disarm the settlers, the new drunk drivers

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I'm A Douchebag (or) Annual Advice Giving, 2008   
01:00pm 27/03/2008
mood: All Encompassing
Annual FREE ADVICE! Ask me any question of any subject, and you will receive my UTMOST WISDOM. Pure, piping hot wisdom. Not recommended for pregnant fathers.
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05:52pm 09/10/2007
  Andrew Richards sat on the bus looking at his apple. Barely half eaten and already he was sick of it. After some consideration, he took another bite for the sake of thrift. He felt compelled to finish. Beside him a 3-bean burrito sat enveloped in a plastic bag, wrapped carefully as if containing some secret. He had purchased it for his dog. The creature in question was a dark brown canine of indeterminate breed, something like a Giant Schnauzer mixed with a German Shepherd. Andrew had forgotten its name. All he knew was that the dog had demanded his services, and he was now on a bus heading home with a burrito sitting neatly by his feet and still emanating a delicate heat.

It was only Tuesday, and this was the third order of the week. Inexplicably, Andrew could not remember when the commands began but he knew that at first they were simply inclinations; he would glance at the dog during a mindless half-hour of television and a warm viscous feeling would slip over his mind. Throwing on his coat, he would leave to complete some arbitrary task . Most of the time he simply purchased an item of food but other times he would perform a peculiar errand. Andrew would find himself knocking over newspaper dispensers or scratching inane messages into the walls of alleys near his apartment.

After a number of these excursions, Andrew found that the dog would speak to him. A premonitory feeling would fill his lungs during the daytime and between the hours of 8 P.M. and 4 A.M. the creature orated. It would simply look at Andrew and abruptly an odd yelping voice over a background of hissing static would fill his mind. Sometimes he could not understand the language but at times he could isolate snippets of words. After several minutes the sounds turned to ceaseless gibbering or slurping, and sometimes very regular words and phrases would fall from the storm of sound without any indication of reason. Often Andrew would have to leave the apartment to seek refuge in a nearby park where the sounds were, while still audible, considerably muffled.

The sound of hissing air from the bus doors prompted Andrew to gather his things and step off the bus. Avoiding a large puddle, he walked steadily down the sidewalk. It had rained recently, and the world was still mostly damp. The dark flora that congregated in neat squares by the buildings stuck their dripping limbs into Andrew's path. Avoiding these perils with practiced movements, Andrew entered the gate of his ruined apartment complex and proceeded to his condominium on the first floor.

Stepping into the darkness of his living room, Andrew heard the carpet give water under the weight of his shoes. This was likely the cause of a leak from upstairs. He touched the wall switch and an ornately outmoded ceiling lamp colored the walls with amber. The dog sat breathing heavily in the corner, tongue out, eyes fixed on the plastic bundle swaying in Andrew's hand. The ceiling was dry, and the carpet seemed to be wet with a tinted liquid. Setting the burrito on the glass of the cocktail table in front of him, he flicked the light off. A sick warmth spilled from his left ear, and as the buzzing yelps started he could hear the dog stumbling against the furniture in the darkness.
10:04am 05/10/2007
  What's the deal with people who not only fail to move out of the way but walk into my path when I'm heading towards them on my skateboard? It's like they have some kind of death wish or a bizarre skateboarding vendetta. Maybe these sad individuals suffered some kind of childhood trauma associated with boarding-- perhaps their parents died while executing sweet aerials, or maybe that strange uncle of theirs who liked to play uncomfortable "games" happened to be a Tony Hawk impersonator. Either way, these people are idiots, because if and when I crash into somebody whilst speeding down a hill, both of us will suffer. You hear that, idiots? If you cause my fall, so help me god I will bring you down with me.

This one time while riding down bancroft, a guy in a wheelchair actually swerved to hit me. I could see the malice in his eyes. I'm not sure what that was about, but some part of my mind feels like he was bitter about me being able-bodied enough to skateboard.

Guilty too are those who weave about in an ambiguous manner, unsure of which direction to go. Pick one, dammit! I will go the other direction. I would not skateboard without my full working vision. Just pick one side, and I swear everything will be okay-- simply refrain from lingering in my direct path as if trying to select a brand of cereal from an invisible grocery aisle.

Thank you, that is all.
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Alan's Cooking Corner: Tofu   
11:19pm 10/09/2007
  Ah, tofu. The little albino kid of the culinary arts. You ever have that one kid in elementary school that couldn't stay in the sun too long without catching the cancer? Tofu is like that.

Tofu comes slithering out of the airtight little box that you purchased it in with a loud slurp and falls onto your plate, quivering with anticipation at the wonders to come. It is possibly one of the most enthusiastic of the basic foodstuffs. Most ingredients just sort of sit around and expect you to do all the work, but not tofu. Tofu understands. Tofu's amicability is only rivaled by that of its colored cousin Jello, who's good with kids but isn't afraid to party it up now and then either. What's flan? Flan is mulatto. Flan is that obnoxious mixed kid who thinks calling himself hapa is a good substitute for a sense of ethnic collusion. Ha! Yeah, I went there. Don't be mad though hapa kids. I'm just kidding. We still cool, right?

Anyhow, Tofu is not afraid to experiment. Just look at what sort of kinky and unusual maneuvers Tofu allows its soft, supple ivory flesh to be subjected to by health food enthusiasts. Tofu is the willing slave to your romps in the kitchen. Don't close the door. Tofu isn't afraid to show off a little.

Standing firm or sliding all over the place, young and nubile or old and fetid in an oddly arousing manner, dining's bean-based ally has more uses than you realize. Now before you go shoving your junk into a steaming platter of Szechuan Tofu, I want you to recall that hot meals and genitals don't mix-- you should have learned this from watching American Pie. Treat your tofu right in the kitchen. Remember, picking bits of food out of your orfices isn't fun unless you're sadomasochistically inclined or if you happen to have your neighbor's dog handy. Cook safe, citizen.
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Love is...   
04:08pm 07/01/2007
mood: loved
Hello, sky-children. Today I'm here to talk to you about love. All kinds of love. I bet lots of you think that love is hard to define. Well it isn't. I'll show you with these incisively creative descriptions reminiscent of those given by stupid people when asked to define love.

Love is like, when you put on an old hat, especially a red fedora, and when you put it on, the edges collapse a little, and it reminds you of the time you went fishing with your father, who was a parapalegic, and you had to hook up the worm to his line and put the rod in his hands because of his cerebral palsy, and you spent the next two hours wondering how he ever impregnated your mother in the first place, and then five hours later you go home with nothing because you were fishing at the city water sanitation center where you work eight excruciating hours a day for pennies. That's what love is. a red fedora at sunset.

Or love is when you're singing "Come Sail Away" by Styx with your soul mate, and when you get to the totally bitchin' guitar intro, you break into an awesome air guitar solo as your lover makes electric guitar solo noises with her mouth.

Love is when you're willing to give up everything you've ever wanted, including love itself, just to be with a person that you love. You have to be willing to give up the person you love, or else it doesn't count as love. How could you give up the love of your life? It's the power of love. You know? If you love them, let them go. Let them go. god dammit. god DAMMIT.

Love is sweet, like that Welch's grape juice that's left over in the fridge too long but not long enough to grow bacterial strains strong enough to decimate a population of africans. It's a little bitter, of course-- you have to expect a little bitterness in love*wipes tears away*. You have to make sacrifices, sky children. Sometimes things don't work out the way they want you to and restraining orders can get really ugly.

Love is gazing into her eyes and knowing that you want to be with her forever, except one of her eyes is kinda lazy and it's going off to the side, sorta towards that fucking musclehead at the next table, and then you're filled with feelings of inadequacy and you start feeling a little mad, and then you flirt with the waitress and you accidentally say 'yes honeymittens' when she asks you if you're ready for dessert.

Love is a bar of soap. It's like the soap on the top of the water during a bath, the brand with the air bubbles in it, not the cheap stuff. That's cause it floats. It RISES ABOVE ALL THINGS! You'll bend over to pick up that soap, because it's love. Love in soap. Soap in love. Soap is made from tallow, which is like candles, which are romantic in any given situation(except funerals). So pick up that soap. Bend over, pick up that soap, and just accept the love.

Love is like that old pencil that you keep on the bottom of your desk drawer, that pencil that has chewmarks all over it and the eraser doesn't work anymore, and when you try to erase things it smudges things up. It's like that pencil, because that pencil just carries on and on no matter how dark things gets. It's short, but it's strong, you understand me? It's strong, god dammit. Don't you understand? Don't you see?

Love is being able to accurately predict the current location of your lover to an accuracy of five feet.

"a pleasure that feels most exhilarating at its climax, but may cause walking hard to do the next morning" -- allen jiang
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Good Science Fiction Novels   
10:59pm 09/05/2006
mood: thoughtful
Cytosine and Guanine are Soulmates
Synopsis: In a distant future where humanity is sick of failed relationships, people find soulmates by engineering them out of DNA taken from their own gallbladders. However, in a daring rebellion against the societal norm, one couple comes together through the entroptic ways of "natural" romance and they run off to a tropical island near the North Pole to pursue true love, love long lost to man.

Epilogue: Five years later the mavericks seperate in disgust, and everyone else is happy with their clones, and the clones that aren't happy make their own clones. Romantic deprivation is unheard of.

Moral: Familiarity breeds contempt, but not children*, cause in the future, they have birth control.

A Deepest Red
Synopsis: In an undisclosed location in the near future, government is comprised of the highest ranking clergy of the Church of Crimson Glory. A young upstart priest questions his faith and escapes the totalitarian lifestyle, fasting in the forest for 100 days. He creates a new religion, and inflitrates the main Temple of Crimson Glory in search of their mind control device, which turns out to be a lump of stone with "Mind Control Device" written in red ink on it.

Epilogue: As The Young Upstart Priest sets out to reform the government, the world ends in a fiery blaze and it turns out that there was no afterlife anyway, save for a great big pile of lemon scones. The dead don't have digestive systems.

Moral: Red is the color of Satan. That's an a dead giveaway, people.

Iron Heart, Soft Underbelly

Synopsis: In the future, human development is changing rapidly as nanobiotechnology paves a way towards a new race of humanity integrated with self-reproducing nano-robotics that transfer themselves from parent to child. A minority of individuals protest this, and gear up with super laser-weapons for what they believe will be a Robot-Human vs. Full-Human War.

Epilogue: The Full-Humans get tired of waiting and attack. With the newly applied ability to create a force field by constricting one's gallbladder, the Robot-Humans defeat the Full-Humans before teatime. They had lemon scones.

Moral: Upgrade your gallbladder.

A Monstrous Intellect

Synopsis: Illegal experiments with genetics create a superbaby that is simultaneously extremely intelligent and extremely ugly. Within the first five years of his life, the mutant child cures all known human diseases, creates the ideal economic system, and creates a viable plan to end human suffering. The very fabric of the human condition is torn asunder.

Epilogue: People get tired of looking at the superbaby, who is really hard on the eyes. They forget that he exists and he starves to death five minutes before determining a method to reverse the steady increase in universal entropy as to prevent the universe from suffering eventual heat death. Scientists start work on making hotter, sexier babies.

Moral of the Story: Ugly people are gross.

I hope you've learned something today.

*Joke lifted from my sister.
It's All About Sucking Ass   
11:45am 17/04/2006
mood: tired
Yesterday night I watched "It's All About Love." That film was the most incomprehensible, masturbatory work I have ever seen. It was essentially the director's running social commentary thrown into an ineptly written screenplay. Great cinematography though.

So it goes something like this: Joaquin Phoenix is some guy in 2021 telling about the seven days before he dies. He goes to the airport to sign divorce papers with that chick from Terminator 3, but she isn't there. Meanwhile, people all over New York are dropping dead in the streets from loneliness and nobody gives half a shit. Joaquin runs around, holding awkward conversations with his soon-to-be ex-wife while africans in Ugunda? either starve to death, freeze to death, or suddenly stop experiencing the effects of gravity. Shenanigans occur as the chick from Terminator 3 ends up having 3 other body...doubles?(like Saddam Hussein) that are later assassinated by a totally cool 50-something hitman with fedora who looks like he's straight out of the early 1940s.

While all of this shit happens, the world is freezing over and Sean Penn, Phoenix's brother, inexplicably rambles on about poignant meaningless bullshit about loneliness, love, and global disasters into a broken cellphone while he flies in a plane that cannot land because of reasons hardly explored. Cut to the end: dozens of Africans float into the air tied on strings because they all personally lost the force of earth's gravity. People, please: if the force of gravity stopped working for you, you'd be thrown off the face of the earth. That string isn't going to do shit.

The night before I watched Mr. and Mrs. Smith, which was a heavy-handed, unclever piece of mainstream film that can only be described as totally bullshit. That's about it.

Semi-Annual Advice Giving

Ask me any question, and I will share with you my sage advice. You can go ahead and leave it anonymous if it's some kind of delicate question. Pussy.
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