I made this photographic flipbook at work. It's one of the many, many upsides of working a weekend in an empty building.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JaowKP7uiyw&fmt=18
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JaowKP7uiyw&fmt=18
Showing posts with label The Olden Days. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Olden Days. Show all posts
6/12/08
5/23/08
Spicy hot schmidt
Okay. Sorry. I'm super sorry that I haven't written in my blog for a super long time. Yeah, right.
I'm super sorry that I'm raking in TONS of money, instead of sitting around, thinking of ways to keep everyone from killing themselves, because that's WAY more fun.
See, I don't know if y'all heard, but I'm pretty hot shit these days. Like, boiling toilet water hot shit, if you know what I mean, and I think you do. I have responsibilities--to myself and to my employer.
Who is my employer, my benefactor, my sugar daddy? Well, I don't think it's appropriate to give you a specific name (I'm professional that way), but let it be said that I'm now employed by the billing department of a VERY large insurance company. I mean, I have my own office.
My office is approximately is approximately 8' x 8' (do the math, that's 64 big square feet of floor space, ladies), and it has the convenient feature of having walls short enough for me to see over. Try sneaking up on me. You can't, unless you try it when I'm sitting down, or if you come from behind.
What do I do here (besides write in The Chesterton Review at 11:23 am?) Well, that's a little more complicated. Ostensibly, I bill people for insurance--that's how it shows up on paper anyway. However, I don't believe that they would have hired anyone who talked as much about poison making in his interview as I did to simply bill the sort of jerk who wants insurance. So I try to concentrate more on brainstorming new types of poison (e.g. "Very Berry"), and work on billing as a secondary activity.
This is how the world changes people.
Ways to keep from killing yourself:
1) Duct tape oven mitts over your hands (you'll need the help of a friend, if you have any)
2) Sleeping pills (not too many, mind you, but just try killing yourself in your sleep.)
3) Money. Rich people don't kill themselves. Fact. Google it.
4) A Kevlar body suit. Buy one, wear it all the time.
5) Always ask yourself, "Am I trying to kill myself right now?" If you find that the answer is "yes," stop what you're doing. Just freeze. Unless you're trying to freeze yourself to death, then go do something warmer, and ask yourself the question again in a little bit.
I'm super sorry that I'm raking in TONS of money, instead of sitting around, thinking of ways to keep everyone from killing themselves, because that's WAY more fun.
See, I don't know if y'all heard, but I'm pretty hot shit these days. Like, boiling toilet water hot shit, if you know what I mean, and I think you do. I have responsibilities--to myself and to my employer.
Who is my employer, my benefactor, my sugar daddy? Well, I don't think it's appropriate to give you a specific name (I'm professional that way), but let it be said that I'm now employed by the billing department of a VERY large insurance company. I mean, I have my own office.
My office is approximately is approximately 8' x 8' (do the math, that's 64 big square feet of floor space, ladies), and it has the convenient feature of having walls short enough for me to see over. Try sneaking up on me. You can't, unless you try it when I'm sitting down, or if you come from behind.
What do I do here (besides write in The Chesterton Review at 11:23 am?) Well, that's a little more complicated. Ostensibly, I bill people for insurance--that's how it shows up on paper anyway. However, I don't believe that they would have hired anyone who talked as much about poison making in his interview as I did to simply bill the sort of jerk who wants insurance. So I try to concentrate more on brainstorming new types of poison (e.g. "Very Berry"), and work on billing as a secondary activity.
This is how the world changes people.
Ways to keep from killing yourself:
1) Duct tape oven mitts over your hands (you'll need the help of a friend, if you have any)
2) Sleeping pills (not too many, mind you, but just try killing yourself in your sleep.)
3) Money. Rich people don't kill themselves. Fact. Google it.
4) A Kevlar body suit. Buy one, wear it all the time.
5) Always ask yourself, "Am I trying to kill myself right now?" If you find that the answer is "yes," stop what you're doing. Just freeze. Unless you're trying to freeze yourself to death, then go do something warmer, and ask yourself the question again in a little bit.
2/7/08
How do I get these naked pictures of myself off my phone?!?!
Jiminy Christmas! For Cupcake's Sake!
How do I get these damn naked pictures of me off my cell phone? I'm going crazy here! I tell you, I'm finally beginning to understand karma. I skip church just once, again, and all of a sudden something like this happens.
I know how this stuff works, by the way. It happens all the time - like me, celebrities will, for some entirely innocent reason, get a couple of naked pictures of themselves on their phones, and before you know it the pictures get leaked to the tabloids, and, well . . look at Britney. So I'm going to lay it on the line, and just let y'all know what the deal is, before some newspaperman tries to drag me through the mud (not literally - just imagine the pictures of that!).
It all started when I was trying to figure out what the back of my head looks like. No, actually it all started when I accidentally took a picture of my right eyeball, inadvertently discovering that my phone was also a camera. But not long after that I was trying to take a picture of the back of my head. It worked. The picture wasn't very interesting, but it worked. So then I decided to see what I looked like sitting in a chair, reading a book. It was kind of hard to hold the book and the phone, but that kind of worked too. Then I wanted to see what I looked like crawling out from under my own bed. I looked pretty good doing that, actually, and I wanted to find out what I'd look like doing the same thing naked. No big deal, you know? And that just lead to a whole series of experiments . . . What I look like climbing my bookshelf naked, what I look like pointing at the wall naked, what I look like talking on the phone naked (I had to use a mirror). Anyhoo, I was at it all day. Then I fell asleep and pretty much forgot about the whole thing.
Well, long story short, here I am, a month later, trying to find where I stored the number for Dairy Queen. And I found something, but it had nothing to do with cool eats: almost two hundred and fifty hundred naked pictures of myself. I tried to delete them, but-you know me, a regular troglodyte-it never worked out. Now, whenever my mother calls a picture of me jumping on my bed - naked - comes up. And my mom calls me all the time!
I'm at my wits' end! Sweet Mother of Fudge! I think I just have to get a new phone. But what should I do with this old one? Bury it? Mail it back to the company?
I just hope this has been a lesson to everyone. Don't let history repeat itself.
How do I get these damn naked pictures of me off my cell phone? I'm going crazy here! I tell you, I'm finally beginning to understand karma. I skip church just once, again, and all of a sudden something like this happens.
I know how this stuff works, by the way. It happens all the time - like me, celebrities will, for some entirely innocent reason, get a couple of naked pictures of themselves on their phones, and before you know it the pictures get leaked to the tabloids, and, well . . look at Britney. So I'm going to lay it on the line, and just let y'all know what the deal is, before some newspaperman tries to drag me through the mud (not literally - just imagine the pictures of that!).
It all started when I was trying to figure out what the back of my head looks like. No, actually it all started when I accidentally took a picture of my right eyeball, inadvertently discovering that my phone was also a camera. But not long after that I was trying to take a picture of the back of my head. It worked. The picture wasn't very interesting, but it worked. So then I decided to see what I looked like sitting in a chair, reading a book. It was kind of hard to hold the book and the phone, but that kind of worked too. Then I wanted to see what I looked like crawling out from under my own bed. I looked pretty good doing that, actually, and I wanted to find out what I'd look like doing the same thing naked. No big deal, you know? And that just lead to a whole series of experiments . . . What I look like climbing my bookshelf naked, what I look like pointing at the wall naked, what I look like talking on the phone naked (I had to use a mirror). Anyhoo, I was at it all day. Then I fell asleep and pretty much forgot about the whole thing.
Well, long story short, here I am, a month later, trying to find where I stored the number for Dairy Queen. And I found something, but it had nothing to do with cool eats: almost two hundred and fifty hundred naked pictures of myself. I tried to delete them, but-you know me, a regular troglodyte-it never worked out. Now, whenever my mother calls a picture of me jumping on my bed - naked - comes up. And my mom calls me all the time!
I'm at my wits' end! Sweet Mother of Fudge! I think I just have to get a new phone. But what should I do with this old one? Bury it? Mail it back to the company?
I just hope this has been a lesson to everyone. Don't let history repeat itself.
12/26/07
Buckle up for Vatican III, jerkwads, Dread Night is here!
There's a new holiday in town, friends and enemies, and you already missed it.
First off, I don't want to hear any "Dandy come lately"s out of anyone. I didn't let you know about the holiday before because I was testing it out still. If everyone starts celebrating a new holiday before all the kinks are worked out, you end up with crappy holidays. How do you think we ended up with Valentine's Day and Pap Smear Weekend? Right, someone jumped the gun, and now we're stuck with gifts in February and two days of mandatory, gender-irrelevant pap smears. I'm not looking forward to that again.
No worries about this new one, though, because it proved to be a real doozy. I think people will be moaning and whimpering for generations to come, every time Dread Night rolls around.
What is Dread Night, exactly? Well, I'm glad you asked. You're familiar with "Christmas Eve," correct? It's technically not even a holiday, and yet there it sits every year, wasting a whole day before Christmas. Dread Night will replace Christmas Eve, replace it so fully and ruthlessly that not only will you be unable to remember Christmas Eve, but to attempt to do so will cause you great pain.
Dread Night, one of the longest nights of the year, I'll remind you, will be an annual period of hope, prayer, and, above all else, fear. What could one possibly fear? What would you pray for, with wonderful Christmas morning right around the corner? Survival. Survival, salvation, preservation from bodily harm - the works. You see, on Dread Night there is no certainty that Christmas morning will come. In fact, just the opposite - in the depths of Dread Night, we will suspect that the chances of the sun ever rising again are much slimmer than the possibility of the alternative. And so, on Dread Night, we sit. We sit in the dark, and we rub our cold hands together, and we rock back and forth, wondering what is to become of us and the world, hoping that the Baby Jesus will see fit to return the next day to save our miserable selves. But he may not. He probably won't. If only the some random trick of the cosmos might convince him to pity us, if some grace of soulless Fate might allow us one more year...
But Dread Night is five full chambers in a revolver.
And should the sun finally rise in our black and dilated eyes... imagine the relief! Christmas is pretty great as it is, but, after Dread Night, Jesus Morning will be water in the desert, junk in the syringe.
I introduced Dread Night to a test audience on Monday. It was a little difficult at first to get the point across, but once the idea got into their heads, I could see it start to take hold almost immediately. They started to get nervous, and no one wanted to make eye contact. These are good signs.
It's going to take some effort to get people to shake the habit of enjoying themselves on the night before Christmas, but Dread Night can do it. You just need some fear and stomach curdling angst. That's what Dread Night is, after all.
First off, I don't want to hear any "Dandy come lately"s out of anyone. I didn't let you know about the holiday before because I was testing it out still. If everyone starts celebrating a new holiday before all the kinks are worked out, you end up with crappy holidays. How do you think we ended up with Valentine's Day and Pap Smear Weekend? Right, someone jumped the gun, and now we're stuck with gifts in February and two days of mandatory, gender-irrelevant pap smears. I'm not looking forward to that again.
No worries about this new one, though, because it proved to be a real doozy. I think people will be moaning and whimpering for generations to come, every time Dread Night rolls around.
What is Dread Night, exactly? Well, I'm glad you asked. You're familiar with "Christmas Eve," correct? It's technically not even a holiday, and yet there it sits every year, wasting a whole day before Christmas. Dread Night will replace Christmas Eve, replace it so fully and ruthlessly that not only will you be unable to remember Christmas Eve, but to attempt to do so will cause you great pain.
Dread Night, one of the longest nights of the year, I'll remind you, will be an annual period of hope, prayer, and, above all else, fear. What could one possibly fear? What would you pray for, with wonderful Christmas morning right around the corner? Survival. Survival, salvation, preservation from bodily harm - the works. You see, on Dread Night there is no certainty that Christmas morning will come. In fact, just the opposite - in the depths of Dread Night, we will suspect that the chances of the sun ever rising again are much slimmer than the possibility of the alternative. And so, on Dread Night, we sit. We sit in the dark, and we rub our cold hands together, and we rock back and forth, wondering what is to become of us and the world, hoping that the Baby Jesus will see fit to return the next day to save our miserable selves. But he may not. He probably won't. If only the some random trick of the cosmos might convince him to pity us, if some grace of soulless Fate might allow us one more year...
But Dread Night is five full chambers in a revolver.
And should the sun finally rise in our black and dilated eyes... imagine the relief! Christmas is pretty great as it is, but, after Dread Night, Jesus Morning will be water in the desert, junk in the syringe.
I introduced Dread Night to a test audience on Monday. It was a little difficult at first to get the point across, but once the idea got into their heads, I could see it start to take hold almost immediately. They started to get nervous, and no one wanted to make eye contact. These are good signs.
It's going to take some effort to get people to shake the habit of enjoying themselves on the night before Christmas, but Dread Night can do it. You just need some fear and stomach curdling angst. That's what Dread Night is, after all.
12/12/07
Oooookay, queers, fess up.
Well, I won't say that I blame you, but there are clearly some things that some people need to get out in the open.
Oh, you you don't know what I'm talking about? Sure you don't. Fine. Fine. I'll "explain."
When I signed on to the Myspace today, I noticed a notice on my space saying that 9 people on my friends list have crushes on me, and that I should click to find out who.
I wasn't sure exactly what was meant by "click," so I did some sleuthing of my own. Just call me Gumshoe. Some simple computer hacking revealed that I have 13 friends. I then had my guy do some background checks, and it turns out that 8 of my friends are men or boys, 4 are "girls," and 1 person isn't a person at all (I'm still not sure how it got on there).
Now, some of you may need computers to help process this next piece (I was able to do it with just a calculator, but then again I'm the detective), but if you look at all the numbers here (9, 13, 8, 4, and 1) it quickly becomes apparent that at least 5 of my boy friends have crushes on me, assuming that the non-person can't have a crush. Check the numbers, run them through your computers, have your guy take a look at them - however you stack it, things aren't adding up here.
So what gives? If you're, like, gay, that's fine, but yous should probably make that more clear. And we won't be standing next to each other if we ever hang out again, because I don't want to act like I'm leading you on. And if you're straight (not gay), do your girlfriends know about this? It's weird if they don't, but if they do... Do you make them wear Dandy masks to bed, or what? This is all so strange. Is it possible that the girls each have multiple crushes on me? I've heard of "multiple crushes" (they come up in Cosmo occastionally) but I never thought people actually had them.
Ugh. I just don't know. From here on out, all crushes are officially off. I don't care if you're gay, or a girl, or whatever. The only person allowed to have a crush on Dandy Chesterton is Dandy Chesterton (I mean "me," not any other Dandy Chestertons there might be out there). And if your girlfriends have any Dandy masks, please force them (the girls) to destroy them (the masks).
Actually, no. Give the masks to me.
Oh, you you don't know what I'm talking about? Sure you don't. Fine. Fine. I'll "explain."
When I signed on to the Myspace today, I noticed a notice on my space saying that 9 people on my friends list have crushes on me, and that I should click to find out who.
I wasn't sure exactly what was meant by "click," so I did some sleuthing of my own. Just call me Gumshoe. Some simple computer hacking revealed that I have 13 friends. I then had my guy do some background checks, and it turns out that 8 of my friends are men or boys, 4 are "girls," and 1 person isn't a person at all (I'm still not sure how it got on there).
Now, some of you may need computers to help process this next piece (I was able to do it with just a calculator, but then again I'm the detective), but if you look at all the numbers here (9, 13, 8, 4, and 1) it quickly becomes apparent that at least 5 of my boy friends have crushes on me, assuming that the non-person can't have a crush. Check the numbers, run them through your computers, have your guy take a look at them - however you stack it, things aren't adding up here.
So what gives? If you're, like, gay, that's fine, but yous should probably make that more clear. And we won't be standing next to each other if we ever hang out again, because I don't want to act like I'm leading you on. And if you're straight (not gay), do your girlfriends know about this? It's weird if they don't, but if they do... Do you make them wear Dandy masks to bed, or what? This is all so strange. Is it possible that the girls each have multiple crushes on me? I've heard of "multiple crushes" (they come up in Cosmo occastionally) but I never thought people actually had them.
Ugh. I just don't know. From here on out, all crushes are officially off. I don't care if you're gay, or a girl, or whatever. The only person allowed to have a crush on Dandy Chesterton is Dandy Chesterton (I mean "me," not any other Dandy Chestertons there might be out there). And if your girlfriends have any Dandy masks, please force them (the girls) to destroy them (the masks).
Actually, no. Give the masks to me.
12/1/07
Oh, I take it back.
I was just trying to post a picture of a tiny man dancing with a cat. But the internet wouldn't let me. Goes to show. The cat probably killed him anyway.
http://cache.viewimages.com/xc/3428488.jpg?v=1&c=ViewImages&k=2&d=D278A15CF533E62CD8833A4B06F9FE03A55A1E4F32AD3138
http://cache.viewimages.com/xc/3428488.jpg?v=1&c=ViewImages&k=2&d=D278A15CF533E62CD8833A4B06F9FE03A55A1E4F32AD3138
Turns out that heaven exists...
..
So that's nice to know. Really, I can hardly wait.
So that's nice to know. Really, I can hardly wait.
*I think there was more to this originally? Perhaps I found a licensed picture of heaven, which the owner eventually reclaimed? Hard to say
11/5/07
The Life and Times of Nicky Cage
I don't know if a lot of people saw this movie or not. It was kind of an indie/underground sensation, but maybe you've heard of it: "The Wicker Man: Featuring Nicholas Cage"
Ring any bells? I didn't think so.
Anyhow, I saw it in the theaters and really enjoyed it. It's very metaphor-rich, I'd say. There were several scenes in particular that I liked, and, praise the internet, they were actually quite easy to find in compilation form on "youtube."
Anyway, let's see if I can't get this to work...
You likey?
I think it really benefits from repeat viewing. You have to keep in mind, too, that Nick Cage was often beaten by women as a child.
Ring any bells? I didn't think so.
Anyhow, I saw it in the theaters and really enjoyed it. It's very metaphor-rich, I'd say. There were several scenes in particular that I liked, and, praise the internet, they were actually quite easy to find in compilation form on "youtube."
Anyway, let's see if I can't get this to work...
You likey?
I think it really benefits from repeat viewing. You have to keep in mind, too, that Nick Cage was often beaten by women as a child.
10/30/07
Spoiler Alert!! Dumbledore is gay.
Well, I never!
I'll just say this: I won't be buying the next DVD!
I'll just say this: I won't be buying the next DVD!
10/1/07
Pussywillow
Never go to the Science Museum of Minnesota again.
NEVER GO TO THE SCIENCE MUSEUM OF MINNESOTA AGAIN!
Why? Because it's a dank little hole of lies and sexual deviants.
When liars and traitors die, do you know where they go? They go to the Science Museum of Minnesota, where they lie and betray humanity for all of eternity. They sit in caves, fearing the light of truth and honesty, and wallow in the lies that have spilled like dairrhea from their most unclean and unholy of orifices.
Should you pity these liars, these eternally damned sneakthieves and cutthroats? No. Do not waste your tears on them, for they are dog-fuckers, melon-molesters, and bird-strokers. They are hole-dwellers, bed-shitters, and shit-eaters. Can there be mercy for these lamb-punchers, finger-sniffers, and skunk-humpers? No, not for bottle-breakers, ass-pickers, and nut-crunchers.
They are banned from petting zoos and public swimming pools, and it will forever remain in your interest to avoid their company, so, for God's sake, do not go to the Science Museum of Minnesota. For that matter, do not allow your friends or relatives to go, unless you enjoy the idea of your mother trapped in an elevator with a sweating, trembling pederast. I know that you do not, so don't let your mother be groped in the dark by these albino, charlatan, mother-fondlers.
Why is it that I only now spread the truth? I am, after all, still employed, regrettably and ashamedly, at this nest of snake-charmers and rat-rapers. I now spread the word of truth because it was only this evening that I discovered that a betrayal most vile has been committed upon me. Committed upon me, and, more importantly, upon all of you, and upon an innocent raptorling, a falcon-child who must now go through its miserable and pathetic life with a name not good enough for a tapeworm.
That's right. The peregrine falcon that should have been Pussywillow has been given up to the mouth breathing hordes, and named was named "Nimbus."
Do you remember? This spring, the Science Museum of Minnesota claimed that the people of the world could democratically select a name for the newly hatched falcon chicks near the St. Paul highbridge. The process seemed clear enough - nominations were accepted, and votes were taken. I myself voted several times. And, lo and behold, the best name won! My name! The falcon was to be named "Pussywillow," thanks, in large part, to your efforts. Look, here, look:
http://www.smm.org/buzz/poll/what_should_we_name_the_new_peregrine_falcon_chicks
And now, look at this, if you have the time (page 19)
http://www.raptorresource.org/2007_final_banding_report.pdf
The names of the falcons are Sky, Nimbus, Gyrnn, and Century.
A liar has intervened. A liar, a traitor, a horse thief, a chronic masturbator. A Nimbus, a Gyrnn, a Century.
This was not the work of the DNR, this was the doings of the worst institution in the world (worse than slavery), the Science Museum of Minnesota. Sky was the name selected by a local grade school - they can be forgiven, for they are only half-grown, and no smarter than worms and dirt. But the boldfaced, bare-assed betrayal of the SMM is too much. They had three chances to give a falcon the name Pussywillow, and they threw them all away. They gave them to doughy, boring, garbage-eaters, who could think of no names more memorable than Nimbus, Century, or Gyrnn. The falcons should be euthanised, and saved them from a life of humiliation.
Rooster-lickers.
Jam-stuffers.
Liars
Pussywillow is dead. Long live Pussywillow.
*2009 Addendum—Please disregard some of the more virulent language in this post. It was written in high spirits.
8/12/07
By Jove!
Possible Career Paths:
-Astronaut
-Candlestick Maker
-Kitchen Manager
-Dog Catcher
-Brain Surgeon
-King of Olympus
Oh, speaking of the King of Olympus... He's the actual reason for writing this entry
Who wouldn't want this for themselves or their children?
-Astronaut
-Candlestick Maker
-Kitchen Manager
-Dog Catcher
-Brain Surgeon
-King of Olympus
Oh, speaking of the King of Olympus... He's the actual reason for writing this entry
Who wouldn't want this for themselves or their children?
7/28/07
I got 99 problems, but being sick ain't one.
Jeremy Crisp!! My stomach has gone foul!
TGIF has finally caught up with me. I get off of work on Fridays, and I just have to party. Party party party. So, of course, I head over to TGI Friday's, where everybody knows my name (but not my real name). I got the onion garden, and the sweet n' sassy Cajun chicken lickers. Oh, man, do I regret it now.
I'm very seriously considering staying home from work today. A nice, warm bath, a hot beer, and type "Fat kid" into youtube - the old rememdies work the best, I think.
On a side note, am I the only person who's tired of hearing Sean "Puppy" Combs rap about himself? C'mon Sean, let's branch out a little! How about a verse or two on Jesus, or Mexican food?
TGIF has finally caught up with me. I get off of work on Fridays, and I just have to party. Party party party. So, of course, I head over to TGI Friday's, where everybody knows my name (but not my real name). I got the onion garden, and the sweet n' sassy Cajun chicken lickers. Oh, man, do I regret it now.
I'm very seriously considering staying home from work today. A nice, warm bath, a hot beer, and type "Fat kid" into youtube - the old rememdies work the best, I think.
On a side note, am I the only person who's tired of hearing Sean "Puppy" Combs rap about himself? C'mon Sean, let's branch out a little! How about a verse or two on Jesus, or Mexican food?
7/26/07
A new look, for an old man.
I thought it was about time to shape things up on my myspace page. Everyone here has got naked pictures, and loud music, and crazy bullshit like that, and I hate to be left behind. I won't be left behind.
My simple knowledge of computers and programing turns out to be an ideal match with my taste for simple, bold design, which you can see. I opted, as I expect many of you guessed I would, for a pleasant "summer forest" motif. The theme could also accurately be termed "Elven Ranger," "Fairy Grove," or "Gay Woodsman."
In other news, it turns out that I don't need to get an artifial heart after all. Whew! What a relief. They were all out of ape hearts, so I was put on the short waiting list for a pig heart. Noble animals, I'm sure, but I doubt I'd get any sort of super powers from a damn pig heart. And it's nothing that would impress the ladies - I was all set to tell people that it was a lion heart, or a small lion heart. Plus, I hear that, once you have a pig heart, you have to give up eating pork, or the heart will force your body to reject it - out your mouth! Now, I know pork is what got me into this situation in the first place, but I was not about to give it up. Who starts their day without a bacon ham hamwich (the "Hogzilla")? Right. I didn't see any hands go up.
Anyhow, it's a moot point; turns out the whole thing was the result of a botched self-diagnosis. What I thought was heartburn was actually a burst battery in a LED Harry Potter pin I've been wearing. Also, if you can believe it, it turns out that "heartburn" has nothing to do with your heart being on fire, and is rarely fatal (as one would naturally expect, should your heart actualy catch fire).
Western Medicine, you and I have finally reached a fork in the road. Be sure to write.
My simple knowledge of computers and programing turns out to be an ideal match with my taste for simple, bold design, which you can see. I opted, as I expect many of you guessed I would, for a pleasant "summer forest" motif. The theme could also accurately be termed "Elven Ranger," "Fairy Grove," or "Gay Woodsman."
In other news, it turns out that I don't need to get an artifial heart after all. Whew! What a relief. They were all out of ape hearts, so I was put on the short waiting list for a pig heart. Noble animals, I'm sure, but I doubt I'd get any sort of super powers from a damn pig heart. And it's nothing that would impress the ladies - I was all set to tell people that it was a lion heart, or a small lion heart. Plus, I hear that, once you have a pig heart, you have to give up eating pork, or the heart will force your body to reject it - out your mouth! Now, I know pork is what got me into this situation in the first place, but I was not about to give it up. Who starts their day without a bacon ham hamwich (the "Hogzilla")? Right. I didn't see any hands go up.
Anyhow, it's a moot point; turns out the whole thing was the result of a botched self-diagnosis. What I thought was heartburn was actually a burst battery in a LED Harry Potter pin I've been wearing. Also, if you can believe it, it turns out that "heartburn" has nothing to do with your heart being on fire, and is rarely fatal (as one would naturally expect, should your heart actualy catch fire).
Western Medicine, you and I have finally reached a fork in the road. Be sure to write.
Hot butter, and the changing internet environment.
Well, the thumping pumping heart of Myspace is gone. That's right, Boytalk is dead.
Not so much dead as in another country, really. Although, considering that I can't remember which country, we'll say as good as dead. It's one of those countries with significantly shorter people, and significantly different technology. I think, maybe, it was Mongolia.
I don't recall, either, exactly what the intention was in going to this other country. To spread the word and genetic material of Boytalk, obviously, but beyond that... To teach, I expect. Boytalk is good at horseriding and building yurts, but so are the Mongolians, so I don't think it's either of those. I've seen Boytalk fit a whole fist into his mouth, but that isn't something you can teach.
I'm just not sure.
Anyhow, what about this weather?!!?
I thought we lived in Minnesota, not Mongolia, am I right? I swear I saw a pony die of thirst on my street today! My neighbors are the hungry type, though, (remember my gay neighbor?) so even if that wasn't a hallucination, I can't imagine that they'd leave a dead horse lying on the street for more than a few minutes.
Oh my God! Something wet just came out of my nose! I think it was water!
Not so much dead as in another country, really. Although, considering that I can't remember which country, we'll say as good as dead. It's one of those countries with significantly shorter people, and significantly different technology. I think, maybe, it was Mongolia.
I don't recall, either, exactly what the intention was in going to this other country. To spread the word and genetic material of Boytalk, obviously, but beyond that... To teach, I expect. Boytalk is good at horseriding and building yurts, but so are the Mongolians, so I don't think it's either of those. I've seen Boytalk fit a whole fist into his mouth, but that isn't something you can teach.
I'm just not sure.
Anyhow, what about this weather?!!?
I thought we lived in Minnesota, not Mongolia, am I right? I swear I saw a pony die of thirst on my street today! My neighbors are the hungry type, though, (remember my gay neighbor?) so even if that wasn't a hallucination, I can't imagine that they'd leave a dead horse lying on the street for more than a few minutes.
Oh my God! Something wet just came out of my nose! I think it was water!
7/18/07
Revenge, dogvenge
The last time I biker ran me over, I ran him over with my fist. I expect this doggy will do the same.
Please examine the evidence: evidence.
You know, it's a sad world where an effete kind of biker guy can do that to a dog. Or to me. That's why there needs to be fewer hospitals that take in bikers.
Please examine the evidence: evidence.
You know, it's a sad world where an effete kind of biker guy can do that to a dog. Or to me. That's why there needs to be fewer hospitals that take in bikers.
6/26/07
6/21/07
A sign from the gods!! Which god? Which do you think?
I hesitate to make claims like, "God favors me," but I will say this: God favors me.
How do I know? Because just yesterday I was sent a message from the gods, a message falling from the sky like an eagle screwing another eagle, or a flying rock that has suddenly fallen asleep mid-flight.
This message took the form of a mighty bird of prey, possible a sharp-shinned hawk, or, more possibly, a peregrine falcon! See? Can you feel the touch of the divine here?
Anyhow, I was out for a walk with my brother's dog, Laser, when from high above there came such a screeching and a cawing. Suddenly there was a mass of beak and feather on the sidewalk in front of me - a mighty falcon surrounded by lesser birds. The falcon and I shared a look of such intensity that, though it lasted only for a moment, volumes of wisdom were communicated. Which volumes? The Egyptian Book of The Dead, and the weirdo children's classic "The Neverending Story."
The short version of this was, basically: "Dandy, name the Childlike Empress, and save Fantasia from the Nothingness!"
Sometimes we call St. Paul "Fantasia."
And then the falcon took to wing once again, pursued by the garbage-birds (among them was a blue jay, the enemy of divine messages).
Can you help me? Can you save Fantasia before it's too late? June 27th is too late. Name the Childlike Empress. Name her (or, possibly, him) Pussywillow!
Oh, also, I looked into it, and I'm pretty sure the god in question is Horus.
6/6/07
Um, Pussywillow, Jagoffs.
Something occured to me this afternoon: the idea that every man (and some women, but mostly not) must leave something on this earth after they are gone - a mark, if you will, a legacy, a permanent scar, a song to be sung by the bards and folk singers of the future.
Actually, hopefully not folk singers, in my case. Folk singers are hippies, and I would sooner burn my fingernails off than have my name pass through the lips of a hippie.
Anyhow, the first step in creating my legacy to be the naming of a baby falcon. The falcon will be my helper and spiritual companion (after, of course, clever Fox). If you haven't read the bulletin post I recently made, go do that. If you have, well, just think of this as an excamation point.
Help me name this child falcon, this raptorling. Go to this link: http://www.smm.org/buzz/poll
and pick the name you know to be the falcon's true title (Pussywillow).
Now, I will almost certainly outlive this falcon (and if it isn't named Pussywillow, I will definitely outlive it, because, well, I know where the nest is), but falcon magic is an enduring magic, and I want some of it for my own.
And, should this dream come to pass, you will al be able to look into the Minnesota sky at the noble "Skree skree skree!" of a falcon, and think "Pussywillow!"
Oh, also, get your moms to vote too, if you can. I think I play well with the "mom" demographic.
Actually, hopefully not folk singers, in my case. Folk singers are hippies, and I would sooner burn my fingernails off than have my name pass through the lips of a hippie.
Anyhow, the first step in creating my legacy to be the naming of a baby falcon. The falcon will be my helper and spiritual companion (after, of course, clever Fox). If you haven't read the bulletin post I recently made, go do that. If you have, well, just think of this as an excamation point.
Help me name this child falcon, this raptorling. Go to this link: http://www.smm.org/buzz/poll
and pick the name you know to be the falcon's true title (Pussywillow).
Now, I will almost certainly outlive this falcon (and if it isn't named Pussywillow, I will definitely outlive it, because, well, I know where the nest is), but falcon magic is an enduring magic, and I want some of it for my own.
And, should this dream come to pass, you will al be able to look into the Minnesota sky at the noble "Skree skree skree!" of a falcon, and think "Pussywillow!"
Oh, also, get your moms to vote too, if you can. I think I play well with the "mom" demographic.
5/29/07
Sorry about, you know...
I know that a lot of you live, breath, and set your clocks to The Chesterton review, and I have to apologize for my tardiness of late.
The whole OFD thing makes focusing on the computer screen difficult, if not impossible, and, what's more, I have had two additional projects monopolizing my time lately:
1)The Frisky Science Monitor - I recently hired myself - that is to say, my alter ego, Frisky Chesterton - to write quasi-science related online diaries. So far I have debunked some myths about evolution (I don't know about you, but I'm not literally realted to any monkeys, at least that I know of), and put to rest the age old "nature versus nurture" debate. The answer: "narture."
2) Abusing myself in the shower - I don't want to get into it, but the whole thing takes time. What whole thing? Well, I'll say this: it's not fun.
The whole OFD thing makes focusing on the computer screen difficult, if not impossible, and, what's more, I have had two additional projects monopolizing my time lately:
1)The Frisky Science Monitor - I recently hired myself - that is to say, my alter ego, Frisky Chesterton - to write quasi-science related online diaries. So far I have debunked some myths about evolution (I don't know about you, but I'm not literally realted to any monkeys, at least that I know of), and put to rest the age old "nature versus nurture" debate. The answer: "narture."
2) Abusing myself in the shower - I don't want to get into it, but the whole thing takes time. What whole thing? Well, I'll say this: it's not fun.
5/17/07
Your Prize, Dear Reader
Well, I am, if nothing else, a man of my word.
Mice have been clicked exactly 1001 times on the Chesterton Review, and, as promised, I have a prize for the 1000th clicker. You know who you are.
Everyone else, please do not view the rest of this entry. It's not for you.
No.
But, you, my 1000th friend, you receive the great pleasure and privilege of a sneak peak at my upcoming photo exhibition, "The New Gods."
Sure, it's only a few pictures, but I think it gives a general impression of things to come. The subject of these photos, is, of course, Frisky Chesterton, the New God himself.
"Ride of The New God"
"Soup of The New God"
and, finally, "The Gods at War" (Frisky not pictured)
Mice have been clicked exactly 1001 times on the Chesterton Review, and, as promised, I have a prize for the 1000th clicker. You know who you are.
Everyone else, please do not view the rest of this entry. It's not for you.
No.
But, you, my 1000th friend, you receive the great pleasure and privilege of a sneak peak at my upcoming photo exhibition, "The New Gods."
Sure, it's only a few pictures, but I think it gives a general impression of things to come. The subject of these photos, is, of course, Frisky Chesterton, the New God himself.
"Ride of The New God"
"Soup of The New God"
and, finally, "The Gods at War" (Frisky not pictured)
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