know who I’d go to for advice about life before him… although it is humorous to note that Drew is COMPLETELY useless when it comes to advice about fashion or interior design. He has gay flashes about such things, much in the same way I have sporadic fits of literary creativity.

Drew’s unflinching honesty about all things is at first a bit frightening. I mean, he offers an unobstructed mirror to people who would rather not peer into such a surface. If left to our own devices, we’d likely speculate about what we’re like, and chuckle to ourselves in our ivory towers. Drew will tell the truth. He’ll tell you if you’re a douchebag, or if he is of the opinion that you are being a liar. Drew is honest, and his honesty keeps us honest, if we’re willing to hear him.

Drew is hilarious. I’ve met funnier people, but I can’t remember them right now. Random, scathing, jabbing, piercing, acerbic wit. Even his humor offers people a look at themselves that they wouldn’t normally take. That is, when he’s not obsessed with eating babies. Can’t help but laugh at the way Drew can make a simple walk through Boston seem like a madcap adventure.

Most of all… Drew is there for me. More than most others… he’ll listen to me whine incessantly about my troubles… and I’ll interrupt him when he has something to say, and he’ll be unusually longsuffering about it. Then he’ll refuse to accept my apology when I admit to being an interrupting asshat. Then we’ll go eat hamburgers. Sure, he’s difficult to reach sometimes, and he’ll occasionally forget to contact me during game 1 of the series, and every so often, he’ll completely forget he promised to do something with me… but all that fades with the knowledge that he means well, and shit… I also fail sometimes. I know I’ve been really tired when he needs someone and I’ve gone to sleep, and I’ve felt bad about it. But rest assured… if he ever needed something, even with him in Boston… if he was really in a pickle… I’d be up there in two hours. And I know he’d do the same for me if it was in his power.

Maybe you know some of these things about Drew already. I suspect you realize he’s hilarious… and honest. Maybe you’re just meeting Drew for the first time in this post. Maybe you think he’s just some callous drunkard who tried to feel you up at RAPS. Maybe you only remember the DP Dough song. Maybe, just maybe, you’re aware of his penchant for long walks in which he contemplates the universe. Regardless… he’s fuckin badass, and when the gays or blacks finally start the revolution, I know whose attic I’m staying in.

You go, Drew.

You fuckin GO!

Darth.. Tater?

2005-02-02T20:19:00.000-05:00

Kicking around on CNN.com, trying to find something to write about (sometimes even geniuses need a kick to get started), I came across an article that got my heart pumping, my palms sweaty, and my head spinning.

No, it wasn't about the "dirty stuff" that's gonna be in Michael Jackson's trial - what do you think I am, anyway?

No, it was about this:

Darth Tater.

In the merchandising frenzy that regularly froths up whenever a new Star Wars movie is released, Hasbro has come up with something original. Beyond the usual action figures and Lego playsets, we finally have something new, something fun and geeky at the same time.

I will have one. Hopefully I'll find it soon (according to Hasbro's press release, Darth Tater will be released sometime this month). I'll display it proudly in my apartment (probably on top of the entertainment center, though I'll have to displace some of Kozak's dragons - eh, c'est la vie). I'll point it out to people, and, to the horror of toy collectors everywhere, I'll actually play with it.

Finally, that damned Yoda Pez dispenser will meet his match.

Beer N' Porn: BEST SUPER BOWL PREVIEW EVER!

2005-01-31T13:19:00.000-05:00

Well, there I was in the fourth quarter, my New York Giants dominating the cross-town Jets 24-10, hopefully on the way to a third Super Bowl Ring. And I had this thought..."Hey, I like football. I should write a Super Bowl preview!"

Which is funny, because then Drew messages me and says, "Hey, Dobbs, you like football. You should write a Super Bowl preview!"

So I've taken it as a sign from the Creator that I am to write a Super Bowl Preview for the throngs of BnP fans just waiting patiently for our take on the greatest football game of the season. It's kinda like Moses, but without most of the theatrics (or Charlton Heston playing me in the film adaptation).

This is the thirty-ninth Super Bowl, and it looks to be a very good matchup, between the New England Patriots (a.k.a. The Bride), and the Philadelphia Eagles (ever the Bridesmaids).

Now, I must let the reading audience know that I HATE THIS MATCHUP. Why? Because the Patriots are evil, and their owner is a cock gobbling piece of shit, and the Eagles are division rivals, and therefore always suck. There, now that that's out in the open, let me offer my preview opinions.

The Eagles are gonna be in an unfamiliar place in this matchup: as the underdogs. The class of the NFC for the last several years, Philly's finally earned their place in the sun, and the right to represent their conference in the Super Bowl. The fact, however, that this Patriots team has won two Super Bowls in the previous three years means that the Eagles are going to be dealing with a team that knows how to win big games and has proven it over and over again (unlike the perennial runner-ups from the City of Brotherly Love).

That notwithstanding, the Eagles have put together a solid core of players, and off-season acquisitions like Jeremiah Trotter and Terrell Owens have been part of the key to the Eagles finally making it to the big kahuna.

Let's take a look at some of the matchups:

QB: McNabb (PHI) vs. Brady (NE) - Easily two of the best five QBs in the league. The only advantage is that Brady has two rings on his fingers, and they won't weigh down his throwing arm a bit. ADVANTAGE: NE

PHI Offensive Line vs. NE Defensive Line - The DL of the Patriots is probably less heralded than their solid linebackers or secondary unit, but they're still a key part of the Pats' great defense. The Eagles have just as strong of an OL as the New England DL, so McNabb should have good pass protection. ADVANTAGE: PHI

PHI Backfield vs. NE Linebackers - The stars of the New England D are the linebackers, and the reason the NE run defense is so strong. The Eagles' Jake Westbrook will have a difficult time getting a solid day on the run because of it. ADVANTAGE: NE

PHI Receivers vs. NE Secondary - If the Eagles have any chance of exploding and having a field day, it'll be in their receivers. New England's backs are good, but the Eagles receivers, mainly Terrell Owens and Todd Pinkston, are better. ADVANTAGE: PHI

NE Offensive Line vs. PHI Defensive Line - This is pretty much a tossup. On the one hand, the Patriots OL is so good at keeping the pocket open for Brady to pass that it makes an old guy's prostate look like a fishing net. Yet, DEs Jevon Kearse and Hugh Douglas are two of the best at their position, and will be trying to harass Brady all day. ADVANTAGE: Tie

NE Backfield vs. PHI Linebackers - The backfield, led by halfback Corey Dillon, for the Patriots is gonna be their key to winning the game. More than likely, the linebackers will concentrate more on making the passing game difficult for Tom Brady, and it definitely leaves it open for Dillon to grind out 100 yards or more. ADVANTAGE: NE

NE Receivers vs. PHI Secondary - The Patriot passing game will have their work cut out for them when facing the Philadelphia secondary (several of whom are Pro Bowlers). The Philly pass defense is strong, and DBs Brian Dawkins and Lito Sheppard are gonna be in the receivers' faces all game. ADVANTAGE: PHI

Special Teams: A wash. Both Philly's Westbrook and NE's Branch are gonna have great return yardage at the end of the day, and the two kickers (Vinatieri of the Pats and Akers of the Eagles) are practically automatic, even when from 50+. ADVANTAGE: Tie

Overall assessment: The key to this game is going to be the passing game. Both run defenses are good enough that the corresponding running backs probably won't make more than a dent in them, so this game will be won by whoever can get to the air early and often. I expect a low-scoring, defensively focused game, and it's entirely possible all scoring will be done by a kicker's feet and not from the QB's hand.

FEARLESS PREDICTION: Philadelphia strikes first and holds off a late Patriots surge. The defenses contain the scoring, and in the end, Philadelphia will take the victory 17-13. Sorry New England, but it's time for a new dynasty to take over.

Apocalyptic Paranoia!

2005-01-27T02:26:00.000-05:00

or...

The Four Fuzzy Kittens of the Revelation.

TSUNAMI! Right behind you!

I’m just kidding. There’s no tsunami after you. Yet.

I find the tsunami relief funds particularly humorous, because it’s like 9/11, but without the proximity. I mean, people are sad about it, but in a very distant kind of way. You look at the pictures, and can’t help but think it’s a really twisted version of MXC.

[Don’t… Get… Eliminated!]

But seriously… the tsunami is a terrible thing. I was reading an article about sex slavers scouring the streets looking for orphans and impressionable women (Fucked. Up.)… the devastation… SE Asia laid to waste like a pirate lego set in the hands of an ADHD child with a fistful of pixy stix. It’s a true tragedy.

But is it a sign of things to come? Has God judged us and found us wanting? Or are we simply projecting a deific face upon the random whims of nature, hoping desperately that some higher hand is out there, waiting to judge us? Do we have a need to be judged and punished? Is this where God comes from?

I digress. This article is not so much about the tsunami itself, but rather the reaction to it. To be more precise, my cat’s reaction to it. Unlike most of America, who can’t even remember 9/11 very clearly, and the tsunami will go the same way (we are cursed and blessed by our forgetfulness), my cat, the appropriately named Catface (his christian slave name is Damien) has gone completely bonkers.

Like, totally apeshit.

At first, I didn’t put two and two together. I thought he just decided to be more of a douchebag one day. But then my roommate, Patrick, came home and announced that many cats owned by folks he works with are acting weird. And we decided it was the Tsunami’s fault. I HAVE read someplace that animals can sense weather and big things a coming.

Catface has become very talkative. Like… all meowy and howly, and lonely. He was only like this one other time… when we first brought him home. He howled all night cause we didn’t let him into our rooms. He now howls more often.

Catface also starts fights with the little bullshit yap dog next door. Catface can totally take this dog. No contest. But he’s never been pugnacious like this before… unless he was attacking a foot that he couldn’t see was attached to our leg. (he’s freaked out by unexplained movement.)

Catface runs around the Apartment much more often now. Before, he would perform a post dump victory lap, and trill (purr-meow) contentedly. Now… he runs around at random, even if he hasn’t pooped in HOURS!

Finally… he’s become a needy little bastard. He sits with us much more often. Before… we’d be lucky to even get a glance from him as he traveled from under the coffee table to under the… well, I can’t really call it a dinner table. More like the random mail table. Now, he’s always hopping up on us, as if we’re going to die in a fiery inferno of apolcalyptic intensity.

(Interesting side note… we now believe that Catface can read Brain Waves. He ignores us if we’re watching TV, but if we’re reading or writing, he hops up on us immediately. He can also detect when we come out of REM sleep, and begins to riot and knock stuff over when we do. And… he can tell when we’re almost done doing something. Like… if there’s five minutes left in a TV show and we’re going to do something else, he’ll hop up on us and be all attention starved. In addition, he can detect when we get up to retrieve the squirt bottle. Yes. The tsunami made catface a psychic.)

So… what do the animals know that we don’t? is there a coming storm? Is it the dawning of a new age of enlightenment? Are we careening headlong into a dark age (for which we’ve been itching for a couple decades now)? Alls I know is, I’m packing my bags and buying guns when Catface dons the robes of a prophet and begins preaching vociferously about the end times atop my leather easy chair. As Bob Dylan said… the times, they are a-changin.

Will there be Krispy Kremes when the world ends?

- the slater.

I'm back (In school and on beer 'n' porn)

2005-01-24T20:28:00.000-05:00

I feel outrageously out of place at times. I do not say this to generate pity or sympathy by any means but I must say that I don't really feel like I completely fit in right now. My life for a long while was following a rather usual path. After graduating High School I began my college career. For two years I studied music education. My second year ended and I decided to try to contribute more to the financing of my education by joining the National Guard. So, I went through basic training and managed to return to college in a timely manner--six years later. I can make a lot of excuses for this, but it is not my intention to do that here.

In a lot of ways I am glad that I have done things the way that I have. I'm a better student than I was before for one thing. Also, I am not studying education anymore. You see, being a teacher was never what I wanted to be. Music Education was the safe thing. In the time spent away from the hallowed halls of higher education it became clear to me that having something to fall back on would most likely cause me to fall back on it at some point. That was never what I really wanted. So, with the same goals in mind I've returned to school to study music performance. I've got to at least try or 20 years from now I will have a regret that I do not wish to have.

At this point we come to why I feel out of place. It is rather simple. I am surrounded by 18 year olds. Now I know this is not in-and-of-itself a bad thing. It is just that because tranfering to Uconn virtually guarantees you a spot as a freshman I am not even close to the age of my new peers. I do enjoy the company of some in my class but at times there seems to be an quite an age gap.

It makes me feel old when these peers of mine don't understand the joy of Wayne' World or The Princess Bride. There is so much that was so much a part of my culture that they don't have a clue about. A few days ago I had to try to explain who Pearl Jam was to one of these "peers." I was deeply saddened by the fact that she did not even know who they were. Now to be fair I love Pearl Jam, and while I am certainly not the fan that I used to be they along with the other great bands of the early 90's helped to shape my tastes in music. It's not that I expect everyone to be shaped by what I was. I would never wish that. It is upsetting however that movies and music that were so important to my cultural upbringing have little or no significance and are not even recognized by these teenagers a mere 8 years my junior.

Now, maybe me and my friends were unique in that we seemed to have and continue to have an appreciation for a wide variety of musics and films from a wide variety of time periods. Some of the cultural influences in our lives were from decades before. We were not against things simply because they were not the newest. But, when conversations shift to cultural upbringings in any way I feel a little uncomfortable at first and then I feel the need to let this new generation in on some of the greatness of ours.

Where’s the poon: Shaking my fists at the wrath of an angry god

2005-01-23T06:20:00.000-05:00

.

>(
How come I never get laid as a result of being a world famous blogger!? I signed up for this with the promise of MOUNTAINS of booty, and all I end up with is a a mouth full of that tinny roofies taste and a bowlegged gait. What the fuck!? Do I not tease my pompadour high enough? Is it my unsightly back hair? My predilection for molesting bellybuttons in the dark parts of the night while a potential lover is asleep, and by asleep I mean drugged!?!? What foul god of erotic encounters did I wrong whilst it was in animal form? Was it the badger I threw a rock at? Perhaps the golden retriever I dressed as a Hoplite soldier solely for my perverse academic amusement?

I will admit that I am intrinsically nefarious, but that usually brings more booty than one could handle in a given fortnight. I demand satisfaction! A line of hotties striking my door with sticks and sextoys! I want zippermasks lining my mantle like trophy heads, gazing sightlessly down at the scene of the crime. Too long have I gone without the simple pleasure of an anonymous dry hump! I want to recreate to passion of the Christ in a slightly more biblical sense.

I’ve seen the photos! Don gets booty all the time! It’s like he’s doing algebra, or long division in the champagne room, only it’s sex. And jeff does his kinky army thing: Using bootlaces to put a poor unsuspecting PFC into traction, stained fatigues all over the place… I’ve only heard whispered rumors of Mr Carson’s exploits, and let me tell you, they’re too terrifying to even repeat, especially with all the impressionable livestock who read this Blog… and let’s not even get into Dexter and his frenzied babycentric romps through sexual awakening! He’s like some sort of foul praying mantis, gore dribbling sinisterly from his mandibles. Sasquatch has his often out of focus encounters with many a small woodland creature. There are no pictures, but such is the nature of the sasquatch. And Kozak… he has a great racket going… playing the virgin, only to seduce and silence any nymph who saunters up his way. He may not admit it, but I’ve helped him bury the bodies of the whores he’s ‘broken.’ He always has this bashful look on his face, covered in blood, giggling… I tell you, we’re running out of burial space behind the Norwegian wood basketball course…

But what do I get? ‘nice article…’ ' I enjoy your whimsical and referntial style of writing’ ‘keep up the good work’ Why should I! I only do it for the nookie! And nookie is what I do not get. I’m always the one that has to drive home form the BnP “swinger’s gatherings” with orgasmically twitching legs kicking me in the head from behind. And let’s not forget who mops up the ‘Beer cave’ after Beerman and 'Porn, the boy wonder' are done with whomever they managed to seduce with inane articles about politics and the human condition. It’s me, motherfuckers! ME!!! I’m the jizzmopper! I’m the one who gets sexiled from the BnP office while one of our intern writers gets his freak on… I sit in the lobby, doing a crossword and then I hear the words Cleveland steamer and I know that I’ll have to don my rubber gloves for the evening’s cleanup.

So who’s gonna give it up for Scotty? I mean, come on! Am I the only one disgusted at the flagrant and often fragrant sexual trysts of the Beer n Porn staff? Are there no hotpant clad fillies for a young, idealistic author? Where’s poetic justice, now that I need it to have sexual overtones?

-- the slater.

Another Christmas Wish

2004-12-13T07:26:00.000-05:00

Here it is, ladies and gents. The 2nd to last Monday morning of the year. The last truly shitty Monday has arrived and it does not disappoint. Snow is falling and I'm bundled in a pile of thin blankets on the south edge of my mattress stealing glances out the window. It's beautiful. I realize that I'm smiling a little and that it has nothing to do with the scene outside. The reality of the season has taken hold and, as it occurs to me just how much – with all my heart - I want Christmas to [DIE] go away, it also occurs to me how much I love egg nog. Like probably in an unhealthy way. Borderline festish, people...

[ahem]

There's no denying it now. Christmas is upon us. Everything speaks of mistletoe and nutmeg and Santa and holiday liqueurs. And, just like every year, I'm getting more and more uncomfortable as The Day approaches. I haven't bought a single gift for anyone - standard practice for the last few years - and, just like in past years, it irks me that I'm feeling somewhat guilty for not going purchase crazy. And I'm not staying away from the malls because I'm upholding a Standard of Righteousness or something. I just don't have any bread. Period. But enough of this meandering. On to my point...

Last year, I banged out a pretty angry essay on Christmas. I hate it, in case you're a new comer to this bliggidy-blog. I hate it muchly. This year, though, I finally took some time away from hating Christmas - enough time, that is, to examine why I really do not dig the Consumer Extravaganza. If I'm really honest with myself, I don't mind the lights or the decorations so much. In fact, the decorative whatnots are kinda nice when they aren't totally overboard. I can even handle the nativities and plastic snowmen most times. And I won't lie... I LOVE Christmas music. It really does make me feel all warm and cozy inside. Plus all kinds of wonder treats pop up around this time of year that aren't anywhere to be found during the non-Christmasy season; Christmas cookies, Christmas Porn, Egg Nog, and Christmas Beer [Santabrau!].

And how 'bout those holiday parties? Even the guys from shipping and receiving get in on the action - People get trashed, asses are photocopied, random hookups happen in the mailroom, and the mistletoe in accounting makes sure everyone gets a little lovin'. So what if you totally ended up making out with Karen from sales or if Brad has his hand in you "up to there" [thumb and forefinger around wrist]- it's Christmas time, baby!

Now... don't think for one second that I've been un-Scrouged. I haven't. As yet, I'm merely a pube's breadth away from going on a Yuletide murder spree. Why? Well... I'm spending the holidays with my family. And I love them... I totally love my family. But...

[thinking]

[example time!]

...here's a sample of an online convo I had with my mom this morning:

NRWY: Hey, I'm back
NRWY: had to potty
GuinnessAML: wonderful
NRWY: took a little longer than I thought
NRWY: wanna know y?
NRWY: ;)
GuinnessAML: not even remotely
GuinnessAML: but I'm sure you'll tell me anyway

[...]

And that's oh so very tame. And there's much more where that came from. And every member of my family is insane just like, if not more than, my mom. We're an emotionaly vaired [read: psychotic] nest of love and dysfunction. Which, of course, means that Christmas rocks - I mean that goes without saying. But I can't really spend more than a couple.. few... hours with them before I snap and try to eat my own face. Don't get me wrong, I love them... I just can't stand them.

Thinking of all that madness made me realize something about Christmas beside the fact that it sucks moose ass... There's plenty of misery for everyone! – Who cares!

Shop your soul away, what do I care? I'm gonna be puking my egg nod laden guts out all over grandma and her precious knitting accoutrements by noon anyway! In others words, find your very own way to suffer through the holiday season. It’ll mean that much more in the end. And, hell, it’s not I suddenly agree with everybody’s Christmas festish. I’ve just finally become American enough not to give a shit.

I hope your holiday season is as personally fulfilling as mine. I go to break bread with the ones I love.

[bah humbug]

Dexter
----------------------------------

oh... umm... yeah... This is Jeff... I can’t stop wanting to... to hurt him. I’m sorry Jeff [knife!]

Jephmutt: i really have to go and take this medicine though
GuinnessAML: or you'll die?
Jephmutt: it has to be taken with food or i may get a belly ache
Jephmutt: and i'll die, yes
GuinnessAML: ok ok
GuinnessAML: but first let me tell you this quick story
Jephmutt: ok
GuinnessAML: [ahem]... In the begining, God created the heavens and the earth...

2004-11-09T06:33:00.000-05:00

*drum roll*

And now for an article I've been working on for some time, At the request and behest of a certain Dexter Otis Green (who's been off doing some sort of Solo Project, or so I hear) I give you,

Constitutional Conundrums and Highfalootin Hijinx!

Or, How Your Vote Doesn’t Count At All.

Or, Super Happy Fun American Voting Party Revolution!

So… whod’ja vote for this election? Doublya? Kerry? Nader? Mickey Mouse?

WRONG! In fact, you voted for ‘Some Dude.’ And ‘Some Dude’ (gender nonspecific) may or may not have voted for your candidate. ‘Some Dude’ might not have even gotten the chance. ‘Some Dude,’ in fact, may have just been sitting at home, rubbing his *insert genitals here*

Heh heh… sex joke. At any rate… To be completely honest, ‘Some Dude’ and his buddies haven’t voted yet. They’ll get around to it… but they have a lot of errands to do first.

For those of you who haven’t guessed yet, ‘Some Dude’ is an Elector! For all we know, the Electors are sitting, sipping scotch, donning black robes with horn helmets and burning potions to their Sleeping God. (Well, probably not…) But isn’t that a lovely mental image? So here goes… an attempt to explain the whacky roller coaster ride that is our system of electing an Executive Branch.

To begin, the Electoral College as most people understand it.

Candidate A is fighting Candidate B for control of a certain state (Kind of like the premise for Magic: the Gathering, Axis and Allies, or Risk…). Once a candidate gets the majority of a vote in said state, that state becomes ‘red’ or ‘blue’, depending on the amount of crazy sauce (by which I mean fundamentalist scaremongering) that the state has managed to consume over the past 14 months or so. Once a state is ‘Red’ or ‘Blue’ it is, well… it’s that color, dammit! And we’re allowed to drink heavily in celebration or depression, looking down on states of other colors.

*Hippy!*

*Fundie!*

*Liberal Pinko Scumhole!*

*Fascist, Racist Pigdog Asshat!*

And then… in January, either the same guy’s in charge, or some new guy is in charge. And we can all get back to ignoring politics and watching I Love the 90s on VH1. (‘Cause we DO, in fact, love the 90s, with all of our aging hipster hearts.)

This isn’t exactly how the Electoral College works. In practice, it’s a bit more complicated, and has a shit load less to do with you as an individual.

So here’s the Electoral College… the Director’s Cut!

When you pop your chad, or flick the lever, or scribble and stuff into a shoebox, or whatever… you know, Vote… you aren’t voting for the President… you’re voting for an Elector! These guys don’t run commercials, they don’t talk in public about welfare reform, you’re not gonna catch them kissing babies or having messy political/ sex scandals. In fact, one of them might be among us right now! (Well, probably not).

Each Elector has two votes (more on this math later) and there is one Elector for each member of the Senate and the House of Representatives, plus 3 for the District of Columbia. So 100 Senators + 435 Representatives + 3 DC Electors = 538 votes. Half of 538 is, according to my Math teachin sister, Emily (the only UConn Math TA guaranteed to speak English!) 269.

269 electoral votes plus one (for a majority, silly) is 270. Hence the big number 270 on so many news networks over the course of Super Tuesday.

Now where was I? (Damn, this is some confusing shit!) Ok… 538 votes, 538 Electors.

Now I did say that they get two votes, because they do. They vote for President, and for Vice President. Back in the day, they just voted for president and the number two vote winner got to be VP (which would make for almost sitcommish antics these days. Imagine if Bush and Kerry had to hold hands and dance through fields of public scrutiny together? Ok… it’s just me, then… but don’t deny me my sexy fantasy!) This made for some strange bedfellows, even back then, and so they amended the constitution.

(then you can make all sorts of crazy laws!)

God Damn this is interesting, isn’t it? Aren’t you all just dying a little bit in your brains while reading this?

So each state’s political parties run slates of electors (e.g. District of Columbia ran 3 Republican Electors, 3 Democratic Electors, and 3 *insert third party here and repeat* Electors. Whichever party gets the most votes gets their electors elected, so that they can elect the president. And there’s just a huge electing party, lots of champagne… sneaking off to the Grotto to nail a playmate, et cetera. (Well, probably not…) The slates cast their votes according to the whims of their parties, and this is all condensed for your mindless consumption by news networks, so that you see your vote on the screen (the popular vote, or colloquially, the tiny numbers under the candidate’s name) and also the electoral vote (which is much more colorful and interesting, at least to Dan Rather). Most times (not counting the last two elections or so) the popular vote and the electoral vote reflect the same reality; namely, Candidate A is the friggin winner! WOO! This is not always the case (see 2000). If no one candidate gets the majority of the electoral votes, then the election is tossed over to the House of Representatives, who decide who the president is by… DeathMatch! No, not really. Each state gets one vote and each representative delegation casts that vote for one of the top three. But, by and large, the popular vote and the Electoral Vote bring the same guy into office. And no one is the wiser! Muahahahahahahahaha.

Pardon my cackle.

But wait! There’s more!

Back in the way way before time, before sweet, delicious television, and nationally controlled political parties, people would vote for the electors themselves, and those electors would come together after the election and vote for whomever they pleased, based on issues, agendas, you know, important stuff. They’d be free to vote their minds, and their consciences, on behalf of their constituency.

Hey… you know what that sounds like? That sounds like the way Congress is SUPPOSED to be run! So in fact, the Electoral College makes a pretty good amount of sense, considering that we are, as they say, a republic, and not a ‘direct’ democracy. (Oh, come off it, it’s not like you’d WANT a direct democracy… hey everybody, let’s go down to the Agora and vote on line items in the sanitation budget hearings!)

(Fun Fact: Electors, even in recent years, have been known to vote against their slate, if they are so moved. That’s right! Electors can go rogue! That’d make a pretty badass video game, huh? Rogue Elector! Stealth Kill! R0x0r!)

So something happened… and it wasn’t literacy (I enjoy the Electoral College argument that goes as follows: The Electoral College was for when everyone was illiterate and too stupid to vote for the president themselves!) Something happened, friends and neighbors… something that fucked everything up. Well, a lot of fuckedupedness has occurred in the last couple hundred years or so. So I guess I’ll focus my investigative beam a li’l bit. Those of you who’ve been following along might be able to guess...

*twirling finger, blindfolded over a large map*

The MEDIA!

Aaaannnnd….

Bipartisan Politics!

Unsurprisingly, our founding fathers didn’t think of these two factors when they were making up the Electoral College. This was a time when the telegraph wasn’t even a twinkle in the eye of the sperm of Samuel Morse’s Daddy’s gonad. (What hath God wrought, indeed?) The advent of long distance communication made it so that people could know the news instantly, anywhere… well, at least eventually. People could hear for themselves what the candidates had to say, and could (theoretically) make informed voting decisions.

The founding Fathers also couldn’t conceive of two gigantic national political parties that dominated the governmental landscape, like two overweight bulldogs fighting over the rotten scrap of meat that is America. Due to the state’s rights issues (yeah, there was still slavery when this system was getting the kinks worked out) the idea of nationally run political parties sounded a bit too much like the politics of jolly ol’ England.

The Republicans and Democrats have turned the Electoral College (and the rest of our government) upside down. umop apisdn, so to speak (turn your monitors over.) That’s right, folks… Bipartisan Politics have fucked it all up! Our country is the equivalent of a Baskin Robbins with but two flavors, and if you try to remind people that there are also 29 other flavors, they tell you that you’re wasting your vote. Which is basically true (under the current set of rules)

The winner-take-all methods of today’s Electoral College makes a third party run a statistical impossibility. All third parties are good for nowadays is to take up seats in state congresses and cause trouble for big candidates in swing states. To be more to the point… Yes, Virginia, you DID waste your vote on Nader. (don’t worry, I did too.)

In reality, causing trouble IS kinda fun… but it’s no way to run a presidential campaign.

To recap:

There was a time when the Electoral College was a good system for a republic to responsibly elect its leader. This time was the late 1700s… VH1 doesn’t even HAVE an I love the 1700s show, so it can’t be THAT pertinent to today, right? (sorry, I was just having this bizarre vision of Hal Sparks, David Lee Roth, and Mo Rocca making fun of hoop skirts and the discovery of electricity.)

The Electoral College is outdated, but the Electoral College isn’t the real problem here. When a drunk 16 year old crashes the family sedan into a telephone pole, do we blame the car? No… we blame the drunken Teenager. And the Drunken Teenager’s name is Bipartisan Politics, and his skanky girlfriend is the Media (who encouraged him to drive despite the three keg stands he did at the national convention). We’re gonna have to get a new car, (read: new system of electing the president), but shouldn’t we have the responsible parties own up to what they’ve done? Not only to the Electoral College (Virtually unchanged since 1804!) but also to… well, everything?

(They will be the first against the wall!)

(Well, probably not.)

-- "the slater"

“Hungry?” And Other Ridiculous Questions and Notions IV: Bite your tongue for no one – a study in angry meandering and careless "dark side venturing"

2004-08-12T15:04:00.000-04:00

       This is it. This will be the last of my venom. It’s about time I retire the angry rant motif and pick up something a little less “high school”. To hell with near meaningless anger rants. I couldn’t, however, set aside my black rage before writing one more love letter. Just one more. Don't think of this as an attempt at anything but word and anger binging - hold the common sense. 
And it’s addressed to you. Though I think you had a feeling about that as soon as you started reading this. So enjoy. Or not - I don't really care… why are you even reading this? Don’t you have anything better to do with your oh-so-busy life? Deadlines to meet? Plans to make? Posing to perform and posturing to perfect? Bungs to tongue to a healthy meat-colored pink? Cocks to buff and shine with your wormy liar’s appendage as you flit around with all the pathetic speed of a senior who suddenly realizes they’ve forgotten their Depends... [gasp! and the latrine is a 5 min arthritic shuffle away!]
[gotta go, gotta go, gotta go right now….]

[fwwaarp!… splat!…gush!... public shame]  
 
[…and I don’t gotta go right now]

Bastard.

While you’re sitting there stuffing your face with some god-awful confection and/or tabbing between this startlingly brilliant literary gem and your precious hot ‘n’ naughty super fisting digital teens[!], I am caught in a perpetual loop of realization and regurgitation. 
Someday, you’re gonna have kids.
[distant sounds of retching]

What should it matter to me that you’re all but consciously cultivating a heart attack and failed marriage combo platter? It’s your life, right? Why don’t I butt out and leave you to languish in your self-made shack of broken dreams and morbid realizations?

The answer is simple. You are contributing to the breeding of yet another miserable and failure oriented generation. In other words, you’re fucking it up for everyone.  
I watch you stumble mindlessly through your daily bland activities. Your entire life is nothing more than sesquipedalian expressions of self-loathing and empty, shallow, pursuits. And I don’t have to tell you that you’re an extraordinary sheep. You know that much at least and, these days, it’s not unusual to see some of you bleating it with pride. I see this everyday and it flat out disgusts me.But so what, right? This world certainly doesn’t hold any guarantee that I won’t be mobbed by idiots at every turn. Why don’t just I shut my goddamn filthy nigger rant hole? Because you’ll train your little’uns – nephews, nieces, sons, daughters, basement pleasure captives – to do the same. You’ll tell them:

“This is how me is and you are to be making happy in America!”.

You’re a moron… a shell of a human being… a robot… and you don’t even know it. I want your loose, hectic, fever ridden, imbecile infested line to die with you. You do just what they tell you to. “This is success!”, they cry. You run. “Happiness over here, only 99 cents!”, they cry. You’re there with jester’s bells on. You haven’t lived a single day of your life since you were born. You can’t be happy without someone else’s consent. You take fear and self-doubt up the ass with such enthusiasm, one would think you were gonna win a prize. And the best? You’re sitting here reading this, nodding along, drooling in agreement, completely unaware that I’m talking about you. That’s the absolute best. I’m talking about you – YOU – and, of course, you’re thinking of everyone else but yourself. You’ve got it all together, right? You’re all set. “Yeah, Drew, stick it to ‘em!”[grumble]
You are the malignant cancer in the ball sack of life.

You are caged by your bullshit fear of life, fear of disappointing others, fear of stepping outside of the lines, fear of true happiness – and none of that would matter the slightest bit to me if you were sterile. Funny thing, though. Cretinism and fertility seem to go hand in hand.  
 
I’m really fucking tired of you schmucks talking about how individual and special and unique and precious you all are… and then going on to pursue pretty much the same dream.

”Not so!”, you protest?

Look – technically I guess you’re right… and if I went through a box of goddamn cheerios, I could make the same argument. “See… this one is slightly less fucking retarded looking than this one!

You’re gonna grow up – you’re gonna have kids… and you’re gonna tell them this:

“Study hard so you can get a good job and make lotsa money, lil’ baby princess precious love honey bunch!”

You will. That’s what your parents told you.  And lookie here, you’re on your way! You’ll raise perfect little cogs to feed the machine that you and your parents have worshiped for decades – the machine that you believe in with all your heart forever and ever amen no matter how much it breaks you. And those poor bastard children will take their place in the machine right next to you. And you’ll all be dead inside. one… so… yay!”    
What makes me so different? I’m no better than you, you say? Some of my more “clever” opponents may even go so far as to suggest “Drew - you do that type of shit all the time!... and this article is ripe with typos!" To them I say:

Loan me a pair of sunglasses that I may protect my eyes from the overwhelming ferocity that is the awesome blinding glow of your inestimable stupidity.

Which, roughly translated into moron, is:

 I am wanting to make exploding diarrhea all into you face.   
Not that I owe you any explanation whatsoever – remember, gang, this is just a friggin’ blog – but what here’s what makes me oh so different:

 Children trust me
 I never sunburn
 I’m hung like a goddamn Silverback 

[pptttthbhbhbhbhb!!!]

You are never going to be happy and this isn’t really startling news to you.

You have only to face it.

You’ll drug yourself with cash and daddy’s blessing of your darling little wife or husband. You’ll chug the emotional equivalent of a Jack Daniel’s storehouse every day of your pathetic life and you’ll stumble about in the same empty, hopeless, shallow, drooling stupor that your parents have been in long since before you fell out of mommy’s baby oven. You’ll cheer at all the right moments, coo at all the pretty babies, oooh and ahhh at your TV, and schlep back and forth to work – bitching about nothingness. You’ll work your way toward a triple bypass with all the determination and ferocity of colon cancer [which is on it’s way if you aren’t eating enough fiber].  
You’re not alive.
You’re a machine.
There is nothing secret or mysterious about you. Drop the “If you only knew the real me” act. Asshole.
I want to stomp all over your genitals like a fictional Barbara Stetson’s feet getting crushed beneath size 19 EEE paws whilst movin’ and shakin’ in tandem with her honey pooh bear Big Dan in the biggest dance competition of the year. I want to burn your fucking uterus to a blistered crisp in a big “No Babies Bar-b-que Celebration!” followed up with an “All You Dare to Eat Fetus Festival and Extravaganza!”… and I’d invite Uncle Morty just so he could cop a feel after all these years [my precious, precious, baby girl].
But you’d still grow up. You’d still shoot your curdled wad into her rotten crotch and she'll still take your spoiled seed into her sloppy, dripping, rancid, spooge receptacle.
Whores… the both of you.
You are the spiked dildo thrust deep into the clenched and unlubricated asshole of life.
Without the approval of your family and peers, your life is meaningless.
You can do just about anything you’d like – BE just about anything you’d like so long as you are willing to put in the time… oh and there’s also that little part about pursuing your actual dreams instead of gathering degrees and paychecks to wave around as if they mean anything.
I hate you.
Whatever happened to the little bitch kid who wanted to be a fireman? The little boy who wanted to be one of those creepy ass clowns cirque de sole?
You’re almost out of time, chubums. In a not too far off tomorrow, you’ll wake up with your fist bundled around your useless genitals or a Duracell lover trembling against the gaping wound that was once a proud and promising vagina and you’ll hate yourself. You’ll hate everything you’ve become because you’ll realize that you’ve sold out and there’s little or nothing you can do about it. Then you’ll buy a Ferrari and wrap it around an oak tree or a telephone pole or a little girl named Betty and your family will cry at your funeral and sob in between gibbering on about what an awesome person you were. They won’t ever know how truly empty you were.
But you will.
I hope something wakes you up before that day dawns. I hope you figure out just what a creepy fucking schmuck asshole you’re on the way to becoming. And I hope you choose whatever makes you happy.
Something tells me, though, that smart money is on a Ferrari future.

[hanging up angry jacket]

10 reasons why Soviets are better than Democrats

2004-07-26T21:28:00.000-04:00

Well, I just got an email from the advocates of fair and equal time in political advertising saying that my previous piece "10 reasons why Nazis are better than Republicans" must be accompanied by a similar piece detailing the faults of the Democratic party so that the voters can have an informed ::cough, cough:: basis on making important ::cough, cough:: voting decisions.

So now, I present the companion article, all about why Democrats blow.

1) They hate successful people. If you got rich in this country, you did so by exploiting the poor, women, and minorities. They further spread their hatred by insisting that they be taxed much more highly from their patently ill-gotten gains to compensate for their evil oppression of all people.

2) They love taxes. If they could tax you on the number of times you have sex per week, they would. If they were fucking you in the asshole, they'd insist on paying an extra fee for giving you a reach-around. They also love to spend the taxes they take from you. If they can find a way to spend taxpayer dollars on useless programs, they spend it.

3) They talk all about how they're the party that cares about women, minorities, labor, and the poor. Yet, when you see the roster of states that carry the most Democratic support, they're the states that are filled with the most rich white folks. When you see a Democrat on the floor of Congress, or in the Presidency, the chances are almost inifinitely in favor of him being a rich white guy. Even when you see them on political stops shaking hands and kissing babies, the hands and babies are almost universally white. And usually men. And probably rich.

4) They call themselves the party who loves the environment, and supports foreign aid for the development of the third world. But tell them to stop drinking the Starbucks lattes, driving the gas guzzling Hummers from home to the corner grocery, wearing the sweatshop Nikes while playing tennis, and eating condor egg omelettes with spotted owl sausage, and they get all indignant.

5) They're in favor of personal freedoms, but watch get them get a big ol' legal hard on when some stoner gets caught with half an ounce of pot and gets sentenced to twenty years in prison. They think anyone should be given a second chance to reclaim their broken lives if they get into prison, then they mandate that anyone convicted of a felony can't vote, or that getting convicted of a sexual crime means that they're put on a giant registry that can be accessed by anyone at any time, and that their neighbors need to be informed every second they take a step outside their front door.

6) They call themselves the "liberal" party, but condemn both socialism and laissez-faire economic policies. In other words, they're liberals as long as you don't trouble yourself with any definitions of what "liberal" actually means.

7) They love having a big federal government, with lots of bureaucracy, which is responsible for most of the legislation and regulation of the government. Because, you know, no horrifically tyrannical monarchy ever kept itself entrenched by having a massive system of bureaucrats and ministers centralized in one location, and a series of laws and regulations that were arcane and unreadable by anyone except themselves...

8) They're damned dirty evil commie librul hippies. I know this directly contradicts several of my points above, but it needed to be said.

9) Did I mention taxes? While I was typing the above 8 points, I had to pay fifty cents in tax to pay for some congressional kid's 10 pack a day Bazooka habit. Or, more likely, to pay for his next junket to investigate the tourism trade in Barbados.

So, Democrats suck too. If anyone needs more proof of this fact, remind yourself that the last three Democratic presidents were (1) a lying sleazeball from the South who cheated on his wife, abused the authority of his office, and that's before he even got into the White House, (2) a good ol' Southern boy who mired the country in its worst war ever, using an excuse flimsier than Victoria's Secret lingerie, and (3) a hopeless idealist who probably wouldn't have been able to even cut it as the president of a peanut farm.

And if you need more evidence: George McGovern. Walter Mondale. Michael Dukakis. The defense rests.

The King, out!

10 Reasons Nazis are Better than Republicans

2004-07-26T19:52:00.000-04:00

There. Now that Godwin's Law has been invoked, we can get down to the serious business of: WHY REPUBLICANS SUCK! Because they do. I have met individual Republicans that are pretty nice people, but as a group, y'all suck.

Now, before all you rabid partisan watchdogs get ready to tear my larynx out for being an EVIL GODLESS COMMIE LIBRUL, bear in mind that I bear no party affiliation. My voter registration card reads that I am a member of the "Unaffiliated" party. A party which, as far as I know, holds no meetings, runs no candidates for office, and doesn't have a statement of purpose beyond apathy. I do not hate Republicans because I am a Democrat, or a liberal, or any other group that might possibly bear resentment towards the GOP. I hate them because they suck.

Let's run down some of the reasons:

1) They hate everyone that isn't a white, rich, Protestant, straight male. Now, some of you are already champing at the bit, upon reading that last sentence, to respond with a comment like, "But I'm a woman and I'm a Republican", or "I'm black and I'm a Republican". If you are anything but a white, rich, Protestant, straight male, you're deluding yourself if you identify with the Republican party or platform. I say this secure in the knowledge that the governor of my state, a woman, and the US Secretary of State, a black man, are successful and fairly respected members within the Republican party. They may look, on the outside, to be something other than the average Republican, but on the inside beats the heart of a white, rich, Protestant, straight male.

If you don't fit one of the five categories above, the Republican party hates you. They hate poor people, blacks, Hispanics, Asians, Jews, Catholics, Muslims, women, and gay people. God help you if you're a poor, Jewish, black, lesbian.

2) They think that God should be everywhere in government. God has no place in government, and despite what you may think about ambiguous statements like "endowed by their Creator" in our founding documents, the Founding Fathers thought so as well. The Ten Commandments are not the precepts by which we establish our laws and determine our moral guidance, nor is teaching divine creation the sole legitimate means of educating children about the universe, nor is God Bless America anything but a song written for the propagandistic war films of the World War II era.

3) They think that sex and sexual discussion should be kept as quiet as possible, and preferably to not even happen. They deny the overwhelming evidence that (1) sex is a NECESSARY biological function that each member of the species is driven to perform at least once, and hopefully as often as possible, and that (2) EVERYONE FUCKS. They believe that abstinence is the only policy worth a fuck (pardon the pun), that sex should only be between a man and a woman who love each other, and only in the bonds of holy matrimony, and that no one should know that anyone ever used their genitals for any other purpose than peeing. Likewise, they are in favor of free speech as long as it's not about sex, doesn't use dirty words, and doesn't contain any offensive thoughts or ideas (read: anything they disagree with).

4) They believe in the sanctity of life, that fetuses should be allowed to be born and have the chance at life, and that all people who are sick and infirm should allow nature to take its course, saying that abortion and euthanasia are actions that "mess up God's plan". They also see nothing wrong with messing up God's plan by taking the lives of criminals via the death penalty.

5) They ignore that this country was founded on the backs of cheap immigrant labor and people escaping shitty economic and political situations in denying the rights of Africans, Mexicans, Chinese, Vietnamese, Cubans and Haitians the right to do the same.

6) They think Canada and Australia aren't really real countries, that the rest of Europe should listen to us because we bailed their asses out in World War II, and that since we're the most powerful country in the world, everyone should do what we say. They also believe that in this post-colonial political environment that the Monroe Doctrine (and the Roosevelt Corollary) have any real meaning anymore.

7) They think that all Muslims act and think the same, that Islam is a religion of hate and violence, and that the reason Muslim terrorists hate us is because of our freedom and prosperity. They also thought the same things about Communists and Nazis.

8) They actually believe that the "us vs. them" and "if you're not for us, you're against us...if you're not a part of the solution you're a part of the problem" mentalities are anything other than false dichotomies.

9) Did I mention that they hate gay people? It's apparently important enough for me to mention it twice in this list, since they feel it's important enough to write a fuckin' constitutional amendment about.

10) They actually think that Fox News is fair and balanced, that CNN and MSNBC are part of the "liberal media conspiracy", and that Rush Limbaugh is anything other than a big fat idiot addicted to painkillers.

11) Newt Gingrich. Enough said.

So, that's enough reasons, I feel, why Republicans suck. They would suck and blow at the same time, twere it possible. But they're not the only ones...

How 'bout a nice tall glass of 'shut the fuck up'?: A tasteless retort

2004-07-26T14:07:00.000-04:00

Whoa there, pilgrims... hold the phone...

I was minding my own damn niggerish business today doin' niggerish things in my niggerish apartment when, all of a sudden, BOOM! I get an email. Beer 'n' Porn had been updated!

Praise Satan!

What with my band committments and the other BnP staff's school/job committments, I hadn't planned on seeing anything new in the BnP universe until September or so. But, clearly, I had been mistaken! Marvelous! Now let's see what we have here...

[reading]

...

...wow

Alright first things first. As a rule, the only BnP staffer I've ever personally attacked even tangentally has been Mr. Carson. He deserves it. He's a heterosexual middle class white american male... which means he's just got to be evil. And so far, he was my target when I needed one...

..until I read this masterpiece.

After I cleaned up my vomit and stopped myself from bashing my face into the bathtub, I read it again. I couldn't let this one slide. I had to say something.

In case you're too lazy [read: American] to read it for yourself, I'll sum it up - he's bitching about being a theme park employee and what assholes the patrons can be.

Ummm... what?! theme park guests are assholes?!... OH MY GOD!!

...is anyone else surprised?

I didn't think so.

Theme parks are specifically designed to attract assholes.

DUH!

Look at the rides! Look at the shitty food! Look at the commercials filled with assholes beckoning you to the gates of Whatever Bumblefuckery Paradise Park! Jesus.

My friends and I as kids went to the park for the near exclusive purpose of assholery. Buy a clue, friend. If you hate assholes, don't work a job where you are fucking guanrateed to meet them... unless you're a full-on masochist... in which case I'll hire you....

[fetish]

I digress... [surprise]

Let's see what brilliant observations the phoenix had to make here... [his words in red]

Humanity comes to its worst when they enter a theme park.

Well there you go right there! He's hip to the jive! Let's see what else he has to say...

No matter who you think you are, 99% of the population is one of these when they go to a park:

an asshole
a complete moron

Umm... well yeah - you basically just said that. But thanks for the cool "team research" statistic. By the way, given your 99%, you've included vitually all theme park employees... just so you know, cowboy.

[thumbs up]

moving on...

Manners: Food Consumption

huh? - ok... we'll give this a chance...

Ok folks, we’re not fucking kidding, you are complete slobs. Every theme park I’ve ever been to the guests (a.k.a. all of you) are complete fucking slobs.

Exactly where does the surprise come in? You take several thousand Americans, jam them into an entertainment complex, provide them with thousands of pounds of junk food and disposible plates and cutlery... and you expect them to be neat and tidy?

[pointing and laughing]

If this were Canada, you might have a point, bucko. But it's not, lil' guy. It's America. See? [pointing around] ah-MAAARE-reh-cah.

Very good!

oh and beside all that...

That's what YOU bitches are hired for... to clean up after our lazy asses. Quit your bitchin' - We're keeping you employeed.

Manners: Smoking

There's no way this can be good...

Let me preface this with this comment. I have nothing personal against smokers. If you want to kill yourselves, be my guest.

Thank you I'm glad we have your permission - and on behalf of all smokers, we'll continue to let you stuff yourself full of all kinds of American bullshit food that, believe it or not, will kill you faster than our smoking will kill us. More cheesey butterbacon anyone? :)

Let's let him finish...

However, I do not appreciate waiting in a line while your jerkass lights up and infects the rest of the line with your death. Show some respect to your fellow man, and don’t light up in line. You’ll get someone talking to you real soon with the power to throw you out of the park if you do light up.

Fair enough. Though we aren't infecting you with anything. Sure it's annoying and it smells but it won't kill you. And, by the way, aboslutly no one is afraid of theme park employees no matter how much "power" you have. It's a theme park. Your threats are made of cotton candy and children's laughter. And why are you waiting in a line in the first place? You fuckin' work there, champ!

The asphalt is not an ashtray folks. Stop tossing your cigarette butts all over the place. There’s easily a trash can every 30 feet or so. Use them… or pay the price.

The asphalt IS the ashtray. Period. That's why it's covered in cigarettes. Oh... and we've already paid the 60 million samolians or whatever it is to get into your goddamn special funfuckery farm. Back off. You want us to use ashtrays? Well we want you to hire friendly, minimally intelilgent, responsible staff. Let's see if either wish comes true.

The rest of this half-baked nonsense rant goes on to address such firery topics as "The Dress Code" and running on the blacktop [oh sweet fucking Jesus no!] and something about sodomy.

What's my point?

Glad you asked.

Nobody gives a shit.

[Full-on balls out laughing]

No one cares. You work at a goddamn amusement park. What did you expect? I mean, c'mon - Strippers don't complain about getting oggled and occasionally felt up. You have nothing to bitch about - you're in a job that guarantees that you'll run across all the assholes of the world from rich fellas to ditch dwellers. Suck it up, chuckles. You're working at one of the happiest places on Earth - be happy.

(and you're twice the schmuck if you just made a mental note to remind me that the "Happiest place on Earth" title belongs to Dishney and not Six Fags)

You're in customer service no matter how you want to look at it. Which means, of course, that every one of these idiot patrons is your 'daddy'. That's right. Smile and get me a soda, bitch. You're there to make them happy. Learn to deal or quit and get another job. The folk who visit your park will never change.

It's really that simple.

Love and virtual sodomy,

Dexter Otis Green

Manners & Stupidity: Theme Parks

2004-07-25T13:09:00.000-04:00

Hello everyone out there in Beer N Porn land! It has been a while since either I or my esteemed colleagues have posted anything, and there have been a few things on my mind as of late. So strap yourselves in and get ready for another “kick your ass” roller coaster ride!

…

Speaking of which…

The topic I choose to speak to the masses about today goes to two sad facets of humanity: Stupidity & Manners. And I am going to use a theme park as a reference here, because it is most certainly a nexus of moronic behavior.

Ok, let’s start right off the bat. Humanity comes to its worst when they enter a theme park. No matter who you think you are, 99% of the population is one of these when they go to a park:

an asshole
a complete moron

I don’t know what it is about this location that causes the brain drain that occurs. Let’s take a look at it from a few angles.

Manners: Food Consumption

Ok folks, we’re not fucking kidding, you are complete slobs. Every theme park I’ve ever been to the guests (a.k.a. all of you) are complete fucking slobs. Now I know that you are tired from walking around the park all day, and of course, the rides (another story altogether which I am getting to) completely took the wind out of you, so I understand how hard it is for all of you to lift a tray with about 1 lb of trash on it and simply put it in a trash can. ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS!? Good Christ! And it doesn’t end there, my dimwitted park goers, no! If you happen to buy a soda or something at a stand, once it’s finished do you just carry it until you find the nearest trashcan, which most good parks put one ever 30 or so feet? NO! Of course not, you throw it on the ground, and make the whole place look like a shit hole. Smokers, you get a whole section devoted to you, but just let me say that the ground is not an ashtray; throw your cigarette butts away. All in all folks, I hate to break it to you, but when you go to a theme park, you are disgusting.

Manners: Smoking

Let me preface this with this comment. I have nothing personal against smokers. If you want to kill yourselves, be my guest.

The asphalt is not an ashtray folks. Stop tossing your cigarette butts all over the place. There’s easily a trash can every 30 feet or so. Use them… or pay the price.

Manners: Rules of the Park

This one is pretty basic. What I am referring to here is adhering to the general rules of the park. Now this part is going to be manners specific, and there’s only one thing I can think of when I think of this: The dress code. Who would have thought, that a PRIVATE company where it is a FAMILY environment (as most/all theme parks are) would have a dress code? Wow. That’s new, isn’t it?

…Right?

C’mon people, this one’s really fucking basic. Don’t go to a theme park and be shocked when one of the workers asks you to put your shirt on, no one wants to see a pimply, fat old man walking through the park with his shirt off, manboobs swaying for all to see. On the reverse, ladies, don’t be surprised if you go to a water park and you are told that your thong is inappropriate for the environment. While it may be aesthetically pleasing (and sadly most of these women who do wear thongs have no business wearing such) it is not conducive to a family environment.

Guys, you know the ones I’m talking about, the ones who think a theme park is a place to show off their muscles, get a grip, put your fucking shirt on. Also, if you go to a theme park specifically to meet a partner… I fear for reality as we know it. Also, please try to leave your “Fuck the [insert dominating figure (the man, the system, etc) here]" shirt at home. If you want to wear shitty/sluttish clothing, that’s what high school/college is for. Simple enough, follow the fucking dress code, it’s there for a reason.

Stupidity: Rules of the Park

Ok, more stupidity! Why are you running on asphalt and get offended when someone asks you to walk? Would you like to trip over a crack in the ground and bust your stupid ass on the ground, crying like a girl with a skinned knee? No and neither does anyone else. Stop running.

Why are you walking around on hot blacktop without shoes? Morons! Put your shoes on!

Have I driven this into you enough?

RULES ARE THERE FOR A DAMN GOOD REASON. FOLLOW THEM OR DON’T BITCH WHEN SOMETHING HAPPENS TO YOU AS A RESULT OF YOUR STUPID ASS.

Manners/Stupidity: Rider Responsibilities

Ok, if I tried to separate responsibilities into two topics, I’d have to kill myself out of frustration.

All right, so the reason you come to a park in the first place, the rides. Who the hell goes specifically for anything else other than the rides? I digress.

All right, let’s talk about you. No, not you. YOU… You who develops an invincibility complex upon entering a park. You who will argue with someone who is obviously trained on these rides and looking out for your own safety when they tell you that you cannot go on a ride. You who would attempt to remove restraint devices while a ride is moving. You who causes the rest of the guests in the park a lot of heartache when your dumbass does something stupid and causes a roller coaster to get stuck on the lift hill 180 feet above the earth.

Ok, that is enough setup. The sheer stupidity and lack of manners on these rides boggles my mind. It’s like they feel that they can do whatever they want and fuck the rules! Rules are made to be broken! That’s the American way! Wrong, dumbass.

Anyone ever been in this scenario, or seen this scenario? The operator (the person who’s running the ride) tells you flat out at least 3 times that they are going to unlock your restraints and not to panic. The restraints open, and all of a sudden the entire train of a roller coaster is stricken with panic with shouts of “Hey my restraint’s open!” Actually, I shouldn’t give you enough credit by being able to string those words together. It is actually something more like this:

“Uh…. *Hand raised*”

“HEY YO MY LAPBAR’S UP!”

“AXCUSE ME! AXCUSE ME!” (No, I’m not lying; there is no “E” in these comments)

And then my personal favorite: people running off the ride because their lap bars opened up when the operator SPECIFICALLY told you that they were going to be unlocked.

*Rage*

Ok, you people have got to get a fucking grip. When someone tells you that the restraints are opening, FUCKING LISTEN TO THEM! These people have a Public Address system for a reason, moron. Let’s talk more about that PA system. You know whenever someone is talking to me over a PA system I usually just continue doing what I do best: hold my junk and drooling on the ground. Jesus Christ people, the 4 or 6 or however many people that are strapping you into the ride probably (read: definitely beyond a shadow of a doubt) know more about the ride and they way it is run than you do. So if they ask you to do something:

It is not an attack on you or your personal intellect. That’s my job.
Do what they tell you to do.

Ok, round 2, you ignorant ignoramuses. Let me put it to you this way: Every ride I have ever been on in all the parks I have been to (and I have been to plenty) have signs all over the ride that state the rules and rider responsibilities of the ride. (Gasp! I have responsibilities on the ride! Pshaw!) Yes folks, sorry to break it to you, but there are rules you have to follow when you’re waiting to get on a ride, or riding on a ride. Let’s use roller coasters, as they are the focus of most of my hatred for these morons. (For whatever reason, roller coasters are the nexus point of people’s lack of manners and sheer stupidity) Ok, when you’re waiting to get on the ride, take the time to actually read one of these signs, you’ll find them enlightening. Every single one I have ever seen will tell you the following things: How tall you have to be to get on the ride, that you need shirts, shorts, and shoes on the ride (some rides you will take your shoes off, but you still must show up wearing them, don’t argue with the attendants and operators about it, you need shoes in the park, you need to come to the ride with shoes.), that no smoking is allowed in the line, that no loose articles are allowed on the ride, that line jumpers will the removed from the park, and that riders must be in good physical condition in order to ride (Which means don’t come to the ride drunk off your ass or in shitty physical shape. These rides kick your ass.). Now, why are you arguing with the attendants and operators when they are following the rules that are set not only by the park, but by the company that created said ride? If they tell you that something is a loose article, don’t waste everyone else’s time by arguing that you’ve brought it on the ride before and that it should be just fine. On that note, if you had bothered to READ THE FUCKING SIGN than you would have known to either put those articles in the loose article boxes or give them to a non rider. Don’t argue with the attendants about the height, either. Don’t say you’re going to accept responsibility for your kid if anything happens. The heights qualifiers are there for a reason, and I can’t believe that parents would put their children’s safety in danger by putting them on a ride they aren’t tall enough to go on. Fucking tools.

In the simplest language I can muster:

Act like adults.

Treat others the way you want to be treated.

Clean up after yourselves.

Follow the rules.

Don’t be stupid.

Till I bless the world again with my life giving presence…

~ The Phoenix

Returning from the Flames

2004-07-01T17:21:00.000-04:00

Hello, everyone out there in Beer N Porn land! It has been.... yeah a long time. I haven't posted since my spewage that was the New Year's Edition. Ok, do lots of things have happened between then, and I won't bore you with a run down now. Maybe later. Maybe...

Ok. So here's my return to the universe of BnP.

WARNING!!!!!

I wrote this in March. That's right, March. But I read it again, still figured it was good, so I'm putting it out for your torment. More up-to-date schtick will be coming soon!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Title: Surprise! College isn't what you think it is!

Ok, so I’m here sitting in my OPIM (Operational Information Management) course typing this. That’s right, I said I’m in class. For the previous 45 minutes I’ve been surfing the web, going to Yahoo to play the Crossword, talking to people online with AIM, and I have to wonder why in fact I am here. And I don’t mean in this classroom on a chilly yet sunny day in Storrs. I mean why the hell am I in college if academics are not doing it for me.

I’ve been here at the Good ‘Ol U of C for 4 years… That’s a long time. I have taken classes that are to “expand” my mind and the way I think. That’s a bunch of bullshit. I can barely remember what I learned last semester let alone what I learned my freshman year. So why go to college? What’s the point?

People are the reason.

Case in point: I am a shy guy. (Anyone who sends me a message about Super Mario Bros 2 is getting a sample of my new product, Shut the F up Soda. … And I also just proved how much of a geek I am, whatever.) At least I was when I was 17 and new meat in the grinder that is UConn. And now, 4 years later, I am still that shy guy. He’s hidden out there somewhere. He comes out for parties and things like that. I met 250 people on my first day of college. 250 people that I know who would otherwise be nonexistent to me and never would have had the chance to change my life forever. I’m a band geek because of it, but wow, was it the gateway to forever change who I was.

I don’t care about classes, classes mean nothing. It’s a bunch of buzz worded bullshit that’s crammed down your throat so when I go to get a job I can say, “Ooh, look at my shiny business degree!” Fuck. I hope I never get to be that much of an asshole that I sit back in a comfy chair and talk about buzzwords in the intricate dance that is a job interview. Tango well enough, you get the job. Miss a step and you die. I can’t wait to be done with this farce.

Time to bounce, class is over and so must I be. I’ll be back to finish this.

Ok, so now I’m at work. Standing-by in case anything goes to hell on the job. And I’m still in Storrs, and it’s Friday. Where was I? So much as happened in 2 days. Oh yeah, why college is necessary. People are the reason why one goes to college.

90% of the people I have known have been from college. That’s a large ass percentage of my friends. Now I love my high school friends with everything, so it’s not that the 10% of my friends who are from home are worth any less, the fact that one would consider worth in friendship is kind of odd in my own opinion. My friends are the ones who have kept me going when I’m down, when I’m REALLY down, and are ones that share in my glowing accomplishments. Ten years down the line I am not going to care what I learned in college, what I am going to care about are those people who helped to shape my life in the years that I was the most malleable.

Now, to play Devil’s Advocate, I am not saying that college is just a social zone where you are expected to learn nothing and just meet people. If you wanted that, just go to a frat party, there will be tons of good people worth meeting there. (Maybe sarcasm, perhaps not. I will be considered indifferent on this issue. I don’t really think that frats and sororities are what cause people to act like jerks, bitches, or assholes. People are the way they are. It does however seem that traits are magnified sometimes when you join one of those organizations. I speak from the inside looking out folks.) Classes do serve a good purpose, to teach you HOW to learn, not what to learn. I’m taking a course in Dante right now, and I wouldn’t have a damn clue where I would start with the reading of that thing, it’s complex shit. I’m glad I have a teacher that has somewhat of a clue how to steer my understanding of the piece. Other classes I have taken, like my OPIM 204 class, is a complete waste of my time. It’s a classroom regurgiatation of what I have been learning on the job for the past 5 years.

In a year, I graduate from UConn. What will I remember? Will I remember that one course that changed my life? No. Am I going to care about what I took my fifth semester? No. I can barely remember what I took my fifth semester now!

What I can and will remember is the people that helped change my life. I’m never going to forget the name of the person who got my into the UCMB; I’ll never forget who gave me entry into an organization that did in fact change who I was and magnified my good ideals; and I’m not going to forget that the road to my happiness was paved by going to the mailbox, and reading the letter that said: “You are hereby accepted to the University of Connecticut.”

It should have read: “You’re going to UConn. Be prepared to have your life changed in ways you never would have thought possible. Imagine that your limits will be tested beyond your wildest imagination. You are going to meet people in your first days that will still be with you, and will forever be with you through all the ups and downs. You are going to join organizations. You will drop out of organizations. Your loyalties will be concreted. You are going to decide here what you want to do with your life. You are going to try. You are going to fail. You are going to try again. You will eventually succeed. You are going to leave this school by graduation or otherwise with a better idea of who you are.”

I have learned about myself. I have faced my fears, tested my boundaries, and I will never look back.

Burning in flames to be reborn in light…

Peace.

~ The Phoenix

A Friendly Reality Check

2004-05-24T10:58:00.000-04:00

Hello again all you BeernPornophiles! It’s been a long, long time since my last post, and there’s been a lot of changes in the world of Mr. Carson – not the least of which is the addition of a Mrs. Carson. Yes, I have been emasculated at the altar of holy sacrament and public policy, and my rights and powers as a single male in American society have been stripped by a cruel and unforgiving mistress who used the promise of guaranteed intimacy to lure me into her evil estrogen prison of monogamy and reproduction. Zounds!

But enough of my troubles. I’ll speak of love and marriage another time. Right now, there is a more pressing issue that I need to speak about. It is an issue that threatens to tear apart the very social fabric of this great country. It’s a lifestyle choice that is being forced upon us everywhere we look, in our towns, cities, neighborhoods and places of business. It is a deplorable, immoral attitude towards acceptable social behavior, and it must be stopped.

Worst of all, it has its roots in France.

What am I speaking of, you ask? I can sum it up in one simple sentence.

[ahem]

…

…

YOU ARE NOT LANCE ARMSTRONG.

See that photo? That is Lance Armstrong, 5-time Tour De France winner, all-American hero, world-class cyclist, model athlete and cancer survivor.

This is you:

...

Again, Lance Armstrong:

I’d like you to notice a few important points about Lance Armstrong:

1) He’s a professional athlete, which is clear from his professional sponsorship (U.S. Postal Service)
2) Being a professional athlete, he wears performance equipment for his cycling competitions. His lycra uniform is made to increase his aerodynamic profile, allowing him to reach faster speeds with less effort.
3) He has the chiseled jaw and smooth, powerful musculature of a MAN WHO HAS SURVIVED CANCER.

Now, a few important points about you:

1) You are NOT a professional athlete, which is clear from your COMPLETE LACK OF PROFESSIONAL SPONSORSHIPS. Just because you have “Huffy” written across the ass of your spandex racing pants does not mean you are PAID TO WEAR THE LOGO.
2) Not being a professional athlete, you have NO REASON to wear performance-enhancing equipment. If I wanted to, I could walk my fat couch-potato ass down to the Sports Authority, buy a helmet, shoulder pads and cleats. I could even get the helmet spray painted with the New England Patriots logo if I wanted to, and buy myself a Richard Seymour jersey. Does this make me a NFL Defensive End? FUCK NO. It makes me an asshole with a Patriots helmet on.
3) You have the unshaven jaw and light skin tone of a PERSON WHO WORKS IN A CUBICLE ALL DAY. Note the complete lack of overcoming any life-threatening illness. Important note – riding for a cancer charity DOES NOT EQUATE YOU WITH A CANCER SURVIVOR.

YOU ARE NOT LANCE ARMSTRONG.

Most of us would like to think that we are original, that we have original ideas, original interests and original outlooks on life, society and spirituality. Sadly, you are mistaken. We all are, in fact. Anything you do, say, think, write, draw, paint, create, sing, create or destroy has easily been done hundreds of times over in the past – and is probably being done right now. Even those dirty little sexual pastimes you engage in when no one’s around are – sadly – nothing new. The best we can hope for is to belong to a smaller group of similar-minded zombies than the next door neighbor, as that may afford you a certain measure of self-confidence as you delude yourself into thinking you are a paragon of originality.

Oh I see, so you’ve actually been a fan of Texas Hold-‘em Poker your entire life, huh? Suuuuuuure. Like you even knew what the fuck a “flop” was until the World Series of Poker started to run on repeat play on ESPN2.

This might be you – if you replaced the pile of cash with a bag of Chee-tos, the poker chips with pennies and nickels, and the casino with your dorm room. I’LL SEE YOUR PENNY AND RAISE YOU A DIME! NO LIMIT, WOO HOO!!

Anyways, back to the bikers.
I have absolutely no problem with bicycles. They’re a marvelous invention, they serve a practical purpose, and they represent a health-conscious and environmentally friendly method of public transportation. Plus, they’re a fond reminder of the joys of youth, when whole weeks could be wasted riding your bike with your friends through the dirt paths of the woods behind your house, or the streets around your neighborhood. Bikes are cool.

You, sadly, are not.

Much like the poker craze sweeping the sexually inactive twentysomething population like the Dungeons and Dragons of yore, bicycle riding is becoming the recreation of choice for young professionals, thanks to the success of Lance Armstrong and the popularity of the Tour de France on national TV. Oh wait, sorry, it’s “cycling.” You’re not riding a bike, you’re “cycling,” and “cycling” requires training and skill, right? It also requires a bike worthy of your athletic prowess, right? One with thirty-three gears, swept-back grips, sweat-resistant seats and aerodynamic fins around the handlebars, right? And let’s not forget the skin-tight lycra bodysuit, and the aerodynamic polypropylene helmet, and the professional racing gloves, and the Nike performance cycling sneakers, and the water bottle full of performance enhancing hydrating sports drink from GNC, right? It’s only the best for Mr. Cyclist, right?

Yet somehow, with all the professional equipment and the performance-enhancing clothing, you still manage TO CLOG UP THE ENTIRE FUCKING ROAD WITH YOUR SLOW ASS.

Notice that none of these people are LANCE ARMSTRONG. Notice how none of them are racing in the TOUR DE FRANCE. Yet notice how they seem perfectly content keeping the motorist behind them blocked from utilizing the roadway. I’m sure those streamlined helmets help to increase your max speed to 9 MPH, but you mind getting out of the MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING ROAD please?

I’m sure that some of you were “cycling enthusiasts” long before Lance’s historic feats, but I guarantee that 95% of the cockwads I see on the roads every day in their one-step-away-from-fetish-quality latex racewear clogging up my daily commute are Lance-o-philes who only started riding their bikes around like little kids in the past few years.

Please.

Here’s a few important points to remember next time you plan on going for a bike ride:

1) Unless you are competing in an official race, leave the spandex at home.
2) Sadly, no matter how hard you try, you are slower than motorized vehicles. Therefore, please try your hardest to STAY OUT OF THE FUCKING ROAD. It’s called a “shoulder.” Stay on it.
3) The Department of Motor Vehicles, along with the Police Department, treats bicycles the same as motorized traffic. This means a cyclist must follow ANY AND ALL TRAFFIC DIRECTIONS AND SIGNS. This means you STOP at a RED LIGHT. This means you YIELD at a YIELD SIGN. This means you STAY WITHIN THE YELLOW LINES. This means the next time you weave your bike through traffic at a busy intersection in front of my car and run the red light, cutting off cars and stopping traffic a mile down the road, I will calmly leave my vehicle and administer a STATE-SPONSORED BEATDOWN OF BIBLICAL PROPORTIONS on your ass.
4) Whether you work in a factory, an office building or a Taco Bell, you have a uniform you have to wear to work. Overalls, power suit or smock, it’s all the same when you break it down. There is no job in the world other than the job of BEING LANCE ARMSTRONG that requires you to wear a BRIGHT YELLOW SPANDEX SUIT to work in. Walking in to work at the beginning of your shift in “cycling gear” does not make you cool. It makes you an outcast, and guarantees you a stoning at the hands of your co-workers straight out of a Shirley Jackson short story.

Bike riding can be a fun and rewarding exercise. Unless you are blocking my car from driving at state-sponsored speeds. Then it becomes a life-or-death situation for you.

Remember, YOU ARE NOT LANCE ARMSTRONG.

Leave the cycling to people who know what they’re doing.

And get out of my way.

-Mr. Carson

Boston Chronicles: From quiet geek to public disturbance in 24 easy hours

2004-05-24T01:00:00.000-04:00

Alrighty.

Sunday has come and gone. Let’s recap.

I finished off “The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon”. Not King’s best but certainly a winner. Picked up Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and started digesting that parchment truffle. Wandered around Boston for about 4 hours with a friend (Colin – yes he is… no we didn’t – shame on you) who showed me a great many of Boston’s offerings. After scarfing more BK, I headed back to the apt and tried in vain to porn surf without a mouse. I’m telling you now it’s damn near impossible… damn near…

[ahem]

After that little adventure, Sean stopped over and we played and sang on my roof for a while. You know, the little things ear making this whole move worth while – singing at the top of my lungs on a foreign roof veiled in cigarette smoke, warm tar underfoot with unlearned strangers undoubtedly mumbling anonymous critiques, laughing at the sky for no damn reason, daring the clouds to rain on that perfect setting… [sigh]

Magic.

We ambled in shaking with equal parts laughter and cold – Boston had been playing it cool all afternoon and it was time for yours truly to get indoors. Inside? We chatted for a while and then went mouse hunting. [note: I forgot my mouse and have been using nothing but keyboard commands] By then it as close to 9pm and, wouldn’t you know, there were no mice to be had.

An ATM beckoned nonetheless and Sean and I decided it would make a perfect studio. We made ourselves right at home amidst the eggshell flood lights and pea-green monitors. I got a very quick guitar lesson before the ATM room was filled with patrons who apparently didn’t agree with our studio idea. Undaunted and armed with Sean’s Ibanez, we made grand fools of ourselves traveling the streets of Boston improving blues [Anybody Got Drawz fo’ Lease?] and generally jarring the drowsy public with Sean’s great guitar and my shameless singing. Somehow we made it across street and past several cock-eyed passersby and settled on my stoop. Chilled but triumphant, we climbed the stairs to my apartment babbling in the language of satisfied men.

Once inside, we chatted the night away – light fare really; God, the universe, and everything. Before too long, the digital clock bade Sean home and, after walking him down, I headed up to be alone in my palace.

It simply does not get better than this.

Boston Chronicles: The Many Adventures of Connecticut’s Wayward Son

2004-05-23T02:34:00.000-04:00

So here I am in Boston’s Back Bay area just a stone’s throw away from the from the famed Jillian’s and a drunken quarter-mile stumble from Copley Square. Fenway is within shouting distance, The Boston Conservatory is literally across the street, and the Prudential Building vies for my attention amidst a sea of various apartment building and hostels outside my window. Beantown, baby. F’ing fabulous.

I guess I should start from the beginning of all of this...

About a week ago I was working at my deluxe-all-time-sweet job at the XxtraMart when I get a phone call. “How’d you like to live in Boston for the summer and play with my band for free?”, came the phone on the other end. My best friend was ecstatic with the news and I stood there with the receiver to my ear bleating “yes” like a bored chick getting dry humped by some ne’er-do-well in the back seat of a beaten sedan at the drive in.

Money.

This is what I had been waiting for. An unbelievable opportunity had just fallen into my lap and I wasn’t about to turn it down. I hung up the phone after making him promise to fill me in on the details when I got back to my apartment and spent the rest of my shift with a $1,000,000 smile and an erection that only a well worn hooker could love. A week later, my crap backed into so many bags and/or flung carelessly into the trunk of my roommates car, I scurried up to Boston sporting the same unbelievable thumper.

I met my buddy outside of the New England Conservatory and we ferried him over to what was to be my apartment. After 30 min of one-way street denials, we finally pulled up to a modest five-story yellow painted brick building. We carried my crap up the 4 flights of stairs to the top floor, piled it onto the couch, and, after a few brief words and some gas money, my ride headed for the hills. Sean suggested I head over to his place to hang out and well by gosh golly gee I did. We hopped the T (train) and I spent the night playing guitar and generally catching up with Sean. Morning came and I rode the T back to my part of town so that I could get my things organized.

Things took a turn.

On the way to the T the night before, we took a roundabout route that led us to some quality dining at Burger King (sweet!). Needless to say, I couldn’t just retrace my steps from the night before. But so what! I confidently stepped off of the train saddled with my trombone and a newly acquired GUI-tar and started hoofing in the general direction of my apartment.

After about 10-15 min, I found the street I live on but, wouldn’t you know it, that fucker was long! I knew I was close to my apartment but I didn’t know whether it was to the left or to the right. Whatever. I was in a dandy mood and took my chances heading left. 6 blocks of unfamiliar territory changed my mind and, making a quick pivot, I headed in the opposite direction. That way lead to the same “I don’t know’s” and I found myself lost. What a fucking tourist. Luckily, I spied a pair of Boston’s finest, and, after some debate, shambled over to them burdened with the instruments.

And that’s when it happened.

“Hey guys, I’m lost”, is all I said. The response? “You lookin’ for the Boston Symphony?” said the lady cop... in Boston-ese. I was thrilled! My very first Boston accent! I stood there trying not to smile like a child-molester and hung on their every word. She and her likewise linguistically gifted chum pointed me in the right direction and finally, heaving and panting, I found my apartment.

Over the next few days, I was like a priest at an all-boys camp for the mute. I even got in touch with another friend of mine and had a couple beers in a sketchy ass Latino ghetto (in which I got lost).

Today? – I had French Toast and Meat (swear to god… that’s how it’s listed on the menu), finally got my computer up and running, finished a novel, smoked my weight in cigarettes, and rocked out hard on some guitar. I was in such a good mood, the gunshots in the alley outside my window hardly phased me!

I’m here for at least this summer but, hell, if things go well I wouldn’t be opposed to living in this town. So what if I have to spend part of my day dodging homeless panhandlers and partially-toothed Mexican psychopaths (true story). I’m in F’in’ Beantown, baby!

Vituperation and Me: Stephen Hillenburg

2004-05-19T20:21:00.000-04:00

How about that, eh?

Howdy Kids. I’d like to start of by giving a warm and heartfelt “bah humbug” to all you Christmas junkies. Happy Spending! I know it’s May but it’s never too late to share the hate... ... ... or is it too early...

...[?]

[blink, blink]

...

Secondly, I, like to welcome you all to the second installment of

Vituperation and Me...

...a series in which I plan to express my loathing for those who have worked so very hard at proving themselves worthy of my wrath; Gypsies, A&F employees, anyone who dresses as Santa for a living, Baby Jesus, handicapped children, Bob Ross (get out of my head!!), the blind and, of course, television, will all have a chance to stand before me to be judged. Rest assured that they will all be found guilty of stopping up the bowels of life with all their nonsense.

Once again I’d like to remind you all that a search for logic or reason amidst the ranting will do you no good. I can assure you, here and now, that you will find very little if any in what is written here. I do, however, promise to swear profusely and to encourage laughter at the expense of those that are infirmed and or otherwise beneath me.

First up was Gary Busey. Feel free to go back to that essay and catch up if you must.

Now, however, it is time to move on to the next whore of life... Stephen Hillenburg. May his children know always the deep love of a stranger from behind.

Bio, crime, sentence of:
Stephen Hillenburg - Creator of Sponge Bob Square Pants

Bio

It was an unusually warm and homoerotic August afternoon in 1961. Big’ol Blue Hillenburg (or "The guy who is totally not fucking queer" as he is known to his friends... "that guy" for short) wiped his sweaty heterosexual brow with the back of a calloused hand and stared into an Oklahoma sky shimmering with hectic heat. The town of Fort Sill had another son on the way and That Guy was nervous. Mind you his wife, Ima Scainkass-Hillenburg, was doing fine... physically that is. That Guy wasn’t concerned about that for now. His wife, however, had been feeling strange for the past 3 months of her pregnancy. "Satan’s inside me!" and "I’m a goddamn nightmare bitch!!" and still "I’m the butt-fucking sponge that's here for your soul - Fist me! - Fist me now you sonofabitch!" were common exclamations heard from her in the middle of the night while she slept.
It wasn't long until her swollen belly brought forth a frothy and eager-cheeked baby boy. Spewing him from her loins onto the sun-warmed wooden kitchen floor, she sighed and dabbed a napkin at the meeting of her thighs. "It is finished", she groaned, and collapsed with a sick thud. Upon hearing the tell-tale plop that herald the birth of his son, That Guy bolted in from the thirsty fields and squinted down at the mass of blood and flesh that was his... son? Shrugging, he mumbled something along the lines of "probably queer" and demanded sustenance from his recently unburdened wife.

Growing up, young Hillenburg fell under the accusatory stare of his ill-tempered and oft abusive father - a father who’s only words to his soon were "queer" and "I should have made her swallow". Hillenburg's mother would only lay one arthritic index finger over another whenever he was foolish enough to come into her presence. She wanted nothing to do with the "demon boy". His only consolation during these troubling years were the solitary hours he spent scrubbing at the deep maroon stain his blue-white babe body (and subsequent fetus) had left on the kitchen floor. It was a stain that would never come out. Yet, at his father's insistence, he scrubbed away at the only mark he had ever left on the world. Nuzzling the sponge he'd come to love, he often dreamed of the day when he would be free to do as he wished; see the ocean, stay up past midnight, and maybe even get a job as a go-go dancer at Nipsy’s - Fort Sill Oklahoma's only gay night club.

Years passed and time brought Hillenburg an art teacher - Ms. Arva Sedinbaum. "It was a mistake", she recounted in a 1999 interview with the Boston Globe. "How could I have known what would come of those lessons?"

Young Hillenburg quickly developed a passion for the arts and excelled in his studies at Paul Lester High School. His quirky demeanor and wildly unique style soon drew attention from New York and Los Angles art colleges. Hillenburg was a hot item - particularly with his character "Rocko"- A hard-luck everyman wallaby. It seemed that his dreams of freedom were finally coming true.

Soon after college, Hillenburg's character Rocko was greenlighted for it’s own series - Rocko's Modern Life. It was here that Hillenburg would truly shine. It was also here that the first of many downward spirals began.

Fame proved to be too much for Hillenburg and during the 3rd season of Rocko's Modern Life, he began experimenting with drugs. Whores and coke binges were the dominating factors in his life and with good reason - Hedonism suited him. "I've got more cooch than an abortion clinic", as he was often quoted saying proved to be true. But it was not to last.

A fateful evening in Chicago’s Coco-Bongo brought Hillenburg and LSD together for the first time. It was on this same night that he met the first of many of his secret lovers - Patrick Lindt. "I thought he was weird but I mean... we all were - I mean... [snort] that's just how things were. But the sponge? That fucked with me" Lindt bleated in a 2001 interview with the New York Times. Hillenburg has carried his childhood friend on all of his life's adventures. It was his totem - a super absorbent guru. And it was this very sponge that gave birth to his faggity future.

So strange, so unique, so... disgustingly annoying and just downright fucked up... uh... I mean spongy (read: catcher). SpongeBob was born during Hillenburg's two and a half year LSD/Special-K binge. And just who is this SpongeBob?

[ahem]

Deep down in the Pacific Ocean in the subterranean city of Bikini Bottom (read: homosexual paradise) lives a square yellow sea sponge named SpongeBob SquarePants. SpongeBob lives in a pineapple (read: phallus) with his pet snail (ditto), Gary, loves his job as a fry cook at the Krusty Krab (read: vagina is evil), and has a knack for getting into all kinds of trouble without really trying (read: caught giving bj's at truck stops). When he's not getting on the nerves of his cranky next door neighbor Squidward - (who himself is a homoerotica goldmine), SpongeBob can usually be found smack in the middle (read: three-way) of all sorts of strange situations (read: S&M/bondage fantasies) with his best buddy (read: lover), the simple yet lovable starfish (a creature composed entirely of phalluses) , Patrick, or his thrill-seeking surfer-girl squirrel pal (token gal pal who is 'totally not a lesbian'), Sandy Cheeks (read: carpet muncher). Stephen Hillenburg finally gave in to the whims of his psychotropic inductions and breathed life into this... fuckwad sponge. (remember - this is the same guy that brought us the totally un-faggy Rocko’s Modern Life

Crime

This is the ex-biologist who created the "legend" (read: ubiquitous nightmare). SpongeBob started out as a sketch of a square sponge. Now SpongeBob is a cultural icon (read: flaming homosexual), and so is his creator (ditto). This is the bitch that ruined Nickelodeon (with the exception of Nick at Night - God Bless you, Family Ties reruns).

Clearly, he is the devil.

...I said clearly, bitch!

[five across the eyes!]

Need more proof of his evil? Listen to the Baptists.

There you go... if Baptists believe then it must be... I mean it's... it’s gotta be...

ok - so fuck them Baptists but, trust me, this fucker done did wrong.

Sentence

Kids... I'm at a loss here - really. I mean what can you do to repay the man who gave birth to the embodiment of evil? What would be appropriate compensation for foisting SpoogeBub SquealPants upon us? I mean... damn... for the first time, I truly have no words.

[making note]

[collecting debts]

Help me out here, my fellow uterine evictees. Use the message boards. That's why they're there. Tell me, children. What must I do? Help me find an appropriate punishment for this bitch.

--Dexter Otis Green

2004-03-31T02:31:00.000-05:00

Humanity: the Toolmakers, or just Tools?
(or: on being 24 and some months…)

I’m 24 and loving it. I get to sleep late, be bothered by friends and family that I don’t have a job (I’m looking, kids… trust me, I’m looking.), watch cartoons in my underpants, and write my thoughts for the whole web to see. I’m trying my best not to be depressed about getting older, because I’m really not that old. Although, for all our crazy amounts of advancement, it seems that our developmental stage is increasing a great deal. When my parents were my age, they’d been married for three years. And when their parents were my age, THEY’D been married for more like five or six.

This is not to say that Marriage is the ‘gateway to adulthood,’ but it’s a serviceable litmus for judging how responsible and in the real world a person is. In the age of my grandparents, a high school education could feed a family. For my parents, a bachelor’s degree most certainly sufficed. Now, all my friends are taking Grad school courses, getting more and more advanced degrees, and hiding in the ivory tower well into their middle 20s. Pretty soon Doctorates will be run of the mill, and people won’t be beginning their intended careers until they’re into their 30s.

Is this a result of a longer life expectancy? People are alive and kicking and active well into their 80s nowadays. My Grandmother is full of pizzazz, and even remarrying (and don’t think for a minute I’m not a bit disturbed that sweet little gramma is getting more action than me nowadays). Because life is longer, childhood follows suit. Bunches of my friends still live with mom and dad (not that there’s anything wrong with that, wink wink). It seems acceptable to return to the nest to save up some cash and plan the next step. Maybe this ‘going home’ tendency is the reason for the prolonging of childhood. And parents are of course not averse to this, because they’re watching their kids grow up faster than an eldritch DJ spins up ‘Cat’s in the Cradle’ at the social club mixer. Maybe this is a good thing… maybe it’s keeping us young at heart. But it remains a fact that folk are less willing to take on the responsibility that their folks and grandfolks took up at a much younger age.

There’s another angle to this phenomenon… and it’s the reason I started this article. I was sort of typing and filling space until I found the connection, and then BAM! There it is. We’re living longer, and also staying younger longer BECAUSE our forefathers had done things to promote a newer, shinier reality. We are growing older more slowly because we have the benefit of their mistakes.

We have a history.

I’ve seen 2001: a space odyssey many times, and I love the whole movie, but one of the most interesting parts is in the beginning, with all the crazy monkeys. They’re monkeying around, drinking water and being generally simian, when the monolith descends and sort of speeds up their evolution. And the one monkey (I think his name was moonwatcher in the book, but don’t quote me) is playing with the predator’s bone one hot desert day and comes to the realization that he can use it to bonk other creatures on the head.

A lot of people think (and I don’t necessarily disagree) that Monkeyface realizes he can use things as tools, and this is what makes him powerful enough to overcome the jaguar and the enemy tribe of monkeys, and eventually overcome the barriers of the earth itself. We humans are hailed as the great toolmakers; we possess gadgets and objects of infinite intricacy and usefulness. And we have the opposable thumbs to use them. I love using them, myself, I’m looking at my shiny (though not much more useful than a piece of paper) Palmtop Computer… a cigarette lighter (fire is officially our bitch… take that, animal kingdom!) plastic bottles, even the computer I’m using now.

But I think the fact that we are toolmakers is only a part of the equation. All sorts of animals use tools. Chimps use sticks to root out anthills, scratch their backs, et cetera. Even without the opposable thumb we wave in front of them derisively, they still can make use of things not of their bodies.

So is it communication? We have a wonderful language that allows us to convey things, like telling a fellow that a potted plant is about to fall on their head, or that you would like a hot dog with Cappy’s sauce upon it.

But that’s not it either… animals communicate too, at least on some level. Bird’s mating calls… gorilla gestures, screeching warnings. And perhaps more useful than even our language is the hive mind, allowing flocks of birds to intuitively move as one while migrating, silently striding packs of wolves hunting, ants almost instantly knowing where food is… the ability to work as a unit makes for a great deal of efficiency (At the cost of individuality, which is why cellphones and Instant Messenger scare me, but that’s another post altogether) Neither toolmaking nor communication is man’s secret weapon, and although we’re damn good at it, we’re not the only game in town. You’d think that animals, communicating and using tools for so many eons, would eventually get better at it, but they don’t.

Besides, tools and communication fail. We’re at the mercy of our dayplanners. Things that should be making us more time in fact give us less free time. Hunters and gatherers had all day to look around and dream, once the berries and carcasses were all in the nomadic village. It is this dreaming that really started the whole thing. Tools seem almost counterintuitive; are we using the tools, or are the tools using us? Communication, for all its flowery eloquence, also fails us. There’s no real way of being sure that what we convey is that which is understood by those who receive. Feelings might be universal, but for all we know, all perception is unique. You and I do not feel the same anger, the same love, the same sadness, we don’t see the same car, the same hot blonde, the same color red. For all of our wonderful words and objects, we remain, by and large, island universes. We have nothing except a collectively shared, yet individually experienced, past.

History is what the beasts do not have. They have instinct (which is badass, but there’s not much choice in it) but it’s way too slow. An animal will be killed at the hands of men for generations upon generations before they get it into their heads that the bipeds are not to be trusted. The life, and experience of an animal ends with that animal. It passes on its genes, makes a baby wolf, and the instinct and the cycle continue. Wolves can’t sit around the forest grove, fondly remembering Grandpa One Eye, reminiscing about how he once outsmarted the bobcat that one time, and wasn’t it funny as hell?

The scene in 2001 is less about a single monkey learning how to use a bone as a weapon, and more about that monkey coming to the realization that his actions, and the actions of his brothers, can have a lasting effect on the world.

History is communication to the nth degree. Our past is what allows us to grow older and stand on the shoulders of our ancestors and make improvements on their innovations. It allows us to observe both personal and collective progress within our lifetimes. It gives us a bar which is silently begging to be jumped over and raised. Our communications and our tools are only symptoms of our understanding of what has come before. Our past has given us a future.

But when you really get down to it, our history is flawed. It’s written by the victors, so sayeth Napoleon, and many stories and innovations are lost. Misinformation and propaganda paint unreal pictures of the way things are. Violent crime in this country decreases, and yet the media’s reporting of violent crime increases exponentially. The powers that be understand the power of history, and use it to control reality. We begin to see that what we’re taught about our past isn’t a really accurate picture.

The present becomes the past all too quickly these days. Americans have short memories… I can remember the vigils held on October 11th, 2001, the vows to never forget the attack upon our nation. I remember the moment of silence on the radio on September 11th, 2002. But this past year? I don’t remember a single thing, save some idle chatter on msnbc. It’s being pulled out again for the sake of election campaigns, but it will once again fade into obscurity, adorning the pages of history books as a footnote for the beginning of the 21st century.

History is our salvation, our opiate, and ultimately, our crutch and our untimely demise. More and more information is out there these days, thanks to the internet… but the net is in a state of constant flux. Websites change, but there is no record of what came before it. It’s going too fast. Instinct has the benefit and disadvantage of being slow, it seems. It takes its time and makes DAMN sure that the information is good and correct. It does so at the cost of individual members in the species. If our information age were to fail, what then? Tribes of barbarians, sweeping through the streets of cities, destroying history. It would be the fall of Rome, all over again. The Dark ages. A time to gather together in the hollow shells of our technology, and try to piece together what we lost. We don’t have the benefit of a rich oral tradition, save a collective memorization of the Adam Sandler ‘Hanukkah Song’. We couldn’t teach our children much more than survival. If a dark age were to come upon us right now, our wonderful and terrible tools would rust, unused, unknown. 150 years from now, buckskin clad great grandchildren would be drying hides on the interstates, smashing open skulls with back massagers. Needless to say, it would be a considerable setback.

So I was wrong… history isn’t the answer.

Now, bear with me.

Perhaps at the moment of cogitation, a new kind of organism was born: the Idea. It’s a simpler sort of history… and maybe history itself is an idea. But think about how ideas work. Passed from person to person, constantly mutating, spreading, dying out. It sounds almost like a virus. Maybe it is… a sort of electrical impulse virus soaring through words and feelings. Perhaps instinct is the evolutionary forefather of the idea, passed genetically, slowly...

Sprouting forth from instinct, Our brains were fertile grounds for the Ideas. The mental capacity grew, and so grew innovation. Designated as the vessels of ideas, we watch some of them grow, while some die on the vine. Like the Gods we thought they were, Ideas have only to be forgotten to be killed. Stronger ideas seem to spread like wildfire, and sometimes two ideas that contradict have themselves a little conflict. Holy wars, Inquisitions, Crusades. And all the rest. So are we at the whim of our ideologies? Is it like some Douglas Adams novel, where lab mice are in control, and we are made to believe the opposite? Are we the warships and Bentleys of a bunch of neurological impulses? Are we just material side effects? The fleshy housing of the abstract? This seems to be a dismal way of looking at ourselves. I like to think we ARE our abstractions, and we're sometimes caught up in the tangibility of it all. Reality, expression, all of it is just a set of corporeal training wheels, itching to be taken off by some cosmic socket wrench.

We may someday transcend into pure energy… because after all, matter is simply energy that is trapped. I look forward to the day when my great great Grandchildren (or grandnephews, I’m not counting that particular chicken until she’s in my bed) will shake off these obsolete earthly bindings, and float seamlessly into the Aether. Maybe it will happen within my lifetime. Innovation is happening more and more quickly… Following the Ideas up to the present, Agriculture to Smithing, to Industry, to computers, to god knows what’s been invented this week… there’s exponentially less time between leaps, and the distance each leap covers is growing exponentially the other way. So in time, there will be a critical juncture, as these equations we call life reach their asymptotes, and everything will start happening very quickly. So don’t get caught with your pants down. To quote an enlightened being who was trying to eliminate all the needless law and rhetoric (again, another post altogether), ‘Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand,’ or somesuch… all I know is, it’s going to be a hell of a ride. Our childhoods are lengthening because we need to have the limber minds of the young in order to transcend. All this advancement, all this history, all these conversations could be preparing us for something amazing. Maybe we need to cast off the tools and speeches and knowledge that has brought us this far, like booster rockets falling off of a space shuttle, hurtling towards the inky depths of space, expanding infinitely, and becoming what we were meant to be.

whether we like it or not, whether we KNOW about it or not…

we are, all of us, constantly becoming.

Here’s to 24.

--The Slater

2004-03-30T10:46:00.000-05:00

One Year for Every Hour: Birthday Reflections

So it comes to this - birthday comes and strips away a year of youth… slaps on a shiny new coat of old. Everything is the same and everything is the same. I keep telling myself that it’s only a year… that the big difference is saying “24” instead of “23”… is it?… am I?? Haven’t I changed? Is this some kinda trick?

I have.

I wasn’t losing my hair at fifteen. I know that. I was all about getting feminine stinky on my “hang down”. I didn’t drink and hardly smoked. I masturbated like I would win something if I could just… blow… one… more… load… and I was getting laid on a fairly regular basis. My sex drive could have powered 31 city blocks. I was wonderfully naïve, impossibly beautiful, and goddamn indestructible. Cruel, really – no one should remember being that young.

Who am I kidding?

That was nine years ago! That’s all. I have changed. But when? Everything always looks the same when I glance back just one year. Is the change that subtle? I think it is…

I should do something.

I should work out.

I’m out of shape. I’m not a big guy… I just want to be able to run a little and not be so worn out or in so much pain after I decide to pick up a piece of sports equipment. I want to be able to wear t-shirts and maybe even show off my arms. Fat people can be cruel. I wish I was one of them. They get all of the attention.

Working out will change things.

I should change my diet. Look at the crap I’m eating! I complain about my health and my weight and then I sit down to the culinary equivalent of a swift kick to the “Holy Jehosephat!” (which I undoubtedly deserved)… no wonder I feel like crap. I feel like crap because I eat like crap. I’d get a personal trainer but I don’t have the money. That’s it. From now on I’m doing 50 push-ups every morning. This time I mean it.

I won’t follow through.

I never follow through. Not when it comes to this. Maybe one day I’ll be fat and happy.

Acne is gone! From my face anyway. There’s apparently an aggressive colony that’s moved to my back. How sexy is that? I should use a special soap. I should condition my hair. I’ll pick those up.

I won’t pick those up. I never do.

I feel like I know myself too well to surprise myself anymore. I’ve got me pegged. I’ll plan and fantasize but, in the end, I won’t. In the end, I won’t. I’ll explain it away. I’ll find some way to put it off.

Maybe I don’t always put it off.

I may. I think I do.

I’m lonely. I really don’t want to find someone, though. It’s all about sex. No one talks anymore. What the hell is that about? What? How big is my what? Are you serious? So now I fall in love with anyone who’s attractive that’ll talk to me. That’ll show me some sign that they’re interested in conversation.

I’m pathetic.

Am I ranting?

Am I bitching?

There’s really no point. I say over and over that there are two options “Do something or do nothing”. I’m not sure of the true of that statement anymore. It sounds true though so I’ll stick with it.

I can’t drink anything like I used to in college. I drink like old men at the bar drink.

My friends are too young.

I need a vacation from my problems.

I’m happy.

I know what’s going on. There’s still so much time to make a difference. To change. To make a difference. To change. I just have to figure out how? I know how. I mean I just have to figure out if I want to go. I know where I want to go. I just need to know how to get there. I hope it’s not far.

Everything is ok – proceed as planned.

I think I’ll be fine. I’m sure I’ll at least be ok. I got plenty of scotch on my birthday. Sometimes I can be such a child. I think that admission deserves a drink.

24… 23… what the fuck am I complaining about? I’m still young! There’s so much goddamn time ahead of me. What will I do? Things. How will I do them? Same way I always have.

There.

That’s better.

Though I should probably at least have a plan.

I’m no good at making plans. I never stick to plan.

A good blowjob would clear my mind. Someone should get on that. I’m right bored with masturbating… which means I need to put it off for a while. Tuck that lil’ salve back in the medicine cabinet until next week. Why in God’s name am I sharing this?

:::CENSORED:::

I should watch more TV… become more MTv… then I’ll feel younger. I worried about being “regular” for the first time. I considered Rogaine. What’s happening to me?

:::breathing:::

One year for every hour. That’s how old I am. I think I maybe should start getting ready for 25. That’s a number I can work with. I’ll be happy then. But it won’t last.

It never lasts.

::chuckle::

--Dexter Otis Green

2004-03-18T10:07:00.000-05:00

“Hungry?” And Other Ridiculous Questions and Notions III: Don’t they know I’m as cool as a fan?

I like beer.

…a lot

… Maybe too much but… well that’s beside the point for now.

I’ve been boozing it up for years now and for the most part I can’t complain. Booze is a cheap lil’ vacation in a bottle and I’ve spent the better part of my college career “traveling”. No worries – I now know that, though Scotland is a great place to visit damn near anytime time of year (so long as you have the stomach for it). Russia isn’t some place you’d want to be very often. It gets a little dangerous.

Mexico is right out.

But enough of my booze euphemisms. Before I became the respectable lush that I am today, I was quite the glassy eyed pothead. I loved pot more than life itself. Granted, I was 14 when I took that first magic toke of smoke – stands to reason that I, like so many disillusioned youth, hated life… hell I would go as far as to say that I loved :::insert school lunch menu item here::: more than life.

Anywho…

[don’t they know I’m as cool as a fan?]

I smoked pot by the bale and, after a time, came to wonder about other drugs. I had always wondered about all drugs; cocaine, heroin, PCP, ecstasy – all of that fun stuff and more. I only delayed experimenting because of the lies my teachers had told me about what happens to people that do drugs. You’ve all heard them before and probably still believe the garbage they filled you with.

:::chuckle:::

It’s hogwash but, for once, I won’t go the route of attempted enlightenment. Research for yourself the truth about drugs and what they can and can not do to your body… and your life for that matter. Suffice it to say that most people that use drugs recreationally or habitually live normal happy lives. The broken minority, however, gets all the press…

So be it….

I lost my fear of drugs entirely because of pot. After smoking pot, I found out that pot, at least, most likely wouldn’t kill me… ever…

Ever.

I defy any of you readers to tell me of a death or serious injury directly related to pot. They are few and far between… and I guarantee the numbers for booze and cigarettes are hundreds of times higher. Too bad our forefathers didn’t think to market all kinds of poison, eh?

[I’m not your average Joe.]

Anywho, pot freed me from fear that had been imposed upon me by my lying teachers and their lying books and pamphlets. Had I more cash (and were I a little braver and younger), I’d certainly give a number of drugs a try. Here they are in no particular order:

Shrooms

Shrooming is at the top of my list of things to do… by which I mean after I’ve gotten over my seemingly irrational “fear” of them. In all honesty, I think I’m more excited than afraid though I certainly am a little apprehensive about having a bad trip. I do hope, though, that one day this fear will have dissipated thus making my palette a prime target for those shadow grown dreamweavers. I’m dying for a taste of that secret knowledge.

[I’ll be anything you need]

Cocaine

I want to know what all the buzz is about. Coke used to be such a cool drug back in the 80’s. I mean nothing was more rock star than doing lines off of a hooker’s ass before a show. If you want my opinion, I think Don Johnson and Cindy Lauper fucked it up for the rest of us. Now coke has more or less become a Wall Street drug. Hell, even shitty models and porn stars don’t snort anymore… which is a shame because I’ll bet that’s how they managed the waif look.

[Play the game]

Heroin

You read that right. I want to take a ride on the “H” train. And, thanks to some creative junkies, you don’t have to inject heroin all up in your arm-piece :::turntable scratch:::. That’s right! You can snort that shit, B! So that rocks. But I have more experience with smoking than anything else and heroin is smokable as well so... I mean there you go. I’m mostly worried about addiction and being able to “handle my high”. As far as addiction goes, though, I’m already riding one helluva snake with nicotine… which beats heroin hands down in the dependency department

Interesting heroin factoid: An estimated 25 to 40% of street users are not physically dependent

Now that's something to think about. If heroin were cooler and had less of a back-alley junkie vibe, I’d probably have given it a whirl already. As it stands now, I just don’t have the cash or the drive.

[Can’t nobody break my stride]

PCP/Ketamine

I have no idea what they do and, quite frankly, I don’t care. Who among you readers can boast having done up the night with PCP? I sure as hell can’t. And Special K? Man oh man! The name alone is more enticing than Shannon Elizabeth in that pie fucking movie. I sho’ ‘nuff want me some o’ that! But seriously, I think what draws me to PCP (or Ketamine [special K]… a weaker and less toxic version of PCP) is the mystery of it all. What’s it do? My pals at Thegooddrugsguide.com had this to say:

”At low doses, K is a mild if weird stimulant. At medium to high doses, it becomes a very powerful paralysing psychedelic. It effects are like a combination of cocaine, cannabis, opium, Nitrous Oxide, and alcohol.”

…I mean so there you go right there.

[Suddenly life has new meaning to me]

LSD

:::ahem::: The most powerful mind-altering substance known to man. I think I’m done here.

[Meet me in outer space]

I’m really in search of a step down from nicotine… something a little… I dunno… sexier, you know? Nicotine is so bromidic… so cliche… so damn uninspiring. I need a drug with a bit more oomph, a little more class, and a hell of a lot more sass. A drug I can bring home to mama. A back alley drug with high class appeal. An uptown drug with downtown sensibilities… a girl-next-door drug with leather dungeon fantasies… dig? A missionary position drug with “knee pad” capabilities if you catch my drift.

Right now, I’m pretty much waiting for prices to level off before I start investing. That or I’ll just have to wait until I’m a rock star… fucking slurping LSD out of a hooker’s bellybutton while taking a liquidy dump in her face… only a matter of time.

Don’t be afraid of drugs. Be honest with yourself and explore your curiosity about altered states and mind expansion.

…and if you’ve got the hook-up for “china white”, you know who to call

:::business card:::

--Dexter Otis Green

2004-03-12T12:24:00.000-05:00

Damn, didn’t I used to write for this disturbing genital sore of a website? It’s been way too long…

Anyways, some quick updates, and then a little bit o’postin’ for the chillins.

First off, I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors about BEER AND PORN RADIO, and I’m here to tell you that they are TRUE. BEER AND PORN RADIO is in the works, and we’re hoping to bring the same depraved, offensive commentary to you in audio form sometime in the next few months. How will it work, you ask? The stream will be broadcast from the Internet on demand, meaning you’ll be able to listen to each episode at your own leisure, whenever you wish! Most importantly, the stream will be FREE! That’s right, no need to scour porn and warez sites looking for Beer n Porn MP3s – just follow the links from right here on the site and your virgin ears will be basted in the love juice we call social commentary. Check the site often for more details.

Second, we’ve recently added a new feature to BEER AND PORN. If you look above the posts you’ll see a link for the BEER AND PORN MESSAGE BOARDS. Here’s your chance to interact with others who waste their time reading Beer and Porn, along with the depraved souls who author the crap you read here every day! It’s free to sign up, and within minutes you’ll be trading sexually explicit jokes with the rest of us here at Beer and Porn! A word of caution – nothing on the board is censored, so if you have a weak soul or are prone to being offended, it’s best if you move on to something a little more tame, like the Disney online store or something. Otherwise, we’d love to have you!

Third, it’s time for a little shout out. We’re always excited to hear about Beer and Porn fans from around the globe. Your pal and mine, Mr. Dexter Otis Green, has done a fan-freakin-tastic job of tracking our readership across the globe. Recently, he identified the FIRST INSTANCE OF A PERSONAL WEBSITE LINKING TO BEER AND PORN! This is a monumental, historic moment in the annals of the Internet. Not only are people reading this tripe, but they are coming back, and they are TELLING THEIR FRIENDS! I am flush with pride and arrogance!

[DRUM ROLL, PLEASE]

Congratulations, AILIN from NOVA SCOTIA, CANADA! We’ve found your Beer and Porn link on your fantastic, award-winning webpage, and we’re here to say thanks! You are just the first step towards our eventual conquest of Canada, which we will use as the base for our global empire! You have earned yourself a high-ranking position in our eventual ruling government thanks to your obedience to the Beer and Porn movement! Har-har-har-ha! [Maniacal laughter and the twitching of fingers follows].

Seriously, Ailin, much appreciated. Drop us a line if you read this. Until then kiddies, visit her website and weblog and let her know how amazingly cool she is.

Moving on to the important stuff…
Finally, the results of the last poll!

Who is -The Man?-

Whitey 130 (56%)
Jesus 6 (2%)
Whitey Pig Cops 8 (3%)
Ron Jeremy 17 (7%)
My mom, sadly. 69 (30%)
230 Total votes

Oh Jesus, you just couldn’t cut it this time, huh? Sadly, the Son of God himself couldn’t pull more than 2% of the overall vote. We tried to reach Mel Gibson for comment, but he was too busy counting the millions he made from preying on the devotion of the faithful to sell movie tickets to respond to our questions. Way to go Mel! If you’re such a good Christian, why don’t you donate all those profits from the “Passion” to charity? I’m sure that $200 million will help you buy a nice comfy Lay-Z-Boy at the right hand of Jesus when you’re finally called from this Earth, huh?

Does anyone honestly think it’s a coincidence that “Passion” was released around Ash Wednesday to coincide with the Easter season? That’s marketing, kids.

Coming in fourth was “Whitey Pig Cops,” which surprisingly only pulled 3% of the vote. I expected a little more voting love for the jerkoffs who continue to make the parking lots and side streets of the world safe with useless tickets while criminals are allowed to roam the streets raping, robbing and killing. Seriously. Ever see a bunch of cops eating lunch at a local restaurant, or grabbing coffee somewhere in the middle of the day? Ever want to just grab them by the throat and yell “Hey buddy, how about getting in your damn Pigmobile over there and SOLVING A FEW CRIMES WHILE YOU EAT THAT DANISH????” Ever want to slash the tires of a dumb-ass cop who’s pulled over someone for a minor traffic violation in the middle of rush-hour traffic, backing up cars for miles? Ever wonder why police only need a high school education to get a job? COPS ARE NOT YOUR FRIEND. THEY ARE NOT THERE TO PROTECT YOU. THEY ARE ONLY THERE TO PROTECT THE STATUS QUO.

Sorry, that wasn’t very funny. But I hate cops. Moving on.

In third place was my man, Ron Jeremy. Ron pulled 7% of the vote, beating Jesus by 11 votes, and again proving that Beer and Porn readers are the smartest readers of all. Ron Jeremy is the unsung hero of the American Porn Industry, which grosses more money per year than Hollywood. This is the honest truth. Pornography funnels millions of dollars in tax revenue into state and federal coffers every year, and silently allows media conglomerates to make profits. The porn industry is also responsible for many technological advances, such as the VCR, DVD, streaming video on the internet, encryption technology, and other high-tech methods of data transfer. Ron Jeremy, along with the other stars of the porn industry, we salute you! Not only did you get me through puberty, but you keep the American economy afloat! I’m going to celebrate with my Vivid DVDs…

In second place, we have your mom. I must say that I expected your mom to be the dark horse candidate, but she couldn’t put it all together in the end. I think we all know your mom’s qualifications in the area, and I think it’s safe to say that all of us here at Beer and Porn have an intimate relationship with your mom and her abilities. Your mom could be reached for comment, but we chose not to, because we aren’t interested in what she has to say, are we? We’re interested in what she can do…

Finally, the number one choice to the answer “Who is ‘The Man’?” – Whitey.

Speaking on behalf of Whitey, I’d like to make a brief acceptance speech.

I am probably the closest thing to the stereotypical Whitey that you can find. I’m white, for starters. Hopelessly white. Irish and Italian kind of white. Suburban Connecticut kind of white. Middle-middle class kind of white. Only child kind of white. The opposite of “diversity” kind of white. I put the “C” in Caucasian. I’m bland like Vanilla. I am the personification of Wonderbread. I fail to qualify for any scholarships. There are no outreach programs available to me. I am not protected by any equal opportunity mandates. I am not covered by any quotas. I am the reason for Affirmative Action. I have an albino soul. I am white.

I have been told from the day of my birth that I am bland and unoriginal. My ancestry is treated like potpourri trivia rather than a source of heritage or pride. My people, whoever they may be, are responsible for any and all social injustices you can find. I am responsible for slavery. I am responsible for patriarchy. I am responsible for the Jewish diaspora. I am responsible for the destruction of indigenous peoples in the Western Hemisphere. I am responsible for political lines in Africa and the Middle East that have destroyed tribes and caused civil unrest. I am the face of the Ku Klux Klan, of the Know-Nothing party, of National Socialism, of the Spanish Inquisition and untold other instruments of intolerance and cruelty. I am Big Tobacco. I am Big Government. I am Big Oil. I am Rich Uncle Pennybags, with a cigar in my mouth and a top hat on my head, running the world thanks to my white male privilege.

I am told that I run the show, and therefore I deserve no breaks. I am expected to prostrate repeatedly for the sins of my ancestors. I am afforded no breaks, no helping hands and no compassion. If I succeed, it is because of my white male privilege. If I fail, it is my fault and no one else’s. I am not allowed to enter into discourse about society, because my views are inherently racist, sexist, classist and bigoted. I am the personification of the sins of the world.

I am white. I am apparently “The Man.”

---------------------

It’s difficult to talk about such things without exposing your shortcomings in reasoning due to your position in society. One could look at my social stature and claim that I am a perfect example of white privilege: well educated, self-sufficient, soon to receive my graduate degree and become a member of professional academia. You could say that I’ve never had to struggle to reach my goals, or fight preconceived notions of my abilities based on societal stereotypes. I certainly couldn’t argue with you – all I know is my own experience, and I can’t say whether my path has been eased by my skin color and gender. Some would say that is the case – and who am I to argue?

This I think is the point of my ridiculous rant above. It’s certainly fair to say that there are inherent social benefits to being male, or white, or both, in modern society. And it is just as important to expose these unfair advantages for what they are, as everyone should be afforded the same rights and opportunities in a truly free society. However, it often feels that as a member of white male America, I am immediately shut out of these discussions because of my perceived bigotry and/or involvement with the problems in society. Can a grown man speak about Feminism? Can a white man talk about racism? I’d like to think so – but in Politically Correct America, I’m afraid this may not be the case.

Anyways, on behalf of all Whiteys everywhere, I’d like to apologize. We’re trying our best to do the right thing. We’re just not all that good at it. Blame the fall of the Roman Empire. It messed us up pretty good, you know.

-Mr. Carson

2004-03-09T02:51:00.000-05:00

Dexter’s Random Topic for Me: Attractivness and Why It’s Totally Fucked,
(or, “I like this porno, but there’s too much dick in it.”)

One of my good friends said something recently that has lodged itself inside of my brain. He said, “I feel shallow by not being gay or bisexual.” I was sort of confused by the statement, so I asked for a qualifying backup statement, which he delivered in mildly slurred speech, “Well… it bothers me that somebody could possess all of the qualities I look for in someone I would want in a romantic partner, funny, good taste in music… perfect compatibility… and yet I would ignore them as a possible mate simply because it was a dude.”

So I began to think about it, being confident in my own sexuality… and he’s got a point. Why does gender play such a critical role in what’s attractive? I mean, think about it. If you were living with Marvin instead of Mary, you could watch Sportscenter without getting a healthy dose of Lifetime Movie network during the commercial break. Marvin wouldn’t ask you what you thought about floral or printed curtains, or what you were thinking, period. And deciding on whether to spend a weekend looking for deals at the Christmas tree shops or watching the Bond marathon and eating five successive meals at Wendy’s… no contest.

For mine own part, my brain is wired in a more traditional fashion. Boys want to stick and girls want to be stuck. Tab A, Slot B… separated locker rooms, call me old guard, call me chauvinist… whatever. That’s the way I see it. This is not to say that I am not totally accepting of other ways of being. I’m generally very laid back about that sort of thing, because, shit… it isn’t hurting me, is it? But my buddy’s drunken and philosophical comment made me stop and think about the whole male female matchup. So here goes.

Let’s face it. Girls are crazy. And not funny crazy like that homeless dude who tells his shopping cart about the governmental conspiracies… they’re crazy crazy. The face painting, the shaving, the plucking, the morning ritual… the need for shoes. Stand back and look at it from a detached, clinical perspective. If she doesn’t want to talk, don’t bother. If she’s giving you the silent treatment, you Did Something. It’s best to close your eyes and ignore the wrath… because, for some reason, she’ll just be like, “I love you so much!” and you’ll do it like a million times. And you are left with nothing but terrifying confusion, and the latent fear that you will someday do something to make her go away forever, and you’ll never have any idea what it is. That’s crazy.

But let us also face another fact. Girls are hot. Damn hot… Real hot. Scampering about in bathing suits and smiling… Jesus! It’s a beautiful thing. And it’s not just the supermodels; Even real life girls are hot. Furrowing their brows, trying to understand some chemistry formula, shopping on Saturday with a t-shirt and jeans… they sway, they recline… they can contort themselves on easy chairs and fall asleep with their legs tucked under… like sexy little cats, or otters or something. It’s quite wonderful.

I don’t know what they see in guys. The non supermodel forms of maledom are an unruly lot. Leaving seats up, sniff testing underwear for second and third day use, sweat, hair, snoring, Defiled bathrooms… We’re slobs. And as my man Holden Caulfield said, the ones who look good on the outside are secret slobs. Bed’s made every day, but look underneath… pizza boxes? Using a mountain dew can for an ashtray for a month and a half. Dusting? Isn’t that how they administer pesticides to crops? It’s a fact… we’re kinda gross. And by kinda, I mean Really Really.

So, how can normal girls be so hot, and normal guys be so disgusting? How does anything get done in this whacked out gene pool? So I sat, and I thought for another little while. no more than twenty seconds or so... And it occurs to me that we hetero males often put women on pedestals. Despite their craziness, they really can’t do wrong. It’s like they’re aliens or something, and we’re all paunchy versions of Captain Kirk, Kicking ass and teaching them our ways of love. They don’t poop, they don’t smell, they don’t sweat (they glow!). Because they’re so mysterious, we think they’re not disgusting.
But… they are. Girls are just sneaky. And we men are willfully ignorant about it. We block out those feminine hygiene commercials which seem to be misplaced during cool shows. Blue liquid? I can think of another primary color that might be a bit more apropos, considering the subject matter. ‘Not so fresh feelings’? It makes me wonder about what goes on inside the ladies’ room. And here’s another little bit of info that came to my wide eyed attention, thanks to Sex and the City and nominally trustworthy females… girls talk about sex All The Time. When we’re not around, of course. And the DETAIL! God Damn! The way I’ve heard it told, it goes down to thrusts per minute, complete with elaborate and terrifying rating systems. If you have ever had sex with a girl and she managed to escape your bedroom (or bathroom stall) alive, there is a group of women who you’ve probably seen at parties who know every detail of your sexual methods. Big Brother may or may not be watching, but Big Sister is a horrifying reality. And she has a notebook.

I’m not sure where this is going… I barely remember where it started.
*pause for scrollup*
Ok. MY buddy’s drunken commentary on sexuality. I’m afraid I’ve gone on a bit of a rant that has to do with it only tangentially, so I’ll try to wrap up. Guys are straightforwardly gross, and see girls as statuesque psychopaths. We are far too foolish and shortsighted to realize the awful truth. Girls are sneakretly gross, and are realistic enough to know that real life guys don’t have chiseled faces and six pack abs, or if they do, they will someday fade into jowls and a soft beer belly. I’ can’t really say one way or another about dude/ dude and chick/ chick attraction, but it is reasonable to postulate that they follow a somewhat similar formula. So in the end, we’re all disgusting… but the important part is that we’re all disgusting together. Somewhere in the genetic soup we call this island Earth, we manage to find our way, and someday wake up next to a form that we find pleasant. Cheers, kids…

-The Slater

2004-03-08T16:02:00.000-05:00

Wannabe Quitter: This is a cry for help

Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.
--Samuel Beckett

To begin, I have a request/’informercial’ for all you non-smoking “winners” out there…

Don’t give me any more crap about quitting smoking. I’ve heard enough of it.

Honestly. I’ve said this 1000 times before – Quitting smoking is harder than many non-smokers would believe… maybe a doctor’s note will get your attention…

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“'Nicotine is highly addictive, to a degree similar or in some respects exceeding addiction to 'hard' drugs such as heroin and cocaine'
- Source "Nicotine Addiction In Britain" Report by Royal College Of Physicians – London
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That’s right – friggin’ heroin…

Back off.

In fact, the only drug more addictive than nicotine is cocaine – which is, in fact, the most addictive substance known to man.

Non-smokers seem hell-bent on enlightening all of us idiot smokers as to the dangers of our vice. Here’s a bit of truth for you…

70 percent of smokers want to quit. Only about 5% actually succeed every year. Every year, 95% of people who try to stop smoking are not successful…

I’ll say that last one again…

95% of people who try to stop smoking are not successful.

Give me a break. It’s fucking hard… and “Nic Fits” aren’t the worst of the withdrawl symptoms… that’s right – symptoms plural… Here’s a chunk from the laundry list of withdrawl symptoms:

fatigue, lack of concentration, irritability, depression, anxiety, insomnia, (and an increased tendency to dream… which actually isn’t bad at all – sorry for wasting your time with that one), headaches, sleep disturbances, and increased appetite. These symptoms may begin within a few hours after the last cigarette. Symptoms peak within the first few days and may subside within a few weeks. For some people, however, symptoms may persist for months or longer... Oh and indigestion, nausea, diarrhea and sore throats…yes… all of them at the same time.

There you go, eh? Ain’t THAT a bitch… And that’s just the physical repercussions. A number of smokers are addicted to the ritual of smoking - the feel, smell, and sight of a cigarette and the ritual of obtaining, handling, lighting, and smoking the cigarette are all associated with the happy times that smoking brings and can make withdrawal or craving worse. While nicotine gum and patches may alleviate the pharmacological aspects of withdrawal, cravings often persist. In other words, the patch and gum won’t work for some… at all. Fun, eh?

And, believe it or not, most of us smokers are hip to this jive. We know well enough what smoking does to us because… well we’re living the dream, kids. We also have intimate knowledge of how hard (damn near impossible) it is to quit smoking because… well most of us have tried and failed numerous times.
So to you non-smokers who are harping on us to “just quit”, give it a rest already. Your constant bleatings aren’t helping. We’re wrestling with forces all but unknown to you – your efforts are certainly appreciated but… well damn… leave us alone. We’ll get there… your pressure isn’t helping at all.
There… all done with that

:::adjusting tie:::

:::stepping down from soapbox:::

This whole deal is really about my latest failed quitting smoking effort. About two months ago I decided to give it the ol’ college try and clear the air. And, believe it or not, I was doing pretty good for a while there. My plan this time (probably gleaned from some online remedy mag or some such) was to keep a diary recording each and every cigarette that I smoked – that’s right… every one… time, date, and, get this, motivation… awww yeah! I thought keeping a diary would be encouraging, you know? I’d see my smoking decreasing over time and get a confidence boost. ‘least that’s how it was supposed to work. I printed my quit date in HUGE letters and numbers on the front of the damn thing and, for a while, I was excited about the prospect of being smoke free. Then.. well things fell apart. Here… take a look…

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Feb 22 or 2.22.04

Day 1

10:01 AM …by the microwave clock. First smoke of the day. Quitting smoking IS a pretty daunting task... but… I think I can I think I can.. gonna try and get Scotty to join me. Maybe the Squatch? I think he’ll quit if I quit
1:38 PM Smoke #2 before I go to play D2 w/Ed. Played a fair amount of guitar – felt good. A possible distraction from precious sweet nic-o-teen?

3:12 PM My jaw hurts? Had a beer and feel like a smoke. Much easier to say “yes” after a beer… (noted)

7:?? PM Smokey-poo as I took out the trash and headed to pick up an application and some namby-pamby soda… ugh… isn’t beer enough? Damn you…:::reading bottle::: …coca-cola.

10:14 PM Excited! Only 5 [smokes] in twelve hours. I swore I was much worse off. This may be easier than I thought…

1:55 AM Smoking w/Sasquatch… I find if I drink or stay up too late, I smoke more… I know I know… lemme tackle ONE vice @ a time

Day 2

7:05 AM Slept like an ANGEL! Man-oh-man! Smokey-poo! More guitar planned today along w/some toolin’ around “Sasquatch Style”. Should be fun. Yesterday? 6 smokes in 16 hours. I think I can match that or do better.
10:40 AM Put off smoking for 40-60 min after I wanted one. Tension, thy name is Nicotine Deprivation. Time for a smoke. Es la hora del fumar.
1:20 PM After a nap (good sleep) had a smoke.- no more afternoon naps. It’ll probably help my sleep schedule.
3:53 PM basically 4 PM… smoke break from D2 – gotta get some guitar in at some point… quitting smoking shouldn’t come with guilt…

Day 3

7:36 AM Ok.. guitar is definitely a distraction from smoking. I’ve decided to go regimental and break down my technique… namely chord shapes.
8:30 PM Prolly gonna have one on the way to get The Slater… I’ll get an estimation down when I get back. Hand hurts a little but good hurtin’… from guitar… I swear… :::shame:::
3:30 AM Total of 4… Stressful event… no more smokes… is that a good thing?... Squatch has some… I’ll limit my bumming :::sleep:::

Day 4

11:30 AM Up by 10:10 – First smoke of the day. Might be goin’ to see Scotty or Bren today. Win-win the way I see it.
1:30 PM Smoke
5:30 PM Smoke
7:45 PM Smoke
11:45 PM Smoke
2:00 AM Smoke

Day 5
10:00 AM First smoke – expecting some stress today. Hope it doesn’t up the smoke count. What can I use as a counter?
1:42 … OK OK… I went overboard a little. Got to bed by 11 though… that’s good.

Day 6

8:55 AM Been up since 7:30… Made myself get plenty of sleep. Put off first smoke until now. Seeming very possible to quit for good
10:45 AM Back… my back… smoke… lay down
1:39 PM Smokey-poo! Bored out of my mind
5:58 PM Smoke… 3?! WOW! :::happy:::
9:09 PM Don came by… smokey-poo
10:30 PM Don is still here… … smokey-poo!!

Day 7

4 smokes in here somewhere… I was out all day

Day 8

No smokes until 7ish (PM). GO Drew GO, eh? Went to Scotty’s and had 3… habit. Hope for tomorrow… one more before bed makes 5… again.

Day 9

11:36 AM Smoke… been slacking on the whole journal deal. I’ll put a stop to that…

Day 13

11:15 AM …yeah… I know… slacker… but one today so far… I think I may just have to cut myself off and deal… food and working out will help…

Day 14

Superbowl Sunday :::’nuff said:::

Day 15

1st smoke @ noon… that’s kinda good, eh?

Then… there is what I have figured to be a random drunken scrawling by me which reads…Your pussy smells like (frat) gin, whore

…:::???:::

Final Entry

Failed though my sex drive is through the goddamn roof… ‘least my body is happy to have felt alive, eh?

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So what happened, you ask?

:::deep breath:::

…lack of concentration, irritability, depression, anxiety, insomnia, headaches, sleep disturbances, and increased appetite. indigestion, nausea, diarrhea…

…yeah – all of that while the rest of life was chugging right along. Talk about frustrating. Something happened, though, that made me rethink quitting altogether.

I was at work and a man came up to the counter. He looked like he had been in a washer and dryer set to “Old” for most of his life. One of the two of his yellowing eyes was split open a bit at the bottom and :::gag::: it was oozing thick yellowish… schtuff.

:::Christ:::

Oh but it gets better. He had SEVERAL holes in his neck and to talk to me he had to use one of those doohickeys that makes folk sound like Robot Jones. On top of all of this, he only had enough breath to utter one word at a time. He used what could have very been the last of his breaths to say these three words…

Skoal…

…Wintergreen…

…Longcut…

:::SHIT!:::

Now THAT’S a fucking addiction.

(note: Skoal is smokeless or ‘chewing’ tobacco – Wintergreen is a flavor they offer and longcut is one of two varieties of Skoal[the other being ‘fine cut’] … thus Skoal Wintergreen Longcut is what he was asking for – visit http://www.ussmokeless.com/ for more info)

I’ve done some pretty terrible things in my lifetime but damn it if this wasn’t one of the absolute worst… I sold it to him. Every part of me knew that it was wrong to do so… that I should have said “no” and let myself be fired or just quit on the spot or something… anything demonstrating a little moral backbone. But no, I sold it to him and got regret and nightmares in return.

After that, I started to notice more and more how many people come in for their fix of nicotine – people with sickly eyes yellowing fingernails and brown teeth… people breathing heavier than any pedophile or phone sex operator could ever dream… people carrying the sick stink of tobacco… dead people really. A third of the people I’ve sold that shit to will die from it. These are people who otherwise lead normal lives. These are people who started smoking to piss off their parents or because their brother did or to fit in with the cool kids or any other number of reasons. These are people, most of them, who don’t want to be there… standing in front of me and asking for death… People tired of being a slave to a few ounces of dried leaves..
These people don’t want to smoke.

I remember back to those bullshit drug education courses in grades 1-12… I remembered all the bogus reports we had to do and all the little factoids we had to swallow and regurgitate on paper. I remember mostly how smoking was never made out to be a big deal. Heroin, coke, speed, PCP… hell… even alcohol and marijuana… THOSE were the bad guys. Tobacco was just their naughty underling… a clever parrot on the shoulder of a big bad pirate.

…right.

:::shaking head:::

I haven’t yet given up on quitting smoking. I’ll make it soon enough. Picking up smoking was a huge mistake that me and millions of other people have made. We had no idea what we were getting into and, what with social whatnots being what they are, smoking is ok… even cool. It is… honestly. Imagine James Dean without one… see?

Anywho, I’m actually gonna go have a cigarette. Not only for the sake of irony but also… well… I’ll fucking bite the head off of a nun if I don’t suck down some poison. This one’s for you, weird eye dying guy…
I’ll quit for both of us.

--Dexter Otis Green

2004-03-03T14:19:00.000-05:00

I Believe in Santa: My Secret Shame

A few years ago, I was sweating out a gorgeous fall day in the stands of Memorial Stadium (RIP) with 249 of my closest friends. One friend in particular had been telling some interesting stories (lies, I called them) and today was the day of proof. I’d heard a million whoppers and tall tales:

“My dad is the President of Reebok”

“I just signed with Virgin Records”

”I’m pregnant”

But I think this kid took the cake with this particular unbelievably outrageous bullshit story.

”My Dad is Santa Claus”

…

(see the archives for my feelings on Christmas)

…

:::share my rage:::

HA! – Santa isn’t real! Period!... and this kid was gonna pay for his lies. He must have meant that his dad looked like Santa… ‘cause there was no way in his Pop was the genuine article. This day, I waited like a bear-trap to meet Santa. Believe or not, this wasn't the first time I had waited for the man.

When I was a kid, I remember waiting on Christmas Eve at my bedroom window for Father Christmas. I waited until I fell asleep with my cheek and ear pressed against the frosted window pane. I wanted to see him… just once. Waking up the next morning and seeing presents wasn’t enough for me. I needed to see him with my own eyes. But, alas, it was not yet to be. I lost all faith in Santa. As far as I was concerned, my mother and father bought the presents. And that was fine by me.

This day at a football game in Memorial Stadium would be different. The kid pointed over to where his parents were sitting. My eyes scanned the crowd past a million sets of ice blue eyes and graying beards… my gaze tumbled over hundreds of bellies that’d shake like a bowl full of jelly but… none of them Santa-like.

And then it happened like it always does. My eyes stopped moving before I had known that I had found him and there he was. I couldn’t believe it! There, sitting in the bleachers with a snow white beard and a yule log smile was friggin’ Santa Claus. This was bullshit!. Part of me hastened to explain it away.

“He dressed up a little more like Santa today to fool you- to make you believe – he knows the stories. He’s just living up to them!”

But he wasn’t dressed in anything particularly Santa-ish. I knew it was him, though. I knew. And then he started waving a big glove in one hand, the other arm wrapped around Mrs. Claus (oh yeah.. she was there too… and she’s crazy hot!... I actually wrote a song about it… but that’s another story, isn’t it Jake) and I swear to God, I blinked harder than I may have ever blinked in my life.

It WAS him.

I’ve believed since. Even before I scrambled over aluminum benches and concrete stairs to meet him, I knew it was him. Now for a guy who’s always calling for evidence, it’s downright hypocritical of me to make a claim as big as this one without one single shred of evidence.

But you haven’t met him.

Once you meet him, you’ll believe. He has something that none of those bullshit Mall Santas and run-of-the-mill big jolly old guys don’t have. I don’t know what it is, man, but it’s there.

Something about those eyes… he has the look of a kid who’s been playing in the snow all day. And when he talks, it’s always like story time…like drinking hot chocolate… like listening to all the greatest oldest stories you’ve ever heard all at once… and with arms like that, the man could friggin’ punch a hole in the Pope – no question… smart money says he can bench at least 350…

…sorry ladies… he’s taken...

I made friends with Santa and it’s been nothing but good times ever since. He promised me some Clementine Oranges and Leer jet… not bad, eh? Tip for all you would be Santa pals..

There is no limit to the amount of tequila this man can put away.

:::hangover:::

That about does it – Santa is a very real person. All the holly jolly whatnots we heard as kids turned out to be true. Call me insane if you want – I know that you don’t know any better so I’ll forgive you. Besides, who cares what you think.

I believe in him.

-- Dexter Otis Green

2004-02-27T01:47:00.000-05:00

I found this article dating back to 1999 in my rant archives tonight. Man, I tried to get this printed a least 1,000 times and the Daily Campus (the University of Connecticut "newspaper") refused to print it due to their obvious lack of enlightenment and journallistic integrity.

bastards...

It occured to me today that this can finally be in print. What with our readership now in the (???,???), I'm sure SOMEONE will be able to appreciate my biting yet underdeveloped brand of satire (You hear that, Amy Miller? - SATIRE!).

Oh, and to the NFA lads and lassies (Norwich Free Academy: Land of Marching Jailbait... Ok, honestly, I really have nothing terrible to say about Norwich Free Academy. They're a bunch of stellar kids, I'm sure... except for Tavis... When I say "wrong hole" I mean just that... bastard :::tears:::) reading this trite outdated garbage, good for you! I pray that you are able to pass over the torture that is the U of C. If not then consider this fair warning. You're in a culinary paradise, my friends. UConn food is nothing but laxitive in 43 flavors.

Why am I posting this after all this time?

...2 reasons

1) It's about damn time

2) Why the hell not? - I'm tired and George Killian told me to... so there...

This is a story told by me at 19... a year after discovering the horror that is UConn Meat.

(P.S. Ladies, I'm 24 now and not afraid of jailbait... who wants a moustache ride!... ... by which I mean keep your creepy oh so fertile coochy-cooch to yourself... oh and women aren't people :::ZING!:::)

Read on if you dare....

“Uconn Meat” vs. D.P. Dough – The battle rages on
(Beware the cows!)

(Dexter @ 19)

Once upon the time in the real world, I used to enjoy eating. I loved foods like hotdogs, cookies, pasta and macaroni and cheese, bacon and eggs, steak… That did not last for very long. My first semester here at Uconn after a couple of weeks of dining hall food, I thought to myself, “Ya know, it’s really not that bad. I could always go home every now and again and get a decent meal. By the time I really get sick of it, the year will be over and I can go home.” Soon that turned into, “Man what’s that smell?” to “I think I’m blind”, and finally, “Dear GOD…. My bowels!! They’ve come to life!! Can a real crop of fructose ever inhale choice iodine? Perchance to steal a ligament of time?” I have had some pretty nasty food in my short life. Nothing compares, however, to the relentless ferocity of what I now call “UCONN meat”; the stomach churning, face distorting, mind warping concoctions heated (if we’re lucky) and served to us all.
Call me picky but all I want is something that tastes half-decent. To be honest, I’m only slightly concerned about how nutritious it is. Day after day chunks of “bar-b-q this” and “teriyaki that” are shoved in students faces and the bad news is, it’s not getting any better. Today it’s questionable macaroni and cheese; tomorrow it’ll be hot nameless bar-b-q flavored grayish slop (only 2% rat excrement!). What are we to do? I suggest either getting to know your friendly grocer or numbing your lips and tongue with ambesol before every meal.

The real question is… what are we eating!! Seriously! I doubt that anything that taste like reheated teriyaki/bar-b-q rice crispy mystery beast could be 100% natural. I’m betting 2% all natural at the most. So, where does it come from? Why is it here? After much thinking and some help from an unexpected “vision” (note: don’t drink the water from mirror lake. If, by some chance you do, tell He Who Learns in Timple Shinders that I shall never return…NEVER!) I’ve come up with a few theories.

A. UCONN has a deal with a covert radiation experiment facility in which mutated animals are exchanged for student financial aid records and tickets to men’s basketball games. Then, after being forced to endure hours of tortuous dancing for unnamed UCONN faculty, they are promptly forced through one of several doors for “reconditioning and processing”; a secret process known only to very privileged staff of dining services. The end result is served to us (give or take a vat of cheese, lard, and moose testicles) under the guise of one of three meats: chicken, pork, or “mystery beast”.

B. I’m almost positive it has something to do with an unseen Phyllis Dillar/Backstreet Boys connection. It’s clear that something is definitely not kosher in that area but I’m not sure what it is exactly.

C. It’s all about the mystery beast. Need I say more? I didn’t think so.

Ok, so the food sucks. “We have no other convenient alternative!” you say? Nay, I say, and nay again!! My beer-guzzling chums, there is an answer—D.P. Dough!! God gift to UCONN! With millions (or about 40) different varieties of calzone, one could conceivably eat D.P. Dough everyday for life… or about a month… which ever comes first. I personally stand by the Bar-b-q steak and cheese. The bar-b-q sauce in it is meant to trick my body into believing that UCONN meat is still present in my system. Otherwise, I’d go into withdrawal and devour my own body up to the waist. I’ve seen it happen. It’s not pretty. I’d like to take this time out to thank D.P. Dough for their miracle concoction. Without it, I would surely perish… or just be really sad.

A friend of mine once told me that everything we ever wanted to know, we could learn by simply “looking to the cows.” He was shortly thereafter committed to the Silicone Valley Mental Institution for organizing gerbils and Dan Quayle to create the perfect Andrew “Dice” Clay/Martha Stewart hybrid in an attempt to overthrow the government with covert communist tactics. I never spoke to him again. However, he did have a point. The cows are not always what they seem.

Good? Bad? I don't really care - it's finally posted and I can go on composing drivel. Hope you enjoyed it. Keep your eyes and ears open for Beer n Porn Radio....

...coming soon

Meanwhile, get the word out! - Our readership is growing but we can still use your help. Spread the word... tell your creepy D & D friends to check us out in between their bizarro Anime Porn JO sessions (you poor lonely bastards). And hey, got a topic? Something you want to hear about? Email me at DexterAML@yahoo.com with your idea. Make the subject Beer n Porn or Christ help me I'll delete it. I get more than starving Hatians.

Toodles,

-- Dexter Otis Green

2004-02-24T04:01:00.000-05:00

Confessions of an Unrepentant Alumnus, or How I Tried to Get My Degree Revoked Through Blogging

I just found my diploma while sifting through some random boxes of personal papers in my closet. It’s framed in a Wal-Mart plastic frame, because I didn’t really want to invest in the solid brass medallion and gold leaf trim and stupid amounts of money they ask for such things. It’s sort of strange and terrible that they nickel and dime you on the way out of college… graduation gown this, yearbook that, ‘memories that will last forever,’ et cetera.

The truth is, I didn’t even walk for graduation. My parents were disappointed what with my being the first member of my family to be granted a bachelor’s degree from an accredited institution, but here’s how I tricked them; my sister (who is much better at school than I am) was accepting an award for academic superiority at Jorgensen auditorium, and there was a keynote speaker. And he droned on about how great sports were, and other school spirity things. I leaned over to my mom and dad, and whispered in a really loud whisper voice, “This is what graduation is going to be like, only MORE boring.” And thus, I was able to watch cartoons in my underpants while my fellow students stood up in unison, and wore all black, tossing their mortarboards into the sky of an uncertain future.

Why didn’t I walk? There are a lot of reasons, but I think the biggest one was I didn’t really want to be a part of the pomp and circumstance capstoning a four year odyssey of terrible bullshit. This is not to say I learned nothing in college; I got a fairly good grip on delivery phone numbers, and I figured out how long it took to get to my classes from my dorm, so to optimize sleeping. I learned how to fake a mean F chord. And, you know, whatever… some good ‘dealing with people’ skills or something, although I think my summer job at a Scout camp really sharpened those and made me the witty bastard I am today.

Now, I’m not one of the illiterati. I love learning. There were some times in college, while in the depths of some lengthy paper I’d put off until about 12 hours before it was due, where I remembered exactly how much I loved learning. It’s a shame it didn’t happen more often… and this is part of the reason why I think higher education is so fucked up. How can an institute ‘dedicated’ to the enlightenment and enrichment of young minds be such a hotbed of apathy and destructive behavior?

College is populated by a pretty substantial demographic of kids who don’t really want to be there. Well, they DO want to be there, for the keggers and promiscuity. It tends to be worse at pricier, private colleges, where it’s a bunch of rich kids waving their gold plated dicks around. I’ve seen it. And it’s disgusting. Bunch of lazy, shiftless, empty people waiting to be kicked out for hitting the bong six too many times a day.

Not that good students are any better. Fuck those squares, says I! I would have studied harder if I wasn’t afraid of becoming one of them. I mean, think about it… what’s worse than lazy people in college? Study dorks! Locking themselves in their rooms, avoiding the light of day, looking down their noses at people sunning themselves in the quad and playing wiffle ball. I mean, at least the lazy folks try to make the best out of a bad thing. Study, study, study, get a diploma, get a good job… do more work. These people are setting themselves up for juicy heart attacks.

The Studious make me even sadder for our future than the shiftless and unambitious. Here’s why… think about studying for a test. What do you do? Cram as much knowledge into your head as possible, and take the test, and do well on it. And you promptly forget everything you learn. I defy any college student to tell me what they learned about three semesters ago. This excludes fundamentals courses… but even those are forgotten, especially the stuff you don’t use in your advanced classes. And as for college graduates, everything fades once you embark into the dim, hazy world of corporate America. Even if you use your degree in your job, you still don’t remember all those elective classes that were supposed to round you out as a person. Voyage of the beagle wha? History of South Africa who? Introduction to archaeology huh?

The sad truth is, colleges make it okay to practice academic bulimia, binging on sweet fatty knowledge and puking it up on a blue book or bubble sheet, only to make room for economics or art history. They encourage this mediocrity, stuffing syllabi so full of crap that no one could know the breadth of it without a frenzied bout of studying for weeks before midterms. But wait, let’s make all the tests occur within a week and a half of each other, to make people study even more frantically, and lose even more of it! Now, there is cursory analysis in some of the tests, but nothing really profound, and nothing original. Compare and contrast the work of Cicero and Virgil with special consideration for the concept of character assassination. And blah blah blah. These ‘analytical’ essays are basically arguments the professor made in class, so you are in fact just regurgitating more crap. Dance, student DANCE! Dance around like a little puppet and bend over like a bitch! If you can’t binge orally, we’ll have to administer your education anally.

And we PAY for this!

So this academic Ebola perpetuates itself, festering in the fabled ‘test libraries of fraternities’ and 3x5s full of stat formulae. We lose the cards, we pass or fail tests, we go through the motions. And everyone’s ok with it. As long as the letter you get at the end of a semester is nearer the beginning of the alphabet, game on! It’s ALL about the bottom line. And for those of you studious folks who say ‘go fuck yourself, Scott, I learn plenty and I love what I’m learning and it’s not just about the grade…’ well, I dare you to audit a semester worth of courses and receive no grade for them whatsoever. You won’t do it. Because the grade is too damn important… grade point averages! Oh, no, I need a good GPA! If I don’t I’ll become a homeless person!! People kill themselves just to get a high number on their transcripts. I remember another set of numbers that were terribly important to everyone a few years back… SAT scores. Haven’t thought about THOSE in a while, have you? It’s the same with these letters and numbers. Your percentile isn’t worth a damn once you’re above and beyond this strange transitory period. After your first couple jobs, no one will even care. There will be new numbers to fret about. Now, children, repeat after me… Quotas… Quarterly Reviews… four oh one Kays.

I remember my dad once said to me, ‘College proves to employers that you’re trainable.’ And I said to myself, that’s cool then… this was when I was much younger. So I expected to learn how to learn, you know? But that’s the opposite of what happens. What I learned was if you give the professor what he or she wants, you will pass the class. It’s just a matter of figuring out what they want and giving it to them. So the content is not as important as the delivery of said content. So every semester, you had to start from scratch, unless you already had the prof, and then you just did well from the get go. That’s the secret to getting good grades… you don’t have to learn anything, you simply need to feign competence.

But why does this happen? Why would we pay so much money to these institutions, entrusting them with our education? Because the colleges feign competence as well. Job placement statistics, percentages of valedictorians attending classes, et cetera. They give us and our parents what we want to hear in our senior year of high school. ‘We have a good program that will get you a good job.’ And we believe them, and for the most part it works. People go on to lead productive lives and contribute positively to society, working just hard enough to get raises, marrying the college sweetheart, making 2.5 kiddies, which you will of course send to college. It’s a perpetual motion machine that makes the world turn, fueled by emptiness and mediocrity.

Most of what I value as far as my education goes is what I taught myself, by reading books that were on no syllabus, save the one in my head. I read, I interpreted, I grew as a result. I never needed to prove this acquisition of knowledge to anyone but me. it’s a lifelong process… I continue to read things that change my mind, and I enjoy learning immensely, because the knowledge is acquired on my own terms. I’ve read many philosophy books, despite having escaped college without a single philosophy credit under my belt. I like to understand them without the bias of an ‘expert,’ who taints the material with his own agendas. I’ve read almost every holy book, and integrated teachings and morality from each into my own personal code of conduct. All this, having never benefited from a single theology course. These things, I think, are best leaned in the confines of one’s own mind, sitting quietly with a cup of hot tea, without the stress of highlighting and writing in margins because of a ‘big test.’ I don’t need tests to keep me honest about what I learn.

So after I looked at my bachelor of arts degree (lovingly laser printed and embossed with the seal of our great state), I put it back, shitty frame and all, into the box with the other things I don’t need to validate my existence. I don’t need a piece of paper to prove anything to anybody. The proof, as Temple grad Bill Cosby was rumored to have said, is in the pudding. So the next time you can’t read a book because you are too busy with classes (I have heard this excuse, and I almost threw up with disgust), think about what you’re really being taught in the ivory tower, and why you’re eating the sweet lotuses that are making you content with forgetting things after you’ve proven you know them. You’re better off listening to meaningful songs and learning secret truths between the lines of wise dead folks and breakfast cereal jingles. When you are beholden to no one, there is no failure… only steps toward the truth.

Educate yourself; it is an infinitely more satisfying path.

--The Slater

2004-02-20T00:54:00.000-05:00

Jeffrey Motola is a son of a bitch

:::deep bow:::

-- Dexter Otis Green

2004-02-18T21:43:00.000-05:00

Friends

What is a friend?
1. A person whom one knows, likes, and trusts.
2. A person whom one knows; an acquaintance.

There are of course different types of friends. There are those who we know, like, and trust. There are also those who we simply know. In order to have a discussion on the merits of friendship, or the lack merits, we must differentiate between the two.
We cannot expect tremendous compassion, and support from all of our friends. There are many people with very large amounts of acquaintances. We cannot expect our more casual friends to bend over backwards for us. While I think that we all know this and do not expect this much we must first be clear that most of our friends will never fill any supportive role.

We should however be able to expect compassion and support from a select few. For many there is only one person that ever fills this role. Our best friends should be people that we can count on. We should be able to call them no matter what time. Don’t however expect that if you call someone at 5 am they will be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Also, calling someone at a ridiculous time of the night/day should be reserved for emergencies only.

“After High School [my friends] pretty much vanished”

First of all let me say that this happened to me as well. The people I was close with in High School I am not close with at all now. I do have friends from high school, but the people I spend time with now I did not then. Or at least not as much time. My closest friendships are those that developed during my late teens and early twenties. As people go off to school, work, military, or whatever connections are lost. People drift apart and it’s not usually just one side’s fault.

Should friends be anything more than people you enjoy spending time with?”

My answer is no. You are very right Mr. Green. But, I must say that there can be more to a friendship. Don’t expect your friends to make you into anything. I agree with you on that. There are people out there who can be trusted, and counted on. It’s a two way street though. If a relationship isn’t developed on both sides then no one is really to blame. Let me use myself as an example. Not that many people know me too well. Not really at least. I don’t let people in. Therefore, most of the friends I have are not that close. That’s ok, and it’s my fault. They are people I enjoy spending time with. I have a few people that I can open up to and really talk to and be comfortable with. People that I trust. Including you Mr. Green. Just remember that there is no magic safety net. No, one is perfect. That doesn’t mean, though, that putting trust in anyone but yourself is bound to get you hurt. There is risk involved in any relationship in which you open yourself emotionally. There are no guarantees in life. Being unwilling to trust people though is no way to live.

Your friends are not liars…

You can trust me on this one - I’m one of your friends.

Jeffrey "---" Motola

2004-02-17T18:14:00.000-05:00

What are friends for?

Friend, how camest thou in hither? --Matt. 22:12
America was first visited by Friends in 1656. --T. Chase
Want gives to know the flatterer from the friend. --Dryden

This may not be the best time to write this. Heh – I mean there’s never really a right time for anything it seems but… well there are so many things I don’t know… a number of things I haven’t gotten my hands on or been able to wrap my mind around. Unresolved conflicts, rushed resolutions, and flat out closed mindedness on my part are sure to lend more than a fair share of bias to this piece. I can’t imagine, though, that I’ll ever be seated in the right place to get this down properly. In fact, now that I think about it, this may very well be the best time to write this.

Who am I kidding…

Regardless of the timing, I’ll get on with it. For now, this feels important. Not to mention the fact that ideas like this lend themselves to wordy essays and like responses.

(pause… Continue)

I’ve never really had much trouble making friends. In elementary school, I was a bit of a weirdo being that I was one of 5.8 black kids in my school and… well… I was an odd duck beside that. Kids gravitated towards me and I had friends no matter how strangely I behaved. By the time I was in high school, my friends spanned the forever-wide gap between lowly geek and mountain top jock. I fit everywhere. I was invited to parties because I could make people laugh. I could sit damn near anywhere in the lunch room… even if I didn’t know the people – hell in 5 min, I could make a friend out of almost anyone. I was almost always the first one to talk to the shy new kid. I was the guy that defended the nerds. I was the kid that stared down the meatheads and made them take back their band insults. I was the kid that showed that jocks have personality beyond their jersey numbers and school records.

Now I was by no means a hero or a perfect kid. In fact, I was a bit of an asshole. At the same time that I’d stand up for anyone, lunch ladies included, I’d just as easily tear them down. It really depended on my mood to be honest. There were only a few people (this included you, Josh) who meant much of anything to me in the long run. I’m looking back now and realizing that most of my friends were social white noise. They helped me ignore how awkward and insecure I was. I didn’t count on them for much of anything but to show up to school. And, like I said, there were a few who were worth a damn but, after high school, they pretty much vanished and I was left to start again from scratch.

In college, making friends was effortless and I wasted no time. I knew hundreds and hundreds of people after just a year there but, just as it was in high school, I didn’t much feel that I could count on any of them for anything. But is that even important? By that I mean… should friends be anything more than people you enjoy spending time with?

Hoping on over to present day, I still have plenty of friends. And, let me be honest with you, they’re some of the best friends a guy could ever hope for. And yet, somehow, I’m still disappointed. I couldn’t put my finger on it for a while and the past few months I’ve wrestled with it somewhat silently. I have all these friends and I’m still lonely. Why? Then it hit me. I’m expecting my friends to fill a space that they don’t have to…

Hear me out…

I kept expecting some sort of magic safety net… if I ever fell, I was ok what with all the friends I have, right? Someone was bound to help… or at least understand. But, though some tried to help, no one really understood. And I’m terrible at explaining myself… so I put a smile on and moved on when the shit hit the fan. And tactics like that are doomed to fall apart someday. My real problem, I’m coming to realize, was that no one took much time to get to know me – and, for whatever reason, I sort of expected them to do so. I’ve always been a decent friend to people for the most part but rarely have I ever had a chance at the “close friend” role. So I foolishly go to these people expecting help or support or whatever it is I’m looking for (most times I don’t much know) and of course they’re at a loss for what to say or do. Outside of the context of a party, hanging out, or the occasional late night conversation, there wasn’t much. Now, that’s not to say that there wasn’t anything… or even to say that there was only a little or that what was there was somehow insignificant…

This is as good a time as any to get to the point…

What are friends for? All we’ve heard via TV, radio, and such lead us to believe that friends are to be these wonderful pillars in our lives – “Friends give you wings to fly”… and all that. But what if they aren’t? What if friends are nothing more than people you enjoy spending time with? Now look, I understand that “friend” means different things to different people but I think it’s fair to say that we’ve all looked to our friends for support at some point. My question is, what do you do when they won’t help?... or can’t help? I mean you can’t exactly get pissed at them. No one made any promises so none were broken. What’s more, the fact that, for whatever reason, they’re unable to help you doesn’t make them any less of a friend. They’re trying to get by… just like you… let go of your artificial expectations. As cold as that may sound, it’s true. It’s a little ridiculous to be pissed or disappointed in someone who really hasn’t made any type of commitment.

I know I know… I have yet to answer my own question… what are friends for? I don’t much have anything in the way of a solid definition. I can say that friendship, as I’ve come to know it, means enjoying one another’s company for as long as it is mutually beneficial. Let’s be honest… that’s all you can really hope for or count on. These dramatic definitions of friends saving lives and pulling one another out of the gutter are cheaper and more contrived than all the day time dramas combined. We’ve come to believe that our friends somehow owe us something because they associate with us. What’s more, we lie to one another as a means of indicating how important the other is with such clichés as “If you ever need me, call… no matter what time” and “I’d do anything for you”. Try calling on someone who has said this to you and see what kind of reception you get.

Obvious lies.

Why?

Real friends don’t have to make promises or declarations. Such things are understood. What’s more, no real friend would expect another friend to take on the burden of their distresses. That’s just plain selfish. Your burdens are your own, chum. If you haven’t learned that by now, you soon will. Those lofty pop-culture borne ideals of what a friend should be are flat out wrong. Friends are not our lifelines. Let’s be honest with one another here – we wouldn’t trust the majority of our friends with our CD’s… to hell with our emotional wellbeing. Expect anything but good times and warm smiles and you’re in for some bitter disappointment.

I wasted a hell of a lot of time having high expectations of my “close” friends. I made myself available to them at anytime – I mean I never said no… not because I’m such a great guy but because it was the thing to do – it’s how I thought friendship worked. Likewise, I expected the same from them. When I did end up needing people, I looked around and saw that they kept on partying and working and living their lives while I sorted out my messes and confusions alone. I couldn’t figure out how to say “Hey! I need you!” and so I became even more depressed, confused and alone. No one really paid much attention and it bothered me a good deal until I finally said to myself… why should they? Why should anyone help me with the messes I’ve gotten myself into? Hell, it’s my life, my problems, my responsibility. If friends decide to get involved, more power to them. If not, don’t let yourself be catapulted into depression and confusion and whatnot. Get over it and deal with it yourself. Honestly.

Somehow we’ve come to believe that we can’t do it all on our own – that we need friends and loved ones to “carry us through”… carry us through what? Are you serious? I guarantee this: Putting trust in anyone but yourself is bound to get you hurt and, if you’re particularly unlucky, it’ll lose you some quality friends. Look, I’m not saying I don’t trust anyone – I certainly trust my mother and a good number of other people. I am saying that believing that you can truly count on anyone but yourself to help you out of hard times or into good ones is just plain foolish. People let you down… that’s what they do. I’ll tell you right now, it’ll be a long time before I trust anyone with more than a joke and a beer.

Dexter you old fart! This is bullshit! I completely trust my close friends with my life and I’m sure they trust me with theirs. They’ve helped me out of countless rough spots and I know that I can count on them whenever I need them.

How nice for you. Listen… all it’s gonna take is one time… you’re in dire need and you look around and no one is their but you and your problems. What are you gonna do when there are no phone calls to make or IM’s to send that’ll solve everything? Short-armed bastards like you will end up a pile of snot and worry. You’ll choke down a few of mommy’s magic pills to help you sleep a good long forever sleepytime nap and your friends will forget about you before the earth above your head is firm. What makes me so sure?

Your friends are liars… all of them

You can trust me on this one – I’m not one of your friends.

They tell you what they think you want to hear. They tell you what they think will get you out of the funk you’re in. They really don’t give much of a shit about anything but how you behave. As far as your actual well-being is concerned, they could care less. Why? Well… there’s really nothing than can do or even want to do about it… furthermore, they don’t want to hear about problems that they can’t immediately solve or give you a quick answer to – as long as you’re quiet about it, they won’t mention it either. And so long as they can get a good time out of you, they’ll take that as a sign that everything is ok and move right along.

Wake up – it’s true. And you thought you had “true friends”? – glad I had the privilege of disappointing you.

And, again, why should it be any different? Why should are friends be anything more than people who enjoy our company?

You’ll waste half of your life looking for friends “just like on TV and in the movies!” only to find that such people do not exist. We’re not alone in life, that much is true, but all the work is on our shoulders. The most you can hope for is a few lookers on.

What are friends for?

Hell, with all this babbling, I don’t think I’ve answered that question exactly. And, to be honest, I don’t yet claim to know what friends are for… or if there is actually an answer to that question. I do know what they are not for. (see above)

Don’t expect your friends to make you into anything – a happier, saner, more mature, fulfilled person…. Any of that bullshit – that’s all up to you entirely.

It’s your life and you are on your own. Friends are better than video games...

Get your fucking weight up, chump.

--- Dexter Otis Green

2004-02-08T17:25:00.000-05:00

A Fireside Chat with Uncle Vicodin

Tripped and fell this afternoon… leg hurts like a bitch. I’ve been fighting it for most of the day, and I’ve finally given in and popped a vicodin. So let’s see how my writing degenerates as I slip into madness, eh? So I’m just going to be keeping a running tab of what’s going on around me, self editing as little as possible, though I will admit to doing some just now. I will also admit to listening to rent… 525600 minutes… dunno why it’s on my computer. GOnna change it. Switching over to jesus Christ superstar. Big fan. I love how judas and Christ are portrayed… so deliciously blasphemous, or so the religious right would have you believe. Kinda gives them both a human edge… which makes sense. Even the greatest heroes and storymakers among us are, at their cores, just people. Talented, maybe. But by and large, they’re just like you and me, if we were put into an extraordinary situation. I mean, how’d you react to being told you’re god’s son, sent to save the world by dying for it? Ok… I think I’m gonna switch off of JCSS, cause it’s a little too religious… just gonna listen to heaven on their minds and rock it back on the back burnere until such time as I’m not about to lose motor skills and basic judgement. Badass guitar riff… ROCK! Powerful voice, crazy bidness… I think I’m gonna have a cigarette. I like cigarettes. Judas is badass. In the musical. And the bible, I guess… I mean, if it weren’t for judas growing some balls and selling jesus out, he wouldn’t have been able to die on the cross, right? So in a sense, judas had to do what he did. Should he be punished for this? Or if you take the ‘judas possessed by satan’ stance, should satan be punished for indirectly enabling salvation? Doesn’t make a lot of sense.

Ok, new section, to be started as JCSS is eliminated… voted off the aural island, so to speak. For continuity’s sake, it should be stated that this was written before the heaven on their minds commentary. And…. Action. Kid A is playing now… much better atmospheric music. Everything in its right place… I like it. Am I starting to fragment yet? I hope not… there’s no discernable pain relief… I burned my finger on a hot skillet the other day… wonder if that’ll stop hurting too… I suppose it will. Now, for no particular reason, I’m staring at an executioner miniature given to me by my roommate. It’s from his trip to London. He looks vaguely sinister, standing over miniature Frodo, sitting in my desk lamp/ organizer. I have a set of RPG dice and casino dice there too. I have a weakness for purchasing dice. It’s not like I’m a statistician, or anything. Nor do I think all things are left to chance, or luck. Nor do I believe that it’s destiny, either. It seems like everything just… is. In its right place, I suppose. My damned speakers are buzzing because of the sick amount of bass being thrown off by Thom yorke and his cronies. I have to turn down the volume. Kind of makes everything quiet, and distant. The Vicodin will likely intensify this feeling. The tactile reality of the keys beneath my fingers is creating a not entirely unpleasant sensation. Ah, delicious double negatives. They’re fun, letting you be dramatic in speech and prose. Even though they’re redundant. But writing is being redundant. So why are they so often avoided in grade school comp classes? If I were to write as succinctly as possible, it wouldn’t be very interesting. Of course, this article might not be very interesting either. Fuck it. I’m plodding along. Hit track three already. I used to fall asleep to Kid A, but now I prefer this odd little mp3 track I picked up somewhere or another. It’s kind of droning background music, with whacky little pulses, supposedly stimulating REM sleep. It does, for all I know. I rarely remember my dreams… they’re gone as my eyes open. Sometimes I mentally grasp at the grains of sand which are my dreams as they slip through my fingers, descending into the vast oblivion that lies directly beneath our waking lives. It’s a fine line, you know. Between reality and oblivion. Water is good. Nice and cold… I enjoy the feeling of drinking an ice cold glass of water when you’re really thirsty and haven’t had anything in your system for a while… you feel the chill go down through your upper body. A similar sensation is achieved when you drink a hot beverage on a cold day. But you know that already don’t you? I don’t know why I’m chronicling it… it just seems like the thing to do. This is as close to stream of consciousness as I get. There are many more things slipping around in my head, but I can’t type fast enough to get them all down. I can barely keep up with what I’m trying to focus on. I’m making it a little bit of a race, trying to write it down so quickly that I can catch up, but I don’t think I’ll be able to. Eh… fuck it. I guess I’m writing crazy talk because everyone else seems to be. You won’t know it while reading this, but there was a considerable dramatic pause right there. It would be interesting to develop a way to … looking for the word. Just a moment… read in real time, at the same speed the author wrote it down… kind of like spoken word, but with writing. In retrospect, this is a strange and terrible idea which sucks. Scratch it. I was briefly considering going back through what I’ve written down so far, but I decided against it, since it would bias the rest of the piece. It now occurs to me that biasing the piece doesn’t really matter… hypotheticals are bullshit. But still, I’m not going back, even though I could and it would be alright. Maybe later on I will. It might be entertaining. I have a fantastic set of tapes which feature E.E. Cummings reading many of his poems… it’s on four cassettes, and he goes through all of his really well known ones, as well as his more obscure ones… including ones I’ve never read. It is a really fantastic collection because going back and reading the poems afterwards, you can see the flow the man had, even though his text is formatted like a crazy person using magnetic poetry. It makes me look at his work in a completely different way. Poems are good because reading them and hearing them offer two vastly different experiences. Don’t remember when I took the pill, but it should be a half hour after that point where my crazy will truly begin to set in… felt a chill across my brain, which might mean that it’s coming along. So bear with me. Just did a word count… upwards of 1200 words. Definitely feeling changes. Getting a little lightheaded. Wish I had a laptop so I could sit in bed and type that way. But alas, I must suffer. Oh well… my hands have developed many more scars over the past year or so than I’d ever had on them before. The burn from the skillet, which I talked about before… plus a couple where I whanged my hand pretty hard, and started to bleed… they’re still discolored, even though I got them a while ago. Wonder if they’ll ever fade into that sickly white associated with so many other scars. I also have pit in my lip where a mother of a cold sore lived. You love to hear about that, don’t you? Herpes herpes bo berpes… heh heh. But that ones’ not going away. I wonder what it would be like to have small pox…. Just nasty scars all about your face. I wonder how people dealt with that… I mean, they’re shit loads worse than acne scars. And acne scars are pretty bad. Wiped a little sweat off of my brow… cool to the touch. Don’t know how long I’m going to be able to hold up with this… urge to sleep rising… although the headache is going away. Glad I don’t have any alcohol in me… or I’d be really whacke… oh, wait… I had a hot chocolate with peppermint schnapps in it. Hrm… this might complicate matters. Oh well. Gonna take a short break.

Ok, back. I wrote that before the break. For continuity’s sake.  wow… I just smileyed…. Weird. Emoticons and net lingo have really pervaded our vernacular, haven’t they? Ok … water break. Ok, back. All this talk about emoticons made me check my buddy list to see who’s about. I compulsively check away messages… just scroll down the whole list. Do any of you remember when they used to add checking profiles to your typing block limit? The little bar under send. I hated that. Sometimes I would get locked out of being able to type. It’s disturbing to be disallowed expression. It seems very symbolic, but that might be the drugs talking. And ladies and gentlemen, let me assure you, they are talking. gonna lay down for a little bit. Be right back.

Drew just woke me up with a phone call… I only picked out like an eighth of the words he was saying…. Confusing and unsettling. Dunno. Radiohead has reset… For some reason, I’m now remembering burning this to cd and giving it to my ex girlfriend. I remember drawing a crude facsimile of the bear with the teeth. Which is My buddy Icon, I’m pretty sure… checking… just a moment. Yup, it is. My arm is numb. Makes typing an interesting prospect. I’m typing much more slowly now, I might have just embarrassed myself thru IM… I guess I didn’t. Talking to heather… one of my very good friends. False alarm, I have officially embarrassed myself… letting slip my nefarious plans to seduce her with booze. Hopefully it will slide under the radar. I’ve added a wink smiley to make it more innocent, although trying to spin a plan for seduction into innocent banter is a difficult proposition. She’s not answering… this could be a bad sign. Eh… these things happen. I’m eyeing my cigarettes. Also a bad sign, since I know I just had one.

Words start to look funny when you single them out and disassociate their meaning form their makeup. If you repeat them in your head over and over… they also start to sound funny. Like you’re talking crazy gibberish talk. Which also might be true regardless. Third time around for radiohead.

I’m hitting the return button more often now… the worst of the dizziness is gone, and everything is kind of separating, like I’m lifting off… and sort of floating above myself. It’s kind of a dangerous place to be, because I am not particularly self conscious at this point, and don’t care for/ recognize consequences. I like the way the shadows play ac5ross my bedspread… very abstract and whacky.. I think I’m going to lay down now.

-- Scott "The Slater" Slater

2004-02-04T20:17:00.000-05:00

Nigger: A word collection

wongdongy: if you want to know what some white people say behind closed doors
Guinness AML: we know... but go ahead
wongdongy: that there are black people and then there are niggers
wongdongy: black people are just that
wongdongy: people that are black
wongdongy: and niggers are drug dealers or whatever
wongdongy: oh, but you probably already knew that
wongdongy: but yeah, that’s what some peoples stance on the matter is
Guinness AML: Chris rock did a similar bit on the subject
wongdongy: ohh, haha
Guinness AML: :-)
wongdongy: that’s probably what its from
Guinness AML:
Guinness AML: they have no idea what they're talking about... and don't know the meaning of the word
Guinness AML: Nigger doesn't just mean "bad black person"
wongdongy: I don’t even know the origin
Guinness AML: Nigger means "Not a person... less than human" really... not directly - but that's the sense of the word
wongdongy: hmm
Guinness AML: nigger means "unworthy of any respect, dignity, or rights"
wongdongy: so if I called a white child molestor a "nigger" would that be in the wrong context?
Guinness AML: yes
Guinness AML: because the word has come to be assigned to blacks
wongdongy: so it means specifically black people
Guinness AML: it sure does

…

It’s been over 15 years but I can still remember my first day of 3rd grade. I went to predominantly white schools from 3rd grade on up. Before then, growing up in Hartford, CT’s North End, I rarely ever saw white people other than teachers and a few folk when I went downtown with my mother. It goes without saying, then, that I had no white friends. In fact, I hated white people.

Hated.

Then, one evening, my mom came over to me and my younger brother and told us that we were going to a new school. Just like that, a new school. I didn’t have many friends in school, anyway, so leaving them wasn’t all that big a deal. My short lived (and utterly useless) protests came from the fact that it was a WHITE school. White people, white teachers, white nurses, white music, white everything… it honestly terrified me.

Let me explain.

I believed the following to be true about white people:

-- White people are rich… all of them
-- White people are snotty and talk funny.
-- White people eat weird food - white people food. (Swear to god)
-- White people are smart – black people have to work twice as hard as white people.
-- White people listen to disturbing music. Because of it, some white people worship the devil.
-- White people can’t dance, sing, or play sports as well as black people.

and most importantly…

-- White people HATE black people. Period. Even if they claim to be your friend, they’re lying. They want something from you. Black friends are valuable – they’re evidence against racism – “I can’t be racist – look at my black (nigger) friend! See?!”

It’s also important to note that these things that I believed to be true about white people I never ever believed could be true about black people.

White people were pretty much evil and white people were certainly the enemy.

So, with all these prejudices, I went to my first day of 3rd grade shaking like a leaf. I thought that I’d come back acting like a white kid after a few days of school. I thought they’d try to jump me. I had to defend myself. I had to stay black at all costs. Walking down the hall to my classroom, I felt white eyes on me constantly and was very uncomfortable. Every pair of eyes said “Who is that (NIGGER!) kid? Why is he in my school? He doesn’t belong here”. I got to my first class and sat alone preparing for the inevitable introduction. Sure enough, I was brought to the front of the class and with my eyes on my cheap sneakers, I gave my name. Eyebrows curled and there were a few laughs because of my accent. I blushed hard and made note of their laughter – evidence. Then, it happened. “He’s from HARTFORD and he’ll be joining our class by way of Project Concern*”, my teacher chimed with a toothy white grin.

…

As far as I was concerned, she may as well have said, “Be careful – this one is a dangerous nigger – HE doesn’t belong here” I sat down feeling even more alienated than ever.

School was easy for the first half of the day. I was in class with no more than 5 kids at a time most of the time so that worked out fine. But I was still very uncomfortable being around all those white people. Then lunch came and I freaked. I had made zero friends that day which meant I either had to sit alone or sit with white people and try to make friends.

I sat alone.

I remember sitting with my left arm around my tray, eyeballing the cafeteria DARING anyone to sit near me. I was so lonely and, part of me really wanted someone to come over. But I wasn’t going to let them make me white. So I did the easiest thing a black kid could do in that school. I looked intimidating.

Months passed, seasons changed and I had made friends with the kids on my bus (also from Hartford) and a few kids in school. They treated me like a visitor but it was ok. I had a few friends and that was better than eating alone. I had a small group of friend to go on the swings with at recess. Life wasn’t all that bad.

”Nigger!”

what?...

I looked up from a game of Speedball and my new friend… we’ll call him Dick Spiffy - was pointing at me.

He was pointing at me? Was I a nigger?

I knew I was black and that black people were sometimes called niggers by white people. But it was an entirely different thing to actually be called “Nigger” outright. I was, to say the least, a little confused. Then, it hit me. It hit me light a lightning bolt and I took off after him.

I beat the crap out of him.

In the principal’s office, I got nothing but sympathy. It didn’t go on my file or anything like that. It was dropped and I went back to class. But something had changed in me that took years to fix.

The question lingered. Nigger? ME!?! Am I a nigger? I didn’t know if it was true. Until then, I never had to ask myself if it was true… and, if it was true… if I was a nigger… what did that mean?

Nigger was something they called slaves. It was worse than a bad word… it was a curse. When Dick resurrected that word, it felt worse than anything I had ever felt. I couldn’t say why then but I think I knew. Nigger meant “You are nothing – you are not one of us – You will never be one of us – You are less… low… and worthy of contempt”. It was the embodiment of the evils of slavery. In North America, from the 1500s to 1865, “Nigger” connoted “black slave” but also “Maroon (A fugitive Black slave in the West Indies in the 17th and 18th centuries).” From then on, “Nigger” connoted “second-class citizen” as well as “Maroon”… visitor… outcast. 23 years later it meant the very same thing when Dick used it on me… “Outcast! – Unclean!”

Not one of you reading this needs the history of the word to know what it means.

We all know what it means. There’s a definition beyond my words that we’re all familiar with. Nigger = hate. It’s all but impossible to know how fucked up of a word it is until that hate is directed at you.

Then there came Wigger.

Wow… Wigger? Are you fucking kidding me? WIGGER?!

For the slow ones, “Wigger” is a clever combination of words – “White” and “Nigger”.

Astonishing.

Let me get this straight… a wigger is a “White Nigger”? What does that mean, exactly? Some kid wears Fubu and listens to 50-cent and Biggie and… well now he’s a Nigger… but he can’t be a nigger nigger because he’s white… so he’s a white nigger… a wigger… hahahaha! _ that’s clever… that’s funny!

Guinness AML: You know why I hate wigger more than nigger?
Guinness AML: Amercian blacks were given the word nigger and told "This means you're nothing"
Guinness AML: they took it and, over time, changed it to mean "This means we're family" - it's an identifier... a sacred word
Guinness AML: which is why I can call a black person a nigger and you can't
wongdongy: wow
Guinness AML: Wigger is thievery
wongdongy: haha
Guinness AML: we were given shit and made it an heirloom
Guinness AML: and now it's being taken back?!
Guinness AML: FUCK that

Yes – it is our word. Your grandfathers gave it to us, remember? They made sure we knew that it belonged to us and only us.

And it does.

Wigger isn’t an outright attempt at reclaiming the word but… well once black folk made nigger cool, wigger pops up….this fucking generic bullshit word that manages to be more insulting than the first. How? By downplaying the significance of the word “nigger”… Chinese dude “actin’ black” yo? He’s a chigga, B.

Nigger doesn’t mean black. Nigger IS black. It’s a black word. It’s a family curse that was converted to a blessing. A password. A conduit through which we can acknowledge the one thing that we all share – our victory over attempted dehumanization. We were once believed to be a dead people – less than animals. And, in many ways, we still live with the effects of the people who named us “nigger”. That’s why it’s our word… because it was given to us.

There a number of things I want to say on this subject but I’m gonna cut myself short this time… no wrap up, no summary… none of that. Hope this reaches reasonable ears….

-- Dexter Otis Green

*(note: Project Concern was a voluntary urban-to-suburban student transfer program. – basically taking kids from the inner-city shitty schools and placing them in the better equipped suburban schools)

As an aside, keep your eyes and ears open for Beer 'n Porn Radio... coming soon

2004-01-23T12:37:00.000-05:00

Random Rants and Raves

(Preface: Note that this isn’t my normal me. I just sat down and started typing. This may not be really coherent or anything. I was compelled to write so I wrote. Now I got homework to do and stuff like that, I hope I can finally fucking concentrate.) -- The Phoenix

I don’t get myself sometimes. I caught myself staring up at the sky for like 5 minutes at the apartment. I don’t know what I was looking for, nor if I was looking for anything.

School started this week, which is good. One of my teachers didn’t even show up for our first class, way to make a good impression on the class. I have one final this semester, and that’s it. My boss is in my discussion group for an online class, should help to make that easier. I get to be in a pool tournament in mid-April. That fucking rocks.

I love pool, I got into it a little as a kid, and I guess that was one of my wishes for my 21st birthday: to find a new hobby. Billiards turned into that, and it’s quickly becoming a passion for me. Like some people to guitar, or some people to professional football or baseball, my thing is pool. Some people know Tom Brady, Derek Jeter, and Wayne Gretsky; I know Allison Fisher, Jeanette Lee, Mike Massey, and Andy Segal. Better than video games right?

In case you haven’t figured this out yet, this isn’t going to be one of my normal posts, this is definitely more in line of stream of consciousness. I got a lot on my mind, and I need a purge.

Iowa Caucuses ended with Kerry winning. Yay, the Democrats are still fucked in November, although the President’s State of the Union Speech did little to help his own case. I’d like to see it once where the President doesn’t get invited to the House to deliver his speech, and make him do it in the Oval Office where there aren’t 300 of his favorite cronies clapping every time he says something. I pretty much think Bush alienated himself from most of the “alternative lifestyle” community. I quoted that because I don’t think there is a normal lifestyle, because we’re all different, no matter what MTV, sitcoms, or Clothing stores like Abercrombie and Fitch tell us. Now I am not going to keep pounding on the door that Mr. Carson has all but beat down and set on fire with his last post, because I think he basically gets to the root of it. Just remember, next time you want to go live in Florida, think about how much half the nation hates you for fucking up the 2000 election, and the other half loves you for fucking up the election. No hard feelings though. That’s the past. Ok, I’m done with politics for now.

I caught myself staring at the sky tonight. Don’t know why, clouds covered the sky, I couldn’t see any stars.

I’ve begun thinking about this whole school thing again. Usually I would be one of the first to say that unless you get lucky, you need to go to college and get a degree to find a slice of happiness for yourself. But what is that anyway? Why is happiness going to school, getting a degree, getting tied down in a job you will probably hate, marry a man or woman that you may or may not truly love, have kids that are going to reject you when they become teenagers, retire when you’re 65, and then die without making your mark on the world? Why aren’t there more mind blowing discoveries in life? Why are people complacent with just “doing their time” on earth? Don’t they feel a need to do something great? Who says that happiness is the size of my checkbook? Why is it that friends I know who don’t have jobs, or didn’t go to college, or went to college and left are so much happier than I am? I can’t just be sitting on my ass waiting for happiness to come knocking on my door, can I?

Things that should be truly beautiful in this world are often swept aside in the face of the high speed world that has become our daily lives. We are owned by what we “own.” I can’t go anywhere without knowing what time it is when 200 years ago the only time people knew were sunrise, sunset, and noon. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why does it matter that it is 10:24 PM on a Wednesday night when I typed this when a thousand miles away to the west it’s an hour behind? Is time that important?

I read a book called “Flatland” three days ago. It’s by Edwin A. Abbott. I recommend it. I hope you won’t have what happened to me and dream of dancing polygons that could kill you in your sleep, causing you to wake up and not get a good night’s rest before your first day of classes. It puts things in perspective a little, that there is more than your petty existence and what you “know.” You know shit, you know nothing, and that’s step one.

Hit rock bottom, why should we hold back our emotions at the time when we need them the most? Are people with voices in their head the crazy ones, or are the people who hear nothing in their minds? I think about that because my voices do. It doesn’t make me insane, although some people would say I just imagined friends or something like that. Imaginary friends are the best ones, they are never going to hurt you, you can tell them anything, and they are going to react the way you want them. It’s easier than human friends. Actually, friends of any sort: imagined, plant, rock, cat; they are much easier than human friends. I said cats especially because I like cats, but you can substitute dog in there if you wish. It makes no difference to me. I like how no matter what, cats have very few facial expressions, and they’re always there when I need one.

I caught myself staring at the sky tonight. Don’t have any clue why, I don’t know what I was looking for.

Why is it that the things you think will make you happy seem years away when the real stuff that would make you happy is right in front of your face? I had a 6 hour long discussion at a pool table with one of my best friends and I found out one thing: The choices we make in life do not change who we inherently are. I am overcritical much of the time. I have cut my ties to emotions so finely that I can’t appreciate the finest works of art and beauty. Who says they are works of art anyway? Some mythical muse saying from the heavens that this is art? But I digress. Emotion isn’t dead to me, but it is distant. Correction, the good emotions are distant. Things like love, happiness, joy, confidence, pride are all but a distant memory to me. I could create something that would revolutionize the world and feel next to nothing but that it was another thing to do. The negative emotions like fear, hate, and anger are right on the surface, boiling under my skin. I can’t say whether or not the real me is the nice guy everyone says and truly believes I am, or some grotesque Mr. Hyde who’s just waiting to release himself? I hope that my friends are right and that it’s just hard to deal with me sometimes and that deep in my core I am the guy that people like and like to be with. Otherwise I’d have to be evil, and I don’t think I could deal with that. Trust is another one of those. If you are one of the scant few people in this universe that I actually trust, good for you. The others? It’s not that I don’t trust you, but you haven’t proven it yet. If you’re not sure, you probably are on the second, much longer list.

Be my friend for long enough and you see that I have my ups and downs. And that I don’t trust either. Things are going exceptionally well for me right now. It’s eerie. More and more often I dream reality into existence. I’ve been hit with well over a dozen cases of déjà vu in the past month, from my dreams. I dream it, it happens. I don’t know how or why this happens, but to be honest it’s starting to scare me. I don’t need to dream of someone getting killed and then find out one of my best friends died somehow. I’d probably commit myself if that ever happened.

I think that if there is a Supreme Being, it has been trying to get in touch with me. Every so often, when I get complacent, something happens in my life that is basically pointing the finger at me. I thought I had everything I needed in life back in 2001, and that I am totally reliant on no one but myself. Then I heard a sermon about how Self-Reliance is a dangerous crutch in Oakland, CA (I was there on a school trip.) It moved me so much that I broke down crying in the middle of the church, and I didn’t even feel embarrassed about it.

It comes back to self belief/self-confidence. I believe in balance of everything. For all my ups there are downs. I’m like Icarus, who is flying so high he forgets the Sun, only to have his wings melt and plunge to Earth and his inevitable demise. I’m scared of getting so good that I’m going to get knocked down again, and this time I’m not getting up. It’s like a 15 round Championship Bout with life, and every time that I get the upper hand, I get sucker punched and hit the canvas. I’ve gotten up every time, but even the most stubborn of us have to give in sometime. I hope that I can get out of the ring or KO life before it KOs me.

I caught myself staring at the sky tonight, there were no stars. It was rather bleak and dreary. The stars remind me that as much crazy random thought causing my fingers to type this that it doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. We’re so concerned about our own lives that we don’t think about the grand scheme of things. We came from nothing, then from stars, been blessed with the gift of life, to return to the stars, then to nothing when it’s our time.

In the end…

We’re just Star stuff.

I’m out.

-- The Phoenix

2004-01-21T15:49:00.000-05:00

On Same-Sex Marriage

“Article 1 of the Declaration of Rights, as amended by art. 106 of the Amendments to the Massachusetts Constitution, provides:

‘All people are born free and equal and have certain natural, essential and unalienable rights; among which may be reckoned the right of enjoying and defending their lives and liberties; that of acquiring, possessing and protecting property; in fine, that of seeking and obtaining their safety and happiness. Equality under the law shall not be denied or abridged because of sex, race, color, creed or national origin.’

This provision, even prior to its amendment, guaranteed to all people in the Commonwealth--equally—the enjoyment of rights that are deemed important or fundamental. The withholding of relief from the plaintiffs, who wish to marry, and are otherwise eligible to marry, on the ground that the couples are of the same gender, constitutes a categorical restriction of a fundamental right. The restriction creates a straightforward case of discrimination that disqualifies an entire group of our citizens and their families from participation in an institution of paramount legal and social importance. This is impermissible under art. 1.”[EMPHASIS ADDED]

- Justice John M. Greaney, Massachusetts Supreme Court Justice, concurring statement from Hillary GOODRIDGE & others vs. DEPARTMENT OF PUBLIC HEALTH & another, November 18, 2003.

“Activist judges…have begun redefining marriage by court order, without regard for the will of the people and their elected representatives. On an issue of such great consequence, the people's voice must be heard. If judges insist on forcing their arbitrary will upon the people, the only alternative left to the people would be the constitutional process. Our nation must defend the sanctity of marriage.” [EMPHASIS ADDED]

- President George W. Bush, State of The Union Address, January 21, 2004

---

I am pissed.

Strike that.

I’m wicked pissed.

I am withholding my full-blown assault on the ridiculous buffoonery of the Bush administration for another time and another place. Instead, I am taking time out of my day here to unleash my righteous anger on the unquestionable idiocy of Bush’s hard-line stance against same-sex marriage, before that coke-snorting dumbass and his legion of religious right ditto-heads destroy this country that I care about so deeply.

That’s right, I said destroy. If we allow Bush and his cronies to take this issue to a Constitutional amendment, we will have seriously weakened the strength of our Democracy, over perhaps the most insignificant social issue of the day.

Let me make this one point perfectly clear – this has nothing at all to do with whether I or anyone else should believe same-sex marriage is morally agreeable. I personally believe two men have the same right to be married that two women, or a man and a woman do. Other people disagree. That’s their right. Beliefs, however, mean as much as a barrel full of donkey shit when it comes to the impartiality of the U.S. Constitution.

My father, a deeply religious man, believes you can boil down the Ten Commandments, the Beatitudes, and all the teachings of Jesus Christ into two basic rules – Love God, and Love your Neighbor. Everything else, he says, simply comes from those two basic rules. Get those right, and you’re doing alright in the eyes of the Almighty. I believe you can do the same with the U.S. Constitution and the Bill of Rights. All you need to know about American Democracy fits into one basic statement: go ahead and do whatever you want as long as you don’t bother anyone else. Incredibly simple, incredibly powerful and undeniably brilliant. All of the laws of the country stem from this basic idea, and all of the great social upheavals of our history (the abolition of slavery, civil rights, women’s rights, gay rights, etc) have been times where we, as a society, have matured and learned how to better apply that basic idea to our community. A majority of the modifications to the Constitution, including the Bill of Rights, have been made with this principle in mind, and have served to strengthen our society. Those that have been added under false pretenses, such as the prohibition of alcohol, were quickly removed when it was clear that they served no purpose as part of the Constitution.

When the Supreme Court of Massachusetts ruled in favor of same-sex marriage last November, they did so because of the rules laid out in the Massachusetts constitution. Marriage according to the State is nothing more than a legal agreement, and pursuant to that agreement a license must be issued by the State to formally recognize the validity of such an agreement in the eyes of the government. Therefore, issues of who is and who is not able to marry come down to an issue of licensing, and as the Court ruled, there are no specific reasons why two people of the same sex can be refused a license based on the current legislative rules regarding the issuing of marriage licenses. Therefore, the refusal to recognize same-sex marriage in a secular context becomes a clear-cut case of discrimination, making it illegal according to constitutional principles to disallow couples of the same sex to obtain marriage licenses.

Now, because Massachusetts marriages must be recognized by the other 49 states, this becomes a national issue. It is clear that the same basic principles will hold when this case is presented to the Federal Supreme Court, and this is why the God-fearing religious right is so adamant about making a Constitutional amendment. The only way to guarantee that two men or two women cannot marry is to spell it out in ink on the Constitution – making it set in stone that same-sex marriages are not allowed.

This is by far the most asinine idea ever concocted, and it must be stopped at all costs.

Obviously, religious marriages can make any restrictions they so choose, because religious beliefs are protected by the Bill of Rights. Marriage, however, is recognized by the government through numerous tangible fiscal benefits, such as tax breaks and insurance coverage. Therefore, there is a secular component to marriage that is recognized by the state, and because of a little thing called the separation of church and state, secular marriages in this country cannot be restricted by the boundaries of minority beliefs. By proxy, this means that sex discrimination in the case of marriage licensing is patently unconstitutional, and same-sex marriages should be allowed.

Period.

I have some sad news for the Defense of Marriage people out there. Living in a Democracy means that sometimes you have to put up with people who do not share your own beliefs. As long as their practices do not infringe upon your basic rights, they can do whatever they want, whenever they damn well please. And no amount of incessant posturing or empty-headed rhetoric will disguise the fact that your personal life is not affected in the slightest by the personal lives of others. Your heterosexual marriage is strong or weak regardless of the homosexual marriage next door. More importantly, the government or its policies can never control your religious beliefs about the sanctity of marriage. Therefore, you have no choice but to sit down, shut up, and accept the fact that civil marriages can and must take place between same-sex individuals.

To even suggest that a Constitutional amendment is necessary to remedy this non-situation is an affront to everything this great country stands for. To put an amendment in that essentially says “you can do whatever you want as long as you’re not bothering anyone else, except for this one thing, which you can never do no matter what,” is not only indefensible, but dangerous to the stability of the Constitution.

I find it inconceivable that there are people in this country that are willing to fracture the pillars holding this great Democracy together just to tell two people who love each other they can never be joined in the eyes of society.

If you believe same-sex marriage is immoral, or a sin, that’s your opinion. If you believe it should be illegal, then you are wrong. It’s that simple.

Never mind the benefits that would come from a society where same-sex marriages were legal, both for individuals and for society. Marriage allows people to consolidate their income, to receive beneficial tax breaks and insurance deals. This allows them to invest more money into purchases, into real estate and other venture capital pursuits, which improves the national economy. More importantly, same-sex marriages may serve as the perfect outlet for one of the greatest concerns in modern society. In 2001, over 290,000 children entered foster care. That’s over a quarter million American children without a stable family environement. Add in to this the number of children born into adoption each year, and that’s a staggering 400,000-plus children each year in need of a loving family. Who could possibly help out in raising these kids, providing them with a healthy living environment and a nuturing social structure?

News flash – gay marriages don’t often produce babies. It’s a biology thing – ask your parents.

Gay marriages represent a segment of the population that are willing to take on these foster children and raise them in a family structure. They cannot afford to do so without the tax breaks offered by legalized marriages, which as we have stated before are Constitutionally permissible. There are no justifiable reasons why gay individuals should not be allowed to marry. Except of course that whole God thing. But if you read the Constitution, you’ll realize that there’s a little thing called the separation of church and state that has something to say about your religious beliefs and their bearing on public policy.

Plus, to those who say raising a child in a same-sex marriage is unhealthy, I ask this. Why is it any better for a child to be raised by abusive or negleting parents, just because they are heterosexual?

Bush’s statements in the State of the Union address should put fear in all Americans, right and left wing, religious or atheist. We are not talking about the morality of homosexuality, nor are we talking about the role of marriage in society. We are talking about the sanctity of the U.S. Constitution, the document that has seen us through 228 years of hardships, one civil war and countless social upheavals. We are talking about the one code of laws that manages to keep this dumbass country from legislating itself out of existence.

Please, please, pretty please with sugar on top – don’t fuck with my Constitution.

--------

Oh yeah – don’t vote for Bush, either.

-Mr. Carson

2004-01-18T22:47:00.000-05:00

Late Night Ramble: on love, truth, beauty, and understanding

Well now… after sleeping off my hangovers, taking down those damned trees and lights, and marveling at Dick Clark’s seeming immortality, I’m ready to get back to work. Consider this my first official post of the new year.

...I know… ‘bout damn time :)

The following is part one in a four part series that I’m gonna try and bang out in a week. I’m usually up well past a reasonable hour and oftentimes I’m alone in front of a monitor or a television or a novel or some such thing. Invariably, my mind gets to wandering and I find myself lost. Most times the night ends with me shaking my head and going to bed. This time, however, I’ve decided to share a bit of that with you bastards. This first part is my take on love. Don't go expecting this to make sense... this is me strained through twilight and beer. This is [Dexter] after the witching hour... this is my unedited madness... Hold on to your gonads…

Part I - Love

On Love

I

if when you cook gulash(sp?)
and i, bleary-eyed,
stare and stare
at the soft
Camera dollies in slowly
rIse of your neck
siLhouetted by the stOVE lamp
cUt to medium shot
and PLEASE take delight in
directing my own little pLAY
chuckling WITHal
Would you chastize ME?

II

In November freeze
swarms of autumn leaves
crack against the windshield
in head-light drunk glory,
So contagious their abandon
that cortex and testes
travel time to remember when
I took shape!
between lines of antimony
and fell
A lash to the cold.

III

I saw your face
Etched in mist
By the branches
Outside my window.
An equation crawled
across my wall
and divided
into the null set.

-- Ram S.Iyer

I fall in love all the time. Hard. There’s really no rhyme or reason to it either (and I suspect that would make it easier to deal with). No certain look, no melodious voice, no athletic prowess or intellectual whatnots have been able to truly catch my eye in the beginning. It’s always some oddball thing. They way they chew their food, the way they pronounce a certain word (cabbage – long story), hell even some annoying things have a way of capturing my heart wholly and without the slightest hint of reason.

That isn’t to say that it’s love at first sight. In my opinion “love at first sight” is dramatic romantic bullshit that only happens in movies and cheap novels.

Nevertheless, however long it takes, I’m eventually smitten without hope of recovery – or so it seems at the time. Having been captured I am, thus, their slave – unbeknownst to them, of course. I spend damn near every waking hour in a semi-conscious daze. I fret endlessly on how I would express this wonderful and altogether insane feeling. I write secret poems and love letters. I look for idiotic ways to signal them that I’m interested. Hell, I even write dumb little love songs to go with my poetry. It’s sad really.

Alright – maybe that last part was a bit dramatic– but follow me.

I don’t do well. I make a huge and wildly unpredictable ass of myself. I break easily. My confidence leaves me and every moment with that person (who before was simply another person) is bliss/agony. I friggin’ stutter if you can imagine that. I’m barely myself. It’s as if some great and terrible fire has been started and I’m simultaneously warming myself by it and being consumed by it. And, what’s more, if I’m particularly unlucky, I am brought to the point where I reveal my affections.

(Shaking head) – That’s right – I tell them. It’s horrible.

For all the confident assertions, manly showboating, and downright asshole-ery I’m known for, at the end of the day, I’m a softy. Love, quite literally, makes me sick.

I’ve spent the brunt of my years mulling over just what love is and how it works. My motive wasn’t as noble or innocent as you might suppose. I did (and do) all this searching because I wanted a cure – badly. I want off of this damn love rollercoaster.

My questing has basically lead me to these two truths:

1) There’s not a damn thing I can do about it – falling in love I mean
2) Love was never intended to make any kind of sense and any search for such a thing is hopeless

I used to be afraid to label my feelings as “LOVE” – that frightening four-letter word. I’d reason that I hadn’t known the person long enough or that any number of other factors weren’t “just right”… that way it couldn’t possibly be “love”… it was “like”… or infatuation, or a crush, or whatever. Anything but love. Love takes years and years of cultivation. It doesn’t just HAPPEN… right?!

Boy was I ever wrong. (I hope you heard that, Don)

I came to find that my feelings were love. Infant stages, mind you, but love nonetheless. Similar to the way a baby is just as much a human being as an old man though they are wildly dissimilar… terrible analogy, I know but follow me. In much the same way, my feelings for these folk were born out of something. No spontaneous generation mumbo-jumbo here… That love that I felt (and feel), like all love I suppose, was mothered by past experience and fathered by stimulation – what happened before meeting them combined with meeting them. That love is then nurtured by trust (mother’s milk), truth, compromise,. Etc. etc… you get me. I’m not saying that every time I get a hardon, it’s time to go ring shopping. I AM saying that it was and is love and that it’s one hell of a mindfuck.

I still wonder why it happens like it does for me. Every time I go off spilling my guts and come back empty handed I say, “What the hell is my problem? I knew better from the start not to go off at the mouth about ‘love’ unless I was sure that the feeling was mutual. What in the hell was I thinking?”. I know I’m not alone on this one. We’re encouraged to seek out love, to never give up until we have it, and (most importantly), to never let go. We’re drawn this wonderful picture of what love is and we buy it and hang it on our wall and swoon. We curl close to our pillows and dream about it. I guess in someway every one of us is either waiting for it or trying to maintain it.

But why?

Why do we believe in this madness? And, what’s more, when we discover the truth… when we find out that love is the cure and the disease… why do we continue? Is it really worth it?

Maybe so. Perhaps it’s the hope of love as the ultimate panacea that keeps us questing regardless of what we believe to be our chances of success. It’s one thing to hope against nothing or to hope for the unlikely. It’s an entirely different thing to hope and seek after something many of us would believe that we’ll never have… more so something that we believe that we aren’t worthy of. THAT’S the kicker. Love hurts, it is nearly impossible to obtain, and we are, by our own estimations, unworthy… yet we pursue it nonetheless. Because even though it may be hopeless and even though we may be unworthy and even though it may drive us insane when we find it… the good of it - the filling of the hole within us all so to speak… the death of loneliness - is far too compelling.

Or maybe that’s bullshit. Maybe it’s way past my bedtime and I’ve had too much (or too little) to drink. Maybe love isn’t any more important than football or bourbon.

Maybe.

I do believe, however, that love is something that starts from within. That love for another isn’t pure if one doesn’t love oneself. And I believe also that love is true in different ways for everyone.

So what’s my truth? – love burns. As well it should! What good would love be if it was easily found? and when lost, if it could be recovered from in a night? Where’s the value in that? What would be the point of a quest if you never left home, never left your comfort zone, never suffered, never fell flat on your face, or never lost faith? What good is it if there is no stuggle? No trial by fire? I’ll tell you. Zero good. No good at all. Because without the struggle, without the heartbreak and the hopelessness, there can be no appreciation. When you get burned, you bet your sweet as that you’ll remember. And the bonus is that with all that burning comes purification. Hear me out.

Self love is something we don’t spend time on. We aren’t motivated by any tangible prize or even anything that we see to be worth it. We figure, most of us, that someone else will show us the way to love ourselves. And sometimes that’s true. Sometimes someone else points us in the right directions… reminds us that we’re worth a damn. True or not, however, truly loving ourselves makes us pure. We’re less likely to do all the things that we do to impress others… to keep up this image that we’ve “perfected”. That’s where it’s at, man. Giving a shit about ourselves. Looking in the mirror and smiling back knowing all the merits and flaws of the person looking back at you… loving that person and living accordingly.

But we don’t. Instead, most of us spend time enumerating and focusing on our weaknesses as if they somehow make us unworthy. We come to fear and hide our flaws from ourselves and others rather than embracing and dealing with them. Then we get all bitter and jaded and we lash out at the ones around us. It’s pathetic really. I heard (or read) a while ago that goes something like this:

A grandson told of his anger at a schoolmate who had done him an injustice. Grandfather said: "Let me tell you a story." "I, too, have felt a great hate for those that have taken so much, with no sorrow for what they do. But, hate wears you down and does not hurt your enemy. It is like taking poison and wishing your enemy would die. I have struggled with these feelings many times. It is as if there are two wolves inside me: one is good and does no harm. He lives in harmony with all around him and does not take offense when no offense was intended. He will only fight when it is right to do so, and in the right way. But the other wolf is full of anger. The littlest thing will set him into a fit of temper. He fights with everyone, all the time, for no reason. He cannot think because his anger and hate are so great. It is hard to live with these two wolves inside me, for both of then try to dominate my spirit." The boy looked intently into his grandfather's eyes and asked, "Which one wins, Grandfather?" The grandfather solemnly replied, "The one I feed.”

I’m not one for quick-serve morality tales but this one stuck with me.

"The one I feed.”

Damn. Speaks for itself.

Love is a hand job in the back of a Chevy. Love is a hard-on in the middle of gym class. Love is a cashier popping bubblegum behind the register in a pink halter top with shiny black fingernails and a stud in her tongue. Love is soul searching. Love is truth minus rationale and logic. Love is a beer glass that’s never empty.

Somehow I feel like I’ve digressed… imagine that….

Love :::grumble::: I wish there were an easier way about it all. No… not even that… I wish there were some sort of sense or order to it, you know? Something to be sure of… something that could be counted on other than the fact that the only guarantee is that if you aren’t careful, you will most certainly get burned.

Most of all, I realize that, with all my ranting, it’s what I want. And it’s what you bastards want too. :::shaking head::: it’s a vain wish… that I should be able to ignore it…. it being love - my want for love, to be more specific.

I’m tired of movies lying to me… telling me it’s easy if only I can be clever enough to plot my way into the heart of the one I love… or stupid enough to fall ass-backwards into love… or rich enough to buy them… or pathetic enough that they can’t help giving in to my whining pussy tears.

I’m tired of music telling me that love is the end all be all… that’s it’s all we’ll ever need… that love is so easy! All you have to do is :::insert dance craze::: ! I’m tired of music making something that was meant to be an internal epic, an external epic.

Clue #1: No matter what a song tells you, your lover will not die for you… or bring you the moon or any of that shit… ever.

Clue #2: Love is NOT all you need

Clue #3: Love is like taking a massive shit… sometimes you can’t help it and sometimes you can and, though it can get tough and tricky at times, it’s worth it in the end.

Love is the end of fear.

Love is war is hell is on earth is beautiful.

Love is finally getting some sleep.

...

-- Dexter Otis Green

2004-01-14T07:43:00.000-05:00

Many times I hear people talking about how they have a friend that looks just like Eddie Murphy or Bob Costas or Shelia E or some crap like that. When I finally meet these people, they look only vaguely similar to the person they're supposedly a dead ringer for... like they're a black guy or they're short or play the drums. What a crock.

This kid, however, has stood every test known to man. Believe me when I say that, in everyway imaginable, he IS the comic book guy from The Simpsons. I defy anyone to say otherwise. The resemblance is such that I would believe that the charater is based on him.

It's amazing.

Beside that, Eric "Dobber" Dobbs (or King Dobbs... which no one calls him... ever... except like if we've been paid... or have been drinking... or accidently wander into his bondage dungeon... again... ) is a decent fella. $1,000 to the man (or ......woman....) who can best this man in a Geography Bee. And you're main-lining some serious fucking H if you think that you can match wits with this kid in Classic/80's trivia. The kid has blown loads that reach farther than your supposed knowledge.

Bitch.

Anyway... He sent me this piece about baseball's Roger Clemens and I figured I'd toss it up here. This should more than pay for the dead whores his ma found in his trunk (sorry buddy.... waste not want not). Enjoy...

--D.O.G.

And the Rocket takes off... Roger Clemens declared in October 2003, after the World Series, that he would retire. His statements to that point were that he would be a Yankee forever, and that he'd retire with the team that finally brought him his first World Series ring after a brilliant 15-plus year career. Just this week he announced that he was "un-retiring" and had signed with the Houston Astros a one year contract.Way to send out a message, Roger. We may be saying "Roger", but we are not hearing you loud and clear.

Now, as a New York Yankees fan, I feel a twinge of betrayal. Here was a man who would do anything to get into the pinstripes, to be a part of the vaunted "Yankee mystique", and who wanted to be a Yankee forever. His words apparently meant nothing. Of course, the Boston fans are privately gloating at the fact that the man who betrayed them by first demanding out of Boston and then 2 years later signing with the hated Yankees. It may be schadenfreude born out of 85 years of disappointment and the recent races between the two hated rivals that feel akin to the Punic Wars, where neither side is happy with victory unless it comes with the ability to utterly humiliate the other. Boston is now getting it's chance to sow salt in the Yankees' fields. But Roger's decision speaks to more. If Yankee mystique means nothing to loyalty anymore, then loyalty in the sports world is truly dead.

Being a Yankee is not something you chose, it is something that chooses you. There's a reason the Yankees are able to attract many of the best foreign players to sign contracts with them: They want to be Yankees, not just to play for them. You would do well not to excite the karmic backlash of turning on it. Yet Roger views the Pinstripes as mere clothing, to be discarded at one's own whim. Now, I'm not ignorant of the fact that Roger burnt every bridge out of Boston and Toronto in his rush to leave the two cities; in fact, I half-expected his decision to be more worthless than World Series tickets printed by the Devil Rays in mid-April. It is denying that being a Yankee ever meant anything to him that hurts. And now his time as a Yankee is done... he only played for us. But he is no Yankee. And if the Yankee mystique meant enough for him to want to be a Yankee, but not enough to stay one, then good effin' riddance. At least this time he picked a city that he was not likely to get booed in 36 times a year.

Furthermore, does it even count as retirement if you don't miss one game? That's another thing that's bugging me about this. Roger Clemens retired at the end of the 2003 season. Retirement usually has a connotation about it: that you're done, you're removing yourself from the stress of your occupation to pursue other goals. But now he's coming back. Dominik Hasek, goalie for the Buffalo Sabres and Detroit Red Wings, announced his retirement several years ago. But now he's back for another run. Michael Jordan has retired and come back so many times that I'm sure we'd never trust an announcement that he was dead until we had a chance to personally examine the body for 3 days. I can trace the retirement phenomenon back further than Jordan; Magic Johnson did it before Jordan, but his was to prove a point. He retired based on his announcement that he was HIV positive, and that he shouldn't put himself or others at risk. But he came back, to prove to us all that he was strong and could keep playing if he wanted to, a story of heroism. Mario Lemieux also did this, but for the same reasons: he was sidelined by Hodgkin's disease, and made a full recovery; he came back to hockey because he loved the game and he wanted to end his career on his own terms, not because he was forced to. But retiring used to mean something: it was bowing out gracefully when it was clear your skills are never gonna be the same (Wayne Gretzky, Cam Neely, and others); it was going out on top (Michael Jordan's first retirement, Ray Bourque), or when you cannot possibly continue as you are, wracked by injuries (Steve Young, Lou Gehrig, Babe Ruth) and going out before you do severe permanent damage to your body. It was a moment of tremendous anguish if you were a team's superstar (Lou Gehrig's speech carries so much emotional punch even today), and a last moment of grace if you were merely good. Now, it barely means anything. It's almost become a bargaining chip (I'm convinced that Rocket's retirement in October was effectively a move to negotiate to the Astros, hoping to catch them in a point of desperation that they might lose the opportunity to gain possibly the best pitcher of the last 20 years).

Loyalty is dead. The meaning has been sucked out of retirement. What's next for sports fans? So proclaims the King, this the 23th day of January, the year 2004.

--E. "King" Dobbs

2004-01-11T16:01:00.000-05:00

Stop Judging Me!
-or-
It's my Baby and I'll Eat what I want to.

Mr. Carson brought to our attention the seemingly disturbing poll results from our dear readers here at beer ‘n’ porn. This poll does not, as it may seem at first glance, show a declining moral standard though. Simply, what this poll so obviously brings to the forefront is the growing popularity of the culinary delight that is baby. Once looked upon with horror and disgust baby is being seen more and more as an acceptable entrée appropriate for a variety of occasions. Though frowned on in many circles the delicacy that is baby has begun to reach some level of acceptance in popular culture even being mentioned in as mainstream of a film as Austin Powers. So, I applaud those who were not afraid to speak their minds and vote with their hearts on this crucial poll. We should commend these brave souls for their honesty and conviction.

2004-01-11T05:12:00.000-05:00

Assholes Are People, Too

Recently I was at work at the Sunoco station, talking to one of the regulars as he was making his fourth coffee of the day, and conversation turned to one of the other regulars of the place, a somewhat taciturn man who was known for his quicksilver moods - personable and affable one moment, dour and grumpy the next. My fellow conversant smirked and said “Yeah, he’s an asshole,” as I discussed a recent episode. The conversation soon turned to different topics, but a thought that had sprung from his comment sat in my brain, and I thought about it later.

These days, I seem to be noticing that people are incredibly inclined to label people as “assholes,” “dickheads,” “fuckwads,” or any other of a multitude of descriptive terms for people who rub them the wrong way. No one comments on anyone in a positive light - they just mention the bad things they’ve perpetrated upon the innocent.

In the case of the temperamental regular customer, I happen to think he’s rather a nice guy. He can be a bit of a pain to deal with occasionally, but overall, I like the guy. It’s that way with a lot of other people I know, and I think that if other people really thought about it instead of being so quick to judge, they’d find that they feel similarly.

Remember, assholes are people, too.

Peace.

-- The Sasquatch

2004-01-09T11:30:00.000-05:00

Updation Nation – 1/9/03

Well, here we are, a week into the New Year, and I think we can all safely assume that this year is going to suck just as bad as we all thought. Rather than dwell on the uselessness of existence and the emptiness of the soul, let’s fill the empty void with some crass humor!

Here are the results of the most recent poll:

-----------------------------------------------------------------

BABIES?

5) MY PRIDE AND JOY – 1 vote (2%)

4) PERFECT AGE FOR DATIN’ – 6 votes (14%)

2 (tie) SHOULDA AIMED FOR THE BUNG – 8 votes (19%)

2 (tie) SORRY, WRONG NUMBER – 8 votes (19%)

And, the number one response:

1) SERVED WITH RED WINE – 19 votes (45%)
---------------------------------------------------------------

In a landside, our faithful Beer ‘n’ Porn readers have determined that the proper response to the question of Babies is to serve them in the best Julia Child fashion. This simply confirms my suspicion that the majority of our fans are rabid cannibals with condemned souls. This affects my ability to sleep at night.

The second greatest population of readers, however, is not that much better. It appears that we have a contingent of deadbeat dads in our target audience – or at least people who enjoy a little assplay with their nookie. Far be it from me to pass judgements on your sexual desires; at least you’re not eating ‘em like most of our readers!

Although, the six of you who voted for #4 – shame! The authors of Beer ‘n’ Porn would like to go on record explicitly stating that we are appalled at the suggestion that newborns are available for romantic relationships. As McGruff the Crime Dog used to say, “Take a bite out of jailbait!” …Or crime, something like that.

Finally, to the one person who voted for the wholesome all-American answer: who are you? What the hell are you doing reading the perversion that is Beer ‘N’ Porn? I WILL NOT HAVE FAMILY VALUES POLLUTING THIS SITE! Fess up now, and your punishment will be quick and painless.

Make sure to check out our newest poll, let your voice be heard, and leave a little feedback for us. We love reading your dirty little notes.

I did have a post planned for today, but I was sidetracked by an attack of laziness, so maybe I’ll get to it tonight. Or tomorrow. Or maybe never. Why are you nagging me so much? Leave me alone.

-Mr. Carson

2004-01-07T16:24:00.000-05:00

Diversions to make much of time

We're the original vatos loco. Smart. Proud. With no respect for control and no concept of being out of it. We wave our mental pricks at full attention, seal synapses with words we don't apologize for, and fuck like we're immortals.

Wave after wave crashing on soppy sand. I smell fish...fish frying in the deep woks of the snack stand. The church bells toll on Annai Vellankanni church. The temple three blocks away replies with Vedic chants. People-bees everywhere humming out everyday life. The honeycomb is just big enough to hold their dreams and themselves along with them. It’s also wrought with hate of honey. All these lonely lives. I'm 13. My friends are 13 and 14 a piece. We are on our Hercules MTBs, trying to impress the college chicks who walk the boardwalk in the evening. This beach, it is where we all meet. My friends and I that is. Deepak and Venkat and Roshan and oh so many other faces that came and went in my life in what seem now a matter of hours. The college chicks don't notice us. They have bigger fish to fry. Just like the snack stands. Oh the innocence of it all. And the bike races. Breakneck proceedings involving heedless, thoughtless speed fix, really. Many cuts and bruises, who cares? The college chicks looked. Here comes the bus. Shit, am I going to make it? Fuck....ta-dap te-dum taa-daa. And when she showed up...man. Those were the nights I jerked off in bed. I think my parents knew; how couldn’t they – we shared the same floorspace at night. We all loved her really. But like the rest she came and she went too. Only difference is she's gone forever. Shit she should be so lucky. And then there was this other one. She actually held my hand. Wooohooo. Pavan shows up. Blockhead. Late as always, and clueless to boot. He was failing seventh grade. For the third time. Didn’t help his parents were filthy rich and his sister had cerebral palsy. So between making money and spending it on doctors, Pavan will fade away to a sepia toned photograph in nobody’s attic. If for anyone in my life I have felt pity, it would be for him. The boy had a heart of gold. My father doesn't like failure. I don't care much for it either. I don't think anybody does. We flew kites. We flew kites because we couldn't soar. Physics class succeeded in rooting our sense of bouyancy right out. But man. Learning was PHUN then. I could have taken on the whole world, let alone the reporter from The Hindu who published my science project for the science fair. Yeah. I was considered top of the top, cream of the crop material, ladies and gentlemen. Life is on loop. Mine's walking the line. I think I'll go to breakfast now.

Validation for one's self does not lie in the external world. Heart surgery is not the key to a well balanced diet. In fact, a well balanced diet is not a key in and of itself. Just a by-product of the social diatetics dynamo. Food isn't the greatest for self-esteem. Sex does not lead to nirvana nor does belief in god. In fact, exercising either credo leads to nothing but brainwashed heads, veneral disease, and dead ends. Hypocrisy is a way of life that must be respected and evaluated as a very real, colourful critical theory to be applied to the American dream. Bush is an expedient, let him go, let him go. We are the flawed perpetrators of democracy. So we are to blame, directly and indirectly, for everything that happens to and around us.

As I unfolds
Lids lift.

--Ram Subramanian Iyer

2004-01-06T00:34:00.000-05:00

Twenty Something and Loving it?

Where do I fit in? I'm not sure that I know at this point in my life. I am 25 years old, working full time, attempting to get back to school so that I can really start my career and my life. Friends are beginning to get married and start families. We are all getting older and dealing with what that means for us as a group and as individuals.

Living at Home is Fun
While I really shouldn't complain, I need to get out. I am not restricted in anyway really. And, I could move out. I'm not the only one of my friends still mooching off my parents. Many of them are to one extent or the other. I don't feel, therefore, that I am falling behind. Sometimes I just want to feel all grown up and on my own.

College Woes
I do not have a college degree. I am about halfway there and am planning on beginning classes again in the fall. My problem is that I haven't taken a class in almost six years. To be honest, I'm scared. Everyone tells me it's easier after you've taken time off. You work harder. You understand what's out there a little more, and often times that means you know just how necessary a degree can be to survive in the workforce. There is no reason to believe that I won't do well. I did fine before. Nerves and paranoia rule my life.

The Job from Hell
I hate my job. That is my biggest complaint. I work in a job with no appreciation, no room for real advancement, and most importantly no fun. It is no fun at all. I know that I won't be there forever and that is very good. I also know that I could get another job. I won't get into why I stay here, but if all goes well I will be gone when I start school at the latest so that helps.

What Does it all Mean then?
What then was my purpose in writing this and presenting it all to you? I don't really know. I'm just venting. Life has not gone completely as planned. That's true for most of us though. I just feel that there are a lot of people in my age range that are not quite where they thought they would be by now. Are you?

Jeffrey “---“ Motola