The Cosmological Constant

Mexican Water Pirate

2007-05-03T22:38:00.000-05:00

I am a pre-school teacher now, and sometimes I draw pictures with the kids. Usually I ask them what they want me to draw, pressing them for specific details. So far this is everyone's favorite, the mexican water pirate. They dictated every detail in the following image: his profession, his garb, his moustache.

We ( I) liked it so much that we (I) hung it up on the cabinet door, the class art gallery. This week they decided to draw their own mexican water pirates.

He had a face, but it got colored red.

The brown things coming off the head? Moustache.

Again, had a face, colored it blue.

PIRTE

Those might be birds, but they just as well might be M's.

This one seems to cover the source material the most faithfully.

fuck yes

2007-02-23T18:41:00.000-06:00

fuck yes, originally uploaded by Blue_beard.

If I wrote you a symphony

2007-02-18T17:31:00.000-06:00

If I wrote you a symphony, originally uploaded by Blue_beard.

daydream believer

2006-10-06T00:12:00.000-05:00

daydream believer, originally uploaded by Blue_beard.

Oh retail, you make me feel like a surly 17 year old again.

the frank brigade

2006-10-02T23:53:00.000-05:00

the frank brigade, originally uploaded by Blue_beard.

Jane Austin

2006-10-02T01:29:00.000-05:00

Jane Austin, originally uploaded by Blue_beard.

papa porcus

2006-09-30T21:46:00.000-05:00

papa porcus, originally uploaded by Blue_beard.

I didn't really do this with the intention of being offensive, it was a reference to a painting by bosch. But, eh...let me offend the rest of you while i'm at it.

Red-headed mexican jewish negro liberal. With Lupus. Falling into the blades of a helicopter.

Dice games

2006-09-14T22:19:00.000-05:00

I was reading a post about beer pong a few minutes ago, and I remembered this shit ass drinking game we played in college. It was called boxhead, and it was a dice game (but it was also a box game). I can't remember all the rules, but there are a few things I do know. First, and painfully foremost, was the box in question. If you rolled an 11 or 12, you had to put the box on your head, and everyone HAD to refer to you as boxhead. We were adamant on this point. The box was about this big:
But the box didn't have any kittens in it. Holy shit, the game would be so much worse if it was called box-with-5-kittens-in-it-head. Oh god, the scratching, the mewling. But I digress.

When the box was on your head, you had to drink whenever anyone else had to drink, which was what every other roll of the dice made various other players do. Like circle of death, every roll had its own appropriate drinking command. But it wasn't bad enough that the boxhead had to drink at a near continuous pace - no - people took to slapping and hitting the boxhead, and throwing things at you, because in your tiny cardboard prison you were completely unaware of your surroundings, and thusly unable to defend yourself in any appreciable manner. You were only able to be freed of boxhead status when another player rolled an 11 or 12, and was forced into the box.

Once someone threw a baseball at me while I was the boxhead, and it was awful. Not threw as in nolan ryan wind up with your leg all hiked up and your hat pulled low kind of throw, but more of a relaxed overhand lob. However, not being able to dodge or react in any way to being struck by a baseball makes it oh so much worse, even when you are armed with some handy corrugated helmetry. I'm pretty sure the resulting violence put an end to my collegiate boxhead career. For the record, boxhead was a much more rewarding game than beer pong. Instead of competition and some level of rudimentary skill building to go along with your drinking, boxhead gave you a tiny dash of humiliation and a big ole' heaping slice of beat the shit out of that guy with a box on his head, which is delightfully cathartic.

Conversations I am being paid very little to have

2006-09-12T10:07:00.000-05:00

ME: Hello, thank you for calling, what can I help you with?
HER: Hi, I'm looking for a book, and it's called having moose for dinner.
ME: What sort of moose are we talking about here?
HER: Huh?
ME: Moose the animal, or mousse the food?
HER: Y'know, like a moose.
ME: Moose as in the 4 legged moose animal who lives in the forest and may or may not have antlers, or mousse as in the tasty chocolate dessert food which you would eat after a meal.
HER: Oh! The animal.

And the best part? The book in question was a picture book for children teaching them about homophones with silly pictures of misunderstood words.

Basement time!

2006-09-03T17:44:00.000-05:00

A short tour of my basement, in which the things that are too ugly for company to see have been banished by the boo. Now, I realize fully that these things are ugly, and aren't appropriate for display purposes unless you're living inside of a piece of furniture, or under a large pile of moving blankets. But I still want them up somewhere, for some reason. Case in point:

This is the Egypt rug. It isn't a rug at all, but a wall hanging. It looks and feels remarkably like a rug in all ways. But it isn't one, according to the maker. It is a wall hanging. Look at it, gaze deep within Tutankhamen's mysteries, feel his deep and inviting Knapp. mmmmmmm.
But seriously, this thing sucks. And I love it.

Next we have the horse. This is even more mystifying to me than the rug, because at least the rug has some sort of camp value going for it. But this is clearly mass produced faux-art asscrap. And yet, in the basement it rests, be-necklaced and under my domestic immunity. I think the only reason the horse hasn't been at the root of a more serious conflict is because of the existence of the monkey.

The monkey is this little gorilla statue thing I have had since college. It looks something like this:
I have no idea what, if any, the original purpose of this thing was. At one point I thought it may be a very fancy candle, because I found what looked to be a wick on his head, under his hat. But it turned out to be metal, leaving me at square one. It had a sign that said party time, and a wicker hat, and a tiny can of beer. It is smoking a corn cob pipe, and looking very content. When I got it, I had no idea what to do with it, so it became my incense burner. I just put the sticks of incense in the tiny can he was holding, and viola. Over the years it has lost most of its accessories, and has slowly become covered in ash, dust and grime.

The reason that I made a drawing of the monkey, instead of showing a photo is because the monkey is currently hidden. It all started when I hid it in boo's pillow-case, because I knew that she hated it with a fervor. So she responded by putting it in my sock drawer, and so on for a few months. But I have hidden it so well, so carefully, that it has stayed dormant for at least 6 months, maybe 10. In this down time, I am fairly certain that an on sight death warrant has been issued for poor Mr. Monkey statue.

I will defend to the death my half of the rights to the decoration of our home, and I will do so on the battle ground whose name is party time gorilla.

Bibelgeschichten

2006-09-01T00:12:00.000-05:00

--Click for full size--

Jonah played, and asked if Detroit was ready to rock.

Dr. Dan explained that this flask was full of acid, and if he didn't pour it on an intern he would lose his tenure.

Candles for headlights? check.

2006-08-29T22:35:00.000-05:00

Learn-o-pedia

2006-08-29T00:06:00.000-05:00

While searching for leads on some old acquaintances, I came across the wikipedia article about my high school. In addition to some sort of semi-professional wrestler (Not the kind who may go to the Olympics one day, the kind who get hit with fake chairs, and have feuds and shit) my class gave rise to a player on the Indianapolis Colts. I knew this kid in first grade, maybe second. In high school he went on to be a pretty good football player, and his dad was a famous bears player. I guess it makes sense that he would go on to be a pro football player, what with his amazing pedigree, but it was surprising to see nonetheless. The only thing I remember about him was that he was at my house one time, and I was really upset that my favorite cup (a sweet ass sippy cup) accidentally got melted in the dishwasher, and he made me feel better. I think he made me feel better by insinuating that the dishwasher was an idiot. Tearfully, I agreed.

the guru

2006-08-28T02:52:00.000-05:00

historias de la biblia

2006-08-25T17:50:00.000-05:00

-- Click for full size --
Out of nowhere these werewolves beat Joseph, stripped off his fancy coat and pushed him into a 55-gallon drum.

That night while Samnson slept, the Philistine guards easily captured him, because he was a rabbit.

BIBLE STORIES!

2006-08-16T20:28:00.000-05:00

--Click for full size--Mega-man was now the Israelite's champion, and he led them for twenty years.

Daniel was a born gambler. When the king of babylon's army conquered the city, he showed those bitches how to play cards.

Bible stories

2006-08-11T10:44:00.000-05:00

--click for full size--

Daniel loved god very much and prayed three times a day. The next time he prayed, he was still nervous about the skeleton.

alive and stupid

2006-08-07T17:04:00.000-05:00

Night is an unusually frightening time of day for me, as far as times of day go. Maybe It would be better if I had low light vision. Maybe not. I think the real problem is an overactive imagination. Things become louder at night, especially when I am alone in my bed. Little creaks - little noises. I bet people who get killed at night brush off noises like that, and then they feel really stupid while they are being killed. But I feel stupid every time I hear a squeak and go to the front door to make sure that when I got up 20 minutes ago to check and make sure if the door was locked, that I locked the door. Stupid either way, but at least I'm alive, you sorry murdered bastards.

bible stories

2006-08-05T17:57:00.000-05:00

--click for full size--

Jacob was the terminator. One night Gallagher came down from heaven to kill him.

God was worried that Abraham loved being a clown more then he loved God, so he had to dress up like a wrestler and punch him several times

One very short story

2006-07-31T09:40:00.000-05:00

The extremely short version of why I am home from summer camp early, and now have to look for a job in a car with no air conditioning* while the heat index is 80. Centigrade:
My boss was a fuck and I was being paid 3 dollars an hour.

* more accurately, I am looking for a job WITH an A/C-less car. It would be even shittier if I was looking for a new job inside of a broken car.

So today I will start with bookstores and slowly make my way down the job foodchain until I get hired somewhere. Not that bookstores are at the top of the job foodchain or anything. What would be at the top of the job foodchain? hmmmm. Professional nap taker. Minister of delivering well needed kicks to the groin. Licensed receiver of being cooled by virgins gently waving palm fronds at you, and maybe eating some grapes right off the stem, but only if your Excellency feels like it.

Bible stories 3

2006-06-17T18:06:00.000-05:00

--Click for full size--

Day after day, blind and in pain, Samson carried this giant lamp around.
Why? He did not know.

Zartan had killed a wild animal. He was upset and mourned for his innocence for many years.

Inside, they saw Daniel sitting calmly with the lions, unharmed. He told Darius that God had married him and this lion. So to hell with you, and your looks of disapproval.

This one is done by the boo-chop.

Finally he fell in the kitchen, very tired, and air guitared to himself singing, "If I saw you in heaven" by Eric Clapton. His mom was not impressed.

CAMP

2006-06-15T10:16:00.000-05:00

Camp is an addictive place to be. I went out to camp last Thursday, to visit the boo (the chop) and everyone else I know and love there. I just got home last night. See, when you don't have a job, everything becomes a possibility. What? Stay another day? Well, I don't see why not. So, if I was being a bum, spending all my time at camp while looking for a job in only the most theoretical of ways, then why not just work there? I will. I'm going to be a cook at camp for the rest of the summer. Hooray! I get to see my lady every day, and I get to be at my favorite place in the whole world.

See, at camp things are different. I've always been different from many of the people I have met, either too verbose, too loud, too open with my opinions, too intense for their tastes. But at camp people enjoy my company for all those reasons. I act exactly how I feel the most comfortable acting, and everyone there likes me for it. No fronts, no holding back. I get to be full force fuzz. It's fucking incredible to have people hold you in a high regard for exactly the same things you pride yourself on.

So. I'll be gone the rest of the summer, save a day a week. Here is a small list of what comes to mind as I think about camp.
-No expenses
-mosquitoes
-showering every other or every third day
-no sleeves on my shirt
-swimming naked
-poop
-crying
-golf carts
-a few of my camp associates: lots of cats, hong kong fooey, lego, schwackhammer, chum-dogg, Wee-wee, the wimpy englishman, mounty, braveheart, pipes, and so many more.
-singing before meals
-living in the only place in the world that puts my extensive knowledge of bracelet making to a good use.
-having someone to talk to when I poop
-smores

My name is Fuzz. It will be strictly Fuzz till the end of august. One person in five will know my real name, and that is exactly how it should be.

sketchbook

2006-06-07T02:20:00.000-05:00

--click for full size--

Tales of adolescence

2006-06-04T22:48:00.000-05:00

When I was thirteen I went with my good friend to the Indianapolis 500 time trials with his dad. It was a fun trip taken in a yellowy cream colored thunderbird, and we played rudimentary dungeons and dragons on the way there. Playing that was a big pastime for me at 13, but I don't think most of the games we played were the sort that make people life-long roleplayers. Two boys, only one of which is controlling characters, separated by a front seat cannot truly get the depth and weight that is associated with a quality roleplaying session. Though, in andy's defense, he killed ettins with a unmatched efficiency.

We had gone to the race the year earlier, and it was a shit ton of fun. For those of you who have never graced the brickyard, I would recommend it. I am by no means a fan of car racing, and an annual formula one race is exactly as much of that as I need in any given year. It is loud, and fun, and full of people. It is fun for the same reasons that baseball games are fun. You get to go to an interesting place with people who's company you enjoy, and talk, and pay attention to what's going on in front of you when the conversation dwindles. For reasons I cannot remember, or was never told in the first place, we could only make it to the time trials that year. The time trials were nowhere near as interesting to shitty tweens as the race itself, so we made ourselves scarce by way of the parking lot.

We were throwing a frisbee around near the edge of the parking lot, and it went over the fence into a backyard. After a short meeting of the minds we decided that a tunneling operation would be quicker and less risky than to climb the fence. So I dug some dirt out and held up the fence while andy crawled under it and into the yard. He went to get the frisbee, and while in the yard decided to poop there. So he did, sort of near the back door to this house. I remember it quite vividly, it was thin and squishy, freakishly similar to soft serve. We went back to the car to wash our hands with windshield wiper fluid, and then took a nap in the thunderbird. Ah, youth.

horse surgery

2006-06-04T15:28:00.000-05:00

LIST

2006-06-01T14:06:00.000-05:00

To help combat my loneliness, I have made a top three list of positive things resulting from living alone for the summer.

1) I have the bed to myself. This is the best thing ever. EVER. THE WHOLE BED, OH CHRIST CAN YOU IMAGINE IT!? I've been sleeping like a doofus to mark the bed as my territory. I sleep diagonally, I reverse polarities, I have four pillows to myself, and I use them all. I sleep with all the lights on, and with music playing. I ball up the blankets and hug them like pillows, and then lay the pillows on top of me like blankets. We are going to have to buy one of those ultra king size beds this year, the kind that are 18 feet by 23 feet, or some awe-inspiring proportions like that. The kind of bed that goes to all four walls in the room, so once you open the door you have to crawl all the way to your spot in the bed room. Seriously. I can't go back.

2) The bed,

3) it's all mine.

Summer

2006-06-01T13:42:00.000-05:00

Summer has started. This may not come as news to many of you, but it just hit me. Amy left for camp, and my job ended all in the same week. This is a big change of pace for me, having spent the last year in a state of full on co-habitation. I've always been used to having time to myself, what with the temporary nature of subbing, but also farther back than that. I've spent a lot of time alone in my life. Not in a "feel sorry for me, lonesome woe is me sob sob" kind of way, or as a reflection on my oft rocky past with women, but in a literal sense. I have logged in a significant number of hours by myself. And I enjoyed many of these alone hours, I have a lot of solitary pursuits I am more than happy to take part in. (That makes it sound like I touch myself too much, but I was thinking about books, games, writing, etc.) Only in the last year or so has it come to feel normal to have someone in the house all the time, someone who is family. I spent 5 or 6 years living with various roommates, and I didn't ever feel like apartments with roommates were home.

This co-habitation business is different though. It really does feel like my house is my home again, and having half of my home leave for the summer really takes a lot out of my house.

Bible stories

2006-05-29T21:22:00.000-05:00

--Click for full size--

Everyone except Jonah had hot dogs. Finally, Jonah told them that god was very angry with him for looking like vanilla ice.

Jacob had twelve watches. He also had a beautiful coat made of zebra fur. He'll sell it to you for only 130 dollars.

sketchbook

2006-05-28T16:10:00.000-05:00

le sigh

2006-05-28T07:54:00.000-05:00

Sigh. They could have had another ticket sale, if only they did what everyone knew was right. I saw The fast and the furious, and it wasn't that bad. Oh, it was silly, but I can't help but like vin diesel. Maybe it's my inner alpha male identifying with his brute exterior, or maybe it's that fact that he is an action star who volunteered to pen a forward to the new edition of Dungeons and Dragons. I guess he was a pretty serious player when he was younger. Either way, as far as lighter fare (By which I mean FUcKING XXXTREMMEEE FARE!!1) goes, the fast and the furious was pretty much what you expected. It was satisfying, like cotton candy. It tastes so good, but you know it isn't actually good. But it is.

And then, a few summer ago, I fell into a crowd of foreign kids. That makes it sound bad, but it wasn't. I was working at a summer camp on schroon lake in upstate new york, and some of the counselors were really good people, but many were the types of kids who, in high school, made me wear black and have a silly haircut and scowl so hard I could strip the paint of a foot locker at a dozen paces. And as it turned out, my day off wasn't with any of my new friends, but instead with these sorry high school retreads. But, all of the foreign staff had the same day off as I did, so I fell in with their group. Most of the kids were from various parts of the UK, but there was also a guy from india, some australians, and a kiwi. They were all nice people, and we had a shit ton of great "oh man it's so different here" and "have you ever had a McGoolianzer bar? Oh shit, seriously? Wow, they're pretty good, I'll send you some when I get home" sorts of conversations.

Most of them had never been to america before, so they really wanted to get out and do something, anything, when we all went places on our weekends off. Sometimes we would just go walk around a mall, which couldn't have been that new to them, they must have had malls at home, but still. I totally understood the desire to immerse yourself in another culture, even the stuff that is commonplace to the locals.

Because of this, it seemed like their taste in movies left a bit to be desired. We saw a couple of good flicks, like pirates of the carribbean, and finding nemo - but I was also involved with some trips to the cinema for what seemed like no reason other than to say they had gone to four or five american movies while across the pond. And it was because of this that I was dragged (with physical force) to go see Charlie's angels 2, and 2 fast 2 furious.

2 fast 2 furious was not good. It was everything you needed for a shite-cock sequel. Stars left? Check. Dubious connection to first film? Check. Being totally and unabashedly bastard awful? Check. The one saving grace was the title. I thought the title was terribly clever, as far as clever titles that can work in the sequel's numerical assignment into the title go. And it was that night, when the theatre let out, that I made this promise to the world, and to all the people who had forced me to watch that pap. I declared "No matter how shitty the next one looks, No matter who stars in it, If they have the balls to name it 3 fast 3 furious, I will see that film in the theatre."

Fucking shit-ass fuck-ass bastards! Everyone knew that's what they should have called it. Never has the name of a sequel been so clearly needed, so obviously the best and only choice possible. Fucking 3 Fast, 3 furious. Say it aloud, it rolls of the tongue - no - it embraces your tongue in a velvet sheath. 3 fast. mmmmmmm.

BUT NO. They let me down, they lost a highly valuable ticket sale, and an unwitting franchise participant. Well listen here, directors and producers, and other high level decision makers behind fast and the furious, tokyo drift. You can eat my ASSHOLE, you complete cowards. You had a job, AND YOU FAILED AT IT.

FAILED!!!!

Pranks: The trifecta

2006-05-27T08:42:00.000-05:00

Revenge. Sweet sweet revenge. I truly hold the concept of revenge being best served ice cold close to my heart. I don't need to see the results of a well timed revenge scheme to sleep a little better at night. This is the trifecta of pranks, the relationship enders. The pranks that you should only pull if you have a self defense plan ready.

Powdered milk

This prank is terrible. I'll be the first to admit it. This was told to me with the explicit instructions to forget who told it to me, so if I ever got caught and beaten severely for it, no shit would trickle down to the source. And I tell you all the same thing. You have to have some level of access to the persons house if you are going to pull this prank. Take some powdered milk into the target's bedroom, and pull off the comforter, and the top sheet.

--Now. There are a few ways to proceed from here, maybe you are putting the pieces together. It would be best if you could have the milk on top of the fitted sheet, but unless your target is drunk as a lord, or the sheets are white as snow, they'll probably notice a bitch-load of powdered milk scattered over their bed. An acceptable alternate method is to put a lot more of it under the fitted sheet. This will work if your target is a man (who will sweat a lot) or depending on the season, the air conditioning situation in the house, and the weather.--

If everything works as planned, then things will proceed as such. The target will go to bed and go to sleep. Like everyone else, they will sweat a bit in their sleep. This sweat will mix with the powdered milk and turn into milk. This milk will sit on their skin for the whole night and sink into their pores. Once there, body heat will cause the milk to curdle in their pores. They will smell like curdled milk, and since it is in their pores, it won't be easy to wash out, so they will smell like rotten moldy death for a while, maybe over a week.

This is not to be used lightly, It is the nuclear option in my personal prank arsenal, the atomic solution. Although if you want to do it a little quicker, more on the sly, put a healthy dose of powdered milk in the end of someone's shoes. Their feet will stink like bullshit for weeks, and they will lose exactly one pair of shoes. This version is almost foolproof, because really - who looks in their shoes before putting them on? Rio-grande cowboys looking for scorpions? OK, they are exempt from this, but everyone else is fair game.

Milk-Chicken bomb

Requirements:
-intimate access to someone's home
-said home to have central heating

Sometime in the fall, before the heat is turned on for the year, but after air conditioning season is our time to act. Take a quarter dark of raw chicken, or a whole breast and wing (whatever you want as long as it isn't pre skinned/boned- the gristle and fat is what you need) and put it in a mason jar with about a cup and a half of whole milk in it. Screw the lid on tightly. Make very sure that the seal is set as firmly as it can be.

If they have central heating, then they have vents all over the house. Find one of these vents and remove the metal cover. Depending on the location of the vent, what is past the wall may be of use, or it may not. We are looking for a place set well back from the wall, where a small mason jar can be comfortably placed. The farther away from the wall, and the closer we can get to the source of the heat, the better off we are. About two or three feet back from the wall should suffice.

Now. I've never done this, so I can't speak with authority. As far as my research can determine, the bomb will detonate in either A) one week, B) one month, or C) 3 months. I imagine it has to do with how much milk and chicken are in your bomb, and the exact ratio you have used. Anyway. What will happen eventually is that the mix will create enough gas for the glass jar to crack open, or the lid to pop off, and the smell that would come out would be totally unbearable. Especially if you have timed it right, and it pops in the winter, in the heat vent, causing the smell to be blown into and throughout the house. There is a good chance the house will become temporarily uninhabitable while the bomb's remains are located.

If the powdered milk prank was my atomic option, then this is the hydrogen bomb. Created and discussed, but never used out of fear of the global repercussions. You can adapt this to your needs. I guess it doesn't NEED to be in the heating vent, if you can find somewhere similarly out of the way. And it doesn't need to be limited to just chicken and milk, if you wanted to drop a turd into the mix it probably wouldn't fuck it up. If you want to get a car, put it in the spare tire cavity, under the carpet flap. Or in an office you could put it in the ceiling if the tiles are the right kind. I guess if you were the worst bastard in the whole world you could smash a hole through some drywall, put it in the wall, then plaster, and paint over the hole. That would require some serious time to pull off, but imagine the results. Oh god, imagine them.

Assed toothbrush

Keeping with my military analogy, this would be the assassination with a large rifle option. A direct and unambiguous attack towards one individual.

Get a hold of the toothbrush of the offending party, it helps if it is early in the life cycle of this toothbrush, or if your target is known to infrequently change their brush. Put the toothbrush in your asshole, and take a picture of it in there. This may seem like a small punishment for you, but remember, no pain, no time delayed gain. Take a second picture of the toothbrush back in the place where they keep it, after you rinsed off any easily sighted dingleberries. If you want to let them know who did this, make this second picture of you smiling and holding up their toothbrush.

Give them the picture a few weeks, months, or years later.
Remember, best served ice cold.

Bible stories 2

2006-05-24T11:56:00.000-05:00

-Click for larger image-

After the concert, Stryper prospered and spread across the world. Eventually they began to forget about god, so the lord had to turn their guitars into baskets of devil-fish.

Chuck Norris was not afraid. Would the king of a great city listen to him? It doesn't matter to Chuck.

The best dog story

2006-05-22T21:21:00.000-05:00

This is the best dog story ever, and unfortunately, I wasn't there for it. This may lead you to believe that this is a borderline urban legend, the sort of story that at the very least has been embellished until it shines. This is not the case. If this story weren't true, it would dim the light in my life significantly. You'll see.

Police dogs.
The camp I have most recently worked at is scheduled week by week, and by disability. One week it will be children with epilepsy, and the next week it will be adults with traumatic brain injuries. So each week has its own very distinct flavor, which can change drastically the awesomeness of any given activity. The week in question was camp limberlost, for at-risk youth.
This camp is at the same time one of the most touching events in many counselor's lives, and a good reason to develop a twitch. (That makes it sound like you would develop a twitch on purpose, and maybe some people would, I don't know) Kids at limberlost are oh so very good at pushing buttons, ignoring your every basic wish, cussing, running wild like caged animals in the night, and needing you so badly in their lives in more ways than you will ever know or think possible.
So. For this particular camp we have a lot of public servants come in and speak to the kids, police, firemen, the military, so on. Like all thirteen year olds, or children gripped early by the spirit of Christmas seventh grade, they go to Herculean lengths to convince you and everyone near them that this is totally gay, can we please leave? However, with all the assurance of a man who himself has worn a mullet (true) and had a ponytail with the sides shaved up three inches above the ear (true) in an effort to rebel against something, I deny my past and insist that this is good, this will build character. Trust me.
The air thick with the desire to be somewhere else, the police come. And they do the police-for -kids dog and pony show. Talking to strangers? Bad. Drugs? Bad. Listening to authority? Good. And then the Police bring out the K-9 unit. If you've ever seen the K-9 unit in a calm and explanatory manner, then you know how fucking utterly frightening those dogs are. A 105 pound German Shepard? Holy balls, It gives me the shivers just sitting here typing. Then again, I have a history of dog fear, only overcome in the last 5 years or so. So a big actually scary dog is like, ten times worse for me. Anyway.
The police show off what the dog can do. It can follow a trail around the field. It can find a small amount of drugs from hundreds of feet away. It can listen to commands in German (which does not in any way make these dogs less scary) and lay down and so forth. Last, and most assuredly not least, these dogs can bite the ever fucking shit out of you and yours. This is always saved for the finale, as it is the most visceral example of police power able to be displayed legally to children.
So they send one officer away, while the other one holds the dog and talks to the children about what is going to happen. The other officer then comes out from behind the truck with the bite sleeve on, brandishing some sort of club. The dog starts to seriously freak the fuck out, and the cop lets him go. He sprints to the bad guy cop, and bites the sleeve.
Ha. That wouldn't make this the best dog story ever, now would it?
No. The dog sprinted over to the bad cop and bit the shit out of his other arm. Blood was let copiously. Muscle was torn from bone, and exposed to the air. The dog bit the shit out of his unprotected arm, and the good cop had to run over to him, yelling in German. All the while the dog was thinking it was a game and continued to hold his bite, thrashing back and forth, spraying blood everywhere.
Two things. One. These children will never be criminals. Two. I wish so Fucking hard that I could have seen this. This is the lighthouse on the foggy shore of my life, leading me onwards.

Pranks: Food stealers

2006-05-19T14:47:00.000-05:00

These pranks are geared towards those unfortunate bastards who are choosing to eat your food, and will only really work if this person eats your food (hopefully against your will) with some regularity. These are not to be done lightly to a spouse, or significant other - these are acts of hostility.

----IMPORTANT SAFETY WARNING!----
If you are going to actually use any of these ideas, please first familiarize yourself with the substances you will be using and their side effects. Please.

-Leave some cooked bratwurst in the fridge, with prominently displayed buns on the counter. Who doesn't like cold brats for a snack? (vegans, many other people) This will work fine with a hotdog, or an Italian sausage. Acquire some Ipecac syrup, and a plastic syringe. Insert the syringe into the end of the brat, and put a full dose into the length of it. Serious professional grade vomiting will be induced within 5-10 minutes or so of consumption. Advise the victim to drink some water afterwards, to re-hydrate them.

-Purchase a beverage that you know will be ganked, and spike it with one dose of flavorless fleet oral laxative. This will induce a loose bowel movement within 30 minutes to a few hours. There are many wonderful products that will replicate this effect. I've actually seen this done, though it was taken willingly by the subject on a dare. They shat prodigiously, and quickly. You should probably stick to the recommended dosage, or maybe 1.5 that, if you trust that your subject is in good health, and if you really want them to shit their pants at work. Again, once they've drank it, have them drink some water, it will help.

-Melt down some chocolate, and place a handful of cotton balls on a sheet of wax paper. Once the chocolate is melted down to a liquid, pour it gently over the balls, covering them completely. Leave out in a candy dish once cooled.

-At either sam's club or wal-mart, they sell bags of dog treats called ole' roy's, or something similar. They look disturbingly similar to the type of beef jerky that comes in a large plastic bag. So, replace the real jerky with the dog treats and abandon in a delicious spot. As I have discovered earlier in my life, dog treats that look like people food do not taste like people food. It tastes like sand mixed with ass.

-Chocolate laxatives have so many uses, it would be criminal just to list one idea. It can be melted down as above, and made into candy, or drizzled over the top of something like donuts, or cookies. It can just be broken up into little squares and mixed in with some trail mix ingredients. The sky is the limit with these things.

Remember, you didn't hear any of this from me.

Dirt McGurt

2006-05-19T00:48:00.000-05:00

I don't know how you all see it, but when it comes to the children, Wu-Tang is for the children. We teach the children. Puffy is good, but Wu-Tang is the best. I want you all to know that this is ODB, and i love you all, peace!

Shingle

2006-05-18T16:19:00.000-05:00

This Texas things has me all fucked out. I can't summon the will to make a decision about anything else in my life until this is settled. Which, if it falls through, is going to leave me all the way up shitass creek, way up near the falls, with no paddle or boat. Just going over the edge in a burlap sack, sewn shut at the top. But since I want this job so badly, it feels like cheating to even look for other ones in the meantime.

I am excited, but in a calculatedly reserved way. I am excited on the inside, but I tell myself, and anyone who cares to ask that I am not; and that time will tell, right man for the job, good things in Peoria, 110 percent, do it for the gipper. These are lies. Filthy, shit-ridden lies.

My inner depressive is tossing his unwashed bangs to the side and letting me know that no matter how badly I want this it wont work out, specifically because I want it so badly and that is exactly what the pin puller has in store for me. But fuck him, and fuck his mullet. Positive things happen to positive people. Right? RIGHT!?

Favorite Bible Stories

2006-05-15T17:59:00.000-05:00

The Boo (AKA The Chop) gave me this book of Bible stories for Valentine's Day this year. It has been my mission since to Sharpie this book without remorse.

Jonah lived a simple life as a Buffalo Gangster.

Jonah prayed for God to improve his chest pass.

King Chad had stolen God's Rumpleminze, and windsurfed all the way to Cozumel.

Serious ranting, avoid if possible

2006-05-15T08:27:00.000-05:00

I've always made it a point to be politically aware, but I think I've given up on politics. What's it worth to follow? I truly believe that I will never make even the slightest difference. The system is set up in a way that may be activist-proof. Or revolution-proof. Take gas, as a timely example. The world price goes up, gas prices will raise that afternoon, often times jumping 30 cents while I'm at work. Would the prices ever go down in a similar fashion? Of course not, it is a business geared to make as much money as possible, just like all large businesses. So they lower it slowly, over the course of a few weeks, months. Clearly, this being only one of a great many examples, they are making money from us. And yet on forums, and television, and anywhere you have an opinion being spouted, there are always people to jump to the defense of the oil industry. To claim that they are not trying to make money, that somehow they are an innocent, altruistic commodity dealer in the midst of the wolf pack of corporate America. That is the worst part to me. I can understand full bore bastard capitalism, profit uber alles. I can understand lobbyists, and political maneuvering. But to have the system so wrapped around your fat oily dick as to have a good percentage of the population actually believing that you have no control over the prices, and that these record profits you are posting are somehow unrelated to the sharp rise in the price of the commodity you deal in exclusively - that's what really stings.
But this isn't a rant on gas (lies). Every issue seems to have that side to me lately. It's not that I want everyone to agree with me, I just want there to be a real political arena of the people. One where the issues that affect people are being discussed in an honest fashion. An arena where advertising and push polling and special interest groups and attack ads and hot-button election year issues all fucking wither up and die. I want the corporate dick to come out of the mouths of people, and for them to stop all their wet, smacking mumblings.
I want to stop feeling like I did when I was a child, watching two opposed sides argue at each other, never listening to what the other side says. And all the while the one who is watching this argument is getting fucked over the worst.

Hospitality rider

2006-05-12T15:21:00.000-05:00

When BLUEBEARD gets done with his show, he expects to have the following presented on a long table in his dressing room.
- 3 cans of squirt soda
- a number 11 from jimmy johns on sub bread
- a small dish of freshly made guacamole'
- some of those really crunchy tortilla chips that come in a green bag, the salted ones
- a few of those suckers he got on Halloween as a kid that were essentially colored spheres of pure sugar on a stick
- a Friday night fish fry with at least TWO extra helpings of fish, no coleslaw
- a hand made statue depicting BLUEBEARD putting a nationally known asshole in a headlock, and administering a completely fucking ruthless dutch-rub
- 3 forty ounce bottles of natural light brand beer
- one draft horse, feed him the natural light 20 minutes before the show ends
- a 2 square foot pot of dirt containing a large lawn hedge clipped to resemble one character from the film POOTIE TANG, must be at least 80 cm in height
- a blunt large enough to play cricket with (give at least one third of it to the horse)
- a glass boot filled nearly to the top with horchata
- a pillow case 1/3 full of barber clippings, and 4 bear shaped bottles of honey. One minute before BLUEBEARD walks into the room, cover yourself in all of the honey, and have someone else sprinkle the hair evenly over your near naked body. If you don't like this step of the rider then YOU SHOULD GET A NEW JOB, PLEBIAN!

All items with a dash in front of them are absolutely essential,
thanks for all your help,
:) :) :)
Bluebeard

The fished couch story

2006-05-10T12:25:00.000-05:00

A long time ago (2001) and in a galaxy far, far away (Normal, IL), I was but the picture of youth (drugs and sex). I lived in the upstairs apartment of a four unit building, and everyone came and went freely. Living below me, in apartment 1, were a bunch of dirty, dirty bastards. They spent all their money on booze and weed, ruling out mere indulgences such as toilet paper, a phone, and food. They had thrown a whiskey bottle through the window of their oven, and loaded up the dishwasher with laundry detergent more than twice. Needless to say they were the main proponents of the "we came and went freely" philosophy, using my oven with a regularity only surpassed by the use of my toilet for shitting.

So, after trying and failing to settle the matter in a diplomatic fashion, I took it upon myself to right what had been wronged.

I let myself into apartment 1 on a sunny day in the very early spring, when it was just starting to get warm during the day, the kind where you never quite remember to open your windows.
I lifted up the cushions of their couch, and removed the staples that keep the cloth under the cushions in place. Inside this virginal couch opening I put one frozen tilapia fish, whole. With a heavy grade stapler I re-stapled the couch, reset the cushions and went on my merry way.

The first week it went unnoticed, as The denizens of apartment one were truly dirty fuckers.
The second week it became apparent that something smelled, but not so much as to raise a general alarm.
The third week it had gotten considerably hotter during the days, and the door was kept open all during this week, as the unmistakable smell of wharf became rather overpowering.
The fourth week left apartment 1 a relatively barren place, devoid of human life during the waking hours. The smell of rotting sea-life had made it firmly into each bedroom, and could be smelled easily from the street. At the end of this week the smell became so strong that the apartment was turned ass over tea-kettle, and the furniture was dismantled piece by piece. The fish was found one month to the day after I had hid it. I was confronted, and I denied any involvement with said tilapia. The matter was never spoken of again.

This has earned me the reputation of "never ever get on his bad side, as he will wreak vengeance upon you in a gruesome fashion" to the people I know. And this is useful, because even though most people trust I wouldn't ass their toothbrush, or fish their couch - they tread lightly near me just to be safe.

Mountains

2006-05-09T14:38:00.000-05:00

Only having seen mountains once it was startling to open the window and see them there. Immobile, but staring right back as if to say "Fuck you for ignoring us, we've been around for ages. Who the fuck do you think you are?"
A challenge from the mountains? What was I to do? I Smashed my elbow through the window, things began zipping about the cabin. Children screaming, adults screaming. I grabbed a complimentary airline blanket, held it by the four corners.
"Fear not brave passengers! This challenge most foul shall not go un-avenged!" I crawled out the window, and began to float down. Now the mountains became unsure. Their authority had never really been directly confronted before.
"Hey mountain!" I yelled.
"......"
"I said, hey mountain!"
"Me?"
"Are there any other mountains here?"
"...Well, no." The mountain seemed a bit sheepish, all bark and no bite. I kicked the mountain as hard as I could.
"Who matters now, huh? You like that, bitch? You're a hill!"
The mountain shuffled away. "Please stop, I'm sorry."
Triumphantly I raise my fist. I rule another day.

ATTN: students of Pekin

2006-05-07T17:06:00.000-05:00

Children, children. There's no way for me to say this to you without feeling like my dad, but seriously. Get a haircut. Your shit looks completely tragic right now. I know you think you know what's up, and that's cool. I was the same way. But I also had a fucking tragic string of hair styles, and I regret it now as an adult who has had to seal away a number of years worth of formative photos. So, for your own good, get a haircut. There's no need to be all 50's about it. I'm not looking to cure good Charlotte-itis with a good ole' duck butt, or a pompadour - just get an actual hair style, and get a haircut at least every 6-8 weeks.

This whole shaggy, neo-70's hair thing going on right now is o.k. by me. But in order to do it, you need semi regular upkeep. See, if you are a rock star, or a model, or someone with a regular job well-to-do enough to afford regular hair care - you're going to be ok. Let out that hair, that long beautiful hair. But the children, they don't get it yet. They want to show how seriously rebellious and individual they are. And how much they fit in.

So they just sort of let it go. And unfortunately for them, not getting a haircut is not a style - it just makes you look like a douchebag. Oh, god - and then they do that stupid-ass brush it to one side of your face move, creating hair that comes down their forehead, and then goes at least 4 inches over to one side as well. This also forces them to constantly snap their head back and to one side just a little to shift their hair out of their eyes, but not all they way. Just a little.

So all I'm saying to all the students attending the various junior high schools and upper grade schools in pekin is this: I'm just looking out for you. You don't need to look like me ( please don't look like me) just stop looking like such a bunch of mangy little fucks.

??

2006-05-05T16:08:00.000-05:00

Would you rather be locked in a closet with some bees for 100 minutes, or be forced to have an entire night of passionate sex with an ugly clown?

Things I cannot remember

2006-05-01T20:11:00.000-05:00

My third grade teacher's name. See, we had a nickname for her (and presumably she had a given name) but in the haze of young adult hood, I've forgotten the difference between the two. Was my third grade teacher's name actually Mrs. Bowser, or was that just our wit-ridden name for her? If it was her given name, that was an amazingly timely coincidence for the children roaming the hallowed halls of Walden grade school in 1988.

My first thought is that my teacher when I was eight sharing a name with the main bad guy of a very popular video game is fairly suspect. She was also, coincidently, the teacher who forced a bunch of bitch-ass book reports (Sword of Shannara), country reports (Poland), and animal reports (sharks) on me. All of which I hated with well publicized passion. This lends credibility to the fact that I would equate her with a dinosaur. Dragon. Turtle.

Furthermore, if it was bowser, then what would our clever name have been? Because I remember clearly having one of those for her. There is no need to further mock a teacher with the misfortune of having a shitty name. You don't call Miss CockenSmack anything but her glorious god given surname, and you don't have to mess with Mrs. Bowser either.

However, if her name wasn't bowser, than I have NO IDEA what it was. Bower? Booser? Bowsen? Nothing. Blank. While logically I can see that there is a low probability that, given the circumstances, her name was indeed bowser, I cannot shake the feeling that it may well have been.

Could I find out with relative ease what her real name was? Yeah.
Do I want to? No. I like some mysteries.

half the battle

2006-04-30T18:54:00.000-05:00

A discussion came up a few weeks back about various Cobra rapscallions. I had one of those oily old memories bubble slowly up to the surface, straining at the surface before breaking and releasing its noxious gas into my forebrain. It was sure of certain cobra alliances, and so then, was I.

As it turns out, Tomax and Xamot have little to do with Zartan. I was under the impression that they were all part of the same gang. They are not. In the course of my research, I have discovered that the twins were found in the circus and zartan was some sort of shamed ninja/disguise master/swamp-pimp.

bitch, moan, bitch, moan, moan, whine, bitch, repeat.

2006-04-30T13:28:00.000-05:00

Oh, enterprise. you seemed so promising. so full of potential. The interview made you seem to be the sort of first sales job that renders well spoken young go getters weak in the knees. 29K a year? Oh my. Performance based promotions? My oh my. Benifeits and a wardrobe budget? Holy tap-dancin jesus, I'm in, I'm on, I'm up for it, take me please!

...Le sigh.

This FABLE, as it turns out, is far from the case. First, the hours. Standard hours are elevn hours a day, minus lunch. Mondays are 12 hours, and you work every third saturday or so. The trick is this - you are paid 8 dollars an hour, and then given overtime pay that rounds it out to a sort of normal salary. For best buy. So, if you miss a day in any given two week period, all of a sudden, you are working from 7:15 to 6:15 for 8 dollars an hour. In a suit.

Full business professional attire, all day long. You are not allowed to roll your sleeves up, and you have to wash cars throughout the day as the needs of renting sees fit.

NOT ALLOWED TO ROLL YOUR SLEEVES UP. what? why? what sort of fucking opus-dei hair-shirt cock ass bullshit is that? IF i were to keep this job (No), I would have to come home at least three times during the day throughout june, july and august in order to change my outfit in its entirety, pants included (sweatstains), and mainline a bunch of fucking cocaine right into my EYEBALL in order to be able to move around for 12 hours a day in an organized fashion.

!

2006-04-29T22:07:00.000-05:00

scribo, ergo sum