Pick of Destiny

Check out this clip from the upcoming Tenacious D movie:

http://www.amazon.com/Tenacious-D-Pick-Destiny/dp/B000IOM1RI/ref=pd_sxp_f_i/002-0069848-2918460

Fantasy Football

Well, turns out Friday the 13th meant bad luck, after all -- in fantasy football. I'm a combined 1-5 in my three leagues over the last two weeks. In the 'home' league, I'm 0-2 over the span; I've lost by a combined 4.05 points. In that league, I'm now 3-4 and a game from being out of the playoffs despite having -- by a large margin -- the most total points in the league. I've lost two games due to players getting injured or unexpectedly not playing. This week I singlehandedly destroyed Greg Jennings by starting him in two leagues.

The results: One catch, one point and, now, one ankle.

I hastily snapped his streak of four straight 8+ point weeks. You're welcome.

Why the fuck is my program taking twenty minutes to compile? Fuck Visual Studio.

No, I shouldn't say that. I'm just projecting. I'm sorry, Visual Studio. I can't stay mad at you.

p.s. I was up till 3:30 in the AM working last night. On fewer than five hours of sleep. It takes me back to mornings during middle school, when I had to wake up at 7 AM every day. Shudder. I'd wake up, take a shower, lay on the cold bathroom tile floor afterwards and think, literally, no hyperbole required, 'Why would God let this happen? Why can I be this tired?'

Friday the 13th

I just checked the date. Yep, it's Friday the 13th. In addition to this bad omen, I'm getting an unsettling vibe when I think about October 13th in general. It's kinda creepy.

Or maybe it's just a vibe about October in general. We have a history.

Skirling winds. Plummeting temperatures. Halloween. Ghosts.

...

I wrote the above earlier this morning. Now it's afternoon, and I'm starting to feel sick. Uh-oh.

John Stamos to Build Nuke, Too

One day after North Korea purportedly detonated its first nuclear weapon, which registered between 500-1000 tons on seismographs, John Stamos has reiterated that he will continue his own nuclear weapons program.

"We are determined to prove John Stamos is a forced to be reckoned with," said the actor/producer/broadway star, a veritable dreamy-eyed triple threat who will play a gay wedding planner for an upcoming A&E original film, Wedding Wars, this fall.

Stamos contends his scientists are nearing completion of the Stamos I. "Time is of the essence," said Stamos. "It's like following the fat kid in the Physical Fitness Test. Our Bomb will look much more impressive juxtaposed to North Korea's."

The blast in North Korea appears to have been weaker, by a magnitude of twenty-five to fifty, than the first tests conducted by the United States and other nuclear powers, leading some to question the succcess, and verity, of the nuclear explosion.

Experts say they would expect readings in the 5-15 kiloton range for a nuclear blast.

A representative from the newest member of the club, Pakistan, scoffed at Kim Jung Il's demonstration of power, saying, "Is that the best he can do? One-half kiloton? Maybe he simply passed gas."

Flatulence has yet to be officially recorded by a seismograph.

A government official of India, however, believes that "[i]f anyone could do it, it's Kim Jung Il. I mean look at the man. I bet he really lets them rip."

India, like Pakistan, became a nuclear power in 1998.

John Stamos is determined to be the next "real" member of the Nuke Fraternity. The former teen idol -- and present heartthrob -- has denied allegations he would use nuclear weapons as a bargaining chip to facilitate the production of new episodes of Full House on Fox.

"It would take a much larger threat than total annihilation," said Pakistan. "Plus, now that the Olsen twins are legal, it would make much more sense on Showtime."

"Or possibly HBO," India offered. "Those girls indeed are hot-hot-hot!"

After an a-la-la-la-la tongue-scream of agreement, Pakistan added, "Why is the one Olsen twin more attractive? I just don't get that."

"I know," agreed India. "It's like, what gives? I thought they were twins."

"Ashley can split my atom any day."

Amid rumors circulating that the Olsen twins are the mastermind scientists behind the John Stamos nuclear weapons program, the smooth-skinned hunk, a hunk of burning love, from Cypress, California, remained tight-lipped. "My scientists will not eat or sleep or star in movies until they are finished creating the nuclear device," Stamos said.

The United States has yet to threaten sanctions against John Stamos.

Russia and China, key veto-wielding members of the UN's Security Council, say they will stand behind the United States in the "Stamos Standoff". Russian defense minister Sergei Ivanov refuted reports that talks had commenced between Russia and the former General Hospital cast member.


"The Russian nation has no interest in John Stamos. We did not get that television show in the Mother Land," said Ivanov of the sitcom Full House, which catapulted Stamos (who played Uncle Jessie, guitarist and motorcycle enthusiast) to stardom in America. He added, "Though I have heard good things."

While the intentions of the 44-year-old Stamos remain unclear, one thing is certain: it seems unlikely he will ever have a hotter wife than ex-supermodel Rebecca Romijn.

The couple divorced in 2005.

Stamos refuses to negotiate with members of the Security Council, instead demanding bilateral talks with Ashton Kutcher, whose datelist of Hollywood Hotties includes Monet Mazur, Ashley Scott, Britney Murphy, and Demi Moore.

John Stamos currently resides in Los Angeles, California, where he kicks himself over and over and over again.

Ne-Yo -- Sexy Love

She makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up
Just one touch
And I errupt like a volcano and cover her with my love

Eww.

Superkitty

While taking scantily-clad photographs of myself, strictly to log my dieting progress, promise, I serendipitously captured my kitty in mid-takeoff. (Since this is a family site, except for the swearing and many, many references to masturbation, I have cropped the kitty, eschewing nudity. )

I wonder what prompted Georgia to flee the scene with alacritous urgency?

Look away; I'm hideous!

The Everlasting Gobstopper

From one of my favorite movies, Almost Famous:

Sweet? Where do you get off? Where do you get sweet? I am dark and mysterious, and I am pissed off! I could be very dangerous to all of you! And you should know that about me... I am the enemy!

The thing about introverts is we don't casually open up to people. Try cracking the shell on this guy. I dare you. Chomp down hard, baby, and I'll wave, grinning, as you rub that cheek of yours, nursing chipped teeth and hard feelings; I am an everlasting gobstopper. But don't take it personally. It's not that I don't try. Oh I've tried. But my ways of opening up are ninja-subtle, which, in hard times, can have its disadvantages.

I never claimed to be a smart introvert--just a talented one.

But it's all worth it if, in the end, it means the complete and utter avoidance of bared insecurity. It was a tough lesson, but a lesson learned nonetheless. Oh look at me, spouting nonsense again. Or am I? Who knows? Well, that's sort of the point.

You don't. You don't know the half of it. I don't care who you are, you don't know the half of it. Maybe a third here, or a quarter there--or some other fraction if it--but if you think you've gained enough inside four-one-one to know the half of it, think again. Actually, it's best not to think on it at all. Go about your lives and give it not another thought. This is not a cry for help.

Those days are over, for now.

Get me liquored up. Shoot my veins with sodium pentothal. Headlock me and dole out nuggies until my skull aches and your knuckles bleed. These methods do not hold the key to this man's vault (unless we're talking about one masterful nuggie giver). No, the vault is forever closed, and, if that pain inside is any indication, I might have mistakenly swallowed the key. So unless you're willing to miniaturize yourself and select a sincerely wise guise -- such as a honeycomb, or a pepperoni -- in order to enter my innards (specifically, my digestive tract) and find that key, count yourself amongst the countless others drifting through the dark fog in which I shroud my feelings.

It's a self-defense thing. Lesson learned, all that.

Not that what I think or feel matters much in the grand scheme of things. I've many negative characteristics--such as pessimism--but conceit is not one of them. Nor do I feel a sense of pride, or accomplishment, for possessing this hard-exterior/heart-of-gold persona; it's more or less what God made me, though relatively recent events in my life have only served to harden this mold He crafted.

Some of you, dear readership, may have an inkling into this madness I'm scribbling on about (if one can scribble on a word processor. Okay, call it e-scribbling). Honestly, I only started this post because I've vowed to keep this blog up-to-date and couldn't think of another topic. It's ironic, since this post doesn't really have a topic. If it does, no one will be able to figure it out. You might have your guesses, and your guesses might hold pieces of the answer. But only pieces. Not even half the pieces.

(Suddenly I'm craving Reese's Pieces. This damn diet will be the end of me.)

I am dark and mysterious. Well, okay: I'm pasty white and mysterious. Whatever. My extreme Caucasity hasn't got--here comes an obscure Mr. Show quote--"shit to do with dick". But anyway, I'm here. Writing this. I've written, including this, over two-thousand words tonight (about 1400 in fiction prose), which is a start, though sometimes it always seems to be the beginning of the end with me.

I am sleepy. I am mysterious.

I am Sasquatch.

I am going...going...gone.

A ten minute post

10:47 AM
I need a new book to read. In the meanwhile, I'm tackling some mysteries from an issue of Queen Ellery, which are so uninspiring that I'm once again starting to become excited about my potential as an author (this feeling ineluctably wanes after the first word or two of a writing session). Speaking of which, I've decided to start writing in at least two mandatory ten-minute sessions a day, the goal being to simply write without letting negativity -- i.e., the logic center of my brain -- get me down, without caring about grammar, shitty dialogue, fancy phrases, unnecessary metaphors, or mindnumbingly dumb plotlines. Last night I executed this plan to perfection. I wrote 170 some odd words in the first session. The second time, I actually wrote for the better part of an hour, which is a nice, anticipated side effect: the likelihood that I'll continue writing past the ten minute barrier. In total, I churned out a solid 1200 words of fiction. Yes, upon re-reading my work this morning I hastily vomited (it was either that or morning sickness, but I don't think I'm preggers), but oh well. I'll probably never publish anything, and no, this website doesn't count, but that doesn't mean I can't improve and, maybe, someday, be able to read my own fiction without retching. Let's face it, if I can't force myself to write for ten minutes, ten lousy minutes I'd otherwise spend staring at ESPN.COM for the hundredth time of the day, then
10:57 AM

Jibber-jabber

I'm in a reading phase. In fact, I've read two books in the past week. It's the first time I've accomplished that feat in quite a while. I've found that reading inspires my creative juices. I lay in the bathtub, read some piece of shit novel, and think, 'I can do this. It's not that hard. This author sucks.' It inspires me to drag my sopping wet ass (literally) over to the seat of my recliner, plop down and plop out some poopy (not literally). After a solid twenty minutes of writing -- if I'm lucky enough to momentarily defeat pessimism and get that far -- after about three-hundred words tippity-typed on the ole word processor, I make the fatal mistake and re-read the two or three paragraphs I've penned thus far.

Then I stop, collaborate, and listen. Ice is back with my brand new invention. Something, grabs a hold of me tightly. Flow like a harpoon, daily and nightly. Will it ever stop? Yo, I don't know. Turn off the lights, and I'll glow. To the extreme, I rock the mic like a vandal, light up a stage and wax a chump like a candle.

Oops, sorry. That's not what happens exactly, but close enough. I do stop, though. The only time I really ever let myself just write without giving into Senor Negativity (that lazy Mexican bastard) was a few years ago when I took a semester off college. I was naive enough to believe I could improve by just writing for three months straight. Okay, I did improve, but being proud of that is like being proud of moving up from the bench to the starting lineup of a single-A farm team...of the Milwaukee Brewers.

All right, enough jibber-jabber for now.

Re: Meldar

I'm not sure why blogspot posted my Mel Gibson article, Meldar, three posts down since I published it today, but check it out if you missed it.

Find that Sobie!

Try to guess which one of the pictured is the most sobererest!

Mercury is Delicious, etc.

For the first time, tonight I considered giving up Ultimate Frisbee. This moment of doubt rose inside me out of my sickened gut on the car ride home after a horrid performance. That's how I feel about golf every time I play -- I loathe my ineptitude in sports (if you can even call golf a sport; it's more like an exercise to prepare the sinful, profane, club-hurling guys like me for an eternity with big Beelzebub in the blazing pits of hell) -- but this is the first time I've had this feeling about Ultimate. Normally I would hit the Dane and drink off my woes, but now that I'm on yet another hopeless quest for abs, I shunned the beer in favor of an ice pack on the knee and, afterwards, some reading in the bathtub.

And only reading. Honest.

I had the dropsies on four or five easy ones. I didn't score; can't remember when that last happened. Defense was all right, I guess, but I make my money catching touchdowns. Oh wait, I don't make money playing 'bee.

And now, with this revelation that I suck, I guess I never will. There goes my last dream, smushed like a lonely rose among weeds.

Point is, I enjoy making catches. I enjoy scoring (who doesn't enjoying scoring?). The dropsies, however, especially the endzone dropsies, haunt me day and night. I remember dropping a hammer from Keith back when the Ass Clowns were the Killer Bs. Over half a decade ago. Or when last I played Fall league, a couple years back, when Bill, in the last game of the season, connecting to me via telepathic manbond, read my endzone cut perfectly and hooked me up with a beautiful outside-in forehand curling between several defenders right into my outstretched hands for a touchdo...ow...ow... down to the ground. Shitsicle! Mr. Santner was there.

Witness!

In any event, horrid play aside, I'm dealing with a case of the Shitty Knees, further compounding matters and adding injury to insult. This leaves me agile on my feet as Falcor, the magical flying dog from the Neverending Story (this is coincidentally the title of my sex life. Err...that's not it; there's a "never" in there somewhere though). I have in mind to work on foot speed this winter betwixt Frisbee seasons, but I'm betting instead I'll star in that blockbuster movie, Couch Wars: Attack of the Lazies. Anyway, I need the pain in the knees to subside before any such endeavor is pursued. I'm a hobbling yoda without the force powers. I'm also not short and green.

Anyhoo, my spirits soared after watching Stephen Colbert interview Ted Danson on the Colbert Report (The pros of eating mercury? Shrug. "It's delicious.") and now I think I'll keep playing Frisbee. Crisis averted.

The funny cures all.

Meldar

[Blogger's Note: Well, this article isn't finished and hasn't been edited, but if I don't publish it now it'll probably remain incomplete, a draft forever.]


Mel Gibson, fresh off a drunk driving incident during which he spouted anti-Semitic remarks and referred to a female arresting officer as "Sugar Tits," appeared on Wednesday at the latest Star Trek convention in Los Angeles, Ca.

"I'm showing off the new 'do," said Gibson, who coined his coiffure The Saddam. "It's going to be the next big thing. It's going to be huge"--his eyes widened--"and everyone will know I started the trend." He added, in a bizzarely robotic tone, "I am Meldar, a humanoid conceived and raised on the pleasure planet Risa IX in the Salacious System."

When asked why he chose to emulate the former dictator's unkempt, fresh-from-the-dirt-hole hairdo, Gibson's response only provoked more questions. "I just love the jolly guy. Always smiling, that one. He's truly an inspiration. To travel around the world giving out all those presents in one night. One night!"

During the drunk driving arrest, Gibson also reportedly threatened one of the police offers with anal sex.

"What's the big deal? I love anal sex. Who doesn't? What is this crazy world coming to when a man gets in trouble for offering--offering, it wasn't a threat--to perform anal sex on another warm-blooded humanoid? People do it all the time. But of course, when Meldar says it, lordy, lordy, the apocalypse is here. Meldar is one of the good guys, who happens to love anal sex."

Gibson's next silver screen attraction, Apocalypto, is due to be released December 8th. After receiving criticism over his portrayal of the Jewish people in the role of Jesus Christ's death in the last movie he directed, Passion of the Christ, Gibson might have chosen to play it safe with his following motion picture. "I'm edgy. Meldar isn't scared of the media's invective. This time I tackled natives!" (Gibson (right) tries to escape from actors hired to play Mayans.) "They didn't handle it as well as I had hoped."

*This article is ficticious. All characters were made up. I don't know where the pictures came from (I think blogspot uploaded them without my permission). Any likeness to real persons is purely coincidental. So don't sue me, Mel! Personally, Braveheart is one of my favorite movies. Freedom!

Calf Implants

Once Frisbee ends, I've decided to make a concerted effort to growing my calves to the size of artichokes. (You might be thinking, 'The size of artichokes? That's ridiculous!' Well, I'll be honest, I don't even really know what artichokes are. So there.)

I've long contended that my genetics precluded my ever obtaining calves an observer could see without possessing eyes with the magnifying power of the hubble telescope times two. More than one person has commented on my calves. Yes, people have actually examined my calves--a stranger even--and commented how small they were. This is how impressively diminutive these "muscles" are.

But this winter, I'm going to prove myself wrong. And if I fail, I'll just get calf implants and pretend I succeeded.

It's Monday!

It's Monday, and you all know what that means: Monday night is just around the corner, which means gallons upon gallons of alcohol consumed out of black jugs marked XXX.

Joking. Actually I'm too into getting in shape to drink large amounts of liquor. I'm pathetic. It's the price I pay for working towards the Ultimate Man Bod (TM).

Today hasn't been too miserable so far, for a Monday. Our weekly software meeting lasted a delicious five minutes. Work's going well despite the fact I'm not presently working. Hey, I'm not some sort of machine who can work eight hours straight, all right? I need a little time to breathe, to blog, so I can return to programming with extra vigor and special sauce.

I think I need to come up with some fun theme for this blog, something that'll leave my audience titillated and aroused, something, more importantly, that will force me to write here more often. Cause my two fans demand it. While generally I try not to give a shit about other people, I've decided to make an exception in this case (or pretend to, at least. Did I just write that? Mental note: Delete this parenthetical aside).

I started writing some fiction last night. Hooray!

OK, gotta work. That's my blurb o' the day.

Quote of the Day

Here's a little quote from an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation. Counselor Troy is interviewing the girlfriend of an officer who had recently committed suicide.

Something terrible must have happened to him, counselor, because it's not like Dan to take his own life.

Precious.

Now I don't want to get off on a rant here...

Adoring Readers,

It's 4:10 AM. I just wrote my Frisbee captain explaining I wouldn't be able to make our game scheduled for tonight. I realized while writing that I will've missed the Dane (and FREE BEER) both times this week, which hasn't happened in, well, ages.

Quoth the BT:

I can't believe I'm about to miss the Dane and free beer two times in a row. There's a little place I like to call hell. I just scoped it out with my ethereal binocs. It's more frozen than the oh-shit! gaze of a glacier-preserved, Pleistocene caveteen caught by his mom in the act of pretzeling himself into position for autofellatio.

Maybe it's just cause it's 4:10 in the A.M., but that shit cracked me up-- enough to share it with the world. Be sure to check out the wikipedia on giving yourself a hummer. Picture included!

That was the best metaphor ever written.

Of course, that's just my opinion. I could be wrong.

Channel 27 News Preview

"Alcohol can be difficult to avoid for UW students on campus, especially for those with drinking problems."

Hmm. You think? Personally, I would have added, "and super-duper especially for those with drinking problems who are in bars with hot, big-breasted sluts offering to take their tops off for anyone willing to suck some sticky sweet yumyum alcoholic shots off the hot, big-breasted sluts' cleavage."

Now that's hard to avoid. Trust me.

Now if you'll excuse me...

It's time to watch some channel 27 news at ten!!

Drinking Problem.

So it's been a month. Don't call it a comeback, I've been here the whole time.

In that month, I've had a lot of time to reflect, a lot of time dream, and a lot of time to drink. I find those three are mutually exclusive. Reflection leads to dreams of a better future; dreaming of that better future leads to further reflection on my pitiful life; this reflection leads to hard liquor. Drinking of course leads to sleep, during which I typically dream. The subsequent hangover causes reflection and dreams to never drink again. But what sort of life would that be?

And so the cycle renews itself. It's a vicious one, that.

I'm basically like Mother Gaia: a self-cleaning mechanism.

Anyway, on to my real drinking problem. I'm not afraid to admit it, either. I have a drinking problem. There. I said it. OK? You happy?

Nosy fucks.

I was up in Minneapolis for my brother Bart's thirtieth birthday the other weekend. Twenty beers, a few arm wrestling matches, a piggyback ride, one winning round and several losing rounds of dice later, I decided to take on my buddy, Glen Livet. Me, Bart, and a few of his buddies were downstairs in the basement, chatting the good chat -- which when you've collectively consumed an entire keg basically boils down to dancing to the footloose theme song (Dirk, I'm looking your way) -- when I sat down, back resting against the front base of the couch. I made some sarcastic remark about how well I could hold my liquor.

Then I threw the contents of the glass in my face.

Not only a smidge of liquid, either.

Drowning in a flash flood of scotch, rolling around the floor like a trained pig*, trying to hold off the uncontrollable spate of laughter causing an inverse avalanche of suds and saliva to rise from the depths within, recognizing the absurdity of what had happened, I realized that, in point of fact, I, my friends, have a drinking problem.

It turns out I can't hold my liquor. Not with my hands, at least.

This has caused me to reflect upon my problem and dream up a solution: the sippy cup. The next time I find myself saturated of sweet inebriation-- can anyone say, Ass Clown EOY Party?-- I'm going to my plan b. And I hope those around me will offer their encouragement. For though spilling profusely on one's self is comedy gold, after the third or fourth time the well runs dry.

That is all.

*Bill Parcells was giving an interview after a preseason practice the other week. After the tenth straight question about Terrell Owens' injury, he said, and I'm paraphrasing here, "I'm not gonna stand up here like a trained pig and talk about the same thing over and over again." That, my gentle snowflakes, is officially the worst. simile. ever. And I have had some pretty good doozies in my day.

One of my more enjoyable diversions...

BT is in the news!

"It sends out a very positive message if someone like BT is getting into this business".