The God Conundrum

Posted by Doodface

Monday, August 25, 2008

I was raised in a very Christian home, and went to church my whole life. I never had a reason to believe otherwise - there is a God, he is all powerful, and you DO NOT question it. I can remember a few times kind of wondering "Is this for real?", and then praying for some kind of sign - which of course I never got. After I did not receive confirmation of his existence, I immediately prayed and asked for forgiveness for my lack of faith. Who was I to question God?

Well at the age of 24, I started listening to some very intelligent people. I would debate with them about the existence of God, but the entire time, I would feel like I was losing the debate. I would throw out fake "Facts" to back up the existence of God, and bring up faith.. They would be visibly frustrated by my lack of understanding.

Little did they know, but they were chipping away just a little of my Christian foundation with every debate. They made a lot of sense. I would leave questioning things, and feeling a lot of doubt.

This is when I decided to seek the truth. I decided that I would invest in books on both sides of the argument. I would read a book on evolution, and then read a book by a creationist. I would read a book by Dawkins, and then read a "Scientific proof of God" book. I did this for months.

I quickly started to realize that the atheist books were full of factual scientific data, and the theist books were full of "faith" and "magic". I have a very logic-oriented brain, so faith and magic just don't hold up. The Christian books quickly turned in to comedy. As I was reading, I would have to stop and read aloud the particularly absurd passages to my wife. She would laugh at them as well (even though she was still holding on to her Catholic beliefs at the time). Needless to say, I quickly became an atheist. After hours of discussion on the subject, my wife followed shortly thereafter.

When you start thinking about the whole question in a logical manner, it is very hard to remain faithful. There are simply too many facts against religion.

I can understand where religion came from.. Our ancestors looked around our world in amazement, and could not understand ANYTHING. They had no idea what that huge ball of fire in the sky was, they had no idea what made plants grow, and water falling from the sky was a "miracle". They had to explain it somehow, so our ancestors created gods. Each civilization created their own gods, and thought the other civilizations were crazy heathens. Sound familiar?

Well now that we understand our universe, there is no longer a need for religion. We KNOW what the sun is, we understand the life cycle of plants, we know what causes rain, etc. The things that were previously classified as miracles now have scientific explanations. So why hold on to religion?

If you are a Christian, ask yourself these questions:

- Is the Bible the word of God?
- If it is the word of God, would it not be "perfect"?
- If it is perfect, every part of it should be correct, right?

If you answered yes to all of these questions, read on. If you answered no, then you are already slipping down the slope to atheism, but read on anyways.

So if the bible is infallible, how do you explain the following biblical "mistakes":

- According to the bible, the world was covered by a great flood, which killed all living creatures. Noah took 2 of each animal on to a ship, rode out the storm, and then dropped them of in the middle east.

If this is true, how to you explain life on Australia (since it was never connected to the rest of the land masses)? How did the animals make it from the middle east to Australia? Did they swim across the ocean? How can you explain the unique animals that only exist in Australia (Evolution took different paths on this segregated land mass)? How do you explain the fact that there is not geological proof of such a massive flood (which would be very obvious to archaeologists). And to point out the most ridiculous part of this story - there are millions of species of animals. How did Noah fit all of those on to a single boat, and keep them from killing each other?

- According to the bible, the universe revolves around the earth.

Do you think this is true?

- According to the bible, the earth is only a few thousand years old.

How can you explain the overwhelming evidence of millions of years of existence? How can you explain dinosaurs?

- According to the bible, god created man and woman and all of the animals.

How do you explain finding the bones of our ancestors which show the evolution of humans? If God created man and woman in his image, wouldn't all of our ancestors look exactly like us?? Why are all animals and humans still changing and evolving? How do you explain absolute PROOF of microevolution?

- The bible condones slavery, misogyny, ritualistic sacrifice, and human atrocities.

Was this written by a loving God, or mortal men?

- The bible refers to the earth as flat, and a non-moving entity.

Do YOU think the earth is flat, and that the universe revolves around it?

- The bible describes the hydrologic cycle in terms of magic and fountains from heaven - showing a clear lack of knowledge of where rain, snow and hail originate.

Do you think that rain comes from a fountain from heaven?

- The bible is full of mathematical inaccuracies.

Don't you think God could figure out Pi, handle basic addition, and measure properly?

- The bible makes numerous prophetical statements that never came true.

Again, is this written by an infallible God, or a mortal man?

- EVERY major story in the Christian Bible can be traced back to earlier pagan religions. Stories such as: Born in a manger, virgin birth, born under the north star, visited by kings, brought 3 gifts, water in to wine, fish and bread to feed thousands, crucified on a cross, rose again after 3 days, etc, etc, etc - these can all be linked to religions that existed LONG before Christianity. Just look up Mithras for a quick comparison.


So, if you acknowledge that the above references show biblical inaccuracies, then you are admitting that the bible is not "perfect". Therefore it cannot be the word of God. Since your religion is based SOLELY on the bible, doesn't this make you question your own beliefs?

You have 2 paths that you can take here:

1. Open your mind, and find out for yourself what you REALLY believe (not what you were told to believe).

- OR -

2. Be a good Christian and close your eyes, stick your fingers in your ears, and sing "Jesus loves me" as loud as you can.


If you choose path number 1, congratulations! In your search of truth, please try to disregard magic, faith, mysterious ways, and the like. Use your logical brain! Trust me, it is better on this side. It is like a huge blanket of guilt and dread is lifted off of your shoulders.

If you chose path 2, enjoy your life of ignorant bliss.




Is God willing to prevent evil, but not able?
Then he is not all-powerful.

Is he able to prevent evil, but not willing?
Then he is malicious.

Is he both able and willing?
Then why is there evil?

Is he neither able nor willing?
Then why call him God?

Metalli...WHAT?!?!?!?

Posted by E

Friday, August 22, 2008

Please note that the following story is a tale of fiction, meticulously researched by myself to simulate exactly what would happen in a scenario such as this. I, for one, certainly do not condone the copying of copyrighted material and want no part in any shenanigans that might prevent Lars Ulrich from purchasing a third solid gold rocket car.


Let's be frank here, for a minute. I, like most of those who work with me here at my job, am a child of the 80's. I remember a time when Jams ruled supreme and the bigger the hair, the bigger the man. But for many males who grew up in that particular window, one thing stands above all others: the complete and total metal domination of Metallica.

Granted, Metallica have had their share of tough times over the years. In the space of their 25 year career, they have managed to go from one of the edgiest, most influential hard rock/metal bands to being the laughing stock of the internet, mocked at every conceivable opportunity. (Napster...BAD!!!!)

One can't entirely blame them for their musical output of the last decade. Metallica found the opportunity to swim in pools of cash, having earned that through years of touring and hard work. Good on them, they earned it. The ire they find directed at them of late is due to their actions in the early 2000's with regards to the Napster fiasco. Many longtime fans began to think that Metallica cared more about the money than the music.

They attempted to recapture some of their former glory with 2003's St. Anger, an album that sounded like it was recorded in my mother's basements with a five piece jug band and then mixed on a P-233 laptop with Windows Sound Recorder. Needless to say, they did not manage to convert the fans they had lost, nor did they gather many new ones. To many, the Metallica juggernaut had ground to a halt.

Because of all of this, the fans have had a great deal of trepidation when discussing Metallica's next album, the curiously titled "Death Magnetic", slated for release on September 12, 2008. Expectations are high and anticipation is at a near boiling point to see what Metallica will do next. For many people, it's the final make or break. This is their last chance to win back the fans they have disenfranchised over the years.

And so it was with great excitement that I dove into the mp3's provided to me of Metallica's latest accomplishment. Where they had been downloaded from, I did not know, and at the same time I truly did not care. All that mattered was that new Metallica was sitting there, available for instant listening.

The folder contained a handful of songs and a couple of jpegs. I couldn't help but notice that the jpeg for the cover did not match the cover I had seen so many times online. Whereas the true album has a coffin surrounded by iron filaments arranged as if dispersed by a magnetic field, this cover was a simple black affair with the words "Death Magnetic" surrounded by the all-too familiar Metallica logo of old. Still, I couldn't help but be excited as I played the first song over my computer and heard a true return to form for the band.

Everything felt like old school Metallica. James' voice had re-assumed the higher pitch of the Kill 'Em All and Ride the Lightning eras. The songs had a distinct Master of Puppets flavor, while the time signature changes and progressive beats felt very similar to ...And Justice For All. Robert Trujillo's influence could be strongly felt once the first solo kicked in, sounded very akin to Lights, Camera, Revolution era Suicidal Tendencies.

As you may gather from the previous paragraph, I was impressed and my office mates came by to weigh in with their opinions. We all agreed that Metallica had returned to form. It was evident that Rick Rubin had really helped the band find the right headspace, to center themselves on their youthful energy, bringing forth the raw power of days gone by.

But as good as it was, something still didn't feel quite right. It felt like Metallica, it sounded like Metallica, and it was way better than anything we'd heard from Metallica in years, but there was some unnamable thing that just wasn't settling with me.

The day wore on and before long one people started heading home. As he made his way to the door one of my mates said that he would crank that cd in his car and give it a proper listening. He'd let me know what he thought as it went by. He hadn't been gone 20 minutes before the first message arrived.

"Dude... song six...is that god rock?"

God rock? More like godLY rock, I figured, and continued discussing with great excitement the prospects of my future listening party in the car.

And still, something nagged at the back of my brain, some tiny little voice continually questioning how James could have changed his voice like that or how Trujillo could exert so much influence in such a short amount of time. How could a band so resigned to mediocrity kick this much ass out of the blue?

Shortly thereafter I received an email, asking if I had heard the new Metallica song they were playing on the radio.

"Well, I just happen to have the whole darn thing", I replied smugly. "Which song are they playing?"

And the answer that came back was quizzical.

The Day That Never Comes

Interesting. I'm looking over my songlist and nothing even remotely close to that is listed. How very odd. Maybe these were the original titles, or maybe fake tracks sent to confuse us. And then the second text message arrived.

"Dude...The last song is totally about Jesus. wtf?!?"

Okay, something isn't adding up in a major way now. Terrified that we may gotten our hands on something untoward, I begain scanning the internet, searching for any clue as to the reality of our songs. And the answer was found in a forum.

This was no Metallica album. This was a Christian rock album by a band called Eternal Decision.

I yelled out to everybody, "It's a fake! It's a Christian album!"

Squeals of terror ripped through the office as everybody pushed as far away from their desks as they could. Nobody breathed. Nobody dared touch any of the burned copies. I made off to get some paper towels so that I could pick up any copies that remained and put them in the trash.

Bastards. Complete bastards.

Who would perpetrate such a heinous crime? Who would DARE replace Metallica with a Christian band? I felt dirty inside for even having heard it.

And then I heard Metallica's single on the radio.

It makes me ill to say this, but the Jesus stuff was a little bit better.

They were a little bit more Metallica than Metallica.

Ted, Just Admit It

Posted by E

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

According to popular mythology, the birth of Jeebus brought forth the Magi, the venerable wise men who sought to bring gifts to what they believed would be their new messiah. Gifts intended to help him (gold) or to confuse him (frankincense and myrrh). I'm sure deeper meaning could be found if only I would take the time to research it, but frankly I'm not all that interested.

I would, however, like to mention an interesting parallel in my own life. Please don't take this to mean that I'm claiming to be the next messiah. (Though my father WAS a skilled carpenter.) No, I will make nary a claim to divinity. (Though George Clooney did symbolically eat of my flesh in quiet worship.) No, I am but a man. (Should you wish to donate to your new god, send me a message at fearmaster@omniphobic.com and I'll be happy to provide Paypal instructions.)

Ted Bundy was an American serial killer, rapist, and necrophile active in the 1970's, known for his impressive body count (estimated at around 36) and his ability to blend in with the population. He was noted as attractive but forgettable and was able to exploit this characteristic to full effect.

Intelligent, calculating and deceitful, Bundy managed to single-handedly leave a tumultuous wake of destruction and despair wherever he hunted. And hunt he did for several years across several states, even managing to escape from jail on two separate occasions.

On December 30, 1977, Bundy managed to escape from his cell in Glenwood Springs, Colorado, and board a plane for Chicago, Illinois before authorities even noticed he had gone missing. And it was after this escape that the parallels between Bundy and myself began.

Bundy boarded an Amtrak train in Chicago almost immediately and made his way to Ann Arbor, Michigan. Ann Arbor, a town suspiciously close to a place I've mentioned before. A little town I unaffectionately refer to as Stumblebum.

But Bundy was restless, and within days of arriving in Ann Arbor he stole a car which he drove to Atlanta, Georgia. Atlanta, a town I've mentioned before. It's suspiciously close to the "Sanctuary of Doom" that I call home.

But still, Bundy could not find whatever it was he was seeking, and so almost immediately boarded a bus headed for Tallahassee, Florida. Bundy stayed in Tallahassee just long enough to commit a couple of murders. (Hey, a guy has to engage in his hobbies from time to time, no matter how macabre.) He made his way across the state, stopping in Lake City to abduct and murder a final victim before arriving in Pensacola, Florida.

Pensacola. A town I have not mentioned before, but one of unique importance to me at that time of my life, as it was where baby E laid his sweet, evil head at night, tossing and turning from the endless nightmares and finding himself bereft of sleep. A little infant E whose most malevolent and vile acts to that point had been nothing more than defecating in his diapers and forcing his keepers to clean him.

And so it was in Pensacola, just a mere block or two from the refuge of little old me that Bundy was apprehended for the final time. The last time Bundy breathed free air was within stone's throw of my home. The last time he walked a free man was within walking distance of my front door.

So what does all this mean? Why have I brought up this tale at all?

Isn't it obvious?

Bundy was an ambassador of evil, destined for infamy in the annals of history, but yet he found reason to escape from prison in Colorado and seemed intent on finding something. He traveled to many of the places that E would eventually be, hoping beyond hope to catch sight of me, to see me, perchance to speak to me.

What was his intent? I can come up with two logical answers to that question.

He either:

A) Realized that his time was waning, that his ability to carry on with his heinous acts was drawing to a close and felt a relentless desire to pass along the torch to a new generation. To teach the arts of manipulation and murder to a bright eyed and fresh faced young E, so that he may blaze his own way into history.

B) Came bearing gifts, much like the Magi before him, offering tribute to "E who should not be named", so that he might endear himself to me, finding salvation and eternal life in my "Hingdom of Kevin"®.

Could this really be true? Was Ted Bundy hell bent on meeting yours truly? Was his cross country flight nothing more than a religious pilgrimage to seek out the self proclaimed messiah of darkness?

Let me put it this way: He wasn't the only one to make this pilgrimage. George Clooney himself sought out the unholy one and even partook in a solemn religious ceremony. Don't think for a second that his consumption of my hair was anything less than a "Eat of this hair for it is my flesh" cannibalistic ritual.

And in case you find these religious undertones silly, let me point out that I AM a recognized "man of the fucking cloth". That's right, my official title is Reverend. And I have the paperwork to prove it.

I think what we've all learned here is that if you're the type that likes to hedge your bets (i.e. worship Jesus and Mohammed and Gonesh, etc.), then you'd best start with the worshipping of E, because it's becoming plainly evident that I AM a god.

Or a godless heathen. I forget.

The Camping Trip - Part 2

Posted by Doodface

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

To read part 1, Click here.


The first day of the camping trip was amazing. Probably up there in the top 20 days of my life. We built a fire, set up camp, and set in for some serious drinking. As we were drinking, there were people walking down the nature trail about 50 yards away. They actually have to walk around my truck to get to their hippy nature goodness.

"Fuck it, I'll move the truck later."

So we had fire, Check.

We had beer, Check.

What is the next logical step? Let's take Acid! So... The remainder of the afternoon was spent staring at shit.

"Man, that rock is fucking trippy!"

"holy shit, look up at the trees.."

(to the mormon-esque family walking down the nature trail) "HEY! You want a beer??"

It was getting close to dinner time, so we figured we would pull out the badass steaks we bought, and put them over the fire on the grill grate that we had brought. Only we didnt bring the grate. We had a giant truck load of shit, and forgot the grate to cook the food on. Oh, nor did we pack any firewood. Or toilet paper while we're on the subject.

So somehow Justin and I took on the role of kitchen bitches, and started working on ways to cook the food. As we are cooking and sharing make-up secrets, Dan "the man" is out in the woods with the axe chopping down trees for firewood. The defining moment was when Justin yelled out in to the woods: "How do you want your potato??"

and Dan responds (while cutting down a tree) "Dude, you're so fucking gay!".

Since we are without a grate, we were using rocks as cooking vessels. They worked ok, but trying to get the steaks out of the fire was a bit tricky. So after Dan had been cutting down trees for like an hour, he comes back starving. He goes to pull the steak out of the fire, and drops it right in the ashes. At this point, he is so beyond pissed that he just goes completely quiet. Since we had forgotten knives as well, we had to eat the steaks with our hands. He just wipes off the grit, and goes all Grizzly Adams on that steak. Alpha-male style. Then I think we may have brought him his newspaper, and rubbed his feet like the good little bitches we had become.

After dinner, we moved on to the next mind-altering activity.. Justin pulls out his rolling machine, and rolls a couple of joints. We are sitting around the fire, passing a joint around, drinking beers, talking and laughing our asses off.

What could be better?

Well at this point, we have drank beer most of the day, dropped acid, and smoked a good bit of weed. You would think we were sufficiently fucked up, right? Nope. Now it's on to the hard liquor!

This is where the night gets a bit foggy.

we started passing around the bottles of liquor, and just drank straight from the bottle. I know we killed a bottle of SoCo, and we were drinking Goldschlager (bleck).. I'm not sure what else we drank, but it was MORE than enough.

We are RETARDED drunk now.

I remember all of us falling and stumbling every time we went to go pee. Justin almost fell in to the fire one time. After that, he realized that he was too drunk to camp, and headed for his tent.

Dan and I stayed up drinking, and did the only thing that white teenage boys can do while drinking. We plotted on how to fuck with the guy that had passed out first!

Seeing as how we were trashed beyond comprehension, our "that's too fucked up" sense was greatly impaired. So our big plan to fuck with Justin was to pee on him. In his tent.

Yeah.... I know.

So, there we are with our dicks out, peeing on our friend while he is passed out drunk.

Not our proudest moment..

As we are peeing on Justin, and dying of laughter, Justin wakes up. We can't actually see him, as we are just pissing in the tent through the door. All we hear is "are you guys pissing on me?", which we respond with "no!". He says "OK!" and goes back to sleep.

Dan and I stumbled back to the fire and continued to laugh our asses off, and probably drank some more. We eventually stumbled to our tents and passed out..

Day 1 of the camping trip drew to a close. This was the last bit of fun we had.


To be continued in part 3...

You think the last eight years have sucked...

You ain't seen nothing yet!

I Have Been Inside George Clooney

By now you have heard my tale of woe regarding the malicious prank pulled on me during "Black Christmas". As a result of the emotional scars suffered that day (and the physical scars on my resulting victims), I vowed to do whatever necessary to get my hands on the holiest of all electronics: The Nintendo Entertainment System.

Being that it was now 1988 and I lived in Stumblebum, I had very few choices. This being a recycling state, I could try and collect as many cans and bottles as necessary to claim my prize, or I could just bite the bullet and...gasp...get a job.

Let's put this into a little bit of perspective first. In early 1988 I was a wee lad of 12. I wouldn't turn 13 until the end of August, so I hadn't even achieved the rank of teenager yet. How in the hell was I supposed to find a job? Well, sometimes living in the ass end of a cow town can work to your advantage.

There was, in the sparse downtown area that my grandfather lovingly referred to as "Greater Metropolitan Stumblebum" a grand total of two job options; the local store (family owned) and a small restaurant called Granny's Place.

Granny's was well known to me as she had a small gaming room filled with all of 6 video games. (At the time that I started working there: Sky Shark, Ikari Warriors, Shinobi, Pole Position, Party Animal (Pinball) and Double Dragon. Being the kind of guy that would end up with Pac-Man and Adventure tattoos on my leg, you can imagine that I spent a great deal of time there playing the games. Granny's held a monthly gaming competition with fabulous prizes like waffle cones and milkshakes as the spoils and each month it was myself or one other regular who claimed the booty.

Granny knew who I was and appreciated the burning desire I possessed to claim a Nintendo for myself. After a few weeks of begging, needling and general cajoling, I got her to agree to take me on as an employee. By the time I turned 13 I was managing the restaurant.

Yes, you heard that correctly. At the age of 13 I was managing a restaurant. And yes, you're probably thinking correctly that this showed a horrible lapse of judgment on Granny's part. I wasn't necessarily a bad kid, (not yet anyways) but putting a teenager in complete control of a business intended to turn a profit is just, well, dumb.

Granny's quickly turned into a haven of free food for my friends and a refuge of general chicanery. My friends and I, though never intending any ill intent, were nonetheless a bunch of young hooligans and reprobates.

I managed to continue the charade long enough to get Terry hired as well, placing me in a position of authority over him which I loved to exploit for my own amusement. I would frequently assign him the shit duties just because I could. To his credit, he took it all with resigned humor.

Stumblebum was a town of about 30 people, a town so insignificant that we didn't even appear in all of the atlases of repute. Because of our minuscule populous, an average day there was spent doing very little real work. With the exception of the rush of ice cream sales after little league games, it was very rare to see more than one or two people there that weren't there just to visit and hang out.

I could regale you for hours with whimsical tales of our antics, but that would be foolish of me. Come on, I'm trying to run a blog here, and it would do me little good to throw all the great stories into ONE entry, now wouldn't it?

But there is one story that stands out from the pack a bit. A tale of intrigue involving Hollywood's cultural elite, sinister voodoo and an unfulfilled debt that I'm certain plagues the thoughts and dreams of at least one A-List actor currently working in the industry.

This is the tale of George Clooney's chance meeting with E.

Terry and I were tooling about the restaurant in our standard manner, i.e. doing nothing productive and ensuring the financial ruin of our employer. Having already taken care of our standard duties for the day, we were simply enjoying youth to our fullest potential.

I stood in front of Sky Shark, hoping to shatter my current high score, singing the jaunty tunes of the game as I played. Terry sat at the bar, gleefully snacking on whatever foodstuff he had snuck from the preparation area. I blasted another wave of enemy ships, oblivious to the world around me when I heard Terry call out.

"Dude, a limo just pulled up!" he shouted over to me, triggering a lapse of concentration and the untimely death of my fighter.

I turned to assault him with a barrage of curses but found myself stunned by the look of excitement in his eyes.

"A limo?" I snorted out, not believing his line for a second. Seriously, this is Stumblebum in the middle of summer. Limos don't pull into my parking lot. Limos don't even drive THROUGH Stumblebum, let alone stop here.

"Yeah," he said, while straining to see out the window. There was a brief pause and then he blurted out, "HOLY SHIT!"

"What?"

"It's that guy from The Facts of Life!" Terry said, giddy with the excitement of recognition.

"Huh? What guy?" I asked, not knowing of any male characters from that show, before tossing out, "You mean Tootie?" Har dee har har, my cutting wit knows no boundaries.

I had no idea who Terry was talking about. At this stage in his career Clooney had done The Facts of Life but had not yet done Roseanne. He was still, for all intents and purposes, a nobody. Terry was intent that this was indeed "That guy from that show" and resolved himself to finding out for certain once he came inside.

Mr. Clooney stepped into our restaurant and made his way to a table, the look on his face indicating that he was every bit as starstruck by me as I was by him. In other words, he could not have cared less if he tried.

Within minutes Terry was excitedly bouncing to the dining room to get Mr. Clooney's order while I began preparing the grill area for whatever he might want. After a short while Terry returned to hand in his order.

"Yeah, it's him alright," he said. "His name's George Clooney. He'd like a gyro and a bowl of potato soup."

A simple enough order for us to fill. I set to work preparing the gyro while Terry enthusiastically poured a bowl of soup, which he delivered to our diner with thumb deeply ensconced. (This was a bad habit of Terry's, and one for which my father yelled at him countless times...Keep your damn fingers OUT OF THE SOUP.)

Luckily for us, George did not notice the thumb in his soup, or at least had the common decency not to mention it. And thankfully Terry had attracted his attention well enough that George did not notice his gyro meat accidentally dropping to the floor. I quickly stooped and grabbed the meat, brushing it briskly against my apron.

Most people have the designated "five second rule" when food falls to the ground, a mistaken belief that it takes a few moments for bacteria and other assorted ickies to make their way onto wayward food. This is of course crap, and seeing as how this food wasn't destined for me, I was adhering to the "five minute rule", which this discarded meat fell well within the boundaries of.

Just prior to slathering a healthy dose of cucumber sauce onto Clooney's gyro, I noticed a hair drop from my head into the sizzling pile of meat and vegetables laid out before me. A little bit of voodoo magic never hurt anybody, I figured, and I let the incident slide.

Terry delivered the hairy, filth encrusted gyro to George's table and we watched with giggly glee as he ate every last bite.

That's right, YOU HEAR ME CLOONEY? I fed you a dirty gyro filled with my hair. My hair is inside you now. Not many people can make the claim that they've been deep inside George Clooney, but I can.

And I can't help but notice that prior to being fed the grimy meat sandwich by yours truly, Clooney was nothing but a bit player, a nobody. But within months of his chance encounter with E, Clooney was well on his way to super-stardom.

Coincidence? Or was it perhaps a machination set into motion by yours truly?

Oh, it was machination alright. Again, you listening Clooney? I demand reparation! If it weren't for me and the potentially deadly foodstuffs I provided, you'd still be nothing. NOTHING.

Time to repay the favor, Clooney.

The Camping Trip - Part 1

Posted by Doodface

Monday, August 18, 2008

*WARNING*! The following post portrays drug use, underage drinking, and general tom foolery – all of which I abhor (or at least that’s what I have to say). Oh yeah, and Mr. DEA guy – this is a work of fiction, and definitely did NOT happen!

During the spring of '97, I and 2 buddies of mine – Dan and Justin, decided to take a camping trip in the North Georgia Mountains. We were all very excited about this trip, as we were 17, and craved freedom of any kind. We planned for weeks on everything that we would bring, what we would do, etc. At the time, I was driving a 1986 ½ (yes, ½) Nissan Hardbody Truck with the long bed. I also had a camper top (the kind with the high roof) for the truck. The day before the trip, we managed to FILL the back of the truck to capacity with “necessities”.

Some campers enter the woods with a single backpack, we showed up with Tents, Furniture, pots and pans, cooking utensils, blow up mattresses, heaters, lanterns, an axe, enough food to feed 5 people, and pretty much anything else we would need – or so we thought. Oh, did I mention the drugs and alcohol (which are really, really bad, kids!!). We had a good friend (who will remain nameless to hide his evildoings), that happened to be over 21, do some shopping for us, and ended up with enough alcohol to sufficiently kill all 3 of us and every surrounding woodland creature. We had Vodka, Bourbon, SoCo, Goldschlager, AfterShock, and tons of beer. We also had a good bit of weed, about 3 cartons of cigarettes, and some LSD. We were set for a very good 3 days.

On the eve of the big trip, Dan spent the night at my house. Justin was going to meet us up there later in the day. We were so excited that we just could not sleep. At about 2 am, we just gave up. We started the 2 hours drive with the truck-load of gear. When we finally reached the state park, it was around 4 am, and at least 2 ½ hours until the sun would be up. Somehow, we managed to find a ”perfect” location to set up camp. It was a nice, flat area, with sufficient room for 3 tents. We were right next to a stream, and not too far from the road. It could not have been better. So in the dark, I drove my 4X4
down 2 small embankments to get to the flat area.

We unpacked everything we needed, and set up the tents (still in the dark). All I needed to do before we could go to sleep was to pull the truck back up to the road. Well it turns out that the 2 “small” embankments were pretty damn steep. So steep, that when I tried to pull my truck back up the hill, my front bumper just ran right into the dirt.

Oh. SHIT.

I tried every angle, tried backwards (which was even worse, seeing as it was a long-bed truck). I just could not get my truck up that hill. So as any “real” man would do, I resorted to brute force. My brilliant plan was to back up the truck as far as I could (which was about 50 feet, and accelerate towards the hill as fast as possible. I gunned it, driving as if my life depended on it, and hit the hill at the top of second gear (which is pretty fucking fast to hit a 75 degree hill). The front bumper ran dead in to the hill, and BOUNCED upwards. I am still on the gas at this point, so after the big bounce off of the hill, the forward momentum sends me up and over!! I still have another hill to get up, so I just keep on the gas. Miraculously, the SAME THING happens. Ram the hill, bounce, and make it up over the top.

My testicles grew 2 sizes in that moment.

I parked the truck at the top of the second hill, we had a short celebration filled with tear-streamed laughter, and we part ways to sleep in our tents for a few hours until Justin arrives. The sun is just coming up as we nod off..

We were awakened by Justin at around 11am, and immediately have to tell him the story about the truck and show him where my front bumper had dug up roots and dirt on the hills. More tear-inducing laughter ensues.

But that’s enough of that talking shit.

We gots alcohol to drink! As we’re getting our lawn chairs out, and setting up camp, we notice cars driving by pretty closely. Little did we know, but in the dark, we had set up camp about 30 yards from the road. Oh, and where my truck was parked? Yeah, that’s right in the middle of a very busy nature trail. So as we are setting a fire, and getting down to some serious underaged drinking, we have cars constantly driving by, and families walking down a trail watching us the whole way. And we were offering many of them beers.

What could possibly go wrong here?


Part 2 coming soon...

Bet babe..Slide a piece of the porter, drink side run the java..

Posted by Arbitrage

Thursday, August 14, 2008

Open the chart in new window to get a better view.

Notice the bar with the diamond underneath, but pay closer attention to the volume of that bar.
It was Extreme volume and it followed a down bar which at the time was Extreme volume as well. Two extreme volume bars, indicating that it could be stopping volume; but the one with the diamond had some other things working for it as well. The diamond bar was a Pinocchio bar and notice the yellow line, that line is vwap.

Heavy volume on a pin bar that bounces off of vwap, no need to tell me twice!
"Nuttin to fear when we smell dough in the air".

I'm long at the close of the diamond bar.

Two bars later, the arrow bar, volume is nowhere to be found and it actually signals a No Demand bar. I took my small 15 points off the table as it looked as if no buyers were around.

You got money for fake mustaches, huh?

Posted by Arbitrage

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

Ok, fuck the lame. Let me show you what's up. 2 Min YM.

Open the chart up in another window to see it more clearly.

Notice the first red arrow. We have a strong up bar on good volume in small uptrend. I'm now looking for low volume test or a no supply. Notice the next bar after the 1st arrow it's down on less volume ..good sign. The 2nd arrow bar is the key. That is your no supply denoted with the diamond.

So we have good volume on the up bar, next bar down on lower volume, 2nd red arrow bar even LOWER volume. What does this tell us? Well right here, right now there is no supply(no sellers) so we are going up.

We are long at the close of the bar or open of the next bar denoted by the number 1 with the dot. 20 point Take profit with 20 point stop loss. Well we hit our target quick fast and in a hurry without any heat.

Couple minutes later the same damn thing unfolds and again we take the trade. This time however we did have some heat but did not get stopped out and hit our 20 point profit target again.
40 YM points-- *YAWN*

Obey Your Master

Posted by E

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

Sometimes the best humor is the kind where the punchline is never revealed, where you simply have to envision in your mind what happened when the idea became reality. That's the way it was for me during one of my grand capers back in good old Stumblebum. That was when I hatched a joke I knew would no doubt get the people a talkin'.

There were two constants in Stumblebum: boredom and Terry's relentless pursuit of the opposite sex. (A tireless conquest that earned him the name Rico Suave from the rest of us.) Almost any story I can tell from my younger days will start with either, "We were bored one day..." or "So, Terry had an interest in...".

True to form, this story begins with Terry's conquest and concludes with my boredom.

So, Terry had an interest in this girl at school named Jenny. She seemed a nice enough girl, though for some odd reason she never seemed to enjoy when I was around. It was not uncommon for her to come sit with Terry at lunch only to end up disgusted that he would be friends with the likes of me.

I really wasn't all that foul and abrasive, I just didn't really care about Jenny's feelings one way or another. And honestly, offending people was a passtime of mine, made all the more interesting by the fact that Terry was attempting to woo this young girl while his best friend did his best to offend her.

Rico was in full effect, though, and before long had sparked an interest from young Jenny. An interest that was keen enough that she invited him out...to her church.

Let it never be said that Terry and I were the religious types. I think I've been to church ten times in my entire life. The last time I went to a church, for Christmas Mass nonetheless, an epic battle broke out between my father and I, as we splashed holy water on each other while screaming that "It burns!". Needless to say, attending church was not something I did with any regularity.

Terry, however, was determined to head to this church, as he desperately wanted into the pants of this young phillie. He managed to convince me to attend with him, though I must admit it was more out of grim interest than anything.

The church we were attending shared building space with the local theater group, a group that I was heavily involved with as a lighting technician. Because of this, I knew the building inside and out and was well within my comfort zone. If things got too Jesusy, I had places I could escape to.

We arrived at the church, said our greetings to young Jenny and then made our way to the back of the audience. I'm all for trying something new, but I also have no interest in calling attention to myself. I figured I could keep from making snarky comments, but you never know when the laughter might start in.

And boy, howdy, did it ever. The ceremony had been going on less than five minutes before the music started and the congregation started getting down and funky. People were jumping around, dancing and talking in tongues.

I've experienced a good deal in my days, but that was the first time that I had witnessed such a large group of people having a religious experience together. All in all, it was rather terrifying, as Terry and I stood out like sore thumbs, looking rather solemn and bored while the attendees of the "Church of the Jumping Jesus" worked up a fervor.

We slipped out the door halfway through the proceedings and I loudly and with color phrasing chastised Terry for dragging me along for that pointless exercise. We entertained notions of returning to that church with some nefarious intent, involving forced regurgitation and the eucharist.

Time went by, and though I was never suckered into attending their services again, I found myself face to face with their remnants, owing to my time working the lights for the theater group.

It was during the rehearsals for one of the plays that I first took notice of their soundboard. It sat on the balcony, right next to my lighting controls. Seeing as how I would spend three to four hours alone on that balcony each night, running my lights and programming in effects, I had plenty of time to inspect just what it is they left up there.

There was their main board, a set of headphones and a selection of tapes containing all their music of love and inspiration. As I flipped through these cassettes, an idea began to form in my mind. Upon reaching a tape called "Praise and Worship Master", the idea was set.

The plan was simple. I needed to record over some of their tapes with my own inspirational music.

I made sure that no one was watching and then grabbed the copy of the "Master" tape. I spent the remainder of my evening determining what I would record over it.

I recalled that particular tape being played during our attendance, so I felt pretty confident that good times were to be found if I copied over it. After mulling it over in my head through the rest of the evening, I decided on the song.

"Praise and Worship Master" was soon to be "Master of Puppets" by Metallica.

"Come crawling faster
Obey your master
Your life burns faster
Obey your master...master
Master of puppets
I'm pulling your strings
Twisting your mind
And smashing your dreams
Blinded by me
You can't see a thing
Just call my name
And I'll hear you scream
Master...Master"

Fucking brilliant.

I tore home and made my new recording, picturing the scene that would play out over and over. I pictured the crowd aghast, some breaking down into tears, wondering who would have perpetrated such a horrible crime against the church. I have to admit, it made me all warm and tingly inside.

The next night I replaced the tape in the stack, knowing full well that I would be ruining the expression of deeply held beliefs by more than a handful of people. And I must tell you, it made me laugh to no end.

I was not there for the actual playing of the tape, though I'm certain that it was something to behold.

Somehow Jenny got it in her head that I may have played a role in the blasphemy against her church, but I steadfastly denied it. Apparently some people were rather miffed about the whole affair.

Yep, sometimes the punchlines you miss are the best.

Collecting: The Counterpoint

Posted by Doodface

Friday, August 8, 2008

During our conversation the other day that prompted E’s post, I mentioned that I had recently read in my school psychology book that collecting is a pre-determined genetic attribute. This genetic attribute must have never existed in any of my ancestors, because I don’t even have it a little bit.

I am quite the opposite, and annoyed by the notion of collecting without purpose. Not that I make fun of the collectors I know, but it just bugs me. Why? Because I am a creature of logic. But more than that, I am a slave to it. If something doesn’t “compute”, I’m not a big fan of it. I see collecting as a waste of time, a waste of money, and a waste of space. It is a hobby that rarely gives you any lasting happiness. Your space is now cluttered with things that serve you no real purpose.

When I think about the concept of collecting, I always come to the same thought: WHY? What is the point?? Oohh, you found a 1984 bobafet with super karate-chop action! Who fucking cares? How is that going to improve your life? Will it make you happier? Will you have a sense of fulfillment that lasts more than 10 minutes? If you are REAL lucky, the thing you are collecting might increase in value by 12 cents over the next 40 years..

Serious collectors can be likened to crackheads. I see it once a week at least. Mr. Transformer opens the Fed-Ex box, and is happy to see his most recent find. E is hovering, giddy at the sight of a new toy in the office, and begging him to open the package. This whole time, Mr. Transformer is inspecting the box, determining if the condition is up to the description. He then hands it to E, who looks at it and says “I wanna play with it!” Then other guys usually look at it (often myself included). This is the last time that this new toy brings joy to anyone.

The new toy gets put on top of the shelf with the other 30 or so transformers, and Mr. Transformer is off to search for his next fix. Once on the shelf, they may get a mention every once in a while.. This mention is usually by E: “Dude! Let me open it!” Other than that, they are now serving the sole purpose of collecting dust, and hiding a small piece of the wall.

How fun.

ESPECIALLY in the Ebay era, collecting is pointless to me. I could ALMOST understand collecting toys or memorabilia if there was some “thrill of the hunt”. I could almost get it if what you were looking for was very hard to find. If after years of searching, you found that rare green papa smurf with the tie-dye shirt at a garage sale – Congrats! That is a hell of a find. The thrill of the hunt for Mr. Transformer consists of typing in what he wants in the search field on Ebay.

Exciting.

This is not meant as judgment, it’s just the way MY brain works.

I Pick Things Up, I Am A Collector

Posted by E

Thursday, August 7, 2008

At work, the cubicle next to mine is capped by a wall of Transformers toys, old and new piled on top of each other like a modern day tower of Babel. Don't take this to be a complaint. I'm a man who loves toys, and though I do rightfully complain that the majority of them are trapped in their cardboard cages, they're still awfully neat to look at. (He does let us play with about 10 of them.) The other day, while he was pulling his latest acquisition (a Galvatron, Cyberton edition) from the FedEx box it arrived in, a group of us started a conversation about the nature of collectors.

To begin with, we had to define: what is a collector? It's easy to say that a collector is somebody who just enjoys buying a bunch of some specific item. But seeing it that way is missing the whole idea.

Collecting is not a hobby or an interest. To those with a collector's mind it truly is a way of life. Collectors specialize in some specific area. The cube next to mine: Transformers. In my past I was a major Star Wars collector. This has changed over the years, but we'll get to that later.

Collecting is more than indiscriminate purchasing. It is comprised of several different rituals, all working together in harmony to produce a positive outcome for the host.

In order to be an effective collector, you must do a great deal of research and study into your field and determine where your area of specialization lies. I mentioned earlier that I used to collect Star Wars. In the realm of Star Wars, I was focused on primarily vintage (1970's and 80's) action figures and playsets, with a special interest in anything with Darth Vader. To this day, nothing makes me happier than a nice sculpt of Vader.

So, knowing that my primary interest lay in vintage figurines, I had to learn the relative value of all of the figures, carded and loose, as well as variations in production, who the rare figures were, and how to spot counterfeits and tricks. At the time I collected the holy grail of Star Wars figures was a carded vinyl cape Jawa. They're really easy to counterfeit, all you need to do is trim a vinyl Obi-Wan Kenobi cape.

Armed with knowledge, a collector next has to determine their personal methods for pursuing their interests. For me, the thrill of the hunt was the majority of my enjoyment. There is a certain rush of adrenaline one gets when finding something they really desire after poring through some dusty collection, whether it be at a garage sale or a flea market. It's the thrill of knowing you have found something of great personal value, yet trying not to appear too excited, lest they decide to jack the price up on you.

Even once you've found items and built your stash, what is your intent? Are you collecting for future value? For sentimental value? Are these items that you intend to leave in their packaging, or do you want to open them? Again, we're all different. I was an opener. Of course, I had some items that remained in boxes, but all in all I'm a very tactile person, so holding and touching my treasures resulted in the greatest pleasure for me.

This whole conversation was made more interesting by the introduction of Doodface's collecting interests: nothing. To him, the concept of dedicating so much of your mental and physical energies to a hobby like this is just not part of his mindset.

That's not to say that either side of the equation is better. As humans, we all seek something to provide some level of interest or comfort in our lives, it's just the means that we undertake to achieve that can be quite different.

To one with no real interest in collecting, the whole concept can seem pretty alien. Who cares about G1 Transformers? What makes an Alpha Black Lotus so special? Who cares about blue Snaggletooth?

If you have no vested interest in hording or collecting of any sort, the above questions matter very little. To a collector, they mean a lot.

I'm not even that much of a Transformers fan, myself, but I get giddy with glee every time a new one arrives, because I understand the sense of joy and fulfillment that comes with a new acquisition.

I mentioned earlier that I had given up on Star Wars collecting (aside from an occasional Vader) some time ago. This was due to a fundamental change in the nature of collecting. For some it was a boon, the dawning of a golden age. For others, such as myself, it signaled the end of an era. The entity of change? The internet. More specifically, Ebay.

It used to be that the pursuit and procurement of collectibles would take dedication, a willingness to "hit the bricks" and scour all of the local shops and haunts looking for an elusive item or a fantastic deal. Now all you have to do is logon to Ebay and rest assured that some guy out there has bought every item in stock at your local store and is willing to sell it to you at three times market value.

No, thank you. Where's the reward if you don't have to work for it?

Since the dawn of the internet age, I have turned my interests elsewhere. I now hunt three primary things: movies, video games, and information.

Movies and games have long been an interest of mine, so that's really just an extension of an old hobby. But information has proved to be a fun and rewarding hobby. I love to learn, so going on the hunt for information is a natural extension of my interests. Plus, it gives me the ability to spout out interesting tidbits of knowledge at inappropriate times.

It's also allowed me to channel my interests for others. Anytime somebody has some obscure bit of information they're looking for, I'll give you one guess who they come to.

So what about you? Are you a collector? Does all this talk of little plastic action figures and robots get you excited, or would you be just as happy to look at a rock?

Too Many Words

Posted by E

Wednesday, August 6, 2008

If there's one thing I enjoy in life, it's a challenge. I am the type that enjoys crooning along to a nice vocalization. I'm not a great singer, mind you, but the verbal rhythms and patterns inherent in music attract my attention, and I do my best to emulate.

Because of my interest in patterns and cadence, I find myself frequently looking for a song to challenge my memorization and verbalization skills. Whether it be learning epic songs with almost non-stop singing or keeping up with the frantic pace of early Suicidal Tendencies, I love to challenge my brain to learn, memorize and eventually turn off while I recite these passages verbatim.

I'm currently working on one such part and let me tell you, it's a doozy.

I have been a major fan of Weird Al Yankovic since I first set my grubby little hands on his first record. For our young readers, records were big vinyl discs that looked a lot like laserdiscs and contained music. (Audiophiles like to smugly comment that they sound better than anything.) For our EVEN YOUNGER fans, laserdiscs were big shiny discs that looked a lot like CD's but held movies. (Idiots like to claim they were better than DVD's.) For our YOUNGEST fans, music actually used to come on physical media. Imagine that.

Through his long career, Al has made a habit of creating songs that would twist the human brain in any number of directions all at once. For the fans, this made for amusing fare, as we attempted to stuff into our brains longer and more complicated pieces, all for the sake of gaining another inch on our e-peens.

In 1989 Al released the soundtrack to UHF, which contained a song called, "The Biggest Ball of Twine in Minnesota". tBBoTiM, as it's known to nobody, was a 6:50 magnum opus done in the storytelling style of Harry Chapin and Gordon Lightfoot. It is 7 minutes of almost continuous singing with no real chorus. It's not necessarily a difficult song to learn, but it's easy to mess up when you first start out.

1999 saw the release of Running With Scissors, which contained Al's longest song to date, Albuquerque, a whopping 11:25 song with a non-stop narrative and no real structure. This song has long been a fan favorite to memorize, as the lack of cohesion makes for difficult learning. The chorus consists of nothing but the words "In Albuquerque".

I have dealt with these songs in the past, but a recent decision on my part has brought Al back into the fray in an attempt to burn out my few remaining brain cells with the latest feat of memorizational and vocal skills.

Hardware Store.

The song itself is jaunty and fast paced with an odd rhythmic cadence that does not allow for comfort. Secondary voices haunt the backing track spouting single words in a diabolical attempt to confuse the tongues of those who may be attempting to sing along.

But the true evil of Hardware Store isn't in the main body of the song. No, the main structure can be worked out in fairly short order, provided you can think fast enough to recall the words and timing. The insidious part of Hardware Store is a 30 second interlude about two thirds of the way through.

29.86 seconds. That's how long this section is. 29.86 seconds in which he manages to throw 127 words at you, consisting of 257 syllables. Mull that over in your head for a second. To learn and recite this properly you have to vocalize 257 separate syllables in 29.86 seconds.

That's a word every .24 seconds. Even worse, that's a syllable every .12 seconds.

Here's what you have to say in 29.86 seconds:

They've got allen wrenches, gerbil feeders, toilet seats, electric heaters
Trash compactors, juice extractor, shower rods and water meters
Walkie-talkies, copper wires safety goggles, radial tires
BB pellets, rubber mallets, fans and dehumidifiers
Picture hangers, paper cutters, waffle irons, window shutters
Paint removers, window louvers, masking tape and plastic gutters
Kitchen faucets, folding tables, weather stripping, jumper cables
Hooks and tackle, grout and spackle, power foggers, spoons and ladles
Pesticides for fumigation, high-performance lubrication
Metal roofing, water proofing, multi-purpose insulation
Air compressors, brass connectors, wrecking chisels, smoke detectors
Tire gauges, hamster cages, thermostats and bug deflectors
Trailer hitch demagnetizers, automatic circumcisers
Tennis rackets, angle brackets, Duracells and Energizers
Soffit panels, circuit breakers, vacuum cleaners, coffee makers
Calculators, generators, matching salt and pepper shakers

Attempting to sing this song makes one sound like an advertisement for Micro Machines.

I've been struggling with it. I can keep up with 90% of it. The line that begins with "Hooks and tackle" is my biggest stumbling point. My tongue does not like saying, "tackle, grout and spackle". It just throws up a block. (Similary, I can not say "Giggity", like Quagmire.)

I have spent a lot of time working with this song. Sometimes I can get through, most times I block out at "hooks and tackle" and get back in at "metal roofing". The thrill lies in the learning. I may not be able to do it yet, but once I have it down, it will be an impressive feat.

Moms... Pfffft!

I am the proud father of a 2 ½ year old daughter. She is absolutely the best thing that has ever happened to me. With her and my wife in my life, my life feels “complete”. I try my best to be a great father to her, and give her the best chance to have a healthy, happy life.

I know that it is mostly MY relationship with her that determines whether or not she ends up on the stripper pole!

I am constantly trying to make sure that every aspect of her life is the healthiest that it can be. I play with her all the time – normally something that is teaching her, while still being fun. Every day I am doing things with her like: teaching her piano, reading to her, taking her to the park, teaching her counting and understanding numbers, singing songs, etc. I try to make sure that most of her food and drink is healthy, while still being things she likes. I don’t force her to eat when she is not hungry, or things she doesn’t like, as this has been proven to cause eating disorders later in life. I buy expensive soy milk with DHA, as this has shown to increase brain function. I limit her TV to less than an hour a day, since more than this has been shown to cause A.D.D. We don’t curse in front of her, and we won’t let our friends do it either. If there are people that just won’t stop dropping F-Bombs around my little girl, we simply do not see those people any more.

I watch her far more than my wife does. This is not my wife’s fault, her schedule just sucks.

Ok, do you get where I am going here? AS Dads go, I’m a fucking badass.

But because I am a DAD, and not a mom, I am considered the “backup” parent to the rest of the world. Moms are supposed to take care of the kids, Dads are supposed to make money, drink, and be annoyed by their kids. Well FUCK THAT.

When we took her in to the doctor for her very early visits, I went EVERY time. And EVERY time, I would sit in a chair behind the door, and they would talk only to my wife (even though I was asking questions, and making comments). I would occasionally get the “Oh wow, what a good dad” like it was a novelty that I am involved in my child’s life. Now as she gets older, I take her to the doctor almost every time due to the inflexible nature of my wife’s job.

When we put my daughter in day care, the day care would NOT call me. My wife’s job does not allow her to talk on the phone during the day. Even after multiple requests by her, they ONLY would call her phone when they needed something, or if my daughter was sick. Finally after I called the director myself and explained the situation they started calling me.

Every time I am looking at a parenting magazine or book, it is 95% aimed at moms, and there might be a little “isn’t that cute” article geared towards dads. Some gem like “You can change a Diaper too!” or “5 ways you can help”.

All of the product marketing for kids’ products are aimed at moms. I was actually standing at my fridge yesterday, pissed at a bottle of Juicy Juice. There was a label on the back saying something to the nature of “WE know what Mom’s want for their kids”. I guess dad’s will give their kids whiskey, as long as it stops that fucking crying, right? “Choosy moms choose JIF!!” Fuck you JIF! Daddy does all of the shopping, chooses the peanut butter, therefore Peter Pan has one more customer!

So is this mentality a left-over from the 50’s? Is it due to the actual number of disconnected father still existent in our society (which should be castrated)? Is it a politically correct thing, since single mothers may get boo-boo upset at seeing things referring to BOTH parents?

Whatever it is, it pisses me off.

Alright, I’m done ranting. Back to my whiskey and cigar.

The Death of Golobulus

Posted by E

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

The teenage years are a rough time for any male; a tsunamic flood of hormonal and physical metamorphosis that renders the majority of us into confused drooling monstrosities. It was much the same for me, finding myself overwhelmed by the thirst for carnage and blood that ravages the minds of the demented. For my part, my pubescent transformation resulted in the ultimate obliteration of many an unfortunate toy.

There were only two "races" of action figure spared from my genocidal tendencies: Star Wars and Transformers. These both ranked as sacrosanct, outside the bounds of even my most homicidal urges. Sometimes they'd even be brought along for the sheer joy of the kill, to laugh alongside me as their plastic brethren departed the earth.

Without question the most frequent targets for my destructive actions were the good men and women of the GI Joe unit. Wankers, the lot of them. I had no qualms whatsoever in proposing and carrying out creative methods of execution, all for my twisted amusement.

For every termination there were two important parts; the determination of method and the reading of the last rites. Every toy sentenced to death would have their charges read out before them. Occassionally I would allow them to argue for clemency, though I'm afraid that the majority found that justice's ears are firmly plugged.

The methods varied. Duke found himself bound a pair of bottle rockets, launched into the stratosphere only to suffer a violent explosive episode before plummeting back towards the Earth at terminal velocity. Gung Ho found himself strapped to the outside of a helicopter on its way to a head-on collision with a tree. He found the pilot of said vehicle to be a terrifying master, indeed, as his splintering crash had to be repeated seven or eight times until the headsman was satisfied.

Another Mengelian experiment in which I took joy was the grafting of the limbs from one victim to the ample torso of another. To facilitate these actions would require a blowtorch and a great deal of creativity, heating the limbs on victim number one until soft enough to be pulled from the torso, only to attach the limb to his compatriate and let the bubbling plastic cool. Many a mutant was created in such a fashion.

Ahh...the mutants. Herein lies my finest hour.

Golobulus was the mutant leader of Cobra-La, the original incarnation of Cobra, the primary nemesis of the GI Joe universe. Good old Golobby was a serpentine mutant, half man, half snake. He came into my life not as a single figure, but as part of a three pack of Christmas joy, accompanied by Nemesis Enforcer and Royal Guard.

To his credit, Golobulus was a pretty cool figure, what with his segmented mutant body and accompanying baddies. All in all I was rather fond of the lot of them.

But fancy can be a fickle thing, and the following summer I found a death sentence handed down from the high courts, boldly stamped with Golobulus' name, his two henchmen named as accomplices.

I'd love to say that I argued eloquently on their behalf, acting as an informal Clarence Darrow with the hopes of swaying the opinion of the judiciary. I'd love to, but it would be a bold faced lie. In truth, I relished the idea of their forthcoming execution and quickly set to work with determining the means and timing of my justice.

And so it was that one fine Spring morning, Golobulus and his crew found themselves wrested from slumber and carted off to the nearby baseball field. I dragged them off to a little used nook and laid them on the ground before digging them a shallow grave with a garden trowel. A grave, I might add, that they WATCHED me dig. I made no reassurances that they would not occupy this earthen stronghold posthaste.

At the appointed hour I read the charges against them and informed them that they had been sentenced to death. A sentence to be carried out immediately. They were stood before their future grave and the ceremony communed.

Their death was to be in two stages.

Stage 1: Artillery fire. A BB gun provided the small birdshot pellets that would tear their tender flesh to shreds, or at the very least dent their tough plastic casing. This stage would cease when the final accused dropped into the plot behind him.

Stage 2: Chemical bath and immolation. Once the accused had been fired upon and laid to rest in their shallow grave, they were to be bathed in WD-40 and set alight, to smoulder and boil into a formless blob of plasticized chemicals.

When the acrid black smoke finally cleared I offered the cermonial "Ashes to ashes" speech and then covered their remains with the dirt used to construct their grave.

Years went by, and I relished the memories on countless occassions. I would even make constitutionals over to the ball field to revisit their eternal resting place. But as time wore on and my memory dimmed, I found myself unable to pinpoint the exact area of execution.

The knowledge of their forgotten grave began to eat at me, my brain shifting at odd moments to the spectral monsters that no doubt lurked the field in the evening. I wouldn't have been surprised to see the Mystery Machine pull up to investigate the scene.

And so, one August afternoon in 2003 (that coincidentally turned out to be the day of the great blackout) I took my stepchildren and brother-in-law over to the field with a metal detector in hopes of finding my forgotten prey.

We spent the better part of three hours combing the land, hoping that the BB's or metal pins in their joints would set off the detector, allowing me to glimpse with pride once more at the destruction wreaked upon those hapless victims oh so many years ago.

I regaled the children with tales of what we were searching for, pointing out the sites of various misdeeds of my youth. (Which included the area where Terry and I hid for another misdaventure.) We fervently struck at the soil at various points hoping to blindly stumble across the victims while I did my best to reconstruct the scene in my head.

But it was to no avail. The final resting place of the Cobra-La squad remains lost to the ages. I fear that Golobulus will never see daylight again.

The Hunt

I cannot even begin to count the number of times I have performed the ritual. Each time I feel its pending arrival, my hairs stand at end, electric energy flowing through my body, urging me to carry out the nefarious acts it knows will soon follow.

Everybody has their rituals, be it how they prepare their coffee, how they organize their desk, or...other things. But the rituals of others matter not I say, for my hungers find themselves unsatiated by standard fare, forcing me to seek out a darker object to satisfy my desires.

As has been noted many times before, the thrill of the hunt is half the excitement, and I will not lie, I enjoy haunting the Wal*Marts and the dollar stores in search of my elusive prey. I find that the quality of victim is little changed by the locale I find it in. They all ultimately provide the same attraction.

Once I have staked out my quarry and made my move, it's time to return to my sanctuary, so that I may carry out my actions in private, away from the prying eyes of those who could not possibly understand. The arrival at my home allows me to carry on the second, more ritualized aspect of the hunt. Namely, it allows me time to both prepare and execute the kill.

When the appointed hour arrives, I extricate my prey from its temporary storage and place it on the altar of sacrifice. Almost without exception they will stare up at me, frozen in terror, unable to move or scream.

I begin by removing whatever outfit they are wearing and placing it in a pile next to them. We wouldn't want to stain their clothing, now would we? Their naked frame remains before me, unmoving, yielding to my dark intent.

Now it's time to remove their eyes, damnable windows to the soul that would otherwise stare accusingly at me while I desecrated their home. Sometimes I'll use an implement such as a knife to remove their ocular apparati. Sometimes I'll just claw them out with my bare fingers, relishing the feel of them loosening then ultimately separating from the body proper.

The eyes are soon cast aside so that the real game can begin. But I am not an entirely heartless monster. This is the point in the ritual where I will apologize to my victim, explaining that life is a matter of survival of the fittest.

And now it's time for the kill proper. You might think from the above descriptions, that I would slash and cut at the soon to be lifeless frame, fetishistically thrilling with each downward thrust.

But honestly, I have no need for abject cruelty, so, having removed their eyes and leaving them unknowing of what will come next, I strike for the face. The intent is to burrow through the face into the frontal lobes of the brain as quickly as possible.

That I need to feast is without question. I have no desire to torment the victim. Sometimes I can make my way through the outer casing of the head in a simple crushing bite. If I (or they, as might be said) am unlucky, then a few blows are required before the fatal one strikes home.

Once I am assured that only a hollow corpse lays before me, I set to work, hungrily devouring all that remains of its mortal shell.

After all is said and done, I say a brief word of thanks for the sustenance that has been provided, then I dispose of the remnants and discarded bits.

The ritual is complete until next year, when the chocolate bunnies go on sale once again...

The Douchebag Test

Posted by Doodface

Monday, August 4, 2008

The following test is only for guys (Sorry girls, maybe I will do a Hose-beast test soon). Answer each question honestly, and then tally your score to find out how MUCH of a douchebag you are.


ANSWER HONESTLY!!


1. I have cheated on my significant other(s) in my life:

a. Never!
b. Once – I was drunk / seduced / Rolling
c. A few times, but she was a bitch and deserved it!
d. 3 times this week, bro!!! *Fist Bump*


2. My Favorite show of those listed is:

a. Sportcenter
b. I don’t EVER watch TV
c. The Hills
d. Hannah Montana – I’d SO hit that!


3. I have worn a polo shirt with a “popped” collar:

a. Never – that shit is so gay
b. Only in the 80’s
c. A few times, but not anymore
d. Polo shirt? Motherfucker, I’m wearing FIVE and poppin’ the collars on TWO!


4. While lifting weights, I have screamed loudly:

a. Never
b. Once or twice but it “slipped” from sheer effort
c. Most of the time
d. Every time! Then I drop the weights loudly to make sure everyone sees how PUMPED I am!!


5. I use the term “Extreme”:

a. Only when very relevant
b. Occasionally
c. When referring to my skateboarding
d. Everything I do is extreme *Chugging a “DEW”*


6. On Valentines day I:

a. Buy my girl something nice, and have a good dinner
b. Take my girl out to dinner and ogle all the other hot bitches.
c. Give my girl a card that I picked up last second
d. Get a blow job, GIVE her my load in the eye!! Fuck yeah!


7. The best book I’ve ever read was:

a. Manufacturing Consent by Noam Chomsky
b. The Easiest Way to Meet and Pick Up Girls…Ever!! by Dusty White
c. Anything published by Penthouse
d. My little black book


8. I moved out of my parents' house when I was:

a. 18 or younger
b. 19-21
c. 21 – 27
d. Why move out?


9. I have “bounced” my chest muscles

a. Never – what?
b. Only in the mirror
c. For friends, just as a joke
d. All the time! Look at how ripped I am, bro!


10. I have a tattoo of:

a. Meaningful things that are important to me
b. Tattoos are not my thing.
c. Some stuff I picked off of the walls at the tattoo shop
d. Barbed wire armband, naked woman, or panther scratching you


11. I have _____ piercings below the neck:

a. None – I’ll leave that to the girls
b. One a long time ago
c. One currently
d. Both nipples and a prince albert! You wanna see!


12. I value what internet tests say about me:

a. Not at all.
b. A little, but mostly it’s just funny
c. I DO like to hear that I am only 38% gay.
d. I answer the questions dishonestly, then post the badass results on my MySpace!


13. In my MySpace Pictures, the main theme is:

a. Me and My Friends / Family
b. My Car
c. Me Throwing up gang signs, or holding dollar bills
d. My Abs, My Bling, or my picture photoshopped to include a model


14. I aspire to be:

a. A good parent / husband with a stable job
b. An artist (Musician, writer, sculptor, painter)
c. A Professional Athelete
d. A white rapper! I drops flows like the crimson warrior, son!


15. I have been so drunk that I had to be carried by my friends:
a. Never
b. Once – but it was my birthday!
c. A few times
d. Every weekend, bro!!! KEGSTAND!!!!!!


16. I feel most comfortable in the following outfit:

a. A t-shirt and a pair of jeans
b. A nice button up shirt and a pair of slacks
c. A wife beater (Shows off my gold chain) and sagging jeans
d. A pink polo shirt, with the collar popped, nigga! What you think?


17. When a chick cries around me, I:

a. Rub her back and ask what’s the matter
b. Roll my eyes, loudly sigh, and say, ”Here come the fuckin’ waterworks”
c. Turn up the tv and grab another beer
d. Stop my car, throw the bitch out and head back to the bar to catch another


18. My main topic of conversation is:

a. Whatever is on my mind
b. How badass I am
c. The girls I have been banging lately
d. How ripped my lats look!


19. I usually pick up girls:

a. Through Friends / Social Events
b. On the internet
c. At the bar by buying them drinks
d. By giving 17 year old girls alcohol at a party! Jailbait Shishkebob Motherfucker!!


20. I like to brag about

a. I don’t brag
b. My Grades
c. How much money I have
d. My Huge Cock


21. I drive a:

a. Regular Car
b. Big truck
c. A used BMW 3 series with tinted windows
d. An import car with vinyl stickers, Chrome wheels, and a loud exhaust. Wanna race?


22. I have slept with a girl that could be considered “too young”:

a. Never – I stick to my age range
b. Once, but she lied about her age
c. A few times
d. All the time! Jailbait pussy is the best!! Especially if she is crying!



23. I own ______ things that have a Playboy / Hustler / No fear / Big Johnson / Vivid logo on them:

a. None
b. One – but it was a gift
c. A few
d. Half my shit, bro! That shit lets you know I am down for EXTREME FUCKING!!!


24. I call my friends ______ when I'm talking to them:

a. Their name
b. Bro
c. "G"
d. NIGGA (and I’m white)


25. I would describe myself as:

a. Just a regular guy
b. A Badass
c. A totally ripped, extreme, bitch fucking, beer drinking walking hard-on.
d. A device used to introduce a stream of water and vinegar into the vagina



*BONUS QUESTION*


You live in New Jersey:

a. Nope

b. Jersey REPRAHSENT!!!

To score your test:



A = 0 points

B = 1 point (if you answered B on the bonus question +10)

C = 3 Points

D = 4 Points



Add all of your answers together.



0 points = You're a fucking liar, which makes you a giant douchebag. Fuck you. Go back to your myspace page.



1-10 Points = You're a very down to earth guy. Join us in mocking the douchebags!



10-40 points = You have douchey Tendancies, but there is still hope for you. Go back and look at your answers that were not answered with an "A". Fix those things now, before you slip into full Douchebag status!



40-60 Points = You are a Douchebag Junior. People mistakenly refer to you as an asshole behind your back. Let everyone know that you are a "Douchebag Junior" so that they will know what to call you. Assholes do not want you included in their classification.



60+ points = Congratulations! You are a GIANT DOUCHEBAG. All of your "friends" HATE you, and pray every night that you will get cancer. Your family is ashamed of you, and has tried to fight the government to legalize "91st term abortions". Every girl that you have ever touched cries herself to sleep every night thinking of the douchebag that forever tainted her. Those girls' fathers are planning your imminent torture, and eventual death. You should immediately be castrated to save the rest of the human race and future generations from your doucheyness.