Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Saturday, November 25, 2006
I am currently in production on a piece called "Caleb's Way". It's about a five year old boy who is called away from the safety of his home to brave the perils of a cursed and haunted path.
Here's a screenshot.
I'm working in a "video storybook" mode, as a combination interest in animation and the fact that I don't yet h ave a video camera.
The idea for "Caleb's Way" came to me the other day. I was off work early, and I took my dog for a walk along the paths out behind Cootes Paradise (even though the paths were "officially closed").
What I thought to be wilderness paths turned out to be rather well manicured and cared for paths through a rich area of town I had never visited before. The paths even had signs. Nice ones, made of metal and everything. No shit.
One of the paths was called "Caleb's Way Trail". The name just took off with me, and the story was written by the time I got back to my car. I had my camera with me (thank God) so the pictures you will see in the story are mostly all taken by me (most of the "special" elements were done in Photoshop, naturally).
It is a hell of a lot of work, as I am discovering, to edit a film. I estimate I have have put about twenty hours into it so far, and I have just hit the four minute mark in the film. That's what happens when you're hand-crafting each frame.
I am really enjoying this project, painting the images the way my mind saw them. It's an extremely cathartic and pleasing experience, to say the least.
If interested, you can click the title of this entry to go to my film production website.
Monday, November 20, 2006
There is a little bit of darkness in us all, I assume. At least that’s what I gather from a lifetime of observation. I’m sure there have been some exceptions, but rather expect such instances to be rare, few, and far between. On the Buddha/Jesus level. Gandhi, probably. Not so much the popes. I think there has always been a bit of darkness in each pope, because they quite often seem to be involved more in the business of filling coffers and selling fish, and not so much into the salvation side of things.
I think everyone carries their own inner degree of darkness. Before I go too far I would like to clarify precisely what I mean by the word “darkness”. For me, the dark side of an individual is not necessarily the evil side. Our dark side is that which recognizes evil without condoning it. For example, when you discover that grown men will, in fact, sexually molest children, your inner darkness grows.
Darkness is not a good thing, but it is not a bad thing either. It is a necessary defense; a kind of psychic couch-cushion fort built to protect against an overwhelming, and all-too un-imaginary, monstrous assault. Some people seem to think that darkness is synonymous with evil. I suppose it is, in the same way that a scar is synonymous with a deep cut.
Each of us carries their own darkness; it’s where we keep our pain. People handle darkness in different ways. Some people like to shine light on the darkness. They want to expose the things that crawl in the night, the evils that prefer to be left in the blackness. These people often times become police officers, or lawyers, or detectives. Sometimes they are priests, or teachers, or construction workers. They believe in something.
Some people prefer to turn their backs on the darkness. Build walls, lock doors, turn away, deny, and hide. After all, bad things don’t happen unless you talk about them. If you can pretend loud enough, it sometimes even helps to drown out sound of their dreams.
Others explore their darkness. They don’t like what it contains, but they realize its part of their mental geography, and as such, must be understood, not left to fester. It has to be investigated in order that we are able to learn to protect ourselves against it. The problem is, no one really wants to learn about what lives in the darkness, because it’s a nasty piece of work. So the explorers learn to laugh.
By shining a somewhat filtered light on the darkness, these explorers conspire to reveal the absurdity of evil. The explorers, armed only with somewhat faulty intellect and an equally somewhat sarcastic wit, try also to expose the evil that lurks in the shadows; only this time, with it’s pants around it’s ankles and a goofy look on it’s face.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
From Monty Python. 1972. It’s amazing to me that things haven’t changed yet.
We would like to apologize for the way in which politicians are represented in this programme. It was never our intention to imply that politicians are weak-kneed, political time-servers who are concerned more with their personal vendettas and private power struggles than the problems of government, nor to suggest at any point that they sacrifice their credibility by denying free debate on vital matters in the mistaken impression that party unity comes before the well-being of the people they supposedly represent.
Nor to imply at any stage that they are squabbling little toadies without an ounce of concern for the vital social problems of today.
Nor indeed do we intend that viewers should consider them as crabby ulcerous little self-seeking vermin with furry legs and an excessive addiction to alcohol and certain explicit sexual practices which some people might find offensive.
We are sorry if this impression has come across.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Today I am working on a graphic art piece that depicts several nasty little brownies; I’m going through a “mythological creatures” period. Each brownie has a look to them that brings to mind a natural animal. One has chipmunk fur, another a bushy squirrel tail, etc.
I wanted one of them to look like a bird. A thrush, in particular. Now, to obtain these animal effects, I usually just find a real chipmunk, zebra, tiger, etc. and overlay it’s fur on the target, and blend it in. So naturally, I went online to search for a picture of a bird to use as a basis. I went to Google Images, and I searched for “thrush”.
Forgetting that it is a disease.
A disease that is apparently much more commonly photographed than any mere natural bird. Because the entire first page of photographs, apart from 2, were of the disease called thrush. The other two were birds. I learned another thing.
Not only is there a disease called thrush, there’s a specific variant referred to as vaginal thrush. And that’s the first picture that comes up if you do a Google Image search on the word “thrush”.
Let my pain be a warning to you all.
While I was writing this, the following story occurred to me. So you get two posts for the price of one today. Let that make up for the six months of total silence. We will never speak of it again.
A Bushy Squirrel Tale
Once upon a time there was a squirrel named Nutspike (due to the fact that his left testicle was pierced). Nutspike liked the ladies, and he liked them dark and dangerous. One day he met a young Goth chipmunk named Deathcuddle who informed him that, along with nuts and berries, her cheeks could store a prodigious amount of semen.
Nutspike asked Deathcuddle out, and that very evening they went to see aKorn in concert. They had sex at the concert1, they had sex in the limo on the way home2, and they had sex on the steps of the church down the street from Deatcuddle’s father’s house3.
Nutspike and Deathcuddle fucked like, well, rabbits4. Needless to say, Nutspike was in love with Deathcuddle. More accurately, Nutspike was in love with the frequent and eager access to Deathcuddle’s chipmunk vagina5.
One day, Deathcuddle seemed reluctant to have sex in the back of the library6 when normally she was more than eager. Nutspike asked what was wrong.
“It’s your tail,” said Deathcuddle. “It’s so hairy and gross. So 80’s. Would you shave it for me?”
Nutspike was happy to comply. Deathcuddle produced a razor and some shaving cream (leading Nutspike to suspect that she had planned this out) and shaved his tail in an erotic and genitally7 pleasing way.
The following day, they met at the coffee shop. Deathcuddle seemed distant, and quickly took Nutspike aside.
“Look, don’t be faggy about this, but I’m breaking up with you.”
“What? Why?” Nutspike said loudly.
“No, that’s the faggy way,” she reprimanded, and ushered him into the men’s bathroom.
“Why are you breaking up with me?” Nutspike’s mind played out visions of Deathcuddle’s delightful pussy, flying away into the night on oddly bat like wings.
“It’s your tail,” she replied. “Bi-bi MaggiePie8 said this morning how with your tail shaved you just look like a big fucking rat.”
Potential Moral Number One: Be true to yourself, and do not change for others.
Potential Moral Number Two: If someone likes you for who you are, changing for them will make you into someone else, whom they may no longer care for.
Potential Moral Number Three: While the ride is usually short, psychotic and psuedo-dangerous, there’s nothing better than fucking a hot Goth chick. And hair grows back.
1. With Deathcuddle sitting on Nutspike’s lap, humping away while she blew some strange Rasta-coon (Rastafarian Raccoon) with a pony tail.
2. With Deathcuddle leaning out the window, her furry tits blowing in the wind as she screamed loud obscenities at the passengers of other cars while Nutspike fucked her up the ass.
3. Because for some reason that idea turned her on.
4. I.e., with frequent spanking and biting, occasionally involving restraints, vibrating tools and strap-on phallic substitutes, with frequent domination and submission episodes. Rabbits are kinky little cunts.
7. Note the play on words on “generally”. Do it now.
8. Margaret Pile was a bisexual Magpie with the annoyingly long nick name of Bi-bi Maggie Pie, who also had the social clout to pull it off. Similar, but opposite to, the famed comedian Kenny Partridge-Ruffles, who insisted on being referred to only by his initials.
Friday, June 30, 2006
A hand to hold, a heart heard beating
A stolen kiss, a moment fleeting,
A sigh, a moan, a folding union
A soaring, sighing mass communion
Allies inside the darkened night
Souls eternal reunite.
Laughter shared and brightness seen
Emotions on a trampoline.
Hope and future, ball and chain
Joy in sorrow, joy in pain
Powerful, a soul defiant
Sorrowful, a spirit pliant.
Dark and soothing, mistress strong
Hearts desire heard in song.
Things she gave me when we fell in love.
Written by me. Patent pending.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
I’ve really been thinking about the whole “Native Crisis” thing up around Caledonia. You know, the blockade, tire fires, collapsing power towers, that stuff. Now, I don’t claim to be an expert on the behind-the-scenes issues and factors at play here. I, like most everyone else, learned about the events by watching it on the news or reading about it in print. I followed along with interest.
The original protest was smart and completely understandable. Sometimes, you just have to stand up for your rights. How long are the Natives supposed to do things the “right” way (i.e. the way our government tells them to)? How long are they supposed to navigate our labyrinthine legal system, only to be stymied, lied to, ignored, and patronized and condescended to before they finally stand up and shout “Enough!”?
Of course, as any intelligent individual knows, any successful protest will, eventually, get out of hand. Because it will grow, and once a mob reaches critical mass, it becomes an entity on its own right. Warriors become vandals. Because no one can control the mob. So, anyone who starts a protest must therefore accept responsibility for the fact that the protest could, conceivably, end up out of their control. And they must respect the fact that they are therefore accountable for the actions of the mob even after they have lost control.
If you start a fire, you are responsible for what gets burned.
And then the folk of Caledonia, who had had enough, decided to have their own blockade. Apparently deciding to fight fire with fire. A popular phrase, which I believe really only actually applies to real fire. Not a phrase to be used metaphorically. Think about it. You don’t deal with a flood by shooting fire hoses at it. In otherwords, another bad idea.
Why? Don’t the people of Caledonia have just as much right to protest as their neighbours?
Welcome to the analogy portion of the diatribe.
Once upon a time there were two brothers. Their names were Bob and Wolf. Now, Bob and Wolf were adopted brothers, true, but fate and circumstance had put them together, in the same family, in the same house. Like it or not, they were going to have to learn to live together.
Turns out, Bob knew some pretty cool tricks. He had collected some pretty cool toys, and had even invented a few new ones of his own. They definitely came in handy. Wolf knew a lot about camping, sports. Turns out, even though they would sometimes fight, that both brothers had a lot to learn from the other.
Left to their own devices, things probably would have worked out for the best. But their adopted father – let’s call him Government (ok, so it’s “very thinly veiled analogy time”) – didn’t really want the kids to get along. He had his own agenda, and in order to accomplish it, he would need to take things from both his adopted children.
If there was one thing he couldn’t have, it was a united enemy.
So he gave Wolf special “privledges”. A good allowance, but only if he stayed out of sight most of the time. He sometimes took things away from Wolf, and gave them to Bob. Well, sold them to Bob. This made Wolf angry, because Bob had his things.
Bob resented Wolf’s anger. After all, it was Government who took Wolf’s things. Probably for good reason – after all, why wold Government do something if it wasn’t for good reason? Wolf most likely had done something to deserve it.
So, to recap: Government stold from Wolf, and sold the stolen items to Bob. And in the end, Wolf was angry at Bob, and Bob was angry at Wolf.
Turns out Government was quite Machiavellian.
And a genius. Now he could play Bob and Wolf however he wanted. As long as he continued to play each side against the other.
One day, Wolf had decided he had been taken advantage of long enough. Not too long ago, he had bought a car with his own money. Government had taken the car, and sold to Bob. Wolf wanted it back. He was tired of arguing with Government, because he would always just lie. He’d promise to set things right, then renege. Or deny it.
Wolf decided that if he couldn’t use the car, neither could his brother Bob. He got some heavy chains, and wrapped them around the car, locking them with padlocks. Bob was pissed, but Government told them both that he would deal with it.
Government got drunk and decided to ignore the problem.
Eventually, Bob got angry, and sick of waiting, and decided to put a padlock on the bathroom door. If Wolf was going to keep him away from his car (and yes, it was his car, because he paid for it), then he was going to keep Wolf away from the can.
Stepping away from the analogy here, I hope you can see what I am getting at. We shouldn’t be angry with each other. We should’t be on opposite sides of the issue. We have to, as a people, realize that we have a common antangonist. We all have to do some soul searching, and be willing to take a portion of the blame onto ourselves. We all have a share.
Once we have done this, we can turn our attention to Government. We can shake our heads and wag our fingers, and admit we’ve been had. It was a fun ride, but now it’s over. We’ve grown up, we’ve turned 21, and we’re not going to be played against each other any more.
That means supporting each other. That means that Bob will have to admit that Government should not have stole things from Wolf. And Bob will have to admit to himself that he should not have bought Wolf’s things, because in doing so, he was perpetuating a crime.
Wolf will have to admit that, while Bob’s actions were wrong, they were done more in a spirit of ignorance than antagonism. And while Bob does have things that belong to Wolf, he does want to put things right.
So who should pay? Should Bob just give everything back to Wolf, allowing Government to keep all the money he paid? Should he just loose everything?
Should Wolf just decide to forget about all that he lost, and allow Bob to keep it all? While Government still, once again, keeps the profits?
Where possible, Bob should give Wolf back what he bought. Government would then pay Bob back, with interest, the money that the items are worth.
In some cases, Wolf will have to accept that Bob will be keeping some things, but in turn, Government will pay Wolf what the items are worth. With interest.
And Government, if he has any sense at all, should just shut the fuck up and let the brothers make things right.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
I’ve baked my last pie on earth
But I don’t want you to cry
I’ve become a new citizen
Of the kitchen in the sky
The baking here is perfect
I never burn a thing
So don’t shed tears for me, my loves
I’m not closed, I’m opening
I made a cake for daddy
Had tea with Vic today
I even made lasagna
St. Peter said I may
Miss me but don’t mourn me
I’m quite alright you see
Just keep my spirit alive
In your thoughts and memory
And one day we will meet again
I’ll tell you where I’ll be
I’ll be waiting for you
In the kitchen, drinking tea
- Isabel O’Meara
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
For some reason, tonight the cowl calls to me. It beckons me as my eyes lock upon it. It speaks to a side in me that had long lain dormant. The side of me that willingly stole into the night to play pranks. To knock on doors and run away. To hide behind signs to scare the wits out of innocent passersby. To take chances, to leap from the tree branches, to trust that, when the time comes to land, I will come out of it more or less ok.
The mask speaks to me, and whispers to this dark fox inside me. Put me on, it whispers softly. I know I don’t really hear it, but a part of me realizes that I do. Take to the night, slip from shadow to darkness. Take chances, follow the dare, tilt at windmills! Become! Transcend! Take to the night!
Then the microwave beeps. Ah, the burritos.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting in your heart's longing.
It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit in pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own,if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tip of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, or to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn't interest me if the story you're telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.
I want to know if you can be faithful and therefore be trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see beauty even when it is not pretty every day, and if you can source your life from God's presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of a lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, "Yes!"
It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done for the children.
It doesn't interest me who you are, how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.
It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself, and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
That means something. No matter how many people you meet, annoy, befriend, live with, sleep with, fight with, etc., there will only be a finite number of people who love you. There will be plenty of people who say they love you, and don't. I hear the love word bandied around at work in casual conversation way too often. It's an important word, and shouldn't be used lightly.
Because of divorce, remarrying, etc, I have had four sets of grandparents. Most were, to put it bluntly, craptastic. For example, my father's parents. After my parents were divorced, they severed all ties with myself and my sister. Their own grandchildren. Flesh of their flesh. Suddenly we didn't exist.
My grandmother (my mom's mom) made up for all that, and more. She was so special to me, and of course, I never really did enough to make her understand that. But I loved her strongly, and I hope she knew that.
I have many regrets, naturally. I didn't visit anywhere near as often as I should have. Birthdays, holidays, the occaisional drop in. But I have one large regret. My grandmother had written her autobiography, and had asked me to type it out for her so that she could get it published online.
I know how much it would have meant to her to see her autobiography completed. In the end, I let her down, which sucks. All I can do is recognize my error, and try not to repeat it with others that I love. Because my grandmother deserved more from me, as do the others.
I'd like to post more memories of grandma, as well as some excerpts from her autobiography. She also wrote some short stories I plan on transcribing, and hope to put some up here as well.
Sunday, May 14, 2006
I didn’t care what she said. She was about to fuck me. At that moment in time she could have said she was a time-traveling sociopath here destroy mankind with her paralyzing vagina. It wouldn’t even slow me down. Although they did turn out to be the most important words I would hear in my lifetime.
I fell in love fast, hard. Too fast, in retrospect it was stupid. I did love her, but more than that, I longed for love. So I was in love first. Apparently, that was a mistake.
She fell in love too, ostensibly. At least, so she told me. On numerous occasions. Sometimes with her ankles by my ears, sometimes while we slept, sometimes while we strolled along a path. She said it a lot of times, and fuck me if I didn’t believe her.
So, long story short, one day she said she didn’t love me. She fell out of love? I didn’t even know that could happen, so it was a bit of a shock. This concept alone is enough to give me pause, but the fact that it now applies directly to me rocks me, leaves me literally reeling. Describing the feeling would require the capabilities of a mathematical genius. Stephen Hawking could do it. I can’t.
I couldn’t understand it, but it sure as hell hurt.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
So I bought it.
Because it was so fucking ironic.
And it sits on my fridge today, to remind me. It reminds me that today, the definition of support seems to have lost some of it’s punch. I had checked into it. For the most part, none of the money gathered from the sale of the novelties actually went towards supporting the troops. Zero. Millions of ribbons sold, not so much as an extra condom and a packet of Sanka for the boys in the field.
It’s there because we support our boys! We support their right to go overseas and kill for policies they can never truly understand. Not because they lack the ability, but rather because they lacked a leadership secure and honest enough to say a true thing. In order to define the bizarre and darkened labyrinth that is the true world of international politics (or as some would call it, “oil”), one would have to coin a new word. This new word would have to somehow have to be cunningly. linguistically twisted to combine the word “Byzantine” with the term “google”. Byzoogantine would be my best guess. It’s that fucked up.
It’s ok, we support them! We support the right of our lower incomes children to die in foreign sand to keep safe the rights of the more enlightened, enriched classes. It’s that that we’re better, or anything, we’re just lucky. I’m just saying, would they switch places with me if I were in there position? Exactly.
It’s ok, we support them! The lower incomes, the disproportionately ethnic population. Blacks. Disproportionately high number of blacks, overseas, trading life expectancy for college tuition.
But it’s ok, because I have a crappy $1.99 magnetic ribbon on the ass of my gas guzzling SUV.
So some men died because they believed their leader wanted to right a wrong.
And some men died because they knew a wrong, but saw the rights it could do.
And some men died because they just like killin’.
And it goes on.
Don’t vote with magnets.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
So here's one of the stories from "The Mourning Papers"
It wasn’t a very special radio. Not at first. At first it was a small, unimpressive radio. Sleek and plastic, at home in any modern magazine devoted to the selling of office furniture. The same radio that sat on the same desk of every single sales rep/team leader/marketing director in the country.
It sat on his desk, utterly at home amidst the orderly chaos of an impeccably displayed desktop; a monument of achievement in the arena of conforming individuality. A statement of individuality so strong and undeniable that it could not possibly be made by any individual actually confident of his or her individuality. A tragic beast; the mundane that aspires to creative distinctiveness, instead becoming an object of some little derision.
Simply put, Derek was a sad, lonely, man. His dreams of creative expression – his novels, his poems, his paintings, his screenplays – had all fallen un an unappreciative world. The little critical notice he had ever gained hand been incineratingly insightful, and of decidedly low opinion. The word “sucks” had been bandied about much more often that Derek felt befitting of a legitimate critic.
The radio was never played. Derek was sure of that. He remembered unpacking it, and disposing of the neatly formed Styrofoam casings. He always felt a little guilty doing that; the Styrofoam packing seemed a marvel to him. Superbly formed, literally molded to do one job, and one job alone. Hold some little fragile thing safely. And when it was done, when it had performed its job admirably, it was immediately then crumpled up and thrown into a garbage bag filled with other debris.
He remembered plugging it in. He remembered setting the time, and the alarm time. And he remembered not turning it on. Because when he turned it on for the first time, he wanted Donna to be there with him. But after the radio was prepared, the telephone rang. It was Donna, telling Derek that she wanted a divorce. Fuck.
So the radio was never played.
Despite that, Derek slowly came to realize that the radio was playing. Not in any audible sense, but rather in a sub-audible sense – if that makes any sense. All he knew was, he could sense the music, faintly, as if heard from a great distance. The whisper of music, he called it. The ghost of song.
Derek found these thoughts strange, for the were strange, and unique. He could not remember anyone ever speaking these words to him. He couldn’t think of a TV show or a movie where the lines might have been delivered by a devilishly humorous comedian-turned-actor, to tumultuous audience appreciation. Not in any commercials, or song, or poem. Never spoken aloud before.
Oh, shit, Derek thought, so that’s an original thought!
The radio was playing, but only he could hear it. Sense it. Fuck it, you know what I mean. He sometimes hinted about the radio when others were in the room, but no one reacted. So Derek decided that either only he could hear it, or he was going crazy. And he knew, from knowledge gleaned from watching hours upon hours of televised psychiatrists, that if you were worried about going crazy, you were definitely not going crazy. And Derek knew he was not going crazy, so he was not even worried about the possibility.
So he turned it on, to see if the whisper of music would get louder. It did, but not in any way that could be properly understood. Given power, the ghosts of songs from the radio grew powerful, radiant! They swelled and burst, a torrent of creation too pure to allow comprehension. His receptionist described the sound as “fifty-seven cats, fed slowly, one-by-one, into a wood chipper”. Derek felt that 57 was a bit of an exaggeration.
All agreed from that the sound that came from the radio was unpleasant. So the radio was never played. But the whispers and ghosts continued to slide through his mind. Tantalizingly familiar and known, yet simultaneously elusive, ephemeral echoes. The aural equivalent of the faded photograph of a dead loved one.
Sometimes, the voice sounded like Donna.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
I will be back here, eventually.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
It’s an addictive beauty, and if I had to admit it, the one I would have knowingly chosen to be my last. I just wasn’t particularly ready for it yet. I thought my support line had been tethered, but somehow it hadn’t. Was it a malfunction, or was it my own unconscious suicidal nature? Moot at this point, I suppose.
As I slowly turned, the Eagle’s Head nebula swam into view. If you’ve never seen it, I suggest you Google it. It’s stunning, even in a photograph. As I watched, new suns swam into life, and I could see the birth of eternities. If I had to die, at least I could die here, in peace, beauty, and serenity.
I felt something nudge my ribs.
And then the space weasels came.
Friday, March 31, 2006
THE SECRET TO GETTING WHAT YOU WANT
And lets face it, getting what we want makes us happy. At least for awhile, before we realize that obtaining material goals provides, a best, an illusory and short-lived euphoria that seems very similar to happiness, but eventually leaves us feeling empty and forlorn. And in today's society, that's about all anyone can really expect.
Whether you believe me or not, there is a way to get EVERYTHING you WANT, all the time. And the best part is, I'm going to tell you for free. Why? Because I'm a nice guy. And I can't figure out how to hook up a PayPal account. So here you go. Here it is. The secret to getting EVERYTHING you WANT.
You don't have to make sense. You don't have to be right (in fact, it helps things out if you're not). You don't have to be nice. Just don't resort to violence, or touching. For some reason in our society, its ok to stand in a store and berate your salesperson for 40 minutes straight, but if you poke him in the shoulder, you're going to jail Johnny Bad-touch!
This technique is definitely not a "get rich quick" scheme. Properly executed, the UCS (Uunreasonable Complaint System) will take days, weeks ... maybe even months. Or years. You don't know until you try. You might have to bitch and whine every day for several weeks. The technique does require a significant time committment, but if you stick with the program, then eventually you will get what you want.
I know, you're probably sitting there right now, shaking your head in disbelief. Even though you've never tried my techniques out. You know, there's a word for people who doubt something without ever doing an empirical research. That word is "fucker". Don't be a fucker. Give it a try.
The best part is, the technique works with pretty much everything. Want the store to replace your DVD player because your kid put it in the bathtub, along with the cat, plugged it in and turned on the shower? Just complain. Come in every day, stay for at least 2 hours, and complain. The best part is, they have to listen to you. They can't just walk away from you, or call you an asshole, even though its clear to everyone around you that you are an asshole.
- My dog got a free collar with the leash
- Justin from next door gets a free upgrade to large-sized fries at McDonalds
- But someone else here said I could
- That's riduculous!
The last one is used whenever anyone who is arguing against you comes up with an intelligent, logical, and salient point.
*** Warning ***: this technique does not work with sex. It used to, but someone started calling it "stalking" and "harrassment", so now Johnny Law has closed that particular door.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
You can piss off the wrong people. I know that seems pretty obvious. We see it all the time in the movies. Bad men who occupy a certain criminal element of an organized nature. You know, the mob. Anyway, you see the movies and TV shows, and you know what those guys will do. Ok, true, those guys are real. They are out there. But its hard to imagine that your life will ever meaningfully impact with individuals on that level. They seem semi-mythical, like celebrities or politicians. It was equally as difficult for me to imagine that my life would ever become entwined with the Mafia’s as it was for me to believe that I might one day meet Tom Cruise in a nightclub.
Sometimes, your life does cross over that line. You step away from the average, normal and expected, and into a world where car bombs destroyed lives, where angry lone sharks broke real legs. The problem was, and I guess still is, this: when your life crosses the line between the mundane and the cinematic, how the hell are you supposed to know? How can you possibly guess that today is the day your life becomes a made-for-TV movie?
I first met Otello Giovanni at my kid’s soccer game. That’s his real name. I should probably use a fake name instead of his real name, but fuck him. That’s his real fucking name. He’s in the yellow pages, call him up, tell him I said hi. What the fuck is he gonna do, kill me twice?
But I didn’t know any of that then. To me he was just another Italian guy I saw at our kids’ soccer games. Sure, ok, some of the parents do get out of hand, yes. We like to scream and yell, let our kids know we support them. Better than this pussy “no-yelling, no-score-keeping, everybody-gets-a-trophy” bullshit they got nowadays. Anyway, Otello was a bit too much, even for us. He slapped a ref once, knocked the guy down.
Next I saw Otello was years later at a fundraiser. My employer, a politician whose name I do wish to protect (fuck you Otello Giovanni of 1484 Windwillow Crescent), was speaking to Otello when I arrived. I didn’t know what the conversation was about, but there was obviously some kind of agreement reached, as they shook hands and then hugged. Otello left immediately afterwards.
Next we met, things were more private. I was at work, late at night. Burning the midnight oil, as well as any chance I could have of things like a normal family life. Anyway, I was leaving, and in the elevator going down. Doors open on 12, and this guy gets on. It takes me a few seconds, but then it dawns on me. Otello, I remember. I wonder if he is connected.
Then Otello starts talking. He tells me about how his uncle, who owns a construction company, is desperately in need of a good job. An honest labourer, he says, lain low by bad luck and circumstance. He then offhandedly mentioned that he had heard that I happened to head the committee that was in charge of bids for construction on a retirement center.
He then said that he would hate to see me miss an opportunity to give an honest man a new start on life. He mentioned that he thought I had a beautiful family, without saying how he knew about them. He said they deserved a chance at life too. Everybody does. He said he hoped that I made sure that everybody did. It might not sound very threatening now. In fact, as I read it back, I feel vaguely silly. But trust me, it was fucking terrifying at the time.
But I stood my ground. I don’t know why. Maybe I had ethics. Probably because I hadn’t realized that my life had become a movie. Or maybe I had. Maybe I thought that my life was a movie, but that I was the star. As the star, I could make mistakes or lose things I loved, but I would always survive, and would succeed in the end. If so, I would be ignoring the fact that for every star, there are a shitload of nobodies that die off early.
And if my life was a movie, it was my first one. The chances of me landing a lead in my first movie were pretty slim. The odds would seem to indicate that I had a bit part, at best. A minor walk-on, designed to illustrate just how evil Otello Giovanni was. Or for comic relief. Otello was most likely the villain, and the hero was some other guy. Someone like me, only better looking with a great agent.
The long and the short of it is, I refused to play ball. I awarded the contract to the lowest qualified bidder, as society expected me to do. As was my job. Otello wasn’t happy. He indicated his unhappiness to me in the form of a bomb. Placed in my gas barbecue. It was pretty well known that I loved to barbecue. All summer long, almost every night, as a matter of fact.
As luck, fate, or the director would have it, I was feeling particularly tired and lazy on the night after the bomb was planted. I carried the steaks out and put them on the cold barbecue (one of my secrets, by the way – start cold) before returning to the kitchen for a beer. On my way back, I sat down on the porch; daddy was too tired to cook.
Justin had turned seven just three days earlier. He asked me if he could start the steaks. He said he was almost a man, and men barbecued.
I said ok. It was a short, sweet, proud moment.
I wish I had awarded the contract differently.
Ever since I have been a kid, I have wanted to write. I did write a fair bit as a teen, and have tried several times as an adult to get works published, but have met with little success. But I stick with it because I love the process. There is a thrill that comes when a good idea hits you. You just know the idea is good, inside, and that satisfaction is unlike anything else I have experienced.
So, if I'm unpublished, how can I claim to be a writer? There is a lot of debate about what makes a person a "writer". Some people say you have to be published. Others claim that being published is not enough - your works must be well read. However, some wise person (I can't remember who) was once asked what makes a person a writer. His reply was this: "Writers write". I.e. if you write, you are a writer. I like that definiton.
I have been pretty remiss in updating my blog as of late. I think its largely to do with the fact that I don't get a lot of time to sit down and write, so when I do I prefer to work on one of the several projects I have on the go right now. I'm currently working on a full-length motion picture (along with my friend Craig), a novel, as well as a couple of short films (again with Craig).
The full-length picture is a horror movie. It will require a pretty hefty budget, so after it's done we will be shopping around for a production company. Now the short films, thats another matter. We're likely going to be producing those ourselves, and I have to say, I am extremely excited about the idea. My belly button keeps puckering every time I think about it.
Of course, I have absolutely no idea how to actually produce and film a movie, so its going to be a hell of a learning experience. I've been doing some extensive reading on the subject, including advice on how to avoid the pit falls that threaten new producers. For example, I have learned that it is not a good idea to sleep with attractive female actresses. I can't claim that I would necessarily heed that advice, however.
So, the next few months should be fairly interesting. I've completed one script, pending reviews and alterations, naturally. I'm looking into storyboarding now, and am considering some software options to assist with that task. All I know is, it's going to be fun. Of course, six months from now, I will probably post a blog entry entitled "If I had Known Then...".
Friday, March 24, 2006
Evidently, a critical bug has been found in Internent Explorer, an Internet browswer which, up until now, has been very stable, offered much in the way of power and features, and has seen few problems. Oh, sorry, did I say "Internet Explorer"? I thought they were talking about Firefox.
Pope Benedict XVI created 15 new cardinals, praying that the red garments they now wear would inspire them to an even more "passionate love for Christ, for his church and for all humanity." Each robe costs approximately $2,300.00, and the hats run about $900.00 apiece. The pope made his announcement about "love for all humanity" from within his multi-billion dollar palatial home. The poor and hungry were not available for comment, as they were busy searching for food scraps in Vatican dumpsters.
The creators of South Park have killed off Chef, over problems which arose after Isaac Hayes (the voice of Chef) quit the show. He did so as a result of recent 'intolerance and bigotry towards religious beliefs' expressed by the show. Those religious beliefs being his own. Apparently, Hayes was not bothered by episodes that lampooned Christianity, Islam and Judaism. Fuck you, Isaac Hayes. Fuck you in your intolerant, brain-washed ass with a rolled-up copy of Dianetics.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Ayla, however ... well, she does tend to stand out. She is probably the smartest dogs I have ever owned, and learned most of her tricks in less than 15 minutes. Sit, shake, play dead, etc. were all learned very quickly. Some of that might have to do with the fact that I have learned from past dogs how to train, but mostly I think its because she is so smart.
Right from the start, I taught Ayla to come when she was called, and to stay near me when we go for walks. As a result, I don't need a leash when I take her out, because I know she will always obey my commands, and won't range too far.
She is such a gentle pup. The closest she has ever come to fighting with another dog occurred once at the leash-free park. Two dogs had started to fight, and Ayla ran straight for them. She ran in between them, using her body to keep them apart. She broke up the fight, all on her own. For her troubles, she got bitten in the face, and still has the scar. The bite was probably accidental, and was obtained as one dog was lunging for the other, and was blocked by Ayla.
Once when walking her in a park, she spotted a squirrel and ran off after it. She was so close to the squirrel that by the time I realized she was after it, she had already caught it. Being Ayla, she caught the squirrel and proceeded to lick it. The squirrel, naturally enough, responded by biting her tongue. Ayla doesn't lick squirrels anymore.
For those of my friends that visit Ayla and get tired of her licking, there is a lesson to be learned here. Next time she licks you, just bite her tongue. Oh sure, Ayla understands the command "no kissing", but as far as she is concerned, this is a time-sensitive command that lasts for a maximum of 35 seconds.
Ayla is addicted to licking, and loves nothing better than being allowed to lick someone's face. Ever since she was a puppy, she has been this way. It was really bad at first. One day I decided to just sit there and let Ayla lick my face for as long as she wanted, no matter how long it took. I gave up after 7 minutes and 35 seconds. I just couldn't take any more.
She actually taught herself the word "kiss" - I kid not. I had never used the word to her, and had never taken the time to teach her any words linked to licking. ONe day, I was sitting at my computer, and Ayla was lying on the floor. I looked at her and said "Give me a kiss". Immediatley, Ayla lept into my lap and started licking away. I was surprised, as I had thought I was going to teach her the word, but apparently she already knew it.
Ayla likes to sleep under the covers. She is the first dog I have ever had who prefers to sleep under blankets. Much to my surprise, my cat Crystal also likes to sleep under blankets. She is definitely the only cat I have ever met who likes this. The two of them do seem to be a lot alike in many ways, and get on famously. For example, the cat will allow Ayla to lick her to her heart's content, as long as Ayla is willing to be bitten.
Ayla is an amazing dog. I'm going away to Chicago soon, and my friends Peter and Bernie will be watching her for me. I really appreciate this, as I can go away without any worry, because I know they love Ayla, and will take care of her. Of course, Ayla adores them too! Also, they'll be taking her up to the cottage, which Ayla absolutely loves. Plenty of swimming, treats, cats to lick, and cuddling up under the blankets!
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
I had been browsing websites for research for my novel. I was looking for instances of the word "God" on a web page. Hence, Screen Shot #1.
You will notice that the search box, down bottom right, naturally contains the word "God". I had been doing this searching hours ago, and later I came back to the computer to check my blog stats.
See that "Geovisitors" icon? Its a cool toy that lets you see a map of the world, with the physical locations of your site visitors shown on it. As per the next Screen Shot.As you can see, I randomly selected one of the visitors. I swear it was random. When you click one, it gives you the option "View in Google Earth". I decided to do so. Hence, the third and final Screen Shot.I saw this cross, and it made me feel pretty good.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Monday, March 13, 2006
Friday, March 10, 2006
Search Phrase: helen shapiro
Notes: Ha! Whoever was searching for information about Helen, he's sure to be in for a surprise when he reads in my blog that she created the universe.
Search Phrase: what does burke and hare
Notes: What does Burke and Hare what?
Search Phrase: COUSIN MARRIAGE IN CALIFORNIA
Notes: One can't help but wonder if this person was doing some general research, or was planning for his future?
Search Phrase: is red bull bad for your health
Notes: Sure, I have had some pretty nasty things to say about Red Bull; mostly to do with the fact that it is a "fad" drink, and about as enjoyable as being punched in the mouth by a cotton glove dipped in nutrasweet. However, its not bad for you, as long as you drink it in moderation, and avoid mixing with alcohol. Above all, if you possess working taste buds, avoid taking Red Bull internally.
Search Phrase: Can you marry your cousin in Georgia?
Notes: Hah! Looks like the guy from California found out he'd have to travel in order to get married.
Search Phrase: Tim Hortons is Evil
Notes: Sad, but true. It didn't usedta be evil, I swear. It was good, and honourable, and just. Now, its just a corporate bitch.
Search Phrase: car matience
Notes: I love this search, especially considering they spelled "maintenance" wrong. This is even worse when you realize it was a google search, and the first thing Google shows you when you make this search is the correct spelling.
Search Phrase: cousins fucking
Notes: Oh, for the love of God, can someone truly be so depraved as to get an extra thrill from hardcore porn if they think the participants are related? On the other hand, maybe its just the would-be cousin-wedder looking for pointers.
Search Phrase: asher
Thursday, March 09, 2006
In my story, the protagonist had played chess against IBM's supercomputer. I couldn't remember the name of this computer, so a quick Google search for "IBM Supercomputer" yielded the name. Next, I wanted to get a list of famous scientists, so of course I Googled it. Next, I wondered about the feasibility of concealing electronic equipment in a wooden case. So, off to Google with the search "concealing electronics in wood", followed with a quick search on airport security.
For my next Google search, I typed the words "Hello FBI/Homeland Security Agent. How are you?" because, lets face it, the odds are that my searches were registered and flagged. Sure, Google tries to keep this information private, because for some reason they still respect the individual's right to privacy. However, it turns out the government has other ways to get at this kind of information.
Back in 2002, the US Government initiated a massive data-mining project called "Total Information Awareness". The idea was to go around and gather as much information online as possible, sift through it using computers, and investigate possible security breaches. It was a neat little program, if one can overlook niggling issues such as the individual's right to privacy.
Once the public heard about it, the outcry was huge, so the government scrapped the program. Or so they claimed. What actually happened was more insidious. They shut down the program, packed up their computers and the data, and moved the program to a buried office inside the Defense Department. All done very secretly, of course. After all, you wouldn't want the American Public ... *ahem* ... I mean terrorists, to find out. That you were spying on them.
So, naturally, the question is, is it ok for the government to spy on its people (and the people of other countries) and violate their constitutional rights to privacy, all in the name of combating terrorism? Well, I suppose you could make the argument that it is, if the program was at all effective. But according to media analysts, these programs generate an astronomical number of red herrings, which put an enormous drain on investigative resources. Time and effort that could be better spent pursuing more traditional avenues of investigation (that incidentally do not impact as greatly on our rights and freedoms).
It boils down to this: By using the threat of terrorist activity to justify invasions against the rights and privacy of its own citizens, the US has altered its own constitutional mandates. In effect, they have changed the nature of their own country from one that respects the rights of its citizens to one that constantly orders illegal wire taps, and uses other methods to spy on its own people.
This is the real tragedy. America has been forever altered, and is no longer the country it was prior to 9-11. Sadly, they have done nothing to combat the root causes of terrorism, and have instead focused internally. If the US government was serious about ending the threat of terrorism, they'd stop meddling in the affairs of dragons.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
He picked the up the chess set, and tested its weight. It was solid, but its weight was not a burden. It felt good in his arms. The dark squares were the same wooden hue as the case, but the lights seemed to be a cleverly interwoven mother of pearl inlay, the seams so faint as to seem nonexistent. He pulled it open, its worn iron hinges squeaking slightly as it eased open.
Inside, the blood-red silk lining enfolded 32 pieces of individual perfection. Hand carved chess pieces, each so cunningly wrought as to be at once unique, still a part of a set. Of all the ideas over the past for chess pieces, ranging from army men to characters from The Lord of the Rings, of all these myriad ideas, this was the best, the most wonderful, the most right. The chess pieces were scientists.
They were there, beautifully carved: Pythagoras, Nietzsche, Einstein, facing off against Curie, Salk and Hawking. These famous thinkers, and others, completed the chess set.
“How much?” He asked as he casually placed the set on the front counter.
The young man behind the counter frowned, a twitch in his left lip causing his pencil thin moustache to jump and dance. He glanced down at the set, and then back at his customer, appraising the value of each. Numbers rose and fell in his mind as he tried to figure out exactly how much he would pay before walking away.
“Forty bucks,” he said finally.
“Done.” He counted out forty dollars on the counter as the young man lip twitched in disappointment.
Set up at home, the set completed his parlour. A front bedroom, converted at no small expense, into the ideal environment in which to sit and enjoy a game of chess. Mahogany bookshelves held worn and comfortable books, paperback and hardcover, each lovingly read. A large, hand-painted wooden globe, which stereotypically enough opened up into a mini-bar, set next to a glass display case containing statuary of various vintage movie monsters.
He stared at the set, slightly adjusting the overhead lamp so that the circumference of it’s light perfectly framed the chess set. Which side would he choose? White had its advantages, but black … well, black just looked good with his hair. He sat down behind the blacks, and gazed in awe and delight at the board. He closed his eyes, and then opened them again quickly at the sound of a faint scuttling?
Thoughts of mice fled as he watched one of white’s pawns slide forward two squares. He lifted the board, and tapped at it, listening for hollow thuds. He checked underneath, his fingers probing the felt lining. He carefully returned the board to the table, replacing the two or three pieces that had fallen. He was pretty sure this set was not electronic.
He examined the white pawn that had moved forward; it was Steven Hawking, complete with wheelchair. So incredibly well carved it still caught his breath. He returned it to the board, and sat down behind blacks once again. Hesitantly, he reached up, moving one of his pawns forward. A second later, a second white pawn slid into play. He brought up his knight, watching in amazement as - a moment later - white mimicked his move.
The game lasted 42 minutes. His opponent was good, but was locked into a fairly predictable pattern of offensive play. As the white king toppled, he sat back and tried to figure out just exactly what had happened.
“I’m telling you sir, it’s made of wood.”
“Yes, yes, I know that you imbecile, but inside, it contains circuits or some such, yes?” He was insistent.
“No, we’ve passed it through the x-ray detector twice. Its just wood, damn it.”
Sometimes it paid to have friends who worked for airport security. Chess players had friends from all walks of life, from doctors to pimps, from dressmakers to drug dealers. Even a few celebrities, friends of friends, that kind of thing. The point was, a chess player was always, first and foremost, a chess player. Everything else was just baggage.
He brought the set home, and returned it to its place. He set out the pieces, and again sat down behind black. He watched the table closely, carefully keeping his thoughts neutral. Concentrating on nothing more than his multiplication tables. He then stopped, and thought that it might be nice to play a game of chess. Wishing he had someone to play against.
A white pawn slid forward.
He played for hours, stretching on into days, grabbing the occasional short nap and ordering take out food when hunger consumed him, he placed chess, he played chess, and he played chess. Every time he wished it, an opponent would appear. Not physically, of course, but somehow a new opponent would move the white pieces against him. He had long ago given up any notion that the set was somehow computerized. The players were too fluid, too individual; these were no computers. These were living people. He always knew the difference, even when he played against Deep Blue.
After some time – perhaps two weeks – he decided to come up for air. He showered, and fell into bed, waking some 14 hours later. After another shower, he was ravenous, but fridge contained only a single jar of lidless mustard, which now seemed to contain a hard, brick-like substance, which held firm a long neglected butter knife. The sword in the stone, he thought as he dressed and headed out into the world.
In the café, he sipped slowly at his coffee as he spread the morning’s paper out in front of him. He hadn’t missed much, it seemed; certain scandals were waxing, others fading, some going strong. More of the same, not much had changed.
Near the back, sandwiched between an ad for shoes and an article on muffin tins, he saw it. The headline was shocking Freak Chess Deaths, it read. Forensic scientist Dr. Daniel Whitman released a somewhat surprising study today, which seems to indicate something of an epidemic.
“I came upon the data quiet by accident,” he spoke at an informal press conference. “I saw two similar cases cross my desk in the same week. The first was a suicide; some poor guy put a bullet in his eye, and was found sitting at a chessboard. He had been playing white, and white had clearly lost. I’m something of a chess buff myself, so that detail stuck with me.
“Then, about a week later, a woman was killed, stabbed in the back by an unknown assailant. She was found slumped over a chess set, playing white. Her body had knocked the pieces over, so nobody knew who had won her game. But it was strange. Two deaths, each sitting in front of a chess board, each playing white.”
Dr. Whitman decided then to search through recent records, and see if there had been any other deaths involving chessboards. “Computers are amazing things. Records nowadays can be queried instantly; searches take minutes instead of months. It was easy enough to create a search targeting the keywords I was interested in. I got about forty hits.
Of these forty, seven turned out to have something in common with the original two. In each case the involved the death of an individual who was seated in front of a chessboard, had been playing white, and had appeared to lose the game. And all nine of them had died within a two-week interval.
“Obviously, I was flabbergasted. Understand, I am not in any way suggesting that someone is somehow causing the deaths of chess players. The methods of death have ranged from murder to suicide, from heart attack to collapsing ceiling fan. No, these deaths were all different, apart from the fact that they happened in such startlingly similar ways.”
Dr. Whitman’s report is designed to show how sometimes life can behave in strange patterns.
He slumped back, his mind whirling, as he thought about the article. Nine people dead. He was stunned. He then realized that the people who had been mentioned had all died in the local area – people who lived no more than about a hundred miles from him. He started multiplying, dividing the country up into similar-sized chunks of land. Then the world.
His coffee fell to the floor as he rushed from his table, across a busy street to the Internet Café. He pulled out his timecard and fed it into an available slot as he navigated the web. He loaded Goggle and searched for “death chess board white”. He skimmed through entries for chess sets, chess web sites, offers to teach the reader to play chess, and came to rest on one entry. Doctor Notices Dying Chess masters.
He skimmed through several more pages of similar content, and had almost quit, when he saw an entry for some blog. The preview read “Somebody has it in for the chess players of Grand Rapids. In the past two weeks, four of my friends, all great chess players, have died…” He clicked this link, and read through the blog entry. Four chess players, each playing white when they died. One had an asthma attack; the next had died from alcohol poisoning. The last two were both heart attacks.
He returned to Google, and after another page, he found another link. Russian Chess master Missing. The article reported that a famed Russian chess master had failed to show up for a game against the Swede. He had been found dead in his dressing room, sitting down in front of a chessboard. He had been playing white, and he had obviously lost.
The article then went on to say that two other well-known Russian chess experts had died. Another was missing, and would not answer his pager.
He returned home, and made his way slowly to the chess room. He flicked on the overhead light, and looked down at the board. How was it even possible? How could he be killing people with a chessboard? He looked at the board, his eyes sliding from the white side to the black, and back again.
He approached his customary position behind black, and stopped. His gaze turned towards the opposite side of table. Why not? He thought. It's not like it could really matter. He sat down behind the whites.
Slowly, he slid his pawn into play. After a moment, a black pawn thrust forward in challenge. The game was intense and sharp, right from the start. His opponent was shrewd, making short, calculated advances and punishing any errors on his part with cruel efficiency. Already, Jane Goodall and Sir Isaac Asimov had been taken, and things weren’t looking very good for Darwin.
Before long, he knew he had lost. Da Vinci was backed into a corner, protected only by Galileo and Max Planck. Planck fell quickly to Sagan’s cruel sword, and Galileo was too far away to help. Da Vinci was in checkmate. He heard the soft fall of a footstep behind him, and closed his eyes softly. He sighed as the bullet ended the game.
Monday, March 06, 2006
Of course, I might be more inclined to keep my mouth shut if the guy who shot me could have me killed. And lets face it, if Whittington spoke out against Cheney, the rest of their Republican buddies might stop liking Harry. As might the CIA.
As an aside, the article goes on to say "Mr Whittington, whose face was still bruised but otherwise appeared healthy..." Now, I don't know about you, but even with the bruises removed, I think one of the last adjectives I would use to describe Harry's face would be "healthy". "Vulpine", "mottled" and "scary" all come to mind long before "healthy".
Friday, March 03, 2006
This planet is a pretty place, and as a species, we've been shitting on it for thousands of years. Worse still, we complain about other people's shit while expecting other people to clean up our shit. In the end, shit does flow downhill, and the meek shall inherit the cesspool.
Political ideals are corrupted by greed and turned into politics. Politicians, far from serving the needs of the people, exist solely to line their own pockets, funneling as much wealth as possible into offshore accounts. Any politician with the desire to truly serve the masses is either corrupted by the system or consumed by it. Politicians make themselves rich, and they make each other rich. Occasionally they throw one of their own to the lions of the court and the jackals of the media, in order to satisfy the occasional rumblings of outrage from the video-stupified masses.
In this world, you either take an active role in this process, or you are victimized by it. To hell with "dog eat dog", our society is actually based upon the concept of "fuck or be raped".
Yeah, I know, not a very funny post. But sometimes, I am forced to remember that the world really isn't a very funny place.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Still, cat ownership flourishes. If you absolutely must buy a cat, here are some helpful hints on how to go about doing so.
1. Make sure that the establishment will allow you to handle the cat in question before taking it home. Many times, pet stores try to dispose of dead animals by hiding them inside the body of a live cat. A friend of mine once took home a cat, only to discover later (after the warranty had run out, of course!) that it contained the corpses of a gerbil, three guinea pigs, and no fewer than 106 hamsters.
2. Choose an animal that looks healthy. While it might be cute to watch a constant trail of mucus dripping out of a cat's nose, chances are the cuteness will fade after you are forced to constantly shampoo cat-snot out of your carpet.
3. Pick a cat you like. Many times, people make the mistake of choosing a cat with radically different political views, thinking that it will be fun to have debates, and talk politics with the cat. After awhile though, this thrill wears off. Cats tend to mock those who hold differing ideaological values, and will often crap in their shoes.
4. Reject the animal if he or she attempts to scratch or bite you, or hisses. This means the cat is likely a terrorist, or perhaps is infected with AIDS.
5. Run through the following check list to make sure your potential kitty measures up:
Eyes - there should be two.
If you follow these helpfull hints, you and your cat will be sure to have a long and happy life together.