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The Lament of the Tearful Vagina
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May. 13th, 2004 @ 06:19 pm
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A friend of mine recently started his own LiveJournal. I first learned this while perusing through his Buddy info--there was a link in big glaring letters proudly declaring "My New Live Journal, Updated Frequently!" And I was excited. What unusual perspectives on the state of the world awaited me? What sparkling gems lay untouched in this treasure trove of knowledge? Fully expecting a journal as pointless and silly as mine, what I discovered was just the opposite--one of those meaningful, thoughtful commentary on life lessons learned and happiness lost and memories shared. And I thought to myself, perhaps there is something greater in life than mindless humor and nut jokes. Maybe, my journal truly is missing something after all...
That's why I've decided to start a second LiveJournal, one in which I can express my true inner feelings, and the deep passions that lie within my heart. For anyone out there who wants to finally know the REAL me, the new URL is
http://www.livejournal.com/users/cryingvagina
Here's my first post:
Lurking Demons May 13th 2004@12:26 am
I was just listening to this song "Moods and shadows" by QuiveringComplexxx and I was totally feeling their vibe. It really got to me, that line about "You are nothing more than your name--your soul is an airplane." I totally get what they're saying. My life is a shadow of darkness. I hide in the torrents of my soul. Liberate me, O Demon of light, and you will set me free...
I talked to Mary again. I hate her, just another poser. Another life stamped and packaged for your approval by the gods of rampant capitolism. Bring down the empire. We are the revolution.
I wrote a poem.
lurking demons in the darkness,
wherefore doth the clockbird strike betwixt?
i see your soul now,
you are empty,
are you my mommy?
The darkness is our mommy, and we are all children of the corn. Wake o vengeance, burning. In the immortal words of Vladimir Lenin, winning isn't everything. winning is the only thing.
I think she loves me...
current mood: turmoil
current music: Moods and Shadows by Quivering Complexxx
So, what do you think? I feel like this new column will really help me get across the true feelings that I want to share with the world. JK!!! That would be so Quear!!! |
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It had to be explained...
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May. 12th, 2004 @ 01:59 am
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Many who know me probably already know this story, but regardless, I think it deserves telling. And if you don't want to hear it again, well then, read the article about the Quesadilla Guy. That one's a classic. (First post!) Anyway, I imagine that some of you have at one time or another wondered why is it that I, without pause, insist on calling myself Big Tom Ramen. It's everywhere. It's in the name of this site. It's my screenname. Somw might have assumed that it is because I have some particular affinity for cheap Japanese noodle--which is true. But it's not the answer. The true story behind "Big Tom Ramen" is a mysterious tale indeed...
Well, actually, the part about being "big" isn't. Turns out "tomramen" was already taken as a screenname, so I stuck "big" on the end of it so my screenname didn't have to be something stupid like tomramensummersunshine18294.
But the Tom Ramen part comes from the third day of school. We had just finished off the Before School Conference which is short for insipid activity for five hours with people you don't know because we don't know what else to do with you, and they were having a barbecue.
Now, for those of you who are not aware, my college, the progressive institution that it is, has a "clothes optional" policy. I've only seen this policy in action twice. The second time was a few days ago when this whale of a female walked by about thirty feet away from me--all I could make out were these bouncing pink balls that looked more like inflated salami balloons than actual breasts. However, the first time was at that barbecue. Now I'm sure some of you will jump the gun and assumne that this person was a guy. But it wasn't. No, this humane-sans-vetements was a girl.
Well, kind of a girl. It was a girl to the extent that I think I could identify breasts on her chests--although, again, they didn't look like breasts. These were of the chicken cutlet variety. Little triangles of saggy flesh and fat that looked more like they'd been duct-taped to her body than that they actually belonged.
And her face! In total non-sarcasm, there have been times when I have mistaken this girl for a man. Her hair is crew-cut. Her jaw is square. Her nose is wide. Her eyebrow is dense.
Now, I don't mean to harp on other's appearance--I'm no Jonny Getsalot myself, but this was just disgusting. And I felt the need to share this fact with my pseudo friends. I say pseudo because I'd known them for five days and we were still kind of feeling each other out.
Which makes the following comment particulary ignorant. I walked up to them, looked them all square in the face and proudly declared "My genitalia is like a limp noodle."
And this makes perfect sense really! I mean, the standard male reaction to a girl with no shirt is physical arousal. I wanted to explain to everybody just how disgusting a sight this really was. I mean, there was no action down there WHATSOEVER. Anyway, I made the fatal mistake of forgetting that other people can't read my mind to infer context...especially when it's about my limp genitalia.
So later on, one guy made the brilliant observation that I should be called Tom Ramen. Get it? It kinda sounds like Top Ramen and I was talking about my noodle. And for some reason or another, even though the name was flagrantly making fun of me, I took a shine to it.
And that's my story. And if you don't like it, well then, you can just suck my Ramen noodle. |
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They're Bold...But are they Daring? (Tortilla chips that is)
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May. 11th, 2004 @ 02:12 am
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You know what irks me? As I'm now a LiveJournalist, itseems a good bet that the answer would be something like "those bubble-rapped conformist Britney and Justin wannabes who only listen to pop music and can't appreciate the true vampiric essence inside" or "the demon of pain that hides within my nihilistic soul" which would both be good guesses. Unfortunately, they would also be wrong. What really irks me right about now is the starkly insufficient flavoring I discovered within my most recent bad of Doritos Cooler Ranch brand tortilla chips.
I mean, I opened up the bag expecting an icy cool blast of daringly bold Dorito action, only to discover a tepid smattering of moderately bold Dorito frolic, which tasted more like the corn meal from which the chips were originally derived than the deliciously multi-colored buttermilk solids, dextrose, and sodium casseinate I payed an extra 2 bucks for.
And there's a reason that this bugs me. It's that I know some big, smarmy executive sitting in a big, smarmy office, sipping big, smarmy lattes and getting a big, smarmy smarmjob from his secretary thought that he could get away with it. "Oh, no one will notice, you know." "No one will ever be able to tell if we cut corners a little, boosted our revenues a little, if we keep selling them the same product on the outside. I mean, what other company has the balls to ask you if you're "daring enough" to eat snack food?" I think that this is symptomatic of a much largely problem in corporate America today. I'm not just talking about Doritos Cooler Ranch tortilla chips. No this one is going big-time. That's right, I'm taking on the whole entire American corn chip industry...
Like the other day, I happened upon an unusual little treat dubbed "Rollitos." Now, as flagrantly homoerotic as the name may sound, I was feeling experimental, and decided to give the little flamers a try. What I found was a classy, resealable plastic bag (that's where the 3.75 goes) filled with little, tortilla-chip telescopes. That's right, little wrapped up tubes of Doritos that weren't any different from normal chips except that someone had decided to make the pointy end and the flat end of the chip meet and form a cylinder. And what's more, these little tube-o-delights weren't flavored any normal flavoring like Ranch Dressing or guacamole--they were flavored like tacos. Now, to me, this is just flagrant disrespect to the consumer. I bet it was some office prank:
Hey, Earl, I'll bet you ten bucks that you can get people to buy corn-chips shaped like little urethras.
You're on, Hank. And I'll raise that bet.I'll make em' taste like tacos.
Damn Earl, you're a real rebel.
That I am Hank, that I am...
So basically, I think that they should stop investing in making tostitos into tubules and put that money back where it belongs--in making sure my Doritos have enough sodium citrate, disodium inosinate, and disodium guanylate to chemically castrate a horse. That, and I think we should all shed our clothes and play naked beach volleball. But that's a whole other issue entirely. |
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Is that a paper coming out of your vagina?
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May. 4th, 2004 @ 03:01 am
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Laying aside all the sexist, prejudice, stereotypical dogma that has characterized our society's stance on gender politics since the 1600's, the age-old separation between man and women has and always will be the woman's ability to give birth to new life. However, today, at aproximately 12:00 AM, sitting in front of my dirty little computer monitor, I stepped closer than any man in the history of humankind to finally experiencing this sensation firsthand.
Yes, tonight, after 4 miserable months of deliberation, anticipation, fear, misery, and anguish, a 17 page research paper about the childhood onset of schizophrenia finally plopped out of my vagina in a spectacular rush of blood and placenta splattering my roomate and the entire right side of my room. Yeah I know that was graphic but then again...okay, so there was no legitimate reason for that to have been so graphic, but I just wrote a seventeen page paper, so give me a f*cking break.
Anyway, for those who feel that the metaphor is strained, let me stress that since its bastard conception at the hands of one Professor Debra Zeifman and the entire history of schizophrenia research, this little sh*t has been the single most irksome, terrifying, unrelenting figure in my academic life. Since the day I first missed my period, I have spent months tracking down sources that turned out to be completely contradictory to my thesis, wasted hours on end wading through line after line of unitelligble jargon to try to arrive at the one tiny grain of substance within the researchers' ego-tripping, scientifically chest-beating, intellectual to the point of retarded rants. And in the final few hours of labor, when I knew this thing was coming and I only had to prepare, I swear, I felt closer to my fellow woman than any other human being alive. I felt the first contortions as I realized that my first 11 1/2 pages made absolutely no sense and would have to be completely reorganized in order for me just to scrape a B. I felt the twisting and pounding inside of me with the slow realization that this monstrosity was littered with phrases like "I believe that I have purported to have shown that under these select circumstances it is possible..." And in the final few minutes, it didn't matter if this thing came out of me a gimpy, one-legged, cleft-lipped, retard (sorry, handicapable uniquely-gifted personage) just as long as me and it were finally separate. Anway, after this rant I will try to come up with some more inspired posts , but rght now, the sheer rush of relief and joy is so great, I felt the world had to know and understand.
I'm a mommy. |
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Small Thoughts for Small People
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Apr. 29th, 2004 @ 02:15 am
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I tried to find a picture of Jude Law and post it as my photo for the personal information section, but that effort failed miserably--too many "invalid file types." But it sure felt strange sifting through head shots of Jude Law when my roommate was in the room...
Have a Good looked me straight in the eye the other day and said "Thank you and have a good day." My world came crashing to an end.
Five week old clothes can be fresh as new if you spritz them with a healthy blast of "Fresh Elements: Home Fragrance Spray."
Garlic alfredo with shrimp and lobster and month old Easter candy don't smell good in the same fridge together.
Nine out of ten ugly people look less ugly if you talk to them with your eyes closed.
Adding page numbers in a research paper literally adds 3/4 of a page to the length.
There are people in this world who are actually aroused by the sight of other people pooping on each other. A friend of Mr. Ronaldo sent him a link to the single most disgusting series of images in the history of existence. I can't give the link here because the site has mysteriously stopped working and also, I believe it would be a disservice to humanity to let more people see it. Suffice it to say "Food goes in. Poopoo goes out. Poopoo should not go back in the mouth. If poopoo goes back in the mouth, it should not come back out of the mouth. If poopoo that went into the mouth comes out of the mouth, it should not go back into someone else's mouth." Curse you RonaldoFaldo. My dreams will never be the same again.
Of all the posts I have written, the one that garnered the strongest reactions was the one about leaving the toilet seat up. This seems to be an issue that the people really care about. Maybe that's what Bush and Kerry should be debating about instead of whether or not Kerry threw away his army medals.
I like the number 7 because it looks like an upside-down L in reverse.
City Jumper is the single most addicting game in the history of the world: http://www.nationlocation.com/cityJumper.htm |
| » A Tasteful Observation |
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Girls like to bitch and moan about how guys leave the toilet seat up. But, in recent days, I've noticed that girls also leave something up that would be better left covered--namely, the lid to the tampon disposal box. And this seems to me a bit unfair, that girls consider boys such heinous barbarians for their subpar bathrooming procedures, but that boys really aren't supposed to say anything in reply. I mean, which is really worse? Having to lower a toilet seat, or having to stare at a dirty, balled up chunk of chemicals and padding that was jammed up a girl's mole hole for a week until it was spattered in blood and the inner lining of the cervix and then scooped out and plopped into a box next to the toilet? Just a thought.
Apr. 28th, 2004 @ 08:24 pm
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| » When Community College is Just Too Good for Us... |
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I know I said in my last post that I would discuss the results of the student elections, but long story short, I don't feel like it. I mean, who honestly cares? I would, however, like to mention that neither Treaser not Lunchnuts actually won the positions they were running for, which makes me hate them both marginally less. So now we can refer to them by the slightly less horrible titles of Treasuer and After-Dinner Package. Also, I'd like to send a shout out to irony for making my roomate's girlfriend, who was by far more anxious to learn the results of the elections than anyone else I know, end her bid for election in an indeterminate draw. If there is indeed a God, you've gotta love his sense of humor. Sick f*ck.
Anyway, what I want to discuss today is based entirely on hearsay and has absolutely no legitimate factual support to back it up. But then, I don't claim to have any commitment to integrity. So who cares.
A friend of mine told me over AIM that the local community college where I live, (80 year old postal workers, I'm still not giving you any hints) has somehow gotten the idea into its head that it's too just too cool to be a community college any longer and has decided to convert into a real college with legitimate acedemic standards of admission.
Now, I could quite easily go into intelligent reasons why this is an awful idea. I myself took a course there in highschool to avoid an evil child-eating math teacher. (I got a 102 because I could apply the Pythagorean Theorem.) But I am so convinced that this upgrade is an impossibly imbecilic move for everyone involved, that I think I can make my point keeping the argument solely on the level of making fun of stupid people.
Namely, where will the stupid people go? Back in the days before Community College decided to become Unbelievably Poor Quality Private College, we always had a place to funnel the kids who were too dumb to go anywhere else. For instance, there was one kid from my school who got mad at another kid and warned him not to mess with him because his dad was the state prostitute. Not prosecutor. Prostitute. Where's that kid gonna go to school if suddenly community college is too good for him? Or there's another kid who thought that at Princeton Plasma Physics--that's a research institution where they're trying to design methods for economically practical nuclear fusion--he thought that they were diligently building a new sun, which they would then launch into the atmosphere when the old one burned out in fifty years. (I think that Retardo may have first gotten this idea from the official PPP pamphlet which claims that their fusion reactor reaches temperatures hotter than the sun, but where the part about launching things into space comes from, your guess is as good as mine.) Or, for one more example, my brother once mentioned in history class that Chirac was against the war in Iraq, to which one girl replied, "Oh, where's Chirac?" I'll concede that the names rhyme, but just because bongo rhymes with Congo doesn't mean Ricky Ricardo's fun drums hold a constitutional congress. Anyway, all that I'm saying is, idiots need a place for their idiot minds to grow and prosper. They need a fostering, nursery-like environment that allows them to be themselves without the hassles of difficult assignments or a four year term. And just to reassure everyone that I'm not some sort of pro-eugenics neo-Nazi, I realize that there are also legitimately intelligent kids who are forced to go to community college because they don't have the money to go anywhere else. But if you think about it, they're getting screwed too.
So Local Community College, keep your community college pride! I've seen the plaques on your walls. You're one of the state's top twenty community colleges. Don't give that up to become the nine-millionth private college that no one has ever heard of.
Apr. 28th, 2004 @ 01:22 am
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| » Class Elections |
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How many people do you think would find the fall of French Syndicalism intensely interesting? I think that if you were to take a quick pole of the entire world, the answer would be around 25 give or take, of which at least 23 would be wearing pennyloafers and sweatervests. Well, that's the research topic I've been writing about for the last week and I hope that that explains why my journal entires have been a bit infrequent of late.
But now I'm back with more of that sparkling Tom Ramen wit that my 4 readers have come to expect!
Today's topic of discussion is student elections. Now, for those of you who are not yet collegiate, let me clarify a few things. First, there are about 600 people in my class and most people know about 30 other people-so no one really has any idea who he or she is voting for. Second, there are probably more positions open in college student government than there are in the actual U.S. government. By the 35th page of names, Richard Nixon could have been running for class donut-filcher and I wouldn't have given it a second glance. Anyway, here are a few choice highlights from this year's annual student elections.
1.) The fact that there were two annual student elections. There's no real necessity to go into the details of how my college managed to royally f*ck up in counting the elction ballots, but suffice it to say that this level of imcompetence certainly falls into character with a school that's had more than 80 accidental fire alarms since the start of term.
2.) One girl's campaign poster consisted of a stick figure and the words "Vote for Sally."
3.) Another girl, who is fat and annoying and who nobody likes, made a poster with a long, fat, annoying list of all the reasons why she was socially and intellectually the best candidate for her position, and then spelled "treasurer" without a "u" and an "r."
4.) This one annoyed me. This one kid, let's call him Lunchnuts, decided to make a campaign poster of himself running around the front of the dorm doing all sorts of stupid things, which wouldn't be so bad if right in the middle of the poster, he wasn't standing buck naked with only his hands and a censor bar placed over his twig and berries. And even this wouldn't be so bad if the kid wasn't ripped from head to toe and every couple of minutes some girl stops by the poster and says "Oh my God! Lunchnuts has such a beautiful body!" I mean, what kind of salami-beating, self-praising, narcissistic dick-salad says to himself "Well, I don't have any real qualifications for this position. Maybe if I whore myself out to every girl walking by, it won't matter though." Its just arrogant. Plus, the kid's name is Lunchnuts.
5. Everybody who's running always stops me in the hallway and reminds me to vote, when what they really mean is "vote for me." I always tell them yeah sure, when what I really mean is "yeah sure, if you shave yourself bald, paint a monkey across your chest and kiss my pearly white ass."
6. For some reason, every one thinks three day-old cookies are the way to the voter's heart. In my experience, a crisp twenty dollar bill has always worked a lot better than some sedimentary dough composite with the words "Vote me, for Class Treaser" painted on in icing.
Anyway, those are just a couple of thoughts. I'll write again when the election results are published. Personally, I'd like to see Lunchnuts and the Treaser both lose and end up running duty as assistant donut filchers--a few days with Mr. "I am not a crook" might do them good.
Apr. 26th, 2004 @ 12:46 pm
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| » Belly Bunglers |
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You know Iam's cat food? I think they should have at least one commercial where a giant bag of cat food jumps out and yells "I am the one who is called Iam!" But that's not what today's article is about. Today's article is about belly buttons.
Now usually people have either an innie or an outtie-one goes in, the other sticks out. I, unfortunately, have been cursed with what I have taken to referring to as a "middlie." It's about 80 % innie, but instead of there just being an even, concave indentation; in the back, part of it comes forward. Now before you say, "Oh god, you freak! Your belly button doesn't fall easily into one of the two basic categories. You don't deserve to live!" keep in mind this: the doctor determines what kind of belly button you have by how he ties off the umbilical cord. (At least that's what my mom told me.) In fact, I read in one of those wacky-facts books that Alfred Hitchcock had no belly button because the doctor made one too many knots. But anyway, the point is, if I grow to be discontent with the shape and quality of my belly button, can I sue the doctor for medical malpractice? I mean, my belly button is weird, but think about how those retards with outties (http://www.livejournal.com/users/ronaldofaldo) must feel. They must go through every day of their lives cursing the sadistic doctor who for no reason but his own sick pleasure, rendered them physically inferior for the duration of their sad, pitiful lives. (In case you can't guess, Mr. Ronaldo made fun of my middlie.) Anyway, I just think these semi-literate, mouth-breather, no-reason-to-live outties deserve a little compensation for the fact that no one could ever like them...ever...in the whole world...not even their own mothers. (http://www.livejournal.com/users/ronaldofaldo)
Apr. 22nd, 2004 @ 02:06 am
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| » Fun with Catholics! |
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I had the rare pleasure of speaking to a real Catholic priest the other day. I know there's the whole sex scandal thing going on and what not, but really, he was quite a nice guy. This is how our conversation went:
Me: Hello, Father.
Priest: Hello my son, what is it that brings you to seek my council on this fine, April morn?
Me: Um. Well, I was thinking. You know those damn, dirty Liberals that go to that college of mine?
Priest: Ah yes, God hates a Leftist.
Me: Yeah, I know. But I was just thinking, they're always out there complaining about capital punishment, and I was just wondering why is it okay to kill another human being?
Priest: Ah, a fine question, my son. But as the Good Book says, "An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth." He who commits the ultimate sin must pay the ultimate price.
Me: Oh, that makes sense...is rape bad?
Priest: Ah yes, rape is bad! It is a foul, lustful, abhorrance of human love! Truly, it is a terrible thing, indeed.
Me: So, if it's an eye for an eye...
Priest: Yes.
Me: A tooth for a tooth...
Priest: Yes?
Me: Shouldn't we rape rapists?
Preist: ...What?
Me: Shouldn't we rape rapists? I mean, that's the only punishment that would really make sense right.
Priest: ...Wha--the--you---No! No, that's not right!
Me: Cause you don't want to be on the recieving end?
Priest: What's that my son?
Me: Nothing. It's just, why isn't it okay for policemen and judges to deliver just punishment to those who have commited such terrible acts?
Priest: Um...well, you see my son. Rape...polutes the body. If we allow ourselves to become rapists, we have betrayed God's true gift of love.
Me: So rape is worse than murder?
Priest: What?
Me: So, rape is worse than murder. It's okay to kill another human being, but not to rape him.
Priest: ...Yeah, I guess so...
Me: But you said that murder was the ultimate crime! Now you're just talking through your ass.
And that's how I was ex-communicated from the church.
Apr. 20th, 2004 @ 02:05 am
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| » Have a Good...the Woman Behind the Immobile Blob of Overcharging Fat |
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For those who don't attend my college, (I keep it ambiguous just in case some creepy eighty year old postal worker from Vermont decides he wants some supple young man flesh) there's a cafeteria cashier, who through virtue of common practice and the incredible accuracy of the title, has been dubbed "Have a Good" This nickname was long ago bestowed upon her due to the woman's inexplicable practice of wishing people "a good" every time she finishes ringing up student's food at the cashier. What "good" refers to is a mystery. Some claim that is simply a substitute for "good day." Others believe that it has something to do with school work or food. (For a more complete analysis of the subject, visit this kid's site: http://www.livejournal.com/users/ronaldofaldo/) Personally, I think "good" is a noun, and she has simply been offering these "goods" to students for years and one day she's going to kill herself because no one appreciates her taste. But really, this article is not about that, or even the fact that she allegedly has no toes, or that once she made out with a fat black security guard named Betty at the campus bar. What I want to do is to humanize this mysterious abhorance of nature, to bring to life what most simply dismiss as a sedentary loaf of wasted human flesh and cholesteral clogged visceral organs.
For instance, did you know that Have a Good once served a long and prosperous career as a major in the elite military group, the SS? No kidding! I mean, you have to work pretty damn hard to move up the ranks in that organization. Or, did you know that at one point, the woman actually weighed well in excess of two thousand pounds? That's not a number to be taken lightly. She ripped the bottom out of an '87 Toyota Tercel. But really, these little tidbits are just abstractions, highlights from a life that has been so full of joy and wonder, that it would be a travesty for the world to go unknowing. I think the only real way to get to know this beautiful enigma of a human being is to follow her through her day, to truly get inside her head, to see life through her eyes (although not so literally that I get sued by Charlie Kaufman for copyright infringement.) So now, come with me, as I take you on the mystical journey that is...Have a Good.
7:30 woke up. there was another kid lodged under my left shoulder blade. that's really starting to become a trouble area. luckily with a little elbow grease and the help of my trusty spatula, i got the little tyke out of there in time for him to make the school bus. those rascals! gotta love 'em though.
7:45 after a short breakfast of ham and meatballs, set off to work. damn tercel, i need to get that fixed at some point, had to power the thing fred flinstone style for twenty six miles. i sure hope this day doens't turn out to be a suck
8:00 got to work. sat in a chair. farted.
8:02 called the ambulence. poor little Nicky died of asphyxiation. how'd that happen?
8:05 breakfast croud starts filtering in. better not get out of my chair. jews might steal it. damn those jews gotta watch your back. well alright, you gotta watch the area directly below your chin and to the side of your left boob
8:07 first breakfaster walks into line. has a bagel with cream cheese. twelve dollars. offer him a good. doesn't take it. gonna kill myself
9:00 gonna kill em all, sick of their sickly little jew faces. oh wait, farted again
9:10 news declares state of emergency throughout new york state. claim of "extreme deadly gas leakage"
12:00 gotta drop off the Cosby's. don't want to leave chair though
12:01 never mind
12:45 lunch crowd, that skinny kid with the curly hair is making fun of me again. looks like a jew. gonna kill him. wait, he's too far away. i'll just read this magazine
1:11 did you know that under all of brittney' makeup, she's secretely a pig? says it right there in the enquirer. it's gotta be true
1:12 i relay this extraodinary fact to a kid in line. he gives me a wierd face. i tell him he can take a good and shove it up his ass
5:52 oops, gotta stop eating the fried bean nacho platter, filled me up and i fell dead asleep. why is everbody coughing again?
6:00 dinner hour. a hot young piece of ass walks by, god i'd love to let that morsel sink into me...feel his thing within my thighs. too late he's running. poor kid. must be in a hurry
6:30 that curly haired jew kid and his lanky even more jew friend bought quesadillas again. i smile, take their cards. 176 dollars.
7:00 i'm tired, want to kill someone, don't want to move, legs freezing up, arms going limp, vision going blurry
7:02-1:16 AM severe catatonic beef-induced shock, dammit, no more pork rinds for me. no, that a lie, i think i'll have some now.
1:20-4:39 bathroom time, feels pretty good, now i'm going to go to sleep. tomorrow's a big day. that jew kid's finally gonna die
Anyway, as you can see, there's a lot more to Have A Good than meets the eye. Namely, two chins, a beer gut, and a mysterious third nipple sandwiched somewhere between the upper thigh and left testicle. Yes, Have a Good a mysterious woman. A mysterious woman indeed...
Have a good, y'all!
Apr. 19th, 2004 @ 01:48 am
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| » Immanuel Kant is a Stupid Asshole |
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I have decided to take a break from the usual intellectual firestorm that is "Tom Ramen's Noodle Surprise" to broach a topic which has been greatly annoying me of late. Namely, Immanuel Kant.
Now, I don't mind that his philosophy is annoyingly objectivist, that he insists on explaining away human motivation in overcomplex, indecipherable confabulations of metaphyscis, or even that he's German. It just really annoys me that he can't F*CKING EXPRESS HIMSELF IN ANYTHING APROACHING NORMAL HUMAN COMMUNICATION!#%*$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Now, to be fair, I did read a translation from the original German text, (although the back of the book proudly declares this edition to be "perhaps the best translation of Kant available in English") but what rules of grammar, in any Germanic language, would permit the following sentence?
"Since both however, command only the means to what is assumed to be willed as an end, the imperative commanding him who wills the end to will likewise the means thereto is in both cases analytic."
Just for kicks, read that sentence again.
"Since both however, command only the means to what is assumed to be willed as an end, the imperative commanding him who wills the end to will likewise the means thereto is in both cases analytic."
Now, I'm not going to pretend to be even half-capable of deciphering meaning from that steaming loaf of unintelligible, literary diarrhea. But, I do think it would be fun, and maybe even educational, to try to at least analyze what portions of basic English grammar are presented, and that subsequently shat upon, in that travesty of human thought.
Step 1: What is the subject? Well this one's faily obvious. The subject is "imperative" or more fully, "the imperative commanding him who wills the end to will likewise the means thereto," and where is it? Right plop at the end of the sentence...where it should be.
Step 2: What is the verb? Long story short, I have no idea. Technically, I believe the answer is the word "is." Yes, this sesquipedalian batch of verbal vomit is essentially just a statement of equation--which is good, because who wants things doing things in a sentence? I mean, that's just plain interesting.
Step 3: What in the name of God is the rest of that sentence? I doubt there is a human being alive who can tell me what "who wills the end to will likewise the means thereto" means. Is it an adjective? Perhaps a preposition? Maybe it's an interrogative, ingeniously disguised through the neglect of a question mark. Or maybe, this is just Kant's way of telling the rest of us pitiful lowlifes that "Haha! I'm smarter than you. I'm a fancy pants philospher sitting comfortably in my Ivory tower of linguistic impenetrability, pulling complex theological abstractions out of my ass and then claiming that any off the cuff, half-digested rumination is innately "apodeictic" (he throws in the extra "e" to show he's foreign") and that basically, anything I say goes, 'cause Hell, you're not gonna understand it!"
Anyway, I hope this explains why I keep my journal entries consistently mired in the domain of fart jokes and testical talk. It's not that I don't think I'm smart. Hell, in my opinion, I'm the smartest person I know. (Did you notice the word "sesquipedalian?" Yeah, that's a pretty freakin' big word. Too bad the word makes fun of people who use unnecessarily big words.) I'd just rather say something that an ordinary human being can actually derive some meaning from. I'll wait till I'm older before I start calling "pragmatic precepts" "apodeictic."
Apr. 19th, 2004 @ 01:02 am
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| » I told you the debate would continue... |
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Ah, the testicles question. Of the whopping two or three comments that I recieved last time I broached the subject, the general trend seemed to be that showing pain after severe gonadal trauma was in fact, a bad thing. But then I saw a picture of a man with elephantitis. You know those bouncy rubber balls with handles that you sit on and bounce around? Pretty much the same thing. That man probably carries twenty to thirty pounds between his legs, and that's a conservative estimate. He can't sit straight. He can't walk properly. He probably can't wear pants unless the crotch is lowered a foot and a half. (He was naked in the photo.) Anyway, if that guy got wailed in the nuts, don't you think he should act upset? I mean, think about it, that guy's sack and balls are probably the one thing that anybody's ever noticed about him. He could have had straight A's through highschool, gone to Harvard, and won the Nobel Peace Prize, but the only thing anyone would ever see was the enormous skin balloon inflated between his legs. So, shouldn't he cry like a baby when even that is taken away from him? If he greets that tragedy with indifference, isn't he just saying that his life is truly worth nothing? I mean, come on people, life is about love. When you pop the balloon, let the children cry.
Apr. 17th, 2004 @ 02:43 am
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| » Creepy Masturbating Bums |
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I learned this allegedly true story today:
In our school art library (just an extension of the normal college library) there is an unusal problem. Late at night, most students head back to their dorms for...assorted reasons. However, a few particularly studious students will stay late into the night working quietly in the art library all by their lonesome. God save them if they happen to be female...
Apparently, there have been obviously homeless men who approach these girls late at night, after having watched them studying for quite some time. The homeless man will approach the girl and ask for 35 cents. Then, when the girl looks up, the man will start...pleasuring himself. Yes, pleasuring himself as the girl watches in horror. And yes, this has happened more than once.
The cops finally caught a homeless guy. They don't know if there are more. So apparently, we now have undercover cops who sit in the art library and wait around for some guy to approach a girl and ask for 35 cents. So I don't think I'll be asking for payphone money any time soon.
Apr. 16th, 2004 @ 09:08 pm
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| » Stupid Word Games |
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I feel obligated to write something. Yet, within the last 24 hours, my creativity has been virtually non-existant, (a shame for within that frame of time, two people have asked me to make campaign posters for student elections) so instead of trying to write something clever or relevant to anything, I shall simply name every word I can think of that can be formed by the letters in the word "lederhosen" Ready? Let's go!
led, hose, done, hone, hones, nose, den, dens, don, dons, role, roles, rose, rod, rods, rode, herd, herds, lode, lodes, sore, doe, does, dose, sod, see, seer, seen, nor, nod, nods, reel, reels, heel, heels, hole, holes, sole, reed, reeds, need, needs, deer, nee, rho, send, lend, lends...
And the list just goes on! See, this game is fun. Completely free of any wit or inspiration, but fun none the less. How many new words can you come up with?
Apr. 16th, 2004 @ 02:00 am
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| » Catholicism |
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Here is an argument I have been working on for some time now which I believe may totally unhinge the Catholic faith:
P1: Everything that is God is perfect.
P2: Jesus is derived directly from God.
C: Jesus is perfect.
_____________________________
P1: That which is perfect is perfect in every way.
P2: That which is perfect in every way must be delicious.
C: That which is perfect must be delicious.
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P1: Church wafers are not delicious.
C: Church wafers are not perfect.
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P1: Church wafers are the body of Jesus
P2: Church wafers are not perfect.
P3: Jesus must be perfect.
C: Something is wrong here.
Apr. 14th, 2004 @ 10:30 pm
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| » The Quesadilla Guy Revisited |
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Oh, sweet lament of the Quesadilla man, soft words spoken against deaf ears...
When someone pulls a topic of discussion out of their ass--related to nothing, aprapo of nothing, to no one in particular--there are a few general guidlines. Namely, it should make sense and also, it should be probably be expressed in a language other humans can understand.
This was explained to me later, but just for kicks, see if you can figure out what this quote is referring to before I give you the answer:
"Yep, yep, Ha ha! snliegsleitcxhdnowedmglskmdh Manilla Vanilla Gorilla! askfjhkjhkjergjksdflkjhslkgdwerthfgjdfg and he was just like punch, punch sdfsdsdg punch dfgsdhsftjtukghjmndrtjfuymhc on the rope-a-dopes dstyjrthpoihjkmmfpgojhdoirtjpkosmdflb Float like a butterfly! Sting like a bee! sdiuthsoeiuweyiiusdhofiughoajrhgoih Enjoy. Good luck with your studies."
Have you got it? If you guessed that this was in reference to Mohamed Ali's legendary fight against boxer Joe Frazier, you're right! If you were like me, who thought the comment was in reference to the cartoon character Magilla Gorilla beating his children and then hanging himself, or like this kid, http://www.livejournal.com/users/ronaldofaldo/, who thought the story had something to do with a man fighting a gorilla, then Congratulations! You're a retard!
Stay tuned for more South of the Border-style brain teasers from the man who brings you chicken with liquid and beef with chunks!
Apr. 14th, 2004 @ 09:52 pm
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| » A Spectacular Blur Of Semi-Coherent Thoughts From The Days Before LiveJournal |
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I was in line for quesadillas the other day. I walked up to the counter and there was this fat black guy in a little dinky hat and an apron waiting to take my order. He gave me a goofy smile and asked me "What'll you have?" I told him I wanted chicken, not so much because of my preference for chicken, but because the steak was floating in a puddle of its own, greying juices and something in my gut told me today just wasn't dirty, brown meat day. So I made my order and watched awkwardly while the guy started lumping cheese and chicken onto a tannish circle-thing and then smeared the whole amalgamation with sauce--an interesting site for those into tannish-circle thing sauce amalgamations. But then out of nowhere he looked at me and said "Life isn't a dress rehearsal. You only live once. Make this life count." And I thought this was odd because my last words to him had been "chicken" and to my knowledge, no one else nearby had initiated a deep, penetrating philosophical debate. Yet, Senior Quesadilla seemed to derive some intense gratitude in delivering these arbitrary, stale words of wisdom to a totally irresponsive audience. Looking around, I noticed my neighbor to the right perfecting the ambling, head-bounce, I'm-not-listening-to-a-word-your-saying-nod and the assisant quesadilla chef working off my student-loans guy was sporting the blank grin, my-god-I-work-with-the-Nostradamus-of-Mexican-food look and I, with great dismay, had absolutely nothing to say at all. Still, the quesadilla guy seemed to interpret my silence as a plea to go on, so he continued the debate with the words "You can't live in fear. Fear is the mindkiller. Once you give in to fear, bam, you have nothing." I wasn't really fearful of anything at that moment other than that maybe the quesadilla guy had recieved another shipment of stinky ass-cheese like the stuff from last week and that my non-dress rehearsal, once-in-a-lifetime life might feature a prominent runny-diarrhea epidemic in the near future. Anyway, for those who have not guessed by now, this story has absolutely no point other than that it was kinda strange to recieve such unprompted words of wisdom from the guy making the quesadillas. I went back there a few days later for more sage words, but all he had to say was that he really liked ACDC, espescially the guy who went "Neener, neener, neener and wore an applejack on his head."
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I finally broke 500 points in Scrabble! I realize that this is of absolutely no consequence to anyone, but as my last blog was about quesadillas I am not really worried about alienating my core audience. A few highlights:
My first major move was ZONES with the Z over the double-letter score, and simultaneously pluralizing one of those annoying J-words. This was for 55 points.
My first bingo: MONGERS. I was worried at first because I saw the letters MONGRES and was searching desparately for an L to complete MONGRELS but then I saw the two-letter word AR and insight struck. I lay down MONGERS vertically across the double-word score with the M forming ARM.
My second bingo: DEITIES. This was satisfying because it came on the turn directly after MONGERS. I layed it down vertically, over the triple-word score, pluralizing ARM which I had formed just the turn before.
My third bingo: GRAVELS. This followed one turn where I exchanged a letter in the hopes of getting GROVELS. My opponent had just formed COW to the left of DEITIES, forming the words OD and WE. On the fragile assumption that SCOW was a word (it turns out it's a flat-bottomed boat) I played GRAVELS horizontally with the S over COW for a whopping 90 points.
I pretty much just made crappy moves from then on, but as soon as I hit 500, I was satisfied. I finished the game with 510 points to my opponent who had something in the mid 200's.
I now apologize to the 99.999 percent of the world who don't give a rat's ass about Scrabble, especially Scrabble played by a mediocre player whom they have never met...but if you sat through this aimless, egotistical rant, then it is your misdoing, not mine.
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A Poem
If you're in the shower,
Don't take an hour.
For suspicious minds,
See suspicious signs,
Of foul play of lustful kinds.
Your mom steps in,
Something unplanned!
There's clear white goo,
Upon your hand.
You say it's soap,
The suds are white.
Your mom is stunned.
She's too uptight.
She says you'll never wash again.
O dirty are the lives of men!
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Oh, the things you can learn working in a slide library! Today I made the shocking discovery that there was once a painter with the name Heironymous Cock. Not Heironymous Bosche, the brilliant surrealist painter behind such strange works as "The Garden of Earthly Delights." Heironymous COCK. Now, to be born with the surname Cock and then be dubbed Heironymous says to me one thing and one thing only: child abuse. Which brings me to the moral of the story. Guys with penis references in their names are funny. Drowning your baby in a bathtub is not.
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My roomate recently obtained a copy of the 1991 classic digital voyage "Oregon Trail"--the rich, harrowing adventure of buying wagon parts coupled with the unabated excitement of clicking on passing ducks. Seeing the familiar pixels reemerge on screen brought to mind and old and beloved question that has gone unanswered and forgotten in the back of my mind since the golden years of 4th grade computer class. What people would make the ultimate Oregon Trail party? There are five slots open. Someone is going to get bitten by a snake and at some point you're going to have to ford a river. Who should partake in this mythical adventure?
The first and most obvious choice is almost not worth explaining: Snoop Dog. Not that he has any particular skills to donate to the success of the party but hearing him say "Fo shizzle my nizzle" never stops being funny. That guy doesn't know what the hell is going on.
Second choice: Donald Rumsfeld. He'd scare the snakes away. He's pure evil. Plus, I am fairly sure you can't kill him.
Third choice: Jesus. No more forging rivers. We just walk across.
Fourth choice: Abraham Lincoln. Cause he's got a beard...and a hat.
Final choice: Adriana Lima. Eventually you're gonna reach the fertile Willamette Valley. You're gonna want something to do once you get there. It would be fun to do Adriana Lima.
So that's the answer. Competely uninspired, but it's this or continue studying for my Statistic test..and that's boring.
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I walked into the bathroom the other day intent to brush my teeth and empty my bladder, only to discover an unusal surprise. There's a radio in the bathroom but instead of the standard blast of Britney Spears/hiphop/Coldplay fusion, my ears were bombarded by the riotous attrocity of Christian music. Christian music! Now don't get me wrong, I don't dislike Christians. Most Christians I know are very good, honest, caring people. But there's just something about Christian rock that's not quite...right. For example, this was a lyric from one of the songs:
You'll know you're heart is never hollow.
If you've got your soul to give.
And everywhere I go, God follows.
He knows just where I live.
See. There's something just not quite right...
God gives his love, he has the power,
He gives me all his care,
The other day I took a shower,
And knew that God was there.
And then there's the chorus:
Oh Lord, Oh Lord, oh Father,
Oh glory be to He.
Not even a court subpeona
Could keep him away from me.
Oh, lord. Not even a court subpeona
Could keep him away from me.
Back to the main melody:
I walked straight home to my front gate,
And God was there behind me,
I tried to move to out of state,
God knew just where to find me.
He told me that he new my name
He gave me playful pushes.
Outside my house, there was no flame,
But I saw him in the bushes.
I went to sleep the other night,
Slipped quietly in bed,
And when I woke, got quite a fright,
For this is what He said:
I am the Alpha and the Omega! I am he that is called I am! Bow before my infinite might O my child!
And Jesus was our lord...
Anyway, lyrics like those bother me. I don't really know why. It's just something about them. Maybe I'm just weird.
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Top Ten Reasons Why Top Ten Lists Suck
1. Because David Letterman uses them and the only funny thing about that man is the gap between his teeth large enough to fit two small children and a housing complex.
2. Because it's what you write when you can't think of anything else amusing to write about.
3. Because most people have lost interest by the number 3 spot.
4. Because four is always a shit-larious play on turds.
5. Because this is where everyone stops reading.
6. Because yo mamma is so fat that when she sits around the house--see, you're not even paying attention to what I'm saying anymore.
7. Because Garfield's 25th Anniversary compilation made over a hundred uses of the gag and not a single one didn't make a reference to he concepts of "fat" or "lazy"
8. Because I am a cynical little prick.
9. Because they're only reading material when everything else looks long and in-depth and you want the bullet-point equivalent of humor.
10. Because the 10th slot is always such a dissapointment.
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A philosophical question that must be answered: If somebody kicks a guy in the jewels and he shows no pain, does that make him more of a man or less of a man?
Argued from a Freudian perspective, the classic sack-and-balls meets angry boot could be interpreted as a simple reiteration of the basic castration complex--that is, men are afraid of losing their masculinity and the moment of collision is a pivotal fall from sexual grace; thus, it can only be assumed that such trauma would be met with considerable grief and anguish. eg. you make nuts go crunch, now I am woman.
Yet again, taking the classic Western archetype as the man as strongman/provider, he who shows weakness is in err. The man must be the pillar, the bastion of strength, even when his testicles are plastered to the inside of his leg and he may never walk normally again. A woman cannot respect a husband who squeals like a wee piglet in pain and anguish. The man must stand strong.
Anyway, I believe it is an open discussion, and as I am firmly aware that no one actually reads my Blog who is not me, I am confident that it will resume the next time I feel lke talking about it.
Apr. 14th, 2004 @ 04:18 pm
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