Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in Effin's LiveJournal:

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Tuesday, October 26th, 2004
1:34 pm	When you hit the water, breathe the air above the water! A driver's license is an amazing thing. It's basically the stupidest investment you can make in your young life. You go to this school, specifically to learn how to drive. They tell you this: You're probably going to die. Now go get your permit. So you go to the DMV, which is short for A Bunch Of Ladies With PMS Who Pretty Much Hate You Right Off The Bat. Then you give them money, and a bunch of personal information, Lord knows what for. All of this so you can take a test. The test looks something like this: 1. On a traffic signal (those tall poles you see at some corners with the lights hanging down from them), the RED light means: A. STOP B. Orange C. Look out! The commies are coming! D. *not* stop. 2. If the BRAKE pedal makes you STOP, what does the ACCELERATION pedal do? A. It changes the RADIO STATION. B. It makes you GO. C. It makes CHILI and FRIES. D. Your MOTHER. 3. When driving in extreme weather conditions (rain, snow, plague of locusts) you should always: A. Go faster! FASTER! Unreasonably fast! B. Have R.E.M.'s "It's The End of the World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)" blasting from your speakers. C. Drive more SLOWLY. D. Wear ALUMINUM FOIL on your HEAD so the ALIENS don't GET YOU. 4. When you're driving along, and you feel a BUMP under under your CAR, you should: 1. Just keep going. It's probably OK. 2. Turn yourself in to PETA. Although we warn you, you'll probably be beheaded if it turns out you hit a squirrel. 3. Change your flippin' tire! GOSH! 4. Pull over to the SHOULDER, open your TRUNK, grab a couple BIG BLACK GARBAGE BAG, put the poor man's CORPSE inside the BAGS, and place it in your TRUNK. Drive to a lonely BRIDGE and dump his BODY over the SIDE into the EAST RIVER. 5. If a cop pulls you over and asks you to walk in a STRAIGHT LINE and COUNT BACKWARDS from 100 to 42, and back up to 56, you should: A. Tell him, "But officer, I can't even count backwards when I'm sober!" (Extra credit: "I don't even know how to speak Egaugnal!") B. Try not to VOMIT on him. C. Probably get out of the CAR first. D. FLIRT with him and hope he lets you off EASY. Tell him you like his GUN. It makes him look POWERFUL. E. Yeah, he LIKES that. 6. An infant gibbon aced this test. A. Oh. B. You don't say! C. I can't believe I PAID like, twenty bucks TO take this. D. Tony DANZA. Yeah, it just goes on an on like that for like, twenty questions. I've taken more difficult tests on emode.com. So you get told that driving is the most dangerous thing ever, and when you're holding a steering wheel, you're holding a weapon (which can definitely be true, mind you), but then the state decides that if you can pass this test, you may drive a car on their roads. With other people out there. Of course, you have to have someone in the front passenger seat who's at least 21 who has been driving for at least 3 years, if they're still alive. I'm sorry, but there's something totally wrong with that. And then you go back to your school, and they scare you even more about driving, showing you all these videos and pictures of new drivers who are also newly dead, all to prove that somebody your age should most definitely NOT be driving. They'll do this to you for up to nearly two months. For me, it was more like one and a half. Which is nearly two months. Oh, and then there's the driving with the instructor, and another student. I observed one student who, on his second drive EVER, already had incredible road rage. And also a girl, who was on her last drive with her instructor, who ran a red light and stopped at a green one with traffic behind her. Needless to say, I was scared out of my mind driving with these people. But so were they, I will allow them that. I mean, Driving with your instructor right next to you is about as painless as receiving acupuncture beneath the fingernails. From a rabid gibbon. Mmm, these chips are delicious. Then you go back to the DMV to get your license. I had to go three times, not because I'm a bad driver. I'm an excellent driver. The first time I went because of a misunderstanding regarding your required age to just go ahead and get your license. It's a long, boring story, and you know we never tell those here at Effin's Live Journal. The second time I went because I flipping FELT like it. I wanted my license, and NOW. Or rather, THEN. You must understand that I am going to be eighteen in one month and two days. So it's high time I got my license, eh? And so when I went to get it then, I walked inside, and there was a security guard at the front door. The following took place: Security guard: Shut up, Evan. What're you here for? Effin: I would like my license and I am NOT carrying guns or knives or explosives or drugs or RELIV or first generation Beanie Babies and blackmarket gibbons, unless of course you're interested. Security guard, who will now be named Tumnis: You got a Smoochy Frog Beanie Baby? Effin: You oaf! Smoochy didn't come out until nearly the fifth generation* as a replacement for Legs! Tumnis: Oh. Second line, then. (Effin walks through the second line, knocking down all who stand in his way. He eventually reaches a desk) Lady at the desk, whose name with be "The White Witch": What do you WANT?! Effin: My driver's license. You guys have it right now. The White Witch: RRR! FINE! Renewal, or is this your first time? Effin: That's rather a personal question, don't you think? The White Witch: *holds up her slimey lunch* This is the uterus of the last man who gave me a hard time. Effin: Um...men don't have...uh, this is my first time. The White Witch: Oh, OK. ... Effin: ...Uh, so, can I go get my license? The White Witch: Heck no! Some system or other is down and we can't verify your social security number or some nonsense along those lines. Go away. So yeah, then I went back a third time about a week later. And I *finally* got to take the test. When it comes down to it, I don't know why I was so eager to do that. You give them all of your personal information again, and then they have you go sit and wait for approximately 16 presidential terms, and then they have you get in your car with this guy who tells you to go to all of the dumbest roads and do stupid things that you'll never do again in your car, and he judges your driving ability based on these things. But hey, I passed. I went back, and sat down in this chair, and this neat old guy told me to smile at the camera, although I wasn't entirely sure of where the camera was. I felt (and looked) like somebody caught on camera at a baseball game, who can see themselves on the big screen in the back of the field (and so can everyone else in the stadium) and they're making the dumbest face trying to find the camera that's capturing their soul. I mean, image. And now I have the freedom that comes with a driver's license. And by freedom, I obviously mean ridiculous lifelong debt. I already have a car. I've had it for over a year. But it needed new tires, and a new battery. Hundreds of dollars. And then my dad had me get my brakes checked yesterday. This is how things go at car places: Effin: Hi, I'd like to get my brakes checked. Front desk person, whose name shall be Lucy: Are you young and stupid, especially when it comes to cars? Effin: Yeah! How'd you guess? Lucy: That's what I get paid for. Have you heard any grinding or squeaking as you apply your brakes? Effin: No...no, not really. Lucy: Oh, that's too bad. How about uh...oh, when you apply the brake pedal, does your car slow down, and eventually come to a full and complete stop? Effin: Yeah, isn't it suppos- Lucy: Madre de Dios! You need help right away! Good thing we brought you here! Give me your key, quick! So then they pull the car into the garage and put it on those things that lift the car so you can walk underneath it and it won't fall and crush you. Hopefully. I think those things are so cool. They looked at my car, I read Stiff, by Mary Roach. It's about cadavers and it is excellent. I highly recommend it if you ever plan on being dead. Then a greasy man came into the waiting room. He had been examining my car. His name is going to be Edmund: Edmund: Effin? Effin: Edmund? Edmund: Come with me please. Effin: Yessir. Edmund: This is your car. Effin: Yes...yes it is. Edmund: These are your brakes. Effin: Yes. Edmund: They suck. They're an accident waiting to happen. It would be safer (and probably cheaper) for me to replace your brake system with an atomic warhead. Effin: ...Yeah. Edmund: Here's what's wrong: Up front, you need new hydrospanners and pan-galactic adhesive bonding strips, and in the back you have super-concentrated brain juice leakage, most likely from the dead bodies in your trunk. This is where you get that grinding from**. You also need a new pelvic moto-thruster, an iambic pentameter, and a trained gibbon. To fix all of this, it will cost you approximately $617. Effin: Yes. Wait, no. I don't have any money. Edmund: But you're going to kill somebody, and yourself, if you continue to drive this! Effin: You don't understand...I'm poor. No money. Edmund: Look, it's $617 if you want to be totally fine and not kill anybody. For $450, I'll make your car driveable, but you'll probably be in a wheelchair for the rest of your life. Effin: I'll have to think about it. Edmund: $420, final offer. And I'll throw in a catheter. Effin: I'm leaving now. So then I left. But I noticed this pinging noise coming from the back right corner of my car. This happened *after* I left he muffler and brake place. Yeah, and it's still there. Not only did they tell me I owed them over $600, they also broke something else. I *hate* car places. Then there's gas. I put ten dollars in a little while ago. As I pumped, I was astonished that it was filling my tank so quickly. Then I realized something...it's not pumping gas quickly, it sucking my money away quickly. So basically, I'm never going to have any money ever again. But at least I can drive myself to work! And I'll never make any extra money on the side as a professional bowler. I went bowling the other night. Well, I went with people who were bowling. What I was doing was much more like spastically attacking the floor with a heavy ball, and then seeing how slowly it can travel down the gutter and still make it all the way to the end of the lane. It would have been real bowling, had I not sucked. But it's not all my fault! Those bowling balls are so heavy, and the lanes are so narrow! But I'll admit, I don't have the best form when it comes to bowling. I don't walk up to the line. I shuffle. It's not that I can't walk, it's just that those stupid bowling shoes have no traction, and I know that if I try to walk, I just slips and crack my wishbone. And I don't follow through so much when I actually launch the ball. I sort of just pull my arm back...and drop the ball. My thumb kept slipping out, OK? Yeah, well I can't bowl...but at least I'm not Ashlee Simpson***! Sure, I have a big nose, and I can't sing...and sometimes I dance like a drunken leprechaun-pirate with an ice cube down the back of his shirt...wait... Oh my gosh. I think I might be Ashlee Simpson! I'm so sorry, everybody! I'm sorry I exist! I'm sorry I claim to be punk when I'm really just another form of obnoxious "music." I'm gonna quit my low down ways. I'll get a job at Dairy Queen, with all of the other peasant folk. I'll make out by myself. No more relying on my daddy and his cash to get by. Not a single hundred dollar bill. Certainly not a big roll of them, as he is so prone to give me all the time. Hmm...although, I wouldn't want to not accept his kindness. Right. Yeah. Hey, they gives me an idea for a great punk song about...you know...something that punk people write about, like about how a boy looks really cute in a certain brand of clothing...yeah...I'm gonna get the professional songwriter (whose name shall not be shared) my daddy hired for me to to influence me. By writing the lyrics and melody. Then I'll record it and make my voice sound acceptable (like every other female pop singer my age) via ProTools. What the such and such am I thinking? I'm not Ashlee Simpson! My dad isn't rich! And my professional songwriter is Dan Jacobsen! I guess I'll be Effin again. Speaking of songwriters named Dan, he and I have a band. A real beand with music and lyrics and up to half a dozen fans! Our name is Your New Best Friend. We recently got fourth place out of ten at a Battle of the Bands. No, that's not bad. No, we're not disappointed. You have to understand that we suck. Especially that night. We forgot half the lyrics, and basically ALL of the chords to one song called "Titled," or "Well I'm A Rootin' Tootin' High Falootin' Son of a Railroad Man, And I've Gotten Rotten But I'm Not Entirely That Bad," or "The Closet Song." I couldn't hear myself at all until the second to last song, and I was sorry when I finally could. We performed much better when we weren't actually playing songs. That's actually why we got fourth, instead of tenth. Between songs, we were just totally making fun of ourselves, and the fact that our musical influences come anywhere from Chris to Carrabba. We're just two skinny white boys with acoustic guitars. I mean, *come on*! Did I mention we only practiced once? I was just thinking about how funny it is that I'm posting this. I mean, who even reads this anymore? Go read Spontaneous Fiction if you actually feel like reading something I really update from time to time. http://sidekickboy.blogspot.com And start at the bottom. Or else it will all be ruined. What it is is just what it sounds like. Spontaneous fiction. I just write it and hope that what I write will work out with the continuing story later on. I'm not even sure how long this entry is. Time for some of those random "front" things and then some sort of song or poem or something and then No more entires for about another 42 years****. On the music front, which is odd because I just wrote a whole lot about music, Jay-Z is reportedly in the studio as I type. And you read. Unless you're reading this in like, 84,000,000,000 years. Or maybe 246. Or I'm writing it again in that time, 'cause then I'd be lying. Heck, I'm lying now, because I'm about to tell you about his mariachi endeavor. That's right, he is going to push the very limits of the mariachi music genre! It will be basically the same, as a mariachi band is the Mexican "street band," but there will be turntables instead of most any other instruments and the sombreros will be traded in for bling, and there will be a lot more expletives and talk of reproduction and weapons. Tupac Shakur***** will be involved, post-humously. On the I'm going to see Bob Dylan on Halloween front, I think that, in comparison to the others, this is a pretty short entry. I should make this final part really long. Like, paragraphs upon paragraphs. ...Goodnight everybody! *Actually, I don't remember which generation. Forgive me. **I never HAD any grinding, mind you. ***LOOK AT ME! I'M BEING TOPICAL! ****Or maybe 34. Or 246. Or 6,570. Or 34,246,570. *****Interestingly, his name spelled backwards is Gibbon Caput******. Caput, as you probably already know, means "head" in Latin. If you've ever heard of Itasca (such as Lake Itasca in Minnesota), you may be able to deduce that it's an odd abbreviation for "Veritas Caput" (like this: verITASCAput), which means "true head" in Latin. And a gibbon is a primate with a silly walk. As you can guess, John Cleese is indeed a gibbon. ******To be honest, I just wanted an excuse to say Gibbon a few more times. I even considered renaming Tupac "Gibbon McGibbonGibbon," but that's far too unrealistic to print here at Effin's Live Gibbon. Gibbon gibbon gibbon. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ I am darkness, I am numb. I am running, From it all. Don't turn me off now, But when you want. I’m the trigger of the gun. You want out, NOW! I want in. I want to be underneath your skin. Don’t hate me, I’m your friend. You’re the one who can’t beat this sin. You think you have me pinned But I know your flaws the best. I will stop the bleeding Brought on by the beating in your chest, And you can't go on. Brush my fingers On your arms I will KEEP YOU From further harm. Nobody knows, No one knows. And nobody has to. You think you have me pinned But I know your flaws the best. I will stop the bleeding Brought on by the beating in your chest, And you can’t go on Living yourself to death. Don’t believe them, Your lover’s words, You’re just getting What you deserve. I’m your master, I am strong. This is right where you belong. This is your own device. I am your life. As if you had a choice... You live a lie. You think you can win? Well I know your weakness; Look at what you've done. No, I won't let you forget. I will stop the bleeding Brought on by the beating in your chest, And you can't go on Living yourself to death. You can't. Gibbon. Current Mood: Unschooled (10 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, June 14th, 2004
10:02 pm	Take the girl! Leave us alone! The thing about icebergs is that they're icy. And...bergy. I want you to think long and hard about that, because it's the most important and interesting thing you're going to read over the next half hour. It's not that I'm forcing you to read my entries, it's just that you'll probably die if you don't. Random fact: 42% of people who don't read my entries die. The other 34% smoke. 246% of those smokers die, too. And a whopping 6,570% of the people in Nightmute, Alaska* have never realized that "Tokyo" and "Kyoto" are basically the same word, cut in half and scrambled about a bit. Tokyotokyotokyotokyotokyoto...The remaining percentage didn't realize it until reading this very entry. They promptly died of smoking cancer. ...Um, alright people, I can't hold this back any longer-- it's been on my mind for at *least* seven seconds now. I need to refute a blasphemous statement made by the nearly memorable Jackie De Shannon, which goes a little something like this: "What the world needs now/ is love, sweet love/ It's the only thing/ that there's just too little of." Now, I think I speak for all upstanding citizens when I say, "Gasp!" I mean, how could she be so thoughtless? The *only* thing there's just too little of? Pardon me, but when was the last time you saw a movie with Steve Buscemi in the lead role, Ms. or Mrs. De Shannon? And how many times has Avril Lavigne been shot in the foot for covering Bob Dylan's "Knocking on Heaven's Door," or Sheryl Crow for Cat Steven's (a.k.a. Yusaf Islam**) "The First Cut is the Deepest"?*** And my mom's always complaining that there's never enough High Effeciency fabric softener at the store, and the bottle for it is never big enough. And last time I checked, it only took THREE licks to get to the tootsie roll center of a Tootsie Pop! My goodness, I could go on for a certain amount of time which I do not have the mental bearings to calculate right now because I'm so hopping mad! And listen to me, Jackie, all I'm asking is that you, out of respect, change your lyrics. Just a little. Poet that I am, I have already gone to the trouble of suggesting it a new way: What the world needs now Is stuff, sweet, salty, bitter, bland, sour, funny, serious, artistic, tangible, mostly harmless, effanineffable, blue, Bob Dylan, good good good good vibrations, et cetera stuff-- It's some of the only things That there's just too little uff. That being said, let's talk about sects. Rivers Cuomo once said****, "I'm tired, so tired, so tired of having sects." And let me tell you, after having (finally) attended Drivers Ed***** I fully understand what he means. See, I got a full and complete picture (at least I think so) of every different sect you could have. First, you have your loud, obnoxious, disrespectful sect, popularly known as the "your children" sect. This made up about 84% of the classroom. Then you have you homeschoolers (or, "homeschoolers") sect, which was made up of three people: Two other people and me. There were even sub-sects of this sect. Thirdly, there was me, the dumb kid who didn't take drivers ed until he was 17. Then first, there was Rachel. You could tell she was homeschooled right away because she was pleasant, modest, quiet, and in the kitchen making dinner while simultaneously giving birth to her 34th consecutive child****** (her marriage was obviously arranged and happened when she was 14). And then of course there's Nick, who took the alternate route in homeschooling. He resented his parents for it, because for some reason homeschoolers are looked upon as "different." He listens to Slipknot and swears whenever it is logical to do so (such as when inquiring or informing about what time it is). Moving along, you had the other kids, who have become known as the "I'll think up a name later" sect. This consisted of the shy girl from Waubonsee Valley Highschool, who, when spoken to, reacted as if she'd been told that if she didn't respond correctly, somebody was going to shoot her grandmother's cats. Also included were the boyfriend and girlfriend (no relation) from Aurora Christian Highschool, who were both well groomed and looked as if they'd been placed together by the Aurora Society of People Who Place Together Poeople Who Look As Though They Ought To Be Placed Together, followed shortly by the nerdy looking kid who swore but didn't look like it, also known as "the nerdy looking kid who tells people he just met that he likes the song, 'Sexual Healing'." Also, there was the tall Hans, who was very nice and cool. I got to bond with him because my phone accidentally rang in the class room. Well, I'm sure it meant to ring. It just shouldn't have. I forgot to put in on vibrate. But I have the song, "Layla" as the ringtone on my phone, and Hans recognized it right away. I said to myself, "Well hey, this kid must be cool," and indeed he was. Probably still is, although I haven't seen him for a few hours. In case you aren't cool and don't know the song "Layla"...well there are different versions. One goes "budda-duddah-dooda-da, dee-doo-da-doo-dee..." and the other goes "Layyyyyyyyla buh-duh-dum..." Anyway, your final major sect is the intructor, known as Chuck. He's an alright guy, as long you're not learning anything from him. He had this teaching strategy, known in edumacation circles as the "Iron Fist of Love." What he would do is lay down the rules, and then try and bond with you, mainly through sports. I do not exaggerate as I give you this following example of the typical beginning of a class: "OK, talking stops NOW. If you wanna talk with your buddies, the doors open, you can go outside now and never come back. Understand? Good. Now, did anybody see Minnesota play last night?" The teaching strategy I used was known as the "Loose Fist on a Slippery Fish" method. That's the one where you try and hold their attention for the first ten or so minutes, then just give up because it's flipping useless when you're only like, 3 years older than them, and kids these days have no respect. Coincidentally (or maybe not), both of the methods mentioned are also names of rock bands and Japanian beverages. All this to say that you need RELIV. What's that? You've never heard of RELIV? Well jumpin' Jim Jarmusch, you really need it, if you're *that* stupid and ignorant! RELIV is only the most amazing substance known to man! Why, it has been said, "What the world needs now is RELIV, sorta funky tasting RELIV, that's the only thing that there's just too little...uh...RELIV." What it is is magic powder that is legal to purchase in the United States (a.k.a. America), and it makes you a better person. Why, it even sanctifies you! Whatever your problems, you'll find someone who was dealing with the exact same thing, if not worse, who will excitedly share their success story with you. Just read some of these: Cookies Malogne of Glen Ellyn, Illinois writes: I had lost my job and was replaced by the Chairman of the Board's wife's shih tzu, Sasha. I lost all my savings when my nephew used my credit card to bid on a complete Bette Midler dining set on eBay (which was NOT dishwasher safe). Little did he know he was bidding against Two-Finger "Robert" LaGunn, the mob boss, who consequently wanted me dead. I had sold my legs to a necromancer named Sully, and was hobbling to the grocery store to buy food with my limb-money when I heard a sweet, loving, fanatic voice say, "You look like you need RELIV." Well, I tried RELIV, and let me tell you, I can almost guarantee that my life is better than yours. After just three weeks on RELIV, I had my legs back. But were these normal legs? No way! With my new legs, I can jump higher than Steven Tyler on a trampoline, I can kick harder than a cornered kangaroo on crack, and I can run faster than a cheetah on roller skates, with a rocket pack strapped to it's back. Also, I now control Two-Finger LaGunn's old territory, and then some! And now that I'm selling RELIV to all my friends and other unfortunate people, I have become a trillionaire! And my I.Q. is higher than Feynman could count! And Beyonce Knowles wants my number! Thank you, RELIV. Thank you. Oh, and here's one from Danish Jakhobsen, of Bluthering Hiftes, Fakeland: I was a struggling musician. I'd sold my great aunt Ethyl to gypsies for money to get by, but I spent all of that on guitar lessons, which consisted of me trying to learn how to play the "E" string. I don't think the teacher was very experienced, and all efforts were fruitless. I'd tried my hand (and occasionally my foot) at writing as well. It was slow going. I think I nearly made a triangle once. But I had no motivation in life, no passion to write about. One day, I scraped together all the money I had left, and sat out on my neighbor's porch to wait for the guy in the ice cream truck to come by, so I could get a popsicle. My neighbor came out and stabbed me in the kidney with a quill pen. What's worse, I found out that the ice cream man doesn't come by in December. But then it happened: I staggered off, bleeding to kingdom come, when I saw a man selling bags of powder on the street corner. He said, "Hey, you look like you need some RELIV." Ever since that wonderful day, life has been better. I wrote a new national anthem! I've got SIX kidneys! Beyonce Knowles wants my number! And I'm rich enough to have all the ice cream I'll ever want. But I don't need ice cream, because I've got RELIV! And here we have one from Myke Flappycheeksladiesman of Somberg, SW: I used to think I had it all. I had a sweet ride, the ladies dug me, I could freestyle like Shakespeare, I could talk up a storm about the pope, and I had succesfully divided the color yellow by New Jersey. People used to tell me about RELIV, and I was like, "No way, that stuff is crack for homeschoolers!" ...But then I tried it. Now, I have a BETTER ride, MORE ladies dig me, I can freestyle like the lovechild of Shakespeare and Tupac, I've had many chances to tell the pope things he didn't know about himself (he thought the hat was in style), and I proved, mathematically, that Ted Koppel doesn't exist. Bette Midler wants my number! Thank you, thank you, THANK you, RELIV! And finally let's look at this one from Adovjev Hannah from Aivatab, LI: I used to be quiet, and shy. In fact, I was afraid of people that I only knew so well, such as my immediate family. I sought solace in certain beverages which consisted of alcohol and maybe some other stuff. Then my liver said, "pff, skip that, I'm not working under these conditions." and promptly went on strike, making me allergic to everything. To top it all off, I was dead. And then the Sisters of Mercy came into my life and introduced me to RELIV. Now, people are more afraid of me than I am of them, and with good reason, because I can smash through brick walls as if they were only jello walls. I could handle the hardest drink out there, only I don't need to because there are few things it's harder to drink than RELIV! My liver is working so hard I'm considering promoting it to left ventricle! I could eat an eight foot tall iron statue that looks like a goose! But I don't need to because I've got RELIV! Evan Konc wants my number! Eww! But still, thanks, RELIV! P.S., I'm alive, too! Now, you may be asking yourself, "Shut up, Evan. I'm curious to know exactly what RELIV is." Well first, you've got two major problems: Scratch that, four: A: Your socks are on fire. 2: Some people, for some reason, just don't like you. For most of them, it's jealousy. The rest look down on you because you haven't yet embraced RELIV. Tony Danza: You didn't ask yourself a question. It was a statement. Hillary Duff picks her nose. Jennifer Lopez hires people to pick her nose for her. She also always has white rose petals in her toilet bowl. Yeah, like that'll go *real* nice with a corny floater: You didn't ask YOURSELF a question. It was directed towards me (Effin). Once we have taken care of these, we can move on. Sort of. I'm really still thinking about Tokyoto. Oh, and try this one: A Toyota. You gotta hand it to those crazy Japanians! So anyway, RELIV is a powder. Or a collection of powders. And there's magic stuff in them. Very scientific. There are different flavors (or "sects") that have different uses and the dumbest names ever. First you've got your Innergize! It energizes you inwardly. It's like a highly caffeinated phosphate beverage, only you're not risking having your first heart attack at the age of 23 by drinking it. Eventually the energy finds it's way out, or at least it had better or you might explode. The effect kind of like the Cat Stevens song, "Can't Keep It In." Actual lines: I can't keep it in, Can't keep it in, I gotta let it out... Anyway, it tastes kind of like a sports drink, but also kind of like those tubular wax candies with the tiniest morsel of juice in the middle. I used to pay like, a dollar for those. The juice came in different colors, but I don't know about different flavors. I mostly just chewed on all of the wax until my jaw hurt. Anyway, um, Innergize! is good. In contrasting to other energy products...OK, well, they say Red Bull gives you wings, right? Innergize! gives you Air Force One and on island in the Kiribati Republic. Then you've got NOW. But I wouldn't recommend NOW until you've been on other RELIV products for a while. And then of course there's SoySensuals or something like that. I'm not sure what that's all about. I think it makes you girly. Then there's other stuff I don't really know about. Except for one called "Ch******Ne!" which I know everything about. But to be honest, I'm not even on RELIV. If I were, these entries would be entertaining, more frequent, and profitable to persons such as me. Plus I'd probably make RELIV sound more attractive. I'll be thtraight with you guys: RELIV does not taste very good, but it really does work. I've heard stories that would make Barbara Walters cry. I've seen fire and I've seen rain. I've hired a monkey to take notes for me in class. I've *been* there, man or woman. But moving right along, I've been thinking: If you're going to be an Elvis impersonator, shouldn't you look, sing, talk, and act like Elvis? I ask this because I saw one last night who fit none of these bills. I don't think a good portion of the songs were even Elvis songs. From where I was standing, he looked kind of like Donald Trump trying his very darndest to look like, and I'm being generous here, Johnny Knoxville. Only he was wearing what was, I am assuming, what he wore to prom Junior year of highschool. When he sang he sounded sort of like my father in the throes of some sort of Canadian Death Flu. His comments between songs may have been written by the people who write witty remarks that Pat Sajak and Vanna White use to close episodes of Wheel of Fortune, and when he spoke them, he sounded about as cool as yak butter. And he acted exactly like the uncle your family doesn't talk to. Maybe there was some transitional stage for Elvis that I was never aware of. You know, somewhere between hip-girating heart throb and belly flapping heart attack waiting to happen. Perhaps it was the "tasteless guy who refuses to get a real job and really hopes to hit it big by following a Steve Urkle & Stephon Urkel type of formula that is really more like Dr. Jekyl & Mr. Hyde" stage. Only neither have many redeeming qualities. I'm not judging him as an artist, of course. This is just my onion, and anyone else can view things differently. I personally think that Helen Keller would have loved this guy. And boy oh boy do I get spicy at night. I mean that in an impolite way, not like...well, you know...a culinary way. See, I think that it is very mean to make jokes about people with disabilities, such as fans of Hillary Duff. Also, I have great fear and respect for a woman with PMS. However, one of my favorite jokes of all-time is, "Why can't Helen Keller drive?" (Answer: Because she's a woman) and I can't explain this. Perhaps it is because I feel that tip-toeing around somebody's struggles can occasionally dehumanize them. Some people are sensitive. Some people are not sensitive. I am sensitive. My friend Jeremy is not sensitive. I call him an selfish jerk. He calls me a weakling. I attempt to punch him in the throat, but I get his shoulder and I hurt my wrist. And he laughs. Later, he'll pay. Where was I going with this? Oh yeah, I have black friends, and I remind them quite frequently that they are, indeed, black. Why? Because I don't really give a flying burrito what color their skin is, so long as they don't shoot me. I'm joking, of course. I'm really a racist. I'm joking, of course. Don't shoot me. And besides, they proceed to call me white, and I have yet to press charges. Geez, anyway, I think a well meant and well recieved joke is a good thing. If it is not recieved well, then I'm going to get angry comments, and I will apologize unless of course that person is stupid. Because everyone's offended by something. I could say that I like the Steve Miller Band song "Abracadabra" and I may get an irate comment wondering why on earth I didn't say I like "The Joker" instead, and I must be a communist. Fortunately, because of all the hard work I continually put into these entries, I have a whopping two readers left, and they're both pretty understanding people. Which is unfortunate, because I like getting comments. And I'm not just saying this to cover my tracks, either. I mean, I'll be honest, I just don't think I have a lot of blind, deaf readers, unless my grandparents read this together. I'm just trying to raise awareness. Or maybe just fill in some space*******. Now, you may be pondering the fragility of life, or on the brink of solving world hunger (hint: give people food), but what you really should be thinking right now is, "Shut up, Evan. What the heck were you doing in the same vicinity of the dang Elvis impersonator anyway?" Well, you see, my job is lame. As many of you know I work at a childrens' museum blah blah blah. But what you may not have known, for reasons beyond anyone's control (you're stupid), is that the city I live in (Aurora) has this thing downtown called, aptly, "Downtown Alive" every Friday night during the Summer. In the Winter the streets are flooded with necromancers********. Anyway, the city sets out tables along the streets for all of the local businesses to attract customers. So Sci-Tech always sends out a couples of us lowly explainers with a couple of lame face exhibits (whatever's left that hasn't been taken to other festivals) to a table so we can attract customers. Unfortunately, this time around, Aurora didn't supply us with a table, so we had to set up our ghetto exhibits on the *lunch cart* we used to transport them over. We brought three exhibits: A: The "Pressure Jar." This is a very complex, scientific instrument made up of an empty candle jar inside of a fish bowl. The candle jar and the fish bowl both have a piece of a balloon stretch over their mouths. The idea is that if you push down hard enough on the balloon material over the fish bowl, it will probably break. If it doesn't, it puches the balloon material down over the little candle jar. As you can imagine, this attracts a LOT of people who are drunk beyond reason. 2: The "Cup Barometer." This clever little device is a plastic cup with (guess what!) balloon material stretched over the mouth. The difference is that there is a short straw poked through the balloon material, sticking into about an inch of water. Kids learn from this that if they push down on the balloon really hard, not only will it break, it also has a great chance of getting the lowly explainer all wet. I'm pretty sure this broke before we even set it up, though, which was merciful of it. Scott Baio: Finally we had the "Cloud in a Bottle." I actually like this one. It's a clear glass bottle (coated in plastic so if it breaks, shards won't fly into your eyes. But the potential customers don't have to know this) with some rubbing al-kee-haul in the bottom. You use a corked bike tire pump to hoik a bunch of air into it, increasing the pressure (there's a lot of pressure that goes with my job) and then you pop the pump out, rapidly decreasing the pressure, creating a gaseous cloud inside the bottle. It's fun to do, and I think it looks cool. Of course nobody else cared. When you pop the pump out, it really does pop, due to all the pressure. I kid you not, the first time I did this, a bunch of kids behind me hit the ground and looked around for a gunman. I love Aurora. All of this on a lunch cart. And I saw tons of people I knew. Oh, and this Elvis dude had been hired by Aurora to play his little show there. And he was playinf right down the block from where I was. That's how everything comes together. I sure hope you have a better understanding of the world now. But enough of me complaining. I'm a happy-go-lucky guy in real life, honest. Maybe it's because I myself don't tend to enjoy reading things like, "Gee, I really appreciate windshield washer fluid. Just think of all the accidents, injuries, deaths, or even spooked or smushed squirrels that have been prevented because of that wonderful blue liquid. I like the color blue, too. And squirrels. I saw a black squirrel, once. Pitch black. It looked like a grey squirrel having a midlife crisis. I sure do love midlife crisisseseses. You know, if I got to have a wish come true for, oh say, my forty-second birthday, I think I'd wish that I could become a marshmellow. They just seem so pleasant, in the bag with all their other marshmellow buddies, so light and fluffy. Of course I'd probably eventually get a stick inserted into me at a VERY uncomfortable angle, and then I'd be held over a fire until I'm black and crispy on the outside and all my insides are melted. I sure do love fire, though. I just love to watch things burn. I could have stood there all night, watching my old neighbor's house burn down. Seeing that flaming cat jump out the window and bolt for it towards the river with its three good legs, haha, there's a sight that sticks with you! You'd be surprised how easy it is to start someone's house on fire! I sure do love surprises!" and so on. But hey, it looks like we're nearly out of time for today (by which I mean probably the next 7 or 8 months) so I'll just have to try and be more positive NEXT time. On to the music/random stuff. On the music front, My friend Jenna (who recently left me for stupid college and a new home in Atlanta and I miss her like crazy-go-nuts) gave back some of my cds. One of which she had borrowed last Summer. The then new Radiohead cd, "Hail to the Thief." She's had it for longer than me. It sure is good. I forgot I even owned the other one (The Vines' "Highly Evolved"). Sometimes I wonder why I even have this portion anymore, save for tradition. On the I've seriously got suicidal ants in my kitchen front, do you remember that episode of Full House where Uncle Jesse and Joey try to change Michelle's diaper? Uncle Joey pulls the dirty one off with some tongs, and sticks it in a Tupperware container, and then they rinse her off with the spray hose from the sink, and then wrap her in paper towels for a new diaper, and then stick her legs in a bag of some sort? Remember that, guys? That was one of the Olsen twins, in that scene. These are the girls for which, today, there are websites with an actual countdown clock to their 18th birthday. Even if I wasn't entirely repulsed by the very thought of them anyway, it just seems sick to have a "thing" for these girls, like so many guys do. And does anybody pay any attention to how obnoxious they are, anyway? I do. Man, people. It's just...eww. And with that pleasant thought, I'm going to bed. *Halibut Fishing Capital of the World! **His new-ish name is really just an artististic way of saying "Malsi Fasuy" ***The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind. ****I'm joking, of course. He said it plenty of times. *****Short for, "Driversificationaluminumsidingdongswissmisscakerolls Edd" ******"Placenta Soup" is now one of her family favorites. *******These asterisks get pretty annoying after a while, don't they? I mean, you either scroll down to the bottom right away to see what else I wanted to say, or you wait until the end of the entry, and then you have to go back and find out what I was making the comment on. Or maybe you just don't bother. I wouldn't. I mean, have you read these? I haven't. ********Yes, this is the second time I've mentioned necromancy in this entry. Why? It's the Man. He's breathing down my neck. There's a lot of outside pressure going into my entries. I'm a big fat juicy liar. Really I just made two lame jokes (which has NEVER happened before*********) using the same word. *********I lied again. ------------------------------------------ Cold black eyes will Feign concern. I said I'm alright, Now it's your turn. You can make millions And never mean a thing In the land where men refuse to stand In the place their fathers fell. Cold black words are Nearly lies. Hear one more and I might die. And let's be honest, Would you be surprised In the land where men refuse to stand In the place their fathers fell? Sharp dart opinions, Strong if incomplete. Front cover lips told What and how to speak And we repeat it 'cause it's How we ought to be In the land where men refuse to stand In the place their fathers fell. Calloused hearts from Careless sins. We want to hurt, We want to feel again. But all we can sense is Sugar and skin In the land where men refuse to stand In the place their fathers fell. Oh but what have you done, My pretty, my pride? And what have you done My beautiful bride? "Nothing, and you should know, Since you were with me all the while." Cold black lungs won't Ever sell. Cold black gloves don't Fit me well. Nothing matters So clang cracked bells In the land where men refuse to stand In the place their fathers fell. (10 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, February 20th, 2004
9:00 pm	Just how I like 'em-- all big and big-like. I've been told by many people that I haven't written in here in a long time. And I'm talking about real people, not just the ones in my head. They're always so sarcastic and insincere when they say things to me, which is confusing, because you don't know if the insincerity is in the *sarcasm,* or the actual topic at hand. That statement itself is confusing and I applaud you if you understand what I'm saying. Lord knows I rarely ever do. But I beg to differ*- I write in here all the time. I just never post anything, because it's always way too stupid. I mean, really, "not just the ones in my head..." Yeah Evan, that's *really good.* So I usually end up writing a bunch of stuff, then deleting it. In fact, that's what I'm going to do with this. But, you see, what's funny about that is that all of this is still here. Or maybe it isn't. You never know at this point, when you're just writing it. That's what's so difficult about this line of "work." Now of course, all of you hypothetical people are asking yourselves, or possibly me...heck, you may as well be asking Paul Revere, because you're just hypothetical, anyway**. Um, anyway, you're asking, "Shut up, Evan. Everything you post is stupid, so why not just post everything you write?" Well, I think Neil Diamond put it best when he sang, "...And nobody comments, Not even the chair..." Now I can imagine (in fact, I'm doing it right now) that someone might ask, "What the bloody bloodbloodblood do you mean by that?" Well, let me explain it to you, slowly and carefully: ...Heh, "blood" looks really funny if you just keep typing it. But on a serious note, it's very hot in Fiji, even in the Winter. I recently discovered that my best friend Seth wants to go sit on a beach in Fiji before he dies. He also wants to go skydiving. I told him to try the beach thing first. But he's inspired me: I need to make a list of life goals. I never have before. I don't know what I want to do, other than wake up before the sun starts going down some time. And so here it is, my very first list of life goals, which I shall capitalize when I do the header. Effin's Very First List of Life Goals That Should Be Reached Before Death, Listed With Numbers Instead of the Usual "A," "2," "The Word 'Crescendo' Is Kind Of Fun To Say, But It Makes Me Feel Like A Yuppy," etc. Because I Want To Keep Track When I Look Back On This When I'm Much Older And Wiser, And Have More Experience Under Or Around My Belt, Like A Week From Now: 1. Sit on a beach in the Yukon. 2. Get a 4.2 GPA. I've heard this can be done with a weighted scale. I don't really know what that means, or how I'd go about weighing a scale (perhaps with another scale?), so this one may be difficult. 3. Stop a bank robbery in progress, unless it's success would be beneficial to me. 4. Not get shot when stopping the bank robbery. 5. At least not anywhere where it would really hurt, or make me dead, therefore impeding me from completing any of my other goals. 6. 'Cause it'd be pretty darn impressive to be like, "Yeah, I took a bullet saving all those poor womens from that small army of bank robbers, each one the size of a city bus. But it didn't really hurt me. I have a thick layer of manliness that protects me from pain. Not that I need to be protected from anything, even though this is a dangerous world. I can take it, I'm manly." 7. Become more manly. 8. But not in a stupid way. 9. I guess that's an oxymoron, huh? Woohoo! I'm on my way! 10. Wrestle a bear. (extra credit: win) 11. Figure out the lyrics to "Smells Like Teen Spirit." 12. Be cool. 13. Develop something which could be defined as "cute." Perhaps a child. 14. Get married before developing anything like that. 15. Find out why that old guy at the Dairy Queen always looks at me funny. 16. On second thought, I probably don't want to know. 17. Lather, rinse, repeat. 18. Use the words "conduction" and "impugn" in a way only suitable to be heard by wife. 19. Definitely get married first. 20. Study "rings" of a tree some time. Comment accordingly. Maybe with some statement like, "I sure hope my neighbor won't be mad when he sees what I've done to his tree." 21. Figure out that some stupid things just aren't very humorous. "Genocide" isn't even a funny *word.* 22. Assure people that there's nothing funny about murder, before receiving death threats. 23. But irony is funny. 24. Write the Greatest Piece of American Literature of the 14th Century. 25. Sell my own toenail clippings on eBay, saying that they actually belong to Ashton Kutcher (although Lord knows why *he* would have my toenail clippings...) Make millions, accordingly. 26. Coin the phrase, "Swarthier than a bag of tonsils." 27. Seek lost logic. 28. Find it kissing stolen aviator sunglasses. 29. Write a story about it and sell it to Fox, or change myself to Susan Sarandon (for fiction's sake) and make logic and sunglasses a man-pig I was married to and a 19 year old blonde girl, and sell it to Lifetime. 30. Maybe the guy could be played by Charles Grodin. 31. Meet Bruce Campbell. 32. Survive an alien attack. 33. Uncover a government plot to slowly but surely leak Hillary Duff into every American's home, until everyone has one, and anyone with any sense up and dies, rather than live with Hillary Duff in their house. 34. This is really where I should have mentioned Hillary Duff. 35. Stop mentioning celebrities. Especially Hillary Duff. 36. Try not to get killed by people who like Hillary Duff fanatically enough to argue that she can *sing.* Try not to laugh when they say that. 37. Use the word "chock" in an intelligent/romantic conversation. 38. Get in the car, drive all the way to Goshen Indiana, and realize I forgot my car keys. 39. Although I should probably get a driver's license first. 40. And I should definitely get married. 41. Why do they call it a "Shirley Temple"? Explain in six paragraphs or more. 42. Find the Answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything. Well, that's all for now. Wow, that was surprisingly unsatisfying. But I imagine once I actually accomplish those goals, I'll be truly happy. Because, let's face it, we all know what's best for us. If it's your life's goal to gouge your eyes out with a wine-cork-remover-thingy, then that's what's best for you. I'm not speaking out against having personal goals, mind you. Goals are important. If nobody had any goals, think about how long hockey games would be. I'll be the first to tell you that was a bad joke. Goals and aspirations are what keep us going. You've got to try, at least. It's just like my uncle Herkemer used to say, "I'm a mookie-pookie! Shandala shandala shandala shandala! Fetch me my apron, there's a yoke in the moon!" Now, my uncle Herkemer went crazy because that was his goal in life. One of them. He also wanted to reinvent honey. He thought it should taste more like maple syrup, but have the texture of a fresh oil painting. Yeah...he was definitely on my cousin's side of the family. So, what I'm trying to say is that you should always try. You will probably fail miserably. ...Oh, yeah. I guess I should tell you something uplifting. Well, you'll probably fail, but in the end, it's really funny to everybody but you. The more you mess up, the funnier it is. And there are a whole lot more people than you (at least like...5). So your failure is for the benefit and amusement of the whole of mankind. But seriously***, don't feel bad if you never accomplish some of the goals on your list (I hope you've made one!). Some people are just natural born losers. Others required a C-section. My mother, it would appear, aspires to become a scientist. She's starting with the basics, like doing really stupid experiments that obviously won't work. No disrespect to her. I mean, I think one of these days she's gonna figure out something that nobody else would even attempt because the idea was so ludicrous, and she'll be amazingly successful, at that. I mean, she already has, whatwith motherhood and all. She quit one baby too late, though, and now it's about to come back and bite her in the rear (which is almost symbolic) because I'm about to make fun of her on the World Wide Web, and I have a reader from as far away as Florida! ...Or Batavia! So last night, I was bringing in some groceries from the car, and it was wintertime outside. So she excitedly says, "Shut up, Evan. We're going to have a little experiment." "What kind of experiment?" I ask. "You'll see," she replies. She always says that when she's about to do something neat, and she was really hoping that this would be neat. So, she boils some water, and pours it into a mug. I'm like, "You're not going to try and melt the snow on the steps with that, are you? I think it'd be better just to use some salt..." "I sure hope this is going to work," she said, as she walked toward the front door, out onto the porch. "Whatever you're doing, I don't think it's gonna work," said I, as she raised the mug out over the side of the porch. "They said that it's so cold that water will freeze-" she overturned the mug- "before it hits the ground." At this point, the steaming water from the mug hit the snow, and made a bunch more steam, because, hey, that's what rapidly melting snow does. So, let us review. My mom reads, ("On the internet," she says) that water will freeze before it hits the ground, it's so cold out. I'd like to mention that it was, at best, and I'm totally serious here, 34 degrees, farenheit. Probably closer to 42. But 34 isn't even freezing temperature. Now, in Siberia, at times, it gets so cold that they say your spit with freeze before hitting the ground. I'm not sure how they figured this one out (since they don't spit, of course,) but that's Siberia, anyway. This is Aurora, IL. And that's a bit of spit. This is a mug of steaming water. I find it hard to believe that somebody actually posted on the internet, "It's so cold in Aurora Illinois right now that you could (and I am totally and completely serious and honest. I mean, this is the *internet*) boil a mug of water and pour it out and it would freeze before hitting the ground." But I'm glad she tried. It filled up some space in my journal, anti-climactic as the retelling was. Now, her son (which is me) works at a Science & Technology Museum. Obviously genious isn't reverse-hereditary, or else she would have gotten some of mine. This is the same dear lady who was coaxed into doing chores by being told by one of her sisters, "How about you wash the dishes tonight, and then tomorrow night, *you* can do the dishes!" and was convinced by her mean cousin that her mother would greatly appreciate it if she urinated on the garage floor. I'm way smrter than that. I have a very logical logic: Only do it if Joey McIntire would do it (some of you youngin's won't recognize the name, but he was the greatest of the New Kids on the Block). Now, I've been lied to about what he would and wouldn't do, yes. And yes, because of it, I've worn a dress before. But that was like...weeks ago. I'm way past that now. So what I'm trying to get at is I'm smrt. And I'm finally getting some recognition for it, too, other than kids saying, "stupid smrt homeschooler" in a derogatory fashion. That's right: I'm a teacher. I kid you not. As of this past Thursday (which, if I actually getting around to posting this today, will be yesterday****) I teach a class at Sci-Tech. The position opened due to reasons beyond my control (everybody else is stupid) and now Sammy, whom you should know as the Great One that Sci-Tech would Die Without, won't train anyone else for the spot but me. And I don't need to be trained, because I know exactly what I'm doing (getting snacks for kids, talking about stuff, keeping everybody off of pornographic websites) so boom, I'm there. Today was my first day, and I found out about an hour before the class started. I don't know how long I'll have the title, because nobody in the Education Department particularly likes the idea of some 17 year old dork homeschooled kid teaching a class, especially at an increased Teachers Wage, and especially when they could be pocketing the "easy money." OK, so to me, it's easy money, and since it is so to me, some people think it would be to them. But it's actually more difficult than how I earlier described it, and there are things you need to know that, frankly, they don't, and it wouldn't be too easy for them to catch on, either. But most likely, they're gonna try to get someone else in my place. Fortunately, Sammy wants only me for it. So hey, enough rambling about my real life. Lemme lie to you. I was awake this morning, and there was this huge, giant, dwarven duck. It had a beard. It was in a tunnel. I said to it, "Yo duck! What's up with the beard?" And it responded, "Quack." But it didn't echo in the tunnel. So I thought, "I wish I could grow a beard like that duck." Then I want to the store and bought a case of Beard-Come-In (Tagline: "Puberty to the forty-second power!") and brought it home. Then, after I mixed it with water, and as I was applying the very Chia-esque substance to my face, I thought to myself, "This is not only silly, it is also stupid! I mean, ducks have feathers! That must have been a hobo." But I learned something very important through it all: A hobo's quack doesn't echo. I (truly) had a dream the other night that my friend Jenna tried to blow me up. She tied me up and threw me in a hallway and tossed a timebomb in there with me. So obviously, I kicked the bomb back into the room where she was sitting, waiting for me to blow to pieces. She looked at it and laughed, and kicked it back at me. Then I kicked it back into the room, but it went under a table and blew up, and the table took all the damage. All in all it was a lousy bomb. But then I somehow got untied and I was a little bit frantic, and Jenna goes, "Evan, cool it, you're freaking out!" I wanted to say, "You just tried to blow me up!" but I didn't for some reason unbeknownst to me. Then I woke up. All in all, I'm hoping it wasn't prophetic. Wow, guys. I feel so sorry for you if you're reading this. OK, so I'm actually going to write about a "topic of interest," as they say in the Business. These are usually topics that interest people, that everybody else has been writing about. I'm not really used to writing things that have broad appeal (more than two people). So what else to cover but the ol' Superbowl Halftime Show? Surely, this will go down in infamy. I mean, did you *catch* that lady drummer for Kid Rock? I mean, he himself is a painful idiot***** but I just had to laugh when I saw that. Fortunately, that's all I saw of the halftime show. Actually, that's mostly what I saw of the whole game. I hear that there were a bunch of big men running into each other at high speeds, getting all in a tizzy just because one of them happens to have an oddly shaped ball. Hah, man. People. We're so stupid. I have no doubt that God made us in order that we may give glory to Him, but sometimes I think there's gotta be a pretty high entertainment factor that comes with omnipresence. If I could be everywhere at once...it's like having a worldwide situation comedy, except most of the characters are starving and struggling to survive whereas the rest think they're the stars of the whole thing 'cause they have enough money to get stressed out if the colors of their clothes fade. You get the luxury of a flushing toilet and suddenly you're the King of the World (you don't understand my reasoning here because you have the ability to melt butter in a microwave). And darnit, the king of the world wants to see the epitome of white trash wearing the American flag with a hole cut in the middle for a shirt while he sings the last catchy song he's written in three years! Sometimes even I don't understand myself. I think I'm angry, but maybe I'm just a teenager. Hey! I'm like every other American teen! Personally, I'm glad that was MTV's last halftime show. Since when have plate spinners not been top notch family entertainment? And how long have softcore porn, filthy music (forgiving "Hey Ya!" because I like that song, so it must be good) and drug-addicted sex-crazed sucky role models *been* top notch family entertainment? Bah, I really will get grumpy about that if I keep writing. So on to the life of Gerard Depardieu. You would know him from such classics as, "La Vie Sentimentale de Georges le Tueur," or "Un Peu de Soleil Dans l'eau Froide" or of course "My Father the Hero." This prolific actor, conlific director, seven-time producer, and misc. crew member who, according to imdb.com, has been himself a whopping ELEVEN times, has been a busy little French guy with a big French nose. He currently has an impressive 138 moition pictures under his belt, with another three that are currently (and very embarrassingly) peeking out just above the waistline. His latest release is titled, and I neither jib nor jab, "RRRrrrr!!!" Now you might think, with a title like that, it's gotta be an intelligent dramatic thriller laced with love, murder, lies, and otter vomit. Surprisingly, it is about cavemen******. And it's a comedy. Like, it contains your usual caveman activities (hunting, brawling, eating, scratching private places in public areas, watching a bunch of other cavemen chase each other around and try to give one another concussions because one of them is carrying a rock, etc.) except there's this great kicker: They all speak French! Of course this isn't historically accurate (surprisingly, considering this is a caveman movie). We all know that the French people, much less their language, were never invented until men needed something to counteract the radical idea of monogamy. Why would you waste words on a woman like, "Je veux vous porter à ma pièce et vous donner des baisers," when you've got a club to knock her out with so you can drag her back to your cave? And up until like, the sixties******* this was standard procedure! And yet here they are, a bunch of guys wearing dead squirrels to cover themselves, carrying big clubs, and the only thing even REMOTELY French about them is their under-arm and dental hygiene, and yet they sound as if they're quoting fourteenth century poetry, when really their probably saying, "I don't think my squirrel is dead." But I suppose Gerard is perfect for the role. He's done basically everything else, so why not? Shakespeare, comedy, drama, pornography... Seriously, I was gonna name a good number of other French films, but I translated the title into English first, and let me tell you, this would no longer be a family-friendly rant had I employed some of these. Well, not in America, anyway. These are French films we're talking about. Their idea of a family-friendly film is one about incest. Anyway, I just needed to bring this up because it's amazing to see French speaking cavemen. Check out the trailer here: http://www.marsdistribution.com/site/RRRrrrr/ After all of that, I can't help but think of two actors: John Malkovich, and Vin Diesel. John Malkovich, obviously, because he has a horrible French accent, and Vin Diesel because I was just talking about neanderthals. Another thing is that I was thinking about how prolific an actor Gerard is. A total of 141 films is nothing to sniff at. But I must wonder: When you're in so many movies, is it because you love to act, or is it because you want everybody to know what you look like? I mean, ol' Gerry's picked some hoo-dingers of motion pictures to be in. And I am convinced that John Malkovich (who worked alongside Depardieu in "The Man in the Iron Mask," which caught Leonardo DiCaprio in his eighth unsuccessful attempt to go through puberty) picks many roles because a big stink gets to be made about him. For instance, he was in Johnny English, which is one of those movies which wasn't bad per se (although I'm a little biased as a Rowan Atkinson fan) you just wouldn't laugh at it in front cool people. Now, Malkovich is a highly respected actor (best known for his role in that movie about the jewel thief), and yet he chose Johnny English, I am convinced, just because he got a bunch of pound notes with his face on it, and he got to be crowned King of England. And do you think he would have auditioned for Being John Malkovich if it didn't mean lots of attention for him? I will say that he's talented. I don't know that he's a good actor, though, because to me, he has always been and will always be "John Malkovich playing an android" or "John Malkovich playing a bald guy." Vin Diesel, however, now THERE'S a good actor. I know for certain that he's perfect for every single role in every single movie ever. I think all the other actors in Hollywood should be fired so that Vin Diesel can play every character in everything. Think of the success Anne of Green Gables would have been had the chrome-domed Master of the Screen donned puffed sleeves and quoted Tennyson's "The Lady of Shallot" while laying in a sinking boat. He could have given Forrest Gump that edgy, "I've got to pee but I'm manly enough to hold it until I get a bladder infection" attitude that he lacked, making that movie the flop it was. He could've made West Side Story seem like Shakespeare. I'm sure that you agree with me about this, but just as an extra boost, I will leave you with one last thought on the matter: Frodo Baggins. OK, so this just in: Work sucks. Remember a few paragraphs back when I told you that I'm a teacher now and I get paid more? Welp, those in charge decided the other day (if I actually post this today) that they would pay neither Sammy nor myself the teacher's wage. Technically, I believe this is illegal, at least for Sammy, due to things like college degrees and written and signed agreements that the teacher of the class gets teacher's pay out of the grant coming in specifically for this class. I'm more ticked off for Sammy, who totally deserves (literally) at least three or four times as much as he's currently making, than I am for myself. I'm used to getting paid crap. Really, I've had some paychecks where I might as well go to the bank and try to cash actual fecal matter. Like, you know your pay sucks when the only part you enjoy looking at on your check stub is the total deductions, because that number is so small. But I'm still a teacher, so at least it *sounds* good. One day, I'll be a professional writer, and I apologize ahead of time for that. But one thing I need to learn how to do first is end an article with something conclusive, derived from all of the topics at hand, meeting at one point in relation, or perhaps a final thought on the main body of the piece (such as, "it sucks") or just a clever sentence referencing one of the written topics, such as, "I don't know what I'm going to do about all these other actors taking Vin Diesel's rightful place in films. You figure it out. I'll be over here, trying to grow a feathery beard" or something dumb like that. As it is, I'm just gonna fall back on the old "On the music front" bit. On the music front, famed trio "Slashboard" reunited on a bus for a performance which was only half as memorable as their first appearance, but made up for it by being at least twice as bad. Each member (Chris Tanga, Dan Jacobsen, and Effin KONK!) said at one point or another, "Now I remember why we broke up." On the you're only as dumb as you think you are, if not dumber front, holy crap. I totally forgot to tell you about my breasts. They're gone, as of a week ago. As I sat in that orthodontist chair while he popped 'em off, I felt so slimey and free, like a worm crawling out of a dead bird's stomach. That was a beautiful moment. And he said, "Shut up, Evan. Go ahead and have a look in the mirror, and wash your mouth out while you're at it." So I did. I gave the mirror a big smile, which is not something I regularly do, especially when I see my face. But for a moment, I did not see my face, because it was overcome by the monstrous size of my teeth. I swear that what I saw looking back at me in that mirror was Gary Busey. It was the most frighteneing experience, let me tell you. I'm over that now, I guess. I promised myself I'd be hot for a day. My teeth aren't that big, I suppose. It was just strange to be able to see all of them for the first time in nearly two years. OK, I won't lie. It looks like I'm trying to see how many marshmallows I can fit in my mouth. It looks like I ate a piano and spit out all the flat keys. It looks like my teeth have matured faster than the rest of me, and now I have to grow into them. And just the other day I got a retainer. Going from braces into a retainer is like getting your handcuffs taken off and then being put in a plastic bubble. And I have to wear them for approximately forever. When you get your retainer(s) they send you home with an informative piece of paper that tells you that you can use your retainer to bleach your teeth, and that you should wear your retainer all the time: when you go to sleep, when you wake up, when you crochet, when you're car shopping, when you're climbing up a ladder and your hearing something splatter, when you're eating, even though every time you chew, the retainer pops off then on again and it's very annoying. It also tells you to keep it out of reach of your pet(s) because dogs and cats just love your saliva. Well, if it's in your mouth like it should be, then hopefully it should be out of reach of your pets, unless you're French. I mean no offense to French people (unless they have a sense of hughemourre, or more likely are too stupid to get the jokes,) but only mean it all in good fun. I know many people who have heard of-- even been to France, and I still respect them, to a certain degree. Isn't this disclaimer ignorant enough to let you know I'm joking? Lighten up, French lovers. I will say now that France has given us many good things. Bernoulli was French, and he figured out that birds can fly because they have wings. Pascal was French, and he figured out some science stuff. Their idea of kissing is one of my personal favorite technological breakthroughs. This is only to name a few positive things. *Oh please oh please oh pleeeeeeeaaase let me differ! **I've recieved notice from a large community of enraged hypothetical persons that the statement (generalization) I made about hypothetical people earlier in this post will most definitely come off as offensive and insulting, as well as degrading, uncooth, and unpleasant. Some even said that it was blasphemy, and that I should definitely change it, or I could (possibly) be at risk of getting zapped by what could be lightning, or even getting turned into a pillar of salt. Still, a very large number of some of the most hypothetical women out there want me in a very kissy-kissy fashion. So too bad, all you other Hypies. You can't do squat to me (you'd never get past planning my demise), and I've got all your fly hypothetical honeys. ***Yeah bloody right. You didn't believe me when I said that, did you? ****OK, so this was like, a week or two ago that I wrote this portion. *****I mean no disrespect to anyone with the exception of Kid Rock and his fans, who will now hunt me down with rifles and Louisville Sluggers. I have no Kid Rock lovin' honeys to gloat about, but I don't believe that I would anyway. ******Pardon me, I meant cave*persons*. *******Note that I don't say *which* sixties. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ This house was built on a firm Foundation But the walls are quickly crumbling. Blinded brothers break their faces, All the while mumbling, "I tried to reach out and it nearly killed me." Self loathing, self pleasure, self pity, Self reliance is the way we're told. Everything but self control. All the while shaking our fists at King Jehosaphat, Who's trying his hardest to save us from uncertain doom. Never knowing he nearly took Salvation from you. And you loathe parenthood, with the state it's at, You raise them as best you know, making sure they clean their rooms, All the while fearing they might become you. This house was built on a firm Foundation, But water pours in through the ceiling. And we drink it in like wine, And we're waiting for a feeling. It's poisoned and it's filthy, But we say "what no one knows won't kill me." So we give what we have and take what we can get, Hoping for that sensation that we never will forget. But we just grow callous and hard and numb, So we drink deeper, we plunge further. How will we remove this jagged knife? What are we, what will we, what have we become? Broken men gather, and you can hear a light murmer: This really isn't life. And so we dream the dream, Comatose as it may seem, And the walls will fall down if we should wake. Some are in a strange, inexplicable state, Wondering what it would take, Considering all that's at stake, Wondering if we should wake. 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Monday, October 27th, 2003
10:42 pm	"I'm not flying in that! I want my giggle back." So I met Dave Barry a little while ago, with all his glory, and majesty, and...gregarious...ness. Well, to be perfectly honest, he posessed all the majesty of canned trout*, which is what I liked about him. For those of you who are blubbering idiots who don't know any better, Dave Barry is the single most hilarious humor columnist. Ever. I mean, I can't even make a joke about it, like, "The single most hilarious humor columnist ever to write half his columns while thoroughly inebriated," or "ever to play a washing machine salesman in a tv show based upon himself," because, surprisingly, this leaves a bit of room for someone who may be *even more hilarious.* This just isn't true; he's simply the best. But when I met him, I thought (and this is true- it's too stupid to make up), "This man picks his nose." I mean, he's just an average guy, you know? Just sitting at a table, being the center of attention, putting his name on tons of books with his picture on it (wherein he is hanging from the nose of George Washington) for hundreds, if not thousands of adoring fans. I mean, I felt so relaxed with him I wet my kpants right there. So, the full condensed story with some pointless tangents: He was at the Anderson's Bookstore in Naperville, signing his new book, "Of Mice And Men." Oddly enough, his name is already all over the book. I guess it's just an extra assurance thing. Anyway, my friend and loyal offendee, Jenny L. Tennyson, whose name I will refrain from stating for security purposes, called me and said, "Shup up, Evan. Guess who's gonna be in Naperville tonight!" to which I said, "Tony Danza?" That said we had a good chuckle, because I've never said anything like that before. Then she cheerfully said, "Listen punk, I don't need to take this crap from you. There is no insult that can come close to describing what a horrible mess-up of life you are. I'm only telling you that Dave Barry is gonna be there because you remind me of him." Alright. Let's stop there. I've had nearly two people, if not that much, tell me that I remind them of Dave Barry. And really, I adore these people. I really do. But they have no idea what they're talking about. I think I'm more easily compared to, say, the sea cucumber. Now, there are some very basic differences between Dave Barry and myself: A: He doesn't list things pretty much the same way all the time. I, on the other hand, do. B: He is a humor columnist. He uses humor to communicate things he's paid to write about, and he does this very well, otherwise they wouldn't pay him. I however, am a teen who writes about stupid issues in such a way that you're certain I am either on something illegal (which I am not) or I stay up until three running on caffeine and writing down whatever comes to mind, which isn't very professional. Plsu I don't get paid diddly squat. Probably because I can't spell "plsu." Layyyyyyyla (duh duh dunnn,) got me on my knees, Layla...: His wife is Jewish. Mine is Hiding. I probably shouldn't admit that I think some Helen Keller jokes are kind of funny: Our writing methods are entirely different. Dave Barry will sit down at his computer, clip his toenails, and say to himself, on a topic such as sharks who are afraid of heights, "I'll think I'll make this funny by pointing out how stupid it all is. Maybe I'll say something about beer, too." whereas I, in my brainstorming sessions, will say, "I hope nobody realizes that I'm plagerizing this from a Dave Barry column." As a sidenote, and not a very interesting one at that, this did accidentally happen once. Before reading his informative book, "The Taming of the Screw," I wrote an entry in which I gave a brief history of power and hand tools. A few months ago, I did read the aforementioned literature, only to discover a very similar illustration. Only it was much more professional, because I only know your basic tools, such as the screwdriver, and the other type of screwdriver, and the hammer. Oh, and the plunger. Kellogg's gave Tony the Tiger a spinoff cereal. That's hard to swallow: Actually, come to think of it, it would be "Kellogg," rather than "Kellogg's." But that doesn't sound right. Dave Barry would have gotten it right the first time, and it would've sounded great. Gentlemen, what we have here is a terrifying example of the Reindeer Effect: Dave Barry gets to know things, so he can make more funnies. Not only does he know stuff about politics, which I don't much care for, but people all over also send him random bits of stupid news that you can just get *so* many cheap jokes out of. People just tell me I should have worded something more differenterly, because the way I wrote it bites grandmas. Not that I don't appreciate the constructive cynicism, it's just...I mean, doesn't anybody read anything amusing in the news that isn't related to Dave Barry, Scott Adams, Gary Larson, or other funny comic strips, like Get Fuzzy? Can't somebody just once find something about, oh I don't know, a nudist who believes immodesty in the media is destroying our nation? Maybe an entire colony? Just make something up if you have to. What I'm saying is that if you compare me to Dave Barry, you're totally insulting him, and not catching the very serious allegorical meaning of all of my entries, which is: Man. Kids these days. So I'm doing child care during my church's Womens' Bible Study on Tuesday mornings. The children I "care" for are pretty neat. I kind of just let everybody beat me up until their mothers come to get them. I play house with some of the girls. Sometimes we play castle. It's a pretty fun game. They way it goes is: One girl has the tiara and the Magic Princess Wand, and everybody else has to try and get them by brute force. I win. Usually nobody feels like going another round, so I'm the Magic Princess for the rest of the day, and I make them wait on me, hand and foot. Usually the former Magic Princess has a good cry about. I guess that's just what girls do. But hey, that's life. Get over it. That's the great thing about kids. They get so upset over the tiniest things, such as when you feed their pet frog to their neighbor's cat. And the younger they are, the smaller the issue, the bigger the fuss. Often when they're young (which many children tend to be,) they cry about happy things. And they coo at funerals. You just can't make a rosey-cheeked baby look somber, especially when they're wearing Osh Kosh. Some of the youngins at the childcare, who like, don't even walk yet...well, there are a lot of things they don't do yet. You never see baby poets. You just don't. Sometimes you think you hear some early signs of alliteration, but assure you, it's perfectly coincidental. Anyway, they're just so fickle. They haven't really figured much out in life. They just know they want *something* and darnit, they want it NOW, or else they're gonna cry and scream about it, until they get whatever it is they want, and even then, they're not satisfied. You know, kind of like how everybody else in America is. I look at these infants as they cry over the fact that the colors of their toys are just not bright enough, and I say, "If only you knew the hardships of real life...well, you'd still be crying, but not about that." I mean, I'm a TEENAGER. I know exactly what life is all about, because I've experienced it all. I've loved (mostly pizza) and I've lost (mostly football games, and a bunch of cds that I've loaned out to friends). I'm like, Job. I don't even have a cell phone. And now my parents are reading this, saying, "If only you knew the hardships of real life..." And then my grandparents are looking at my parents, saying the same thing. And then my great grandparents are looking down from Heaven, saying, "Sucks to be you. I'm gonna go have some Heaven Pie. Mmm, boy." But if they think they have it good, man. They haven't looked at toys lately. We're doing this childcare in someone's basement. I hope they don't find out too soon, because we still have some weeks ahead of us. Anyway, this basement is just filled with toys of all assortments. Toy tools, toy Barbies, toy boats (toy boat, toy boat, toy boat...), toy poodles, toy children, toy clothing, toy kitchens, toy cars, toy homes, toy balls, toy guns, toy knives, toy brass knuckles, toy pikes, toy whips, toy bread, toy burger patties, even some toys I just don't know how to describe. You just to come to grips with the fact that they're toys, because they are made up of primary colors and they make loud noises. Granted not everything made up of primary colors that makes a loud noise is a toy. Chris Rock, for instance, is not a toy. Neither is Ronald McDonald, or that one televangelist woman with the big hair and enough makeup to give all of El Salvador a makeover, who's always crying about something or other. But the point I'm trying to make is that kids have a lot of really cool toys. I'm jealous. When I was their age (and this really was not that long ago, mind you) I had like, half a balloon (that I wasn't aloud to play with because my mom said I'd choke on it,) and a wooden potato, and like, a hand-me-down Ken Doll whose limbs were missing. And his head wouldn't stay on. That was the problem with broken Ken Dolls. Their heads would just kind of fall off. The only thing you felt safe would never fall off was the crotch-bump. Not that I played with Barbies. My brother had some Lincoln Logs, which are little pieces of wood that you could make log cabins out of. If you had enough pieces and time, you could make a cabin big enough for yourself to go inside, and just before you would finish, your dog would run in and knock everything down. And they profitted off of the respectable name of Logs. Those were pretty cool, mainly because I did not have my own, and my brother wouldn't let me play with his. But now...man. There's this toolbench in the basement, and they have toy tools I don't even know the use for (go figure), but if I ever needed the real thing, I think these might suffice. And I swear on the grave of Mylanta that Barbie's car now comes with power windows and locks. They even have toys of toys. I've stumbled upon toy MP3 players, toy beepers, a toy pool table, toy cell phones- these come in abundance. My own niece, Holland, who should be in the process of being raised in the ways of the poor man, walks around with a cancelled-service cell phone. She jabbers on this like...like some kind of a jabberin' fool. And she doesn't even really talk. She can say "fish," and "car," and "no." She's really been liking the word "no" lately. She says no to everything, although she doesn't really get the meaning. She just loves the word. Random adult: Holland, do you want a pony and a million dollars and an Emmy award? Holland: (nodding her head up and down,) No! Geez. Toy is just one of those words that loses it's meaning really easy if you say it a lot. Toy toy toy toy toy toy toy toy toy... Just thought I'd mention that. It's what we in the business (of people who place things atop other things) call a "dodge." See, when one of us, namely me, does not want to continue with a topic because it's getting boring, we (I) say something loosely related but random enough to change the subject. Sometimes, one might even bring up something from way before. So my sister-in-law, Mandie, made me give Dave Barry the address for this site. He looked at it, touched it to his forehead, and said, "it's good." Obviously that's something only professionals are able to do. I think he's a little rusty, though. I tried it with my math book when I got home. It hurt my head. And it wasn't very good. School. Phuh. Pronounced, "p-huh," not "fuh." Whoever invented school was obviously in need of it himself, because it was a really stupid idea. That's all I have to say on the matter. But I thought it might be time for another TEK Talk. Hoo boy, was I wrong. I will say something about our edumacation system, though: It's stupid. You'd think we'd learn how to teach kids more gooder by now. I think we had the right idea way back when the teachers were aloud to administer whoopings. I'm not talking about those wussy paddles from the twenties, either. I'm talking about the teachers of the Days of Yore (c. 932-1246, a.k.a. in other regions as "the Days of Myne") who got to carry around pikes and maces and stuff**. Sure, they'd run you through for claiming such heresy as that eating a mug of toad eyes in the middle of the Schwycka-Schwacka Forest while reciting "The Seafarer's Trousers" in Latin would NOT cure diarrhea, but at least you KNEW what to answer in class. I, however, recall my mom trying to get me to remember things by turning certain key words, such as "benign," into reverse-acronyms. "When you come to this part," she might say, "Just remember, 'boys...eat...nitrogen...in...granular...um...nitrogen'." Gee, thanks. That makes it *real* easy. I think maybe it's because she didn't know what it meant (it, I later learned, comes right before "beaten," and right after "beeight") but there's gotta be a better way. I would hardly go so far as to say that school is all-bad. Most bad things are pretty fun, so I'm just waiting to see what redeeming value there is to this thing. Not that I condone bad behavior, because I don't. I'm just stating the obvious: Bad things are fun. That hardly makes them good. Not that good things are all that bad. No sir-ee. I think that pizza is a good thing. I've had bad pizza before, though. So I guess if good things can be good, then bad things can be bad. And vice versa. We can thank my exhaustion for that incredible insight into...my kpants...whatever... Some people have no sense of humor***. If you are one of those people, I kindly and cautiously ask you to please avoid this portion of this entry. Heck, avoid this entire website as if you were your co-workers and this site was you, because you're gonna get REAL offended if you can't grasp sarcasm, or idiocy. However, if you have merely a *poor* sense of humor, I beg you to stay and read on, because you are my only hope if I ever want to try and make money from this writing thing. I say this because I recently met a young man who, instead of a sense of humor, posessed a violent nature. You see, a few friends and myself went to Chili's just to shoot the breeze. And I know that sounds stupid, but we didn't use guns, because guns are what make things stupid. I mean, what if in a war, instead of guns, soldiers were all issued Inflatable Richard Simmons Walking Bombs? I think that's the more intellectual approach. No more guns, and everyone would be burning fat! And so many people die stupid because they got shot (with a gun) before they could get more smrter. So we took singlshots instead. However, much to our disappointment, there was very little breeze at Chili's, so instead, we'd just shoot random people in the back of the neck, and when they'd turn around, we'd all put our slingshot-wielding hands under the table and pretend to be laughing, hard, at something else. "HAHAHA," we might say, "that thing that one of us just said sure was funny!" But before all this commenced, we had to wait to be seated, and this is where I met the Man with No Sense of Humor. He had already been seated, and I was just goofing off. I happened to make eye contact with him, and I made a face or two, and maybe did a little dance, possibly said something about his date that maybe wasn't very necessary, and sort of made her really self concious about her nose. Anyway, the dude just stares at me. And I do that sometimes, y'know, stare straightfaced at someone or something, and see who cracks a smile first. So I made a really straight face. After 42 seconds or so, I thought to myself, "maybe he and I aren't really playing the same game here." So I flashed a big smile, just to see how he'd react, which he didn't. Then the Chili's dude came and said we could be seated. As we walked to our table, the guy I had just been communicating with like one of us was a monkey and the other was possibly a very cheesed off young man who didn't like monkeys made his way over to me. He said to me, "Shut up, Evan." Which was shocking to say the least, because I didn't know he knew my name. Then he said, "You got a problem with me?" To which I responded, "No sir, I don't." He was taken aback by this, obviously, because I think he expected me to say "Why yes, yes I do, ya' Silly Billy! Here you are, EATING, and MINDING YOUR OWN BUSINESS! I mean, my goodness! The nerve you have!" So since he didn't have any plans to overcome what I had in fact said, he asked again, with a little less tact, "You got a problem with me or somethin'?" "Uhh, nope. I was kinda just hoping to have some fun with you, thought maybe you'd play along. Guess not. Sorry about that." I said. The young man stared at me for a moment, dumbfounded, which was understandible I guess, because that's *exactly* how he had been looking at his date, and all the words in his menu. Then he spoke, with all the wisdom and knowledge of an extra in an 80's horror flick who thinks he can take on the bad guy, "Is this somethin' you wanna take outside?" I had to laugh. I didn't think people actually said that. I think the only time I'd heard it before was when my old friend Oogie hit me at the park across the street from my house. He hit me in the mouth, 'cause I asked him if he knew where my bike was. He wasn't a very good friend, I guess. As I recall (not that my recollections are so reliable...) I later found my bike in the alley near his house. And I mean, that was at *the park.* Well I may be stupid, but I sure ain't manly! So I said, "Haha, no sir. Like I said, I was just trying to have some fun with you. Were you offended by all that?" "Yes." "Well I do apologize for it then, dummy." Many people may look at that and say that I was a wuss. And yes, I am a wuss, but this guy was quite possibly even smaller than me. The way I see it, why further cheese off someone you didn't even mean to cheese off in the first place? So in conclusion, I think it's pretty clear to see that colleges and universities are just one big silly. I recently visited the one my very best friend Seth attends, and although I like it a lot, and the teachers are really cool, the idea is just silly. Here they are, all these college students, and they're supposed to be preparing themselves for full fledged adulthood. But to them, being an adult means no more parents, and WOOHOO! Party time! Let's cover a Belgian waffle in soft serve icecream, and top that with a bunch of other stuff and just eat the whole thing! Not that this is bad, it's just not what it means to be an adult. At least, that's what my mom said. She said being an adult means giving money to your parents to pay off all the strife you've given them. But they're supposed to be preparing themselves for the real world, so the exclude themselves to a stretch of land where they're age group is the majority, and the lifestyle is completely befitting to them and their desires. If college is supposed to prepare you for the real world, here's how I'd run it: For starters, you'd get paid to go to class. You need a timecard and everything. Studying is considered overtime. The only way you can move up from freshman to sophomore, et cetera, is by either blackmail, someone higher up "mysteriously leaving town," kissing up, or, occasionally, hard work. Eventually, if you're quick enough of a backstabber, you'll get your chance to be a professor. The way this would happen is you and the current professer would have to duel to the death, your only weapon being a wooden short sword. He'd get pikes and maces and stuff. I know it seems unfair, but hey, that's life. And no more of these wild parties with things I'm not even aloud to mention here, things I don't even know about, like people kissing, and things like that. All parties should be awkward get togethers with family members or people you haven't seen in at least a decade. Every male, except one (namely, not you****) will be fat and balding. The one looks somewhat like David Hasselhoff, and he keeps winking at your wife. All the girls have a little bit of facial hair. One of which is proud of the amount she has- she's even grown it out into a beard, and she's in some record book. Another one has had a face lift that's about as subtle as Jerry Lewis (fortunately, none of these are you). Four of the fat, balding guys are in gaudy suits that no longer fit them, and they're all playing music- one song or another, and never two of them playing the same one- for entertainment, because they used to be in a band together, which they cleverly dubbed "Americanne Hughemourre." At every table (yes, there are tables and chairs, and it's catered. No pizza. There is no overturned furniture. No screaming, just a light murmuring) is one drunken man. But he's not a fun drunk. He mainly just sleeps, and flaps his lips when he breathes. The kids of some of the party-goers poke him with they forks and plug his nose and spill water in his lap. One outgoing attender is asking you if you remember a bunch of stuff, including his name, which you don't, but you occasionally pretend to. Your idea of staying up late, at my college, is falling asleep halfway through the first commercial break during the 10 O'clock news. OK, I have more ideas, but I'm not gonna write 'em because I need to post this. Anyway, if you are interested in a college like this, contact and I'll pray for your mental well-being. On the music front, ...geez, there's a lot of music stuff out there. I remember this song I wrote about a year ago. It goes like, "doo doo doo, dah dah, dun dun dun dah dah dah dah dah" over and over. The music is pretty moving, too. Also, I guess I'm actually in a band now. We have songs and everything. It consists of four talented musicians and lyricists, and me. I've missed the past couple of practices...in fact, I don't have an official position in the group yet...and they're not really interested in the type of music I write...and they've actually sent me a letter that says they refuse to communicate or conort with me any longer...but we're gonna be big, I can tell. On the Let's face it, there's no such thing as Space Aliens. All aliens have home planets, they do not merely live in space. You people need to stop being so ignorant front, I was just thinking, wouldn't it be really funny if you went to a wake, and it's an open-casket thing, and you look in and there's a little sticky not in the deceased's handwriting that says, "be back in a few," and then the stiff's body is found the next morning leaned up against the Charmin toilet paper at Eagle? Well, I guess it would be more bizarre than funny, since Eagle went out of business. *Oh and Dave, if you're reading this, I was talking about really, really majestic canned trout. **Didn't I already mention those? ***Literally: "hughemourre." ****I say this for a couple of reasons. For one, it's *never* you. Also, you're probably a girl, anyway. P.S., getting the new site up is a slow and tedious task which I have not yet even begun to complete. And Sir Alec Guiness is still dead, for good measure. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ In every place we look, on all the bookshelves, Are magazines that tell us what to wear, And books that tell us what to think for ourselves, Or arrogantly tell us not to care. But when your anthem gets no airplay, And when your legends all have died, I ask you to challenge these words I say, Where does your passion lie? The guru tells you that you've been anointed, And says enlightenment is when you find yourself. But when you do you will be disappointed, And you'll try to find the key from someone else. But when your brotherhood has all disbanded, And you realize that you all shared one mind, And when your quest has left you empty-handed, Where does your passion lie? The children in their bedrooms crying "havoc," Their parents cannot seem to figure out That everyone just does it out of habit, Not knowing what their warcry is about. And you press on till victory is tasted, Or the answer is written in the sky, But when you see your comrades getting wasted, Where does your passion lie? Some spend their entire lives mining, Some for silver, others for gold. They come in so bright and shining, But leave so hard and so cold. And when you've taken more than you can carry, And with the angels you must fly, When your body and your dreams have all been buried, Where does your passion lie? You may admit you spend your whole life dying, And say there's nothing new under the sun, Or you may just waste all your time trying Not to take that line from anyone. But when you see that nothing new was learned And all you can do is ask yourself why, When you know for certain you've been burned, Where does your passion lie? Oft she is a lady sick of waiting, It's not the sex, she's had more than enough. But why does it feel more like suffocating When it's supposed to feel like making love? And when your options all have left you, And you know your choices were all wrong, And when your lovers all forget you, Where has your passion gone? (5 Comments |Comment on this)
Saturday, September 6th, 2003
2:26 pm	Dimples! Oh no, that isn't suicide! Well children, it's time to go back to school. School is a very important part of your life, and not just because it provides you with the knowledge you *need* to pass the test tomorrow. Lord knows you're gonna forget all that as soon as the test is over. I mean, you get all these classes, and you're gonna forget everything you learn in them except for the dumbest facts. I like History and everything, but I don't care *who* Aaron Burr shoots as long as it isn't me. Or my dog. And yet these courses are required. Math is two of them. Another is a foreign language, and whatever language you learn, no matter how many years you study it, by the time you're 23, all you'll remember of the language are the cuss words. You'll go to some place where they speak that language, say Scotland*, and you'll attempt to ask where the bathroom is (correct wording: "I been giv'ner me all on th' greens in me plaid whena thought abit alla th' whiskey I had, an' t'make a long story short, Ah'm lookin' fer yer can, laddy.") but you make a lingual mistake and accidentally say something like, "Yer mum is Irish, yer father's sober, yer sister's a terrier, ye' wear yer kilt commando, and no bank'd give ye' a loan based soley on th' fact that yer ugly. I mean, yer THAT ugly, laddy." Think about it. You'd NEVER find a bathroom. You're entire life, you're gonna think that America won the Civil War. And who was the 42nd president of the United States of America**? You think it might have been Alex Trebek. Why is it that the school system seems to think that every living person should be aware of what a caffeine molecule looks like? Anyway, like I said earlier, that isn't the only reason you go to school. I know you don't believe me, so I'll make up a list for you right now of other reasons for school. This list is taken from the test results of a test where I asked this one guy why people might go to school, and he's a really reliable source. By reliable I mean that he's been out of rehab for a few weeks now. Haha, just kidding. I'm just asking myself. It won't be reliable at all. EFFIN'S LIVEJOURNAL'S TOP WHATEVER-NUMBER-OF-REASONS-HE-COMES-UP-WITH REASONS SOME PEOPLE MIGHT GO TO SCHOOL, EXCLUDING THE REASON HE ALREADY GAVE YOU: A: 'Cause that's where everybody else is, except for babies and grownups. And babies just spit up on you, and grownups just tell you to clean up all the spit up and check the baby's diaper while you're at it. Both eat strange food. Not that the "food" at school is all that normal... 2: Football and cheerleading captains. TWO SEPARATE PEOPLE, unless inside a movie theater. Cecil Adams: Getting good grades in school helps you to get scholarships for college- which is more school. Did You Know It Costs $5 To See Sinky the Finless Dolphin at the Aquarium in Stubenville, PA?: It's truly your only opportunity to be really cool. It's hard work, granted, but it's worth it, because when you're grown up and looking to start a career, the first question they ask you in interviews- sometimes it's even on the application- is whether or not you were cool while recieving your edumacation. So you've gotta be sure to wear what everybody else is wearing- and then of course the next year deny that you ever dressed like that. Oh, and poke a lot of fun at that portly kid with some unfortunate name like Milton Heckler, and find a reason to give him a nickname like "Moto-Scroto" or something. Oh, and if you ARE Milton, study really hard, ignore what all the other kids say because they're just idiots who are trying to be cool in front of all their "friends" who won't accept them if they aren't cool. And if they turn out to not be cool, they'll get rejected by their friends, and you'll have someone to talk to other than your pet vermicelli worm. And lie to your employers. 42: Honestly, the dog didn't eat your homework. You did and you know it. Stop lying to your teacher. 6,750: Your teacher is pretty cute***. 246: Sometimes you get to watch movies. I mean real movies, like Grease and Gladiator and O Brother, Where Art Thou?. I'm not just talking about those shorts made in the fifties and sixties with names like, "The Menstruation Cycle: How It Affects You" and "Johnny's Tonsils". Oh, then there are the ones made in the eighties, like "The Scientific Wonders of Your Body" and "You Look Like A Monkey: You Came From The Sea" and "Evolution: We're Right And Those Christians Are Wrong! Nananabooboo!" These are very informative. They always start off with some Carl Sagan-type narrator who opens with "Billions and billions of years ago..." and then he tells you all this stuff. Apperently a really long time ago, the universe was so small it could fit inside Billy Crystal's left nostril. Then it blew up to roughly the size of the universe, all of the sudden, which, needless to say, hurt. This idea was proven by recreating it on a computer. But this was in the eightes, and the Big Bang looked suspiciously like the old game, "Invaders." I'm still not really certain how it blew up and there was all this order because of it. Nobody really knows how that little tiny speck of a universe got there in the first place. Scientists say, though, that the universe was so compressed to begin with that a sneeze could've set it off. When asked who sneezed, scientists say "Definitely not God. Maybe Billy Crystal." 34: We've gotta catch up to those Japanian kids. Even though they don't tend to speak English, they still somehow learn really fast. Those Japanian guys have it made. Good grades. Cool gadgets. Fly Japanian honeys. Man. Moose: Indian. "Absurd" Is A Strong Word. I Hear It Can Bench the Weight of Both "Philanthropy" and "Acquirement" At The Same Time. I Think That's Crazy: There are a LOT of people of the opposite gender there. One of them is bound to be attracted to you. So what if he's a creep ('Cause I mean, really, he IS) or she's got a baboon's heart and has tried to pick bugs out of the hair of every man she's ever gotten close to? Now I know what you're thinking. Don't be alarmed, it's just a gift of mine, I don't use it to do evil. Unless it's immediately profitable. But anyway, you're thinking "Shut up, Evan. You're just one of those weirdo Homeschoolers. You don't know anything about REAL school." Well, to be perfectly honest with you, go suck an egg. I've never really tried sucking an egg. I've heard that if you squeeze one in the palm of your hand, it won't break. Of course, I've also heard that Britney Spears is a Baptist. Speaking of Baptists, it's time to go back to school, kids! (We're right back where we started). But what are you going wear? I know you've been having those dreams wherein you arrive at school wearing only your Spider-Man whitey-tighties. Well have no fear, because we here at Effin's Live Journal have decided to really overdo it today by not only making a crappy list, but also writing a crappy guide, because we haven't posted in about two months and we figure this is kind of an atonement. Of course, this will also be painfully stupid, so we apologize in advance for any injury and/or trauma our atonement sacrifice brings you. But here it is: ------------ EFFIN'S LIVEJOURNAL'S GUIDE TO THIS YEAR'S FASHION Summer, in all her beauty, freedom, glory and brightness, a romance of memories, and memories of romances, those days forever missed- indeed, hours appreciated so much they are missed as they are had. And the nothing, all of that nothing, with no one in particular, or someone quite special. Those days are yet again over. Clocks are ticking more slowly now, for the days, though shorter, are an eternity of waiting until we shall once again see our lady Summer. Leaves gather on the ground. Children gather during recess, though they know it's not the same. Time has yet again caught hold of us, a beast which only gets stronger and more fearsome as it draws away our life. This happens as it has happened every year, but there is something different; this is a whole new year! It brings with it new challenges, new ideas, new opportunities. The only thing you have to do is ask yourself: What on earth are you gonna wear? The first thing you need to know about fashion is that it's all about the here and now. This means it is ever-changing, because "now" is so fickle, which means you must be too. That's not really the first thing you need to know. I'd actually tell you way before it that fashion is not only limited to clothing, but spans into all areas of your life. You'd better not be wearing shorts that say words like "cutie" or "princess" or "easy" across the butt and then tell me you listen to Chopin. Also, you've got to watch the way you talk. For example, when I come up to you and slap you really hard on both ears at the same time, if you were to react with, "Ouch! My ears!" you would be ridiculed and possibly even lynched. The correct response for any fashionable person is "Dag, yo! Ma errs!" Another handy lingual tip would be to substitute basically every noun with the first letter of the word and then "izzle." Anybody who is cool will comprehend it right away and respond with an affirming "fo shizzle, fo shizzle." As an example: You: "Dizzle, yo. Me an' my hizzle went to McDizzle's last nizzle and I got some Chizzle McNizzles, wit' some o' dat Barbeque Sizzle. 'Was all good, know what I'm sayin', 'til I went through the Drive Thrizzle agizzle and got me a Chizzle Shizzle. Made my stomach chizzle like a mizzle. Now I got da' rizzles." Other Fashionable Person: "Fo shizzle." Alright, to clothes. Now, I am most certainly a fashion expert. I was in Italy for a week last fall. Remember these words, for they will be entirely useless to you in a few months: Tight. OK, so it's one word. Tight. And forget about it. But do it. Yes, remember, don't think about what you're doing. You'll never meet a fashionable person who takes time to actually think about what they're wearing. This is why you meet vegans with leather shoes. There are old women wearing big glasses who live in remodeled warehouses in New York who do all the thinking for fashion. You just have to put it on. Does it look like there are some buttons missing? How would you know?! You didn't design that bathing suit! Are the cuffs really worn? Is there a hole in the seat? Rest assured, there's no neeed to ask what caused it: It's fashion! Or possibly mice! And remember to forget this soon: If they can't see it, they don't want it. Your clothes need to cut off circulation to key areas of your body. Girls, you need to flaunt what your mama gave you, and your daddy said wouldn't last too long. If you don't make yourselves toys for guys to mentally rape, you'll never find true love. Guys, this isn't exactly in the same vain****, but all the Europanese guys are wearing kpants that are so tight that some of them get a leg amputated just to make more room. Then there's shirts. What's out: Those ridiculously huge T-shirts that say "CHOOSE LIFE." What's in: Ridiculously small T-shirts that say "Keep On Truckin'" and "CHOOSE LIFE." Shoulderwear: Parrots. Shoes should be "worn in," to the point of actually being "worn out." If you buy brand new shoes, I would recommend that you put them in a medium size thick plastic bag with handles, then finding a hard, jagged area (such as your mother's face before she shaves,) bash the living daylights out of them. After this, take them out of the bag, and with a large hammer, or possibly an old dog, bash them, some more until they look like you've had them for a long, long time, like since the Jefferson administration. If shoes don't look like this, they'll KNOW you went out and bought new shoes because you're trying to be cool. THIS IS NOT COOL. If you want to be cool, then cool new shoes are a definite no-no. Look at my shoes. I'm The Fonz. Pepsi and orange juice don't mix. That doesn't have anything to do with fashion, but I just realized it. Anyway, on with fashion. Due to that cool new pirate movie that's in the theaters, "Freaky Friday," pirates have become very fashionable. Hair should be black and greasy. Pirates actually stole this from indie kids. But what *doesn't* get taken from them? Eye-liner is a must. Shower as little as possible. Oh, and forget dental hygiene. A woman can't resist a man with black, rotting teeth these days. This is why those Europanese guys get those fly Europanese honeys who have armpit hair. Speaking of underarms, always carry around a duck under one of your arms. There are few things I'd rather see than a pirate carrying a duck. I'm sure the same goes for the general public because I'm a fashion expert, and all fashion experts are down-to-earth people who know just what everybody needs. I know what you're thinking, you're thinking "Shut up Evan. You're telling me to carry around two birds- a parrot, and a duck. Won't that look a little odd?" BE SILENT YOU PATHETIC MUDDENED IMBECILE! All you have to do is hold the duck under the arm *opposite* to that which the parrot is on. If you have a duck and a parrot on the same side, it looks like you're gonna fall over. I would also highly recommend getting a cough. Riane and I have the Minnesotian Death Cough. This is much like, if you'll recall from last year, the Canadian Death Cough, only slightly less volatile. Still annoying as all get out, though. I named mine Heath Ledger. These are pretty hard to come by, because ours aren't contagious (so no, I didn't get mine from Riane. I couldn't have if I tried. ...And I didn't try). Coughs are cool because...um...well you don't need to know! Well the caffeine is wearing off, so I'm done with this section. I'll just tell you one thing: I hear that lederhosen is making a comeback. I saw Chris Carrabba in some...oh skip it, I'm done! ------------ ...So my friend Jeremy told me I should work out more. That's his way of telling me I'm fat. In all actuality (though Lord knows we here at Effin's Live Journal try to avoid actuality at all costs) I'm dreadfully skinny. And wimpy. He told me I need to work out because he tried to fall asleep with his head on my shoulder, which is actually painful for his face, and it would have been much more comfortbale for both of us had he just fallen asleep with his face on a knife blade. So I'm supposed to gain more muscle mass. It's not like I haven't tried. I've got a weight bench up in my room. I do all sorts of exercises. I do the one where I lie on my back on the bech, and I try and push (or, "lift") the bar with the heavy weights off of the fork thing that holds it up, keepking it from falling directly on my neck. This is what body-builders (the names is misleading, I know. They don't actually build bodies, they just make their own bigger) call the Bench Press. I've tried doing some Calf Raises but cows tend to be a bit possessive about their young. After I do all the prelimenary stretches, I do something called a Curl, wherein I "curl" myself into a ball of pain because some of those stretches hurt like a mother. I also do this one called a Leg Lift, which is when I lift my leg. Jeremy told me to start doing Military Presses. This is when you bench press your nation's entire military. Haha, just kidding. It's actually a really stupid way of killing yourself. You sit on the bench, back straight. That's where you lose me in the whole deal. Anyway, once you've accomplished this, you put the broad bar with lots of weights behind your neck, and lift it up as high as you can above your head, so that when it falls, it will have gained enough momentum to kill you instantly and mercifully when it hits you on the noggin. I don't know. I may start working out again. I don't gain mass very well. I'm the same weight I was when I was 11. I'd like to say that I'd work out to feel good, but that's kind of like saying that I drink massive amounts of beer so that I can drive better. Nobody actually feels better when they work out. They're just more thankful to be alive after they're done doing their sets, because they know they don't have to use their triceps like that for a whole day, and in celebrating, they eat a box of Swiss Cake Rolls. I personally am glad I'm not as ridiculously huge as some guys out there. They're so in love with their muscles, it's sickening (if you're one of those guys, I mean everyone BUT you. Your muscles DESERVE adoration). They carry on conversations with their biceps by asking them questions like, "Who's the sexiest?" and then twitching the muscle and speaking in a different voice, having it say "You are! You are!" They think that girls are simply driven wild by the sight of an overgrown man in a speedo, who has so many apperent veins it looks like there's a worm farm just under his skin. What's really sad is that some women are. What's worse is women who do it. I mean, women who work out, that's one thing, but female body-builders...nngh...that's a whole 'nother ball park. I know I'm walking on thin ice with hot irons tied to the bottom of my shoes here, but that's just dag nasty. I mean, I like girls because they are girls. They do cute things like say, "Oh just kidding, I was lying" when they're wrong about something (not that girls are ever wrong,) and they have cute eyebrows, and they have cute noses that they sniffle, and they make you watch chick flicks that you're ashamed to admit you've been wanting to see, and they grab your arm during scary scenes in movies, and they cover your eyes during scenes where...actually, I don't know what goes on during those scenes... oh, and they smell nice, and they wear neat kpants, and they have cute little hands and toes, and they say cute things, and they are REALLY FREAKING ATTRACTIVE. But if some lady like Chyna, that female wrestler, said something that's supposed to be absolutely darling such as "Oh my stars!" I would be horrified and would puke my guts out. My problem is that cute girls don't like scrawny little boys, although girls I talk to swear that "SOME do!" But these girls, if they exist, already have scrawny little boyfriends who are in bands. The life of a bandless musician is a rough one. We've already established, in basically every entry I've ever made, that I ain't getting any ladies. It gets worse. A musician without a band can't...um...actually, I can't think of any advantages to being in a band other than the hordes of women who flock to very unattractive men. Look at KISS. Look at Steven Tyler. Yuck. Solo artists are solo artists because they are hot. Pete Yorn, Chris Carrabba (sort of, I guess. I mean sort of solo, no sort of hot. He's dreamy), Fiona Apple, Ed Harcourt, Meatloaf, etc. I'm screwed. I'm also blind. I went to Lens Crafters yesterday to get some contact lenses. Granted, glasses would be easier, but there there has never been a pair of glasses designed to look good on somebody with a facial structure such as mine. What I mean is nobody makes glasses for ugly people. Just like how for the longest time, the fashion industry thought that ALL "plus size" women (meaning women who aren't unhealthily skinny) liked to dress as if they're going to try and hide in the loudest, most obnoxious garden in the world. Also, my ears are uneven. Or maybe the rest of my face is lopsided, I don't really know. Either way, glasses always tilt to one side, and it looks like I've got one eye-brow permanently raised. So they have this little ritual wherein you go to the store, and some guy watches you try and put in your very first contact lense, and if you can't get them in, you don't get to take them home. They give you a mirror so that you can see just how foolish you look, with one hand over your head, pulling up your eye-lid, and the other coming from below, pulling the bottom part down, whatever it's called, and simultaneously trying to stick this foldy little bugger in your eye. And the entire time you can't help but make the dumbest face on the planet. Well, after about an hour of fruitless poking, I was not successful in getting them in. The dude who was watching me said that he has to go let loose the laughter he'd been holding back, and perhaps we could reschedule. So I walked out of the room, tears streaming down my face (that happens when you stick your finger in your eye a lot,) with eyes so red it looked like my best friend had just left for college and I'd been crying. As if THAT would happen... My mother told me later that she'd spent the entire time in the waiting room, trying not to blow chunks all over everyone else. She could hear the guy telling me, "just pull back your eyelid a little more...ooh, that was close...ouch...ehh, that'll heal..." She doesn't do eyes. Oh, this may be my last Live Journal entry. Here, anyway. I nearly lost all of these entries, and I don't want to go through all that again, so pretty soon here I'll be posting from my own site, which will be found on konc.net I'll give you the address when I build it. Well, on the music front, I'm gonna go get persecuted tonight. A few of my friends and myself are going to a fountain in downtown Wheaton (if you don't know, Wheaton is like Soddom & Gamorrah Part II) and singing worship songs. This is true and not terribly entertaining, but I really want to get this entry over with. On the I've already made a lot of random statements front, I'm dating someone. HAH! I'm funny. *"Scotland." **The actual answer is really sad. I don't want to think about it. ***This one definitely does not apply to me. ****Heh, get it? ------------------------------------------ She's leaning out her windowsill, seeking love, she leans farther still, not noticing I'm watching right below her. Paintings made and letters sent, Men devoured, and fortunes spent, and they do it all just to know her. Oh to know her, oh to know her, the Lady Alone, just to know her. In reverence, kings remove their crowns when she lets her hair go down. She just responds to their affection with laughter. Then princes on bended knee, beg "Lady, would you be my queen?" She just smiles, and they know they can't have her. They can't have her, they can't have her, the Lady Alone, They cannot have her. The jester then, he told a joke of the irony that she's alone, but she didn't think it was funny. Then he sang a duet song, urging her to sing along, but she just sang "Hey Nonny Nonny." Her heart is falling, please hear me calling, oh Lady Alone, Hey Nonny Nonny. Then to Knights got to a start, dueling for the Lady's heart, but she said, "Stop, I've promised myself to another." The court wondered "who could he be?" And when her gaze fell upon me, she said "You have always been my lover." The Lady, my own, and I am her lover. Current Mood: Beguzzled (10 Comments |Comment on this)
Tuesday, June 24th, 2003
7:30 pm	"Soon the world will know that I, Dr. Frankenthumb, have got it seriously going on!" I am absolutely certain that people in the advertisement business are Amazing, Witty, Good Looking People. At least a portion (or, "fraction," as they like to say) of them are. But what is really interesting about them is that they are no good at their jobs. There has been a wave of painfully bad commercials, lately. I would hate to embarrass Arby's by singling them out, because that could be potentially harmful, both emotionally to them and financially to me. You still see good commercials, but they are only funny if they have a duck puppet, a computer generated gecko, or a man in an Eagle costume. Or if they have anything to do with beer. Just about every beer commercial is good. In fact, many young teens start buying and even drinking beer just because they love the commercials so much and wish to support such a worthy cause. And what's really sad is that we have improved over the years. Back in the day, they used to try to draw in the youth with products such as the "Tommy Burp Action Gun," head-shrinking kits, moon rocks, and- nothing against it- "He-Man." He-Man has lately made a comeback as well, but he's more sensitive to the feelings of others, and he sings Village People songs. These days, we are much more civilized than all of that. Today, we use sex and artifical flavoring. Radio commercials are still bad, but I won't bother. The really, really horrible abomination of advertising, which can only support microevolution, is catalogs. I have never read a catalog description that has made me want to buy any product, even if I wanted to buy it in the first place. For instance, I just could not bring myself to pay $19.99 (it's really more than that, anyway) for something that is described as having "that unmistakable cow pattern," nor would I even *want* to recieve a bird feeder as a free gift with purchase, at least not one which has the words "window view" in quotes. And then there's emphasis. Catalogs always talk to you as if you are hard of hearing, not to mention incredibly gullible. The latter being a pretty safe guess, if you are going to buy any of their stuff. They know this: "This ATTRACTIVE leopard-skin pillbox hat LOOKS GREAT with any and all of our VERSATILE and UNIQUELY PRICED Summer Wear windbreakers (shown TOP-RIGHT in the PICTURE of an AGING woman who is nervously forcing a SMILE because she knows that after her children see her in our BRAND NEW Summer Wear windbreaker pattern, 'GORBACHEV-ESQUE,' they will have her COMMITED to a 'HOME',) all of which are ON SALE for full price on PAGE 42." I mean, goodness! It looks like a Mad-Lib! And I wouldn't put that past these people. These products thrive on people who have worked very hard in life to become the utter twits that they are. This is how I would present that very same item, and I guarantee I could make the company more money if smrt people would bother to look at it: "Check out this picture. Now, after seeing that, what's so bad about the Americana-pattern Pineapple Containers? I mean, really, which would you rather have lying around your house? Those are cheaper, anyway." Then there's candy, which always has loud, colorful, obnoxious commercials with small, colorful, obnoxious kids at whom you would love to scream short, colorful, controversial words: (Boy is sitting in his gloomy room, looking gloomy.) Mother (off-screen): Tommy! It's time to clean your room! Tommy (whose actual name is Clarence Hodgebottoms): Aww! (jingle starts) Singing voices: You're looking down/ you don't have any friends/ your mother says/ it's time to clean your room again./ So put it off!/ Just put it off!/ Have a hefty load of All Up Ons,/ and put it off! (Tommy, smiling, bites into an All Up Ons, then starts jumping around the room, which is considerably more colorful and suddenly has tons of cool furniture) (jingle continues) Voices: Sugar and some other stuff/ it's never gonna be enough/ just take another bite,/ and put it off! (a ninja starts wailing on his guitar, and it is TOTALLY SWEET) (suddenly Tommy has a bunch of friends of varied races and genders, and they are all giggling about how much their parents are getting paid because they're in this commercial) Mother(still off-screen, because she is camera shy): Tommy, have you cleaned your room yet?! (Room is magically cleaned, because Tommy was jumping around, filled with All Up Ons) Tommy (giggling): Yes, Mom! Voices: Grab another All Up Ons/ and put it off! I tried that when I was a little, like 14. It didn't work. I just ended up alone in my messy room, feeling sick from all the jumping. My mom didn't even call me Tommy. That shattered my dreams. So I'd just lay it out straight for the kids: (Picture of product) Voice: Your big sister has to worry about gaining weight if she so much as smells this stuff. You can eat it right in front of her, just to annoy her. Go ahead, try it! I don't see what's so unappealing about the truth. Maybe that's why I'm a guy, I don't know. Girls aren't big fans of the truth. For example, we will take my good fictional friend, Suzie Hasanormalbody. Now, Suzie will look at a clothing ad, or- bringing us back- in a clothing catalog, and will see a picture of a model wearing a cloth napkin, which is on SALE for $246.34. She will instantly want to buy this "outfit," as they call it, so that she might impress the handsome and very fictional Johnny Begood. This is because Suzie knows that the only way to attain true love and happiness is by showing people your legs, boobs, and bellybutton. This is where it gets a little tricky. See, it's been a mystery for centuries as to why those crazy Advertising People decided to use models to advertise for every day clothing. I mean, a model is fine if he or she is supposed to be looking thrilled to be wearing a one-size-fits-all bright yellow parka from a company with a name like "Tri-angle Services," but why do they model clothing that's supposed to actually look good on people? Well we here at Effin's Live Journal, after much difficult and extensive research that we're sure somebody here must've done but forgot to turn in, have figured out why they would do something so seemingly silly as to use models. See, Suzie looks at this model wearing this diaper, or whatever I said it was before, and she says to herself, "Wow! I'll look exactly like her if I buy that!" That's exactly where the advertisements get 'em. It is known full well in the advertisement industry that if you have a picture of a normal looking person wearing the same "outfit," nobody will buy it, because normal people's buttcheeks hang out of it, and normal people do actually tend to get under-arm flab after a while, not to mention vericose veins. My faith in the fashion and advertising industries is certainly bolstered by these discoveries. I told my dad some of my views on this issue, and he seemed to think I could do better. Or at least he challenged me to, by saying, "I'll bet you can't do any better." Actually, my father will stop at nothing to make everything a school project for me. Especially if he notices I haven't been doing much school lately, just because it's Summer Vacation. I keep telling him that all I need to learn how to do is delegate work toward others. He says I should be paying way more attention to my teacher. Whatever that means. Hang on, I have to go brush his teeth. ...OK, so anyway, he says that I have to write a convincing miniature description of three products. I said I would get right on putting that off, and I'm keeping my word. Speaking of...um...teeth, a dog attacked one of my best friends a little while ago. I didn't really see the whole ordeal. I was up in my room, listening to Radiohead. "Over my dead body," Thom Yorke was repeating. Then I heard the screams. They sounded kind of like this: AAAAH! OHHH!!! GET AWAY!!! AAAAAAAHHH!!!!!!! At first I thought maybe it was part of the song, because I was listening to it for the first time, and, well...I wouldn't put it past them. But, of course, my mother has never recorded with Radiohead, so that was right out of the question. 'Cause it was certainly my mother screaming. I immediately hit the pause button, and bounded down the stairs, where I saw my father in the front hall, with his hand on my dog-like thing, Zeb. There was a puddle on the floor, which I assumed to be urine, 'cause, well...I wouldn't put it past him (my dog). So my first thought was that Zeb was in big trouble. That is, until I saw that the urine was red, and still spilling out of his thigh. (For those of you who are stupid, it was not urine at all, but blood). Honestly, this was very scary for me. Zeb is ten years old. That makes him over 42 in dog years. It makes him about 19 in woman years. I've known him all this time, and although he's had his moments, I love him. The thought of losing him is no less frightening to me than the thought of losing hair is to Barbara Walters. We called a vet, and they said to bring him in. About two minutes later, we got there, and they were closed. We found out about an emergency room for pets, and set out for it. Unfortunately it was hidden deep within a forest of nameless business offices, where marketing fairies roam free, and advertisement lemmings jump off the tops of the buildings to see if the general public might find it appealing. That's getting very big in Japan, but mainly business men who are up on the times have been doing it here in the States. We're not sure if most Americans would much enjoy it, because you can't get much more out of the people who have actually tried it than what comes out of their bodies when they hit the ground, and their final statement, which is a "splat" noise. Eventually we found the place. We walked in, Zeb gushing like a fountain, and found the receptionist on the phone with her Aunt Matilda, who had many important things to say about an article she read regarding the life expectancy of a fridge. Eventually we were shown to a room, where they had us wait. And wait. Then the doctor came in. He grabbed his crossaint off the counter under the X-ray exam light and walked back out. Then he came back in, and started feeling my dog in strange places not directly related to his thigh, which is where most of the bleeding was happening. I don't know where this man got his doctorate. He was a pleasant enough man. The only thing outstandingly thin about him was his hair. He looked like the kind of fellow who might know everything about Star Trek, or get eaten by a dinosaur in a horror flick. Here he was, looking at Zeb's gums, stating, "Mhmm. It looks like most of the damage is around the thigh area. there's also some bleeding in the...back." He didn't feel very comfortable, but I'll say it: Zeb's butt was bleeding too, OK? Anyway, he told my dad what they were going to do: "We're going to take your dog out back and shoot him up with some powerful painkillers, then do an X-ray, shave his butt, and put a sock on his head and watch him try to get it off in his dopey condition. Also, we're ordering a pizza, so you have to chip in. With the tip, that comes out to $325, all of which must be paid now in cash or we will cut your dog's limbs off and mail one every day to your mother-in-law, and hold your son hostage until we get the money." "Fine," my dad said. So they took Zeb to the back room. I could swear I hard hammering and sawing, and I'm certain I heard my dog yelping. I spent that time trying to take the whole thing in. Wishing I'd spent more time with him while he was totally healthy. Hoping he'll fully recover. Then I picked up an issue of Entertainment Weekly and started flipping through it, because you can only take it all in for so long before it all gets boring. And they had him back there for a long time. My dad was in the waiting room, watching a show about a Canadian family who adopted five Russian children. After a long while, they came back out with Zeb, who was awake, but sedated. His eyes were kind of clouded over. He wasn't looking at me with that stupid-loving-dog look that he gives me even when I've accidentally dropped a toaster on his head. Not that that's ever happened. But instead, he was looking at me like I was a painting on a wall in a hotel room. I didn't really like that. Then the doctor showed us the X-rays. "These are your dog's bones" is was he said, basically. Then he told us to give him (Zeb) medicine every day. He also mentioned that he didn't do much other than shave my dog. I mean, the big wound in his thigh- one you can fit a dime inside, where you can see his muscle- did not get stitched. When we asked why, the doctor said he wanted it to "drain." I think he just thought it'd be a neat little party trick. Well, Zeb is doing well now. He's hobbling around, not in too much pain. It's kind of cute, really. I'm really sad he got attacked and everything, but let's face it; my dog's butt is shaved, and it looks like he has a flippin' cigarette burn in his thigh. That's just plain funny. On the music front, let's face it, I'm never gonna be in a band. I'm just gonna skip straight through gathering a small following with a band, and go right to the solo project, "Violence and the Seasons." On the "on the (something stupid and/or random) front" front, it's struck me that, for a teenage boy who's never even had a real girlfriend, much less been married, had kids, or...went through the motions, I sure do write a heckuva lot about child birth. When I first realized this, I asked myself this question: "Shut up, Evan. Why are you wondering about something that has nothing to do with the topic at hand again? You always do this. I, your mind, will make bring something to light, such as the fact that...um...ooh, shiny!" ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Two good years gone, and all this time I've been wrong. But you couldn't help that I held on, or maybe you just didn't care. Out on the road, somehow I got so far from home. Back then I never would have known that it would get me nowhere. Restless sleep, I wake up tangled in the sheets. Sometimes it's so hard for me to breathe, I don't have to wonder why. The telephone, lately I just leave it all alone. Holding on to just one hope, that you'll let go of this rope, please just let me die. All down the drain, not up for two more years of pain. I never knew that tears could stain, and there's enough to fill my cup. And what's it to you? Your words always rang true, so really what's the use? I'm not moving on, just giving up. Current Mood: artistic (5 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, June 13th, 2003
6:39 pm	"Get your torches here! They light up when ya' light 'em! They're sticks when ya' don't!" Once again, it has been well over a month since last I posted. Many of you are asking yourselves, "Shut up, Evan," while others wonder, "does he like me?" I'm sorry, but he doesn't. Maybe that's a good thing, depending on who "he" is and who "you" are. This has nothing to do with anything I care about in the least, so let's forget it ever happened and move on, OK? I need something more compact than compact discs. I've got a ninety-six disc wallet, which is gargantuan as is, and quite full. Lately I've been having to take out cds that I like ("Amy Grant Does It With Fred Durst") in order to put in my new cds ("Fred Durst Goes Back And Brags To All His Guy Friends"). And getting a bigger wallet is not an option. I like to carry mine around. Take it to a friends' house, a piano concert, stuff like that. But if I get one any bigger, I may as well just start using travel luggage. It'd be about the same size, but you could get it on wheels with a little handle for pulling it around. Speaking of traveling, my newest nephew was recently born. I know this sounds like another bad seguay, but believe me, getting him out was a difficult journey. Well, I did not personally get him out. I don't think I would ever want to do something like that. Heck, my brother is the mother's own HUSBAND, and all he did was stand around awkwardly, throwing in helpful advice like, "Golly, look at all that blood!" and "Just breathe," for goodness sakes. Just breathe. Hah. Women know full well that if they stop breathing for long enough, they'll just pass out, and the doctor can wake her when it's over. And she's not Just Breathing, anyway. If all she had to worry about was breathing, then they wouldn't have her in that funny bed, in a very humbling position, while a doctor is staring at Lord knows what with his eyes wide, still amazed, after 42 years in the profession, that it's all supposed to fit through *that.* Now, my brother isn't quite that stupid. He also offered her his hand, so that she may break it, and at least have a fleeting moment of revenge. But after all the pain, all the breathing, all the stupid doctors, all the words that new mommies aren't supposed to say to daddies in very loud tones (but it's OK- she's had another one before,) we finally got to meet Roman Joseph KONK!, and it was well worth it. Really, I'd do it all again in a second. Again, not that I personally did a whole lot, but I did have to endure my parents in an airport, sleep on a hide-a-bed, and stand in line for over 42 minutes (I kid you not,) at an airport McDonalds waiting for an order that they got WRONG anyway, which they charged me too much for, and which I could not fix before my next nephew/niece was born, let alone before the plane home I was supposed to catch took off. I only wish this was a lie, but we arrived at the airport an hour before we needed to, because I wanted some McDonald's, we actually just barely caught the plane. One more reason for me to despise airports. I don't totally hate them. The people who check my baggage and shoes for who knows what (probably money for lunch) are usually pretty nice. I ALWAYS get randomly selected for this. I fail to see how it is random. Maybe I should stop carrying an AK-47 around. But anyway, here's the run-down on what goes on: I put my backpack, my house key, and my key-less "E" keychain in a little bucket and put it on the conveyor belt. It goes under this big metal tunnel, which has a cool camera inside that can look straight through the luggage, right to the goods. This is here so that old, lonely men can get paid to look for womens' lingerie. I take all the womens' lingerie out of my backpack when I travel (a safety precaution I've learned to take after an...embarrassing experience) and this makes the lonely old men enraged, and they tell the people at the conveyor belt that they think they saw a nuclear warhead the size of a major character in that hit series, "NFL" in my backpack, and that my shoes looked like they were made by 4 year old girls in sweat shops in some place remote, like Iowa, for a mere $34,000 a year. And so these people get the idea that I may not be a very cool person. They are also curious to see how they too might be able to fit Marshal Faulk in a relatively small carrying case. So they "pull me over," which is a term not actually used in airports, but I decided to put it in quotes anyway, signifying that it may be a term of some sort. Actually it is a term, but not the right sort. But it fits, so I said it. So anyway, they "pull me over," and either a middle-aged man who was once such a great security guard that he accepted Dunkin Donuts' offer of endorsement, and he got all the free donuts he wanted, but now he works part-time as a whale at the Shedd Aquarium. What I mean by this is that, due to his former fame, he carries a lot of weight at the airport. Anyway, getting sort of back on track, either him or an older black man with peppered hair will kindly ask me to take my shoes off and have a seat. When I tell them I could not possibly fit the seat inside my backpack, and poor Mr. Urlacher is already cramped enough in there, one of them (depending on who is actually doing this to me) gives a hearty chuckle and tells me to shut up or he will shoot me in the face. At this point, I sit down, and take my shoes off. And as he is checking out my shoes (probably to see if they're his size,) he carries on some sort of banter to lighten the mood, and make me, the Potential Terrorist, less nervous about the whole deal. This will include such questions as, "Flyin' somehwere?" and "Planning on overthrowing any governments today, young sir?" Then he has some girl check out my package. She kindly asks me to unzip it for her, ("Unzip it, you filthy boy,") and then proceeds to trifle through my junk, looking for anything interesting. Usually she doesn't find anything, unless I have my ducky puppet in there. When she asks what it's for, I tell her the possibilities are nearly endless. Actually, it's a wash cloth. But it's a puppet. But it's a wash cloth. It's one of the most amazing inventions ever, easily. Then she let's out a knowing remark, "Huh." And has me put everything back in and zip it up. Then the nice old man gets this plastic stick out that beeps, and he is not shy with it. That's where the job gets undignified, really. I'd rather not get into all that. But I don't know how they would react if someone were to actually have some non-cool items. "Well sir, I'm sure you didn't really put all that in your bag, and if you did, I'm sure you were just holding it for a friend, and I'm really sorry to inconvenience you, really I am, but if you move one muscle before the S.W.A.T. team gets here I'm afraid I'll have to bust a cap in your white behind." I just don't see it happening. But this isn't the worst part about airports. The worst by far is the bathrooms. See, airport bathrooms are usually entirely automatic. If you place your hands under the dryer, it will be turned it on (understandibly so). If you place your hands under the faucet, it won't work until somebody tells you (and I swear this happened,) "You have to put your hands *under* it." Some of the newer bathrooms' toilets automatically give you a 60,000 volt shock in the rear to get things goin' if you seem to be having trouble. Fortunately you don't have to place your hands under the toilet to make it flush. Nngh... But I hate the toilets with a passion. See, I'm a thinker. If I get a chance to have a nice long sit and think things out, I take it. But these toilets flush erratically. And these are POWERFUL flushes, and the shrapnel makes things very uncomfortable down there. I will be sitting there for just maybe 4 minutes and 20 seconds, and it will have flushed randomly about 7 times already. And every time I'm getting to something good, it flushes again, totally getting my thought off track. "Wow! I could end world hunger AND make girls love me by simply using just three teaspoons of peppermint extract and a pint of-" *flush* "...I hate this place." The actual airplane flight is really great. I have no idea why people are afraid of flying. I mean, what is there to worry about, other than dying? Down here on Earth, we've gotta worry about things like relationships, job security, diseases, French people, politics, being painfully cool and ridiculously good looking, people we care for, aging, crime, famine, global warming (how *are* we supposed to keep the entire globe warm?), the many troubles of the cast members of Friends, and more, PLUS death on top of all that. And multiple ways of dying at that, from getting run over by a rhinoceros to having a giant nuclear Preying Mantis invite you back to her place and then eat your head. Up in a plane, all there is is death, and you've just got a couple of main choices, depending on what class you are in. I hear that in first class, they offer Japanese Honor Death, wherein they give you your very own sword (which you may keep) to plunge into your stomach. Isn't that great?! All the while, kind people are serving you Coke (it's legal up there) and calling you sir, which may upset you only if you are a woman. Everything looks fake from up there. I feel, when I look down on the terrain, as if I am about to watch an episode of Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. What's amazing is the baseball diamonds. My grandpa used to say this way back when, and it's true to this day, so I'll say it again: You never know how many baseball diamonds a state has until you're slowly falling over that state roughly 42,000 miles above it going hundreds of miles per hour, inside a large, aluminum box shaped like- but not agile as- a bird. You have to be a very patient flight attendent if you're going to be flying with someone like my dad and/or myself. I'm pretty certain that he and I were the only ones who were entertained by our MST3K-ing of her instructional safety demonstration, such as proclaiming, "Oh, THAT'S how they do it?!" when she displayed how one buckles the safety belt. Anyway, Roman was 8 pounds-even at birth, and looks like Walter Matthau, but was born on Bob Hope's 100th birthday. I have a feeling that he is an amazing young man (Roman, I mean. Bob Hope and Young are polar opposites), even though all I am certain that he can do is drink, poop strange stuff that neither of his parents ever remember him eating, scream, sleep, and be held (this is probably true of Bob Hope these days, I once again, I meant Roman). But that's good enough for me, and I'm sure he'll amaze us in the future, when he makes incredible scientific breakthroughs, such as the discovery of his own limbs. Now it's Morgan and Estin's turn again. Keep 'em coming. On the music front, it feels to me that emo music is shedding its last tear, and is about to die alone, unwanted, and in a September Winter rain. But that's not true, because Sleeping At Last is about to release a new record, and you should love them more than you love your own mother. On the Hi Tiffany, I'm sorry I didn't say happy birthday to you when it was actually your birthday, but I was delayed on account having had both of my arms get ripped of in a freak Slurpee mishap, and had to get all that fixed front, I have many dyslexic friends and family members, most of whom are actually my biggest fans when it comes to this journal, and I feel enraged that nobody's doing anything about safety signs for dyslexics. I mean, say a dyslexic person goes to the zoo and gets eaten because he thought one of the signs said, "please don't feed our loins"? Not to mention confusing "pots" signs on the road, as well as "no snorking" and "shut up, Evan, because you're probably going to end up offending someone." I don't mean to do so in the least. And if you feel offended...lighten up, nerd. I have flat feet. Go ahead and make fun of that all you want. Oh, and another reason I haven't posted for a long time was because I was writing a story, found at http://www.postpoems.com/members/sidekickboy/?fid=6376 which has a little sub-story to it, which consists mainly of my forgetfulness in the area of posting a disclaimer, and an irate middle-aged man who had very bad hair in high school. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I remember feeling younger. I remember feeling loved. I remember feeling stupid, for all the things I'd done. I remember when you looked at me in a nervous sort of way, I remember thinking it would be adoration and love some day. But it seems like that look is here to stay. And it's hard to say. It's hard to say. It's so hard to say... I was hoping for an answer, a confession of some sort, that some day you'd say you loved me, I kept praying to the Lord. But He said, "Just wait a minute here, I will do what I want." I waited for two years, but the questions, they are gone. Sometimes I just don't know what to pray. And it's hard to say. It's hard to say. It's so hard to say... There's a picture that's been printed in the back of my mind: you look at me, eyes glistened, as I stare at you in kind. I can hear it all so clearly, the words you might have said; "I will always love you dearly." But it's only in my head. Well these thoughts, lately, have gone astray. And it's hard to say. It's hard to say. It's so hard to say, but I think it's too late. Current Mood: drained (8 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, April 30th, 2003
4:25 pm	"Your father. I- I mean...Farther! A farther away man!" I would like to tell you about a brief story about a man. Once upon a time, there was a young man, who went to the circus with his uncle Rodger. After witnessing a very unfortunate accident involving a cannon, a dwarf, and a very uncomfortable and suddenly constipated elephant, this young man aspired to become a doctor. Particularly one that takes care of pregnant women, rather than one who specializes in dislodging small people from the hind quarters of large creatures. This was an intentional dodge, albeit not a very good one, seeing as how he pretty much went into the same field he was trying to avoid anyway. And so our young man studied. And studied and sudied and studied. Then he realized that all this time he had been studying Water Polo. After having a good laugh, he got some books about babies, and baby-having, and all that stuff. Eventually he started college, where he studied to become a Doctor. He then moved to Cincinatti, carrying his Certificate of Certification of a Doctorate in Doctoring with pride. He walked into some hospital, and said, "I've got a doctorate, and I want a job!" To which the Hospital People replied, "OK." And they had him look after my sister-in-law, Mandie, who is pregnant, and is also trying to pass a kidney stone roughly the size of Danny Glover, which is quite unfortunate, because she is only slightly larger than Tinkerbell. Consequently she is in the hospital, wearing a bathrobe all day, lounging in bed, watching Jenny Jones. Yesterday, he went into her room to check on her, while the hit show and Broadway musical "CSI" was on. Normally, this would not be an important detail. But we here at Effin's Live Journal have a Zero Normalcy Policy which we Don't Enforce Half Enough. This is an important detail because our young man (who is at least middle-aged by now) entered the room, clip board in hand, which he carried around all the time, even to non-work related events, such as Thanksgiving dinner, horse races, even at bed-time. This is not because he likes to show people the current condition of his patients all the time, as you may have guessed, but because he in fact has his Certificate of Certification clipped into it, which he really likes to show off. It's so imaginable, him at a funeral... Our Young Man: "I'm so sorry that Ted kicked it, Mammary." Mallory: "It's 'Mallory,' Our Young Man." Our Young Man: "Whatever...it's too bad he didn't come to me-" (whips out clipboard) "I'm a doctor, you know." Mallory: "He had his head ripped off by a rabid ferret while riding a tricycle down a busy highway. People stopped for him, but only because their cars were stuck on top of him. They yanked him out and drove on. I don't think there was anything you could've done. Plus, he wasn't pregnant. As far as I know." Our Young Man: "I see. Well, I'm still a doctor." Anyway, this doctor walks into Mandie's room, and in a very doctorly fashion, says, "Well, how are w- ooh! CSI is on!" He then continued to watch the show for about ten minutes, totally ignoring my poor sister-in-law, whose stomach is bulging as if it has a Lethal Weapon character and a baby inside of it. When a commercial break came on, he asked her if she was still alive, and then doublechecked just to make sure, and left. This is a perfect example of a Stupid Doctor. Stupid doctors are not a good thing, but in fact they are quite a problem, especially if they are easily distracted by televisions, which is potentially lethal. Suppose you decide it's high time to have some brain surgery, so you go in and tell the guy at the Hospital Ticket Counter that you want one brain surgery, the works. So the doctors working on your are coming to a very crucial point in the surgery in which one doctor has to hold your left brain, while another has to stick the right jumper cables in the grey matter, putting the other end in a coffee machine, so they can know if it's possible make 6 cups of coffee powered by merely one human brain. This would be quite a scientific leap, which I would put past no doctor...I mean, it's not like you can complain much if it fails. And either way it turns out, you wouldn't know the difference. Anyway, suppose they're doing something like that, but they're simultaneously watching All My World Turns, and were shocked to discover that, *gasp!*, Jackie's baby was not fathered by either Willard or Jeffery, but is a communist alien robot stealth assassin with laser eyes, and is having an affair with Hillary's father, Anubis, who is really an Egyptian god. An unfolding in a story like that could cause one of the doctors to drop the coffee machine, which could cost a considerable amount of money to replace. I mean, with a dropped brain, you could say, "There were complications," and nobody would question it. But there's no excuse for a damaged coffee pot. Of course, it would be all too unfair to take the televisions out of hospital rooms. My sister-in-law would kill me if I recommended that. I think we should just kill all the stupid doctors. Which brings me to my next point: I saw The Four Feathers. Y'know, that movie with Heath Ledger, and he looks like Jesus, and some friends say that he's a coward, so he goes to the Sudan to tell them that he's not a coward, and he proves it by getting chapped lips in the desert. It was alright. I didn't like it a whole lot, largely because Mr. Heath "I get women because I'm Australian" Ledger is in it, but not fully. What really got my girdle was the director. This dude totally wanted to sound like a visionary, and ended up sounding really stupid. He'd say things like, "I believe that the human mind is like a bowl of mashed potatoes. It's warm, and tastes pretty good with butter. We really tried to delve into that when we shot the scene with the wussy British soldiers trying to form a square but only resulting with a rectangle. The idea I was going for there is that no 400 men are ever thinking of the same shape all at once. Especially not when 246 of them are in the process of being slaughtered." He got on my nerves, kind of like how I get on everybody elses. So goodnight. On the music front, I may actually play a concert with acclaimed rapcore band, "Cosmetic." That's not very interesting, unless you having nothing to do and are in town in about a week, at 11 in the morning. Sorry. On the I haven't said 42 yet front, I have 42 words for you: Yarmulke. Yarmulke yarmulke yarmulke. And don't you forget it. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Dear God, I'm sorry I haven't been calling, I've been around my old friends. Any other time, I've been stalling, or pretending nothing's happened. But I was thinking, if You had the time, I'd like to give it another try. If You have the time. So we've grown somewhat distant, I think I've done all the walking. But You stay so persistent, And You've done all the talking. But I was thinking, if You had the time, there've been some things on my mind. If You have the time. You've got no good reason to give me grace, but grace needs no reason anyway. I need to feel You in this place, restore me, oh sweet Lord I pray... If You have the time. Current Mood: Uhh...Peanut butter? (5 Comments |Comment on this)
Tuesday, April 8th, 2003
6:46 pm	I am a puppet. Over the past month and a half or so, I've tried to post not once, not twice, not six thousand, five hundred seventy times, but f...fr...frice. Whatever. FOUR times. The first two times were because I had been writing for a while, and I'd taken a break from the computer, and while I was away, my father closed my windows. This is very aggitating. I love my father. I respect my father. I throw away my father's grody napkins. They're really sick. He always makes sure to get about two spoonfuls...spoons full...erm...anyway, two worth of every dish of every meal on every possible part of his napkin, plus a good deal more of goodness knows what else...I think it's some stuff he never got around to swallowing from a former meal. Yet even after all of this, he still manages to have a great glob of goober, usually sour cream, smeared on his cheek, and/or in his mustache. He eats sour cream with everything: eggs, cheeseburgers, salads, steak, avocados, napkins, strawberries, strange foods he's gotten at ethnic restaurants he goes to with people of varied ethnicities from work. There are people from all over the place where my dad works- India, China, Ohio, Russia, various parts of Africa, Polishlandia, Italy, even people other planets, like France. And these people take my father to restaurants that have food from their home country. Why? I don't know. People just like taking my dad out to eat some of the food from their country. It's like, the thing to do. Anyway, these people have my father sample food that came from plants and animals I've never even heard of. I think it's food, but really I'm not sure. One time my dad brought home this "milk" that they "drink" in another "country." This "milk" tasted more like "paint thinner mixed with egg nog and Pepto-Bismol." I haven't had it for years, but I hear Pepto-Bismol is supposed to taste great. Good for Pepto-Bismol. As far as I know, I am one of about 4 people on the planet who don't hate egg nog. Now, my father only hates fast food, unless it's especially bad. For some reason, he likes bad fast food. Anyway, I'm going to have to assume he likes egg nog. And I don't love it, but I don't hate it either. I'll drink it. Really, I'm just assuming there are another two people out there who might like it, but I've never met them. Paint thinner, especially diet paint thinner, just isn't my thang. But unlike some other combinations, such as Lennon & McCartney; 4 & 2; Former President Gerald Ford & Anything it Might Be Remotely Possible to Trip On (staircases, carpets, podiums, Mrs. Former President Ford, etc.,) these simply don't go together. He forced me to try some, because he wants to broaden my horizons, by which he means kill me. That stuff was nasty. It's the type of thing that's so sick it makes you crave even the gross American food. I understand that some countries aren't developed enough to know what "good" food is, but that doesn't mean I have to it their food I would classify as "bad." Some countries, and this unsettles me, will eat just about everything but the bone. Their chicken eyes are out teabags. I understand that this is because many of these countries do not have a lot of food, and must make the most of what they have, but geeze! If you're used to eating goat tongue, go right ahead, don't let me stop you, but don't make me eat it either. Just give me something normal and American, like a hot dog. Anyway, I had an original point. It had something to do with scantily clad women...oh yeah! My dad closed my window the first two times I tried posting here, my mom restarted the computer the fourth, and the third time, I was nearly finished when I went to the Merriam-Webster website to look up a word. I can't remember what it was...maybe "excretacular." Anyway, as soon as the website loaded, approximately 426,570,246 dictionary-related popups popped up, such as "Learn how to spell 'pornography' NOW!" and "Female College English Majors Gone Wild Vol. 246," and those ones that flash red and yellow, that give you seizures if you don't close them right away, that say you've won something, for absolutely no reason. They usually make up some phony number, like, "Congrats! You are the 38,267,445,475,665th person to WIN! Click ->HERE<- to claim your FREE PRIZE!" Of course, you don't have to click exactly "->HERE<-," because, like the more challenging "Whack the monkey and WIN!" ad, it's all a big link. The prize for both of these- and I know this because my skillful oldest sister ALWAYS gets that silly monkey, is you get a discount subscripion to a magazine, from a list which has many to choose from. Of course, this is incredibly difficult, because they're all very good. You will find selections such as these: -Independent Belgian Films Monthly -Tony Danza Magazine -Three Legged Dog Weekly ("Real Answers to Real Questions for Three Legged Dogs...Hopefully Ones That Can Read") -Sock Collector's Magazine -Great Places To Die -Effin's Live Journal -Whiney emo Boys...Whenever We Feel Like Putting One Out, 'Cause We're Too indie To Have Any Sort of Time Frame. ("Look, We Didn't Capitalize 'emo' or 'indie'!") -Male Flabby Shirtless Joggers Daily And so on and so forth. Obviously any one of these magazines would normally sell for upwards of what a major piece of property, such as Asia, might cost. But since you WON, they're practically giving one away for between twelve and twenty dollars, and there rest are merely fifty a piece. This is quite a steal, and usually I would recommend it to everyone, even lawyers and dead people, if it weren't for the fact that it's been four months and two weeks, and I still haven't gotten my first issue Breast Enhancement for Men. Then of course you get about a million of these "Stop popups NOW with Porn- we mean Popup Killer!" But the most popular, as far as I have seen, are the "wireless internet cameras." These cameras are basically telling you that you should use one to spy on skinny women who prance around their house in their bathing suits, even if they don't have a pool. These women are usually reclining on their couches, staring right at the, as advertised, "tiny hidden camera," grinning. This of course is making it clear that women LIKE it when creepy old men are stalking them. They think it's *sweet.* Now, stalking isn't funny, it's hard work. Believe me- I have many a female friend who are being, or have been stalked, and not only by me, but by other guys. This unsettles me, because a lot of men are really, really sick. And these popups don't help matters. What's fascinating about popups, and really any advertising is this: If at all possible, they almost always have a poorly (by which I mean "barely") clothed woman whose body weight is mainly found higher up, in the front (I dunno, I guess some guys just like big noses.) The idea they are trying to get across is that, if you buy their product, this woman will want to make babies with you. "Hi, I'm Tammy. I'm not wearing enough clothing, and I think *stupid company name here* Life Insurance is SUCH a turn-on..." One that I've gotten a couple of times is for the "Legalized Cable Hotbox." The ad consisted of this: A: A picture of a legalized cable TV hotbox, with a picture of the American flag behind it. 2: The question, "Did you know you can get a legelized cable TV hotbox?" Cappa: A woman in lingerie. Now, I didn't keep this window open too long, but I got a look at the woman's face, and she was NOT an actress. At least not a popular one. I think her only acting role was in one of those Female College English Majors movies. She had no reason to be in this popup whatsoever. But, of course, I'm not a professional in the field of advertising. But there are professionals out there, and I think they know what they're doing. See, every ad needs something to hook you in, what professionals call a "selling point." There were a couple of "selling points" in this particular popup. The hotbox alone makes it all look illegal, which is usually not a good thing. However, the first actuall "selling point" appears in the form of the American flag, which makes it look as if the president himself decalred that particular hotbox was now legal. But hey, it's perfectly legal for me to ride my bike into a 42 foot deep hole filled with pea soup, but you don't see me doing it, right? So the of course to seal the deal they had to ad the woman in lingerie, which makes a great "selling point," because she has what professionals call "boobies." Anyway, that's what professionals call a "tangent." My semi-original point was that my computer can only handle so much stupidity at one time, and this overload of such crud made Internet Exploder stop responding when I was soooo close to being done with my entry. This has made me quite upset. Each time I tried to post, I've had a new and different idea (I might have written something about girls for a change,) but now I've forgotten them all. Not all the girls, but all the topics. Girls are fascinating, though. I mean, there are many different and interesting aspects of girlhood, but what really gets my goiter is the fact that a woman can and will tell you anything about herself. More than you really want to know. A woman can tell a complete stranger in the canned beets section at Piggly Wiggly, in incredible detail, about how long it took her to have her last child, and why (some explanations I've heard are far too disturbing for me to recount here,) which was, of course, a key factor in the idea of getting her tubes tied (whatever that means...) and how her husband was pretty supportive, but her mother-in-law, who has never liked her, thought it was unnatural, and wouldn't speak to her for a month, which was alright, because she could use the peace and quiet, right? Not that she gets any when her oldest, who is 11, and was born breach, has just gotten into "rapcore" music. Then there's her middle one, whose half birthday is coming up, who has headlice, and who has taken to alto saxophone like a hienna to cocaine. The resulting sound is much similar, as well. And then of course there's her youngest, who is still in diapers, but talking. She's been sick this past week with a strange ear infection that's been affecting her hearing, and as a result she's been talking really loud. Also, she's been blowing chunks so often that she's dirtied all of her clothes to the point where they're all either in the washing machine or waiting to go in, so she's just been running around the house in her diaper. And that's just chit-chat. Now, if all of that was said to another woman, she will respond as if she knows exactly what this woman is talking about it- she's been through, or is going through, or possibly some time soon plans to go through the exact same thing. If it is a man, however, he will mentally block out everything he can after the words, "child birth" come out of her mouth. He will nod until he hears the noise stop, and occasionally throw in some, "mhmm"'s, making it a note to never buy beets there again. Men can be very good friends for years, and still neither one will have disclosed his own name. Now, you know how much I hate to get off subject, but I feel it is my duty to recount the following story to you because, well, half of my devoted readers including myself are in it, and I wanted to take the chance to humiliate them in front of the rest of the world (i.e. Riane, Meghan, and Tiffany, who as far as I can tell are the only other people who I am certain actually read this bunk.) Time: 8-ish. Closing time. Date: I can't get one for the life of me. Place: Psycho-Tech Hands On Museum, 18 W. Benton, Aurora IL. Open 10-5 Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday. Open 10-8 on Thursdays, 12-5 on Sundays, and closed on Mondays. So don't try coming then. People involved, last names censored for privacy reasons: Effin K*NK!, Explainer/Innovator/Inventor/World Changer/Easy To Slap Around At Work; Nicole F**k, Supervisor/My Wife/All-Around Loverly Gal; Rachel Z*j*c*k, Co-Worker/My KONK!ubine/Good Dancer; Colin D*nkl**, Co-Worker/Guy That Makes Fun of Me Because I'm A Christian/But He Likes Peter Sellers, So He's OK; Chris Dunklau...I mean...ahh skip it, I was just censoring them because it looks kinda funny when you do it. The museum was closing, and we had but one family left, who had excused themselves to the basement. Nicole told Colin and myself to starting closing down the main floor while she and Rachel basically followed on the heels of the family, shutting down everything as soon as our guests were done playing with it. They soon tired of this- well actually I don't even know if they did that, because I was not actually with them, and am currently just drawing between the lines. All I know for certain is that eventually they happened upon a fire alarm in the basement, with a clear plastic cover over it. Nicole wondered to herself, "If we actually had a fire here, how would we pull that alarm, if it's behind that protective plastic cover?" At this time, I was in the back of the museum, changing the bubbles in an especially filthy exhibit, and Colin was at the front desk, collecting garbage. Suddenly, a loud alarm went off. My first thought was, "It's cold out here, and I'm naked. This had better be worth it." But that was when I was born. When I heard the alarm, I thought, "Hmm, that sounds like some kind of an alarm." I walked up to the front, where Colin- who heard this, was still collecting garbage. When he saw me, he looked up, and we said in unison, "what on earth is that?" After some brainstorming, we concluded that it must be the fire alarm. The next course of action was to decide what we should do. I said, "We should probably go make sure the girls are alright." To which Colin replied, "Yeah, why don't you go do that?" As I walked towards the staircase the led down to where Nicole and Rachel were, I noticed the alarm was getting louder. I saw Nicole walking up the stairs, laughing, and waving her arms. Rachel was nowhere in sight. "I hope she hasn't been burninated," I thought. Nicole was waving her arms towards the doors. "Everybody out," she cried. "Fire. Everybody out." As it turns out, there was no actual fire, which is a good thing, because I am certain it would be the end of me, considering how we reacted to the alarm. Nicole evacuated the building, even knowing there wasn't a fire, which I suppose is a good thing. Rachel ran away from the alarm. Being as keen as we are on getting all the facts straight here at Effin's Live Journal, I didn't ask her where or why she ran. I can only assume she was leading the way for everybody else, toward the direction of "away from everybody else." So she's a good worker too, and knows how to react. She did state afterward, after Nicole commented on how fast she ran up the stairs, that she remembered no stairs whatsoever. Colin and I, however, in the midst of a possible fire, took the time to calmy and slowly assess the situation, going through every aspect of every possibility short the slight possibility that there may be a good reason for the fire alarm to be going off. But this is how it all went down: After Nicole wondered about the case of an actual fire taking place, she tried to remove the plastic case from the alarm. She could not do this, so she had Rachel try it. Now Rachel is an increedibly fortunate person. Good things are always happening to her, and she takes the time to notice every single one. The very good thing that happened to her just then was that she succeeded in removing the plastic cover, causing a very loud alarm to go off. We were shortly thereafter informed by Chris, who is Colin's father, that there was no reason to be alarmed, because it was only the Clear Plastic Cover Alarm, which goes off if some prankster tries to ensue chaos by pulling the Fire Alarm, which would surely make people panic. The Clear Plastic Cover Alarm will only scare him off, whereas everybody else in the museum can breathe a sigh of relief, chuckling knowingly to themselves, "Hah, that is only the Clear Plastic Cover Alarm, and indeed it is not the Fire Alarm, which is at least a semi-tone higher! " But this is no time for joking. Be sure, in the unlikely but scary event of a Clear Plastic Cover, that you know where your alarm is. On the music front, Robert DeNiro, known for such powerful film roles as The dude in Taxi Driver; Al Capone in The Untouchables; and Lloyd Christmas in Dumb & Dumber, is reportedly in the music studio right now (I mean THE music studio,) recording many covers of his favorite songs, including "The Sign," by Ace of Base, "All The Things She Said" by T.A.T.U., "This Bitter Pill," by Dashboard Confessional, "Desire," by U2, "Enter Sandman" by Metallica, and "The Star-Spangled Banner," by Effin KONK!. Aside from doing the main vocals, he will also be playing the accordian. I would SO buy that album. On the "Boron" IS a pretty neat word front, I created some new sites since last I posted. I have a Serious Journal at http://www.woohu.com/sidekickboy in which I actually write down some serious thoughts, such as...well, I won't say here. but it's not as stupid as this journal. I also have a poetry site, at http://www.postpoems.com/members/sidekickboy And...um...www.homestarruner.net It's dot com. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The shaking hands, the trembling breath, the heavy beating in my chest. The whole room is growing dim, as darkness pours out from within. Wish I could write a note saying it's not you. It would give you comfort, but I know it is not true. You ruined your own life, I'd rather not have you run mine. What's the use? It's moot now. I think it's better this way some how. I've got it pointed at my head. One last squeeze and I'll be dead. Save your tears for the wake, for now just breathe relieved. One last goodnight kiss to make and one less mouth to feed. You said you you'd love me just the same, when all you cared about were figures. Too weak to hold up the family name, but strong enough to pull a trigger. (10 Comments |Comment on this)
Tuesday, February 25th, 2003
1:34 am	"Oh sure, the tent's safe! Nothing could ever penetrate the NYLON!" I spent my Valentines Day on a bus. Well, really only the last seven or so hours of it. The first half of the day was spent at my church office, where I was labeling postcards that were to be mailed to the young adults at my church. I know a few of them, so I wrote them little notes on the cards with uplifting sayings such as, "look behind you," and "I know what you did." The office is near a Walgreens, so I decided to go and get some hand lotion, or skin moisturizer, or whathaveyou. This, of course, was a foolish idea, because the thought was mine in the first place. Here's what I saw in the general section of where I thought I might get something to moisturize my hands: Daily Skin Lotion for Dry Hands Daily Skin Lotion for Hands That Are, Strangely, Constantly Wet Daily Skin Lotion For People Who Think Their Uncle May Have Mob Ties Hand Lotion for VERY Dry Hands Hand Lotion for The Other Side of the Area of Your Leg That You Kneecap is At...Knee Pit Or Something Daily Moisturizing Lotion for Hands That Are So Dry Some Service Should Take Them Away From You And You Should Be Arrested On Charge of Neglect, and After You Get Out You Can Only Visit Them for One Weekend a Month Aveeno So as you could imagine, I was in quite a predicament. Maybe it's because I'm a male, maybe it's because I'm just stupid like that, but I had no idea what I should get. It tore me apart. They were all on the bottom shelf, so I was eventually just sitting on the floor, staring at all my choices. I had this immense fear of picking the wrong one, as if any other but the exact one I need would make my hands dissolve into green, bubbly puddles on my shoes. Well I eventually picked out some kind of thing. I used it twice before somebody threw it away on the bus. Oh yes, the bus. My original topic. Well, there wasn't much to the bus. Just a lot of people, some seats, a few wheels, a brake or two. We took the bus to Honey Rock Camp, because we were going on a Winter Retreat (we being my youth group.) Winter Retreats are good because: A: It's a great chance to rekindle your fire for God. 2: You get to sleep on plastic sheets. Cappa: You get to do incredibly stupid things, which are called "activities." One such activity is called Snow Shoeing. Now, I'm certain that this is an important thing for like, Eskimos. It would be simply horrible to be the only kid at Eskimo School without giant wooden tennis rackets on his feet. However, as a recreational pastime, this ranks right up there with Burrito Tossing and Dust Collecting. Let me just list out the advantages to this: 1. You can walk on top of deep snow. This, however, was unimportant in our case, the snow being about 21 inches deep. 2. You get to walk more slowly and use WAY more energy than necessary to get from point A to point B52-seven-zero-niner Article 34, Paragraph 4, Act 2, Scene 1, when Dmitri is caught cheating on Cassandra with her best friend, Pat, who is carrying an aliens' baby in her chest but doesn't know it. She thinks the lump is a tumor, and that's what Dr. Schnotz is telling her. But why would he say such a thing? Tune in next week to find out! 3. It's a heckuva lot easier to twist your ankle. 4. Everybody else was doing it. So as you can see, the decision was absolutely in every aspect a no-brainer. On that note, I'd like to type about poetry. Poetry is an excellent thing. You can use it to express anger, love, memories, the Deeper Meaning of Toasters, just about anything. I really love the artsy-fartsy stuff, like: All the monkey managers came from all across the grey carpet plains in teacups of impunity and Sharks' Fin Soup unity wherein kpants hold no water like a vapid teeter-totter or maybe a potato scalloping otter 'cause that also kind of rhymes. People hear stuff like that, and they say things like, "Brilliant!" or "Truly moving!" or "Um...really brilliant!" when what they really mean is, "I have no idea what you just said!" or "Did you write that with a ouija board?" I'd love to write something like that and just snicker at people when they tell me they "totally understood what I was getting at with the whole 5-inch floppy disk/tap water condition in Alabama metaphor." 'Cause really, what can that stuff mean other than the thought that the writer must be 42% made up of opium? There are many good types of poetry, mind you. Shel Silverstein, for example, rocks. Robert Frost. Whoever writes for Good Charlotte ("Girls don't like boys, girls like cars and money. Boys will laugh at girls when they're not funny.") etc. All the good poets either die or they're still alive but I was only joking about them being good and they actually suck. So in conclusion, I have a good weekend at Honey Rock Camp- Oh wait, I just remembered the trip back. On the way back, we stopped at a mall for lunch. In Green Bay. It stunk. I wanted to do strange things in an elevator, but there was only one floor. All they had in the food court, basically, was A&W and The Flaming Wok. Not to mention it was all decked out in football stuff. Pff. I sat down at a table with a bunch of my friends and said, loud enough for everyone to hear, "Hey guys, don't you HATE Packers fans?" Then I got killed. Brutally. I was burninated. By Trogdor the Mighty Dragon. So after that I decided to buy a single red rose. I figured I could use one. My friends told me to give it to someone. But hey, I paid THREE WHOLE BUCKS, and it was MY flower. I did ask a girl if she wanted to get married though. She said no. Some of the guys were like, "ooh, you got shot down." That doesn't make any sense. I didn't ask her if she wanted to marry ME. If she wants to live, a bitter old maid in a house with 6,570 cats, that's fine. I'm gonna live a cranky old man with a wife, 42 kids and a bunch of grandchildren. I'm totally gonna be a cranky old man. I'm turning into one now. I know that, when I have my own house and lawn, hooligans are going to come from all over the globe simply to stand on my lawn, which have a big sign stating, "DO NOT STAND ON LAWN." I'll yell at them and beat them off with my cane. And if that doesn't work, I'll shoot stinging foam into their eyes and make jokes about their mothers. Yeah, well, on the music front, Switchfoot's new cd is coming out today (it's nearly two in the morning.) That's cool. I wanna buy it. Entertaining tidbit, huh? On the I eat worms front, I think I'm sick. I have a sore throat and bloodshot eyes. I look like a stoner and talk like a massive smoker. This has had a great effect on my work environment, because I look like just the type of guy mothers want to have explaining optical illusions to their children. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- There are mistakes we don't have to make, but everyone else does and they seem OK. Well they're looking at you the same way. She's got all the attention singing what's on the radio, barely wearing her preppy clothes. Prefect pretention. The pictures she takes keep the smile on her face. There are mistakes we don't have to make. But everyone else does, and they seem OK. Well they're looking at you the same way. Outside in her rocking chair, straw hat over thinning hair, she's seen more than she'd ever care, outside just sitting there. This town grew up around her, the park where she used to play is a shopping mall today. Memories surround her, The man she waited for, who never came home from the war. She knows what it's like to lose, and she knows how to win. Old-fashioned ideals of decency and an eye for what is sin. But she must be so naive, she's only seventy. There are mistakes we don't have to make, but everyone else does and they seem OK. Well they're looking at you the same way. Current Mood: Please pass the milk, please. (11 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, February 13th, 2003
5:42 pm	"I'm running. I'm sure that there's nothing behind me but if I stop and I'm wrong it will catch me!" I'm not exactly my biggest fan. No, that title goes out to Rufus Kippur, of Shawnee, Arkansas. Now, Rufus is illiterate, and doesn't even know what a computer is, and really he's never heard of me, but research has shown that he has a 42 percent chance of totally loving me to death, because he is senile. He keeps his left wrist on a leash in case it needs to go out and use the restroom. My point is, though, that I don't exactly hold myself in the highest respect. This is not actually my ultimate point (which does not actually exist,) but I will focus on this for a moment. See, I say I don't have much respect for myself, and then people get all "Shut up, Evan. Don't be so hard on yourself..." Well see, I like myself fine. I think I'm an alright guy. I just do a lot of stupid things, resulting in a loss of respect for myself. What I mean is I'm not in love with myself. My ultimate point is that there are certain people who have absolutely no right to receive any respect from anybody, including themselves. That may not sound like the most optimistic statement ever, but that's only because it isn't. The most optimistic statement ever came from my father, when he was trying to convince me to eat sushi. He said- and since then this has because the sushi restaurant's slogan, "It's not that bad, really!" Moreover, I'm painting with a pretty broad brush. I'd go into detail about how ignorance makes things funnier, but it ruins the comical value of something when it has to be explained. This is not true, however, for ditz and cranky old people. ALL of them. See, I was generalizing. Anyway, these people who should be considered a subhuman class, consist of: 1. Telemarketers (duh.) I recently had another run-in with a telemarketer on Monday. Here's how our conversation went: Phone: Shut up, Evan. *ring* Me: Hello? Her: Hello, my name is Jo, I'm calling on behalf of Dewey Cheetum & Howe Travel Plan Maker People Persons. Now tell me, when was the last time you got away? Me: Um, this past weekend. Her: ...Oh. Well, it's good to get away, isn't it? Me: You bet your sweet bippy it is. Her: Yeah! Well, we here at Luvim & Leevim- Me: I thought you were calling on behalf of- Her: Shut up and let me finish. We're having a deal where you can go to the exciting and exotic state of Missouri, flying in a brand new class on a limited amount of planes called the Area On The Wing Where There Used to be An Engine But We Ripped It Out To Save On Fuel Class, and once in Missouri, after a mere 42 connecting flights, we'll set you up in a hotel where you'd have to share your room with bugs the size of a Mitsubishi. All for only $6,570! Me: That's great, but I'm just the son in the family, I really have no authority on vacations... Her: Yeah, but don't you have a girlfriend you'd like to get away with? Me: No ma'am, I don't have a girlfriend, and if I did, which is a very unlikely situation, I wouldn't really want to be alone with her for a weekend. Her: Ah well. Be as safe as you want, right? Me: Yes ma'am. Her: It's abstaining punks like you that are ruinging our nation, you know that? Me: No, I was not aware of that little factoid prior to your sharing. I thank you for your honesty. Her: No problem. ...So, um, could I just ask you to give us the money you would pay for the trip? You actually get a better deal paying up to twice as much as you would for the trip to simply stay at home. Me: No. It all actually ended at the "safe as you want" part. I almost feel bad for telemarketers. I honestly think some of them were normal human beings before giving their souls away to such an ignoble cause. I think some were captured by people who do telemarketer recruiting covert ops, sneaking up behind jobless people in their homes, placing a black bag over their head,* knocking them out and taking them to the secret telemarketers headquarters. They threaten to feed their poodles hard food if they don't do their bidding. They give them impossible products to sell to people, such as the "FREE Electric Nosehair Trimmer with Attractive Carrying Bag FREE with a $246 donation to the Line Walter Machs' Pockets With Moolah Foundation, which is a Non-Profit Orginization Because if All the Workers are not Poorly Trained Telemarketers who are Being Held Captive, They are Poorly Trained Monkeys who Work for FREE!" You never have a telemarketer call and offer you something useful, or just a genuinely good deal. "Hi, I'm Kent, from Brockman Industries. Brockman's wife just bought a brand new car to replace their month-old beater Juguar. Um...they don't need it anymore, so you want it? It's silver. I mean, real silver. How's two bucks sound?" I'd elaborate, but my dad wants to use the computer and is telling me to hurry up. So on to number 2: People who write/perform stupid product jingles for tv/radio commercials. You know what I'm talking about. Whoever wrote that "Here's a jingle for Goldfish, the whole snack that smiles back until you bite their heads off" should be decapitated. And if they don't write it, they sing it, often with feeling. Things like, "Thank you THAAAANK YOUUUU Ex-Lax!" So much emotion over things like Jenny Craig, cajun rice, oh man, and those cheap car dealership commercials... What I've been trying to get at since the very first sentence of this post is, how can these people, after doing what they do so well, not be totally ashamed of themselves? How can you be all about your job when your life's work is The Ab Doer? Alright, time for Effin to not be such a cynical person. Of course, the perfect topic for me to focus on now to brighten the mood is: Valentine's Day, which is coming around tomorrow. I have this great plan for my honey and myself, which may or may not involve ballroom dancing barefoot on the beach, near the shore, while the waves cool our ankles and sully the bottom of her long, light blue dress, while nonexistent music we can both hear plays, as I whisper sweet nothings into her ear ("I like the ladies! I don't know 'bout you, but I like da' LADIES!") Unfortunately I don't have a honey, so I am doing: nothing. This, of course, makes me hate Valentines Day. It's just another day to put an emphasis on the fact that I'm alone. Whee! I hope you people with significant others have a wonderful time with each other tomorrow, and I my deepest desire is that you all contract mono. Happy happy, joy joy, happy happy joy! On the music front, Riane and I are starting a band. We'll break up after one show, but the show will be big enough to get us a VH1 special. It'll be great. On the I've got a slice of balogna in each shoe, and it just feels wonderful front, I rented Left Behind II: Tribulation Force on DVD, and, this is entirely true: it had an alternate ending. I thought that was funny. *Where do they get those black bags, anyway? Kidnappers almost always have them in movies, and they're always the same. Is there some kidnapping surplus store or something? ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- They say that the first couple years are hardest, and they say that it's worth all the rest. I was so sad to hear you two are parted, but I know you said that you both tried your best. I wish things didn't have to be this way. I wish there was more I could do or say. I'm finding words don't go so far these days. But sometimes I'd like to run someone else's life. Your heart was growing darker by the minute, and sleep was getting harder every night. Your love is cold but there's still fire in it, but you're convinced that it's not worth the fights. And I wish things didn't have to be this way. I wish there was more I could do or say. But I'm finding words don't go so far these days. But sometimes I'd like to run someone else's life. But you ask me, you ask me how I am. I'm sickened you'd pull a stunt like that. So maybe my life is pretty bad, but you've got some nerve to be so mad at me. I wish things didn't have to be this way. I wish there was more I could do or say. I'm finding words aren't going far these days. And sometimes I'd like to run someone else's life. Just not mine. Current Mood: I didn't say "shwa." (5 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, January 22nd, 2003
10:42 pm	"I escaped somehow. Let's go!" There's this empty coffee can on my countertop. Last night I was late to go somewhere, but my jacket was really linty, so I got the lint roller out, and started to hurridly de-lint my person. When I was finished, I hastily set the roller next to the can. Evidently it was a bit too close, because now they're stuck together. Right now, whenever I get bored, I grab my lint roller and spin the can around on it. I tried pulling them apart, but neither of them seem to want that. Plus I think it looks kind of cool, like modern art or something. Which brings me to my next point: When I made my last entry, I was fully prepared to receive some nasty letters from a certain group of people, namely "stupid" class people, who disagreed. Unfortunately I can count the people who read this on one hand, and none of you guys actually care, so after some brainstorming in the shower, this thought popped into my head: "Did I rinse my hair with conditioner yet?" It was all uphill from there. I eventually decided that, hey, there are some stupid people out there, and I'm sure if they read this blasted thing they'd send some cranky-butt letter saying that they happen to be big fans of Cher. So therefore, I'm just going to "guesstimate" the types of letters I might get. This one would come from a Dora Flartersen of Goshen, Indiana: "Shut up, Evan. I recently read your entry about how advanced chickadees are. I thought you might be on to something, but that whole thing about MGIR and supermodels, I found that to be very *expletive*ing offensive. I happen to have met a supermodel once. I didn't actually get to talk to her, but I waved at her. She didn't really notice, but she seemed very nice and smrt. Although, yeah, she did kinda look like a depressed wet cat...whose been dragged behind a car for a while...but...uh...I like Cher. With seething hate, SEETHING, Dora Flartersen." Well Dora, that was all very nice and dandy, but I found your recollective description lacking. On top of that, your case for argument was weak, and you used far too many periods. Are you in the middle of one right now*? Oh, here's one from Tony Maloney of Shonee, Alabama. "deer efan, how dair u say taht girls r mor ad...adv...smrter then boys. i am grajuwaiting the forth grayed soon, and i am only 21. my grandfother wint 2 kollidge. thay kikked him out at the admittins offis, but at leest he figgerd out how 2 git a ride bak. the end." Shut up, Tony. Ooh, here's one from Andrea Saylor, of somewhere in PA. She's actually smrt. "My dearest Effin, I want you. I want you so bad, baby. I want you so bad it's driving me mad. Be my, be my baby, my one and only baby. I want you, I want you, I want you so bad, oh honey I want you. Hey, I've got a riddle for you: Q: What's green, doesn't wear socks, and has no ears? A: I want you!** C'mon baby, light my fire... So yes, in conclusion, I feel strongly about the way in which people who prefer white bread to wheat bread are treated in this country. I say we burn all the wheat bread! I want you, Andrea." Hello Andrea. Ever give any thought to moving to Illinois? Now here's one from Iona Hoover, of Gay, Michigan. "Shut up, Evan. Do you have any idea what it's like to be a woman? To have to wear the things we wear, eat the things we eat, shop the places we shop at? Have you ever cried because not all of the dishes came out of the dishwasher clean? I mean *really* cried? What's 7 times 9, huh? I don't think you should be able to speak on this subject until you've knwon these feelings." Actually Iona, I know what you're talking about. I would just rather not think about it, OK? And it's 42. Oh, and I'm lying. On to a new segment. I have a few birthday wishes to hand out. Happy birthday, Riane. Through the years (about three of them,) you've endured my incessant ramblings, my extreme stupidity, idiotic actions, bad singing voice, stupid drawings, lame poetry, and strange mix cds. Hmm...I can't be *all that bad,* can I? There must be *something* about me you might enjoy. Uh...I don't kill people. That's a plus. I have pretty good spelling abilities, though maybe not the best handwriting on the face of the planet. Ahh, skip it. You're cool. Have a happy birthday, alright? Saul, you don't read this, but happy birthday. You rock. Listen to that Victor Borge cd, you'll like him. And stay away from my sister. Tessa, you're such a big girl. I love you lots. Don't go getting married on me too fast, 'cause that'll mena you have to move out and I won't actualy see you so much. I'm glad we can be such good friends. Goosh goosh goosh. Happy birthday, big sis. Lauren, give me my aorta back. Happy birthday. A birthday is a special thing. It's a day where you wake up, hopefully later than usual, you get some loot, and you say to the world, "Hey World! I'm not dead yet! You won't get me so easy!" Then you take an aluminum baseball bat and start bashing random worldly things in celebration of your survival. After you've successfully destroyed one of your neighbor's shrubberies, three pigeons, and your right shin, you will be dragged to the nuthouse, laughing, where you can spend many birthdays to come, just in a much more highly drugged state. It's a special thing indeed. You know what else is special? Dancing. I don't really prefer it, but I went to this school last Saturday, and everyone seemed to be doing it. I mainly just stood there and watched people make clothed babies. Rachel, who was my date, and I just got to hang out, which is always fun. She and our dear friend Allison promised to cover my eyes whenever people were doing improper things in front of me. I'm still not sure what they meant by "improper thing," because they did a pretty good job of holding up to their words. Maybe kids were poking each other in the eye or something. Whatever. I didn't smile much, but I had fun. On the music front, sorry guys, I know this isn't interesting, and in fact, to my shame, it's true, but I just found out that I have something cool. See, when I was at an airport in Rome, I picked up The Essential Bob Dylan. This is quite cool in and of itself, but I just looked at the track listing on Amazon.com, and I've discovered that my version has six more songs than the American release. Does that rock or what?! On the look out kid, it's somethin' you did, God knows when but you're doin' it again front, French doors are interesting. Not really, I'm lying. They open, and they close. And they blow up of you place plastic explosives on them. I don't know what the big deal is about stuff like that. Some people like to have things because they're from someone else. FRENCH doors, ITALIAN beef, SWEDISH fish, TONY Danza...they're really, push comes to shove, shove comes to punch, punch comes to chase, chase comes to to end when dad comes to home, they're really not that impressive. *don't hurt me. **Alternate answer: A deaf watermelon with cold feet. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Sometimes I think I should get praise for how I've been growing and all that I've made for You. But I could be wrong. Maybe in Your eyes it seems like stealing, but just one compromise to give me that feeling I need to go on. This skin's so thin and tight, and with the limits of this sinful life, I can't say I'm right. Sometimes I pray that God would make me wise, brighten my way, let me see with His eyes. I hope that's OK. Ask me your questions, of life and trials, I met get ahead, ahead of myself, yeah sometimes I stray. This skin's so thin and tight, and with the limits of this sinful life, I can't say I'm right. I know You know better but I can't stop thinking, thinking about whether I should stick around when I've hurt You again. I know You'll forgive me, can't fully believe it. And You're working in me, I just cannot see it yet, but I'll know in the end. (5 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, January 13th, 2003
2:07 am	"Hey, this isn't toilet paper! I just wiped my *beep* with a gun!" Well, I still have no Italy/Slovenia trip stuff. I've decided that I will not be posting that here, because there is far too much truth in such a story to put in one single entry here in Effin's Live Journal. It would ruin its reputation ("bad"). Therefore, I am still going to write it, but instead of posting it here, I shall send it to a bunch of local newspapers/magazines and see what they say ("NO!"). So if you want to read all about it, you're going to have to move here. Today, I am going to introduce a new segment, which will probably never again see the light of day, because it's stupid, but I found a way to use my name as a kind of pun type of thing, and couldn't pass it up. The new segment will be called "TEK (That Effin Kid) Talk," in which I will cover the wide yet at the same time increasingly smaller world of technology. I shall thoroughly cover every aspect that happens to come to mind whenever the heck I feel like it. These topics will include, but are not limited to, PDAs (Public Displays of Affection,) Cell (Cellularangulartheoreticalmythologicalcyberkineticchronologicaltelepathic) phones, Biomedical Engineering (the study of all things biomedical engineerical,) Computer graphics (your mother,) Breast implants (for chickens,) Nanotechnology (the new leading technology that probably doesn't actually do much of anything except make things a lot smaller, but sounds futuristic,) etc. (et cetera.) So, todays topic is going to be, by popular demand, by which I mean I asked Riane what I should talk about: girls. Girls are something rarely ever mentioned here at Effin's Live Journal, as you will find if you never ever read any of my other entries. Now, I know some of you are thinking, "shut up, Evan." For that I thank you, because it gives me yet another chance to make this journal incredibly monotonous. Wow, that's a lot of O's. A lot. Oh-oh-ohohoh, oh-Oreo. What's in the middle? The white stuff... Which brings me back to the original topic: Your mother. I know I said that earlier, but I also mentioned monotony, so I thought it might fit. Your mother is a girl. This gave her the option of giving birth to you, and for some reason or another (or quite possibly another, other than the other another) she did. In todays highly advanced world, you now have a fifty-fifty percent chance of being a girl, unless you are Whoopi Goldberg, in which case none of this applies to you whatsoever. Women are biologically much more complex than men. For instance, guys are idiots. Another good example is shopping. Women are now actually born with MGIR (Must Get Item Radar,) which automatically turns on when they walk into a store. It is self-activated, and is always kicked into overdrive when there is a poster hanging in the store of a girl who, I'm sorry, usually they aren't all that attractive in the face. They look like wet cats with insomnia and chronic depression. These women are called "Super Models," obviously because they represent perfectly every other woman on the planet. Now, forgive my bluntness, but our perspective of the "model woman," well, it sucks. I'm not going to get too deep into this, because I this topic always gets me worked up, and a good deal of you know my onion on this all too well, but for CRYING OUT LOUD, people! Put some clothes on, eat some mayonnaise, and friggin' SMILE every once in a while. I could never date a super model. This is for various reasons: A: I hate to generalize, but you could have a more intellectual conversation with a cookie jar. 2: I'm afraid that if I ever leaned in to kiss her from further than 4.2 inches away, I could very easily miss her entirely and fall flat on my face. Cappa: She wouldn't let me, anyway. So, back to MGIR. Take, for example, Baby Gap. Now, I've gone into various Gap-type stores with my sister, Tessa, who thoroughly disapproves of my breasts. This is not technically related to anything I'm talking about, except for the breasts part, because, well, many girls have dental hygeine as well. Tessa has very good Must Get Item Radar. I've seen her point to something, and say "Oh, that's CUTE!" before even turning her head to *look* at it. When shopping, girls think everything is cute, or they ponder at the possibility of it looking good on them. You can drag a woman into a bait and tackle shop, and she will find *something* that she thinks is positively darling, such as a whale harpoon, and she will ask you one of *those* questions. You stupid men know what I'm talking about. Something like: "How does this make me look?" or "Now, which color?" or "What were Benjamin Franklin's last words?" ("Zap.") or the dreaded, "Does this make me look fat?" Now, this is where it gets complex: When a woman asks a man a question like this, *she does not want his actual answer.* What she actual wants, as far as my little mind can figure, is beyond me. Here's what happens: Girl: Does this make me look fat? Guy: No, you look fine. Girl: *Fine?* I look *fine?* Gee thanks you brute! (She begins to cry,) I'm so glad that I'm merely adequate in living up to your standards! (She knees him in the gnards, rips all his skin off and pours salt on him). Guy: What'd I say? Or: Girl: Does this make me look fat? Guy: No, you look more beautiful in that than I've ever seen you before. Girl: WHAT?! Great, all this time I thought I meant something to you, I thought I was important to you, but obviously all that's important to you is looks, you shallow jerk! (She runs the harpoon through his torso and sticks him to the wall with it). Guy: Ouch. Or: Girl: Does this make me look fat? Guy: Yes, when you're just standing near that, I cannot tell the difference between your head and your shoulders, because it's all just flab. Really, I wouldn't hang around here if you're going to buy that; you might get harpooned yourself. Girl: Oh, OK. Sorry, I can't help myself, but you women are just evil. I mean, you're smrt, yes, but you use much of your intellect to form confusing emotional puzzles and mazes for the sole purpose of, let's look at this honestly, stepping on some poor sap's heart. Now, if you're a girl who is reading this, I AM NOT TALKING ABOUT YOU. You a perfect angel and would never do anything to hurt...well, me. You have the grace to read something like that and say, "Oh, That Effin Kid, what a kidder. I'm not going to crush his soul and laugh." If men had that intellect, they'd use it to solve world hunger, to invent new things, to blow things up. Not that women don't do this, see, all I'm doing here is just digging myself a nice little hole. I give up. Women are far too individually complex and precious (and dangerous) for idiot me to even try to explain. Besides, this is biology. You know what you get when you mix biology and technology? Binology. Haha, just kidding, because that was stupid. You get Cher. On the music front, one of the guys from P.O.D., I think his name was either Donny or Joey, in an exclusive interview with VH1, Spin, Entertainment Weekly, Jon Stewart, 60 Minutes, Barney the Dinosaur, and, of course, Effin's Live Journal, "Shut up Evan." When questioned later, he reportedly said, and I quote, "Beep beep." What does this mean? When we here at ELJ got our reporter on the case, he came up with these possibilities, along with a few others which were discarded because they needed a very large spoon to make any sense whatsoever: "He could've maybe been saying something that meant something else," or "Does the word 'peeb' mean anything?" Or "Perhaps he was misquoted and really said, 'Effin, give it up. You're writing this at two in the morning, you can't think straight, and your feet probably smell. Go to bed.'" That last one isn't very likely, but it's true. I'm just gonna say one more stupid thing, then post a stupid song, then to heckfire with all this. On the what if nobody ever invented kpants? front, I wrote a poem tonight that is quite sweet and warm and cozy and tastes great when you dip it in tea. It goes like this: My dearest of dears, how long I have waited to know your touch. The love we've created between both of us, which quite simply stated will just have to do 'til I find a girl with a better bod than you. P.S., this just in, Sir Alec Guiness is still dead. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Pure joy seems somehow dirty, considering all this hurting. I can't tackle this on my own but I won't go back to what I've known. You've shown me Your strength, and I could use some of that, 'cause I'm falling again, but what do You expect? This is only a test. Well You're breaking me again, and I can feel the strain, I can feel it in my bones. And I know...You know. No more than I can bear, 'cause You'll always be right here, and if I only ask for help, You will. I know You want to make me a man, and I'm doing the best I can. But what do you expect? This is only a test. (6 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, December 23rd, 2002
12:13 am	"I'll do it! Gimme a hammer, I'll kill him!!!" Well, I'm back from Italy/Slovenia. But this isn't going to be the post about that, because that's going to take a while. I started writing it, and realized it was long, boring, and kind of dismal. And I hadn't even gotten to my first takeoff yet. Right now, I wish to fill your mind with exactly what I'm feeling: Crap. There are many things that happen to people in life. For instance, there was once a young man named Shredded Wheat. He got old one day and died. Actually, this is false. He got old over many days, 42 at least, and then in one day he died. Though technically we all die a little more every day. But let's not think about death. Let's think about lice. Lice (pl., "lice," I guess) is a small thing that gets in your hair and annoys the heck out of you, kind of like MCI telemarketers, just with more self respect. Many people get lice throughout their lifetime. But very few of them know how to handle it. "Should I try and make friends?" They ask. "Should I set my hair on fire?" "Should I have eaten those chicken taquitos?" Well, here I am to save the day, with the Unofficial List Dos And Don'ts When You Have A Lice Problem: ------------------------------------------ When you have lice and are mowing your lawn... DO: Go about your business in such a way that practically screams to the world, "WHAT LICE PROBLEM?!" DON'T: Run over your neighbors cat. It gets your kpants all bloody, and bones aren't healthy for your blades. When you have lice and are trying to get a date with Wendy Peffercorn... DO: Give in to your fear of her turning you down, because she will. Instead, spend the intended night of the date trying to drown your lice out, because really, that's disgusting. DON'T: say, "Hey Wendy! You are one hot momma! I've got lice! You wanna go out?" When you're climbing up a ladder and you're hearing something splatter... DO: Not get that song stuck in your head. DON'T: Come near me when you've got hairlice. When you have lice, and a green monster from the planet Neptune lands and bites you on the leg... DO: Bite him back. Unless he's covered with spikes. He'll realize that Earthlings are crazy rabid fiends and will tell all his Neptunian buddies and they will not invade, and you will have saved mankind as we know it. DON'T: Bite him back. I know this goes against what I just said, but this IS an alien object, and who knows what kind of toxic materials it's made of? There are far worse things than lice. ON SECOND THOUGHT: If you still have lice, see if they'll abduct you. Just get away from me and mine, you freak. When you have lice, and are campaigning to become the President of the United States of America... DO: Go to Iowa at some point. Tell them you care about corn or something. They might vote for you. DON'T: Go back. NEVER. Where do you think you got the lice in the first place? When you have lice and it itches... DO: Seek medical attention from a doctor. If you can't get attention from a doctor, try your dog. He can at least sympathize. If your dog ignores you...man, you really need some attention, don't you? I mean, you're just desparate. I don't suspect ANYONE would wanna get close to you. I think the only ones you can talk to are the lice, so I wouldn't be giving them an eviction notice any time soon if I were you, you poor sap. DON'T: Read this helpful list, or your lice will become infuriated at your schemes, and REALLY start eating your head, digging down to your brain, like your older brother told you they would when you were 6. IF YOU DO NOT HAVE AN OLDER BROTHER: Then...um...wait for the special edition of this list, for People Who Do Not Have Older Brothers. There will also be an edition for Teens, Kids, Women, Men, Eggmen, Walrus', and Danny DeVito. The end. ------------------------------------------ I'd like to dedicate the rest of this entry to a very special person in my life, by the name of...um... Blast, what was that name? Smitty? Smoochy? Sss...Svendike? ...Swan- Swanson? Swanson? Oh yeah! Samsonite! Oh man, I was WAY off! I actually don't know a Samsonite, so this entry is still indie. This does bring to mind, however, the fact that I have a best friend. His name is Seth, but he prefers Sexy Sexerton. We have been best friends for a long time. Almost immediately since the day I called him up and said something that, at the time, was incredibly witty to us ("Hello, there.") This was not entirely immediate however, because I had a high-pitched, annoying voice, and he still liked Steven Curtis Chapman (nothing against him, I just happened to like such rock'n'roll greats as PFR and oldschool Newsboys at the time, so I was SO much cooler, musically.) We eventually became the best of friends. Since that day, actually, we've talked so frequently that the phone bill alone has pretty much kept my family from being able to afford to move out of this cruddy house. Only recently have we realized, though, that if we were not best friends, we would hate each other and probably be at each other's throats. Please, get me wrong, because I don't really care what you think. But I'll explain what I mean anyway. See, we disagree on a great deal of things. If it weren't for the fact that we loved each other so much -with that genuine love that men express about as freely as Jamie Lee Curtis freely expresses that she was born with male genitalia- if we didn't love each other like that, neither could stand the other. There aren't a LOT of things we disagree on, just a few small things, but in a major way. We totally agree on the key things in both our lives: A: God rocks. 2: Women are freakin' attractive. Cappa: The "easy" ones, however, are bad, and would only bring us down, and so we're not attracted to them. K'Z'K: The good, godly ones are unnattainable to us. Lothar of the Hill People: Crap. We're really screwed. There's more, of course. But that's basically it. Seth and I are a great team. There are friends that you can be silly with, friends that you can be serious with, and friends that you can eat WAY too much Wendy's with. With your best friend, you two can do anything platonic with each other comfortably. That is, if he/she is of the same gender (which gets sketchy if I accurately stated your best friend as "he/she".) See, both Seth and I have gotten to thinking of the saying that "you should marry your best friend." We both had the same response ("EWW!") I'm not sure why I shared that with you. So yeah. Think about your best friend (Freddy Krueger,) this Christmas season. I don't know why, just think about him/her. On the music front, Bob Dylan rocks. Seriosuly, people. Some people think he's strange, and that's true. Some people think he doesn't have a good voice, and that's pretty much true too. Some people think he's ugly, and that's true, but he *was* pretty hot when he was younger. Some people think he's a talking zebra that wished to the Tendon Fairy that he would get fingers so he could play the guitar. This simply isn't true. He wanted fingers so he could hold his cigarettes. Even more people think his voice is the result from having taken a softball to "where it's at," (which got caught on tape and sent into Funniest Home Videos,) but his voice was like that WAY before that incident. Either way, he rocks. On the Footos: The Fresh Fighter front, a deaf, mute man by the name of Honn DeCivic, who had been living in a cave in the Yukon for 246 years, came out and spoke for the first time. His words were, and I am making this up, "Why the bloody heck are we bringing the eighties back?!" The are ups to the eighties, A-Ha and two of the Star Wars episodes, for instance, but what about the mullets? All those evil, bright, clashing colors...*blugh* -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Once a spirit asked for a chance to live, and so the good Lord gave him this gift, saying "make the best of what I have to give." So he had the best job, and he had the prettiest girls, and he gave himself the best things all his long life, and then he died. Once a spirit asked for a chance to live, and so the good Lord gave him this gift, saying "make the best of what I have to give." So he worked with Green Peace, and he bred endangered species, and he gave to charities, all his long life, but then he died. Once a spirit asked for a chance to live, and so the good Lord gave him this gift, saying "make the best of what I have to give." So he asked Jesus just what he should do. He said "I'll make a messenger out of you. You're going to a country where the rulers do not want me." And so he did, until they killed him all too young, but he lived on. (50 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, November 27th, 2002
2:46 am	"He's a very clean old man, isn't he?" My birthday is coming around again. I don't know why it keeps doing this, but I've got a pretty good hunch that it's just to tick me off. I always become too old for something I always meant to do but never got around to (or as experts say, "never really cared about") until I was already too late, or I'm still too young for something I really do want to do. My brother quit his paper route which he was going to hand off to me just *three months* before I would be old enough to take over, and for no good reason, either. Just because his new manager was Queen Slimehooker from the planet Phiimael Doggh, and just because she said we owed the newspaper $500 (which we didn't,) and just because Queen Slimehooker always pronounced our name Telemarketer-style (KONK!) really loud at the offices when we'd go to peacefully scream at each other about this affair, are these good reasons to quit? Don't even get me started on McDonalds' Playplaces. You might get the sudden urge to mortally wound yourself if I put you through all that. So anyway, this year my theme is "16." I'm starting to notice a pattern in this whole aging process thing. I think it's a bit more than a coincidence that it will have taken 42 years for me to turn 42. I mean, how cool is that? Birthdays have never done much good for me. I find that each year is worse than the one before. I suppose I could be the optimist and say it's better than the next. Either way, I'm screwed. I had nearly forgotten about my birthday until I get a little something in the mail. It was for $5 off any entree at a loverly little ribhouse called Famous Dave's. Ironically, it was addressed to me *because my birthday is near.* You see, they serve many high-fat foods that have about the same effect on the human heart as my brother-in-law has on our plumbing. The postcard says something like, "this birthday certainly won't be your best- why not make it your last?" So I get a little birthday discount. It used to be for a free meal, but it would appear for Dave, fame alone doesn't put bread on the table. I don't know if I'm gonna use it. I have a lot to live for. For instance, I'm going to Italy, I have a nice paycheck waiting for me when I get home, and I just got married. I know you're probably thinking, "Shut up, Evan. You've never had a nice paycheck, nor will you ever, you poor sap." True, but now I have dual income. Nicole Kathleen KONK! (formerly Fink) and I were married last Saturday, due to the facts that we are madly in love with each other, she wanted to go to Italy, and we were at work and had nothing better to do. Those of you who may know her from such classic documentaries as, "Mommy, Why Are You Hiding Under That Mastadon Skull Exhibit?: The Effects of Eating Too Much Candy" and "The Deeper Joys of Sax: The Effects of Kenny G" (she was in Alto, Baritone, and Tenor versions,) all of you may be thinking, "Chiggidy Chiggidy Shwa." Well I agree whole heartedly. Now, I've received some mixed results from people when I've used the word, "Shwa." Most people simply think I'm an idiot and should be banned from humanity as a whole, but there are some rather horrid comments I've received about the word itself, such as, "Shut up, Evan. I don't like that word." Now don't worry Riane, I'm not gonna name any names, but how could anyone dislike such a beautiful word? It's one of the 42 best uses for the human mouth, right up there with eatin', kissin', and cutting electrical tape with your teeth but accidentally getting the gluey side on your tongue and having that horrible taste in your mouth. Oh well. Everybody's entitled to an onion. Not that all of them *should* be entitled to one, but they get one, sometimes more, anyway. It's just that...geez! It's such a great word! Oh yeah, Italy. Yes, well I'm leaving for Italy on my birthday/America's Thanksgiving. It's a noon flight to Philly, which is known as the "City of Brotherly Love," due to its murder rate, which is the same number one might pay in yen for a pack of Mentos (426,570,246.) Philadelphia is, of course, not Italy. I asked around about why we might be stopping here, but unfortunately the only person I could get ahold of (myself,) is a Stupid McStupidhead, and NEVER gives ANYONE *any* useful information. But here's what I picked up nonetheless: A: The pilot has a peanut bladder and has a phobia of airplane toilets due to a mishap as a child involving Dr. Pepper, turbulence, and the nickname "Smurf." From Philly I suspect everyone will get sick of our then current pilot and switch planes. 2: The good people in the airline industry hate your guts for even ATTEMPTING to get out and have a relaxing vacation while they're stuck in that blasted control tower/fancy office while all their co-workers are jumping out the window because of all the stress/money coming at them. Changing planes means you have to pay more AND wait longer. Score! So yeah. Whatever. I plan on bringing a notebook, so I can write on the plane about my adventure. I've never been on an airplane before, so I'm quite excited, judging from all the stories I've heard about the view, the cheap in-flight movie, the kind Flight Attendants who might thrust one of those neat wing pins into your eye if you call them a Stewardess, the annoying kid who kicks the back of your seat (which will more likely then not tunr out to be me anyway,) the sweaty, rotund gentleman who probably has mafia ties sitting to your left, the yappy woman in her sixties who talks to you about her cousin's daughter Denise and how she contracted a rare form of toe fungus which caused her hands to fall off, though she still is such an attractive young girl and she truly wishes you could meet her 'cause you two would really hit it off. What's more, now that sweaty mob boss is getting airsick and looking at you as if you were the Porcelain Prince, and that annoying kids' little baby brother is now wailing as if he were Chris Carrabba, and the pilot just mentioned something about how some wacky mechanic forgot to- heheh -screw on that right wing. From what I've heard about the airline food, I believe instead of eating their turkey, I think I'd rather just climb out on the left wing and yank a goose out of one of the engines, preferably one that is no longer running. I know I probably won't run into any of these troubles, because my parents upgraded themselves to first class, and therefore could only afford to sneak me into the baggage compartment. Well, all of you get about a week absolutely free of That Effin Kid, and this is cause for celebration. I might say that Famous Dave's is a wonderful place to party. On the music front, I'm starting a new band called Methyl Ethyl. It will be in the style of eighties hair metal, and you shall all be frightened. On the I'd like to hire a plane and see you in the morning, when the day is fresh I'm coming home again front, my dad seems to think I should go to bed, and consequently I have no time to make up some other terrible lie. Maybe later. Hah, there we go. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- It's always something with you. I either wait too long or act too soon. But I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I messed things up for you. She said "No need for apologies, you had to speak up, oh please don't feel bad." And I said, "It seems time is against me, and now is all I'll ever have." I guess it's something with me, I either think too much or just barely. She said, "No need for apologies, you had to speak up, oh please don't feel bad." I said, "It seems time is against me, and now is all I'll ever have." It's ironic the hope I seem to retain when I know there's nothing left here to gain. Can I be content knowing simply that now is all we'll ever have? Now is what we'll never have. Current Mood: :dooM tnerruC (7 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, November 8th, 2002
11:32 pm	Ooh, lookit me, I'm making this title about my entry, because I'm rebellious like that! The are few things funnier than the mere thought of Woody Allen. Tipper Gore, for instance, is NOT one of those things, with the exceptions of some certain cases. Don't get me wrong, Woody Allen totally rubs me the wrong way. Oh sure, I like some of his movies, which, contrary to popular belief, are NOT merely the same film that he made in the mid 1960s constantly being re-released with a different name every time. How do we know this for certain? Well, with the exception of Diane Keaton, every film has a different woman for him to hit on. The storyline remains basically the same, the actual dialogue (clever jokes and innuendos) from picture to picture differs in very much the same way pork chops and vacuum cleaners do not. These are actual quotes from separate Woody Allen movies: "I haven't seen my analyst in 200 years. He was a strict Freudian. If I'd been going all this time, I'd probably almost be cured by now." -Sleeper, 1973 "I was in analysis. I was suicidal as a matter of fact and would have killed myself, but I was in analysis with a strict Freudian, and, if you kill yourself, they make you pay for the sessions you miss." -Annie Hall, 1977 These are, in keeping with the Quality and Dedication of all but one of the employees here at Effin's Live Journal, horrible examples. But my point should be well taken because, all honesty, the only excusable reason for you to come here expecting a reliable source of TRUE information would be if, say, Doogie Howser had, in a horrible accident right before lunchtime, replaced your brain with a grapefruit. Nothing against the man himself, I mean, it's not like he writes and directs most of his own stuff. Geez. What's amazing is how versatile of an actor he is. For instance, he would've been the perfect Dirty Harry. "You feel lucky, punk? Please say no, 'cause I- I just get very nervous when thugs aren't afraid of my gun. Yeah, same goes for women too, actually." We all know The Godfather was incomplete without him. "I'm going to make you an offer you can't resist. And if you do- my sexual confidence, *gulp*, right out the window." Of course, such movies as Star Wars, Titanic, The Matrix, Gladiator, and Gone With The Wind have been the forgotten whispers that they are because they lacked that certain key Woody element. But of course, the perfect role for Woody Allen is: James Bond. This would be, of course, ridiculous to the point of someone forming a lynch mob to come after me for making such a blasphemous statement, but for the fact that they do, surprisingly, have some things in common. A: Women fawn all over them. 2: They both like to make lots of innuendos. Shwa: Woody Allen's first name is Woody (which, most likely, he has a good chuckle or 42 about every day) which is the name of a character in the animated films "Toy Story" and "Toy Story 2" (no relation) whose voice was played by Tom Hanks, who used to be a frequent host on Saturday Night Live, along with Robin Williams, who starred in Mrs. Doubtfire, which featured Peirce Brosnan, who played, of course, Annie Hall. So here we have Woody Allen. He's the same person in every friggin' movie, with just mildly different surroundings. I've seen a good number of Woody Allen movies, and I am throughly amused every single time I watch one. Why? Becuase women really do love him. For some reason they find his entire being -the same type of being who used to get sprayed in the eyes with the inhalers of the cooler lesser-beings in grade school, the same type of being who, even though by the fourth grade had a hairline that looked like an upside-down picture of Mount Everest, but what hair had not yet retreated to the his back would be slathered with an entire industrial size bin of bryll cream whenever there was a birthday party someone higher up had gotten him invited to (the mother of the birthday girl, only after a stiff beating by said beings own mother,) and at these parties, this being would explain so some poor sap how his stomach couldn't handle cake very well, and then promptly prove his point by throwing up on the birthday girl. This is the being that, and I didn't even get into the whole glasses thing due to the the annoyance of droning, which I can't stand, how some people just drone on and on and on and on and on, the being that women fine irresistably theckthy. Women leave their husbands, children, plants, kitchen appliances, chores, and Neil Diamond cd's just for a shot with this guy. And he's not even nice. He's creepy. He's what I will most likely be in 42 years if nobody marries me. What does he have that I don't have? Jewish heritage? Jillions of dollars? The ability to openly talk about Mr. PeePee on the Silver Screen, even when he might've KNOWN his grandparents could see it? Is that what you woman want from me?! Not that I'm jealous. It seems very logical to me that a woman might go for a 67 year old pervert who writes and stars in these movies in which his character ends up with a 21 year old woman with whom, for artistic purposes only, he gets to play rugby with, over a 16 year old guy who isn't entirely bitter yet, but who could actually be quite nice if you'd give him a f-bleepin' chance, a 16 year old who does NOT tell you about his ulcers, or that case of crabs he was just getting over, while he's trying to seduce you. On the music front, much to the dismay of *very few* loyal fans, Avril Lavigne may be selling out. On the I'm starting to complain about girls more again front, I don't know if any of you have noticed, but there are aliens breaking into our planet, through (though not necessarily in this order) the stratosphere, the hemisphere, the atmosphere, the telesphere, the moebiusphere, and the new and improved Danzasphere. They're penetrating our society quite noticed. We're not only talking about John Mayer, who was once a normal human, but who fell in love with a girl who crammed her ovapositor down his throat and planted her eggs in his chest (and now what's Inside Wants Out,) but no, I am talking about these "people" who go into professions -careers- that no normal person would choose. For instance next to a dry cleaners' I once had to go to (which was Greek,) there was a family owned store that specialized in "health foods & supplements and vacuum repair." The owners seemed normal enough, forgiving the slightly transparent-green tone of their skin, and the fact that they have 246 arms and their panchreas was found on the top of their head. I still have my suspicions about them, though. Maybe I'm just paranoid. I'd tell my analyst about this, but I never trust a strict Freudian. He may double his fees if he thinks we might make some progress. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Is it you or me I'll never get? Sometimes I sigh. Love or regret, I don't know why. It has me wondering every time. I can't explain my actions. I can't expect your sympathy. I can't explain my reasons, but they're coursing through all of me. Is it every single word she says, every move she makes, that shy my mouth from opening, or the courage that it takes? I can't explain my actions. I can't expect your sympathy. I can't explain my reasons, but they're coursing through all of me. It's all so close to perfect, which hurts just all the more. My efforts to improve might take us back to how it was before. And is this burning desire, this closeness so far gone this feeling that lingers on and on, what I've wanted all along? (4 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, November 4th, 2002
9:12 pm	Ahh, sledgehammers and loveseats. This is what being a man is all about... In light of recent events, I wish to express me deepest feelings and outlook on life in this following statement: Grunt. Yes, I just did something manly today. See, I was at the toilet, STANDING, and... Oh wait, not that. I was cleaning out my room see, and under my old bed, which is about five feet up on stilts, there's this loveseat. I never used it; I mainly just threw used underwear on it. Anyway, my dad said that as soon as we hauled down to the dumpster, I may proceed to smash the loveseat to itty-bitty pieces with a sledgehammer. Let me give you a little background about sledgehammers. Sledgehammers have been around since, according to experts*, 6570 B.C., before Sears even HAD a softer side. They were invented by an ancient man, whose name was Al Jr (not Junior, just Jr. Pronounced, "jurr." Ancient telemarketers had a field day with this guy,) when he found a bone called the "sledgus hammerus" (located near the torso somewhere, according to experts**,) from the remains of an ancient Sledgehammersaurus (literally: Lizard With A Sledgehammer For A Bone,) and decided to whack lots of stuff with it. At first, sledgehammers were used for almost every purpose. Construction, destruction, medicinal tools, entertainment, romance, culinary arts, etc. Of course, since then, we've gotten other tools, many of which came from other animal bones, such as the Freshwater Philipsheadscrewdriver, the Redwinged Adjustablewrench, and of course the Tablesaw Retreiver. For some reason, all of these animals are now extinct. Probably due to a lack of shelter, because guys always want these tools, but when they get them, they never actually *use* them, unless they make the toilet explode and need to install a new one. Which you can do, of course, with just a sledgehammer. Which, interestingly enough, brings us back to our original topic. So I start clearing a spot until my dad said there was enough room to get the loveseat out (I personally think Calista Flockhart would have to side-step to get through the path,) and so we picked it up, and, in tradition of male-moving (not the actual moving of males, which has some...*other* traditions, but the traditional things that take place when men move things,) we hurt ourselves because we were trying, essentially, to push a 4'x2' loveseat longways through a 4"x2" path. Maybe that's a bit of an exaggeration, but I'm not one of those journalists who are big on all that "perversi-" err, "preserving the truth" stuff. So, I get behind it, and my father get's in front of it, and we push it a long, all the while I'm praying (and doubting) that my father is still actually *in* the front, judging from the time I had trying to get this thing out. I'm thinking that he kinda just snuck away while I had the blasted thing in front of my face, drank some hot chocolate, read a book...heck, he might've been lounging on top of the thing, as far as I could tell. But here's the fun part: Eventually, we got it down to the dumpster, he handed me the sledgehammer, and I crushed that loveseat like I was a girl, and it was my heart. I now understand why you girls love breaking hearts so much. I was kinda proud of myself, seeing the shape the couch was in afterward. Like I wanted to show it to my friends. Do you gals get the same feeling? Girl #1: Hey, see Effin over there? Did you notice how he's been moping around all day, and how his eyes are really red and baggy 'cause he's been crying all night? Well I did that. Girl #2: Wow, good job! I'm sure he deserved it. What'd he do to you? Girl #1: He smiled at me. Girl #2: *gasp* Oh that rat-fishcrap! *ahem* Well anyway, it was a good way to release a lot of anger ("Take THIS, Heath Ledger!",) a pretty good workout, and it also makes chili and fries. Maybe I'm talking it up too much. But it sure made me feel manly, beating the living crap out of an old piece of furniture, then beating all the dead crap just to make sure, and then taking a couple more whacks for good measure, and then a few more just because I felt like it. I found myself spitting a lot. I was spitting pretty far, too. Maybe it was all the dust that had collected on the couch, filling up my lungs that made it fly farther, or maybe I was just being a mass of pure manliness. So I'm doing this again tomorrow with an old dresser. Somebody please shoot me if I start singing Village People songs. On the music front, David Bowie, whom you might know from the techmo band Megadeth, is reportedly a fish. And believe me, we here at Effin's Live Journal were just as shocked, if not more, or possibly less than you to learn this. This was learned in an official statement by some guy who lives near Ohio somewhere, who said, "[David Bowie] is not human. He doesn't look like one." Our researchers worked minutes straight, investegating, coloring between the lines, then finally drinking a lot of caffiene and saying the first non-human thing that came to their mind. So yes, David Bowie is, by process of deduction, a fish. On the chibby chibby shwa, whoopdy doo, J'Nuh! front, I have way too many traditions for a little journal like this. It's almost like you're reading the same entry, over and over. And over. And over***. And over. ...And over. And over. *Though maybe not very well respected experts **See previous footnote ***And over. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- They're waking you up to close the bar. Street's wet, you can tell by the sound of the cars. Bartender's singing Clementine as he's turning around the open sign. Dreadful sorry, Clementine. Though you're still her man, it seems a long time gone. Maybe the whole thing's wrong. Maybe she thinks so, but just didn't say so. You drank yourself into slo-mo, made an angel in the snow. Anything to pass the time, and keep that song out of your mind. Oh my darlin', oh my darlin', oh my darlin', Clementine. Dreadful sorry, Clementine. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Thursday, October 31st, 2002
9:42 pm	42. Well, it's time for my annual halloween entry again. If you'll recall, I started this tradition last year, about the same time. Being the respected Journalist/Love Machine/Small Shrubbery that I am, I decided, this year, that I would wear a disguise to look like human guys, but I'm not a man, I'm a Chicken Boo. Erm, I would wear a clever and yet altogether stupid disguise. With puffed sleeves. After much consideration, deliberation, and abomination, I remembered that costumes and I don't mix. Ever. We never have, really. One year, I was a mummy. I put on some long underwear, and my parents embalmed me and wrapped me up pretty snug in toilet paper, and sent me on my merry way. Unfortunately, as soon as I moved one of my limbs (I can't quite remember which one, but I know it was loosely connected to my torso,) all the toilet paper tore and fell off. So we tried again, and it fell off again. Eventually we ran out of toilet paper, so that year I decided, at rather a late moment, to be Long Underwear Boy. Nonetheless, I persevered. I know you're asking why. Was it my determination to break into the Halloween society unnoticed so I could give you this important and incredibly useless information? Was it my constant stride to better myself? Was I being held at gunpoint? The honest to dog truth is, I am stupid. At first, I wanted to be Raymond Babbit, but nobody (except for Riane, Andrea, and Dustin Hoffman) knows who that is. So I decided to be Chief Inspector Jacques Clouseau. This was, of course, a brilliant idea. My impersonation of his French accent is about as close to the real thing as Florida is to Illinois. And EVERYBODY knows who Chief Inspector Jacques Clouseau is, which is a horrible and tragic lie. But, with all these things in mind, I persevered. I went out and bought (in the sense that I suckered my mom into paying for) a trench coat, much like his, only much smellier. I couldn't find that nifty little hat for the life of me, but I have a couple old-fashioned hats of my own, and so I used one of those. The only thing left, based on my budget (however much my mom happened to have in her purse,) was the mustache. And so we went looking for one. Unfortunately, fake mustaches have apperently been made illegal to sell in Illinois, so of course stupid stores obey the law and don't sell them anymore. I found a great deal of false eyelashes. One of the stores I went to, and I am making this up, had an entire aisle devoted to false eyelashes. Well finally, today my motehr and I went to the mall and, I am ashamed to admit, found a place that sells false mustaches. We went to a store called "Halloween Express," which gets pretty darn good business year-round. I wanted to buy lots of stuff, like some different wigs, and some Quasimodo disguises, and some false teeth, and some inflatable parrots and the like, so I could change my disguise at will. My mother enthusiastically said "no." Well we got a mustache, and I brought it home, and put it on, when I noticed with was much too long. So I got the scissors and, while muttering "swine mustache" in a horrible French accent, cut a bit off of each side. This was evidently a bit too much, because I put it back on and looked in the mirror, and Adolf Hitler was staring back at me. Now, normally this would be kind of funny, because I've got an alright Nazi March, but I had to go to work in this costume, and the museum director is Jewish. So, still muttering "swine mustache," but this time with a horrible French/German accent, I threw the blasted thing away. I was already late to work at this point, so I threw some jeans, my new shoes, and a VERY old vest of mine in my bacpack and went on my crappy way. When I arrived at work, Cruella DeVille and Boss Lady greeted me, and I explained to them my predicament the the Clouseauiest way possible, and they stared at me. Then I gave them a quick recap with an American accent, and they thought I was stupid. Then Cruella asked me, "Heh, what's with the Bible in your hands?" "It eez mine," I replied, "I carry eet vith me alweez." Um, because I do. I always bring it with me to work. I think I made her feel like a heel. Oops. So anyway, I had three options at this point: A: Keep my trench coat on, roll up my kpant sleeves and become (rather, disguise myself as,) a flasher. 2: Go into the bathroom and change into my "emo kid" disguise, which would thoroughly confuse everybody. Gamma: Clock in. I decided, eventually, to clock in (20 minutes late,) and then become an emo kid. I went to the bathroom, put on some somewhat tight jeans, a small red vest, and some bowling shoes. Then I got a paper towel damp, and used it to wipe my eyes every now and again. Occasionally I'd start screaming Dashboard songs, and crying really loud while I sang them. A grand total of two people knew what I was going for. It was an alright night. I got proposed to (on the subject of marriage) three times. Simultaneously. One one girl thought I might propose to her (I didn't, because for one, I'm simply not attracted to her in that way, and for two, her boyfriend is captain of the Chess Club and could beat me up,) and one girl kissed me on the cheek. Yes, a girl kissed me. Immediately afterward, she projectile vomitted, her bowels erupted, and her face looked like the face of that girl in The Ring when her mother found her...you know, that first one who died in the beginning. Katie or whatever. All that aside, I did manage to penetrate the Halloween society unnoticed, except by everyone who saw me. I have taken the liberty to write down my thoughts about Halloween. So here they are: "Dear Fran Drescher, I admire-" oh wait! That's not it! Ah, here we go: Halloween. What can one say? Well, obviously one can say "Halloween," unless you're mute. In that case, I'd feel very bad for you. There are some great words out there, like "chiggidy" and "Fu Manchu" and "shwa" and "ignorant," and there are tons of different accents with words that are fun to say, like "burglar" with an Australian accent, or "bomb" or "room" or "solved" with a French accent, or "judging" with a British accent, or "When I wake up, well I know U'm gonna be, I'm gonna be the man who wakes up next to you. When I go out, yeah I know I'm gonna be, I'm gonna be the man who goes along with you. If I get drunk, well I know I'm gonna be, I'm gonna be the man who gets drunk next to you. And if I haver, yeah I know I'm gonna be, I'm gonna be the man who's havering to you. But I would walk 500 miles, and I would walk 500 more, just to be the man who walked a thousand miles to fall down at your door" with a Russian accent. So in conclusion, I feel strongly that Shirley MacLaine should be removed from office immediately. Well, this is my forty-second entry. You've endured a lot over the...year. But I'm not gonna get all nostalgic over one stupid years' worth of crap. Let's talk about 42, baby. 42 is a wonderful, and very significant number. It is the age I will be when I decide to rebel and move out of my parents' house, and it is also the Answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything. It is also the sum of 4 + (the average number of slices of pepperoni on a Jacks' Pepperoni Pizza x 2) Well, I'm not very good at expressing myself with words, so I wrote a poem about 42. I know that sounds oxymoronic, but you must remember that I am both an oxy AND a moron. "42" by Effin KONK! 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42 42. The end. I could and should go on longer, but I have to get off the computer soon. On the music front, if used cd stores were women, I would hit on the relentlessly. I just strolled into one, and I saw the clearance shelf (which is highly jumbled up,) and I thought, "Hey, maybe I can find The Proclaimers." And what happened? I found Polka Polka Polka, vol. 2 (no lie). But I kept looking, and eventually I found the great album by The Proclaimers, "Sunshine on Leith." So I picked it up, then, as my eyes were browsing the rest of the cds, I started to say aloud, "Hey, maybe I'll find New Ord-" And just as I was saying this, my eyes fell upon the great New Order cd, "Republic." So I bought them both. For $5 a pop (or soda, some of you might say. Screw you; I say pop. Nothing personal.) If I could dance about it, I would. Unfortunately last time I danced, I'm fairly certain that the Cold War was the result of it. On the I know you really didn't want to read any of that front, Marlon Brando, who you may remember from any given episode of Star Wars, just turned 42. When asked to comment, he said, "Shut up, Evan." Furthermore, I think I'm gonna start going with the emo kid disguise a lot more often. It feels kind of liberating to wear the clothes I REFUSED to wear 7 years ago with pride now. And I mean THEE same clothes. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- It's so unhealthy the way I'm putting her before me, but it's not really a choice. Losing sleep, 'cause it's two o' nine in the morning, and all I hear is her voice. And my prayers get weaker the more I long for God to clean this mess. Why can't I move on? 'Cause I'm so young, and I don't have a chance. Look away, look away, go ahead and look away, until your neck hurts you. Dig away, dig away, go ahead and dig away, until you've run me through and through. Writing songs about how she was too young, I never want to have to do. So give me a shot now, while the years still seem long, 'cause I can't stand them without you. And my prayers get longer, 'cause my mind wanders back to the girl. I'm not getting any younger, and old hearts are harder in this world. Look away, look away, go ahead and look away, until your neck hurts you. Dig away, dig away go ahead and dig away, until you've run me through and through. All I want is just for her to smile, and every word's been for her. Each sentence is to my slow death, but every word is for her. Look away, look away, go ahead and look away, until your neck hurts you. Turn away, turn away, go ahead and turn away, until you've run me through and through. Go away, go away, don't tell me to go away, 'cause I can't get past you. Current Mood: 42 (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, October 25th, 2002
1:37 pm	"Blow fan, blow like the wind!" Throughout the course of your life, there are many questions you have to ask yourself, such as, "Would it be dangerous if a narcoleptic hamster fell asleep at the wheel?" and "Hey, you got a light?" and "How many roads must a man walk down?" and "Why am I reading this crap?" But perhaps the biggest question is: What *really* goes on in the "office" area at Wal-Mart? You ask yourself this because of a very mysterious, top secret, and fictitious letter I got from an alert reader* named Dexter Wilmington of Tuscaloosa Alabama, who will remain anonymous. The letter read: "Shut up, Evan." This is (of course) Alabamian speak for "Wal-Mart is actually a secret agency, whose name stands for 'We Attack-' Argh! I've been shot!" They get most of their agents from the electronics department. When you get a job there, the ideal agents' promotion lineup goes: Bum to stockboy, stockboy to not-so-helpful "product informant" (already getting into the agency there,) then not-so-helpful "product informant" to register worker (that's in accounting,) from register worker to electronics manager, and from electronics manager to International Super Spy With A Tuxedo That's So High Tech You Can Make Coffee AND Check Your E-Mail Just By Wearing It. The pay increases about $.42 per hour with each promotion. You didn't hear any of this from me, of course. I don't wanna end up found dead (or even uncomfortably maimed) in the cart return, Wal-Mart brand thirty-ought-six in my side. I could, of course, give you undeniable evidence of the existence of W.A.l-Mart, but that would be far too interesting and creative for this journal. But think about it. What are all these "employees" doing at work? I mean, I've many a time discovered diapers full of messy-poo that have been laying on the shelves, unattended to, since the Carter administration presumably. And do you think they were left there by lazy and not-so-environmentally-aware mothers? Nope. They're rubble left over from the Great Secret Nano Virus Diaper Wars of '42, even though the Carter administration (supposedly) hadn't taken effect until at LEAST 6,570 years later. I think it's all a little suspicious. C'mon people, you think this is fake? It's all way too stupid for any sane person to make up! Don't get me wrong in any of this. Wal-Mart is a great store, but I'd rather just avoid all that craziness. Which is why I now shop at either of their two biggest competitors, Target and Commies'R'Us. On the music front, underground folkrap band U2 is reportedly starting to get some attention. I mean, they're no Effin Confessional, but they're starting to get a small gathering a shows. Look out for their upcoming radio single, "Dirrrrrrrrrrrrrty in Herrrrrrrrrrrrre." On the I hate hate hate hate hate hate hate this entry front, I had this dream last night that I was a character in The Blair Witch Project. Now, I've never seen this film, but I have a feeling it was something along the lines of my dream. If you've seen it, please tell me if I'm close: I think my character's name was Vic(tim,) and he was...kinda weird. Well anyway, the camera kept switching between color and black and white, and somewhere in there, we saw this kid with no legs who was riding a bike. Well somehow I turned a paperclip into a pair of legs, and I woke up as I was going up to offer it to the poor, legless bicycle kid. Was that in the script? Perhaps it was a deleted scene? Well anyway, about five minutes after I woke up, I realized it would probably be better to get around on a bicycle than a paperclip. *OK, so maybe he doesn't read my journal, but I'm sure he reads SOMETHING. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The fascination Disconnection Far-out disengage Everything is meaningless Let's atom-bomb the stage Destination violation Far-out disrespect Liberation Transformation What did you expect What did you expect Mr Candidate-Elect Was it everything you planned By a palm tree in the sand The information from the station Lulled you off to sleep Everything is heavy And the figures are too steep Destination Laceration You'll survive the wreck Institutionalization What did you expect What did you expect I'm afraid you're incorrect And you're breaking up the band By a palm tree in the sand Coming down in recovery We fail to understand Wait around for discovery With Merchandising plans So take the dive We are Shuck and Jive (Comment on this)
Saturday, October 19th, 2002
3:33 pm	"Is the ship safe?" "Heh, no worry, if anything should happen, there are two lifeboats." For those of you who are NOT currently stalking me (you know who you are,) I should have to tell you that I work at a childrens' museum, where we have REAL children on display 24 hours a day for your viewing pleasure. I am, of course, lying. We usually close around 5:00. As a sidenote, we also have various hands-on Science and Technology exhibits, hence the name "Sci-Tech Hands On Museum." As a sidenote of said sidenote, whenever I tell someone the name, they ask for the spelling, and are quite shocked. They have either (or both) of these responses: 1: "I thought it was like, 'Zydek' or something." (To which I respond, "No, that is the name of the prescription medication you should be on*.") 2: "Wait wait wait, how many 7's is that again?" )To which I respond, "There is puss coming out of your nose**.") As a sidenote of a sidenote of a sidenote, I've come to realize, on a recent trip to the lavatory, that good journalists and writers in general, when they go on tangents, they tend to have a clever and pithy way of bringing that tangent back to what they were originally talking about, instead of just going on and on then suddenly coming back to the matter at hand. So I work at Sci-Tech. Do you know the young visitors favorite part of it? "Hands On." They don't actually play with these exhibits. Lord knows who would dare to do that. They simply like to have their hands on them. This is a common conversation I have with these children: Child #1: Mommy, what does this do? Me: I am not your mommy. Child #1: Oh. My mistake. Do pardon my arrogance, kind sir. Me: I had to wake up before noon to be here. I'm not a kind sir. Child #1: ...Um, well what does this do? Me: I dunno. It's plutonium. Child #1: Well, does it smudge when I rub my hands on it? Me: Hey, this is a science museum. Science is all about expiriments. Go ahead and give it a shot. Tony Danza: Hey guys, what's up? So as you can see, life at Sci-Tech is pretty darned interesting. I'm not actually that grumpy at work. I'm just really tired right now. My original point for any of this was to tell you about how smudgy some of these things get, but it's really not interesting at all, in any way, unless you're one of those people who are into that sort of thing (you know who you are). Forgive me for keeping with this whole grumpiness thing, but you know what really tweaks my geetch? I do. I know, that is. I don't tweak my geetch. See, I was at this show last night. And before it started, I was sitting at a table, writing some stuff (such as, "Die Avril, Die" and "Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy") when this girl walks up to the table, leans over, and asks me what my name was (and still is). Now, usually this is just fine and dandy with me. I mean, the girl wasn't annoying or anything. She seemed rather pleasant. It's just that whoever designed her shirt must have forgotten that some girls tend to have breasts. Now, I like women as much, if not more, than the next guy. But if I'm having a conversation with a girl, I want to be focusing on her, not focusing on...her. I mean, really, I know you've got 'em, OK? You've got nothing to prove. I'm not gonna be like, "Hey! Breasts! I know some people who have a couple of those! Heck, I have some of my own, but I'm getting them removed." Most guys don't have breasts, though. And we tend to frown upon the public display of things the opposite of the two major American genders doesn't have. Just as most women (except, of course, for Bette Midler) don't have penises, so they are frowned upon. I mean, why do we sell shirts in Wal-Marts that show off cleavage, and that's just fine and dandy, but if I guy wore a pair of kpants that revealed a portion of Lucky Chucky, he'd get arrested? No, I am not trying to make it legal to have a type of male cleavage. I'm trying to say, in the nicest way possible, PUT A SHIRT ON. I mean, I'm not saying you need to wear a nun dress, with a turtleneck sweater over that, I'm just saying, for the sake of conversation (in quite a literal sense,) get a T-Shirt. If you like, you can get one that says, "cleavage" or something. In fact, that'd be pretty cool. This may sound unreasonable, but personally, I get uncomfortable when girls stare at my breasts, and guys are MUCH creepier than girls. On the music front, that concert I was talking about, it was pretty interesting. They pulled me up on stage during the, uh, "final" song. They covered the Bob Dylan song, "Knockin' on Heaven's Door," and I sang the chorus with them. Then the bass player handed me the bass, and we played a song of theirs that they had kinda retired from live performances called, "C'mon and Catch Me." As the song was ending, I realized that I was not plugged in. Then, on a whim, we covered The Middle, and I did background vocals. Three people that night asked me if I played bass. All of which said they played guitar. And I believe two of them said they had a bass, but no bass player. However, if you know how to play guitar, that in fact means you also know how to play bass. But, of course, none were willing to stoop so low. If their egos had a physical incarnation, I would have kicked each one in the throat. On the oh yeah I nearly forgot front, this is my 40th entry, which means it's time for another Big Secret Which I Had An Official Name For Twenty Entries Ago But Have Since Forgotten. Alright, well what you already know is that I write lyrics and post some of them on here. What you don't yet know, unless, of course, you *are* currently stalking me, or if you've read this already, is that I have a siamese twin. We were separated at birth by way of a paper cutter. We were joined from bigtoe-to-kneecap, and have the scars to prove it. My twin's name is AJ. He's about 20. *I'm not actually aware of any such drug, but it's gotta be out there. Isn't it time you asked your doctor about Zydek? **Not really. I usually say something like, "No, that is the name of the prescription medication you should be on***." ***No seriously folks, I say, "GET OUT OF MY MUSEUM YOU ALL AROUND UNPLEASANT PERSON! ...OK WELL MAYBE YOU'RE NOT ALL AROUND UNPLEASANT; I SUPPOSE WE COULD HAVE A SIMPLY DUCKY TIME DISCUSSING THE MUSICAL ACT 'THE CAPTAIN AND TENILLE,' OR YOU MAY POSSIBLY HAVE AN INTERESTING VIEW ON PICKLED HERRING, BUT I STILL DON'T CURRENTLY ENJOY WHAT I HAVE SO FAR EXPERIENCED OF YOU!" -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- This time last year, it all was fine. We stuck like glue, with no need for lies. But I'm falling away from you. I remember you lying by my side, When someone would walk by, we'd close our eyes to hide. Now I'm trying to hide from you. It's not what I choose, but I'm so far removed. Why do I always have to lose? Why did you bring him into this? What happened to our friendship? I thought it was, you swore it was the best. I thought you'd had a change of heart last time you tore mine apart, I thought you said it won't happen again. And since that night, I held in that I can't stand it when I see all the things you take for granted. The love that you can't see. I see right through the blatant lies that you say, I'm left bitter from all the good things that you take. You're falling away from me. Why did you bring him into this? What happened to our friendship? I thought it was, you swore it was the best. I thought you'd had a change of heart last time you tore mine apart. I thought you said it won't happen again. Just watch the stars, show me how true a friend you are. Set it all aside, just watch the stars with me tonight. One year later, we're on a bus, I'm wondering what happened to us. You're a few seats ahead of me, you're a few steps ahead of me. Just out of earshot of a million words of hate, So this is our fate. If you were to love me, it would be to love too late. We're falling away. Current Mood: Miggedy Frump (2 Comments |Comment on this)