Showing posts with label insanity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label insanity. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Capybara
I'd like to preface this post with something that I think I'm going to be saying more in the next few years and will probably result in the continual shaping of this blog. Matt and I started Blast Shields Down during our freshman year of college. Our original intent was to have a place to work as a team and put the things we made and wanted to say down together. But more than that too we wanted a way to stay connected and close to one another. Its been a few years. And, if the summers of little substance here are any indication than I think we have at least some anecdotal evidence that BSD has been serving its purpose. Also, its helped to keep us in touch with other friends of ours and other bloggers who we might rarely see. It hasn't always been a strong dialogue but its been a dialogue none the less. I say this because it hit me a few weeks ago that in a rather short time the distance between Matt and myself is going to be even greater. Unlike him I'm not graduating this year. Unlike me, he is probably going to be out of state for the next couple of years for Grad School. Almost in anticipation of this seperation Matt and I have started emailing one another much more; keeping up an almost constant correspondence through the weeks. But, because of my realizattion that soon it'll be bon voyage to Matt, I decided to post here on BSD something I easily could have emailed to him. This way he can see, you can see it, and BSD might learn again to serve its purpose...
"During the Christian observation of Lent, capybara meat is especially popular as it is claimed that the Catholic church, in a special dispensation, classified the animal as a fish in the 16th century. (cf. Barnacle goose) There are differing accounts of how the dispensation arose. The most cited refers to a group of 16th Century missionaries who made a request which implied that the semi-aquatic capybara might be a "fish" and also hinted that there would be an issue with starvation if the animal weren't classified as suitable for Lent."
...and if thats not weird enough, just listen to this....
Friday, August 22, 2008
Before and After: Better than Ezra Pound
If this post is just disjointed, you all should consider yourself lucky, as I have seven or eight threads of thought running through my head at the moment and I don't really have the will to untangle them.
I like poetry, I really do, but it's always so hard to get into. Every once in a while I'll just choose a poet who I've heard of and start reading some of their stuff. I always like it (because I only pick the greats, I guess), but I guess I forget about it.
Ezra Pound is a lunatic, I suppose... whether he was ever truly insane or not, is a moot point in my mind. He looks like a raving mad-man and he writes like one, so why not. Apparently he even spent twenty days outside in a cage once.
He was famous for his anti-semitism, for his treason, for his support of Mussolini... but despite all that, what he's really famous for is his poetry. He's famous for being the founder of modernism... Can I hate him for being a horrible, hate-filled, vitriol spewing, lunatic? Of course... but does that mean I dislike his writing any less? I don't really know... I don't like I do.
It would be different if I lived during his time, I'm sure... just as it would be different had I lived with Vlad the Impaler or Cesare Borgia or even Alexander the Great. But do I hate them? No... they did some awful things, sure, but they're interesting, they're curiosities.
If he ate a lot of babies or destroyed the moon or something... maybe I'd boycott his work, but I just can't. I can't just ignore his contribution to mankind because he was a horrible person.
Despite everything, he still wrote this:
" Ancient Music
Winter is icumen in,
Lhude sing Goddamm,
Raineth drop and staineth slop,
And how the wind doth ramm!
Sing: Goddamm.
Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us,
An ague hath my ham.
Damm you; Sing: Goddamm.
Goddamm, Goddamm, 'tis why I am, Goddamm,
So 'gainst the winter's balm.
Sing goddamm, damm, sing goddamm,
Sing goddamm, sing goddamm, DAMM."
(courtesy of www.english.uiuc.edu)
It's Ezra Pound week... because I proclaimed it to be, despite the fact that the week's almost over. Maybe that's all he deserves. Maybe he deserves nothing, but his writing does, because I think it was better than he was.
Next week it might be another poet's turn, but I sort of doubt it... I just wish I had the time.
I like poetry, I really do, but it's always so hard to get into. Every once in a while I'll just choose a poet who I've heard of and start reading some of their stuff. I always like it (because I only pick the greats, I guess), but I guess I forget about it.
Ezra Pound is a lunatic, I suppose... whether he was ever truly insane or not, is a moot point in my mind. He looks like a raving mad-man and he writes like one, so why not. Apparently he even spent twenty days outside in a cage once.
He was famous for his anti-semitism, for his treason, for his support of Mussolini... but despite all that, what he's really famous for is his poetry. He's famous for being the founder of modernism... Can I hate him for being a horrible, hate-filled, vitriol spewing, lunatic? Of course... but does that mean I dislike his writing any less? I don't really know... I don't like I do.
It would be different if I lived during his time, I'm sure... just as it would be different had I lived with Vlad the Impaler or Cesare Borgia or even Alexander the Great. But do I hate them? No... they did some awful things, sure, but they're interesting, they're curiosities.
If he ate a lot of babies or destroyed the moon or something... maybe I'd boycott his work, but I just can't. I can't just ignore his contribution to mankind because he was a horrible person.
Despite everything, he still wrote this:
" Ancient Music
Winter is icumen in,
Lhude sing Goddamm,
Raineth drop and staineth slop,
And how the wind doth ramm!
Sing: Goddamm.
Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us,
An ague hath my ham.
Damm you; Sing: Goddamm.
Goddamm, Goddamm, 'tis why I am, Goddamm,
So 'gainst the winter's balm.
Sing goddamm, damm, sing goddamm,
Sing goddamm, sing goddamm, DAMM."
(courtesy of www.english.uiuc.edu)
It's Ezra Pound week... because I proclaimed it to be, despite the fact that the week's almost over. Maybe that's all he deserves. Maybe he deserves nothing, but his writing does, because I think it was better than he was.
Next week it might be another poet's turn, but I sort of doubt it... I just wish I had the time.
Monday, August 18, 2008
My Naked Lunch
Naked Lunch
By William Burroughs
1959
By William Burroughs
1959
Reading NAKED LUNCH is much like trying to learn another language. Or even this one for that matter. Sometimes the words just seem randomly strung together one after another- A AND WAS BUT SAW DOG. Only as Burroughs writes it's more likely to read: JIZ CUM ASS GAY JUNK STURGEN.
As prose the book is written in what might seem an arbitrary order of sentences. At times the entire “story” (which sparsely exists in the text) disintegrates into wild and unkempt imagery as the sentences wantonly form in the body of a paragraph. The feeling of being taught to read continues in this way. But, unlike trying to read a security confirmation code or a “Learning English as a Second Language” instructional, Naked Lunch leaves an eerie impact on its reader. So that “The cat sat on the mat,” and “See spot run,” becomes “Cocks ejaculate in silent ‘yes,’” and “Hard-ons and bring-downs are frequent.” Burroughs writes in unsettling snippets of zen wisdom.
The main story line of the book (what of it there is) breaks down into smaller vignettes that in turn degrade seamlessly into the stream of consciousness of a madman. After the initial thirty pages anything resembling a true story is gone only to be reclaimed in the second to last installment of the book and lost again within ten pages of the its conclusion. I use the term “installment” instead of chapter to represent the sections of the book not because of the disorientation of the book but because of the false organization that the use of chapter numbers and headings would have on the text. Furthermore, Burroughs himself said that his intention with Naked Lunch was to produce a story which the reader could engage himself with at any point, and that the incorporation of a definitive chapter order was not needed or intended. This has been the saving grace of Naked Lunch for myself and I can only imagine many others. By allowing the reader to aimlessly and haphazardly roam from page to page and section to section by means of an also and altogether aimless layering of installments the greater ambiance and enjoyment of the text survives. By avoiding any hope of fully understanding Naked Lunch the siren’s call of the pornography, drug addiction, homosexuality, corruption, death, and etc. etc. is engulfing. Characters develop in no order; events unfold without full repercussions on one another and very little makes sense beyond itself.
It is widely believed that James Joyce’s final work Finnegan’s Wake is unreadable; that the cyclical story written in an almost imaginary language is incomprehensible. I believe that Naked Lunch should be added to the list of unreadable books which Finnegan’s Wake flagships. Naked Lunch has no light at the end of the tunnel. Or, better yet, as Burroughs would relate it: “’No glot… C’lom Fliday’”
Upon reading the entire Oxford English Dictionary from cover to cover Ammon Shea compared the experience to trying to a person trying to read the entire King James Bible everyday for the rest of their life or a John Grisham book-a-day a whole year. The result was entertainingly mind altering- his sanity “slipped a notch.” This was the same feeling reading Naked Lunch cover to cover aroused in me: I was entreatingly torturing myself. And, as with all good torture, I reached a breaking point where my mind simply let go on any sense of plot or timeline and my eyes were able to gloss over the words of the book without fear or comprehension. I had learned to enjoy the absurdity. I’d slipped a notch. Unlike Shea though, who read a well-organized sequence of words which together presented no ambiguity, I was instead reading a un-sequenced arrangement of enjoyable nonsensical happenings. The book appears now to me as a word game where gems like ‘JIZ CUM ASS GAY JUNK STURGEN’ appear as toys for the reader to maul over, heft into the air, and allow to fall flat on the ground in a cacophony of anamanapias.
I don’t over exaggerate the incomprehensibility of Naked Lunch. While I do stand by that the over arching “narrative” of Burroughs seminal work only exists on a few pages, book-ending the book, the rest of the work does carry some remnants of the elements of fiction in the form of character. Each vignettes does share some resemblance to the others as far as the characters and the settings of the text are concerned. Besides these two elements it is likely that the only other similarity to be found between each installment of Naked Lunch would be Burroughs’ unmistakable style and taste in themes (i.e. JIZ CUM ASS GAY JUNK STURGEN.)
Alone however these individual installations are surprisingly engaging and entertaining to read, each a look into its own obscure and obtuse narrative. Burroughs’ consideration of the book as a jig-sawed road map reorganized by the reader lends itself dutifully to the similarly insane stories within Naked Lunch. Burroughs work should not be mistaken as a novel though. At most it is a reading test, an experiment in literature. The precision with which Burroughs writes is surprising in the murky context of the book and it’s unmatched yarns. Although each part of the book is strange and filled with “weirdness” there is a constantly lurking dreadfulness to it all. Written in part during Burroughs’ withdrawal from heroin the formless narrative is in no clear way about one big “ junk score.” And while the book is permeated with dick jokes, talking assholes, and cum-imagery there is a constant attention to the pain and suffering made manifest through numerous incidents of rape and debilitating drug use. Burroughs writes about these horrors so lightly that they become playful. The skill of Naked Lunch is Burroughs’ ability to laugh at the absurdness of popular drug rumors and in an attempt to set the record straight tell a truth which is much more horrifying. This is to say that while the idea of breaking a tear dropper full of “H” off into a vain is an abysmal misconception about the everyday junky the reality of forcing a needle through thick, calloused and puss filled scabs is much less menacing. It is easy to get lost in the warped sense of humor that Naked Lucnh faints. It is important not to let this be a deterrent. To the unwitting reader the book may appear simply as mad raving pornography with no deeper intention than to stimulate the perverted reader. Not true. Naked Lunch is an expose in wickedness, a portrait of man’s desolation, fear, corruption, hatred- and all our other best abuses.
For all these purposes I impart in closing my advice to anyone considering reading this book: Naked Lunch is best read as it was intended to be read, in short and jerky ejaculatory bursts, like whilst driving to work, moving one’s bowels, or in the midst of performing your own lobotomy.
As prose the book is written in what might seem an arbitrary order of sentences. At times the entire “story” (which sparsely exists in the text) disintegrates into wild and unkempt imagery as the sentences wantonly form in the body of a paragraph. The feeling of being taught to read continues in this way. But, unlike trying to read a security confirmation code or a “Learning English as a Second Language” instructional, Naked Lunch leaves an eerie impact on its reader. So that “The cat sat on the mat,” and “See spot run,” becomes “Cocks ejaculate in silent ‘yes,’” and “Hard-ons and bring-downs are frequent.” Burroughs writes in unsettling snippets of zen wisdom.
The main story line of the book (what of it there is) breaks down into smaller vignettes that in turn degrade seamlessly into the stream of consciousness of a madman. After the initial thirty pages anything resembling a true story is gone only to be reclaimed in the second to last installment of the book and lost again within ten pages of the its conclusion. I use the term “installment” instead of chapter to represent the sections of the book not because of the disorientation of the book but because of the false organization that the use of chapter numbers and headings would have on the text. Furthermore, Burroughs himself said that his intention with Naked Lunch was to produce a story which the reader could engage himself with at any point, and that the incorporation of a definitive chapter order was not needed or intended. This has been the saving grace of Naked Lunch for myself and I can only imagine many others. By allowing the reader to aimlessly and haphazardly roam from page to page and section to section by means of an also and altogether aimless layering of installments the greater ambiance and enjoyment of the text survives. By avoiding any hope of fully understanding Naked Lunch the siren’s call of the pornography, drug addiction, homosexuality, corruption, death, and etc. etc. is engulfing. Characters develop in no order; events unfold without full repercussions on one another and very little makes sense beyond itself.
It is widely believed that James Joyce’s final work Finnegan’s Wake is unreadable; that the cyclical story written in an almost imaginary language is incomprehensible. I believe that Naked Lunch should be added to the list of unreadable books which Finnegan’s Wake flagships. Naked Lunch has no light at the end of the tunnel. Or, better yet, as Burroughs would relate it: “’No glot… C’lom Fliday’”
Upon reading the entire Oxford English Dictionary from cover to cover Ammon Shea compared the experience to trying to a person trying to read the entire King James Bible everyday for the rest of their life or a John Grisham book-a-day a whole year. The result was entertainingly mind altering- his sanity “slipped a notch.” This was the same feeling reading Naked Lunch cover to cover aroused in me: I was entreatingly torturing myself. And, as with all good torture, I reached a breaking point where my mind simply let go on any sense of plot or timeline and my eyes were able to gloss over the words of the book without fear or comprehension. I had learned to enjoy the absurdity. I’d slipped a notch. Unlike Shea though, who read a well-organized sequence of words which together presented no ambiguity, I was instead reading a un-sequenced arrangement of enjoyable nonsensical happenings. The book appears now to me as a word game where gems like ‘JIZ CUM ASS GAY JUNK STURGEN’ appear as toys for the reader to maul over, heft into the air, and allow to fall flat on the ground in a cacophony of anamanapias.
I don’t over exaggerate the incomprehensibility of Naked Lunch. While I do stand by that the over arching “narrative” of Burroughs seminal work only exists on a few pages, book-ending the book, the rest of the work does carry some remnants of the elements of fiction in the form of character. Each vignettes does share some resemblance to the others as far as the characters and the settings of the text are concerned. Besides these two elements it is likely that the only other similarity to be found between each installment of Naked Lunch would be Burroughs’ unmistakable style and taste in themes (i.e. JIZ CUM ASS GAY JUNK STURGEN.)
Alone however these individual installations are surprisingly engaging and entertaining to read, each a look into its own obscure and obtuse narrative. Burroughs’ consideration of the book as a jig-sawed road map reorganized by the reader lends itself dutifully to the similarly insane stories within Naked Lunch. Burroughs work should not be mistaken as a novel though. At most it is a reading test, an experiment in literature. The precision with which Burroughs writes is surprising in the murky context of the book and it’s unmatched yarns. Although each part of the book is strange and filled with “weirdness” there is a constantly lurking dreadfulness to it all. Written in part during Burroughs’ withdrawal from heroin the formless narrative is in no clear way about one big “ junk score.” And while the book is permeated with dick jokes, talking assholes, and cum-imagery there is a constant attention to the pain and suffering made manifest through numerous incidents of rape and debilitating drug use. Burroughs writes about these horrors so lightly that they become playful. The skill of Naked Lunch is Burroughs’ ability to laugh at the absurdness of popular drug rumors and in an attempt to set the record straight tell a truth which is much more horrifying. This is to say that while the idea of breaking a tear dropper full of “H” off into a vain is an abysmal misconception about the everyday junky the reality of forcing a needle through thick, calloused and puss filled scabs is much less menacing. It is easy to get lost in the warped sense of humor that Naked Lucnh faints. It is important not to let this be a deterrent. To the unwitting reader the book may appear simply as mad raving pornography with no deeper intention than to stimulate the perverted reader. Not true. Naked Lunch is an expose in wickedness, a portrait of man’s desolation, fear, corruption, hatred- and all our other best abuses.
For all these purposes I impart in closing my advice to anyone considering reading this book: Naked Lunch is best read as it was intended to be read, in short and jerky ejaculatory bursts, like whilst driving to work, moving one’s bowels, or in the midst of performing your own lobotomy.
I have no concept of what I read, but what I what I conceive of it I love.
Caleb Michael, reader
Caleb Michael, reader
Monday, August 4, 2008
My Ayn Rand Fan
When I was your age fifteen dollars could really get you something. Which, is why, two days ago when I made a passing offer of fifteen such dollars to a man in an Ayn Rand tee shirt I was surprised at what bounty such an offer would wrought.
My naïvety astound even myself. How could I have expected when giving an older gentleman in an white tee shirt which read Ayn Rand Fan an opening like "nice shirt" that it wouldn't have draged me into a conversation I was not prepared to have in the middle of my work day. For me the most difficult part of discussing Ayn Rand with a stranger is hiding my disgust with her- as much as I may enjoy a fraction of her work the over arching philosophy which she began and her group of fanatical followers have since perpetuated is just too much for me. If you don't know about Rand's ideas I will not get into them here and leave you siting through my own ranting and ravings over her. I will only say I agree with her as much as any other animal might; in the state of nature Ayn Rand would have been the first and only Queen.
I digress. Upon complimenting my A.R. fan's shirt he made me an excellent capitalistic offer- my very own Ayn Rand tee shirt. After several minutes (twenty) of listening to the fan's stories about his personal Rand experience, his communist brother working for Castro, the 25 part book sets he's bought for each of his twelve grandchildren and the monetary bribery with which he encourages them to read her work (home grown capitalism if I've ever seen it) he left with plans to return the next day with a shirt of me.
I had no idea what I was in for. Here, I give you, what fifteen dollars of Ayn Rand looks like-
1. Two Ayn Rand Fan tee shirts:
He gave me two shirts with the promise that one would fade and the other would flake. As you can see the front of the shirt read Ayn Rand Fan- Reason/Egoism/Capitalism/Life on Earth. The back of the shirt carries a length quote from Rand's 1939 novella, Anthem: "At first, man was enslaved by the gods. But he broke their chains. Then he was enslaved by the kings. But he broke their chains. He was enslaved by his birth, by his kin, by his race. But he broke their chains. He declared to all his brothers that a man has rights which neither god nor king nor other men can take away from him, no matter what their number, for his is the right of man, and there is no right on earth above this right. And he stood on the threshold of freedom for which the blood of the centuries behind him had been spilled."
My naïvety astound even myself. How could I have expected when giving an older gentleman in an white tee shirt which read Ayn Rand Fan an opening like "nice shirt" that it wouldn't have draged me into a conversation I was not prepared to have in the middle of my work day. For me the most difficult part of discussing Ayn Rand with a stranger is hiding my disgust with her- as much as I may enjoy a fraction of her work the over arching philosophy which she began and her group of fanatical followers have since perpetuated is just too much for me. If you don't know about Rand's ideas I will not get into them here and leave you siting through my own ranting and ravings over her. I will only say I agree with her as much as any other animal might; in the state of nature Ayn Rand would have been the first and only Queen.
I digress. Upon complimenting my A.R. fan's shirt he made me an excellent capitalistic offer- my very own Ayn Rand tee shirt. After several minutes (twenty) of listening to the fan's stories about his personal Rand experience, his communist brother working for Castro, the 25 part book sets he's bought for each of his twelve grandchildren and the monetary bribery with which he encourages them to read her work (home grown capitalism if I've ever seen it) he left with plans to return the next day with a shirt of me.
I had no idea what I was in for. Here, I give you, what fifteen dollars of Ayn Rand looks like-
1. Two Ayn Rand Fan tee shirts:
2. Ayn Rand: Introduction to Objectivist Epistemology (book):
The book is a classic Rand work and fully thought out explanation of her philosophy which doubles as a bible. The copy I received is severely worn, with tattered edges and beautifully worn pages. On the inside cover the fan gave me his contact information.
3. Health Care is NOT a Right by Leonard Peikoff (pamphlet):
I read through this pamphlet with gritted teeth. Here, in its purest form, is the problem with Rand- the death of altruism. The death of altruism in modern, civilized, society. The pamphlet does make some good points though about constitutional law but nothing which could cure my liberal fever backed brain. The inside cover information about the pamphlet says that it is a transcript of a talk delivered "under the auspices of Americans for Free Choice in Medicine as a Town Hall Meeting on Health Care. Red Lion Hotel, Costa Mesa, California, December 11, 1993." Merry christmas 1993.
4. 22 pages of propaganda (group ads, information, reading lists, articles):
This gathering of leafs includes an Objectivist Summer Conference booklet, an article from The Undercurrent about free speech (accompanied by that cartoon of Allah which got so many people killed,) The Twilight on Freedom on Speech, and Ayn Rand institute book list, Take a hard Look at the Nazis, Harry Binswanger's Must Memorize Definition List, and a free trial offer for HBL, which as I gather is a mail order set up where they send you Harry Binswanger in a box like a Russian bride.
One gem among the pages and pages of propaganda is a single simple sheet entitled 'Introducing Objectivism.' Along with a picture of Rand and and an easy explanation of her works philosophy there is a quote by her which I can, for the most part, agree with- it in many ways embodies the best parts of her life's works- "My philosophy, in essence, is the concept of man as a heroic being, with his own happiness as the moral purpose of his life, with productivity achievement as his noblest activity, and reason as his only absolute."
One gem among the pages and pages of propaganda is a single simple sheet entitled 'Introducing Objectivism.' Along with a picture of Rand and and an easy explanation of her works philosophy there is a quote by her which I can, for the most part, agree with- it in many ways embodies the best parts of her life's works- "My philosophy, in essence, is the concept of man as a heroic being, with his own happiness as the moral purpose of his life, with productivity achievement as his noblest activity, and reason as his only absolute."
And that's it. Pretty good deal huh? I feel as if I really lucked out on this chance encounter, I met a nice man, I got some cool swag, and a good story. I just hope when I wear the shirt I'm not mistaken as an Ayn Rand fan, but what are the chances of that?
Looking back on that quote though, I have to say, when it's all said and done my more prefered Rand quote is not by her but about her-
"Atlas shrugged... and said 'Who the fuck cares?'" -Carroll, my mother
Friday, June 27, 2008
The Audacity
How does something like this happen? Where do Republicans like Mr. Rove get their balls? From where does this grossly incompetent and unbridled audacity come from? Somehow, once again, a presidential election is turning into game of spin and hypocracy. Remember when the Bush people were able to turn John Kerry's war record against him? Here we see it again...
“Even if you never met him, you know this guy. He’s the guy at the country club with the beautiful date, holding a martini and a cigarette that stands against the wall and makes snide comments about everyone who passes by.”
-Karl Rove on Barack Obama
How is it that rich white men the country over are able to misconstrue intelligence, integrity, and poise as arrogance. Oh how far we've come that a black man raised by a single-mother and married to a woman from south Chicago can too be an elitists.
God bless this land of opportunity.
-cml
appendix:
"Quote"
“Even if you never met him, you know this guy. He’s the guy at the country club with the beautiful date, holding a martini and a cigarette that stands against the wall and makes snide comments about everyone who passes by.”
-Karl Rove on Barack Obama
How is it that rich white men the country over are able to misconstrue intelligence, integrity, and poise as arrogance. Oh how far we've come that a black man raised by a single-mother and married to a woman from south Chicago can too be an elitists.
God bless this land of opportunity.
-cml
appendix:
"Quote"
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Bowels of Mercy
This week has been rather hectic with finals and final papers to write. While doing a research paper on Guy Fawkes Day, I came across this article in the New York Times:
". . . for they are bowels of mercy . . ."
". . . for they are bowels of mercy . . ."
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Mystery Inc.
We here at BSD, have decided to take a more active role in our community. After fixing the horrible color of a blaster pistol, discovering the true nature of Grues and... well, that's about that, but it's a pretty good start, no?
We've decided to take a page right out of Mystery Inc.'s book, and perhaps even steal there name, too... Anyway, if you see two strange guys wandering about in trench coats and possibly singing the theme from Ghostbusters, that'll be us.
On the docket is finding Paul's stalker and the culprit who stole my Tannenbaum freshman year of High School.
We've decided to take a page right out of Mystery Inc.'s book, and perhaps even steal there name, too... Anyway, if you see two strange guys wandering about in trench coats and possibly singing the theme from Ghostbusters, that'll be us.
On the docket is finding Paul's stalker and the culprit who stole my Tannenbaum freshman year of High School.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Street Car named NORAD
Bus Drivers have got to be some of the scariest people on the road. Strike that, on the earth.
Giving a bus driver a bus is like giving someone a scud missile to ride around on all day.
I’m honestly scared for my life. It is insane the people they give these jobs to as it is. Have you ever met a bus driver? What do they have to lose?!
And then we stick them with annoying kids and lost old people and incorrect change and we sit at the back and forget our stop and tug on the emergency stop rope till they crack. And it isn’t like these people aren’t already wound tight. You try being on a schedule that stiff all day, every day.
Giving anyone a bus-driver-license is like hiring someone who is on suicide watch to work the night shift at NORAD. You’re just asking for trouble.
I’ve seen the Die Hard movies. I’ve watched Speed and Sword Fish, I know just what a bus can do. Nothing stops a bus; not buildings, not people, not even other scud missiles or other busses or bombs.
I don’t care about the free tuition.
Anyways, I’d much rather just have my roommate die and get a four point for a semester. That’d be pretty nice. That'd be Easy Street.
Caleb, on the no-stop night shift
Giving a bus driver a bus is like giving someone a scud missile to ride around on all day.
I’m honestly scared for my life. It is insane the people they give these jobs to as it is. Have you ever met a bus driver? What do they have to lose?!
And then we stick them with annoying kids and lost old people and incorrect change and we sit at the back and forget our stop and tug on the emergency stop rope till they crack. And it isn’t like these people aren’t already wound tight. You try being on a schedule that stiff all day, every day.
Giving anyone a bus-driver-license is like hiring someone who is on suicide watch to work the night shift at NORAD. You’re just asking for trouble.
I’ve seen the Die Hard movies. I’ve watched Speed and Sword Fish, I know just what a bus can do. Nothing stops a bus; not buildings, not people, not even other scud missiles or other busses or bombs.
I don’t care about the free tuition.
Anyways, I’d much rather just have my roommate die and get a four point for a semester. That’d be pretty nice. That'd be Easy Street.
Caleb, on the no-stop night shift
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Profiles in Courage: Paul Arrand Rodgers
If you frequent this blog at all, you know about Paul, the mighty slayer of infidels. He's the purveyor of the chaotic mass of articles, youtube clips and lolbots that are not actually robots that he calls Careful With that Blog, Eugene. The man now has five blogs... I think, that's Caleb's count and I haven't really been able to verify that. For all I know, he has more. Obviously being inside enemy territory for so long has scrambled his brain and messed up his inhibition unit. We at BSD, think this multiple blog policy is atrocious, mostly because it forces me to click on multiple links... and besides, there is no navigation from one blog the next on CWTB, E (the comma in the acronym was Paul's idea). How the hell am I supposed to read all this stuff? While my motives might be selfish... he must be stopped! Seriously...
Five blogs?! This has to be some sort of plot to wreak psychological havoc against all who oppose him. Frankly, we here at BSD are just glad we're on good terms with the madman. Having known Paul for far too long, I have come to the conclusion that one should never believe a word that comes out of his mouth before carefully weighing it over yourself... because chances are he's either making an insane joke, trying to bullshit you into thinking he knows what he's talking about, or trying to convince you of something. Maybe he should start a blog of the outrageous statements he makes... I just think he should pack it in and join BSD, frankly, but I'm sure it'd require a signing bonus we couldn't afford. But, I digress. The real point of the post was to stand in slack jawed wonder at the awesomeness that is Paul Arrand Rodgers, his unbelievably prolific blogging skills, and the three dozen movie scripts he is writing simultaneously. I'm pretty sure I'm in all of them, too, as every few weeks he comes to me with a new idea and a new character based off of me. But Paul... as Caleb refers to him, "The Jolly Green Giant" is an unstoppable force of utter insanity and puppets with no fear of copyright law or the sensibilities of weaker individuals. The man even got hit on in the comment section of his blog, how pimp is that? Speaking of which, if you are that girl, please contact the BSD staff, e-mail link is over on the left hand side of the blog.
Paul is the jovial mastermind behind such cultural phenomena as "The Wal-Mart Theologian", "The Posse of the Future: because one day the future will come and you can say 'hey, I belonged to that posse'" and "Fans and Friends of Rod Allen and Mario Impemba". He can create anti-matter with his mind, is capable of crushing ants beneath his shoe, was elected Senator of some small Ohio school or something, and once I saw him beat play Granadia III for a really long time... there was a rabbit in that game, I believe. He's a colossus, a chimera, a cross between Adam West's Batman, The Riddler and that crazy blue elephant alien who plays the keyboard at the cantina... okay, I'm not going to lie, I know his name... it's Max Rebo.
I have no idea what I am even saying anymore, this is all just bat shit insane, so without further ado, the blogs:
Careful with That Blog, Eugene is a mass of posts about things with even less structure than BSD. I think that's the point, however, but I'm not sure. As Paul put it so eloquently, "I think CWTB,E is best suited for my longer ruminations on things pertaining to me and awesome youtube videos." Since I've already covered this blog multiple times... just know that it's insane.
Good Things Rendered Crappily takes that insanity to a whole new level, a level that I'm sure most of you are not even capable of comprehending. So don't even bother with the link, you'd just black out or something. I thought this thing was dead after about a week, but apparently it's still going. The blog focuses on 300, Jesus and some Canadians.
Daily Muppet Meditation is a collection of youtube Muppet clips... yeah, not much more that I can say about that one. It's funny. Apparently though, Paul was getting complaints from his rabid fan base about the Muppets messing up the delicate aesthetic of CWTB, E. If the BSD readers ever got that uppity, I would crush them beneath my mighty fist... moving on...
Paul Arrand Rodgers Explains Today's Heathcliff is my favorite of Paul's blogs. I'm not kidding. The idea sounds horrible, because who the hell wants to read Heathcliff? But that's the whole damn point. I'm not sure if this is actually today's Heathcliff, but whatever...
Confessions From a Pair of Church Whores is... um... I'm not really sure, I haven't bothered to read it. This is why you need to cut down on the fucking blogs, Paul! It sounds really sultry, though, maybe I should check it out. I wonder if there are any school girl outfits.
Stumble Thru Myspace is Paul's latest effort that was created after I started writing this damn post... so yes... this is Paul's sixth blog. Um... apparently there is Zelda metal music, which was pretty good. Anything else is pending.
Creative Genius or Guy Sitting on Couch?
There you go... I'm not even sure if any of this is funny, but I do know that I definitely went off the deep end and into a strange place while writing this one. I'm going to go do something normal now... maybe eat a PB and J, or watch TV or something. Until next time...
Five blogs?! This has to be some sort of plot to wreak psychological havoc against all who oppose him. Frankly, we here at BSD are just glad we're on good terms with the madman. Having known Paul for far too long, I have come to the conclusion that one should never believe a word that comes out of his mouth before carefully weighing it over yourself... because chances are he's either making an insane joke, trying to bullshit you into thinking he knows what he's talking about, or trying to convince you of something. Maybe he should start a blog of the outrageous statements he makes... I just think he should pack it in and join BSD, frankly, but I'm sure it'd require a signing bonus we couldn't afford. But, I digress. The real point of the post was to stand in slack jawed wonder at the awesomeness that is Paul Arrand Rodgers, his unbelievably prolific blogging skills, and the three dozen movie scripts he is writing simultaneously. I'm pretty sure I'm in all of them, too, as every few weeks he comes to me with a new idea and a new character based off of me. But Paul... as Caleb refers to him, "The Jolly Green Giant" is an unstoppable force of utter insanity and puppets with no fear of copyright law or the sensibilities of weaker individuals. The man even got hit on in the comment section of his blog, how pimp is that? Speaking of which, if you are that girl, please contact the BSD staff, e-mail link is over on the left hand side of the blog.
Paul is the jovial mastermind behind such cultural phenomena as "The Wal-Mart Theologian", "The Posse of the Future: because one day the future will come and you can say 'hey, I belonged to that posse'" and "Fans and Friends of Rod Allen and Mario Impemba". He can create anti-matter with his mind, is capable of crushing ants beneath his shoe, was elected Senator of some small Ohio school or something, and once I saw him beat play Granadia III for a really long time... there was a rabbit in that game, I believe. He's a colossus, a chimera, a cross between Adam West's Batman, The Riddler and that crazy blue elephant alien who plays the keyboard at the cantina... okay, I'm not going to lie, I know his name... it's Max Rebo.
I have no idea what I am even saying anymore, this is all just bat shit insane, so without further ado, the blogs:
Careful with That Blog, Eugene is a mass of posts about things with even less structure than BSD. I think that's the point, however, but I'm not sure. As Paul put it so eloquently, "I think CWTB,E is best suited for my longer ruminations on things pertaining to me and awesome youtube videos." Since I've already covered this blog multiple times... just know that it's insane.
Good Things Rendered Crappily takes that insanity to a whole new level, a level that I'm sure most of you are not even capable of comprehending. So don't even bother with the link, you'd just black out or something. I thought this thing was dead after about a week, but apparently it's still going. The blog focuses on 300, Jesus and some Canadians.
Daily Muppet Meditation is a collection of youtube Muppet clips... yeah, not much more that I can say about that one. It's funny. Apparently though, Paul was getting complaints from his rabid fan base about the Muppets messing up the delicate aesthetic of CWTB, E. If the BSD readers ever got that uppity, I would crush them beneath my mighty fist... moving on...
Paul Arrand Rodgers Explains Today's Heathcliff is my favorite of Paul's blogs. I'm not kidding. The idea sounds horrible, because who the hell wants to read Heathcliff? But that's the whole damn point. I'm not sure if this is actually today's Heathcliff, but whatever...
Confessions From a Pair of Church Whores is... um... I'm not really sure, I haven't bothered to read it. This is why you need to cut down on the fucking blogs, Paul! It sounds really sultry, though, maybe I should check it out. I wonder if there are any school girl outfits.
Stumble Thru Myspace is Paul's latest effort that was created after I started writing this damn post... so yes... this is Paul's sixth blog. Um... apparently there is Zelda metal music, which was pretty good. Anything else is pending.
Creative Genius or Guy Sitting on Couch?There you go... I'm not even sure if any of this is funny, but I do know that I definitely went off the deep end and into a strange place while writing this one. I'm going to go do something normal now... maybe eat a PB and J, or watch TV or something. Until next time...
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Wilford "Eggman" Brimley
I honestly don't know what to say about this picture... according to Wikipedia, this was concept art for the infamous Dr. Robotnik. Seriously, just look at the fucker... he's a friggin' beaver in pink polka dots and hypno glasses. And is that a cat pillow? I thought Sega was supposed to be cool. Anyhow... here is Paul's take:
"He just wants some goddamn sleep. Sonic needs to stop eatin' chili dogs and listenin' to rap music." - Paul A. Rodgers
Oh, and he friggin' looks like Wilford Brimley.
"KONG... EATS... OATS!!!"
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