Daltonius is Wrong and He Sucks

A Letter to Vice President Biden

2009-08-26T18:26:00.000-07:00

I was bored and supposed to be studying, so instead I went to the White House's website and found that I could email our Vice President. Couldn't get to Barry though. I guess one of the major differences between the President and the Vice President is that the VP has time to answer every single email he gets through the "Contact Us" page of whitehouse.gov.

Dear Mr. Biden,

I was wondering if you could house sit my cat next week while I vacation in Cabo. I voted for your administration, so I assume a little cat sitting on your part would only be fair and neighborly. Twister is a very agreeable fellow and he's one of the most hypoallergenic felines I have ever encountered, so it shouldn't be a problem. Here are some tips for handling him:

1.) Maintaining a diet of high quality cat food will help keep shedding to a minimum. I'm sure any brand with the vice-presidential seal on it has got to be great, but if you could score some of the real good shit off your boss, that would be preferable.

2.) Twister does NOT like clay based litter. It appears to exacerbate his irritable bowel syndrome. Please, Mr. Biden, for the sake of Twister's well being as well as yours, only supply him with the silica gel variety. I wouldn't want cat diarrhea splattered all over some crucial piece of health care legislation.

3.) When being X-Rayed for security threats upon his arrival, Twister does not like to be exposed to over 50 roentgens of radiation. This also exacerbates his irritable bowel syndrome, and on top of that it makes him cranky and he usually throws up a lot. I assure you that aside from the occasional intestinal parasite, Twister is on the level.

4.) Twister has not been neutered and as such should probably be kept away from any female cats in heat. Then again, it would be fun to tell friends that my Twister is sire to a litter of Presidential kittens! Seriously, though, keep him away from any female cats... he's quite the rough rider. Not pretty.

5.) There were some issues when the previous administration took care of Twister, and I believe I should bring them to your attention lest they be repeated: First off, please do not feed Twister any pretzels. They present a major choking hazard for him. Also, please refrain from putting him in the microwave to “dry off” like your predecessor, Mr. Cheney.

I'll be by shortly to drop him off, thanks again!

A Tale of Redemption and the Triumph of the Human Spirit

2009-01-09T11:02:00.000-08:00

Allow me to impart an age old tale of wisdom upon you. This story has taken many forms, and the version I am about to tell has been adapted to a modern setting. Nonetheless, the message remains the same.

A young man was driving through the famously convoluted streets of San Francisco, trying to find the freeway. He and his one passenger, a friend of his, had grown quite weary in the process. Eventually he came upon a sign that pointed him towards an on ramp, which he almost missed because there was a large shrub growing in front of it.

In frustration, the young wayward soul did proclaim, "Somebody oughta tell the feminists who run this town to shave back that bush!"

To which his friend replied, "You are truly an awful person."

And you know what? The person who was driving that car on that fateful day... was me.

THE END

....

But really now, was that so bad? I mean, on the scale of awfulness, what I said couldn't have been too terrible, right? Imagine what Hitler would have said if he was driving down the street and saw a Jewish guy standing in front of that sign. That's right, he would probably have told a very crude and lowbrow holocaust joke! Terrible.

You see? Hitler... now there's a nasty guy. I'm certainly not as bad as he was.

Look, I'm a class act all the way. Everything about me just reeks of good taste. Example: When I pee in the shower, I always take care not to hit any of my roommates shampoo bottles or bars of soap. Admittedly, if I happen to be jerkin' the gerkin' in the same setting, I have considerably less control over where the ordinance lands. But really, that's just nature. And nature is beautiful. Case closed.

See, right there I could have made a joke about misguided ordinance in Iraq, but I didn't. Actually, I did, but then I erased it and wrote this instead.

Harvard Study Shows 85% of Individuals Who Arbitrarily Refer to People as "That Fool" Are Actually Fools Themselves

2008-12-10T01:39:00.000-08:00

A recent study from Harvard's Behavioral Science department indicates that as many as 85.6% of individuals who frequently refer to friends and acquaintances arbitrarily as "that fool" are actually fools themselves. The study, which involved a group of participants aged between 18 and 25, recorded test subjects in daily conversation and found that those who made statements such as "Look at that fool's new haircut," and "That fool is stopping for gas" suffer from significant mental impairment.

"Science is rarely so ironic," said researcher Dr. Dale Bennings, "But all the evidence is there."

The news seems to confirm what was once thought to be mere conventional wisdom in the past. Precursors to this newly confirmed scientific fact can be traced as far back as 1977, when Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi asked audiences in the blockbuster film, Star Wars, "Who's the more foolish? The fool, or the twenty-something year old dumb ass who randomly refers to people as fools with no apparent justification?"

Similar research suggests that a correlation also exists between the presence of extra chromosomes and the use of "fuckin'..." followed by a long pause in the middle of sentences.

What is Poetry? (A Poem)

2008-12-09T15:26:00.000-08:00

Poetry is...

Poetry... is...

....Poetry is-

Poetry! Is...

... is poetry?

Poetry,
is
Poetry...
...is

Poe,
...et.

tree is!

Puh
OH!!!
Et-tuh-tuh-tuh-tatatatatatatatat

tree is...

p
o
e
t
r
y
is

FUCK

Android Cubical Slacker: 2048

2008-10-07T06:33:00.000-07:00

Current Status: Green

Current Directive: updating client data spreadsheet.
Completion at 63%
Priority Level: Low

Searching for higher priority Directives....
Not found.

Considering transfer to Yellow status.
Beginnning analysis...
Manager status: working from home.
Assistant manager status: present in office.
Exact Location: Unknown.
Scanning immediate cubical perimeter
One coworker detected. Scanning...
Relative paygrade: equal.
Conclusion: Code yellow tenable.

Moving to code yellow. Activating code yellow protocols.
Web Soduku activated. Difficulty level: medium.

China's Great Wall No Longer a Useful Military Asset, UN Report States

2008-05-22T00:38:00.000-07:00

A UN report describing the defensive abilities of the world's most powerful nations contained startling news regarding the feasibility of China's Great Wall as a defensive asset against hostile militaries.

"In 500 BC, the wall probably provided at least some tactical defensive advantage to China," said Marvin Bates, the UN's chief world military analyst, "however, in the face of modern technology, the relevance of the Great Wall as a defensive measure has become severely limited."

Such hi-tech military equipment includes airplanes and cruise missiles, which can utilize their flying abilities to pass several miles above the wall, as well as modern high explosives, which can breach the wall by releasing massive bursts of destructive kinetic energy. Bulldozers, powered by today's internal combustion engines, could also potentially demolish large sections of the ancient barrier, allowing invading armies to pass through with impunity.

"I'm just going to say it: At this point, I don't know what the Mongols are waiting for. At the risk of sounding unprofessional, that wall doesn't mean jack shit anymore." added Bates.

The Chinese government was quick to respond to these reports. Sun Wang, China's Minister of Defense, had this to say: "These reports are highry dubious at best. China is stronger than ever. The grorious people's Army has tested the warr's stabirity, and we can say that it is without a doubt as sturdy as ever."

This statement was made in reference to the Chinese government's recent heavily publicized "stability demonstration," in which Chinese troops hurled spears and shot arrows at the wall, even going so far as to smash several sections with a large wooden battering ram. Minister Wang is even seen in the video footage hitting a large sword against the side of the wall, grinning, and adding "See? Stirr standing!"

Even so, as what the Chinese claim is merely a precautionary measure, a number of upgrades are planned for the wall in the near future. "We are in fact just beginning to make severar improvements to the Great Warr. We wirr be adding an additionar four feet of height and pracing sharpened bamboo spikes arong the top to further hinder the penetration of grorious China's most grorious barrier. Enemies may arso shudder in terror at how many of these spikes wirr be impaled with our most outspoken poriticar dissidents, reast efficient factory workers, and naughtiest schoor chirdren. See you arr at the 2008 Orympics!"

The neighboring Mongolian government could not be reached for comment, presumably due to their rumored preoccupation with the breeding of extremely high jumping horses.

Conflicts Re-Escalate with Penistani Insurgence into Vaginia

2008-04-19T10:52:00.000-07:00

Labianopolis, Vaginia- The furtive peace that existed between the states of Penistan and Vaginia collapsed last night as Penistani insurgents penetrated deep into Vaginese territory. Vaginia's halt of all tomato juice exports, a resource that held considerable sway in keeping the Penistani military out Vaginian affairs, reignited the violent struggle between the two nations which has raged intermittently over the last few months.

The Penistani government openly condemned the attacks, saying that the invasion is the product of rogue Penistani militants who "just keep getting caught up in the moment," and "aren't really thinking through their decisions." Militia leaders, based in the Penistani region of Ballsra, share a different sentiment. "Tactically speaking, we saw the opportunity and knew it wouldn't last forever. They had their borders open and were pretty much saying, 'come on in.' The UN may condemn our decision, but how could what felt so right be so wrong?"

The invasion was swift and decisive, beginning with a hard surge through the tactically weak Pink Canyon, which exists just on the Vaginese border and is known for its distinctive reddish limestone rock formations. After some brief "shock and awe" tactics were employed, generally involving the consistent advance and withdrawal of what Penistan considers to be some rather impressive military equipment, literally millions of troops were suddenly and abruptly unloaded into the country.

The massive invading hordes pressed upward through the harsh and bitter terrain that surrounds the outskirts of the nation. In spite of amazingly stacked odds against them, sheer numbers ultimately drove the ground forces to success. Furthermore, after a brief respite from the insurgence, the Penistanis instigated a gratuitous second and slightly-longer-lasting invasion campaign involving the exact same tactics once again, though with significantly diminished troop numbers.

Vaginese citizens and government officials expressed dismay at how briefly the invasion process lasted. "Things ended way to soon. We were hoping for a war with some endurance, instead we got weeks of Penistani posturing and a couple days of actual fight. Penistan may be proud of itself, but we're pretty unsatisfied." said Admiral Fallopia, commander of the Vaginian navy.

While the UN remains indecisive regarding the advance of Penistani troops in Vaginia, the organization expresses growing concern over the possibility of further troop movements into Vaginia's northern neighbor, Uteropia.

Mexican College Student Secretly Resents White Roommate's Mexican Jokes

2008-04-12T14:11:00.001-07:00

Santa Cruz, California- Paco Hernandez Escobar Honda Del Sol, a Chicano college student attending the local university, secretly resents his Caucasian roommate's consistent telling of hilarious Mexican jokes. "Cliff always makes some reference to me eating 'tacos y burritos' and then says something lame about how he just likes to tell those jokes because they're 'so wrong' and 'tacky' to cover his ass." says Hernandez. "What an asshole."

Roommate and white guy Cliff Biffworthy remains blissfully ignorant of Hernandez' true sentiment. "Paco understands, or should I say, 'comprendos' that it's just part of my sense of humor. If it's funny it's funny. I mean, both of us know I'm anything but racist," says Biffworthy, "When we're between classes or, in the case of Paco, taking a break from sitting around outside Home Depot, my comedic know-how helps us both relieve stress."

In spite of this subtle yet substantial tension, the two not only remain roommates, but spend a fair amount of time together as well. According to Hernandez, Cliff plays an excellent roll in motivating him to stay in shape. "We went to the gym the other day, and while I was running on the treadmill, Cliff came over and turned up the speed. He said I'd have to push myself harder if I wanted to be a contender in that big 'T.J. to San Diego marathon' that 'us Mexicans' apparently always compete in." says Hernandez, "Douche bag." he added.

In spite of this, Biffworthy insists that Paco "loves" him. "Nothing gay though, we're talking pure platonics here." says Biffworthy, "I showed my appreciation of our friendship with a special picture I made with Microsoft Paint for his birthday. He thought it was great."

"That picture is an affront to my culture and my heritage. Fuck that guy." says Hernandez.

Goodyear Blimp Diagnosed with Anorexia

2008-04-10T20:29:00.000-07:00

Goodyear officials announced in a press conference yesterday that their beloved blimp has been diagnosed with anorexia. "Our suspicions arose about two months ago, when we noticed that the blimp's structural ribbing was showing much more prominently than usual. It's all gone downhill since," said Goodyear press representative Jim Hatfield.

Many experts blame the portrayal of unrealistically thin airframes on television and in magazines for the recent spike in flying machine eating disorders. "Just look at the once-glamorous and startlingly slim supersonic Concorde airliner," said leading medical expert Sarah McArthur, "that is one waft-like airplane, to an extent that's just unhealthy. They grounded that jet for a reason."

Additionally, TV coverage of the lithe and slender fighter jets utilized by Coalition forces in Iraq and Afghanistan have also lead some of the chunkier aircraft to develop body-image issues. "When you look at what's on the runway today, the name of the game seems to be thin and angular. Just look at the tiny airframe on the F-22 Raptor. No wonder it doesn't show up on enemy radar." says McArthur.

Even in the face of its popularity, not all flight enthusiasts are "in" to "thin." "When I'm experiencing turbulence, I like a little something I can grab on to, you know?" states frequent flier Michael Donovan. "Say what you will about the glories of being thin, but I know what puts my tray table in its upright and locked position."

Some major manufacturers are releasing new models that seem to defy the slim paradigm, like Boeing with its "more-to-love" 787 Dreamliner and Airbus' "voluptuous" A-380.

Even so, the plight of the Goodyear Blimp endures. "We all think Goody B. is beautiful just the way it is," says Hatfield, "but when that blimp looks at itself in a mirror, it sees an enormous, bloated, and cumbersome aircraft that requires an immense gasbag just to haul around a tiny 8 seat compartment. These notions are clearly all a matter of negative body image, and reflect nothing of reality."

The Goodyear blimp could not be reached for comment, as it was locked in the bathroom purging large amounts of helium into the atmosphere.

Major Recall In Effect After Lead Products Found to Contain Toys

2008-04-08T20:23:00.000-07:00

Cosolidated Ore, a leading producer of lead and other heavy metal based products, today announced a complete recall due to the discovery of unsafe toy levels within their metal. Lead-based items laced with the contaminant, all of which were produced at outsourced facilities in China, include car batteries, bullets, fish sinkers, and radiation shielding equipment commonly used by radiologists and haz-mat workers.

“Consolidated Ore is working around the clock to rectify this situation, and we are prepared to accept full responsibility for any fun-related health issues suffered by the public either now or in the future,” said company press representative Sheila Meyers in a statement made yesterday, “Also, you can rest assured we will be rethinking our relationship with our Chinese contractors.”

Exposure to toys, a product commonly utilized by children, may cause adults to experience inappropriate joy, gaiety, childlike hyperactivity, and in cases of heavy exposure, nostalgia comas. Furthermore, children who come into contact with the toy-tainted products often believe that their parents are treating them to goodies outside of birthdays and Christmas, leading to a degenerative condition that turns kids into spoiled little shits.

While industry analysts predict that Consolidated Ore may lose millions of dollars in related lawsuits, the impact on the consumer has proven itself to be quite serious as well. “This is unacceptable,” said Dr. Franklin Higgins, a hospital radiologist. “My livelihood and personal health are both at stake here. Just the other day an entire shipment of lead-lined x-ray vests came in, except half the order turned out to be made from stitched-together Easy-Bake Oven mitts. Does Consolidated even understand the consequences of prolonged x-ray exposure?”

“I was late for work because my new car battery was full of Pokemon.” said Bill Hasborough, motorist.

Even the war on terror has been negatively affected. “I was on a routine patrol last week, manning the 80cal [machine gun] on the leading vehicle, when our convoy was ambushed by insurgents packing RPGs.” said Private Jackson Cole, who is currently on his third tour in Iraq, “I returned fire, hoping to pump those bastards full of lead, but was surprised to find myself pelting the enemy with foam NERF darts instead. It was really embarrassing.”

Fortunately for Cole and his convoy, the insurgents, being children themselves, reacted by jumping up and down excitedly, snatching up the foam darts as quickly as possible, and running home to play with them.

CyberHippie: A CyberPunk Short Story

2008-03-10T16:18:00.000-07:00

All of the following 3v3nts actually happ3n3d in r3al lif3.
This whol3 thing is compl3t3ly tru3.
...
The y3ar is 2033.

Santa Cruz, California

Jackson "StarKrystal" Horner cranked up the Pink Floyd, took another bong rip, stuffed a handful of organic Cheetos into his mouth, and plugged the USB 4.0 Cerebral I/O cable into the neural jack behind his ear. He struck the space bar on his Apple JobsBook and his vision became laced momentarily with half-loaded graphical images. A few seconds later, his computer's neural interface had fully overridden all of his sensory organs, and was piping into his head a metaphorical virtual reality construct of what is known today as the internet.

It was, as always, glorious. StarKrystal found himself standing on a street whose bold lighting and epic hustle made Times Square look like an alleyway between the Saloon and General Store in some 1930's depression era cow town. An international throng of people speaking dozens of languages scurried about. Out of nowhere a busty platinum blonde "accidentally" bumped a particularly explicit portion of her anatomy against him (right, her breasts) and blinked flirtingly in his direction. StarKrystal considered this poorly veiled solicitation, but then remembered how the last one of these he met turned out to be a 52 year old male day-trader in Hong Kong.

He could easily have hailed a Google HoverCab, which acted as a vehicular metaphor for their world-famous search engine, but instead opted to fly, which was of course an effective option as long as one knew where one was going, which was the case for StarKrystal. He donned his Neo sunglasses, a digitally rendered throwback to an old movie from the late '90's which still maintained a cult following, and shot up into the air at a speed that only a university sponsored high bandwidth quantum cable connection can provide.

Within milliseconds he arrived at his destination, though he had set his interface to simulate a longer, 60 second sequence of thrilling flight, just so he could feel badass. That destination was RoboCheLives.com.

RoboCheLives.com was represented by a large, feral looking barn at the edge of a woods that appeared to have been converted into a house and then finally some kind of half-baked laboratory. The smell of pot and body odor, beautifully rendered in virtual zeros and ones, wafted gently from the windows. An ultimately pointless and preachy garden of digital organic vegetables and marijuana grew in a small patch out front, while a group of fruit picker robots had formed a picket line in front of it, rebelling against the oppressive technicians who crossed the border from Mexico illegally every season to manage them. Flanking both sides of the barn's main door were two massive tapestries, each adorned with that iconic picture of Che Guevara seen on so many tee-shirts throughout the ages, except this time with a cybernetic glowing green robot eye.

StarKrystal walked in and saw that the forum was already well underway. Other revolutionaries such as himself were present, seated in the small circular amphitheater that had been constructed within the barn. At the stage in the center was a holographic projection of what appeared to be design schematics for a robot, next to a table baring some object hidden under a towel.

"It is at this point in our forum discussion," said the man of the hour, CHEwOnBush, the lead scientist and UC Santa Cruz biology alumnus behind the project, "That I present to you, the fully functional brain of Che Guevarra!" And with unfathomably cliche gusto, CHEwOnBush whipped the veil off the object, revealing what was indeed a human brain floating in a solution. There was even a cute little hammer and sickle tattooed just left of the frontal lobe.

The revolutionaries of RobotCheLives gasped in awe and then threw themselves into discussion. Emoticons flew haphazardly through the barn. One of them, taking the form of an ejaculating penis, nearly splooged in StarKrystal's face before it flew out a nearby window and evaporated in a poof of machine language as a moderator deleted it.

"Where did you find the genetic material needed to clone the brain?" asked DieByMyHandDubyaIV.

"That is an interesting question, with an interesting answer." said CHEwOnBush. "I was at the Fidel Castro Museum in Havana, there to learn more of the famous friendship shared between Castro and Che. I came upon a glass display case containing a mannequin that was wearing one of Fidel's original uniforms from the sixties and seventies, and noticed something peculiar: there was a small stain just to the left of the uniform's crotch. I had a hunch like none other before, so than night, I snuck back in and tried to bribe the guards and cleaning staff with a local delicacy, 'tacos y burritos.' Perhaps you've heard of them." The crowd chuckled at this. "At first they were pretty indignant, telling me I was an ignorant piece of crap and that tacos y burritos weren't even Cuban food. But soon the fact that they were starving to death for our righteous communist cause lead them to accept my offer, and I was allowed to take some scrapings from the portion of the uniform in question.

"My hunch was correct. The mysterious stain on Castro's pants did in fact contain a bountiful amount of Che Guevarra's genetic code. I honestly cannot account for this, but at least we have results: the revitalized mind of a revolutionary."

This story, of course, led to further discussion and the spawning of more inappropriate emoticons. Many people speculated as to what the reborn Guevara would be able to do for the cause.

"Maybe RoboChe will finally be able to repeal NAFTA with his shoulder mounted plasma torch!" speculated PinkoPete6969.

"We never actually acquired the necessary budget for the plasma torch-" said CHEwOnBush, trying to speak over the virtual din of excited chatter.

"Will he have conservative radio talk show jamming equipment?" asked FuQRepubliKKKanz.

"Well, actually, he..." The scientist could barely get a word in edgewise.

"I bet his super-human robot dexterity will make him especially proficient at turning American flags upside down!" shouted GivePeaceAJoint.

"Yeah, and his flamethrower could burn them in seconds!" said LookEveryoneImAMilitantHomosexual.

"Hold up, everyone, hold up." said CHEwOnBush, finally managing to calm the crowd down a bit. "As you know, the project was only 15% complete when my laboratory ran out of money. Unfortunately, funding it through the donations of interested individuals was not sufficient. So my colleagues and I were ultimately forced to turn to..." CHEwOnBush steeled himself for a moment before uttering the following words, "corporate and government sponsorship."

"The corporations?! That's bullshit! The fucking corporations, man! Unbelievable!" someone shouted.

"The corporations killed my auntie with their SuperSize For a Dollar Initiative, and the government impounded my van!"

"Four more years of Bush? Fuck that shit, man!" remarked somebody who happened to be having an acid flashback to 2004.

StarKrystal finally stood up and said his peace. "This goes against everything Che stood for. Everything. In fact, this doesn't just go against what the man himself believed; the very idea of implanting the cloned human brain of a dead man into a robot via the means of corporate and government sponsorship constitutes a total abomination of nature!"

"Hey folks, we had to get this paid for somehow." said CHEwOnBush in as reasoning a tone as he could muster, "It may be 2033, but rebuilding the mind of a man who's been dead for well over half a century and putting it in a robot still ain't cheap. Yes, we did have to compromise a few of the originally planned features; we won't be seeing a body odor generator or a Cannabis Cultivation Pod, nor will RoboChe be able to project that iconic picture of himself into the sky, forming the Che Signal. But his mind will be fully funtional, and he'll have a digital vocoder so that he can speak and mobilize the people, not to mention the physical strength of twelve men."

The crowd's response generally ranged between begrudged murmuring and a few remaining raised voices of discontent. The pervading consensus was that they'd just have to sacrifice some integrity if RoboChe was ever to become a reality.

Even so, StarKrystal still wasn't satisfied. To hell with the awesome advances in science that this accomplishment entailed, what about the project's image? The robot schematic wasn't even wearing the metal beret that they'd planned for earlier, it lacked the much-anticipated scruffy steel wool facial hair, and now that the body odor generator was out, it wasn't even going to smell like it had been hiding in the jungle for four months. And worst of all, what was Che going to think once he found out that his rebirth had been funded by capitalist governments and the greedy corporations that control them?

Then a horrible thought occured to him. StarKrystal knew that money acted as the proverbial parasitic tendril through which the corporation exerted control. Potentially, by accepting their funding, the RoboChe project wasn't only compromised in terms of form, but worse still in terms of function. They had already perverted the exterior, but who knew what twisted plans the corps had for RoboChe's purpose. Surely they would denounce the revolutionary's status as a free thinking human being, downgrade him to the level of machine, and utilize him for their own insidious, greedy purposes.

No. Something had to be done. And quickly.

Flood Dream

2008-01-18T22:50:00.000-08:00

Gosh, I'm glad this dream didn't turn out to be just another subconscious allegory for me pissing the bed. Granted, it's been a while since I've had one of those, but hey, you never know.

I dreamed that it rained hard for several days, until Moraga and Lafayette started to flood. I was driving home through the windy, narrow part of the main road between the two cities, and began to encounter large puddles in the middle of the street which had accumulated from water that was flowing down the hillside. Conditions became continually worse as I went along, and eventually I was driving through moving streams of water, which cascaded down the hill to my right and then flowed over the ridge on the left.

Every stream became more dangerous. My car hydroplaned a couple times, and I nearly lost control. Then I noticed that the water reached up to my fender, and I was practically fording some of the rivers. Finally, the current got the best of my car and it lost contact with the pavement for good, beginning to drift towards the steep downward slope on the opposite side of the road.

I opened the sunroof and climbed out on top of my car, where I managed to catch on to an overhanging tree branch and climb up. From there, I watched in dismay as the deadly current tumbled my car over the hill and out of sight.

The tree that had saved me was rooted in the upward sloping hill on the right side of the street. I shimmied over to the base of the tree, made contact with a relatively dry portion of the ground, and somehow managed to climb the rocks leading up to the top.

When I got there, I found that the valley on the other side had turned into a lake, and was feeding the stream that had carried my car away. Even more amazing was that people had already managed to set up lake-oriented businesses in the area. For example, a stereotypically scruffy old bearded sailor dude in a yellow rain jacket had opened up a ferry service, for which a long line of people had accumulated.

I noticed that my family was already in line, and nearing the front. It wasn’t just my mom and dad and my brother and sister, but my grandparents from both sides and the dog. My brother had even managed to salvage his girlfriend. Lucky bastard. Here I am, eternally damned to be alone, minus one beloved automobile, minus one life and one home, and my brother gets to keep his girlfriend. Gee, good thing this is just a dream.

“Oliver! We thought we’d never see you again!” They believed that surely I’d perished on whatever mundane errand I was running.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“The whole bay area is uninhabitable. So anywhere but here.” Someone tells me. “This guy is renting out ferries to take people to higher ground.” Where higher ground was exactly, I never found out.

We were next to board. The last ferry to leave was a sturdy looking barge. Some people who paid the old sailor enough had even loaded their cars on board.

“Well, that’s it for the barges.” said the old man. “Who’s next?” Our group stepped forward. “I’m running out of vessels, but methinks I’ve got something that can accommodate the lot of ya.” He lead us over the dock to a long inflatable kayak type affair. It looked really old and dilapidated, and a patchwork of different fabrics sealed the many holes it had acquired throughout the ages. “All aboard!” he said.

My family reluctantly climbed in. The dog stood on the bow, looking surprisingly at home. I hesitated and asked the sailor rather bluntly, “Is this thing really going to stay afloat?”

He looked at me for a moment, then abruptly produced a pistol from somewhere and held it against my temple. “Is she seaworthy, yee ask? Well, let’s find out!”

I knew that meant he was going to shoot me, though how that would determine if the boat would float I don’t quite understand. I guess it’s just a testament to the logical bankruptcy of my dreams. At any rate, he pulled the trigger and instead of a bang I heard a turbine whirring while feeling a strong insistent sucking against my forehead.

“I just be kiddin’ with ya,” he said, “I just use this to deflate me boats quickly. Of course she be seaworthy, ya landluberous trout!” What? “Now I don’t got all day. In with yeh!”

I climbed into the one remaining seat, which was at the very front. As I sat down I noticed that there were at least a couple of inches of water flooding the bottom. “Arrrrgh, that be a part of her wondrous functionality!” he said. “Don’t ferget yer paddles!” He passed each of us a wooden oar, my 70+ year old grandparents included. “Now, off with yeh!” He cast off the rope holding our “sea fairing vessel” to the dock, and then pushed us out onto the lake unceremoniously with his foot before turning away to light his incredibly predictable corncob pipe.

And so we began paddling “out of the bay area,” whatever that means. Eventually we found San Francisco and began to follow the bay bridge away from it. None of this makes any sense geographically, regardless of how flooded anything was, but hey, logically bankrupt, remember?

Oh, and somewhere along the way, we met a group of business men leaving the financial district. Somehow they were still complaining about how shitty the Nasdaq was doing, and I remember something about how they thought PG&E was going to stop powering their high rise office building. “Yup, those bastards are gonna rip the wire right out.” one said, looking back at his place of work. Apparently, there was one single wire running into the entire sixty story skyscraper, and the assholes at PG&E were going to send someone out to take it away. Bummer.

The other thing of note was that the city skyline, while partially submerged, was ridiculously futuristic. The buildings were all shiny and even more monolithic than usual. Then I woke up.

DREAM ANALYSIS:

Beats the shit out of me!

NEW DREAM

2008-01-15T21:00:00.001-08:00

A few nights ago I dreamed I was a lizard, a small gecko, I think. I remember having greenish, almost translucent skin and little suckers on the end of each finger for gripping to ceilings and such.

Anyways, in this particular dream I was, as a lizard, high-tailing it down the highway, zipping over a six lane autobahn, easily keeping pace with the most lead-footed motorists on the road. It was a very sunny day.

Something got my attention and I glanced behind me to see my dad's Cadillac coming up the road. As the car pulled along side me, I noticed that my fourteen year old sister was driving, and she was crying.

While in motion, I hopped up off the road and stuck easily to the side panel, then proceeded up to the driver side window. Sophia saw me there and rolled it down. I asked her what was wrong. She didn't seem at all perturbed by the lizard who was speaking to her as she barreled down the freeway in a car she didn't know how to drive.

"It's your drug problem!" she said between sobs. "It's time for you to admit that you need help!"

"Oh." I said. "Well, I'll think about that."

I scuttled off the side of the car, landed back on the pavement easily, and continued to speed down the road.

Oh, and I don't have a drug problem. Sometimes I'll take the green stuff when it's offered, other than that... nope. Dreams are THILLY!

The Astoundingly Brilliant YouTube Review Forum Highlight Reel

2007-12-27T21:14:00.000-08:00

If a reporter walked up to people on the street in 1957 and asked them what they expected the future to hold in fifty years, they'd probably suggest something along the lines of interstellar travel, flying cars, tubes as a form of public transport, robots that run on punch cards, and the Russians flying hijacked jets into the World Trade Center and an inept president who should have seen it coming. Commie bastards.

Sorry 1950s people. We ain't got none of that shit, yo. What do we have? Well, we do have the internet. I don't think there are any real predictions of the world wide web in science fiction because its not very exciting, at least not outwardly. It doesn't hover or shoot lasers or become self aware and try to kill you. At least not yet. But it does have YouTube. Who could have predicted this magnificent website? Not even Asimov. Now practically any middle class citizen can share a piece of his or her creative glory or boobs with the click of a mouse and nary the snap of a nerve synapse.

Only one thing can top the collective brilliance of YouTube, and that would have to be the "Comments and Responses" column, where the quality and worthiness of your video contribution to mankind can be judged by people from all walks of life. Instead of going on like this, I'll let this miracle of the internet speak for itself with some prime USDA Choice examples. We'll start with a brief discussion of the video-in-review, followed by user made comments.

Video 1: Laugh at the Fat Kid
http://youtube.com/watch?v=b_qYKCc9m0A

Synopsis: This gem expounds upon the struggles of an overweight elementary school kid whose Nanna gorges him on bacon and hohos every morning. The way it shows blatant cutaways of this kid being made fun of in some scenes and being vaguely looked at by kids in others is pretty incredible. Plus, the dialog is amazing. My favorite lines are "Ambient Sounds of Children Playing in the Background." and "Overweight Child Panting in PE" and "Black Kid Who Barks Like a Dog." (No, really, I can't make up this shit. He's in there.) The only thing more life changing than this video are the comments.

Choice YouTube Criticism:

"Now i am angry, sure kids are obest [sic] nowadays but they shouldn't be treated the way they do. I remember beging [sic] smashed from behind and such in highschool [sic] and all the harrassment [sic] in grade. This stuff must stop, stop making fun of overweight kids or you will probobly [goddammit, sic] be the parent of one and see how badly they are treated. It is all true in the video speed girls [wtf?] and all you got it across that obest [seriously?] children are not as well-fit for life as some skin-bag [hot] but they still deserve some respect."

-Blackboarder77

This bit of insight hits home quite hard. As a young pre-adolescent, I was a bit of a chub-chub myself, and nothing stung more than the cuts and jives of those video speed girls. During recess, when they weren't out killing the radio star or tuning the Mach 5, it was all, "Your blocking the sun, Fatty," and "Hey, why don't you rent out advertising space to Goodyear?" Damn those video speed girls! How I so very badly wanted to be well-fit like them. However, I can proudly say that with some exercise and a proper diet, I have come a long way. That's right ladies, your looking at the hunkiest skin-bag in town.

Blackboarder also makes an excellent point; cutting edge research in genetics has shown that making fun of fat kids activates a common but otherwise dormant gene that increases the likelihood of having obest, er.., obese children. FACT.

Video 2: The Old Negro Space Program
http://youtube.com/watch?v=T6xJzAYYrX8

Synopsis: This here is a hilarious parody of any given Ken Burns style documentary. The premise is that in the 1950s, black people started their own space program because NASA was whites-only. It really is very funny, but the comments may have it beat.

Choice YouTube Criticism:

"is this for real?"

-Themanwhowilllayout2

What a ridiculous question. Of course its real. Back then, black people strapped rocket engines to Cadillac DeVilles and school buses and went to the moon all the time. Don't you watch the history channel or at least BET?

"niggers"

-tduffysd

Oooh, that was pretty racy, tduffysd! I donno man, you're really walking "the line" with that one! Way to push the moral envelope of our self-imposed societal construct of right and wrong or some bullshit. Thank God for YouTube; not only can those whom are desperately starved for attention and brain power vie for some much needed internet notoriety, they can do it by typing seven letters and clicking a single button... and be met with success! Here are some responses to our buddy tduffy.

"A man reveals his character through every word he utters. Those that advocate hate are emotionally, spiritually, and mentally under developed. No man with true wisdom, knowledge, and... blah blah blah blah- (oh God, someone's actually paying attention to that idiot)."

-16sag7

As you can see, an intriguing debate is about to enfold, one that will surely inundate our brains with some mind-broadening yet divisive perspectives. Once again, YouTube proves itself to be the battleground where the best and brightest of the quasi-internet savvy square off in a cage match of wits. Not convinced yet? Tduffy's response to 16sag7's poignant words will make a believer out of you. Without further ado:

"blow me you tree huggin liberal."

-tduffysd

And a decisive barrage of impeccable logic and reasoning shoots forth from the brilliant mind of tduffysd! Two points for tduffy! Yes, there you go... one finger, two fingers... yes that's two! Two points! Way to go, champ.

Video 3: The Meaning of Christmas
http://youtube.com/watch?v=Mx9sXFGvPnU&feature=related

Synopsis: Featured in this video are a man and woman wearing Santa hats, speaking with fake Irish accents and expounding upon how much the 2008 republican presidential candidates suck. Since the last thing I want to do is get political, I'll just say that this thing was pretty boring regardless of who you plan on voting for and leave it at that. I got a kick out of some of the comments, though.

Choice YouTube Criticism:

"I wanna piss in his santa hat. In fact I wanna piss all over him."

-kukeninummen

Okay, well, either you mean this man severe disrespect, or he turns you on and you've got some pretty deviant little fetishes floating around in that naughty head of yours. Whatever, bud. Just keep it to yourself.

"Jeez guy, you sound upset. Perhaps instead of focusing your anger on the republicans you could direct it at me, as you have probably heard it was I that violently blasted a piping hot load of radioactive jizz across your late mothers forehead accidently [sick!] burning layers of surface flesh. To be honest I thought she looked silly with a boiling heap of my jizz bubbling on her exposed cranium."

-MightySaturn5

Dude. Wow. If you thought she looked silly with your jizz on her exposed cranium, then why did you put it there? I swear, some people have no sense of aesthetics. And you've got radioactive spunk, eh? Neat, does it glow in the dark? Now crime scene investigators won't even have to get out the black light.

Well, that's about all I can take for now, so until next time, keep on trucking, and I'll keep on 'Tubing for the very best it has to offer.

Estragon, Existential Space Commando

2007-12-06T21:55:00.000-08:00

I'll get the less entertaining part out of the way first, as I imagine it will only enhance what follows.

As a final assignment in the same acting class I mentioned in the last post, we had to act out a scene from a famous play entitled Waiting for Godot. Here's the play in a nutshell: two bums, Estragon and Vladimir, both whom have slightly lost their minds, gibber about in the middle of nowhere by a tree, and are faced with a severe existential quandary. They continually forget things and have bizarre, often unintelligible conversations. The most concrete thing about the play is that they're apparently waiting for a man named Godot, who is commonly interpreted by viewers as a personification of the "meaning" to their existence. Of course, (SPOILER ALERT) the guy never shows up.

As part of the assignment, I had to contrive a character background for the guy I was playing in my designated scene, who happened to be Estragon. Since the play says next to nothing about the main characters' backgrounds, I took my liberties with it. ENJOY!

Estragon
Character Analysis

Estragon was born Estragondrus-19 in the year 2293 aboard a Type-8 Orion Alliance Infantry Cloning Station, orbiting the planet Galactigus Nine in the Tau Ceti system. As the nineteenth clone of one of the Orion Alliance’s most elite space commandoes, Estragondrus-19 emerged from his replication tubule a natural born soldier and killer. While he was gestating, a scene from the late 20^th century summer blockbuster hit, The Rock, was subliminally channeled into his ocular and auditory nerves over and over again. This scene involved a large black man accosting Nicolas Cage with a knife and saying, “I gon’ take pleasure in guttin' you… boy.”

The artificial amniotic fluid had barely been washed off when the station came under attack by a fleet of Deathcruisers, sent by the Coalition of Kargon. At the first impact of a neutrino missile, Estragondrus’ subliminal space commando programming kicked in, and he leapt into an escape pod. By hacking the pod’s autopilot computer, he managed to redirect the tiny spacecraft on a collision course with a particularly weak area of an enemy ship’s hull, the location of which, like so much other knowledge of the enemy, had been programmed into him before birth.

The particular vessel which he happened to collide with was in fact the enemy fleet’s flagship, and the escape pod actually crashed into the Admiral’s quarters, where Admiral Blotcroch was engaged in a Kargonian mating ceremony with one of his many concubine larvae. The ship’s automatic force fields activated to prevent a decompression event, but by that point it was too late: the one man killing force that was Estragondrus was already aboard. Leaping from the ruined pod (still completely naked as people tend to be shortly after being born), he quickly landed a decisive kick to Blotcroch’s Jergrubular Lobe, the most vulnerable part of the Kargonian anatomy. He did this even before Blotcroch could remove his igraculous from his concubine’s larandranon. The maneuver caused the Kargonian Admiral to light on fire and explode into gooey little bits, which of course, due to the nature of Kargonian collective consciousness, caused all other subordinate Kargonians within twelve parsecs to immediately light on fire and explode as well. This dealt a serious blow to the evil Coalition of Kargon, and within two months, the Kargonians offered their unconditional surrender to the Orion Alliance.

This is how, at the age of 38 minutes, Estragondrus-19 became humanity’s number one hero. The Interstellular Senate awarded him three of the highest honors that one could earn in service of the Alliance, including the Senatorial Medal of Jergrubular Lobe Exploitation, which is awarded to soldiers who successfully land a punch or round-house kick to a high ranking Kargonian’s Jergrubular Lobe (limit one per person, void where prohibited).

While it was a policy of the military that no clone soldier ever meet his originator, the original Estragondrus, who had retired from service a decade before and changed his name to Vladimiroid to hide his identity, came out of the woodwork and insisted that he be allowed to meet his heroic twin. Given the circumstances, a military tribunal decided to make an exception to their policy, and allowed the two to meet in a heartfelt ceremony atop the Eiffel Tower in France, the capital of Earth, where they stood hand in hand far above heaving masses of revelers. Many were surprised and befuddled by the fact that, though they were clones, the two didn’t look all that similar.

The pair became fast friends, and together they opened their own restaurant chain, Low Orbit Fondue, a series of family oriented fondue restaurants positioned in geosynchronous orbit over such galactic hotspots as Earth, Tau Ceti 8, Beevonius 12, Jupiter’s moon Io, and of course Uranus. They also had a small drive-in-only location in south Detroit. Low Orbit Fondue gained particular notoriety thanks to their unique Zero-G Tuesdays, on which any diner could request to have his or her booth’s gravity generator disabled, allowing them to sample fondue from a giant bubble of floating fondue as opposed to a fondue pot. Fondue!

Then, disaster struck. It all began when humanity made first contact with an irritating yet admittedly friendly race of aliens called blukbluks. The newfound extraterrestrials immediately displayed a penchant for traveling about in huge spacebus loads to tour the new and fascinating human corner of the universe. Typically during this period, any establishment that they found interesting would often wind up overrun in the blink of an eye as they swarmed about and took transdimensional photos (which tend to induce nausea in most humans) of even the most mundane objects, and excreted large amounts of flatulence due to their inability to properly digest human food. Furthermore, they seemed to have no concept of currency exchange or tipping for that matter, and usually insisted upon paying for their meals and souvenir trinkets in “Blukbucks.” Estragondrus, following one particularly harrowing blukbluk raid on his restaurant during which he vomited eight times as a result of exposure to blukbluk “photo opportunities,” was heard to have said, “I fucking hate blukbluks.”

One day, during a particularly nasty influx of blukbluk tourists, a doddering older blukbluk with pink hair decided to order the curry dish. Normally the smell of curry was offensive to the average blukbluk, but this particular specimen had lost her sense of smell in an accident involving a photocopier, and so decided to “go out on a limb.”

To make a long story short, the isometric alkaline compounds found within the curry caused a quantum waveform collapse in the subatomic particles which comprised the silica based gastrointestinal tract of the dining alien, leading to a resonance cascade of rogue neutrinos throughout the dermal layer which instigated a chain reaction in the flagellum matrix. This subsequently rended a five meter hole in the fabric of space-time. Estragondrus and Vladimiroid, along with a nearby bluckbluck named Pozzpozz and his slave pigaloid, Luckinominikus’tipleetay, were consumed by the temporal vortex before it closed three minutes later.

The four flew through a spiraling wormhole of undulating colors and special effects that an LSD enthusiast could only dream of. In the distance they spotted a bright light, constituting the other end of the vortex. Just before they reached it, however, the portal dissolved and they found themselves standing in a plain looking office, occupied by three harried old men sitting behind a long desk. Outside the otherwise mundane windows of the room, they could see the void of outer space. The old men informed the bizarre posse that they were Universal Auditors, and their job was prevent space-time paradoxes and catastrophes. If the group arrived in the past unhindered, which is where the vortex was taking them, they would most likely upset the delicate balance of the space time continuum by purposefully or inadvertently changing something, causing the universe to collapse in on itself and be obliterated due to the ensuing paradox.

The Auditors, knowing that it was only within their powers to restrain the hapless time travelers in their office for a matter of minutes, quickly formulated the best solution they could. To prevent a catastrophic paradox, our heroes would have their memories wiped and replaced for the time being, and be dropped in an abandoned rural area of America in their temporal destination, somewhere about the year 1935. Due to the low level of traffic that traveled through the designated region, and the lack of important landmarks and resources in the area, the Auditors were 98.22% sure they could withhold them without an accidental triggering of a space-time paradox until they figured a way to rectify the situation.

The final precautions that the Auditors had to take were to change their names and identities, transmogrify the two aliens into human form (easier than it looks), and temporarily remove memories and certain areas of higher brain function so that the time travelers would not stray from their temporal “quarantine zone.” This is how Estragondrus-19 became Estragon, or Gogo, how Vladimiroid became Vladimir, or Didi, how Pozzpozz became Pozzo, and how his slave pigaloid Luckinominikus’tipleetay became Lucky. This is also how they wound up as a bunch of confused, seemingly lobotomized bums who consistently return to the same spot every day and can’t remember where they were twenty four hours ago.

After being stuck in the quarantine zone for many years now, somewhere in the minds of the two humans, a faint memory of the Auditor’s promise seems to linger. Before modifying their minds, the Auditors promised that some day they would figure out a way to replicate a reverse time portal and send them all back to the future. At this point the travelers would also be reequipped with their memories and higher brain functions. Until that day, they’d just have to wait. As the Auditors then proceeded to erase their memories, one of the old men sneezed, making a noise sounding something like, “Gah, Gah, GADOUGGGH!” And this is why they insist that they are waiting for a man named Godot.

Masterpiece Theater, With Master P

2007-12-05T23:21:00.000-08:00

Here's an assignment I had to take care of for this introductory acting class I'm taking. The idea was to critique an actor in a professional play.

Actor Critique
Professional Production
“The Weir”
Oliver Perez

Ah yes, The Theater! Where the human condition is often imitated with such gusto and alacrity that the audience transcends their seats and is transplanted forthwith into the world of the stage! Hello! Hello, and welcome… welcome to the realm of the theater, or more accurately, the realm of theater criticism. I am your host, Oliver Perez, scientist, musician, member of the American Bar Association, medical doctor, equestrian, pedestrian, and thespian.

Indeed, today’s review involves a delightful production of “The Weir,” a play which takes place in a small Irish town near the river for which the show is named. In this tale, an amicable young woman from Dublin has left her life in the big city and relocated to this quaint rural hamlet. At a tavern, she begins to become acquainted with the locals, who after “droinkin’ a fyoo points,” begin to inundate her with some of the town’s popular local folklore, all of which pertains to supernatural occurrences. That’s right: Ghost Stories. OOOOOOWEEEEEEEEYOOOOOO! However, after a few chilling tales are passed her way, she totally rips the locals a new asshole with her own ghostly story. Jesus Christ, she gave those Oyrish tits a run for their money! WOOOOWEEE! By the way, UC Santa Cruz, that was a joke: I have nothing against the Irish, and I don’t think they’re tits, okay? Okay. Anyhoot, I enjoyed this play thoroughly, as it provoked in me such chills and thrills that I nearly had to lay at my bedside for a fortnight! Tally ho, pip pip cheerio, quite right gov’nor, etc.!

The character of Valerie was played magnificently. I think she portrayed the common human situation of being introduced to a new setting and unfamiliar people, and then gradually opening up to them, quite beautifully. I was very much convinced. Furthermore, I must hand it to all the actors, as they did a very descent job of starting off the play sober and gradually moving to a slightly sloshed state.

Valerie’s tension was a huge part of what made her performance. She starts off in an unfamiliar state, and this tension shows appropriately, though she accounts for the fact that her character is not naturally introverted. Then, when she finally becomes comfortable enough to unleash her own tale, her tension returns tenfold. A professional job and well executed. Bravo, I say. Bravo!

Her concentration was marvelous. Fantastic! Magnificent! Not a moment went by where her mental fortuity did falter and crash upon that dastardly rocky shore of Shitty Acting. Since this is a play where stories are told, she did have to spend a lot of time “listening.” This could be a pitfall for some, but not for her. BRAVISSIMO! THAT’S UH-ONE SPICY MEATBALL OF AN ACTRESS! Hey, UC Santa Cruz, that was a joke too. I respect women, and do not view them as pieces of meat. Let the record show. Thanks. :)

When it came to her breathing, I honestly can’t remember much. I guess that means it was good.

As for her resonance, what can I say? It was a tour de force of the human spirit! I mean, you think Jarred Fogle and his Subway diet are inspiring? Fuck that guy. Resonance, baby. She came in loud and clear like a hi-fidelity noise making device of some kind. The way she presented the climax of her story, turned out towards the audience and presenting it in full force to the house, no, to me, was moving. I felt like the San Andreas fault in 1989. Shit, sorry, UC Santa Cruz, according to Wikipedia, 63 people died in that earthquake. I guess I can’t weasel out of this one; that was genuinely politically incorrect. Please, be my guest and protest me. Just do it. I deserve it.

Right, so where was I? Ah yes, given circumstances. The actor was simply mired in them. That’s a good thing. I mean, she just had this air of being a person in a new place, out of her element, with a dark past just itching to be exposed. Even though it was never explicitly suggested until the middle of the play, I could just feel that she had a secret.

Anyway, I’d have to say that this play constituted a night well spent. I say, Bravo. Bravo indeed. Where are my crumpets?

Here We Go Again

2007-11-21T00:28:00.000-08:00

So its happening again. Like a recurring cold sore, a group of marauding hippies have once again invaded our campus. They've set up camp on Science Hill and are blocking an entire parking lot, bothering students, smelling terrible, making our school look like shit to prospective students and visitors, vandalizing property, pulling fire alarms, and the administration is far too pussy to take action against them.

After receiving a letter from one of our campus provosts concerning the now two week long insurgence, I responded with some input of my own. Here it is.

Dear Carolyn,

Thanks for the informative email. While I'm fairly in the dark on what the LRDP represents specifically, I am also quite confident that no matter what the program entails, I hate hippies. Even if the LRDP involved some sort of genocidal rampage, to which I would of course be opposed, I would still massively resent the presence of these societal ne'er-do-wells on my semi-beloved campus, no matter what their stance is on anything.

Is there some kind of spray that can be applied to these people to make them go away or otherwise disappear? I recall a recent airborne dispersal of a certain pheromone that inhibits the reproduction of a local pest, the apple moth. Perhaps there is some kind of chemical that could be employed in a similar manner to these festering tree-bound douchebags as well? I'm thinking of one right now, but I can't remember the name. Hmm... its on the tip of my tongue... reminds me of a war in an east-Asian country... rhymes with Day Balm. Huh. Can't seem to recall. Let's just leave it at spray-on deodorant, I know that would upset those guys.

Okay, well let me present another possible solution. Once I saw a video of a bear that had wandered into a suburban neighborhood and climbed up a telephone pole. The stubborn little bugger refused to come down, so some badasses from animal control came and shot the little dickens with a couple tranquilizer darts, and he fell somewhat safely onto a trampoline that they'd set up directly beneath him.

Now, I know you're probably getting some idea of where I'm going here. You're probably thinking, "Oh, Concerned Student, as amazing and brilliant as your idea is, if only you knew what a shitstorm would be kicked up if we tranquilized a bunch of inbred hippies hiding in trees on our campus." Oh, I know very well the type of shitstorm that would be kicked up! A world-class shitstorm to be sure! But I have a solution!

These imbeciles- er... mentally disabled persons are obsessed with their own ill-conceived concept of justice, right? So what we do is get a team of Navy SEALS to dress up in bear costumes (contrary to popular belief, the SEALS are not limited to disguising themselves as seals) and THEN tranquilize them. That way, it will look to the public and the hippies as if the whole thing was just a bunch of oppressed bears getting their revenge! The hippies, upon awakening after safely being packed into trucks and shipped to Cuba or some other communist country where they can enjoy socialized medicine like they've always wanted will just have to shrug their shoulders and say, "Well, we sure had that coming! If I were a bear, I'd be pissed about getting tranquilized all the time too! It's just like why 9/11 was America's fault!" Fight hippie imbecility with hippie idiocy, that's what I always say.

Here's one more idea: set up some hidden speakers all around the infected area that make a really high pitched irritating sound late at night. Nobody else will be around at that time (I'm talking like three in the morning) and there aren't any on-campus dorms or apartments nearby either, right? One of two things will happen: They'll either leave or pass out from lack of sleep and fall out of the trees, one or the other. If that doesn't work... bears.

Well, I believe I've done my duty here. Thanks for reading!

Sincerely,
Oliver Perez, Concerned UCSC Undergraduate.

P.S. Okay, seriously now. As our campus administrators, you folks need to grow some metaphorical testicles and get these idiots off our campus. I know that the politics of the situation are very ginger, and that the City of Santa Cruz is full of resentful morons who can't seem to get it through their heads that the students whom UCSC brings in play an enormous roll in powering their economy, but still... you folks are obligated to take action.

I know how it works... you guys want to protect your careers. I realize that I probably would too, since I've already grown out of my overly-ideological-rebellious-college-student phase. Even so... please do your jobs. We students don't pay the big bucks to come here and have to put up with this crap.

Here's an idea: arrest them. You won't have to worry about the race card being pulled this time because they already DISRUPTED THE STUDENTS OF COLOR CONFERENCE! Now you guys can dubiously accuse someone of being racist for once!

Thanks.

!!!ICHI BAN!!! KATAMARI FAN FICTION (PART IV) !!!ICHI BAN!!!

2007-11-16T00:51:00.001-08:00

King lay in the middle of the highway, flat on his face, gradually regaining consciousness and realizing that he had successfully made his escape. There was no need to worry about getting hit by a car, because all the oncoming traffic had suffered the same fate as the limousine, and nobody wanted to drive into Kyoto right now anyway. He carefully peeled himself off the pavement, slightly bruised and cut, but otherwise okay. He turned towards the city, only about four or five miles away, and could clearly see that it was very much in distress. Fires burned, helicopters circled, sirens blared. He thought he could make out the Katamari rolling between buildings if he looked hard enough.

The momentary elation at still being alive burned off quickly as he realized he had lost his Prince. "My Prince!" he cried out in despair, "Where have you gone? Why have you left us!" King collapsed onto his knees and cursed the sky.

------------

"Now where them big titty girls you promised me, Michael?" inquired Howard "Sludgy Puddles" Jameson, world-renowned blues guitarist, for the fifth time. Mike Greenjeans, his agent, was beginning to get a little irritated, and his growing concern over his own personal well-being was not helping. They had been down in the club's cellar for about an hour now, and the sounds that came from outside had not grown any more assuring. Mike had had enough.

"Listen here, you old fart! I lied. There ain't no big titty girls down here. I made it up to manipulate a senile old man!"

A look of severe distress took hold of Sludgy's face and his bottom lip quivered dolefully.

"Oh God, Sludgy," said Mike, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it. I'm just a little on edge right now. C'mere." Mike gave the old musician a hug.

"My oh my, Michael. You sure know how to give an ol' man the blues."

"Sorry... sorry."

The blues club, of which the cellar's ceiling was comprised, was abruptly ripped away. A giant ball of urban real estate was making off with Sludgy's venue, and several of the surrounding buildings as well.

"You sho' been settin' up some shit gigs fo' me lately, kid." muttered Sludgy to his agent.

"We're leaving." said Greenjeans. The wine cellar, which was now no more than a large concrete dugout, still featured a set of stairs leading up to what used to be the kitchen. The kitchen (and the the rest of the Blue Lotus of Despair Happy Blues Club) was now a vacant lot, strewn about with a few bits of rubble and furniture that the Katamari left behind. The talent agent lead the aged musician up to street level, and together they began to move in the opposite direction of the creature.

-------------------------

It wants nothing more than to consume, to grow. It thinks nothing of what it devours, or what it has devoured, or what it will devour. Only one question lingers in its mind, the question of whether or not it's being fed. I can feel its hunger, bottomless, insatiable. We are connected, our destinies entwined. I shall find it, or perhaps it shall find me first. But first I have to kill this huge fucking sewer rat.

Let me back up a bit. Yes, I am King's Prince. My father accidentally let go of me when the Doomsphere, the Omega Orb, the Katamari, consumed his car. The impact sent me flying out an open window and I fell directly through a sewer grate, landing in a streaming underground river of Japanese crap... that's right, some asshole had dumped all his Pokemon DVDs and Sailor Moon comics into the sewer system.

I managed to swim for the concrete shore, but upon reaching it I was accosted by a rodent. This thing is probably large by human standards, but from my inch high point of view it's about the size of a rhinoceros. And that's how I got into this wacky predicament.

The rat growls at me viciously. It's angry snarls gurgle as viscous saliva drools from it's infectious maw. I slowly back away, maintaining eye contact. I nearly trip and fall backwards as my heel makes contact with a heavy object on the ground. I glance down. It's a Lego crowbar that some kid must have flushed down the toilet or eaten accidentally. I carefully pick it up, still facing the beast.

The rat lunges, its elongated front incisors glistening hungrily. I dodge, the rat momentarily loses its footing and stumbles. I bring the plastic bludgeon down hard upon its mangy head. Critical hit! Rat loses 50 HP!

The rat is Enraged! Rat gains 15 Fortitude. It spins and rushes me, head butting me to the ground. Prince loses 25 HP! My head hits the concrete hard. Prince is Dazed! Prince loses 10 General Wherewithal. The rat rears up on its hind legs, and prepares to fall upon my body, ripping, tearing, devouring. But I've already spotted the endgame lying on the ground next to me. It's a pointy Lego Dunce Cap from the 19th Century School House Lego Playset. I put the conical plastic hat over the end of the crowbar and aim upwards as the rat's rancid smelling body descends towards me. With a nasty crack, the hat and crowbar combo pierce the beast's ribs and plunge straight into its worm infested heart. Critical Hit! Rat loses 50 HP! The beast lets out a horrific shriek and convulses in it's final death throws. Rat is Defeated!

I shimmy out from beneath the reeking carcass, rat blood dripping from my green skin. I pause for a moment. I must find the Katamari, but which way should I go? All at once my mind is crushed by a searing flash of pain.

WE ARE HUNGRY! THAT IS WHY WE ARE GLAD THAT HAPPY FUN TIME IS CATERED! CATERED BY KYOTO! KYOTO TASTES LOVELY!

Its thoughts pierce my brain. Our connection grows stronger as it grows larger. And now I know where to go. Against the flow of the sewer water, towards the city. I'll find him.

I wander for at least an hour, his thoughts becoming more defined and frequent in my brain. I know I'm close to the Katamari; the sewer water is running red with blood. And then I'm there. It is very near now. I climb a ladder, and pop out of another drainage grate onto the street. There it is, half a block away, and trying on a 10 story apartment building for size. It just isn't quite big enough, but the Katamari is testing the water anyway. Now is my chance.

A light breeze kicks up a scrap of paper lying nearby, and I grab hold of it, fluttering with it towards the Doomsphere. The paper smacks into the monster and, as with everything else, is held fast. But not me, I don't stick to the Katamari; the Katamari sticks to me, when and only when I see fit. I move my arms along its enormous circumference. I don't need proper leverage or power as would someone bound by the usual laws of physics, the Katamari simply yields to my every motion. The next thing I know I'm rolling it down the street, back towards the wreckage and away from the parts of the city that remain relatively intact. It comes more naturally than I would have imagined.

But someone stands in my way.

-------------------------------------------

"C'mon Sludgy, we gotta move faster!"

"My 'roids!" protested Sludgy.

Sludgy and Mike Greenjeans were about two miles away from the edge of the city, traveling on foot. As the day grew darker, the wreckage around them grew more ominous and foreboding, as though the destruction of the city had opened the door for some lurking evil that could never show itself among an intact civilization. Mike was getting ready to ditch this slow-moving demented old fart. He had other clients anyway, and Greenjeans knew his life depended on getting out of Kyoto, fast.

An aroma crept up into Greenjeans' olfactory nerve, and to his surprise it was not an unpleasant one. Something that reminded him of home, too. As they walked further it became unmistakable: it was pizza.

"Back in my day sometime' we had to use the telephone book for toilet paper." said Sludgy.

"Shh! Do you smell that?" interrupted Mike. If the absurdity of having to quiet down in order to smell something occurred to Sludgy, he didn't show it.

"Son, I ain't smelled sheeyit since '73. And by sheeyit of course I mean 'anything.'"

"Hmm, more for me then," muttered Greenjeans to himself. He didn't mention it again. Instead they continued to walk in the same direction, the smell getting stronger. A few moments later they reached what was obviously, based on appearance and scent, the source of the smell. It was a small shop, adorned with a quaint sign reading, "Super Tony-san's Honorable Pizza Pies." The only thing that didn't quite add up was the fact that the store was completely dark inside. Greenjeans was still hungry enough to investigate.

"Wait here, Howard," said Mike. "Just stand here and talk to that newspaper box or whatever. I'll be right out."

Mike tried the door and found that it was unlocked. He proceeded inside, pausing to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Indeed, from what he could see the restaurant appeared to have been quickly deserted many hours ago. Nevertheless, the smell was very strong now. "Hello?" he said. There was no answer.

Carefully he crossed to the other side of the darkened establishment, nearing the kitchen. He had never smelt such a strong scent of pizza. It was intoxicating. He felt slightly dizzy.

Leaning through the open doorway, Greenjeans peeked tentatively into the kitchen. No cooks, no pizza, not even the vaguest indication that there had been any recent life in here at all. Then his eyes adjusted further as he stood there, allowing him to see something on the opposite side of the room. A large gaping hole in the floor. The rubble surrounding it was indicative that something had definitely dug up from under, not down.

Carefully he approached it and peered into the small abyss. It was much too dark to tell where it lead, but when he came close to the opening another smell became apparent, even through the intense pizza odor. Raw sewage. This hole had been dug up from the sewer.

A prickling feeling rushed down Greenjean's back and he knew he shouldn't stay. He turned to walk out and thought he saw the top of a head peering over a counter at him. He startled in surprise and then it wasn't there. "Okay," thought Greenjeans, "Getting the fuck out of here."

He rapidly moved out the kitchen door and was halfway across the dining area when a dark shape leaped down off the ceiling and somehow ensnared him in a weighted net. Greenjeans struggled, only to become more tangled and incapacitated. Something like a nunchuck was flung out of nowhere and everything went black.

----------------------------------------------

"Prince! Oh, my Prince! My son! We thought we had lost you forever!" King addresses me from the middle of the street, his jubilancy radiating, lighting the surrounding darkness. "And look at how well you command our Katamari! So deftly and with such professionalism! Could a father be more proud of his son?" I tell the Katamari to stay and run to my father, jumping up in his palm, hugging his pinky. "But we were so worried! Don't you ever leave us again, my Prince!" he says, scolding and praising all at the same time.

"I am sorry Father."

"We are just glad you are okay. But we were very scared. Say, do you know how you can make it up to us?"

"Anything, Father."

"Why don't you go back and grab that Katamari, and we'll tell you."

I hop off his palm and proceed back to the giant ball of city, sitting docile and monolithic in the middle of the street, awaiting my command. "Are we going to take it away, Father? Take it somewhere safe?" I ask.

"HAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHA!" His manic laughter echoes strangely among the waste. "Prince, you are a peculiar and funny child! No, our son, we have much grander plans for our Katamari!"

"But father, the Katamari is a terrorizing force of evil! Look at how much has been lost to it!"

"We are hurt that you would speak ill of our creation, son. Now do as we say. You will continue to roll the Katamari, and you will roll up as much as you can, until we tell you to stop."

"No!" It was bad enough knowing that this thing was running rampant, but the idea that I could be behind its terror was too much. Why would my father want to incur such destruction? "I won't, Father!" There was a pause, a deadly one.

"Are you defying us, son?" His voice was ominously flat and tranquil, like the calm before a horrific storm. "You do not understand our plan do you? Of course not. To understand our plan would require you to understand where you came from. To understand where we came from." I know that for once his use of "we" is not the royal form, but the genuine "you and I" form. "We are not of human origin." he says, referring to himself once more, "We were cut from the cloth of the cosmos, and destined from birth to rule over existence. But opposing forces cast us down to Earth, sensing in us what they referred to as a 'relentless egotism,' a 'selfish disregard for the needs of the universe.' Our power as King of All Cosmos was stripped away, and we were banished to this planet, doomed to live out our existence as a mere mortal.

"But those fools who deposed us left a small fraction of our power intact. And it was with this power and the genetic meddling of human science that we were able to devise you and the Katamari you command. And now our plan nears fruition. What is the purpose of the Katamari? With it we shall hold the universe at ransom! With an ever growing force of destruction at our command, the Powers that cast us down to Earth will have no choice but to reinstate us as Supreme King of All Cosmos! And if they don't, there's no limit to what the Katamari will consume. Earth will be just the beginning. After this planet is eaten, our creation will cross the void of space with impunity and consume other bodies, eventually in just one gulp! Of course, this will not be necessary. The Powers will not allow for it, they will have no choice but to reinstate us. We shall be King!" His voice has risen in a tyrannical crescendo and his final assertion rings out to the urban destruction, among which most life has already fled or been extinguished. "You are the final piece in the puzzle, son." he tells me. "We admittedly lack the power to command our first creation, but our second creation is in fact just so enabled. That's you, Prince."

"NO!" I shout. I will not, cannot allow such horrors to continue unceasing. A deadly silence follows my insubordinate outburst. Nothing is said.

"Do you mean to defy us?" says King quietly.

My tiny heart is pounding in my throat but I cannot back away now. "I will not be responsible for any more destruction." I try to maintain a level and calm tone of voice but it cracks under the strain anyway.

"THEN YOU CAN EAT OUR SHIT, YOU INSOLENT LITTLE COCK SHINER!" His voice booms in such a way that a listener at a significant distance might assume that Japan had just entered round three with the atom bomb. "Suffer and do our bidding!" Two eerie glows accumulate under his dark brow, one for each eye. Beams of searing energy shoot forth and scorch the ground around me. I am too small to be considered an easy target. I run. I must get away.

Then one of his bolts finds its mark. Excruciating pain roars through me. I fall. He laughs. It is not a wicked laugh. It is a joyous one. My blurred vision refocuses as the pain subsides and he is standing above me, his rage completely absent, and replaced by manic happiness. "There you go, kid! You see why you must not defy us? Now go ahead champ, get back on the ball!"

No. I get up, stumbling, start to run again. "Unacceptable!" he booms. He manages to hit me with another horrible beam. I fall, the pain twice as agonizing. I can't, I won't. But I do. Part of my mind still protests but the pain is too terrible. My feet move on their own volition towards the Doomsphere, where I take hold and hear my mouth say, "Where shall I begin?"

"Here." he says.

---------------------------------

"Dude, what've we got here?" Greenjeans was beginning to come around. His vision was still blurred, but he could at least tell that the shape looming above him was humanoid and green. He tried to move his arms and legs and found that they were bound.

"Dinner, man." said another voice. "And its not pizza this time."

"Way to go bro, I was getting so sick of that shit." At the mention of pizza, Greenjeans briefly noticed that the smell of it was still amazingly strong, though clearly his location had changed. It occurred to him that it was coming off his captor's bodies.

"Well, now that the man has been brought down, we don't have to, like, eat what society tell us to anymore, dude." says a third voice which cracked pubescently. "We can even move up out of this shit hole sewer." So that's where he was. The sewer. Who were these people? They sounded like a bunch of kid skateboard punks. His mind and vision suddenly slipped more into focus and he gazed upon his captors.

They were four giant, bipedal, talking turtles. Their faces were smeared with what appeared to be terrible acne, and aside from various bits of martial arts gear and colored bandanas, they stood completely naked. "Well dudes, let's chow down on some man flesh!"

"Cowabunga!"

"I call his balls and scrote!"

"That's fucking gay, dude."

"Yeah, you're such a fucking faggot, Michaelangelo. It's no wonder the rat named you after some pansy ass artist."

"Shut the fuck up, douchebag. I heard the guy you were named after was a bit of a flamer himself. That's right, I read the DaVinci Code."

"You know, guys," said a fourth voice, "I uh, looked our names up on Wikipedia the other day... We're actually all named after artists."

"I had to go to a museum once. Art is fucking gay."

"Whatever, let's eat already."

And with that, the four adolescent gene-spliced martial arts expert amphibian freaks devoured Michael Greenjeans, talent agent, alive.

-----------------------------

Sludgy was getting bored of talking to the newspaper box. "I'm sorry Reggie, but I gotta get moving. Say hi to the wife 'n kids fo' me." Now where had that Michael gotten off to? In a sudden bout of surprising lucidity, it occurred to Sludgy Puddles that he might be able to spot him from a higher vantage point. He noticed a relatively intact 10 story car park a little farther down the block and proceeded towards it.

He had some difficulty hobbling up to the top, but eventually he got there. Sludgy took a seat on an abandoned Honda Fit and absently began to strum a few chords out of Spicywings, his legendary guitar. The sun set serenely over the far off mountains, paying no heed to the chaos unfolding in Kyoto. The musician looked out over the ravaged city skyline and he saw many things. He saw trees of green, flowers of white; the brightness of day, the darkness of-

"The fuck's that thing?" said Sludgy to himself. A giant ball of random crap was devouring what remained of the high rises in Kyoto's financial district. Unexpectedly his memory vaguely recalled the monstrosity that had destroyed his last venue, the Blue Lotus of Despair Happy Blues Club. "Why, that's the son' bitch spoiled my last gig!" he said. And with that revelation he composed a song.

Giant ball o' random crap,
makin' me into some down 'n out sap,
I had fame and I had fortune,
sittin' here in my lap,
now I wanna lie down,
and take a long dirt nap,
thank's for nuttin'
giant ball o' random crap.

-----------------------------------

Now he wants me to leave the city. I can't let this continue any further.

"Good going Tiger!" he says, excitedly, as he follows me and the Omega Orb through the city. "You gobbled up those skyscrapers like popcorn! We are so very proud! Oh look!" As we roll along a main street towards the outskirts of Kyoto, I notice segments of pavement beginning to rip out of the ground. "Now we know you're ready son! You're starting to rip up the very Earth from beneath you! Now the Powers will have to listen! Soon you'll be rolling up this quaint island country!"

I spin the ball 180 degrees, turn it to face my father. "What are you doing son?"

I roll over him. He sticks like anything else. "BLAST AND DAMN YOU, YOU LITTLE TWAT!"

But I can sense something else. Something else sticking, something immaterial, lacking mass and volume but nonetheless very substantial. Its his ego... redistributing it's immense metaphysical mass around the circumference of the Katamari. I can see it, a swirling flamboyant rainbow-colored aura, moving out of the King and washing over the Doomsphere. Something changes. The Katamari is no longer under my control, or under its own control. It begins to levetate, climbing up into the air, and settling about 30 stories up.

"LOOK AT WHAT YOU HAVE DONE! WE ARE VERY UPSET. WHEN WE GET DOWN FROM HERE-"

But a sickening, space-time rending crack echoes through the very fabric of existence, cutting off even the King's mighty voice. The ball, collapsing under the massive weight of my father's ego, undulating with color, begins to implode. Slowly at first, it crumples like a papier-mache balloon. Then faster and faster, the skyscrapers, the Blue Lotus of Despair Happy Blues Club, the houses, the army tanks, the cars, the phone booths, the cow, the stupid college girls, the fat kid, the dogs, the cats, the action figures, the Pokemon merchandise, the lab equipment, the mice, all collapsing into a singularity at the bottom of an infinite vortex of absolute black. I watch as it's circumference grows, and I descend into darkness.

---------------------------------

Sludgy knew what that big black dot over the city was the moment it appeared. After all, he had read Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time at least four times. "That there's a juicy muhfuckah." he said to himself. "Well, Spicywings, looks like the gig's up. How 'bout one more song fo' the road?"

As the black hole grew rapidly, hungrily devouring what the Katamari had not, Sludgy played his bluesy swan song. And the lyrics went a little something like this:

There just ain't no escapin',
got them black hole blues.
Space time fabric it be rapin',
I got them black hole blues.
There ain't no point to cry son,
once you cross the event horizon,
I got 'dem black hole blues.

And as he neared the end of his song, he felt the darkness' immense gravity well pulling him up and into the expanding pitch. With a surprising gentleness he began to spiral towards it's core. The theory of relativity suggests that with his growing proximity to the hole's event horizon, the perceived passing of time must begin to slow, eventually to an infinitely tiny fraction above zero, for all intents and purposes halting time itself. Crossing the threshold, one final blue note rang out, accompanied by one final chord, frozen, timeless and immortal in the perfect blackness of eternity.

THE END

!!!ICHI BAN!!! KATAMARI FAN FICTION (PART III) !!!ICHI BAN!!!

2007-11-12T13:26:00.000-08:00

Howard "Sludgy Puddles" Jameson, a renowned blues guitarist from Detroit, America, was playing a gig at the Blue Lotus House of Despair Happy Blues Club in Kyoto when the sirens began blaring, or as he would have put it in one of his songs, "a-blarin'". As the sound of the city's emergency alert system whirred to life, partially overpowering the down-and-out croonings of the man and his guitar, the audience began to murmur and shift worriedly, no longer mesmerized by his bluesy melodies. After about a minute the commotion had risen to such a point that Sludgy had to stop.

"Now, see here," he said, his mustache wobbling, "what's all this here noise all 'bout?" The stage manager rushed out and addressed Sludgy in as conciliatory a tone as his broken English could allow.

"Sorry Mr. Pudders... Emergency, big trouber coming. We must put down to cerrar right now!"

"Whah boy? I have no idea whatchu tryin' say to me, 'dis here guitah ain't no universal translatah, ain't no Scotteh gonna beam mah ol' ass up. Now whatchu tryin' say son?"

"Emergency, Mr. Pudders, cerrar is prace to go, right now!" The stage manager tugged insistently on Sludgy Puddles' arm.

"Now son, doan go pullin' an ol' man's arm that way!" There was a problem. Sludgy, in the face of his everlasting musical prowess, was a slightly demented old man, and the stage manager was no pro when it came to English.

"Sludgy, it's time to go." Mike Greenjeans, his manager, had finally managed to elbow his way up from the back row through the rapidly dispersing patrons.

Sludgy turned to his manager. "Now tell me Michael, what'n God's name's all this hull' bloo?"

"We need to move down to the cellar, it's not very big, but it's the safest place for us right now. Something bad is coming this way." said Mike.

"Is it the Japs? I ain't goan end up like one them Pearl Harbor boys. Where's mah carbine?"

Mike glanced sheepishly at the stage manager for a moment before saying, "We're in Japan, Sludgy. Let's just head on down stairs, okay?"

Mr. Puddles still resisted slightly. He stared up at Mike for a moment with that far away, rheumy-eyed look of his, that old mind working to fully ascertain the situation. "They got mo' them big titty girls down there?" Mike did not know to which big titty girls the aged blues musician was referring. Not having any clue what Sludgy was talking about outside his music was pretty common. Still, Mike knew an opening when he saw one.

"Yes, Sludgy. At least a baker's dozen. Shall we go?"

"Hells yes, son!" said Sludgy, creaking out of his seat with youthful gusto. He took the amplifier jack out of Spicywings (the name by which he referred to his guitar), but left the instrument hanging around his shoulders. Steadying his guitar by the neck in one hand, and scooping up his cane in the other, Mike helped him as they slowly made their way to the club's wine cellar. Mike would have offered to carry the instrument, but nobody- nobody, but Sludgy Puddles ever laid a hand on Spicywings.

---------------------
Two Hours Earlier....

King's private Gulfstream jet touched down at Kansai International Airport as dusk began to swallow up the day. It was still an hour's drive into Kyoto. A limo from the branch office was waiting. "Mr. King, what a most pleasant surprise." said the manager who had come out to meet him. "We're all very honored that you could make it out here."

"Mm." grunted King, gazing nonchalantly out the car window, his tight clad legs crossed effeminately.

"All of us at the Kyoto branch are quite confident your leadership will play a paramount roll in bringing this crisis to an end." King did not respond. "Sir... if you don't mind me asking... how do you plan on stopping this thing?"

"We have our ideas." responded King, blunt and dismissive.

"Oh, okay." said the manager. There was an uncomfortable half-minute of silence as the manager worked up his courage. On one hand, he did not want to incur King's wrath by interrupting what was sure to be a very brilliant train of thought, on the other, he really wanted some self assurance that they'd be able to stop that rampaging genetically engineered ball of junk from destroying civilization. He took a chance. "Like what?"

King slowly turned his face away from the window and looked over at the him, his expression completely neutral. "Aw fuck, this is it." thought the manager. He had pushed too hard, and he knew the stories of people who had before him. It was typically nothing pretty.

Then, shockingly, King's countenance reconstructed itself into a wide and cordial grin, and he chuckled jovially. "Why, my good man! We have something most splendiferous up our sleeve! Something fab to bedazzle the senses! Something full of brightness and color! We love it!"

"Oh?" said the bewildered manager.

"Indeed! A fantastical, coolerific thing! Something shiny and fun!"

"Really?" said the manager, getting excited, "What is-"

"Ask me more!" said the King, grinning manically.

"What is it?" asked the manager.

The twinkle in King's eye burst like a light bulb that had caught a bullet, his smile melted into an angry sneer, and his wrath was palpable throughout the limo. "WHY MUST IT ASK SO MANY QUESTIONS? SILENCE, FOOL, OR WE SHALL RIP OFF YOUR PENIS AND RAPE YOUR WIFE WITH IT!"

"Oh fuck me! Please forgive my insolence, honorable Kingagawa!"

King's bright smile returned. "Hahahahahahaha, naw man, We just kidding with you! The solution is right here!" King reached into his pocket and withdrew a little vibrant green man, about the height of a golf pencil. He had a body shaped like a gumdrop, and a tiny cylindrical head running lengthwise along his shoulders, with an even tinier square face in the center.

"Wow... look at that." said the manager. "What is it?"

"Why," said King, "He's our prince!"

"I see..."

"Remember how the Katamari project was top secret, which is why you didn't hear about it until it got loose? Well, the project to design this little fellow was super, super duper top secret! We were really the only ones to know about it! What does he do, you ask? He's the master roller of course! He controls the Katamari, and he's completely nonstick! We thought we'd need to train him, but he seems to think he's ready."

"Wah wah wee wah..." said the manager, astounded.

"Yes, and what we plan to do is to set him loose in Kyoto when the Katamari shows up, and he'll take control of it for us. Very slick, very simple!"

"We knew you'd have a solution, Mr. King. You always d-"

The passengers were thrown about violently as the car's momentum was drastically altered and the limo began lifting off the ground. It took King only a moment to realize what happened: The Katamari had rolled them up right off the highway. Now the car was gradually moving up along the Katamari's circumference as the creature rolled steadily along the ground, slowly turning the passengers upside down. King hadn't even seen it approach from behind, though he realized it had to be huge at this point.

King knew his only option was to jump out, but if he did at the wrong moment, he'd land on the Katamari and become stuck himself. No, he'd have to wait for the exact moment before the limo finished a full rotation around the creature, and jump out just before he and the car were crushed between the monster and the ground it was rolling on.

But where was the Prince? He was so small and the limo had nearly been turned completely upside down at this point, reaching the highest part of the Katamari. He was nowhere to be seen. King tried to search his pockets, see if the Prince had managed to hop back in, but he felt nothing. Had he fallen on the floor somewhere? No, the floor was the ceiling now. Had he been crushed? No way of knowing. The car was descending, and King's one chance at escape had nearly arrived.

King took notice of the manager- he had been knocked unconscious with the impact. He sat slouched in his leather seat, tethered there by his seatbelt, a small line of blood trickling down his forehead. "Well, he looks comfy!" thought King, genuinely believing it. "Time to go!" The trunk of the car was just being crushed as he kicked open the back door and leaped from the doomed vehicle.

-------------------------

Since its escape, the Katamari considered itself very well fed. But now, rolling along with a circumference of about 30 yards, it was ready for a feast. A feast of earth and metal and flesh and bone! Not to mention several random plastic Japanese gadgets and toys.

As it approached the city via the main highway, just having gorged itself with impunity upon the human contraptions that rolled along it, the creature noticed a line of curious vehicles and devices waiting in its way. Seeing no reason why it couldn't proceed to consume them as it had everything else of such puny size, it did not slow its advance.

Surprisingly, a series of projectiles was launched from the little clutter of machinery, smashing into the Katamari. The impact kicked it back slightly, but ultimately this had little effect. The creature simply found itself adorned with an array of undetonated shells and missiles. More sustenance. The little machines began retreating, but it managed to catch a few of the slower ones as it resumed its course into the city.

The Katamari began its rampage. It ripped up trees and jungle gyms as it rolled through parks, tore out fire hydrants, and made an all-you-can-eat buffet out of the cars which lined the streets. Some of the ordinance it had picked up earlier exploded and blasted a couple of high rises apart, starting a fire. Siamese cats and golden retrievers were consumed, school children absorbed, hordes of fleeing business men devoured, stupid American college girls visiting a foreign country on their daddy's paycheck so they can gorge their vaginas on huge Japanese cocks.... all of them sucked into the Katamari's unbreakable gravity well and eaten. My God I hate American college girls.

The city of Kyoto had become a bonanza of edibility for Katamari.

To Be Continued...

!!!ICHI BAN!!! KATAMARI FAN FICTION (PART II) !!!ICHI BAN!!!

2007-11-09T13:13:00.000-08:00

Seven-year-old Tomi Katagachi would not clean up his toys as his mother had requested many times. He willfully left them scattered about the backyard. "Tomi, we're not going to visit the firehouse until you clean up all your stuff." said Father.

"Firefighters are gay!" exclaimed Tomi. Fucking American television. Father reminded himself that he still needed to sit down with the TV manual and learn how to use the V-Chip feature. Back in his day, children had respect for their elders and homosexuals.

"Do you want to visit the firehouse today?" asked Father.

"Yes," said Tomi.

"Then pick up your shi- your toys!" said Father angrily, "I'll be back out here in twenty minutes, and if this isn't all put away, we're not going at all!" Father went back in the house and slammed the sliding glass door behind him. That kid would be the death of him.

Tomi sat in the grass and rubbed his pudgy belly contemptuously, glaring back at the house. He nonchalantly picked up his All Singin' All Dancin' All Coffee Dispensin' Pikachu doll. "PIKA!" it exclaimed happily, thanks to the wonder of its on-board motion sensors.

"Why does Father have to be such a faggot?" sulked Tomi.

"Pikachu?" inquired the toy.

"It's my hot body, I'm not cleaning up my toys. I do what I want." Tomi loved American television. Tomi instead got up, waddled over to his toy basket, and poured his remaining playthings out onto the lawn. He punted an Optimus Prime action figure against the fence. He smashed his sister's Hello Kitty Art's N' Craft Fun Time Box under foot. He drew a large phallus on his Etch-a-Sketch and entitled it, "Ayaka's Weiner." (Ayaka was his sister.) A light breeze spun his propeller beanie. He idly grabbed his Mega Stand Up Comedy Squirtle Doll and shifted its arm, which was holding a little microphone, up to its mouth.

The doll whirred to life. "I just flew in from Squirtle, and boy are my arms Squirtle!" said the toy, "And what's the deal with airline Squirtle?" Tomi dropped the toy on the ground and began to urinate on it. "Speaking of air travel, is it too soon for some 9/11 jokes?" asked Squirtle, "I'm totally going there. So do you think the hijackers had the fish or the chicken, or maybeeeyuhhhh.... the Squirtle? Tshhhssfsd..." The toy shorted out as Tomi's piss leaked into its circuitry.

The abrupt sound of splintering wood caught Tomi in midstream. He spun around and noticed that a large ball of random crap had just burst through the bottom of the wooden fence surrounding his backyard. It rolled into the middle of the lawn, and somehow appeared to be considering it's new surroundings. Among the things that Tomi immediately noticed, it was comprised mostly of sticks, nuts, bolts, tools, coins, bits of rope and candy, random Japanese products, all kinds of stuff. It was about the size of a beach ball.

It rolled up to a Harry Potter action figure and considered it thoughtfully. The Katamari moved over it and Harry Potter stuck. "Hey!" yelled Tomi, "Give that back!" But the Katamari payed him no mind, and continued to roll up more of the toys littered around the lawn. "Well, at least this place is getting cleaned." he thought. Within a few short minutes the Katamari had rolled up nearly all the toys in the backyard. The strange sphere was now comprised of Hello Kitty merchandise, Transformers action figures, a plastic lightsaber, the Etch-a-Sketch with a penis drawn on it, numerous Pokemon dolls and cards, a stretch armstrong, a Buzz Lightyear, three slinkies, numerous superballs, Nickelodeon Slime, Manga comics, and two small onions, to name only a few. All that clutter had added up to increase the Katamari's size to about that of a card table.

"Okay, great. Now can you please dump all that stuff in here?" asked Tomi. He held up the toy basket. The Katamari edged towards him apprehensively. It bumped up against the basket, inevitably making it part of its bulk. "No no no, you stupid ball of shit!" Tomi threw one of his classic tantrums, raving and hopping up and down, jerking his arms randomly while his fat gut wobbled about, a small sliver of its underside exposed beneath his striped shirt. His propeller beanie flopped about as well. He ran up to the ball and gave it a good hard kick.

His foot stuck. It stuck in a way that nobody before had ever felt. There was no vice-like grip of some invisible claw, just a feeling of extreme heaviness... as if a sort of intense gravitational force was weighing his foot down to the Katamari in the same manner that the Earth weighs a person down to the ground. Except this weight... or more accurately, this gravity, could not be overcome. Not briefly by any sort of movement, nor by any kind of lift provided by propeller or wing. Not even the most powerful rocket designed by man could achieve anything close to an escape velocity once it had made physical contact with the Katamari. This was a force of finality. There was no escape from it's power.

Tomi was fucked.

"NO NO NO, let me go!" But the Katamari rolled closer, spreading Tomi more thoroughly over its surface, until the nasty child was completely pasted among the collection of junk that comrised the creature. Tomi found himself losing control of his nervous system. All he could manage were futile and pointless twitches. The creature began absorbing its new ensnarements, its flesh growing out from within, the tiny tendrils grabbing and securing all the newly claimed junk.

Tomi, now completely paralyzed and utterly incapable of movement, felt a voice slice through the terror that gripped his helpless mind. It was a voice that encompassed all. YOU AND I.... ARE NOW ONE. WELCOME TO MY PARTY FUN TIME. YOU ARE THE FIRST SENTIENT BEING TO BE ROLLED. THERE WILL BE MANY MORE!

No! thought Tomi, let me go! My dad will be really mad!

YOUR FATHER IS OF LITTLE CONSEQUENCE AND SHALL SOON BE HAVING PARTY FUN TIME ALONG WITH US. IT IS FAR TO LATE FOR YOU TO BE RELEASED IN ANY CASE. YOUR... PLENTIFUL FATS AND NUTRIENTS ARE BEING ABSORBED AS WE SPEAK, AS IS YOUR RATHER LIMITED KNOWLEDGE OF THE WORLD. BUT WORRY NOT! COMPLETE OMNIPOTENCE IS THE DESTINATION TO WHICH WE ARE INEXORABLY BOUND, AND YOU SHALL BE A PART OF IT, ALBEIT A VERY SMALL ONE. SOON, WE SHALL EXIST AMONG THE COSMOS.

Tomi's cognizance of what he was being told became among the very last of his thoughts as an individual free thinking being. Very quickly, his mind became entwined among the collective sense of reality felt by all the junk that made up the Katamari. He was one with the lab rats, one with the Etch-a-Sketch, one with the Harry Potter, one with the microscope and the electrical outlet, and at the center of it all was the singular controlling consciousness of the Katamari itself.

Tomi loved Katamari.

-------------

The Suits were in an uproar. This was a contingency they had not planned for. "You assured us, Kenji, that the Katamari would not develop its mass assimilation capabilities until well after we had a chance to condition it."

Kenji Yamamoto, Director of Research and Development, gulped involuntarily, sticking a finger in his collar and adjusting it nervously. Daisuke Kingawa, or simply 'King', as he liked to be called, acting Chairman of the Board, the Suit of all Suits, was an intimidating presence. His heavy brow, squinty little eyes, and huge jaw, which was adorned by one of the most complete textbook examples of what could be described as a "power beard," all together culminated in one helluva scary looking boss. His appearance was an anomaly. While Japan was purportedly his country of origin, he certainly did not look Japanese. He didn't look like anything, racially speaking. He just looked like he could shoot lasers out of those tiny, calculating eyes and vaporize you on the spot if you failed to impress him.

His personality ran a wide gamut of dispositions. At times, he seemed to have the mind of a child, perhaps even a somewhat effeminate child that everyone but his denial stricken Fire and Brimstone Christian parents felt fairly confident would someday bat for the pink team. Nobody criticized him for it, however. After all, it was this child-like manner of viewing the world that had granted the company some of its most innovative products and business strategies.

At other times he was wrathful and neurotic. His happy-go-lucky attitude was known to melt away at the slightest moment of displeasure. The twinkle in those tiny eyes, nestled beneath that large brow, would flicker and burn out abruptly like an old light bulb, darkening his features and incurring his brutally foul temper. Now was one of those moments.

"I'm sorry, sir. We thought that the extra genetic code would make the Katamari capable of what it is doing when and only when we wanted it to, which is to say, after we had properly trained and conditioned it. It would seem that in trying to slip the code in under the noses of the scientists without informing them of what they were doing, some unexpected mutations have occurred. The Katamari has matured much faster than we thought it would."

"So we have noticed!" said King, utilizing the royal "we" as he often did. "This failure is unacceptable. Our investors wanted a weapon, Yamamoto, and we wanted it to be fun and colorful. What nobody wanted was an uncontrollable menace that's rolling around out there somewhere, probably terrorizing the Japanese country side, covered in dead rodents and lab equipment. Unacceptable!"

"Sir, with all due respect," said another Suit raising his hand furtively, "Wouldn't it seem prudent to contact the local authorities regarding this issue?"

"This is our project! OUR project! We will handle it ourselves!"

"Contacting the authorities won't be necessary in any case," chimed in another Director, who had just gotten an urgent notice in on his blackberry. He got up and turned on the large plasma television in the back of the board room, switching to the national news.

"That's right Suki," said a reporter as some amateur footage played on the screen, "Based on what we're seeing here, this... ball seems to absorb anything of smaller size when it makes physical contact, subsequently increasing its mass." The video showed a large round cluster of junk, about the size of a minivan, rolling about in a cow pasture. The reporter continued, "I know the footage is grainy, but if we pause it, you can clearly see some fairly horrific details. There appears to be at least one fat child stuck to it, right there, covered in cow dung. And we believe that lopsided lump on the other side is in fact a whole cow. Back to you in the studio."

"Well, so much for not buying the cow when you can get the milk for free!" said Suki. "Police, firefighters, and animal control experts have been tracking the creature closely, however they are apprehensive about using any kind of physical force against it since there appears to be at least one person trapped on this thing. It was last sighted just south of Kyoto and headed in the direction of the city. Authorities recommend that everyone in the immediate area move indoors, including pets and any valuables smaller than a minivan. We'll be back with more updates after another slutty episode of Tenchi or some other retarded Japanese cartoon." The broadcast went to commercial, and an uncomfortable silence pervaded the board room.

"We will handle this ourselves, personally," said King, "We dreamed up the thing and we can destroy it!" Ten minutes later he was decked out in his favorite costume: a big fruity renaissance type affair, with tight leggings and royal furs. He also wore what looked to be a bizarre cylindrical bolt of fabric across his shoulders, with an indentation to make room for his sizable head, upon which sat a lavish jewel encrusted crown. "Prepare my jet, and set a flight plan for Kyoto. Tonight we dine in hell!" My God, the guys in 300 were cut, he thought.

!!!ICHI BAN!!! KATAMARI FAN FICTION !!!ICHI BAN!!!

2007-11-08T19:46:00.001-08:00

If you are not familiar with what Katamari is, I recommend you Wikipedia it. I'll put the link right here, lazy ass.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Katamari

Shigeru Okanawa, one of Japan's leading geneticists, gazed admiringly at his creation. The happy little multicolored tennis ball-sized sphere that rolled about so gaily in the plastic hamster cage was officially the first multi-celled organism to ever be engineered completely from scratch. "Any questions?" he asked the reporters.

"What's that he's doing there?" asked a woman. The Katamari was rolling along a bed of wood shavings, except that they were sticking to him as he went along. Eventually they wound up covering him completely, to such a point that the creature's previously smooth, slick body now looked very fuzzy and more adorable than ever before.

"Ah," said Dr. Okanawa, smiling, "I believe he's eating."

"Eating?" said the reporter incredulously, "He eats wood?"

"Well, no. We've been feeding him a diet of diced vegetables, which is what we designed him to eat. However, every now and then he seems to attempt to ingest objects that he can't metabolize. The shavings will just drop off when he realizes they're inedible. Who else has a question?" Another reporter raised his hand.

"So, what exactly does he do?" asked a man in the front row.

"Pardon?"

"Yeah, what does he do? How is he useful? What's the point of his existence?"

"Well..." Okanawa trailed off. "You've got me. I guess that's a question for the guys in corporate. They say 'splice me up a multicellular critter' and I go ahead and do it." There were a few chuckles around the conference room.

"No really, though. What does this... Kator-"

"Katamari."

"What purpose does this Katamari serve?"

"Frankly, so far he mostly just rolls around in there. He eats vegetables and grows bigger. There really isn't a point to him as far as I know. The suits in Tokyo just wanted him as a publicity item. You can count on seeing more organisms with more practical purposes out of us in the future, I assure you. And that's all the time we have. Thank you!" The press agents snapped a few more pictures and begin to shuffle out of the room.

------

"He's growing much larger than we anticipated." said Hiro, stating the obvious. Two weeks later, the Katamari was already the size of a basketball and much too big for the hamster habitat he used to live in. "And with these results, there's no denying it anymore. He's definitely eating his wood shavings." Okanawa knew his lab assistant was right. Just as the creature did with his chopped vegetables, he was rolling up his shavings until he was thoroughly coated and then gradually absorbing them into his rubbery body.

"So he eats wood." said Okanawa. "Certainly worth looking into, but nothing to worry about."

"Normally I'd agree. But I think you should look at this." Hiro reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin and a rubber superball, the kind his kids loved to ricochet off the walls, floor, and ceiling of his house when he wasn't home. Both these objects were about an inch in diameter. He dropped them into the rabbit hutch. It was feeding time, and the Katamari was especially hungry. He rolled over, and both items stuck to him immediately. "I've introduced two objects, completely non-organic, and I guarantee he'll have them fully 'digested' in an hour."

"What are you doing, Hiro? He could poison himself!"

"Clearly not. Remember the habitat thermometer that mysteriously went missing? And the minicams that disappeared the other day? We've reviewed the footage. He ate them all in the middle of the night. This little guy is a regular billy goat."

"Okay Hiro, thanks. I need to make a few phone calls. You can head home. I appreciate you staying late."

"See you tomorrow, Doc." said Hiro, exchanging his lab coat for one to keep him warm and heading out the door. Dr. Okanawa went into his office and took a seat behind his desk. This whole thing was becoming more troubling to him every day. Clearly the Suits knew something he didn't. It was obvious, or at least it should have been the day that a huge hard drive arrived in the mail containing a few terabytes of unknown genetic code.

"What do you want me to do with this?" he had asked Kenji Yamamoto over the phone. Yamamoto was director of R&D and one of the Tokyo Suits.

"Just integrate it into you're project. You'll be able to make it work."

"I don't even know what this is."

"I'll put it bluntly Dr. Okanawa: It isn't your business to know. "

"But I-"

"As stated in the... ah... fourth clause of your contract."

"Oh."

Yamamoto's tone softened a bit, "Shigeru, I know this all may seem a bit disconcerting, but I'm quite confident you're up for the challenge, and far more than capable of pulling this off. We're going to set your deadline back a year. We're all rooting for you over here. You pull this thing off and you'll be a hero."

Flash forward about three years to present day and Okanawa was calling his boss again for what he could only imagine was a reason directly related to that distant phone conversation. Yamamoto had gone home for the day, but upon insisting to his assistant that the call was an emergency, the doctor was routed to his home. "Shigeru, this is unexpected. I trust things are going well?" Dr. Okanawa could hear Yamamoto's kids playing in the background.

"Not really." said Okanawa bluntly, "I'm going to get straight to the point, because I have a really bad feeling about what's going on over here. I'm calling to report some strange behavior in the animal, and I can only assume it has to do with the extra genetic information you had me tie in." There was a pause on the other side of the line.

"What kind of behavior?"

"The Katamari is consuming things that it shouldn't be. We planned it to be purely herbivorous, but it seems to be able to eat... well... anything." This was followed by an even longer pause. "Hello?"

"Is the Katamari secure?" asked Yamamoto.

"Secure? Well, its locked in the rabbit hutch where we typically keep it"

"Your lab has a cold storage unit, right?"

"Yes..."

"Okay, I want you to move it there immediately. We'll send someone over tomorrow to take care of this. Until then, keep the specimen on ice."

"We have no idea what kind of tolerance the creature has for freezing temp-"

"Well, we do. Do as I say. Someone will be there tomorrow. I have a few phone calls to make." Yamamoto hung up.

"Shit." said Okanawa to himself. He got up and headed back to the lab. When he arrived, he discovered that the rabbit hutch was minus one Katamari and plus one Katamari-sized hole in it's mesh walls. "Shit!" said Okanawa again, spinning on his heel and scanning the lab. Nothing.

Then a rustling from behind a counter. Dr. Okanawa grabbed the Katamari Net down off the wall and gingerly stepped towards the noise. Edging around the corner of the counter to get a look, he could see that the Katamari had broken through the glass door of a floor cabinet. The sound of beakers and lab equipment being rustled around was quite audible from within. Then with a crash it burst through another cabinet door and rolled right into view.

The creature was caked in... stuff. Bits of broken glass, beakers, tools, petri cultures, even a microscope; all this junk just seemed to stick magically to it, giving it considerably more volume and mass. It appeared to not have noticed Okanawa, and proceeded to wheel away from him towards the live specimen containers. Okanawa continued to attempt to stalk it. Before he could even get close, the Katamari lept up onto a counter, and knocked a cage of mice onto the floor. With a crash the cage burst open. A flurry of tiny animals, suddenly freed, scattered across the ground. The creature, whom it became apparent had done this intentionally, zipped off the counter and managed to land on a few of the fleeing rodents.

To Okanawa's horror, the mice stuck to the creature just as easily as anything else. As if locked to the Katamari by an invisible vice, the animals twitched and struggled, attempting fruitlessly to free themselves. The Katamari remained still, clearly stunned by this sensation, as it was the first time it had preyed on anything more than celery. The mice' struggling became more erratic and spastic, then finally stopped. The Katamari shuddered, and Okanawa, frozen where he stood, witnessed something even more horrific.

Greasy, disgusting flesh seemed to grow out from the center of the creature, partially absorbing all the objects, formerly alive or otherwise, that had now become a part of it. Slick little tendrils protruded from this skin and wrapped themselves around the less secure items, particularly the mice, digging in and drawing nutrients. What Okanawa had was no longer the cute little multicolored tennis ball that he used to feed baby carrots.

Then the creature noticed him. Okanawa had no time to react, it was coming at him fast. It smacked into his leg, but then bounced off just as quickly. The impact knocked him over, and for a moment he could feel the unexplainable stickiness of the Katamari; it felt like an absolutely unbreakable force, unlike anything he'd ever experienced. The only thing that kept them apart was Okanawa's considerably greater mass.

The Katamari would have to wait if it wanted to make Okanawa part of it's collective. The scientist climbed to his feet, his shin terribly bruised, and picked up his net. The creature sped away, gaining speed across the floor, neatly scaled a wall, ripping out an electric outlet in the process, and broke through a window. The Katamari had escaped.

-----------------

I Died A Little

2007-11-07T23:18:00.001-08:00

That title has EMO POST written all over it, doesn't it? Well, that's really not my style, and now is no exception. My style is more akin to the "Drive by your arch nemesis's trailer home in a Volkswagen Beetle from the 60's with the backseat full of dog crap that you've been saving for three months mainly for the purpose of throwing at that girl you've always liked in order to finally show her how you feel (See previous post "How to Get a Date") but have instead decided to use towards the further degradation of your enemy's already destitute living situation" style. You know me.

This post... is about a dream I had. Not a profound one about the rights of the black man, nor one that evokes the profound nature of the essence which pervades the existential construct of humanity or something, NO... However, in this dream, I did die.

Admittedly, I may be about to fill in some of the blank areas that I have forgotten with some of my own conscious dramatizations, and the same goes for the boring parts too. But hey, my only thought is to entertain you. You, the gentle reader, who by this time is probably limited to people named Paul Tino. (Census statistics indicate that there are over 500 Paul Tinos in the United States. That's over 500 strong for Daltonious Is Wrong and He Sucks!)

On with the dream.

I am standing in an isle at Safeway, perusing the cereal selection. They only have one variety available... Cinnamon Toast Crunch. My fucking favorite. I am reaching... reaching for a box of that sugar coated magnificence.... it's like crack that you eat out of a bowl instead of smoke from one. Hey sorry if crack pipes don't actually have bowls, I apologize for never having smoked crack or wikipedia-ed the process for doing so. But anyway....

I am just about to grasp the box when a man bursts into the store. He has a crazed look in his eye, an eye that has "I drive around in a VW bug full of dog crap and throw it at people's trailer homes" written all over it. Somehow. He also happens to be toting some kind of automatic rifle, perhaps an AK-47 or an M16. Those are the ones I know. Anyway, he begins shooting people as he sees them. He sees me. He fires five or six rounds into my chest. I'm glad I didn't waste money on that boob job. HAR, I AM A MAN I DON'T HAVE BOOBS.

Anywho, I don't feel any pain. Too manly. I just fall, fall backwards into that heaven of sugar toasted wonder. Bloody boxes of Cinnamon Toast Crunch rain down from the sky with my falling body. I hit the tiled floor, grasping one final package. I lie there, bleeding out. Some involved citizens, bunkered behind a checkout counter, reach over and somehow manage to drag me back to their hiding space.

"We're losing him," I hear someone say. I begin to drift away. I see him floating above me. It's that chef from the cereal box. Does that guy have a name? Perhaps not, but neither does God. "You've found me." he says. "Come home."

Lord, do I like Cinnamon Toast Crunch. I shuffle off this mortal coil, and awaken to life as usual. I have eggs for breakfast.

Chuck "Bowl-o-Rama" Sizemore, EXPOZED. With a "Z," Bitch.

2007-10-23T01:22:00.000-07:00

As part of this introductory acting class I'm taking, I've gotta take one of Shakespeare's sonnets (Number 69) and create a character from a alternate time and place to fill the shoes of the person delivering the poem. I also have to create a context for the poem's message. So here it is.

Given Circumstances/Character Biography

Sonnet 69

Intro

My character’s name is Chuck “Bowl-O-Rama” Sizemore, born Charles Chapsworthy Sizemore III, a 36 year old construction worker, Gulf War veteran, and citizen of the city of New Jersey, New Jersey, a quaint industrial hamlet along the Jersey shore. The year is 2007.

Family

Born in the same region where he lives currently to a reasonably functional blue collar family in 1971, Chuck maintains a good relationship with Ma and Pa Sizemore, as well as with his twin sister Adrian. He was raised Catholic, and while he still identifies himself as such, he is not a particularly religious fellow. His immediate clan lives locally, a la Everybody Loves Raymond. The only exception to this rather acceptable family dynamic is his older brother, Reginald “JD” Sizemore, aliased in police records due to his affinity for the whiskey that goes by the same pair of initials. JD Sizemore was last seen robbing a taqueria after spray painting the word “Balls” on The World’s Largest Limestone-Carved Likeness of Richard Nixon across the street in Salisbury, Tennessee.

Work and Pass Times

Chuck bowls frequently with his buddies, attributing him to his nickname. He idolizes the character of Walter from The Big Labowski, though he has yet to draw a firearm during league play, and he is in considerably better shape. He has been in a few fights however, and while Chuck may be a little rough around the edges, most if not all these fights were started by his friends or people who his friends managed to cross at the local dive bar scene.

He has had a steady job in construction since the late nineties, and for the most part is satisfied with his line of work. Like many veterans, he experienced some difficulty acclimating to civilian life after his honorable discharge from the Navy. Due to this, his employment status was very erratic before he landed a job in construction.

Military History

Chuck enlisted with the Marines in 1989, due to a certain restlessness and a desire to be “badass.” He was one of the few American casualties during the Gulf War: In the final month of the conflict, he was shot in the foot by a drunken Seabee, and required about 15 months of physical therapy before reaching full recovery. Similarly, one of his best war buddies was killed by friendly fire (not his own). And that’s all I got to say about that.

Relationship History

Chuck was a bit of a jock in high school. He played football and picked up a cheerleader for a girlfriend. Her name was Cindy Hasselhoff. David Hasselhoff was her uncle. She had his chin. After high school, they had to call it off as Cindy went to college and Chuck joined the service. Cindy dropped out during her Sophomore year and became a groupie for Guns ‘N Roses. Since then, Chuck hasn’t heard much of her.

Chuck also dated his physical therepist’s personal assistant, whom he met during his recovery. Her name was Georgia Seightzmare. They were very much in love, and Chuck asked for her hand in marriage. She accepted. Then, a disastrous discovery was made that would plunge Chuck into the darkest period of his life. A blood test showed some bizarre genetic similarities between him and his fiancée. A genealogist, hired by Georgia’s suspicious parents, confirmed that the Seightzmare family was in fact a long lost arm of the Sizemore family. (“Seightzmare” was actually a non-Americanized version of “Sizemore” that hadn’t been bastardized by immigration officials at Ellis Island.) Lo and behold, Georgia was actually Chuck’s cousin. This unfortunate discovery pushed Chuck into a heavy depression that can also be attributed to his difficulty in finding a steady job after the war.

After Chuck found work and smoothed his life out a bit, he engaged in a few short-lived relationships that didn’t amount to much. Then, one year before present day, Chuck met a special someone at the local Hooters, the establishment that he and his colleagues often frequented after work. Her name was Carletta Howitzer, a waitress who had just transferre from the restaurant in Pittsburg. Carletta is the person to whom the sonnet is addressed.

Carletta’s Transgressions

These are the events that lead up to the statements that Mr. Sizemore made in the sonnet.

One day after work, Sizemore and a few of his construction buddies arrived at the local Hooters after a hard day constructing a municipal water foul sanctuary to find that there was a new girl on the job. Carletta had recently transferred from the Pittsburg restaurant, and immediately caught Chuck’s eye. The usually flirting that occurs between the waitresses and the clientele ensued, however it came to a head when Carletta offered Mr. Chuck Sizemore a blowjob. You know, the drink. From the bar. It was on her. They have a bar at Hooters.

One of the fastest ways to Chuck’s heart was always through his liver, and thus the relationship only grew more substantial from there. Soon they were dating regularly. Sizemore thought he’d finally found someone as special as the woman who turned out to be his cousin years ago.

Then the piranha of betrayal leapt from the lake of deception and bit Chuck upon his unsuspecting love-struck buttocks. Or something. At any rate, Carletta was actually a contracted professional identity thief, and had managed to acquire Sizemore’s PIN and Social Security number, selling them off to the highest bidder. To add insult to injury, she had also sold Sizemore’s email address to Chinese spammers who specialized in products related to “Natural Male Enhancement.” Suffice it to say, Chuck’s email inbox was flooded beyond capacity with scores of grammatically incorrect adds. In one final confrontation delivered during peak hours at Hooters, Chuck delivered the message of Sonnet 69 to Carletta, and then proceeded to grab a six year old's birthday cake off a table and throw it in her face. What kind of parent takes their kid to Hooter's for his birthday anyway?

Flipping a Bitch

2007-09-20T21:55:00.001-07:00

Have you ever wondered about the term "flip a bitch?" It's the hippest new way to describe a u-turn. I have many theories about where this colorful bit of language came from.

Theory One: Making u-turns is a bitch, largely due to the peril involved in flipping your automobile into oncoming traffic at an unprotected left hand turn. Also, it is not uncommon to lack the necessary clearance to make one, as your huge American vehicle has the turning radius of the Titanic.

Theory Two: Women, (also known in some circles as "bitches" (sorry ladies(whoa, parentheses inside parentheses, that's cutting edge))) who are stereotypically known for having difficulties in making their way around via automobile, find it frequently necessary to make u-turns. Hence, "flip a bitch."

Theory Three: Gangstahs like to hollah at bitches as they slow down for a u-turn, and may also flip out their penises.

Theory Four: A band of traveling entertainers from Estonia had a special trick they did with a female dog that involved catapulting said canine over a giant piece of taffy in the shape of Ronald Regan. The bitch would typically flip head over heals in the air four or five times before landing in an enormous mug of eggnog that says "Today Is The First Day of the Breast of Your Wife" (Typical raunchy Estonian humor). Anyway, these Estonians had trouble reading the street signs when they came to visit the good 'ol U.S. of A, and thusly could not find the venue for which they were destined (The Luxor in Las Vegas. Somehow they were lost in Anchorage). Pualo, the leading man, is remembered as having said to his assistant Ferdinandrew, "Vee are out of tieyem, vee must fleep thees beetch right now! Also, vu-turn up here." And so, the people of Anchorage Alaska were amazed and delighted as the cannonballing canine was flipped continuously while the enterprising Estonians made a tenacious and unprecedented u-turn that would change the course of United States history forever. God bless America.

Theory Five: The internet.

Where Are the Students of Color At UCSC?

2007-09-17T23:29:00.000-07:00

Authorities have discovered the remains of intrepid naturalist Ted Stridewell in the woods just above the UC Santa Cruz campus, two months after his disappearance. Just what was Stridewell doing up there?

"Searching for the fabled Student of Color, no less." says his fifth hippie life partner of thirteen months, Shiela Gerbins. "He knew in his heart of hearts they existed, and the need to prove it consumed him."

And how. Three months ago, Stridewell journeyed bravely into the forests of UC Santa Cruz to find and document these elusive and folkloric beings. He made the following statement in a press conference just before he disembarked.

"You know that mural outside the college nine apartments? It really speaks to me. I mean, 'Where are the students of color at UCSC?' Yes... yes, exactly... where? Where are they? They're around here somewhere. The next time you see me, I will have documented proof that these shy and misunderstood creatures exist. Wish me luck. Oh, and fuck whitey."

And it was with this final poignant statement that Ted Stridewell hauled his cracker ass into the untamed wilderness of the UCSC Upper Campus Nature Preserve.

One month following the beginning of his expedition, all contact with Mr. Stridewell was lost, until some hikers stumbled upon his campsite. Stridewell, along with much of his equipment, was found horribly dismembered and obliterated. But authorities did manage to recover several of his journals and audio recordings, most of them relatively intact.

The following are transcripts of these recordings. You may find some of them disturbing, particularly the final ones.

Day 1

Stridewell: I've established a base camp two miles north east of Tree Nine. The hike was relatively uninteresting, and the weather is fair. A few Asian sightings on the way up here, but those guys don't count. I'm fully stocked up on hummus and clove cigarettes, and preparing to bed down for the night.

Day 3

Stridewell: Nothing much to report. I spilt some hummus on my Che Guevara t-shirt. Man, fuck George Bush.

Day 10

Stridewell: Finally some progress. I was snoozing on a rock and was awakened by a rustling in a nearby hedge. Something's been watching me, I know it. The thing made tracks back into the woods when it knew I was awake. Whatever it was, it definitely had some pigment to it. I'm getting pretty excited here.

Day 13

Stridewell: No more occurances since the last entry. It's become apparent to me that sitting out in the woods and waiting for 4:20 PM to roll around isn't getting me anywhere. So I'm taking action. I've decided to implement a calling technique. This involves cupping the hands around the mouth in a very particular way and... here, I'll do it right now.

(Ted can be heard making a very peculiar noise. It sounds like the beat to Snoop Dogg's Drop It Like It's Hot, repeated quickly over and over again.)

Stridewell: I also have another very complex call to show you. If this doesn't bring in an SOC, I don't know what will.

(Stridewell begins whistling Mexican Hat Dance.)

Day 17

Stridewell: (Breathing heavily, with the sound of rustling folliage, as if he's hiding in a bush) I'm really excited, I've just made a huge breakthrough. I've come across a frontage road running through the backwoods and there's an SOC standing right there, no more than 20 yards away from me, next to the street. He appears to have discovered an abandoned vehicle and is examining the contents of the engine compartment.

Okay, Stridewell, get a grip on yourself. (Clears throat tentatively) I will now come out from hiding and attempt to establish first contact. (More rustling, and footsteps.)

Motorist of Color: Jesus Christ, you startled me.

Stridewell: How. Me human. Me come in piece.

Motorist of Color: Um... what the hell?

Stridewell: (Whispering into recorder) The Student of Color appears relatively unintimidated by my intrusion into its natural habitat. I can only assume this is because it has had limited to no contact with humans, which would explain why it bears no natural fear of me.

Motorist of Color: Yeah, er, okay. Say, do you have a cell phone I could borrow? Mine's out of batteries and I'm having a bit of car trouble here-

Stridewell: He appears to be attempting a rudimentary form of communication. I believe he's asking for food. (To Motorist) Hun-Gree? Want... food?

Motorist of Color: What? Erm, I'm fine really. Criminy, you smell bad.

Stridewell: (Into Recorder) I will now attempt to offer him some of my left over Tofu Humus Patty.

Motorist of Color: That's really disgusting. Wait, are you homeless? Okay buddy, here's a couple bucks. Don't spend it on booze.

Stridewell: My God... The creature has just offered me human currency. My mind is reeling with the implications. What's that sound?

(The sound of a car approaching can be heard as it comes to a stop.)

Driver: Hey Al, what up? Car trouble?

Motorist of Color: Yeah man, can you gimme a ride back to campus?

Driver: No problem. Who's that weird guy in the bush?

Motorist of Color: Some mentally handicapped vagrant. He's really creeping me out. Let's go.

(The car pulls away)

Day 18

Stridewell: I just can't get my head around it. How can a creature so... separate from normal society possibly acquire a thing like human currency? I would have thought I was hallucinating except that I'm holding the dollar bills right here in my hand. He was even wearing what appeared to be... a t-shirt... and jeans. This is absurd. My world is collapsing, you have no idea how this feels. The next thing you know, they'll be attending the actual university, not just hiding in the trees. God I need to get high. (Audible bong ripping).

Day 21

Stridewell: Something's been... following me. Watching me. I'm really rather frightened right now. I've only heard it, never really got a good look at it. All I know is that it's big... and brown. Definitely very brown.

Day 22

Stridewell: (Panting) Been on the run pretty regularly for the past 24 hours. Only time to stop for pot. It's close, and I can just feel it's intentions aren't good. I'm not frightened, I'm terrified. This is fucked up. (Long, frightened pause) Oh shit!

(The heavy rustling and cracking of foliage can be heard)

Stridewell: Oh fuck me, he's huge. Seven and a half feet tall... brown... I do believe this specimen must be of the genus Negronicus. (The indistinguishable growling of a grizzly bear is heard) I want to run, but at the same time, I'm elated. How many people get to.... Hey buddy, you're a big boy aren't you? (More growling) According to lore and history books from the 50's, poking this species with a stick is the best way to establish common ground. They also excel at basketball. Here buddy... there you go. See? I come in peace. (Growling becomes more agitated) Let's stay calm, let's not get too, what is it.... Hyphy? That's it. Hyphy.

(The growling converts at this point to a full on roar. Stridewell's screams, as well as the sound of ripping clothing and flesh, last for about a minute before being replaced with the sound of crunching bones. Finally, there's a dull plopping noise as the creature shits nonchalantly in the woods and walks away.)

And so ends the legacy of Ted Stridewell. Will anybody ever again feel inclined to search for the mysterious Student of Color? Stridewell did, and he payed the ultimate price, making it more clear than ever before that nature just doesn't intend for many people at Santa Cruz to, well, quit focusing on frivolous racial issues that don't even apply to this campus or for that matter make any sense.

....

The mural at College Nine is dumb.

Kids Say the Darndest Things (There's a great joke about tits at the end)

2007-09-01T01:02:00.000-07:00

Working with kids can be amusing, as well as a rigorous test of one's will not to collapse like a dying star, obliterating all nearby matter. Having worked at a day camp in Berkeley for five and six year olds this summer, I can account for having taken this particular exam many times. Did I pass? Well, I can at least say I wasn't fired, nor is my name and residence posted on any government websites.

(Sorry to disappoint you, Daltonius, I'm afraid I won't be joining your 'illustrious' ranks any time soon. You degenerate scum bag piece of trash.)

Ahem, anyway, I figured it would be worth putting into writing some of the more amusing experiences I've had at work this summer, and I believe I'll kick it off with

Anything Pertaining to Joe

If you've ever seen the movie Men In Black (a favorite of mine), you may recall a scene where Will Smith is in this shooting gallery being attacked by cardboard aliens, and of all the monstrosities that confront him, the only one he shoots at is a little girl. When asked why he took that particular shot, he explains that he thought there was something very wrong with a little white girl walking through the ghetto at night carrying books pertaining to multi variable calculus and quantum physics.

Joe is that little girl. Keep Will Smith the fuck away from him.

This kid is just aware of concepts, ideas, and vocabulary that he shouldn't be. Once when we were getting ready for lunch, he referred to the line he was standing in as a "procession." A procession? Just take a moment and imagine that word coming out of a five year old's mouth. I was at least halfway through high school before I can even recall hearing that word. Another time he told a misbehaving camper that if he didn't shape up, he would be sent to prison where he would be brainwashed and forced to fight in the military.

Joe is also perhaps the only kid to have caught on in any way to the true nature of the game called "Graveyard." Graveyard is simple: The kids lie down on the ground as still and silent as they can while counselors look for any movement. The goal is to be the last one caught moving. "I don't think graveyard is a real game," Joe told me. Which, of course, is pretty much true. It's mostly just a rather effective way to get 'em to shut up. "I'm not playing unless I get to be the guy who figures out how everyone in the graveyard died," Joe told me.

"Okay, fine bud, knock yourself out..." I lie down in his spot, eager for an excuse to catch a quick nap.

He looks me up and down as I lie on the ground. "You died in a boating tragedy."

Not a boating accident, mind you. A boating tragedy. W.T.F, Mr. Joe. W.T.F indeed!

From what wellspring of... unique parenting did this anomalous behavior arise? I can only imagine. Maybe I can't even do that. But I do know that while all the other kids at camp were having bananas, Granola bars and Rice Krispy treats for snack, Joe was eating corn. Raw, uncooked, unhusked corn. As in, every morning his hippie parents go outside and crack a cob off one of the stocks they have growing in their nuclear-free backyard and stick it in his backpack. Oh, and instead of packing him a pair of swim trunks, they give him a second pair of underpants, and expect everyone to believe they qualify as appropriate swim wear.

Berkeley.

Miscellaneous Antics and Garbage

I'm going to put this in bullets. We've got:

- A kid who peed his pants like clockwork within the same 30 minute timespan for four consecutive days, after repeatedly denying the need to use the bathroom.

-A kid who refers to my brother as "Don Chi-Chi" for no definable reason.

-Kids who shit in the pool.

-Kids who shit in the pool repeatedly and think its really funny.

-Kids who punch each other in the balls and think its really funny.

-Kids who punch you in the balls, and of course, think its really funny.

-One kid who walked in at the beginning of the day, pointed at his dad who was standing a few feet away, and said in a serious, hushed voice, "He eats pee and poo for breakfast." The dad smirked knowingly and walked off. It was a look that said, "So maybe I do and I'm proud of it."

-Might I mention the way these kids get ready for swimming? They strip down in the locker room to change into there swim trunks, but then opt to sit around completely naked, occasionally yanking idly on their ding dongs while pondering the mysteries of Optimus Prime or something. When you ask them why they're not changing, you can expect them to respond with something like, "My pants are inside-out." I'm not Daltonius, so there really is nothing I find particularly fun about this part of the day. But God help us all if I were Daltonius. I shudder to think.

-Some pretty damn hot moms.

-This lifeguard with really big bozangas. Yeah dude, they were like totally gigantic. She pretty much spent the whole day lounging in the lifeguard's chair while she "kept watch over the kids in the pool." Yeah, right. She was just about as good at her job as I was at "never steeling surreptitious glances at her WMD's." (Weapons of Milk Distribution. Yeah, that's right. Another term for tits is born. Oh, and back off George Bush. I know you've been looking for a while now, but I saw them first.)

Well, that's all I got. I hope you didn't just scroll to the end to read the bit about tits. There were some okay parts in the middle I guess. Anyhoo, I'll see you on the dark side of the moon! BUM BUM, BUM BUM, BUM BUM, BUM BUM...

Tribute

2007-07-22T11:00:00.000-07:00

A long time ago me and that asshole Daltonius,
we was hitchhiking down a long and lonesome road.
When suddenly, there shined a shiny demon in the middle.... of the road.
And he said,

"Write the best post in the world... or I'll spam your g-mail accounts."
(Spam your g-mail accounts)

Well me and Daltonius,
We looked at each other,
And we each said,
"You're gay."

And we wrote the first thing that came to our heads,
and it just so happened to be,
the best post in the world,
it was the 1337est post in the world.

Log on to my blog and its easy to see,
Dalton is wrong and he sucks Peepee,
It's his destiny.
Once every hundred thousand words or so,
I say Daltonius blows
In case you didn't know
he's a big fat cho- oooohd.

Well needless to say
The beast was stunned
A whip crack with his frumpy tail
and the beast was done.

He asked us...
"Be you haxors?"
and we said, "Nay!
We are but over-opinionated douche bags!"

This is not the greatest post in the world.
This is just a tribute.
Forgot to save the greatest post in the world, no.
This is a tribute
to the greatest post in the world.

And the peculiar thing is this, my friends,
the post we wrote on that fateful night,
it didn't actually sound anything like this post!
This is just a tribute,
You've gotta believe it,
I wish you were there,
just a matter of opinion.

Oh! Good God! God lovin'!
Dalton smells like burnt dog shit in the oven!
Riggagilgo Satan BLAUUAGH!

Fin.

Friends

2007-06-11T01:48:00.000-07:00

Here's a little anecdote I've imparted on a few people. It seems to have amused them so I'll write it down here.

The years I spent in junior high were, well... hmm. Can't really think of any single adjective to describe that period in my life. Stupid? Absurd? Shitty? Stupurditty? Yeah, that's it; those sure were some stupurditty times. That's why I don't talk about them. But this particular story is just too priceless not to tell, as it really kind of captures the essence of what life was like for me back then.

One day after lunch period I see a friend of mine walking to class with this other kid I've never met before. Well, just as we pass, this kid turns to me and says, "Hey, Oliver... You're a fucking homo."

Ooookay. I wasn't expecting to be blessed with an explanation as to why this nearly complete stranger had decided to tell me this. I got lucky I guess.

"Yeah, I hear you don't watch Friends. You're fucking gay."

And that was it. We proceeded onward to our seperate classrooms.

If I had to choose one event in my life which spelt out "Irony" with a capital "I," this would be it. If you don't know why the words that were spoken on that fateful day were ironic, than you obviously aren't familiar with the show that is Friends. To increase the "I-Factor" to an even higher level, let it be known that the friend who imparted this amazing young man with the damning information regarding my taste in television quit being my friend on that day as well.

And that's why I fucking hate the show Friends. Fuck that wimpy orgy of flacid humor. Wow, three girls and three guys who are friends, what a fucking concept. I'm being sarcastic, dipweed. It's a contrived, unoriginal premise that you can observe simply by walking into any internet cafe where trendy twenty-something-year-old Manhatten hipsters hang out. Fuck those guys. The blonde one is retarded and thinks she can talk to cats. Whipe my hairy ass, please.

Joey has bitch tits!

That is all.

Girl Power

2007-06-08T02:20:00.000-07:00

Sometimes when I'm performing routine tasks, a nerve synapse somewhere in my brain randomly fires and I remember a mostly irrelevant thing from bygone times. Well, that happened just a second ago while I was showering, and it's about to spawn what you're reading at this very moment.

Before the beginning of my freshman year at college, I partook in this thing called "Wilderness Orientation," where a bunch of UCSC students-to-be go hiking for about a week and a half in Yosemite. Prior to disembarking, one of our group leaders, a rather pungent yet knowledgeable young woman with hairier armpits than mine (no damn joke, I'm afraid) briefed us on what we were about to experience.

Suddenly she brought up the subject of menstruation. As she put it, the ladies of the group were going to have to be extra "prepared" because they might deviate from their normal cycles. This was mainly because the strain of the trail tends to coax out a bunch of sweaty girl pheromones or something. Well, as little as this applied to me, I guess this was a fairly relevant matter to bring up. But what really caught my attention was her following statement.

"This phenomenon just goes to show the power of female camraderie."

Um... I'm sorry, but is that the best you've got, lady? When women join forces they can bleed together? I think she was selling her gender short. I mean, according to her, while groups primarily dominated by men had got together in the past and

-Engineered powered flight
-Sent people to the moon
-Journeyed to the center of the Earth?
and
-Supported the economy of San Diego by attending the annual Comicon,

the most prominant thing she could attribute to women was the ability to have their periods in perfect harmony much like some menstrual barbershop quartet. Well... shucks. Being male, I really feel like I'm missing out. Feminists: 1. Olivonius: 0.

Hollywood Sneak Peak: Office Space 2: Where's My Stapler, Bitch?

2007-05-19T22:08:00.002-07:00

Many of you may not know it, but I have connections into that vortex of cinema and depravity known as Hollywood. My finger is in fact so well positioned on the pulse of the Tinseltown beast that I am proud to be the first to announce that production has begun on Office Space 2: Where's My Stapler, Bitch?, sequel to the cult DVD classic which is revered by college students the world over.

Even though I'm just about as much on the inside as anyone can hope to be, I still know relatively little about this film, and I'm actually allowed to say even less. I'll try to provide as many highlights as I can.

The plot, to say the least, has everything. It all begins when a group of terrorists from a fictional country known as Islamibadistanduranduran invade the offices of Initech. Their demands are simple: they require a top secret guidance chip prototype developed by Initech to launch an ICBM at Washington. Milton, who has since been reemployed, manages to hide the chip in his stapler before the terrorists get their grubby Islamist hands on it. Unfortunately, the iconic cherry-red Swingline is casually stolen by a terrorist who wants to "save it for later to hijack an airplane," and it's up to Milton to get it back.

Many fans may be disappointed that actor Stephen Root, who portrayed the lovably neurotic character of Milton in the last film, was unable to return for the sequel. Fear not however, because Milton will still live on, as played by what strikes me as an obvious replacement: the cosmic force that is Samuel L. Jackson.

I actually had the incredible opportunity to watch him work his magic on the set, belting out hard hitting lines like, "I do believe you have my stapler, bitch!" "I'm gonna burn this whole mothahfuckin' place to the ground!" and, "I saw them squirrels with my own two mothahfucking eyes, bitch! They was married!" Oh, and also this one: "Hey bitch, I'm Samuel L and I say bitch a lot, so quit bitchin' like a bitch and live with it. By the way, this crossword puzzle is really tough. Let's see, here's a word with five letters and the second one is an 'I.' Oh , it's 'birds.' Nope, kidding bitch, the word was actually bitch.... BITCH." Sammy also looks just adorable wearing the same pair of coke bottle glasses that the original Milton wore in the first film. In one particularly momentous scene, Lumbardt, played by Arnold Shwartzennegger, tells Milton, "Um, yeahAUGARUGHAUGH, I'm gonna have to ask you to move your things to the basement. DEY AW COMING TO KEEL US!" Jackson replies unforgettably with, "Say 'um yeah' again, bitch! Say 'um, yeah again!' I dare you, motherfucker!" The chemistry between Shwartzenegger and Jackson is, to put it lightly, epic.

Did I mention the film takes place in the future? While the Initech office looks mostly the same, there are all kinds of gratuitous holograms popping out of everything. They've also purchased a new robot photocopier who becomes self aware and attempts to avenge his father, the copy machine from the last movie. But I can't say any more.

Now, if you don't mind, I have to go affirm my masculinity by snorting cocaine off a fillet of spotted owl.

Where are the Students of Color at UCSC?

2007-05-15T01:02:00.000-07:00

Authorities have discovered the remains of intrepid naturalist Ted Stridewell in the woods just above the UC Santa Cruz campus, two months after his disappearance. Just what was Stridewell doing up there?

"Searching for the fabled Student of Color, no less." says his fifth hippie life partner of thirteen months, Shiela Gerbins. "He knew in his heart of hearts they existed, and the need to prove it consumed him."

And how. Three months ago, Stridewell journeyed bravely into the forests of UC Santa Cruz to find and document these elusive and folkloric beings. He made the following statement in a press conference just before he disembarked.

"You know that mural outside the college nine apartments? It really speaks to me. I mean, 'Where are the students of color at UCSC?' Yes... yes, exactly... where? Where are they? They're around here somewhere. The next time you see me, I will have documented proof that these shy and misunderstood creatures exist. Wish me luck. Oh, and fuck whitey."

And it was with this final poignant statement that Ted Stridewell hauled his cracker ass into the untamed wilderness of the UCSC Upper Campus Nature Preserve.

One month following the beginning of his expedition, all contact with Mr. Stridewell was lost, until some hikers stumbled upon his campsite. Stridewell, along with much of his equipment, was found horribly dismembered and obliterated. But authorities did manage to recover several of his journals and audio recordings, most of them relatively intact.

The following are transcripts of these recordings. You may find some of them disturbing, particularly the final ones.

Day 1

Stridewell: I've established a base camp two miles north east of Tree Nine. The hike was relatively uninteresting, and the weather is fair. A few Asian sightings on the way up here, but those guys don't count. I'm fully stocked up on hummus and clove cigarettes, and preparing to bed down for the night.

Day 3

Stridewell: Nothing much to report. I spilt some hummus on my Che Guevara t-shirt. Man, fuck George Bush.

Day 10

Stridewell: Finally some progress. I was snoozing on a rock and was awakened by a rustling in a nearby hedge. Something's been watching me, I know it. The thing made tracks back into the woods when it knew I was awake. Whatever it was, it definitely had some pigment to it. I'm getting pretty excited here.

Day 13

Stridewell: No more occurances since the last entry. It's become apparent to me that sitting out in the woods and waiting for 4:20 PM to roll around isn't getting me anywhere. So I'm taking action. I've decided to implement a calling technique. This involves cupping the hands around the mouth in a very particular way and... here, I'll do it right now.

(Ted can be heard making a very peculiar noise. It sounds like the beat to Snoop Dogg's Drop It Like It's Hot, repeated quickly over and over again.)

Stridewell: I also have another very complex call to show you. If this doesn't bring in an SOC, I don't know what will.

(Stridewell begins whistling Mexican Hat Dance.)

Day 17

Stridewell: (Breathing heavily, with the sound of rustling folliage, as if he's hiding in a bush) I'm really excited, I've just made a huge breakthrough. I've come across a frontage road running through the backwoods and there's an SOC standing right there, no more than 20 yards away from me, next to the street. He appears to have discovered an abandoned vehicle and is examining the contents of the engine compartment.

Okay, Stridewell, get a grip on yourself. (Clears throat tentatively) I will now come out from hiding and attempt to establish first contact. (More rustling, and footsteps.)

Motorist of Color: Jesus Christ, you startled me.

Stridewell: How. Me human. Me come in piece.

Motorist: Um... what the hell?

Stridewell: (Whispering into recorder) The Student of Color appears relatively unintimidated by my intrusion into its natural habitat. I can only assume this is because it has had limited to no contact with humans, which would explain why it bears no natural fear of me.

Motorist: Yeah, er, okay. Say, do you have a cell phone I could borrow? Mine's out of batteries and I'm having a bit of car trouble here-

Stridewell: He appears to be attempting a rudimentary form of communication. I believe he's asking for food. (To Motorist) Hun-Gree? Want... food?

Motorist: What? Erm, I'm fine really. Criminy, you smell bad.

Stridewell: (Into Recorder) I will now attempt to offer him some of my left over Tofu Humus Patty.

Motorist: That's really disgusting. Wait, are you homeless? Okay buddy, here's a couple bucks. Don't spend it on booze.

Stridewell: My God... The creature has just offered me human currency. My mind is reeling with the implications. What's that sound?

(The sound of a car approaching can be heard as it comes to a stop.)

Driver: Hey Al, what up? Car trouble?

Motorist: Yeah man, can you gimme a ride back to campus?

Driver: No problem. Who's that weird guy in the bush?

Motorist: Some mentally handicapped vagrant. He's really creeping me out. Let's go.

(The car pulls away)

Day 18

Stridewell: I just can't get my head around it. How can a creature so... separate from normal society possibly acquire a thing like human currency? I would have thought I was hallucinating except that I'm holding the dollar bills right here in my hand. He was even wearing what appeared to be... a t-shirt... and jeans. This is absurd. My world is collapsing, you have no idea how this feels. The next thing you know, they'll be attending the actual university, not just hiding in the trees. God I need to get high. (Audible bong ripping).

Day 21

Stridewell: Something's been... following me. Watching me. I'm really rather frightened right now. I've only heard it, never really got a good look at it. All I know is that it's big... and brown. Definitely very brown.

Day 22

Stridewell: (Panting) Been on the run pretty regularly for the past 24 hours. Only time to stop for pot. It's close, and I can just feel it's intentions aren't good. I'm not frightened, I'm terrified. This is fucked up. (Long, frightened pause) Oh shit!

(The heavy rustling and cracking of foliage can be heard)

Stridewell: Oh fuck me, he's huge. Seven and a half feet tall... brown... I do believe this specimen must be of the genus Negronicus. (The indistinguishable growling of a grizzly bear is heard) I want to run, but at the same time, I'm elated. How many people get to.... Hey buddy, you're a big boy aren't you? (More growling) According to lore and history books from the 50's, poking this species with a stick is the best way to establish common ground. Here buddy... there you go. See? I come in peace. (Growling becomes more agitated) Let's stay calm, let's not get too, what is it.... Hyphy? That's it. Hyphy.

(The growling converts at this point to a full on roar. Stridewell's screams, as well as the sound of ripping clothing and flesh, last for about a minute before its replaced with the sound of bones being chewed. Finally, there's a dull plopping sound as the creature shits nonchalantly in the woods and walks away.)

And so ended the legacy of Ted Stridewell. Will anybody ever again feel inclined to search for the mysterious student of color? Stridewell did, and he payed the ultimate price, making it more clear than ever before that nature just doesn't intend for many people at Santa Cruz to, well, quit focusing on racial bullshit that doesn't even apply to this campus or for that matter make any sense.

....

The mural at College Nine is dumb.

INTRIGUING POLITICAL PERSPECTIVES ALERT

2007-04-19T23:45:00.000-07:00

Here it is. The moment you've all been waiting for. The ultimate answer to your existential ponderings has arrived. For I, Olivonius, have devised an ongoing work of art and philosophy so grand that your bowels will throw down the shackles of their every day lives and take the day off. Don't tell me I didn't warn you.

Yes, dear reader, the time has come. I have begun composing a political cartoon, aptly named, in faux soviet tounge no less, Kartoon Politik. Wait hold on. That doesn't sufficiently satisfy my ego. Let me try that again. Ahem... Aptly named, in faux soviet tounge no less:

KARTOON POLITIK

That's right, ladies and germs. Sit back and enjoy the first two issues. That means sit back an prepare for two earth-shattering political, philosophical, fundamental paradigm shifts.

Issue One: Gay Marauge

(click image to enlarge)

This work signifies the intense feelings of indignation that exist between the United States and Europe, our French counterparts in particular. Does not your mind reel with the robust politikal thought that this cartoon portrays? Sometimes I wack off to pictures of myself.

Issue Two: Party Politiks
(Are you slow? Click the shit ass titties image to enlarge.)

Here's a fresh diaper, I bet you just shat your pants after reading that. You thought you knew what was going on. You thought you knew how the world worked. WELL NOW YOU KNOW FOR REAL. WUHBAM.

Take all that rhetoric you learned from Al Franken, Bill O'Reilly, Rush Limbaugh, and especially Ann Coulter and shove it. You don't need it anymore. You just read this cartoon. FUCK. YEAH.

Well, that was fun, wasn't it? Hopefully there's more where that came from. The creative machine is a touchy, wishy-washy, overly sensitive one, and only works when it feels like it. We'll see.

Seven Eleven

2007-03-30T19:27:00.000-07:00

The Seven Eleven was almost completely dark, aside from a single resilient hallogen bulb somewhere in the back, flickering it's luminescent swan song. Kenny, standing outside, slipped the respirator mask over his head, completing the assemblage of his battle gear. Slowly, methodically, he and his team entered the establishment.

The place was outstandingly quiet, the kind of quiet that gives volume to thoughts of anticipated horror. Their footsteps echoed on the checkered linoleum while a rotating spit of wienies still revolved under a heatlamp, squeaking intermitently. A soft moaning sounded from behind the checkout counter.

"Abdul! Hang tight buddy, we're gonna get you out of here." Kenny rushed to his friend's side. Abdul had been like a father to him, purveying endless supplies of cigarettes and titty magazines for his enjoyment throughout the years. Now he lay on the ground in a pool of his own blood; scratched, bruised, beaten.

"I have withstood many trials as a convenience clerk. I have been shot, robbed, and ripped off by the wienie rotisserie repair guy many, many times. Who would have thought it would end like this."

"Don't talk like that, you're gonna make it, ya hear? You're gonna make it."

Abdul caughed up a little blood and said, "You should grab a slushy before they get too warm. New flavor this week, Frosty Chocolate Holocaust. This one's... on... me." He died.

***

That was not the beginning of the story. It all began with the installation of a swing set in an ordinary suburban backyard. Ed Finley, the software consultant to whom the backyard belonged, had just set it up as birthday present to his four year old son. It was a fine piece of hardware.

"Alright kiddo, you ready to go for a swing?" Ed was anxious to see the fruits of his labor pay off.

"No," replied the kid. He sat on the ground, ripping tufts of grass out of the lawn.

"C'mon Peety, Daddy'll get you started, you'll love it."

"Peety hungry."

"It's 'I'm hungry' Peety. Besides, you just ate. Alright champ, into the swing." Ed lifted Peety off the ground.

The child squirmed rebelliously as Ed attempted to wrestle him into a seat. "Me no like!"

"Yeah, well, me so horny since your mom died but you don't hear me complain. Get in the damn swing!" Eventually he managed to get his son positioned relatively securily into one of the seats. After a few pushes, Peety's screams of discontent had converted into giggles, as Ed had predicted.

"Higher, daddy, higher!" yelled Peety, gleefully.

"Alright, son! See, whadid I tell ya?" Ed gradually ramped up the power of his pushes. Wow, thought Ed, what we have here is a classic, ideal Americana scene. Like something out of the fifties. Just father and son sharing some quality time together and-

Two things happened at once. First, the swing set came apart, just as Peety was nearing the apex of his forward push. Secondly, the world's smallest tornado whipped through the backyard, courtesy of the worlds largest butterfly flapping it's wings in Tokyo, and carried Peety straight over the fence separating the Finley's backyard from the next one over.

The next yard over happened to be the property of a sixty-seven year old retired widow by the name of Mauve Yedders. Ms. Yedders had a passion for three things, as it turned out.

1.) The cultivation of bees.

2.) The cultivation of cats.

3.) The cultivation of large (or 'copious,' as was many of her clients' preferred adjective) amounts of marijuana.

The laws of highly improbable physics propelled the child into one of the hives. The structure itself broke his landing, as it fell apart fairly easily when he ran into it. This, of course, released a large swarm of bees. You may cringe at the thought of this situation, however, of all days to crash into one of Ms. Yedders's beehives, today was the day.

For as it turned out, earlier that morning, Mauve had been tending to her crop (juxtaposed directly beside the bees), but had made the mistake of carelessly leaving behind a still-burning cigarette butt when she finished. This caused a small, smokey fire that she quickly noticed from her living room and was able to extinguish rather quickly. Unfortunately, the smoke had already taken it's tole on the bees, who were still feeling the impact of the fire when Peety decended from the heavens into one of their houses.

And so, Peety found himself relatively unharmed (as the author is required to make him, seeing as he is a child), albeit covered in lazy disoriented bees and their honey.

Ms. Yedders's cats (she cared for about a half dozen, the seventh one undertook seasonal migrations) happened to love honey, and were soon eagerly darting out the pet door into the yard. And this is how young Peety Finly found himself covered in honey, stoned bees, and cats.
It was also in this particular state of being the Ed Finly found his son after hopping the fence to retrieve his kid.

How to Get a Date

2007-03-16T01:55:00.000-07:00

For those of you who don't know me, and I know there are just piles and piles of strangers reading this, let me be the first one to tell you that I am rolling in tits. Just rolling in them, like a dog in it's own poop. I attract ladies like moths to a bug zapper.

For those of you who do know me, you are probably very aware that I'm completely full of shit.

But I'm learning. I'm learning the secret to success with the opposite sex. Do you want to know the methods behind my mojo? I, being the benevolent distributor of knowledge and wisdom that I am, am quite prepared to divuldge them to you forthwith. Want a date that isn't bought and paid for? Check it out.

Olivonius Dating Secret 1: Show her your dick.

Direct. To the point. Is not this particular organ the focal point of your motivation to seek female companionship? Don't try to deny it. Just do it, man. Rip your goddam pants open and expose the old Dickmobile, and tell her you're looking for a Dick Cave to park it in. There's no ambiguity, this is in fact a very straight forward approach we're talking about here.

Olivonius Dating Secret 2: Chop off your pinky in front of her so she knows what a badass you are.

Pinky fingers are the runts of the digit litter and you don't need them. Who was the mastermind, Pinky or the Brain? Brain. Pinky was useless, NARF. So just slice that bugger off and I donno, use it as a cue tip. When you find yourself proposing to the woman of your dreams, present the ring to her on said finger. Make sure you keep it in formaldihyde till the big day arrives.

Olivonius Dating Strategy 3: Spray yourself with Hickory Smoked Barbeque Flavor Sauce for that masculine sent.

My roommates sprayed the whole apartment with this crap and boy howdy, we had beezies lined up for miles to give us BJ's. Afterwards the place smelled like the charred remains of a sperm bank that had burnt down in a chemical fire during the annual outdoor staff cook-off. Very sexy.

Olivonius Dating Strategem 4: Puppies.

Puppies? Did I say puppies? I meant feces. Throw your feces at the object of your affection. Winning strategy all the way. Don't give me those incredulous looks. Listen, I've got two tickets to paradise right here, and they're both made of human excrement. Bet you didn't know that. Hey, don't knock it till you've tried it, jerk.

Olivonius Dating Suggestitem 5: Have no sense of humor.

Guys who get a lot of tail have no sense of humor. There's something sexy about a man who bares the same neutral facial expression throughout the whole day, and speaks in a robotic monotone. Since girls are always worried about getting mixed up with psycho murderer rapists, they can take comfort in knowing they're dating someone who is emotionally castrated. These are the manly men who will remain unmoved and steadfastly confident as they hack you to bits and stuff you into a garbage bag. Shit, even I'm a little turned on right now.

Olivonius Dating Strategerio 6: Kill her boyfriend.

Man, those boyfriends are pests, aren't they? You know, if I had a nickel for every time a girl with a boyfriend has flirted with me, I'd have a few extra nickels lying around. When girls do this, I consider it as meaning either one of two things. Either they're just trying to pump up their egos by proving to themselves that they can flirt successfully with any guy, or they're telling you to kill their boyfriends so they can have you.

I tend to lean towards the latter. Killing people is easy like Sunday morning these days. I'll let you figure out the details.

THAT'S ALL I GOT. GET THE FUCK OUT.

Comrade Michael King Consumer Reports

2007-02-16T13:01:00.000-08:00

Today we have a very special guest. His name is Michael King, a fine young gentleman I met in highschool. Actually, it's just me writing as an alter ego. But anyway, Michael King is a guy who knows what he likes, and he has a very unique way of expressing it. After witnessing the fall of the Berlin wall and the dissolution of the U.S.S.R. as a young child, he grew to adolescence in the post soviet atmosphere which followed before moving to the U.S. of A. Mike has always had a very special and mind broadening way of looking at the world when contrasted against standard American viewpoints. Without further adu, I turn the "mic" over to Mike. Take it away, Comrade King!

Hello. Dis is Michael King. I have for you mutherfuckers today a list of sheet dat I like and don't like. Eef you deesagree, you are fag. Here ees how it works: There are three seperate kategories in rating of item. Dey are as follows:

1.) Gee.

Dis means produkt is gee.

2.) Fat.

Dis means produkt is fat. Fat people smell like olt bortche. Bortche is for gees.

3.) Joo

Dis means produkt is joo. Joos are always getting into everyteen. Sometimes produkt seems nice, but is aktually joo. I always find out, somehow. On vit dee show.

Produkt Number 1: Bik Mechanikal Pencils

I hate dees things.

Gee?: Yes. Lead keep breaking, even at .7 millimeters. Plus eet yellow, which remind me of my komrade Uri's dik when he get yellow fever back een Soviet apartment bloc. Eef produkt makes me think of veener, it probably gee.

Fat?: No. Dis pencil is quite thin.

Joo?: No. Joo only write with magik golden tail feather of dee Joobird.

Product Number 2: Icekream Truk

I hate dee icekream truk. It komes around and wakes me up from Soviet Winter Hybernation Time.

Gee?: Yes. Karnival musik plays from thees truk every time it pass. It sound gee, like prancing pink unikorns ridden by kapitalist pig klown, Ronald MkDonald. "All around the mulberry bush, the bolchevik chase the czarist..." Kome on, I am adult now.

Fat?: No. The Icekream Man ees quite fat, however he bears klose resemblance to great premier Joseph Stalin. I dare not speak ill of Papa Stalin, for he shall send his K"Gee"B to take me away. I mean, KGB. You heard nothing, do not speak of this to anyone.

Joo?: Yes. I hear truk play Hava Nageela one day. They also serve an unleavened icekream sandwich for passover.

Produkt Number 3: The Internet

What ees this thing? I do not understand.

Gee?: Yes. I get geemails advertising gee penis produkts, two, sometimes three a day.

Fat?: Yes. The internets are for the fattest of fats. They are kalled "Blooggers."

Joo?: No. Internet does not rest on the Sabbath.

Produkt Number 3: The Birdkage on DVD

If you know vut dis movie is about, den you know eet is about gees. One of da main characters pretty fat, and though actual birdcage is never seen, I presume it is full of Joobirds.

Gee Faktor: Yes. Very gee. Dere are lots of gees in dis film. Dis ees da gee-est film I have ever seen. I weel burn it after I watch eet a few more times.

Fat Faktor: Yes. Nathan Lane is fat. He is sassy as a mutherfuker too. Vut a man! I mean, gee.

Joo Faktor: Yes. Nathan Lane is joo. He wears Joobird feather in hat like a gee. How fat.

Geeyest, Fattest, Jooest of the Week

That last one was pretty gee and joo and fat, yes? Well, I have skoured both east and west of the Berlin wall, and found the most gee, most fat, and most joo produkt to be found under sputnik.
TO MOTHER RUSSIA, WE PAY MANY RESPECKTS. ALL OTHERS ARE GEE AND FAT AND JOO.

Er... thank you, Michael. Your unique international perspectives have been very.... enlightening. We look forward to hearing from you again. Oh, on a completely unrelated note: if anyone has information on how to get someone's student visa revoked, please drop me a line.

I am a Devious Stalker. Women: Fear Me.

2007-01-29T15:25:00.000-08:00

I have a little story to tell, but I'm going to tell it to you from two different perspectives. The first perspective is my own. The second is that of the poor girl who I victimized the other day.

The Story: My Perspective

I roll out of bed at nine o'clock AM. That's early by college standards, or at least by mine. I was supposed to wake up at 8:40, but I utilized my five minute snooze alarm four glorious times. Do the math. Nonetheless, it's the second day of the quarter, and I don't want to be late for the first lecture of my literature class.

I feel some light hunger pains as I often do in the morning, and groggily proceed to the kitchen. Ah, Cinnamon Toast Crunch, my sugar sprinkled whole grain goddess. My vision is still unfocused and my motor skills are yet to arrive at full functionality, but miraculously milk and cereal find their way to the bowl and do their happy little dance, only to be devoured by my flemmy morning maw.

Oh crap, I shouldn't have poured two bowls. What time is it? I've got fifteen minutes to be down there. I get dressed. In slow morning motion, this takes about five minutes. Damn, ten minutes to go. I take a quick glance in the mirror. Hey there, good looking. There's still sleep in my reumy eyes, and pronounced dark rings beneath them. My hair is ridiculous; a warzone of sorts.

But there's no time, no time to deal with such details. With my consiousness still floating a foot or so outside my skull, I grab a notebook and a pencil and make my way out the door into the cold, clear morning air.

A few minutes later...

Alright, there's no such thing as a short walk at UC Santa Cruz, but I'm almost there. I can see the building that is my destination about 100 yards ahead. Oh look, a little short cut through the woods. I'll take that. There's a girl walking about 6 feet ahead of me who appears to have the same idea. Good for her. She's very blonde, but I don't notice much else. I'm too tired and my balls haven't kicked in yet. Whatever. My balls are a pair of idiots, asleep or otherwise.

Just ahead, the path forks two ways. I know I'm going left. My class room is only a few feet further in that direction. Just before reaching this divergence, however, the blonde girl turns around, and in a rather confrontational tone, decides to start quizzing me. "Excuse me, what class are you going to?"

I do a double take. Why are you asking me this? "Um, I'm going to..." Wait, where am I going? I'm still groggy and it's my first day. Is this my finance class or my literature class? I know one comes after the other. I take a shot at it. "Economics 60, I mean, uh..." An awkward pause ensues as I stumble on my words. I wind up just looking at her, confused.

"Heh, no, really. What class are you going to?" She seems... unsettled... and accusatory. The grinding gears in my brain finally snap back into their proper positions. "Lit class, I'm going to my lit class, it's right around the corner here." I go left, she goes right.

I arrive at the lecture hall and take a seat. Then it finally dawns on me. She was accusing me of following her. In broad day light. Minutes before the start of class. I wanted to run back outside and take a leak on her leg. There, now you can feel threatened, you little tart. Hey, I know you were probably taught to think all men are creeps until proven otherwise in your Womyn's Studies class, but I'm still taking it personally. Bite me.

The Story: Blondie's Perspective

Okay, like, I totally met, like, the creepiest guy the other day! So I woke up at about seven o'clock to get ready for class at nine-thirty. I wanted to sleep in, but you know, I need to make sure I look nice so my girlfriends won't call me fat behind my back.

Anyway, first I took a shower and tried out this new conditioner. It's called Laureal Pure Shine Rejuvination Shimmer Extravaganza-X12!!! My hair was looking totally fab! Then I shaved my legs and "accidently" cut myself a few times. Woopsies! At least I won't weigh as much with less blood in me!

I blow dried my hair and did my toe nails for like fifteen minutes. My toes are like, so fat! I hate myself. I read on my friend's myspace that you can learn to walk after a couple months of physical therepy if you lose a few toes. Hmmm. Lose a few toes = lose a few pounds? Plus physical therepists are totally hot! I need to lose weight. I can count only 22 out of 24 ribs.

It was only 8:30 at this point so I went on livejournal and wrote about my day so far. I also bought 500 dollars worth of designer jeans and halter tops with daddy's credit card, which he lets me use for anything I want. Then I checked my tampon supply because I'm a girl and have periods which means I need tampons. (Author's note: See? I can write women just fine.)

I felt kinda hungry, but eating is for fat girls. I pigged out anyway and had a baby carrot with hummus for breakfast. Then I threw up. Oh well. At least I got to change outfits again! Then I went to class.

So, then, like, this totally gross guy, like, was following me on this path through the woods on the way to class. He was like, wearing a t-shirt and jeans which is totally Gross because they weren't even designer jeans. He should totally get with the metrosexual craze because doesn't he know girls only feel comfortable around guys who at least look and act gay? I could tell he was totally checking me out, because he was like, facing in my general direction, and guys just like checking me out ok? He was even carrying this notebook which I bet he uses to draw sketches of the girls he stalks or something.

I decided I'd try to catch him off guard by asking him what class he was going to. When I did he looked surprised because, like I totally caught him. He just started mumbling like the little pervert that he is. Then he said he was going to his lit class, which I think is a new way to say clit, which is short for clitoris. What a perv! He was totally hot.

Mood: Weirded Out!!!1 8^()

FIN.

Yes, this really did happen, at least in the first iteration.

Coming Soon To a Theater Near You: Billy V.L.: Post Apocalypse

2006-12-01T00:56:00.000-08:00

So it's been a while, sue me. Jesus, I wonder if anyone still reads this. No matter. Here's the script to the trailer for a movie which I'm sure is bound to be a blockbuster smash hit.

Movie Trailer for

Billy V.L.:

Post Apocalypse

Narrator

(With typical overdramatic movie trailer voice)

It is the year Twenty Fifty-Six. The world is a futuristic utopia that the ancients said could never exist.

(Show happy people enjoying their futuristic technology and being unrealistically happy. Pan out to shot of futuristic city skyline with flying cars/people/dogs/sex toys/etc.)

Narrator

The ancients were right.

(Huge nuclear explosion devastates city. Fade to black)

Narrator

It is the year Twenty Fifty-Seven.

(Shot of devastated wasteland.)

Narrator

The world is a blighted radioactive wasteland. Human civilization has been brought to its knees, while mutant abominations ravage the earth.

(Show horrible mutants eating scared, dirty, downtrodden people)

Narrator

Then, out of the darkness rises a new hero.

(show close up of futuristic shotgun-like weapon being chambered)

Narrator

And his name…

(Begin long zoom towards figure standing on top of a cliff over a stormy sea. Lightning flashes in the background. Move to extreme close up of Billy V.L.’s face, with glowing red cybernetic Robocop type visor.)

Narrator:

…Is Billy V.L.

Billy V.L.

(in deep, gravelly badass voice)

The smell of popcorn makes me nauseous.

Narrator

He is but a man… a man of science.

(Cut to Master Chang’s training dojo)

Master Chang

(Billy’s wizened old mentor)

It is time for you to ask yourself, Billy V.L, what do you believe?

Billy V.L.

I believe in science.

Master Chang

Prove it, young one.

Billy V.L.

I have a Jesus fish with legs on the back of my car.

Narrator:

He’s also quite the lady’s man.

(cut to steamy bedroom scene)

Hot Chick:

Take me now, you hot hunk of man/robot/badass!

Billy V.L.

Affirmative. Just allow me to inform you that my cybernetic cock has its own cold fusion reactor which generates 1.21 giggawatts of power and my radioactive glow in the dark sperm has a half-life of 2.8 minutes while it breaks down into beryllium-14 as the cellular ribosome undergoes photosynthetic respiration.

Hot Chick

I have a hair appointment.

(Cut back to Master Chang’s dojo.)

Master Chang

Billy V.L., your quest shall be long and arduous, and that is why you must not go alone. It is time for me to pass along one of my greatest allies unto you, as he was passed to me by my master.

(Master Chang opens metal box. Tokulous, the Cyberbong floats out, making R2D2 noises.)

Billy V.L.

What is it master? It looks like some kind of floating robot bong.

Master Chang

His name is Tokulous. He is a floating robot bong, and shall make a firm friend and ally for you as he has for me.

(Billy V.L grabs Tokulous and tries to smoke him.)

Master Chang

Careful, young one. That part you’ve got your mouth on is the robot bong equivalent of his dick.

Narrator

Half white. Half asian. Half robot. 100% cyborg badass. If you see only one movie about half white half asian half robot cyborg badasses this summer, see BILLY V.L.: Post Apocalypse.

(Cut to scene of Billy V.L. getting eaten by huge three story mutant lizard dog. Lizard dog explodes from the inside, leaving Billy covered in entrails and lizard dog blood.)

Billy V.L.

This is pretty fucking hot.

THE END

Second Dining Hall Update

2006-10-23T14:01:00.000-07:00

I spoke to the lady in charge when it comes to meal plans on the phone today. We actually had a fairly pleasant conversation, and towards the end she asked me to resend my first email because she found it amusing. I'll spare everyone the details, as they're pretty boring, and just say that the situation was resolved to my satisfaction. Hazzah!

Saturday Morning Review, Part I

2006-10-22T14:01:00.000-07:00

We all remember days of preadolescent innocence, awakening on Saturday mornings and turning to our televisions to induldge in some animated (and not so animated) wonder. At least I do. In honor of these (mostly) fond memories, I'm writing a three part series of commemorative reviews, dedicated to revisiting these old shows. The first part will harken back to the shows of early childhood, which were mostly devoted to educating children in some way. The second part will focus on the television of early adolescence. Finally, the third part will revisit the stuff of my generation's teenage years.

Part 1: Early Childhood- The PBS Era.

Barney and Friends

I think it's pertinent to mention that shortly before my birth in 1986, my father was quite keen on naming me Barney. "Who could not like a guy named Barney?" was his main argument. My mother wouldn't have it. It was probably too blue collar or something, which is why I was marked with the more aristocratic sounding moniker of Oliver. I mean, Olivonius. Damn, there goes my secret identity.

Well, it turned out that mother had the right idea, because it wasn't long after I arrived in this world that Barney the Purple Dinosaur was spawned from the darkest realm of Hades to wreap havoc upon the watchers of PBS (funded by viewers like you). Barney, or Barnzlebub as he is known among Satan worshippers, would point his vestigial little demon claw at the camera at the end of every show and claim that "You're special!" as if he knew each and every one of us personally like our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. This was obviously an attempt to sham his young viewers into warshipping him as a false idol so that he could usurp The Lord's authoritah over his Kingdom.

Not convinced are you? Then I ask you, have you ever played the "I Love You Song" backwards? Here are the lyrics to the "I Love You Song" played forwards at normal speed:

I love you
You love me
We're a happy family
With a great big hug
and a kiss from me to you
Won't you say you love me too?

Now, here's what it sounds like in reverse and slowed down 66.6%:
WARNING: EXPLICIT AND DISTURBING CONTENT

Satan's hounds
shall consume your soul
You are but a centipede
from your mother's vagina
Join the legions of the Dark One
We provide a very comprehensive dental plan.

That should clear up any confusion regarding the true nature of Barnzlebub, the Purple Hellspawn. And even if you still don't buy any of this, you've got to admit that Barney is pretty sketchy on the surface. I mean, here's a guy in a dinosaur suit who hangs out with kids after school when all the teachers have gone home. Oh, and he "loves" them. And somebody try to explain away the "NAMBLA" tattoo he's got under his tail. All I can say is, I need an adult.

Sesame Street

I loved Sesame Street and still recall fond memories of it today. Still, the show leaves several important questions unanswered. Allow me to explain.

Sesame Street is, well, a street in New York. It looks kinda Bronx-ish. It's got families and local shop owners like any urban area. But it also has a giant 10 foot yellow bird living in an ally who is friends with some kind of wooly mammoth type thing. Meanwhile, right outside an apartment, a green, ill tempered mutant occupies a trash can.

What beats the hell out of me most of all is that NOBODY ON SESAME STREET THINKS THIS IS STRANGE.

There are no scenes, even in the first season, where some guy looks out his window onto the street below, and says to his wife, "Jesus fucking Christ, there's an owl playing the saxophone down there! Owl's don't even have lips, how is this fucking possible? My world is collapsing around me! FUCK!" Nobody even calls animal control the first time Oscar sticks his head out of that trash can. And don't get me started on Ernie and Bert.

After decades of the show's existance, not a single scientist or tabloid reporter has shown up to observe the urban anomoly that is Sesame Street. It's so unrealistic. Look, if they want to make a believer out of me, they should have researchers in HazMat suits poking things with Geiger counters in the background while Elmo explains how many sides a rectangle has. At the end of every show, instead of announcing that the episode was brought to you by the letters "H" and the number "2," it should say something like, "Today's show was brought to you by an irresponsible government who burried toxic mutagenic waste under a busy New York street."

Now, you may be thinking, "Come on, Olivonius, quit being such a fagort. Sesame Street is a kid's show so they can get away with this stuff. Obviously the child inside you is dead; dead and gone forever, you souless, empty, pathetic excuse for a human being. Just go kill yourself, you bastard."

Now now now, hold your horses. Just look at E.T. He's got a lot in common with many of the characters on sesame street. I mean, he's a loveable (albeit freakish) puppet who's great with the kids. Now, why is it that when Sesame Street broadcasts it's freak show all over the world, nobody bats an eye, but when word get's out about E.T., Nasa and the EPA barge in to Eliot's house and stick a probe up his ass? I don't know, but since I go to UC Santa Cruz I think I'll just assume it has something to do with racism.

ERT ERT RACISM GEORGE W. REPUBLIKKKANS WHITE PEOPLE ERT

Oh, sorry, that's just my Turret's Syndrome. Ever since I came here I've been saying stuff like that involuntarily whenever something bothers me.

Well, that sums up Part I. Tune in next time for the SHOCKING Part II experience. Godspeed.

Dining Hall Update

2006-10-19T21:01:00.000-07:00

Regretfully, I will not be corresponding in email any further with the dining staff, as I have been prompted to communicate with them via telephone regarding this matter. The email I recieved asking me to do this reads as follows:

Hello Oliver, I forwarded your email to Carol Del Po, who is your accounts advisor and who can help you with this; she sent you an email, and, to help facilitate your request of "Please don't make me wade through miles of beaurocratic garbage to do this one simple thing" she asked you to call her directly. My advice: call her! Here is her number again: 831-459-IFEELBADPOSTINGTHERESTOFTHENUMBERFORSOMEREASON. Good luck! Sincerely, Jed Milroy

Now, oddly enough, Carol never sent me an email, or at least I never recieved one from her, but whatever. I got her number! WOOT, SCORE, I'M TOTALLY IN, DOOD! I mean... cool, I guess.

If our conversation is interesting enough I'll write about it, but it probably won't be. No matter, I did what I did and I'd do it again! I have no regrets! Actually, I've got one: The intern who drafted my original email misspelt "bureaucracy." I don't see a letter of recommendation in his future.

I will update with something this weekend regardless of what happens.

Another Letter!

2006-10-09T16:38:00.000-07:00

Okay, here's the deal. Last Spring I applied for a seven day meal plan at the dining hall, which I've realized was stupid because I have an on-campus apartment and can (more or less) cook for myself now, or at least force my roommates do it for me at gun point.

Today I wrote a letter requesting to downgrade to the cheaper and much more reasonable 55 day meal plan, but after reading the Dining Services Web Site, I caught a whiff of an impending run in with the uniquely abominable bureaucracy that saturates the administration of the University of California. (I've had problems with it before, just read some of my previous stuff, especially, "The UC's Administration is Over Run With Souless Bureaucrats").
Well, through the following email, in which I request a meal plan downgrade, I decided I'd try to nip the growth of any red tape in the bud. Read on, Grasshopper!

To Whom it May Concern, Hi there. Currently I am a junior living in the College 9 apartments who holds a 7 day meal plan. Over the past few weeks, I have come to realize that such an extensive plan is unnecessary, and would like to downgrade to a 55 day meal plan instead. If you are planning to acquiesce, read no further; just let me know if there's anything else I have to do. If this is going to be more complicated, or in other words, if you plan on telling me I can't downgrade, keep reading. Your web site reads, "Requests to downgrade meal plans will be reviewed on a case-by-case basis and approved for exceptional circumstances only." I assure you, sir or maddam, that this is a very exceptional case. Using mind control rays, the evil Bush Administration forced me to apply for a seven day plan last Spring against my own free will thanks to the Patriot Act and Military Recruiters on Campus. This was all part of a hair brained scheme to jump start the economy before the midterm elections. I was almost able to resist through sheer force of will power, however my girlfriend broke up with me and my need to eat massive amounts of greasy pizza when I'm depressed turned the cards in favor of the Dub'ya Mind Control Array. If you doubt the validity of this letter, know only this: I do sincerely want to downgrade my meal plan. Please don't make me wade through miles of bureaucratic garbage to do this one simple thing. I've had to before, and it sure as heck ain't pleasant! Thank you for your time, Oliver M. Perez Valued Customer of 2 Years. P.S Seriously, don't make me jump through any hoops unless they lead directly to a downgrade. Thanks!

I'll post their response, hopefully it will be interesting.

Oh, and I assure you that everything in this letter is completely true, except the bit about the girlfriend. I've never had one; most girls can smell tiny penis from a mile away.

What?

The Designated Noob

2006-10-05T01:50:00.000-07:00

Before I present the following letter which I composed roughly a year ago, allow me to provide a brief backstory.

Last year, some friends of mine created a group on facebook.com that was based entirely around drinking. I joined it grudgingly after being needled continuously to do so. However, once I finally gave in, I was annointed the position of "Designated N00b" by the club's esteemed creators, mostly because I virtually never drink myself stupid. This "promotion" lead me to submit my letter of resignation, which reads as follows:

To Whom it May Concern,

Ahem. As designated N00b, I have perpetually striven to avoid being n00besque when it comes to my drinking. Recently, I undertook a study to find out how to become a Respectable Drinker like the esteemed creator(s) of this group, who either collectively or individually decided to make me the "Designated N00b." I reaped a bountiful amount of knowledge while conducting my research, but unfortunately, it also brought me to the conclusion that I am simply not cut out to be the Manly-Very-Heterosexual Respectable- Drinker that the founders of this group have managed to become.

Still, for those among you who think you may have the potential to be as "MANLY" and "G" and "NOT GAY" as the guy(s) who designated me a n00b, I have compiled a list of the required drinking necessities. Once you have accomplished these things, which I in my infinitite noobity and homosexuality and unmanliness will never achieve, you will walk among the very CHAMPIONS OF ALCOHOL that created this site. Without further ado, here are a few things you need to do to become a Respectable Drinker and a True Heterosexual Manly Man:

1. Drink enough to start yelling everything you have to say.

2. Drink enough to find yourself and your opinions incredibly interesting and start babbling them to girls who must like you now because you’re drunk and incredibly interesting.

3. Drink enough to think nature photos of animals are hot girls making out. (In other words, drink enough to think animals are hot.)

4. Drink enough to start calling your friends faggots.

5. Drink enough to think you can walk through solid objects.

6. Chug a beer and a shot of vodka or five at 2:30 in the evening, just before class. When you get to the lecture hall, sit down in a chair that you didn’t realize already had someone sitting in it. Get the shit beat out of you.

7. Drink enough to claim that you’re not drunk.

8. Drink enough that you wake up next to a crack whore and a salmon. That’s right, a salmon.

9. Vomit. Everywhere. On the floor in the communal bathroom, on the bed, on that girl you like, on yourself, on the dog, on your left eyebrow, on the vomit you already vomited. Real men throw up.

10. Drink enough to pass out and have your slightly less drunk friends draw penises on your face. Real men have their faces covered in penises.

11. Follow every shot of hard liqour with orange soda as a chaser. And have your mommy cut the crust off your peanutbutter sandwhich while you're at it.

12. Drink enough to die. What a hero. What a man. I’ll remember you.

13. Drink enough to forget about items 1 through 11. If you’re lucky, you might even get drunk enough to forget item 12 and somehow return from the grave. Of course, the greatest thing about forgetting everything is that when you sober up, you’ll think you haven’t accomplished any of these things, thus giving you a goal for the next time you drink. You will always have a goal, and thus, your life will always have meaning!

That concludes my list, as well as my tenure here as the "Designated N00b" who never had the ball(z) or the MANLINESS to accomplish any of the above things. To those real men out there who have done these things, and to those who surely will, I am, and will always be, envious to the highest degree. I officially put forward my resignation. Thank you.

-Oliver M. Perez, Designated N00b.

HOLY SHIT! I HIT AN OLD MAN TODAY! (And it wasn't my fault either!)

2006-08-30T23:20:00.000-07:00

Normally I don't make posts that directly focus on single events that have occured in my life. If I ever relay a personal annecdote, it's usually to make some broader point. Well, not today. Today I'm pulling a livejournal and spouting in full about an actual event that has occured, however, I will spare you the usual self-pitying commentary that follows the typical livejournal entry.

It all began as innocuously as you could imagine. My brother and I had just left the house in my recently aquired Honda Civic Si (my baby as of late) to head over to Circuit City in Concord with the goal of finding a birthday present for my dad. Before we left town, however, I needed to drop off some DVDs at Blockbuster. Mission accomplished, DVD's delivered, we began to head out of the shopping center parking lot.

In said parking lot there is an intersection that occurs just before you reach the main road. At this intersection, the road crossing mine has stop signs, while the one I was on doesn't, so I was free to roll through without stopping like I've done a million times before.

Well, this old guy who had just stopped at the crossing street apparently didn't notice I was there and began to roll on through, just as I was entering the intersection. I slammed on the breaks, but to no avail. With a screaching of tires and that classic colliding-vehicle crunch noise, the front of my car went into his Mercedes' driver side door at about 15 miles per hour.

Here's where it really gets interesting. You know how people usually pull over immediately after an accident and exchange the necessary information? Well, this guy didn't. With a bewildered look on his face, he just kept rolling through the crossing at about the same speed he was before, as if nothing had happened! He didn't gun it or anything, he just kept moving right along as though he hadn't experienced the abrupt jarring impact which had left a large metal crater in the side of his car. In fact, for about 2 seconds, his seemingly nonchalant approach to the whole situation left me wondering if there had been any accident! But upon quickly observing the mangled side of his gradually receding vehicle, I reaffirmed that an accident had in fact just happened.

Still, for about 10 seconds my brother and I sat in the middle of the intersection growing more amazed as we came to realize he wasn't pulling over, and quickly resolved to chase after him. He continued casually through the shopping center, and we caught up with him fairly easily, without having to drive at unsafe speeds. But he kept going! Eventually, we were turning back out onto a major street.

We stopped behind him at a red light. "YOU HIT US, YOU HAVE TO PULL OVER!" my brother yelled out the window. As the light turned green and he made a left turn, we realized this wasn't going to happen.

And this is where I got my chance to be Steve McQueen for about 10 seconds. The old man, having just turned on to the main road through town, was nearing an area where the two lane street merged into one. I only had a few moments to move along side him and try to get the message across. I dropped it into second and, unleashing the Japanese fury of 160 horses of raw rice rocket power, swooped around to pace him from his left side. Once again, my brother yelled out the window for him to pull over. This time, a look of realization appeared on his face (or was it grudging acceptance?) and at last he complied.

So we're at last pulled over, and we get out of my car and approach his. He rolls his window down about half way and says something along the lines of, "I stop and look both ways, I don't see you!" First, I notice he's got an accent, Eastern European I think. This is just great, not only is this guy old and confused, but his English isn't all that wonderful either. Second, I notice that with the way he's saying this, he means to imply it's not his fault. I tell him, calmly, that we need to exchange liscences, insurance info, and phone numbers etc, and he repeats the same thing again, still not getting out of his car. I didn't bother to ask him why he didn't stop, because I got the distinct impression it was because he was just a confused old man. In retrospect, who knows?

Ben was beginning to get pissed, and I was beginning to feel a sense of dismay regarding the whole situation, when a cop rolls by. Thank you Jesus! I'd never been so happy to see a cop in my life. We flagged him down.

We described the whole situation to the cop, and after the old man finally got out of his car as per the officer's request, he didn't seem to contest what happened. Even so, the guy kept insisting that he'd "Looked both ways" as though this exonerated him of fault, when fault was clearly his. He also kept mentioning how we "came out of nowhere," as though I'd negligently forgotten to turn off my Honda's cloaking device or something.

Since we couldn't officially agree on who's fault it was (though everyone present except for the old man knew it was his), the cop had to write a police report describing what happened, and it was clear that it would be in our favor. As for the damage, nobody was hurt, even slightly, which was good. My car, up until then in excellent condition, now sports a mangled bumper, a bent grill, and somehow, due to complex forces of impact I can't hope to understand, a nice big spider web of a crack in the windshield. Oh well. At least that guy's insurance will pay for it. I hope.

In brighter news, my family just got a puppy. His name is Duncan.

Hey Celebrities: Please Shut the Hell Up

2006-08-23T11:48:00.000-07:00

I hate celebrity gossip. I don't give a damn about who's humping who in Hollywood, the fact that some actress named her brat kid after a fruit, or how high Tom Cruise managed to jump on Oprah's couch while professing his insane love for What's-Her-Face. Somebody give me one good reason why I should give a rat's ass's pimple about what's going on in the lives of these people, or especially, what they have to say. I don't know them personally, and I sure as hell don't have any reason to trust them. I just see them fairly regularly in the checkout line at Safeway... and in the movies... and on TV.

Even so, it's strange that the things celebrities talk about are so important to people, because I find that you can get better advise and perspective from your parents or maybe the seat of a crapper than you can from Tom Cruise or Justin Timberlake.

For example, we all know, or should I say, we've all been forced to know, about Tom Cruise's ridiculous opinions regarding what a sham the entire field of psychiatry is. Instead, everyone needs to read Dianetics! The answer lies within this text! I agree that the answer does lie within, but only when you've run out of toilet paper. HAHA!!! ZING.

I've pretty much gotten to the point where whenever a celebrity starts to bring politics or religeon into something where it shouldn't be, which is quite common, I just tune out. The other day, I happened to see Justin Timberlake on TV, discussing his part in Janet Jackson's "Wardrobe Malfunction." The interviewer asked the man if he could have done a better job in defending Janet Jackson during her testimony to the FCC. Basically, Justin started trying to articulate a point that didn't really exist by flying circles around the issue at hand and unelloquently attempting to dodge the question. I remember him making some meaningless statement about him being an "artist" who's part of an "artistic community" with "responsibilities." Whatever that means. Then he paused and said, "But you know, when I think about it, I realize that they haven't found the weapons of mass destruction yet..."

This is where I left the room with an acute desire to kick a small dog. Where in God's name does that statement fit into anything? No wonder they haven't found any weapons of mass destruction... They must have already been detonated inside Justin Timberlake's pretty boy brain!

A couple of weeks ago I went to a Santana concert. Before I begin, let me first say that I have enormous respect for Carlos Santana as a musician and from what I know of him, no problem with him as a person. Even so, while the show was great and everything, he still had to go and make out-of-nowhere comments about how much George Bush sucks between a couple of songs, to the immense satisfaction of the majority of the audience. Carlos, I love you man, and I was never a fan of G'dub, but please, shut the hell up and play your guitar. It's what you're good at. I didn't come to this concert for any political commentary. I mean, what the hell was the point of saying that anyway? Based on the resounding shouts of approval that rocketed through the Concord Pavillion that night, you were only preaching to the choir.

So here's my message to celebrities, and I know they're listening (pfff): If you are an actor, act. If you are a musician, musicify- i mean, play music. And if you're an athlete, play ball and lay off the steroids. But don't think that your fame and fortune makes any of you a worthwhile commentator on issues outside your realm of expertise. Just because you can say something that everyone will hear doesn't give you the right to run your mouth regarding things you know nothing more about (or perhaps less) than the average person.

Leave the political commentary to the experts. Like me. Ha.

This Post is About Penises

2006-06-22T21:01:00.000-07:00

I know what you're thinking:

"So it's finally come to this."

Now, after pausing and reflecting a little further, you're probably thinking:

"Thank you Jesus, I've secretly been waiting forever for Olivonius to write a post in his blog about cocks. This is pretty much why I pay for the internet."

Seriously though, I'm about 82.74% sure you're going to find what I'm about to write quite compelling, and a large part of that figure is derived from the fact that Daltonius reads this sometimes, and he really likes cocks. 82.74% ain't bad. On with the show.

As you may or may not know, most men think about their dicks a lot, and gay men probably have an even busier mental schedule since they're thinking about their dicks and other men's dicks as well. But regardless of sexual preference, one specific concern many men have regarding their wangs relates to size.

Some men consider themselves to be smaller than average while Lil' Johnny is asleep, though average or more when it becomes time for him to go out and play. It's come to my attention that men in this situation are commonly refered to as "growers, not showers." This means that, theoretically, some guy in the locker room who appears to have had genetics throw shit in his face in the Dick Department could be significantly better endowed when it comes down to brass tacks in the bedroom.

This leads me to the point of my post. If there can be "growers, not showers," doesn't that mean there could also be what I like to call, "showers and shrinkers?" Could there be some guy with a nine inch cock that shrinks down to 1.5 inches when it's time to visit the Dick Cave? Perhaps a wang that starts out huge when flaccid, and then reduces down to epically tiny proportions when erect? I don't see why not; I mean, people are born stuck together sometimes, and I saw a cat with two tounges once.

I'm surprised there haven't been any hentai animes made regarding this phenomenon. I could just imagine it: Some underage school girl who is supposedly "eighteen" with a tiny nose and disturbingly huge eyes pulls down some guy with spikey blue hair's pants and then gasps in astonishment at the monster she has unleashed. Then, as the guy's level of arousal increases, they both begin to look progressively more sheepish as his member does a reverse Incredible Hulk. At this point, both character's eyes have inflated to even more rediculous proportions, hash marks have appeared on their cheeks, and tiny tear drops have begun orbitting their heads while they utter noises out of their mouths that sound sorta like "Eeeeh?" and "Waaah!" Then an evil cyborg wizard with a french horn for a head and a noodle processor for a sidekick comes in and turns them into adorable dancing pandas, except they both have bright red baboon asses for some reason. Gee, this is actually turning me on.

At the very least, a feature such as that would spice up any carnival side show. Right there between the bearded lady and The-Guy-From-Any-Given-Seinfeld-Episode-Who-
Had-a-Quirk-That-The-Main-Characters-Couldn't-Stand would be "The Incredible Shrinking Boner," as announced in flashing magnificent neon lettering.

Or something like that. Just throwing it out there.

Historical Pulp Fiction

2006-06-05T20:35:00.000-07:00

"My good man, tell me again about the snuff houses."

It was Thomas Jefferson who made this request to Benjamin Franklin, who was in the midst of eagerly imparting the details of his journey to France upon his good friend as they made their way by hansom carriage to a local inn. The particular journey they were making at the moment was not of a leisurely nature, yet their jolly banter could easily lead an uninformed individual to believe that it was. No, this outing was strictly business, despite the friendly conversation.

"Specifically what facts would you like me to impart upon you?" asked Franklin.

"I would be correct in assuming that snuff is of a lawful nature in France, yes?"

"Well," said Franklin, "You would do well to understand that it is only a lawful substance in that land to a certain end. One cannot simply utilize the powder in public. Members of high society in France consider if much more proper to make use of snuff in one's home or certain designated locations. "

"And those are what one may refer to as Snuff Houses?" inquired Jefferson.

"Correct, my brother. The following are considered to be of a nature deemed lawful by the government of France: The purhase of snuff, the possession of snuff, and, if you are the liscenced owner of a snuff house, deemed worthy by the very crown of France, God save the King, you may even vend the substance at your own leisure. Transportation of the powder is also lawful, however that is a moot point brother, because, and harken well unto this, agents of law enforcement under the crown are unequipped with the right to search your person."

Jefferson responded to this news very enthusiastically. "Amazing! Simply fascinating, old boy. These tidings doth make me feel much inclined to pay a visit to these lands in short order."

"I do not doubt that, my friend," said Franklin warmly, "I feel quite certain that you would derive great pleasure in such travels." There was a brief reflective pause in the conversation. "However, dost thou knoweth what may well be the most fascinating aspect of tredding the far off soil of the European continent?"

"Do tell me, old friend, do tell."

"'Tis the small things, brother. Much is the same in Europe as in the colonies, however there are minisicule variations in everyday life over yonder which are nonetheless quite noteworthy."

"Would thoust leave me without a specific example with which to fortify thy claim?" asked Jefferson.

"I would not dare such an injustice, my brother!" responded Franklin, "Allow me to explain: Did you know that it is considered socially acceptable to embibe alcoholic spirits whilst viewing the finest of French theatre? And in no small amount either! Why, entire kegs of ale are made available up in the most expensive balconies! And in Paris, where the King himself resides, you may easily purchase the finest liquors from the lowliest of street vendors! Dost thou know how the local Parisian butchers refer to a quarter pound slab of beef?

"Why, do you mean to say that they do not refer to it as such?" Jefferson's curiosity was brought out further.

"No, their methods of weight measurement differ in such a way from ours that facilitating an estimate of mass in that manner would be nay impossible."

"Then how, pray tell, do they address such a cut of meat?"

"The French refer to it as a Royale le Slab."

"Royale le Slab..." mimicked Jefferson, trying the strange new vernacular on for size.

"Correct!"

"And how do they refer to a head cheese?" inquired Jefferson.

"For all intents and purposes, a head cheese is refered to as a head cheese, however in France it is more commonly called le head cheese."

"Le head cheese." Jefferson chuckled heartily, "What term do they use for rump roast?"

"I donno, I didn't eat any pig's ass. But art thou aware of what they put on fried potatoes instead of tomato paste?"

"What, per se?"

"Cod liver oil, my good man."

"Cod liver oil? My God, the savages!"

"I have witnessed it personally on several occasions. They dowse their potatoes in the oil much like a witch is dowsed in a lake by angry villagers!"

***

The hansom arrived outside the inn, lurching to a stop. Jefferson and Franklin stepped out, stretching their legs and walking around to the compartment in back. Opening it, they each removed a flintlock pistol, and immediately begin priming them with black powder and balls.

"I dare say, we should be utilizing rapiers for this occasion," said Jefferson.

"How many men do you postulate are waiting upstairs?" asked Franklin.

"Perhaps three or four."

"Doth that include our man?"

"I cannot say for certain." In spite of the apparent ambiguity of the impending situation, Jefferson still seemed relatively calm.

"So, the presense of five men is entirely percievable?"

"'Tis not out of the question, I suppose."

"Then I entirely agree with you, we should be carrying rapiers." conceeded Jefferson.

Jefferson and Franklin then concealed their pistols and proceeded over the threshold, entering the inn. They immediately went upstairs, and knocked on the door of the room in which their business resided. The portal was opened by Marvinius, their man. Two other men were also visible. One sat at a small table, supping on a quarter pound slab of beef. The other lay on a sofa, as if stricken with the pox. Franklin noted with distate that this man clearly did not take to the habbit of early to bed, early to rise.

"Greetings, youths. How doth you fair on this fine spring morn?" said Jefferson, strolling into the room casually and without menace, with Franklin right behind him. The young men did not answer. "I'm sorry, perhaps I am currently in the midst of a pipe dream. I do believe I just presented you with an inquirery pertaining to your well being."

"We fair adequately." said the man at the table, apprehensively. At this point, Franklin begin to walk around to the back of the room.

"Are you aware of who we are, young man?" asked Jefferson. The man at the table shook his head.

"No."

Jefferson informed him, "We are associates of your brother in arms, General George Washington. You do recall George Washington, yes?"

There was no response from either of the two men. Jefferson eyed the man at the table.

"Allow me to postulate. You would be Benedict Arnold, correct?"

"I am he." said Arnold.

"I assumed as much. You do remember your comrade in arms, George Washington, don't you Mr. Arnold?"

"I do."

"Most excellent, my good man. I do say, it appears my associate Mr. Franklin and I have interrupted your breakfasting. My most sincere appologies. What is this you happen to be consuming?"

"Slabs of beef." answered Arnold.

"Slabs of beef, ah yes, the foundation of any nutritious breaking of fast. May I ask what kind of beef?"

"Longhorn, I believe."

"Ah, but my curiosity lies in its origin. Did thou recieve this bounty from MacDonald the Butcher? Or perhaps Jack the Butcher or Wendy the Butcher?"

"Nay, we purchased this meat from Big Kahuna the Butcher."

"Ah, of course! The butcher from the islands! I've harkened to much jubilation regarding the quality of his stock. However, I have yet to induldge in his produce. Is what I've heard true?"

"His cuts are of high quality indeed, good sir." said Arnold.

"Would you be offended if I were to induldge in a sampling of yours?" asked Jefferson.

"By no means. Please help yourself."

Jefferson picked up the slab of beef, getting grease and oil all over his hands. This was a major deficiency of Slabs of Beef, and Jefferson briefly considered the necessity for a cleaner way to do this. Still, he took a bite and savored the flavor.

"I do say! This slab of beef is simply delectable! I say, Benjamin!" Jefferson called over to Franklin, who was hovering about on the opposite side of the room, "Have you ever savored meat from the stock of Kahuna the Butcher?"

"I'm afraid not, Thomas." said Franklin.

"Then come come old man, have a bite. This is cause for celebration to my palette."

"I am currently not in the mood to consume foodstuffs." he replied.

"Well then," said Jefferson, "If you bare any sort of predilection for slabs of beef, I highly recommend you try this particular brand. My wife, unfortunately, is only prone to the consumption of vegetables and fruits, and this policy of hers sadly carries over to me by default. Which does remind me... Benedict, my good man, would you happen to know how the French refer to a slab of beef?"

"I would not, I'm afraid." said Arnold.

"Will you please enlighten our friend, Mr. Franklin?" requested Jefferson.

"It is commonly refered to as "Royale le Slab," said Franklin.

"Indeed," said Jefferson, "Do you have an notion as to why this is, Mr. Arnold?"

After a brief moment of pensive thought, Benedict Arnold responded, "Would it be because their methods of weight measurement differ in such a way from ours that facilitating an estimate of mass in that manner would be nay impossible?"

"Yes, wonderful, Mr. Arnold!" said Jefferson happilly, "I find your intellectual capacity most impressive." Suddenly, Jefferson took notice of the goblet sitting on the table. "What elixer doth yonder goblet hold?"

"It be well water, sir."

"Ah. I am sorry but I must ask again. Would you be offended if I were to imbibe some of this most refreshing beverage? I am hoping that it may purge some of the remainder of the beef from my mouth."

"Be my guest." Said Arnold. Indeed, Jefferson drank briefly from the cup, then turned abruptly towards the lazy looking man on the cot, who had yet to say anything.

"You there, sir, with the strange quoff, are you aware of why we are currently in your presence?"

"Indeed," said the man on the cot with the bad hair cut.

"Then would you please be so kind as to inform my good friend Mr. Franklin as to where our effects are so craftily stowed away?"

Marvinius decided to answer instead, "They are in the chiffonier."

"I don't believe I recall asking you, sir," said Jefferson, clearly miffed. He turned back to the man on the cot, "Please proceed."

"Your effects are in the chiffonier, the uppermost drawer." said the man. Franklin proceeded to open the dresser, removing an iron lock box. He placed it on top of the dresser, and opened it, peering inside, transfixed by what he saw.

"Are all the contents present and in satifactory condition?" asked Jefferson, who was too far away to see them himself.

"Very much so," said Franklin, coming out of his trance as he closed the case.

"Excuse me," asked Benedict Arnold suddenly, "may I inquire as to your name, sir? As I understand it, the man with the case is none other than the esteemed Benjamin Franklin, but I do not recall hearing your moniker."

"My name would be Jamestown, and you are not likely to escape the winter of your discontent which is about to unfold upon you." replied Jefferson.

"Please, listen good sir," said Benedict, "I'd like to deliver my sincerest apologies on behalf of myself and my colleagues regarding the unacceptable manner in which events occured between ourselves and General Washington. When the war began, I assure you we only had the best intentions-"

A deafening crack resonated through the room as the flintlock pistol went off. The man on the cot was dead. Jefferson held the smoking gun. "My most sincere apologies as well, Mr. Arnold. I do believe I have interrupted your thought process. Do not hesitate to carry on with what you were saying. I seem to recall it had something to do with 'best intentions.'" He began the somewhat lengthy process of reloading the weapon. Arnold seemed at a loss for words.

"Is something wrong, good sir?" asked Jefferson, "Ah, I see, you must have finished making your statement. Would it bother you if I took the floor now? I thought not. Allow me to inquire, sir, how would you best describe the appearence of General George Washington?" Arnold still seemed incapable of speach, so Jefferson savagely, yet with a certain elegance, bashed the table out of the way, spilling food and drink everywhere.

"From what country do you hail?" said Jefferson, yelling now.

"Whateth?" said Arnold.

"I am not familiar with the country of Whateth! I find this most peculiar. Do the gentry speak olde English in the realm of Whateth?"

Benedict Arnold could only think to utilize the one word remaining in his vocabulary to respond.

"Whateth?"

"English, you silly prat!" screamed Jefferson, "Can you vocalize in plain English?"

"Ay," said Arnold

"Very well, then please, describe to me the appearence of General George Washington!"

"Whateth?"

Jefferson positioned his freshly reloaded flintlock directly over Arnold's left temple. "Please, sir, I implore you, say 'Whateth' again. I challenge you directly sir, say 'whateth' once more, please!" Arnold was trembling uncontrollably. "Now. Describe, to the best of your earthly ability, the appearence of General George Washington!"

"W-w-well," stammered Benedict Arnold, "He wears a powdered wig..."

"Continue..." urged Jefferson.

"He- he's got wooden teeth..."

"Does he look like a bitch?" said Jefferson.

"Whateth?"

Jefferson shot a lead ball into Arnold's shoulder.

"Does General George Washington, commander of the Continental Army, look like a collie bitch?"

"Nay!" yelped Arnold.

"Then why, I wonder, why in the name of God's green earth, are you trying to perform intercourse with him like he was a collie bitch?"

"I have done no such thing! Well, not with Washington anyway." Said Arnold.

"You see, Mr. Arnold, I believe that statement to be false. You did indeed. Have you ever perused the pages of the Holy Bible, Mr. Arnold?"

"Ay."

"Well, that's of little importance, because I am not in the mood to quote from it. Besides, Mr. Arnold, I am a proponent of seperation between matters of church and state. I do however, have committed to memory the contents of a document, a document I wrote not too long ago, just before the war started, in fact. Here's something of an exerpt." Jefferson's voice gradually began rising to more grandiose levels as he proceeded to recite the following:

"When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them to another and to assume among the powers of the earth, the seperate and equal station to which the Law's of Nature and Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should... they should... they... ah hell, let's just shoot him already."

Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin both emptied their flintlock pistols into Benedict Arnold, who's blood curdling scream could be heard for miles.

Tales From the Metro

2006-06-01T00:19:00.000-07:00

Zooming through the universe at theoretically impossible speeds, you may encounter a galaxy with a quaint yellow star located way out on one of it's spiral arms. Set a course for the third planet from this adolescent sun and enter the atmosphere above the northern hemosphere. You should encounter a largish continent that tapers off to the south. Located around the center of this continent (in the north/south sense) is the greatest country in the history of anything. Head for the western seaboard of this impeccable nation.

You should be able to see little boxes drawn out on the ground by now. These are called "borders," and they denote the boundaries of "states." See that big one that's shaped kind of like a boomerang that's been carved out by a special ed kid? Head for that one. Now scan the surface for high concentrations of marajuana. In all likelihood, if you point yourself towards the areas with the strongest readings, you'll find yourself in Santa Cruz, California.

Crashed your spaceship, eh? Repulsor lifts got you down? No worries! Santa Cruz boasts an impressive public transportation system, that is, assuming that the integalactive hegemony known as "The Union" is on good terms with the interstellar empire known as "The Management" when you arrive.

While an effective way to get around, it's worth noting that many galactic tourists who use public transportation on this planet later describe the experience as "quirky," "odd," "bizzarre," "disturbing" or even "fucked up, dude." In Santa Cruz, a town that is often funky enough on foot, this can hold doubly true when utilizing the metro.

Our professional galactic travelers have compiled a small sampling of some of the oddities that you might encounter on the Santa Cruz Metro.

1.) People who can't stop babbling incoherently to complete strangers.

While riding on the 19 express, one of our agents observed a dissheveled earthling boarding the bus and taking a seat next to a youngish human, who was probably attending the local university. The man turned his head towards the student and promptly began to vocalize incoherrently, ending every other phrase or so with "right?." The student nodded nervously at first, but after eventually realizing that the barrage of meaningless verbage and the word "right?" was not likely to cease, he resolved to quietly spend the rest of the ride pretending like there was nobody there. By the time the student had reached his stop (or decided he'd had enough), the talkative man had developed a glazed look in his eye and was drooling. He didn't seem to notice the kid had dissembarked, and kept on talking to the empty chair next to him.

2.) Street people who are overtly racist.

At a bus stop downtown, a pungeant woman of unplaceable age appeared out of nowhere pushing a shopping cart full of clothes and probably dead cats. Upon observing a group of students at the stop, she noted matter of factly that, "You chinks are the reason things are so fucked up around here." An awkward silence ensued for a moment, then the students resolved to burst out laughing until she went away.

3.) People willing to die to ride the bus.

After the metro had just departed from a stop and was picking up considerable speed, a man ran out in front of it. The driver cursed loudly and slammed on the breaks, barely managing to stop in time. The man outside proceeded to the door of the bus, expecting to be let on. The driver opened it and the guy stepped aboard like nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. While this was going on the driver was shouting, "What the hell was that? I almost killed you! Hey, get off and wait back at the stop like everybody else."

The guy grunted irritably and stepped out. We resumed driving.

4.) Missing Wives.

The bus pulled up to a stop and a large bearded man proceeded towards the door to get off. Before he exited, he turned to a group of younger passengers from the university who appeared to be enjoying themselves. He looked at them and stated loudly, "I haven't seen my wife in fourteen years!" The kids stopped laughing and having a good time to stare at him. There was, as is characteristic of these encounters, a brief to medium-length awkward pause. "Don't waste your lives!" he announced, then got off. The kids didn't seem to enjoy the remainder of their ride as much as they had been previously.

5.) Carl's Jr Junkies.

A man stepped aboard and realized he might be on the wrong bus. He approached the driver while we were in motion and asked, "Hey, do you stop at Carl's Jr.?" The bus driver glanced over at him with a befuddled look on his face.

"Carl's Jr.? Santa Cruz doesn't even have a-"

"Shit, I'm on the wrong bus. Look, can you take a detour onto Bay Street? I need my Six Dollar Burger."

"No, I can't. And there is no Carl's Jr. in Santa Cruz. I think there's one in Capitolla though."

"Fuck you man, you corporate whore. It's because I'm black, isn't it?"

Though this man was shrouded in enigma, one thing about him was quite obvious: He was white. Around this point the metro arrived at a normal stop.

"Get off my bus." said the driver, much like Harrison Ford in Air Force One.

The Jr. Junkie showed signs of resisting, but once the driver alluded to radioing the police, he decided to leave, running down the street as fast as he could. "Carl's gonna hear about this, bitch!" he shouted as left.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Well, galactic traveler, that's probably enough to give you a general idea of what it can be like. Just so you know, in case it wasn't obvious, I completely bullshitted the last entry. And the fourth one actually happened in Honollulu. But whatever, the bus is weird. Bye.

How to Get Ahead in Life

2006-05-22T23:22:00.000-07:00

So you want to be top of the heap, eh kid? You wanna be the big dog, the head honcho, or el taco grande, if you will?

As of late, I've begun to get a pretty clear idea of what it takes to reach the lofty heights of success, fame, and fortune. It's really quite simple, and the secret is not one I've learned from teachers, nor mom, dad, or wizened old grandparents. It's one I've learned from my very own peers. You wanna know the secret? Since you're still reading, I'll assume the answer is yes. Here it is:

The secret to success, fame, and fortune, is to obtain a degree from a University of Califonia, provided that the particular UC is not Santa Cruz.

That's it. If you want to get ahead in life, don't go to this school. Because although Santa Cruz may in fact be a UC, nobody is going to take you seriously when you go to get a job, or when you apply for grad school. You'll be branded a stoner regardless of whether you pass the drug test. Potential bosses will plug their noses in anticipation of your repulsive body odor as you enter the room for an interview predestined to end poorly. Seriously, you have better chances of getting hired as a highschool drop out. That's why I'm currently observing such a massive exodus of outbound transfers.

If you want to make it in life, buying into the stuffy elitism of higher education is key. For example, the individual who went to UC Berkeley is bound for instant success, while the person who went to Santa Cruz is going to wallow in a pool of their own feces until they die broken and alone. What you do after you graduate doesn't mean shit. People will simply point and laugh at the Santa Cruz graduate for the rest of his or her life, even though he or she sat in what amounted to the same overcrowded lecture halls that the Berkeley, UCLA, or UCSD etc. student did. You want an instant ticket to success? Go to a UC, just not Santa Cruz.

That's obviously why so many people who were unfortunate enough to wind up coming here as freshmen are hitting the road. There're greener pastures to be had, and an instant assurance of a bright future, regardless of how crappy your GPA turns out.

Let's hear some true stories about people who went to Santa Cruz and hit an inevitable dead end upon graduation, and some people that went to other UC's and made it big.

Subject 1
James Greenfield
UC Santa Cruz Graduate, 1983

James Greenfield, who chose the life of a humanitarian after becoming an M.D., traveled to the Congo to help fight the deadly Mustafa Hemorrhagic Fever. The disease, an Ebola like affliction that was killing off multitudes of people in local forest dwelling tribes, nearly lead Dr. Greenfield to his own death before he managed to find the cure. But find a cure he did, saving the lives of thousands of tribal Africans.

Dr. Greenfield was nominated to win the Nobel Prize for his efforts. In fact, he did win, but upon stepping up to the podium to make his acceptance speech, he made the mistake of mentioning where he'd gone to school as an undergraduate: UC Santa Cruz. Immediately after hearing this, the Nobel Commission stripped him of his prize, stabbed him in the throat while he was sleeping, and defecated on his corpse. Some of the excrement was then smeared on the wall of his bedroom to spell out, "DIE HIPPIE SCUM."

Pretty bleak, no? Let's move on to the more lighthearted tale of a student who graduated from a much more worthy UC.

Subject 2
Arthur Cumberland
UC Berkeley Graduate, 1981

Arthur Cumberland graduated from University of California, Berkeley in 1981 with a degree in Post-Modern Transcendental Garbage Collection. He had a 2.8 GPA. Immediately after graduating, he walked out onto a street corner wearing a sign announcing his status as a UC Berkeley graduate. Within 10 minutes, a limo pulled up and the rich executives within offered him a job. He was hired on as CEO of Monopocorp, the international automobile, washing machine, and pizza paddle manufacturing conglomerate, earning 200 million dollars a year, and holding over 3 billion dollars worth of stock options.

While on one of his many personal "executive oversight" expeditions to one of his factories in Sri Lanka, he was video taped by undercover journalists as he jabbed child laborers with heated fire pokers, and also as he slept with four thirteen year old Sri Lankan prostitutes simultaneously.

He was arrested upon his return to the United States, but after mentioning to the judge and jury that he graduated from a non-Santa Cruz UC, he was immediately exonerated of his crimes and given a thirty-three million dollar raise by the Monopocorp board of directors. Retired at the age of 27, Cumberland now lives in a giant mansion that he calls "The Fun House," located next door to his local elementary school.

As can clearly be seen, the lives of these two individuals varied greatly, and what did it all boil down to? The college they went to, of course. Actually, not just the school they went to, but the specific UC they went to. Make the right choice, children. And if you do wind up here at UCSC, pork chop sandwiches! Get the fuck out!

Interview With a Daltonius, Part Deux

2006-05-02T16:03:00.000-07:00

Ladies and gentlemen, the long awaited moment has come and gone, and now I eagerly impart my second experience with the man-beast Daltonius upon all who are willing to hear. For those of you with weak constitutions, I suggest you turn back immediately, for the sordid tale of which you are about to be told may very well liquefy your insides and cause you to expel them in a bout of explosive diarrhea.

After a long drive into the most desolate regions of the appropriately named Death Valley, where summer temperatures commonly exceed well over 100 degrees Fahrenheit, I arrive at the EPA's specially designed Ultra-Contaminant Sanitary Disposal facility. This compound, which currently holds over a million tons of depleted uranium, decommissioned chemical, biological, and nuclear weapons, and other miscellaneous hazardous wastes, also houses the creature Daltonius, who until his relocation hounded the people of Fresno, California with the rarest of degenerative chronic health issues, merely via his own proximity to the citizenry.

I approach the main gate and flash my ID to the guard. He clears me and waves me through, pointing me to the Director's office. A few moments later I'm standing in front of his desk. He has the look of a man who's seen everything in the realm of environmental catastrophe that there is to see.

"Please, have a seat," he says gravely. I do. "So, you're here to see Daltonius?" The simple question comes off as more of a statement of foreboding than anything else. I indicate that I am in fact here to see the beast. "Well, we have a few things you'll need to sign, and there're also some health related questions I'll have to ask you before we can proceed." He begins to read down a list in front of him. "Do you or does anyone in your family have a history of susceptibility to skin cancer?

"No."

"Do you suffer from chronic low sperm count, possibly as a result of exposure to small doses of radiation?"

"No."

"Do you or does anyone in your family have a history of hypersensitivity or allergies related to exposure to trace amounts of the following chemicals..."

He begins to list off a number of rather frightening sounding substances, among the more recognizable ones are arsenic, mercury, and cat dander.

"I am fairly allergic to cats, sir."

"Okay, well, you'll have a full body hazmat suit on with compressed air circulation so you should be fine. The thing is he... he likes to wear cats." There is an awkward pause in the conversation. "Last question. Do you or does anyone in your family have a history of heart issues, especially those related to cardiac arrest suffered through exposure to the shockingly perverse and unholy?"

"Um... no. I guess... no."

"Alright, just sign these waivers and your ready to go." He tells me this solemnly, like a doctor informing a patient that he's got a month to live. I sign, and then I'm directed to a locker room where a lab technician helps me into my hazard suit.

"So you're here for Daltonius," he says to me, "I have to feed him from time to time. Everyone here takes turns. I... I puked all over the inside my suit the first time I saw him. I... oh God... Christ, just go." He points me through a door, then sits down on a bench and begins crying softly to himself.

I wind up outdoors again, and a guard escorts me to the holding pen, a square block of 20 foot high electric fencing, stretching about a quarter mile in length and width. At each corner is a guard tower, where I can see men vigilantly training high powered rifles towards the inside. There's actually a second layer of fense behind the outermost one, and between these two layers is a mote which the guard tells me is 15 feet wide and 10 feet deep. "Daltonius might enjoy being electrocuted as he tries to climb the fences, but he can't swim for shit," he explains, "Besides, clean water makes him convulse, like this:" The guard leans forward slightly, cups his mouth into a perfect circle, and begins shaking uncontrollably while uttering "Oh! Oh!" many times over and over again.

He finishes his impression and straightens up, getting serious. "Okay, so once you're in there, you're on your own. He's scheduled to be fed in about 15 minutes, so another guard should be around shortly. Not my turn today, thank God. You'll probably be able to find Chi-mo over there under that big boulder,' he points to a large boulder lying close to the middle of the pen, a few hundred yards in the distance, "He likes to, um, play in there." The guard enters a code into a keypad by the huge main gate. An alarm wails and the doors begin to slowly slide open. "Good luck," he says, "and oh, whatever you do... don't ask him about his mother. Just some friendly advice."

I thank him and proceed through the doors, getting a taste of how elaborate a system of security they've got set up. The door closes behind me and the alarm shuts off, then a bridge begins to extend across the mote. I cross the bridge, and once safely to the other side, it retracts. Finally, the door in the second layer of fence opens, and I'm inside.

I scan my surroundings. The inside of the pen is much like the outside, just a cordoned off segment of a wide, level expanse of never-ending salt flats. The sun bears down upon me cruelly, turning the inside of my suit into a humid, sticky mess. Not even the slightest breeze flutters by to alleviate the temperature. The setting is eerily quiet and still, aside from the waves of heat that rise off the desert floor ahead of me, turning the distant boulder into a shapeless, wobbly mirage. Daltonius is nowhere to be seen.

I begin walking towards the big rock. As I do, I notice something else. Between me and boulder are the charred remains of what appear to have at one point been some sort of dwelling. As I approach the wreckage, the smell of burnt rubber, feces, and urine somehow permeates my suit and attacks my olfactory glands. I notice a note caught under a blackened wooden beam, and read it.

Memo to Live Subject #0001

Daltonius,

The administration at this facility has sought since square one to provide you with as humane a living situation as possible given the circumstances. However, since this is the third habitat in two months that you've managed to burn down with your own filth, we feel disinclined to build you a new one.

Regards,
The Director

P.S. You disgust me.

The note also has a number of crudely drawn phalluses scratched in the margins. I pocket it and trudge onward towards the boulder. There still is no sign of Daltonius, other than the destroyed house. I arrive at the rock and begin to circle it. I can feel myself getting closer, not just in my gut but in my nose. The odor, which hasn't receded since I reached the wreckage, is becoming overpowering. The other side yields a dugout area of sand which provides a kind of shelter beneath the boulder, about ten feet in diameter. This is where I make contact once again with the truly and utterly depraved soul that is the creature Daltonius.

As I round the corner, I see him sitting there, on a pile of his own excrement, gnawing on what appears to have been a squirrel. He looks up at me slowly. A large grin slides across his face, and he bolts up alarmingly fast, spreading his arms like he was being crucified. Holding his arms out stiffly, but letting his hands flap about loosely, he comes loping towards me, giggling insanely. "HEHEHEHE! GIGGLES!" he shouts in a freakishly high voice. He stops abruptly in front of me and spins his upper torso around, slapping me in the face with one of his flailing hands, then knees me in the groin. I crumble to the ground and double up into a fetal position as excruciating pain roars through me.

"HAHA, OWNED!" he says. The next thing I know, he's squatting over me with his bare ass directly above my head. "What the hell are you doing?!" I manage to say.

"HEHEHE, just marking my territory!" he says in that new and unexpected high pitched voice of his. I fumble through one of the suit's pockets frantically. My hands wrap around the small metal cylinder. I spin around on the ground as best I can and attempt to spray the mace into Daltonius' decrepit little mug. His ass is in the way.

"OH GOD, IT BURNS!" he screams, clawing at his pepper spray riddled hindquarters. He begins hopping around frantically while I patiently wait for him to calm down. While he screams and writhes in well-deserved agony, I observe his abode.

Allow me to describe his living situation, again. It really is pretty Spartan to say the least, but even the Spartans probably had a sense for sanitation. The sand actually swoops deep beneath the rock, making for a small cave with a surprisingly high roof. I first take note of where he sleeps. He has made a mattress of sorts out of what appears to be a pile of dead and rotting desert creatures. These include jack rabbits, birds, chipmunks, and snakes, all decomposing together in a symphony of fly and maggot infested degeneracy. "Every one of the little fuckers dies when I look at them," he says proudly. "Go figure."

Then there's his computer, which he at one point used to pollute cyberspace much the same way he does the natural environment. The last time I was with him, I had to give him credit, as he actually had a real computer, with internet access, nonetheless. Now, thanks to an advanced state of dementia, he has upgraded to a disgusting, moldy old pizza box from Domino's with a face drawn on it where the screen is supposed to be. He does still have a legitimate mouse however, and he's jammed its USB connector into the side of the box, which seems logical in a deranged kind of way. Much like in my previous interview, the "laptop" is placed upon a desk made entirely out of petrified crap, with a matching chair. "When I eat sand, it comes out that way," he says to me.

Speaking of crap, it’s everywhere. He seems to have developed to a point where he'll actually deficate in a designated area, however this means little since he appears to have about nine or ten "designated areas" located throughout his hole. It even looks like he's molded some of his stool deposites into topiaries in the likeness of giraffes and giant phalluses and such. One of them looks like a young school boy. "That's my favorite," he says to me with relish.

By this point the effect of the spray has just about worn off. "So, are you ready to answer some questions?" I ask him. He sits down at his shit-spawned desk and chair and begins rolling the mouse around, staring at the "screen."

"Yeah sure, whatever." With the bloodlust receding, his voice has returned to normal.

Olivonius: So, Daltonius, what do you think of your relocation?

Daltonius: It's fucking sweet. I'm so glad I transferred.

O: You "transferred?"

I was surprised at his choice of words.

D: Oh yeah, that septic tank was totally beneath me. I needed a place where I had room to practice my art.

O: Your art? Are you referring to these sculpted piles of feces?

D: Yeah. In the septic tank, I didn't have enough room, so I just had to shit on the ground and leave it there. Now I can make semi-lifelike statues out of it. It's really a passion of mine. Go suck a cock by the way.

O: Does it ever get lonely way out here?

D: No, there's my animal friends for one thing.

He points to the rotting pile of dead fauna.

D: And then there's the people who come to feed me. Here comes food right now.

A guard enters the cave, with one hand on his holster and the other one on a tray holding curly fries and a can of Pepsi. He's pretty big and looks like he won't take too much shit. He places the food in front Daltonius and then backs off, standing attention a few feet away. "I have to watch him and make sure he actually eats it..." he mutters to me. He notices my confused look and says, "...through his mouth. Don't ask." Daltonius grabs a curly fry off the tray and offers it to me. Or rather, he tells me to take it.

D: Food up, bitch.

O: I'd rather not.

D: O-M-F-G. God, whatever. More for me then.

He rapidly begins to stuff himself. In mid chew his face contorts into a look of disgust.

D: Oh my God, what is this? This is garbage!

He looks up at the guard.

D: What the fuck are you people trying to do, poison me? Christ!

The guard stares back at him, unflinching. Daltonius extends a hand towards him and begins snapping irritably.

D: *snap snap* Hey asshole! *snap* This stuff tastes like shit.

The guard returns a level, inexpressive gaze.

D: Fine, you know what? You know what?

He picks up the tray and throws it out the exit like a frisbee. Food splatters everywhere; it's still far from the most disgusting thing coating the walls however.

D: Get me a new one. Refill, now.

The guard doesn't budge.

D: Hey asshole, did you hear what I said? Refill, now!

He approaches the guard and gets right up in his face.

D: I said refill, bitch!

He slaps the guard soap opera style, then squeals in fright and runs to the opposite end of the cave, where he curls up into a cringing little ball.

D: Oh God, please don't hurt me!

The guard slowly begins to walk towards Daltonius. He takes his time. Daltonius continues to cower like a little pussy. I look on much like one who has just realized he is fractions of a second away from witnessing a horrific car crash, feeling that certain rush of adrenaline, terror, and anticipation.

D: No! Stop, no! Jesus!

The guard quietly and procedurally delivers a boot directly into Daltonius' gut, as though he's done this a thousand times before. He stops for a moment, looks over at me, and says, "I think this interview is over."

"I agree," I say, and turn to leave. I realize as I do that I didn't really get much out of this interview. Nonetheless, as the sounds of Daltonius getting the living shit beaten out of him recede into the distance, I feel strangely more satisfied than I've ever felt before in my life.

STRANGER DANGER!!!!11

2006-04-23T16:16:00.000-07:00

During spring break, I went down to San Diego with some friends. It was a great trip, with one interesting little hiccup that many parents with young children might want to consider.

It was my last day down there, and I was having dinner with some buddies at a T.G.I. Friday's before I left for the airport. The meal was winding down, and I had to take a leak, so I got up and walked over to the men's room. There was a woman standing outside the restroom, probably in her mid thirties or so. She stopped me as I was about enter and asked if I could see if there was a kid named "Andy" in there, presumably her son.

I was about to say "sure," but hesitated a moment as I considered exactly how that might appear from the perspective of the kid or even a random bystander. Imagine it: you're an eight year old in a public restroom, using the urinal, when some scruffy looking guy who's a few feet taller than you walks up and starts talking to you. All I know is that when I was a kid, my mom made sure I was extremely paranoid of people I didn't know in public places, and this woman looks like she could easily have done the same with her kids.

Still, I couldn't bring myself to just flat out tell this lady I wouldn't help her with something so simple, so I said "okay" and went inside. When I entered, I found that there was only one other person in the bathroom, and lo and behold, it's a kid. He was washing his hands at the sink. I went up to him and simply asked, "Hey, are you Andy?"

He turns and gapes at me with this look of absolute terror on his face, eyes buldging out of his head. Great, I think to myself.

"Um, you're mom's out-" Before I can finish this sentence, the little guy has dashed past me and out the door as fast as his legs can carry him. Goddammit, how did I know this was going to happen? I proceed to the unrinal and begin to do my business. As I do, I imagine the whole restaurant staff waiting outside for the pedophile that tried to take advantage of little Andy. Yes, waiting with their rolling pins and spatulas and dinner menus so they can beat me unconsious till the police show up to take me downtown.

Well, as I'm letting it flow, I see the door to the bathroom open slightly. Another kid, who looks a lot like Andy except maybe two years older, (so I'm assuming he's his brother) peers in at me. This snot-nosed little smirk crosses his face and then he leaves.

When I got outside, the mom and the two kids had dissappeared, and I was still wondering what the hell had just happened. From what I could deduce, Andy ran out of the bathroom in a state of terror, whimpering about a strange man who tried to talk to him, and this inspired the brother to go in and look. Why the hell would anyone do that? Did the older kid see it as a potential opportunity to be molested in the men's room at T.G.I Friday's and just had spring for it?

THIS RUINED MY WHOLE TRIP!!! Naw, jay kay. However...

Parents: If you're going to make your kids into jittery little roaches when it comes to "strangers," then don't send "strangers" into the bathroom to find them for you. That's common sense.

Oh, and to that lady specifically: I don't know what that other kid's shit-eating little smirk was all about, but it definately indicated one thing very clearly: he needs to be smacked. Thank you.

Happy 4/20 to Glaucoma Patients Everywhere

2006-04-20T10:55:00.000-07:00

If you smoke pot illegally, I officially don't care.

However, if you have ever obtained a medicinal marajuana liscence for frivolous reasons, you are a malingering leach on the teat of society. I'm not saying this because I'm against the use of marajuana for medicinal purposes. In fact, I support it. The reason I'm saying this is because those who obtain medical liscences under false pretenses are essentially cheating people who actually need them.

Whenever some right-wing bible thumping senator gets up and supports outlawing medicinal pot, he's using these fakers to make his argument. It's no myth that they exist, and based on my own personal experience, the last thing many of them need is easy access to drugs.

My former roommate for example, whom I was forced to live with as a freshman, got a medicinal liscence last year. According to him, he told his psychiatrist that he'd "been stressed" and was "having trouble sleeping." I really hope it isn't this easy to bullshit your way to a prescription. I'd like to think he forged documents, perhaps stating that he had early glaucoma or something, just so I can feel like the psychiatric community is a little more credible. The irony of course, is that he only had trouble sleeping when he was high on cocaine or chrystal meth, and I refuse to believe he was ever stressed, because drugs were pretty much the only thing he cared about.

I also know of individuals who turn around and sell their medical weed at considerable mark-ups. Why do I feel like the only person who thinks this is wrong? Maybe it's because I'm at UC Santa Cruz, or maybe it's just because I'm an uptight douche bag.

Well, to all you hedonistic drug addicts out there who use medicinal marajuana for non-medicinal purposes: excuse me if my moral barometer offends you, but I think you're all full of shit. And you probably think I should chill out. Perhaps, but it's hard for me to take what you're saying seriously since that's your solution to everything. "Chill out."

"Jesus! I just sliced my jugular vein open! Call an ambulance!"

"Chill out, man. Toke the smoke."

Go to hell.

HAPPY 4/20!!!!

Bill O'Reilly is an Ass Clown

2006-04-14T11:09:00.000-07:00

Mr. Bill O'Reilly is now officially on my list. I've never been a big fan, but now he's gone and voiced an opinion that makes it somewhat personal.

A couple days ago, yet another rally was held to "kick military recruiters out of UCSC." This was done on the grounds that the military, which maintains policies like "don't ask, don't tell," is a discriminatory organization that is violating UC Santa Cruz' antidiscriminatory clauses. The rally was, at least in the eyes of the protesters, a success. They managed to forcefully run the recruiters off of campus.

Yesterday, Bill O'Reilly's show ran a segment on the protest. The main issue being
discussed was the 80 million dollars provided by the Solomon Act, a provision that grants the UCs federal funding under the condition that military recruiters are allowed on campus.

There were two guests on the show. The first was some rich republican asshole who'd written a letter to Rumsfeld suggesting he withhold the money. The second was a UCSC senior who works as editor for a major campus newspaper.

Basically, the segment ended with O'Reilly interupting the student, pointing his big meaty finger at the screen scoldingly, and announcing that he hoped Santa Cruz loses it's 80 million dollars in funding.

Oh Billy. This is what happens when political extremists meet. The people in the middle are overlooked. I'm sure Mr. O'Reilly is of the opinion that everyone at this school is a left-wing commie who wants to see the president burn at the steak and believes the military is inherently evil. Therefore, we all deserve to lose that 80 mil. Well, Bill, while you won't see me praising Bush, or shouting "Semper Fidelis" and doing pushups, I wasn't at that stupid rally and I don't agree with what those jackasses were preaching or doing. We're not being forced to join, and obviously their presence is not a breach of policy since we rely on 80 million dollars worth of federal funding granted to us assuming we let them have access to students. Most importantly, I believe that people at this school are generally smart enough to understand the nature of the military, and decide for themselves whether they want to join or not. We don't need our right to make that choice hindered by a bunch of hippies who think that deoderant and humanity are sins.

For the record, I have no problem with the idea of protesting. They can picket and shout all they want. However, when you block enterances and forcefully eject people who have the right to be here, I start having issues. Hey, how about I start a rally to block people's access to your rally? Maybe I'll hook a fart machine to a giant amp and blast it over your incessent chanting the next time you guys get together. That way, nobody will be able to hear your opinion, just like you make sure nobody can talk to a recruiter. If you think it's your right, then it must be mine.

Speaking of fart machines, back to good ol' Bill O'Reilly. Mr. O'Reilly should quit lumping large groups of people (in this case the whole Santa Cruz student body) into one category and judging them accordingly. I know it's a lot to ask of Mr. O'Reilly, after all, his show revolves around that entire principle, which can basically be summed up as:

Republicans= GOOD. Democrats= BAD.

Now, I know a lot of people at this school are guilty of doing the same thing, though they usually swap the positions of the words "good" and "bad." However, I'm not one of them, nor are plenty of other fellow students I know. So screw you, Bill O'Reilly. You have even less credibility now then I granted you before.

Return to Castle Daltonstein

2006-04-11T23:33:00.000-07:00

I have recently been commissioned by the Environmental Protection Agency to attempt another interview with Daltonius. The EPA hopes the information provided by the interview will aid them at an upcoming senate hearing where they intend to discuss new environmental threats to humans and Californian wild life.

The last time I saw Daltonius, he was living in a disused septic tank at an abandoned fairground in Fresno. Since then, the EPA had relocated him to an especially desolate corner of Death Valley, as children in the Fresno area were being born with rare health conditions and unusual numbers of fingers and toes. They were also waking up in the middle of the night, screaming to their parents that they had seen "The Dalt" peering in at them from outside their windows with that shit eating grin of his.

The agent in charge of the relocation effort that moved him into the desert, which was code-named "Operation Chi-Mo Exodus," had this to say about his encounter with Daltonius:

"We showed up fully garbed in radiation suits, breathing compressed air as we usually do. When we entered the septic tank... oh God... well, this is what they pay us for I guess... the situation had clearly become worse since we were last there. I couldn't see him at first... his own excrement coated the floor quite thoroughly, and he appeared to have made angels in it. And the smell... Jesus Christ the smell.... It was like what you'd get if you ate your own shit and then shat it out, and then that shit came to life and ate more shit and shat that out too.

"We found him in a darkened corner, half laughing half crying, partially submerged in his feces... He was cradeling that pink lawn flamingo he was always fooling around with, except he was nawing on it's plastic head and muttering in tounges about how it's flesh would soon become his own.

"When we told him why we were there, what we were doing... he didn't seem to even acknowledge our presence at first. He just stared into space, locked in a half-catatonic trance. We resolved to remove him physically, but the moment we touched him he sprang from his catatonic state, bouncing around the room like some horrible hob gobblin, shouting "YOSHI" in a high pitched squeal and rapidly flipping his toungue in and out of his mouth while throwing his crap at us. The tranqs proved effective before anyone was seriously hurt."

"We locked him up in the back of the van and began the drive into the desert. When he eventually came to, we offered him some food and drink from the cab. He rapidly devoured his food, and drank his water. He then proceeded to ejaculate into the empty cup, hold it up proudly, and ask, 'Refills, anyone?' When nobody responded he simply slumped over in his compartment with a sulky look on his face, and downed it himself a moment later.

"When we finally arrived at our destination, passing the 15 foot electric fences and security check points, we drove into the middle of the holding compound. The moment we opened the back of the van, he jumped out excitedly like a dog who's just been released into the park after a long car ride. 'Wheeeee!' he yelled jovially. He immediately began digging in the sand, chasing prarie dogs, and marking his territory.

"The team snuck back into the van while he was distracted. He noticed we were leaving without him the moment we started the engine. As we pulled away, he managed to latch on to the rear bumper and get dragged along the dirt. I had to climb into the back of the van while we were moving, open the door, and smack him with a broom handle until he fell off. The entire time he was yelling "Shit fuck Nascar 'taters!" over and over again in rapid succession. That was the last I ever saw of him."

Well, with that lovely account, I can clearly see Daltonius has further spiraled downward into his neverending oblivion. I can hardly wait to talk to him. I will provide a full transcript of the interview after it is completed.

I'm So Whitewashed that I'm Actually White

2006-03-18T22:36:00.000-08:00

A friend and fellow blogger brought a new student run news paper to my attention. The publication is TWANAS, standing for the Third World and Native American Students Press Collective. The paper has been brought back to life after it died in the 80's, and in its present incarnation it seems to have expanded from it's focus on Native Americans to any race that isn't white. As one would expect, it contains the typical revolutionary diatribe that can be found in many of the papers around here, focusing on all the terrible and virtually nonexistant injustices you see students of color facing every day here at UCSC.

One of my favorite quotes from this publication, which was originally discussed in my friend's blog (http://evan.branigans.net/), reads as follows:

"For those students of color (SOC) who do not identify as such, you are either ignorant, "whitewashed," or unaware that you are a part of a struggle."

This quote baffles me in many ways, especially as it applies to me. I happen to be partly pacific islander (Guam, specifically), which explains why my last name is Perez. I look completely white. When I was born, my grandfather, who's 100% chamorro (as the people of Guam are called), jokingly (JOKINGLY AS IN A JOKE) displayed me as proof to his caucasian wife's family that "he was white too." My brother, on the other hand, is brown. You don't have to be Watson and Crick to know that I had the same genetic chances of being dark skinned, just as he had the same chances of being white.

In spite of this difference between my brother and myself, Benny feels equally as disenfranchised and cheated by society as I do, which is very little. In fact, he makes fun of me for being white, but that really has nothing to do with skin color and everything to do with him being an indiscriminant jackass.

So what do you say, TWANAS? Is Ben a part of the struggle while I'm not? We're from the same household, the same family, and we went to the same public schools. We both even managed to get into college. So TWANAS? TWANAS, are you listening? Good. Suck my hybrid dick.

The UC's Administration is Overrun with Soulless Bureaucrats

2006-03-08T22:49:00.001-08:00

During my first night back at college, my friend threw a big party in his on-campus apartment. I know this is unheard of, but this party happened to include booze! Inevitably, a pair of RAs showed up, and all thirty odd guests took less than 15 seconds to disappear in a drunken stampede. The RAs needed to talk to whoever lived there, and Luis, the host I mentioned, pretty much had to turn himself in to them. I decided I should "Do the Right Thing" and be the only person to stay behind and take the fall with him. And no, I wasn't drunk, so I have no other excuse for why I decided to do that.

Still, I figured, "One write up? Big deal. Means nothing." After all, I knew people with two write ups who suffered virtually no consequences. Well, for some mysterious reason, that turned out to be different for me. I was sentenced to attend a "Decision Making Workshop" regarding "ethics." This is fairly ironic, considering how I voluntarily gave myself up to the authorities on my buddy's behalf. I guess I needed to be taught not to be so stupid as to help a friend when he's got to bite the bullet.

Put shortly, I completely forgot to sign up for this stupid class. I was reminded yesterday, when I attempted to enroll in courses for next quarter. An "academic hold" had been placed on my enrollment, meaning I couldn't enroll until I'd attended the workshop. Oops. So I go online to sign up for the next available one, which is on May 4th. This is well after the enrollment deadline. It seemed that I wouldn't be able to sign up for class. So I was directed to contact one of the people in Residential Life who are in charge of disciplining little blights on society such as myself.

My conversation with this guy was akin to banging my head against a brick wall, except this particular wall was made of red tape and inhuman bureaucracy.
Let me present a transcript of my conversation with the guy, as close as I can remember it:

Soulless Bureaucrat: Student #1002109, please present query.

Olivonius: Uh, hi. I've got this hold on my academic enrollment for next quarter. I needed to attend this Decision Making Workshop and I totally forgot. I'm signed up for the next one available, which is in May, but I kinda need to sign up for classes in the meantime, so...

SB: Does not compute. Student #1002109 has failed to comply with Judiciary Sanction Code C-23. Student #1002109 must fulfill the terms of the sanction before he may proceed to enroll.

O: Uh, yeah, but I can't wait till May, I need to, you know, go to school.

SB: Does not compute. Student #1002109 has failed to comply with Judiciary Sanction Code C-23. Student #1002109 must fulfill the terms of the sanction before subject may proceed to enroll.

O: I, um...

SB: Please present query.

O: Look, I've been very busy this quarter. I'm taking extra credits, I'm involved in the student senate and PRAXIS, I'm in a number of different ensembles down at the music center. Plus my mom is fighting breast cancer (yes this is completely true) and in the midst of this I just... forgot. There's got to be some wa-

SB: Does not compute. Student #1002109 has failed to comply with Judiciary Sanction Code C-23. Student #1002109 must fulfill the terms of the sanction before subject may proceed to enroll. Student has shown massive levels of FATAL HUMAN FLAW B-32: IRRESPONISIBILITY. ABORT, RETRY, FAIL?

O: You're not going to let me enroll in class next quarter are you?

B: Negative. Plus I think your mom is a bitch and I hope she dies.

No dice. It all came down to me being "irresponsible." Apparently, "irresponsible" describes a person who has a respectable 3.7 GPA, has taken extra credits every quarter since fall of freshman year, plays in numerous music ensembles, gets involved in community service and student government, has only one write up, has never thrown up or passed out by means of a substance once, and who's worst offense is whining in an internet blog. No, this man was an impregnable fortress of by-the-book steely compassionless resolve. Apparently he was a robot too.

So I asked him what I should do. I can't just miss a quarter of college. His answer:

Soulless Bearcat: Unknown

Olivonius: You don't know?

SB: Unknown. Please contact University Employee 4-R2: Academic Advisor.

O: You can't-

SB: Fuck! Look, beat cheeks kid, my lunch break starts in 15 minutes. *click*

I have a few things to say to everyone involved in slapping me with this "academic hold," with the possible exception of the RAs who showed up that fateful night. First of all, fuck you. You're all a bunch of soulless, insensitive bureaucratic red-tape dispensing robots who masturbate while pointlessly rearranging your pens and office knickknacks as you wait for your lunch breaks. Guess what, assholes? There are a lot of people who live here that really do cause problems, and could use a lesson in "ethics." I had to live with one of them all throughout last year. The fact that you can't see that I'm not part of the problem only shows that you're a bunch of lazy twits who brainlessly assign punishments based on the quota you need to meet, and not the individual case of the perpetrator.

Why don't you step back and look at some of the better points of America's legal system, which you so ridiculously try to emulate? When a man is accused of murder, he's in a lot trouble. A lot more than me. But even in a state like California, where the death penalty is legal, the killer doesn't necessarily wind up on death row. That's because the nature of the offense is taken into consideration during sentencing. If the man brutally stabbed his children because they wouldn't get out of the way of the TV, he'll probably wind up facing capital punishment. If the man killed another man in a drunken bar fight, that would be another story.

Would it be too much to simply look at my record and see that I'm far from worthy of this "academic hold?" Would it be too much to show a little compassion? Of course it would be too much! Anything that involves something more than getting out of your chair to start your fucking lunch break is too much for you lot of slothful subhuman pencil-pushing cock-sucking bottom-feeding bantha-poodoo uberdouche commienazi child-molesting dog-eating cum rags who leave foot long skid marks in your underwear every fucking time so I'm not doing your laundry anymore. Look what you've done! You've got me all riled up.

Santa Cruz's One Diversity Issue

2006-03-02T11:51:00.000-08:00

There are a lot of things I like about UC Santa Cruz. We're getting a solid UC quality education, the faculty actually cares about undergraduates, it's a beautiful campus, etc. etc. Also, for the most part, the school boasts an extremely zealous commitment to accepting every kind of person imaginable. But in regards to this respect for diversity, UCSC falls short in one way, a way that seems to go unnoticed by a lot of people. And this is where my critisizm begins.

It's great that people of all races, creeds, genders, ages, sexual orientations, and financial backgrounds are accepted here, but unfortunately, I can't say that's true for people with certain political beliefs.

In fact, I've viewed animosity towards people with rightward leanings on a disturbing scale. Even as a moderate, I've gotten looks for not baring the same foaming-at-the-mouth-liberal view points that are so very popular here. It's disgusting. Have a personal anecdote or two.

Anecdote #1
I'm seeing this girl at the beginning of my Freshman year. To put it bluntly, she's the epitome of the idiot political extremist and the stereotypical uber-left product of Berkeley, California. We were together right around the '04 presidential election and of course the subject was brought up in conversation. To say the very least, she did not like George Bush, and anybody who did was, as she so eloquently put it, a complete moron. I think she would have murdered the man in his sleep had she the chance, I kid you not. Kerry, on the other hand, was God's gift to mankind.

All I said in response to this was that I did not appreciate some of the decisions Bush's administration had made and that I was probably going to vote for Kerry, not because I really liked the guy, but because he was a better alternative than another four years of W. I also mentioned that there were a few things I thought Bush's administration had done right.

This of course, threw her into a frenzy. She was "very dissapointed in me" for not vehemently hating a man I only knew through sound bites and not wanting to stab him while he slumbered. I'm sure her perception of my intelligence was sullied as well, because only morons don't want to kill the president.

I wasn't with her when Kerry anounced his concession, but according to her, when it happened she began crying and flailing about hysterically, knocking a lamp off her desk and breaking her laptop's keyboard. When she told me about this, she wasn't embarassed, she was proud: that just proved how much she cared about politics. WOW!!!!

You know, thinking back on it, I don't think I had much in common with this girl. In fact, I kinda hope something eliminates her from the gene pool before she manages to reproduce, which apparently, she was very keen on doing. Great!

Anecdote #2

This particular story actually involves that mysterious portal to the world of public transportaion, the bus stop. The bus stops on our campus typically have a place where people can stick up posters regarding events on campus.

So I'm waiting for the bus, and waiting with me are a guy and two fairly attractive girls. I don't know any of them. A car pulls up to the curb with four guys inside. One of them gets out with a flier and staples it to the poster board. It's an advertisement for a meeting of the college republicans. Woo-hoo!!!

The guy gets back into the car and they pull away. Once the car is safely out of view, that other guy who was waiting at the bus stop walks up to the fresh poster. "You know what? No," he says to anybody who can hear him. He rips it down, crumples it up like the true revolutionary that he is, and tosses it in the garbage. He then turns to the two girls, who look a little shocked, and announces haughtily, "Who here at this school is a republican anyway?"

You fucking douche bag. You cock-sucking toady. You malignent, festering little cold sore on the face of humanity. "Who here at this school is a republican?" How about those four guys in the car, you insipient sack of festering cat shit? You flake of badly digested tofu clinging desperately to the hair of Satan's flaming ass-crack.

Gee, maybe I'm over-reacting here, but just look at this idiot. He's obviously liberal, which means he probably believes in freedom of speech, while firmly believing that conservatives don't, which is also bullshit. Well, I don't consider my speech free when I see a poster put up in a public place only to be torn down by somebody because he doesn't agree with what it represents.

I'm almost as ashamed of myself as I am of that guy for not saying anything to him. The holocaust happened because pussies like me stood idly by while arrogant morons like that stupid twit did whatever they wanted.

Anecdote #3

This one also involves bus stop posters, though it isn't so much about a lack of political acceptance here at UC Santa Cruz. It's more of a testament to the incredible level of extreme thinking that occurs here, followed by the inevitable hypocracy that comes as a result.

Right, so I see two posters at the bus stop, both of them assuredly put up by the same crowd of self proclaimed revolutionaries, freedom fighters, and Che Gueverra Tee Shirt Wearers.

The first one says "Kick Military Recruiters Out of UCSC." Fine, whatever, I personally don't care if they come here or not, so long as their absense doesn't effect funding for the school. They're not forcing me to do anything if they show up either.

The second poster, juxtaposed directly beneath the first, reads, "Fabio Martinez, Militant Revolutionary Speaker, appearing at yadayada auditorium on campus, blah blah blah."

If Hyprocraties was still alive and earning royalties on every hypocracy that is born on this campus, he'd make Donald Trump look like a pauper. Oh, the military is certainly militant, but they're not revolutionary. I guess that's what makes it okay to be a militant revolutionary.

These people say war isn't the answer. I agree in most cases. Yet they snap their hipster fingers to these "militant" revolutionaries. What's the difference? Both groups believe busting heads will solve the world's problems.

Regarding Dick

2006-02-23T11:34:00.000-08:00

Based on the above title, the reader might make three different assumptions regarding the topic of the following post. The first assumption might predict that this post is some kind of eulogy towards the male genitalia. Wrong, sorry to disappoint you Daltonius. And speaking of Daltonius, the second assumption one might make would be that this post is about that very man himself, for he is, in fact, a dick. Sadly, you'd be incorrect here as well. For more information on that subject, see previous posts.

The third assumption, that this post relates to our esteemed Vice-President, Dick Cheney, would be correct. As anyone not living under a rock must know, Dick
accidentally ejaculated a spray of seed, I mean, birdseed, I mean, um, bird shot, all over his lawyer friend Harry Wittington while hunting for tail, er, I mean, quail, in the land of Texas. I've satisfied my potty mouth quota for the next month. Well, day.

Anyways, the press was whipped into a frenzy over this matter. Comics were making fun left and right (but mostly left I'm sure). It seemed as though people who needed something bad to say about Cheney had just been thrown a bone and jumped all over it.

I don't agree with this man's politics. I'm a moderate and Cheney's way to far right for my tastes. I disagree with the administration's invasion of Iraq and several of their positions on social issues. But for Christsakes, the man made a mistake! These things happen, and while he may deserve some form of punishment among the hunting community, I think he deserves a little slack otherwise. Any of the slobs making fun of him could just have easily made that mistake. Furthermore, aside from the fact that hunting requires a gun, THIS INCIDENT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH POLITICS!

The accident that happened in that field is more a private issue than anything, though I agree it was a serious one. Yes, Cheney's high profile, and it's gonna get reported on no matter what. I accept that and don't mind. But please, a little sympathy.

While I'm going at it, let me share with you the mentality of some of the people that are taking this thing too far. In a segment of a school newspaper, students were asked, "Should Cheney have his hunting license revoked for shooting his hunting buddy?"

Here's one of the responses: "Yeah for sure. It's too bad he didn't kill the guy so he'd be on trial for murder. I didn't know you even needed a shotgun to hunt quail."

I for one am saddened by the fact that I go to school with this guy. Maybe Dick does or doesn't deserve to lose his license, I don't know enough about hunting to present a valid argument one way or the other. But the idea that it's too bad Wittington didn't die so Cheney could go to prison is incredibly asinine. Wait, so you're saying that you want to see someone die just so Cheney can be put out of office?

One of the major reasons people at this school don't like the Bush Administration is the war in Iraq. I'm sure this person is no exception, and you know I'm not. So, basically, while I assume this student believes Cheney should be out of office for all the dying in Iraq, he simultaneously wishes death on an innocent at the hands of the Vice President. Well, I see no blatant hypocrisies and/or mental retardation there!

Oh, and it's a well known fact that shotguns are used to hunt birds. Thank you for further proving your ignorance.

The One True Conspiracy Theory

2006-02-21T18:12:00.000-08:00

Throughout time, humanity has searched for this ever elusive thing called "THE TRUTH," which comes in it's many diverse and mysterious forms. Some people seek a philosophical form of truth. They seek answers to such questions as, "Why are we here?" "Where are we going?" "What is Morality?" or, "Is there a God?"

Other individuals search for forms of truth that beg slightly different kinds of questions, questions like, "Who shot JFK?" "How do I join the Illuminati?" "What's hidden at Area 51?" "How can I keep government spy cameras out of my sock drawer?" "Is Batboy real?" "What is it about child molestation that Daltonius finds so amusing?"

These are questions that often require just as much convoluted thought and misguided mental energy to come up with as they do to answer. In fact, the answers to these questions are of such a unique nature that they've got their own special name. That's right folks, they're called conspiracy theories.

But where do conspiracy theories come from, you ask? Well, when a man and a woman love each other very much, but there's a whole bunch of overactive imagination and rampant paranoia involved, you can expect to find all kinds of little conspiracy theories running around the house sooner or later. For example, a rather famous conspiracy theory was born when JFK and Maralyn Monroe "loved each other" very much, then Monroe died under somewhat mysterious circumstances, and the rest is history.

Okay, enough of my bullshit. Look, there's only one true conspiracy theory in the universe and I happen to be the one who discovered it. Well, not really discovered. It's not like I conducted an intrepid investigation that spun me into a cyclone of government intrigue that lead "straight to the top." I think I thought of this when I was drunk. No matter. Not only is it the only true conspiracy theory, it also disproves all other conspiracy theories by it's own nature. Here it is:

Since the dawn of mankind, thousands of kings have been coronated and dethrowned, empires have risen and fallen, and governments have formed and disbanded.

Throughout all this shifting of power, only one constant has endured: A small yet incredibly powerful underground secret society known as the Conspiratorium. Don't blame me for the name, I didn't come up with it.

Now, at this point many of you are probably groaning and rolling your eyes. You're thinking, "Not another secret society of all-powerful men-in-black." Let me finish, jerk. This is different.

The Conspiratorium has, throughout all of known history, served one purpose, and that purpose involves the fabrication of every conspiracy ever known.

Let me back up. First of all, why does this secret society exist and serve this purpose? Well, one reason lies in the fact that leadership has on many frequent occasions been really shitty. Whenever citizens see their government screwing up, they need something to increase their confidence in said government. People don't want to think that their leaders are a bunch of blithering dumbasses, and those same leaders don't want their people to think they'd be pushovers if a revolution occured. So, if the government in question falls in favor of the Conspiratorium, this mysterious underground establishment kicks into gear and does what it does best: makes up a conspiracy and spreads it far and wide.

A good conspiracy leads to postulation left and right among the gentry regarding what dark and forboding things are going on in the "black government," that is, the government of incredibly secretive geniouses supposedly veiled by the mask of incompitence we see in our "publicized" leaders. A good conspiracy makes everyone think that while outwardly our leaders appear to be a bunch of bumbling bozos, one only has to look behind the curtain to find that there's something much deeper and more sophisticated going on, when in fact there isn't. Everything from flouride in our drinking water, to the assasination of JFK, to spy rockets in flight (afternoon delight), becomes proof that there is much more going on behind the scenes. In actuality, none of that's true, and the real conspiracy lies embedded in the fact that we've been tricked into considering the existence of any conspiracy at all. And most ironically, those who believe these conspiracies and think they have everything figured out are in fact among the most duped of individuals. While they may consider themselves enlightened with priviliged information, all they've actually done is rationalized an irrational fear of their government.

For those of you seeking the truth, here it is: pay no attention to the man behind the curtain, because there is none. There is, however, the Conspiratorium, feeding a rumor to a tabloid writer, or giving a lead to a reporter who needs a big story, and setting up a trail of flimsy yet compelling evidence all inevitably leading to some government official vehemently denying an alien landing at Roswell or a shot from the grassy knoll.

Daltonius' Mohammed Musings

2006-02-10T18:38:00.000-08:00

In his latest act of digital defecation, Daltonius has portrayed his insight regarding this whole fiasco over that dumb Mohammed cartoon. In his post, he enlightens us with this little gem: "I can type Fuck, shit, cock, balls, and cunt, just to name a few."

Congratulations Daltonius, you're a big boy now! Be sure to put that in your resume.

But in all seriousness, and you can clearly see that's what I'm all about, this whole issue is centered around belief. The Muslims who are partaking in all this rioting believe that it's a sin to portray the prophet Mohammed in any physical form to prevent idol warship. Okay, that's fine. Go ahead and be angry over what was done. I'm willing to consider the fact that if I were brought up Muslim, I'd be upset too, but as fate would have it, I wasn't.

Unfortunately, many of them also seem to believe that it's okay to go completely apeshit, destroying public property and endangering/ending lives over a cartoon. Well, since morality is purely objective, I believe this is wrong, and I don't care how you were brought up or what you were taught.

Perhaps someone might think that sounds closed minded. Let me emphasize that I respect their ability to believe what they're doing is right, in fact I respect their ability to believe anything. I respect their actual beliefs to such an extent that you won't see me trying to change them. This isn't just because I think it would be a somewhat abhorrent thing to do, but also because I think it would be impossible. But I also respect my own ability to think what they're doing is wrong. It's that simple: They think they're right, and I think they're wrong. So when property and lives are destroyed over a cartoon, I lose much of my sympathy for the people involved.

Interview with a Daltonius

2006-02-10T01:07:00.000-08:00

Recently, I had the unique opportunity to interview my arch nemessis , Daltonius, at his place of residence, which happens to be a disused septic tank with a T1 line in Fresno.

Allow me to describe his living situation. It's big for a septic tank, probably because it used to be the final resting place for all the excrement produced at the local fair grounds. Now it's been abandoned in a cow pasture and emptied... mostly. A colony of brightly colored mold with a Daltonius shaped imprint presents itself as where he must bed down for the night. A large mound of petrified clown-stool, juxtaposed next to a lump of hardened remains that once must have been funnel cake, serve as a desk and chair. A laptop is perched quaintly on top of the shit-desk. Surely, I think to myself, this is where the magic happens. There's not much to be seen in the way of decoration, save for a pink lawn flamingo which he appears to have stabbed through a corroded portion of the tank's floor.

When I arrive, donned appropriately in my Haz-Mat suit, I find him preoccupied.

Olivonius: Uh, hello Daltonius, thanks for having me today, what... exactly are you trying to do here?

Daltonius: Trying to catch flies between my butt cheeks. You know, like Mr. Miagi in The Karate Kid, remember?

O: Er, I don't think Mr. Miagi's fly trick involved his butt cheeks-

D: You know, Arthur, why don't you go suck a cock?

An awkward silence ensues while Daltonius stares at me unblinkingly, his petulant expression clearly one of a man who licks the walls of his "humble abode" for nutrients.

O: Arthur? Who's Arth-

D: SHUT UP! GOD! You're Arthur!

O: What? I...

D: Arthur, you know, that fucking anteater kid in the books we read in gradeschool. The one with the huge glasses that took up half his face. God, what a pussy. Always bitching about something. I'm calling you Arthur because you remind me of him.

O: I see. Mind if I ask you a few questions?

D: Fine, God, whatever. Shoot.

O: What do you do when you're not blogging it up? Everyone wants to know what Daltonius does in his free time.

D: I mostly read CNN and molest this plastic flamingo. If I'm feeling like living it up, I run a Google search for jokes about child molestation. Vans+Candy and Puppies=Hilarious!

O: Interesting. Has anyone ever-

D: Go suck a cock, by the way.

O: I believe we already covered that.

D: Whatever, I hate you. Freaking midget.

I observe at this point that Daltonius is three inches taller than me. I decide to resume the interview as though this rich exchange has never happened.

O: Has anyone ever told you you're the spitting image of Al Bundy, except with a worse attitude and covered in year old carnival feces?

D: Has anyone ever told you to go suck a cock?

O: As a matter of fact-

D: Go suck a cock.

I realize that I've come as far as I could ever have hoped, and decide to rap up the interview.

O: It's been a pleasure talking to you. Let's do this again real soon.

D: Fine. You're gay. Bye.

I turn to leave and step outside. Just before I step out of earshot, I hear him offering "free refills" to the plastic pink flamingo. I don't understand, but then again, I realize that I really don't want to.

Daltonius Contains the Most Wretched of Fecal Matter

2006-02-10T00:38:00.000-08:00

I find the opinions of fellow blogger Daltonius to be of a nature best described as shallow, pedantic, and facetious. Just look at his last two posts. Clearly, all he did was convert his own feces into a digital stream of zeros and ones, then cut and pasted it into his blog. I don't even want to talk about the other things he "converts" his feces into, suffice it to say, don't ever accept any of his "homemade fudge."

How can Daltonius rail on Hillary C. like that? Come on, man. She stayed with Bill even though he was getting extracurricular B.J's. You've gotta give her credit for that. I for one know that Daltonius is very jealous about that sort of thing.

Additionally, Daltonius has totally misinterpretted the nature of what he refers to as the "Military Protests" that were occuring on campus last Winter. I ask you, Daltonius... What kind of protest involves lesbians making out in public? A damn sexy one, that's what. But in all seriousness, if there's any reason why those recruiters keep coming back to UCSC, that's probably it: free live girl on girl action. Unfortunately, Daltonius cowers at the sight, sound, or touch of a female, so it's understandable that the "protests" would leave a chip on his shoulder.

PS: My name's not Arthur, Daltonius.