Last night in an Art History class we had to come up with a self-portrait that wasn’t a photograph or drawing of ourselves…we basically had to make something. Some people made a collage, several painted a scene, a few students chose to sketch an image. Several amazing discoveries were made as the braver people in the class shared their self-portraints with everyone.

One girl (a fashion design major) made a small rag doll that wasn’t smiling. “People randomly come up to me and tell me I should smile. I hate it. I hate them.” She proceeded to say that she did not consider herself an “in-depth” person. To sum up her time in front of the class, she announced that she detested random joy, is shallow, and can’t find shirts that make it all the way down to her pants.

Another female stood up in front of everyone and displayed a picture she had designed with markers. It was sort of a spiral, with some religious symbols near the top. “I hate all religion,” she put forth, “and I wish it never existed.” She also pointed out the cigarette in the far left hand corner which could not be extinguished. She explained, “I’ve been smoking for 9 years and have wanted to quit for 6.”

What is this post about? IDQ’s soul mates? No. I just wanted to tell someone about those females, and that someone has become you. Stop handing out those black and orange chewy candies, they have always sucked.

Let me first say that Sheppo’s post was hilarious. Moving on….Ladies and gentlemen, over 500 years ago in 1492, on this very day of October 31, Columbus set sail from Spain in three ships — the Nike, the Pinto, and the Hannah-Barbera. Columbus and his fellow “adventurers,” as they liked to be called but never were, set off to follow the star of Bethlehem to lead them to a new trade route to the east, where the angel Jehovah told them they would find a newborn King. “That’s fucking ridiculous!” Columbus told the angel, “I’m going to America.”

And go to America he did, where upon reaching shore, the “adventurers” all fell ill to the plague, which was entirely the fault of a bunch of drunken natives. So, they all slept and ate chicken soup for 40 days and 40 nights, only to emerge healthy in the spring. Upon waking, they began a new tradition wherein they hid food from eachother because it was so scarce. They only had eggs back then, as the continent was overrun with chickens, so they took to festively dying their eggs, and then hiding them all over the house where they could forget about them and be plagued by the rotten smell several months down the line. When children complained that they were hungry, the adventurers would tell them that a large magical “easter bunny” would eventually bring them food. The children believed this, because children are fucking morons.

So, the adventurers worked hard all summer, and eventually decided they should have “labor day” in honor of all their hard work, so they all loaded up on budweiser and got DUI’s. As a peace offering the native americans came to the labor day festival bearing “menorahs,” which they were unable to light, being that all the “adventurers” had so far been too stupid to invent fire.

But before anyone knew it, Halloween had rolled around again, and they had been in America for a year. Three days before Halloween, they invented a day called “black friday,” on which they ritualistically crucified 4.2 million native americans. When the day of Halloween came, the remaining Native Americans dressed up in elaborate costumes, and went door to door giving candy to the adventurers. Soon, the adventurers too were dressed in eleborate costumes, dancing around the bonfire yelling “I am the lizard king.” The candy was called “peyote,” and it has remained a Halloween tradition ever since. And that, boys and girls, is the story of halloween.

The hilarity of it all just hit me. Here I am in Auburn High School, supposedly in a position of authority, surrounded by 16 and 17 year-olds playing fucking rattler race and 3d pinball and I don’t want to do a damn thing about it. I’m sitting in one of those broke-ass office chairs that nine out of ten college graduates will eventually end up occupying for thirty years before retiring and leading the life of a door mat and all to the tune of $76 a day. And why…? Because I graduated.

I know that seems to be all I can talk about in my few and scattered posts but the comedic value of an undergrad degree cannot be understated. Just the fact that I’m sitting here posting on a website of Dank’s reputation while simultaneously playing figure-head in a high school computer lab makes me…well..smile. l8z.

1) Since I’ve lived here there have been three earthquakes and it rained one time. One of the three earthquakes was today, along with the rain, which lasted for about 6 minutes. Now, we all know that math is the devil’s work, but I’ll dabble in the black art for a moment to make a point: If this trend holds true we’ll have three more earthquakes before I see rain again. Or, perhaps better stated, on any given day I’m three times more likely to be in the general vicinity of an earthquake than I am to feel raindrops on my scarred head.

2) According to popular rumor, prior to sept. 11th a man from Afghanistan wrote a letter to his girlfriend in the states warning her to stay off of airplanes on the 11th and to avoid malls on Halloween. Now, if anyone reading this is familiar with so-cal you’ll know that if the second half of this most likely fictional letter holds true, I’m as good as dead. All there are here are malls. I can see a baker’s dozen from my window, and I’m honestly not exaggerating that much.

3) I was in class during the third game of the World Series earlier, but decided to tape it. When I got home I discovered that I messed up the whole thing and taped NBC, not FOX (Yes, I have a degree in this sorta shit but still cock-up my VCR). I watched some of the tape anyway, and discovered what is perhaps the most cryptic message of all: There is a sitcom on a major network titled and starring Emeril. I think I had heard this before, but until I saw it for myself I’m not sure it clearly registered. If this isn’t an apocalyptic sign, than I don’t know what is. Forget boiling rivers, bears from the north, and skies filled with horsemen, an Emeril sitcom that undoubtedly has a team of writers, several producers, and multiple companies paying hundreds of thousand of dollars for commercial time is far more frightening and foretelling of impending doom and destruction than any mere earthquake, Afghani terrorist, or Biblical text. Personally, if this bastardization of the medium I so love and look to for friendship, comfort, and sexual delight is not cancelled within the next month, I’ll be forced to take my own life in order to right the wrong that would be the last four years of my existence centered around the study (and viewing) of said medium.

So if this is it for me, I’ll miss you all. And Bunk, I leave you my glasses. Lates.

World Series 2K2 for Dreamcast is quite a fun game, and going several weeks in an unbeaten streak against Sneetch was fun, amusing, and a small power trip. But as your Aunt Susan knows, all small power trips eventually must end with a dismembered corpse in the basement and blown up latex gloves. Last night Sneetch beat me, something like 9-6, and if it hadn’t been for the cheap 3-run home run he hit (a slider that polished his shoes), the game would’ve been tied and likely won by myself in the final innings.

I was playing as the Astros, which explains a lot…or does it. I hate the Astros, but does this imply some sort of self-hate that I’m only beginning to see? If Takey played as the Astros everything would be a lot clearer. That velcro-shoe obsessed boy-toddler. The truth be told, I admire Takey. He dated that girl who is probably reading this right now, you know who you are. Well anyway, I don’t admire him for dating her, I admire him for not dating her anymore, because that had to suck the rusty metal teat. No offense.

And so the week winds to a close…I can’t think of anything more appropriate.

So, incase you haven’t heard, I get paid a high amount for a job I am unqualified for. Namely desktop support at a downtown, not for profit law firm. Here is a list of things I have done in the last two months besides cashed my paychecks.

-Loaded paper into the CEO’s “broken” printer
-”Installed” speakers to someone’s computer
-Fixed a computer that “wouldn’t work” because a disk was in while they were trying to start it up
-taken long lunch breaks twice daily
-tested 4 broken printers to ensure their brokenness
-taken a free cab to another office to pick up a donated printer circa 1984.
-Bought an $8 jacket at Old Navy while on this trip
-Threw out the printer as soon as I got back to work.
-Prayed that there will never be a real problem I am asked to fix
-Mastered use of the coffee machine
-Printed up things for school, my website and fun
-Wrote this post.

I would like to share with you all the conversation with which I began my morning at work. Bear in mind that my office mate, MK, is 38 and has several children. These kinds of conversations are pretty typical.

MK enters room.
MK: You suck.
me: Blow me.
MK: Blow yourself. How you doin’ bitch?
me: Fuck you.
MK: So did flying suck cuz of all this bullshit?
me: Not any worse than it usually does. The airlines are fucking morons.
MK: You’re a fucking moron.
me: Your wife seems to like me.
MK: Fuck you, I’m getting a Danish. (exits room)

This story has been floating around a little, so please indulge me if you’ve heard it before. When I told it to Bunk not so long ago he asked me to write it as a post, so that’s what you’re reading. Why he asked I’m not sure, except that my misery and shortcomings as a psuedo-adult male seem to bring a certain sense of pleasure and comfort to many, most likely including you. So, prepare to indulge in the following recount of my patheticness.

First, the setting: Picture a typical campus garage. Now picture me walking down a few flights of stairs, glancing to the left, and noticing a pair of undergraduate girls trying to change a flat tire. If you know me, you’re now picturing me walking away quickly, cowering, as I did that day. After about 10 minutes of conducting business, I returned to the garage and took another look at the girls, fully intending to again pass them by. But this time, we made eye contact. I was sucked in.

Now, a description of the girls: Picture two so-cal sophomores ripe for the pages of Playboy’s Girls of the PAC 10. Now, imagine these attractive, wonderfully slutty young women being beaten by a “stupid stick” to within a few inches of death. Then, get them loaded on several pints of “Spoiled Girl Brew,” and you have a pretty clear idea of their physical and mental make-ups. I shouldn’t have to tell you that I instantly hated them both, yet, unexplainably felt an urge to do dirty, ungodly things to their bodies right then and there and for many months to come. Granted, I would have hated myself for it, but eventually my dam of sexual repression must brake, and how and why it does is not necessarily up to me.

So, after taking 45 minutes to change their tire (half of that time spent trying to figure out the jack, the other half staring stealthily down embarrassingly revealing tank tops) I was given a rare gift not often bestowed to a boy-man of my stature: an invitation to what sounded like a hell of a party. It was to involve both of them and several of their “girlfriends from their floor”. I accepted, by giving one of the girls my phone number upon her request. She would call me the next day, and tell me where and when to meet them.

Thus, I walked off as a hero; a future conqueror of sexual empires previously only studied in periodicals such as the one mentioned above… But, there was one problem. 15 testosterone fueled paces from the girls, something “clicked” in my head. It was the painful realization that the phone number I had just given was in fact, completely and totally wrong. There would be no call, no party, no awe-inspiring sexual conquests. Nothing.

Well, let me now sum-up by attempting to put this all in perspective. Several months ago I graduated summa cum laude, and in a few years I’ll receive a terminal college degree, in theory enabling me to prof-o-size at universities across the country. Yet, I can’t remember the values or order of a simple seven-digit string of numbers assigned to my life. Therefore, it’s fair to say that I am, in reality, utterly inept, ever-repressed, and in many respects, downright stupid.

This is an excerpt from some news site somewhere. Anyone who has spent any time serving their country in a foreign land should be able to relate to this fear. I knew that little shit was up to something this whole time.

In an article titled “Psychological warfare waged in Afghanistan,” writer Emma Young noted that psychological operations — PsyOps, in military parlance –could backfire, sometimes spectacularly.

Young cited, for example, attempts by Iraq’s Saddam Hussein to demoralize U.S. troops during the 1991 Gulf War. While they were away fighting, Iraqi broadcasts warned, movie stars like Bart Simpson were seducing the troops’ sweethearts.

Yeah, beware you brave souls…..Whose shorts are getting eaten now?

If I possessed 3 nuts, I would speak up. I’d punch a few people in the face. I might even punch you in the face. That Colleen Haskell guy? Yeah, one ball. One poorly functioning nut, which unfortunately is asked to test its limits 4 times a day. Oddly, the same number of times “The Animal” plays on that guy’s poorly functioning VCR.

If I had 3 nuts, I’d have a rolodex. And one of those pens that you can choose from like 4 different colors of ink. Wait, those pens suck. The only lower-quality item is fake teeth, like the kind your mom takes out before peeling an orange.

Other Words for Balls Submitted by Dank Staff
man-chow
jewels (the person)
meatballs
love nutz
Y99-2000 fiscal year
treasure
cashews
sillies
genital subcommittee
round trout
sack lunch
turtle teeth
side dish
gonads
flesh casserole
ulee’s gold

Topic for next post: If Sneetch Had 2 Good Posts in a Row…