Dear thoughts and writings, when you get back into town, let me know. Okay? No worries about you being gone for a couple of days, that happens. But just, at least call me and let me know you're okay. That you'll come back eventually.
I know, sometimes life gets hectic, and instead of sticking around, you just sort of take a break. So that way you're around when necessary, and otherwise on vacation.
It's just, I could still do things if you were around. So, just come back and stay. Don't go, necessarily, so far away.
I miss you. At least, I think I miss you. Without you around to let me know how I feel, sometimes I'm just not sure.
Sincerely, and with love, though possibly just one or the other,
-Kevin.
PS: Totally send this to your girlfriend. Every hour on the hour. Maybe more often. The needing them to know how you feel bit is ideal. Trust me on this one.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
California Schools Are Not Political
California schools "Totally don't care whether you vote yes on prop 30. But you should vote yes."
California schools, outside of the school system really want Prop 30 to pass. It means more money for a lot schools and helpful community services, among other State and community benefits. Surely most teachers, not as an agent of the school system directly, would tell you Prop 30 is a great thing for education.
However, inside the school system, they absolutely don't care if it passes, or not. The extent to which CSU doesn't care is most obvious. CSU spokesperson Claudia Keith stated, "We are not advocating one way or the other. We are just laying out the facts." that was not the originally drafted sentiment, but "We will break your knees if Prop 30 isn't approved" was going to be a nightmare to implement.
They are not advocating one way or the other by delaying when students will be notified of their acceptance until, as a coincidence I suppose, after the election. They are also sending out a non-political letter. The letter states if Prop 30 doesn't pass then there may not be room for the school to accept as many students as they'd like. The implication is, probably whoever gets that letter is one of those unacceptable students. Again, this isn't the school taking sides though. Any prospective student can still vote "No." They can also not attend college, or wear underpants on their heads. CSU's letter is open to a great deal of possibilities.
There have also been rumblings of a few different actions to take in either outcome of Prop 30, passing or failing. If prop 30 passes they say, they may refund spent tuition for students who paid in the previous year. That's a common thing for colleges to do, when those colleges are wacky party animals, like CSU. On the other hand if it fails, the school system has been considering: tuition increases, job cuts, lower enrollment rates, cutting athletic programs, combining staff and janitorial duties to clean up their administration, and on.
As a side note, I don't understand college finances so good. But, if they are hurting for cash, would turning away prospective students help them? Why wouldn't there be room for 6,000 extra tuition paying students? 6,000 students that would be paying a higher overall tuition? Why, I'd guess it's just a political move intended to scare people into voting the way they want. But, thankfully I've been reassured that's not the case. Phew.
I really don't care much about whether Prop 30 is good or bad. Schools should not be allowed to intimidate the students who give them jobs.
It'd be like me threatening potential employers. Hey publisher of articles, if you don't publish this one, you might not be able to get articles from me in the future. If you don't publish it, I've also thought about not eating, not working anymore, never going out with my friends, and probably calling Mom and telling her to bring me home because I'm a failure and it's all your fault. But, do whatever you want.
But see, a publisher would know that's the stupidest thing they'd ever heard. But prospective students might not realize it. Either way, I don't care about whether or not people get angry at the school system for this, but it was a dumb intimidating tactic that deserves to be met with anger.
Monday, October 8, 2012
Road Trip D
Oh. Look who it is. Readers-too-good-to-donate again, eh? Well, if that's the case, the pub is a mighty long walk away. Also, we're increasing the amount of puns per post 100%. On to modern art!
Among the many intriguing modern art exhibits were things like: metal hangers bent in a way that made them completely useless as hangars, odd metal animals with well formed genitalia, squares painted on canvas, and a whole bunch of hand statues doing different hand like things with each other. I mean, I really had to hand it to the artists here, they were by no means square.
There is also, on the way to the modern art side of the museum, a neat little artsy museumy cafe store. With all the good food, and art books, and means of hemorrhaging funds you could ever want. Also, the modern art side does have the coziest little couches to sit upon, right outside the bathroom. So while your friends are all off galavanting about in the restrooms, you can sit down a moment, and appreciate the view of the wonderful museum store.
After seeing all the modern art we could bear, read: walking through as quickly as possible, our group decided we would head back to our friend's apartment, and fall over dead for a spell, before continuing on with our adventure. After walking and driving for more of the day than most people were usually coherent, we needed a rest.
We rested.
Continuing on with our adventure got us back on the subtrain thingy, and we took that over a bit, and then decided we'd walk. The walk was full of absolutely nothing. There were no people saying hello. There were no birds in the trees. Even at the awkward 10 square foot grassy triangle referred to as a "park" was somehow devoid of people on this fine day of labor.
It was a bit of an eerie walk down the sun shining sidewalks of Washington D.C. We talked about things that people talked about. At great lengths too. Why, if my memory serves me right, we talked for fifteen or more minutes about how the sun was shining and no people were around. Also about how there was a small grassy triangle that was referred to as a "park." It even had a sign reminding people that it closed at 10:00pm, and was not to be used afterward. You can't get more full-fledged and park-like than that!
The goal here was going to a pub and participating in a trivia night! We came up with a very clever name for our trivia team. It wow'd just about everyone there. I'd share it with you, but the jealousy it would instill would be too much. It was definitely nothing like "Some guys at a bar." Really, nothing like that.
Trivia nights exist to remind you that you know a few weird things, and together with some other people, you know a great deal of oddly useless information. Common trivia questions are like, "Who said "I am a professional NBA player, and I'll throw my peas against the wall whenever I want to!"?" The answer in that case, is Howard Hughes. Crazy crazy Howard. That's how his home boys referred to him.
Anyways, during trivia, one of the members of our adventure, whose father may or may not have scaled school rooves professionally, had a bit of a squeaky chair. We encouraged him to sit down quickly. He did, and his chair protested, and veritably shattered into many splintered pieces. Suffice to say that for the rest of our trip our friend was leery about sitting down anywhere. Never again will he fall for the classic, "Hey why don't you sit in this chair here." prank. I'm currently innovating a more devious, "Hey could you possibly use this here chair here as a ladder" prank. I'll encourage him to jump up on it, for stability's sake.
Tune in next time on Road Trip to hear about a surprise visit to Chicago!
Part the first, Road Trip A
Part the second, Road Trip B
Part the third, Road Trip C
Part the this one, Just ah. Just scroll up.
Friday, October 5, 2012
Industry Jobs
You're sitting at home wondering, "How can I make money, doing what I love the most?" If you're anything like me I'll have you know: that's gross. No one will pay you for that. But, when it comes to getting paid for what you like second, or third most, I've accumulated some helpful pointers that will get you a job in your desired field.
First you've got to apply. The old fashioned way is best, but if you haven’t any experience taking hostages and negotiating, you can attempt giving your resume and cover letter directly to the hiring manager. Depending on exact methodology, either of those techniques could potentially lead to jail time. Or an interview.
Now, many people who haven’t interviewed recently, or at all, forget important interview preparation rules. First make sure the moon is between the Waning and Waxing Gibbous phase. Second, write down some questions you’ll want to ask the interviewer like, “Do you have any single daughters?” Also, no matter how much you need the job, refrain from saying, “If I don't get this job my children will starve and I really just want this, please give me this job." Because interviewers hate children. Also, as a final note before we get to our actual interview question and responses from an actual interview, if you’re asked, “How would your last boss describe you?” they don’t mean literally.
Now, actual interview questions, and their ideal answers:
Interviewer: Hello, thank you. Please sit down.. Mr?
Unemployed Schlup: Oh, I’m Unemployed Schlup.
Interviewer: Please, sit down you poor schlup. Let’s get right to it. Do you think humans need to be paid, to be content with their work?
Unemployed Schlup: Haha, thanks, that’s a great question Gene.((Use this name in all situations)) Thanks for asking.
Interviewer: What have I done?
Unemployed Schlup: Well, not to be too genial, ha-ha, here, but I've been hard at work((insert gratuitous telling winks)) on a personal project of mine, that showcases that I’m a dedicated, intelligent, fun-loving, gay-friendly, enjoys-long-walks-on-the-beach kind of employee.
Interviewer: Alright, great, great, that’s great. Good. So, do you have any pet peeves?
Unemployed Schlup: Hearing the word 'walk' and not getting to go on a walk, not being allowed food from the table, and generally being tripped over or kicked, when I've snuck up behind someone’s legs. Though sometimes, it just seems like attention, so I like it then.
Interviewer: Alright. Alright, thank you for your time. We’ll be in contact with you Unemployed Schlup.
It’s important to follow up with an email or a phone call and thank your interviewer while reasserting your interest in the position. The best time is before the interview is over, to thirty seconds after it ends. Otherwise the interviewer may wonder if you were really passionate for the job, or if you just had a spare resume and tailored-to-their-company-cover-letter lying around and figured, "why not?"
Businesses understand that times are hard, and will do their best to get back to you in two to four months. Until then, you should work at your father’s magnificent farm, and enjoy laboring in your desired field.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
A Bump in the Day
Was he a monster? He didn't think so. It wasn't like he was out, sobbing in his car trying to regain composure because he wanted to kill someone. He was pretty sure most murderers didn't get their title for being sad sacks.
But. He definitely hit someone. His arm cut in front of his face at a most inopportune time, trying to wipe away the snot and tears from obscuring his vision. Then, that was that for someone else's day. He knows people who hit and run are evil, no good, a waste of space, and that's just what he was thinking before he did it. That he was no good. That he was a waste of space.
The space he had been occupying was nice enough. Some crickets found their way inside at night. The shower sometimes didn't spray water, so much as dribble a bit out, like a baby new to eating. But otherwise, it was nice. Quaint even. A pretty tiled floor in the kitchen, and a pristine white carpet covering the rest of the apartment.
It was mocking him, the niceness of the place. He couldn't afford it for long, was just passing through. Except, he was doing a shitty job of passing through, and the solitude of the place was haunting him. Or maybe he was haunting him. So he had to get out. He had to just get into his car and drive. Somewhere. Away from that nice place. But, the kind of nice you can't touch. Because it'll fall apart right then.
So he got out. He got in his car.
At first it was great. He was out. But it couldn't last. After driving for who knows how long, he figured out the ironic punch line. The funny thing was, he was going to turn around and go back to his oppressor. He had to. All his stuff was there. All his hope of getting out of the place, was wrapped up neatly within the place. That's when he started sobbing.
Not a full sob at first. At first it was a funny sort of sniffle. One where he looked at the rear view mirror, saw half of his own face and said, "No." He said it aloud. To himself. Inner monologues just aren't as effective when you're trying to prevent sadness. Sadness needs a firm verbal command. Then, his face scrunched up in an interesting way. As if to say, "Hey, I kind of smell something, and there's something in my eye all at once." It was a smile, if smiles were hideous things that only made you want to cry when you saw it. He saw it.
Then tears came. He told himself he could stop at any time. He giggled a little. Felt like he was addicted to tears. That was sort of funny. He told himself that all the snot leaking out his nose would just go away when he wanted it to. That he'd --
bump.
It wasn't even, a catastrophic bump. Well, not for him. He was sure the person he hit died. So, if you die, that's probably catastrophic. He wasn't sure of the exact definition, but thought fuck it, that's gotta be close enough. He wasn't sure how it could have killed them, it was such a little, barely noticeable bump. But, he was a monster after all. Maybe when he bumped, it was worse. A big bump from him could have leveled the city for all he knew.
He had to run. If he ended one life, what was the point in staying there, and waiting for someone else to end his? Sure, it was shitty. He wasn't happy about it, but what else could he do? Go to jail for being a cry-baby? While he appreciated he may gain respect if he said that, and followed it up with immediately murdering someone while sobbing, in front of a large group of people, that wasn't going to be his Plan A. He drove the fuck away.
Stopped crying pretty fast though. He thought, maybe that person was a practical joker. Maybe, they were just lying down, and would pop right back up after they realized no one was laughing at their joke. This made him laugh. He started laughing hysterically. What a good joke.
He pulled his car up, back at the nice place. He parked his smeared, dirty car on the street. There wasn't room in the driveway for it. He got out of the car, and slowly approached the apartment. Tentatively, he opened the door to go in. It let him in. The house didn't care he was a killer now. Didn't care at all.
He cared.
But, it was just all so funny. He couldn't stop laughing.
That is, until he stopped laughing.
He stopped laughing when the biggest punchline hit home. This punchline was not articulated with a guffaw, but instead a deep silence. Not even the cricket, on the tiled floor, next to the white carpet, could find it in itself to chirp, even a little bit.
It was one of those jokes, that just wasn't funny.
Note: This is 100% more fictional than my blog usually is. That's not to say my blog is usually true, but this is much more story like. I would have put this disclaimer at the top, as that's where you put disclaimers, but then no one would have been dragged into the story by it's initial inquiry. So forgive my poorly placed disclaimer, but in case you hadn't noticed, the above is a story.
Monday, October 1, 2012
Self Help Book
So, recently I've been trying to learn a lot on my own. There are a lot of resources out there that can really guide and improve your abilities in whatever field you want. The internet is great for finding and checking reviews on that sort of thing. I took a gamble and got one, "How to Cook Gorillas."
I've heard that gorillas are really tasty, and was hoping to get into gorilla-cooking, and see if it was for me. A lot of the reviewers said they sure wish they had read this book before they started cooking gorillas, because their first gorillas came out awful, and this book pointed out all of their mistakes and so on.
So I was ecstatic and excited.
Then, I got to the book, and it was filled with useful headings and content like,
((note, I say "like" above, but this is verbatim.))
"So you're never cooked a gorilla"
I'm a very successful gorilla meat cooker. I used to be a lowly homeless slacker, who didn't even own an oven. Through passion, and dedication for gorilla meat, I built up a lot of great cooked gorilla meat and sold it. I'm now more than stupidly wealthy, and I didn't even try hard. I've never actually tried hard in my life, and I'm going to tell you exactly how not trying very hard led to great success on my end. It's mostly about getting lucky, and reading this book will help you in the getting lucky department.(Note: pun intended, but untrue. You won't get lucky like that. But you'll definitely get lucky in the other way, without trying, if you buy and read this book cover to cover.)
"The best way to cook a gorilla"
Gorillas are completely delicious, and if you add just the right spices they'll be even more wonderfully delicious. Why, one time when I wanted to have some gorilla, I just added some really good spices, and that really made the gorilla stand out, and it was a delicious gorilla. All my friends said, "Wow this is such a good gorilla, you added some really great spices." So that's what you should do, add some really good spices, and make your gorilla stand out.
After you've added some really good spices to the gorilla, you're probably going to have to cook him. Most people would cook him, and cooking the gorilla would really add to the overall flavorfulness of that gorilla. If you'd really prefer not to cook him, you don't have to. As I said before, gorilla tasting is a very personal experience, and no one can tell you how to do it. But you should definitely cook the gorilla, or else it won't be very good.
"How to sell your cooked gorilla"
Alright, now that you've learned all about how to properly cook a gorilla, we're going to have you sell the gorilla. Probably your friends will want to sell their cooked gorillas too, in which case they should definitely read this book. You may want to give them this book, because it was so helpful to you.
Anyways, what you're going to want to do is find someone who buys gorilla meat. Then you're going to want to sell them your gorilla meat. If the buyer is looking for Lowland gorilla meat, you're going to want to make sure your gorilla meat is Lowland gorilla meat. It's not unheard of to sell really good Mountain gorilla meat to a Lowland gorilla meat buyer, but usually people buying Lowland gorilla meat want to buy Lowland gorilla meat.
"How to deal with rejection"
It's a sad but true fact that everyone faces rejection, especially gorilla meat cookers and sellers. You're going to have to make that a part of your repertoire. You'll probably face a whole lot of rejection, just like I did. Don't worry, I only spent about two hours a day trying to sell gorilla meat, and after just a week of doing that I sold my first batch! That seller quickly died of food poisoning, and I was again out of work. But I wasn't put down, I just kept on trying to sell my gorilla meat, and after hearing "No that's infected bad gorilla meat." hundreds more times, I finally sold another batch. Then, as the fates were against me, that seller also died of food poisoning. Never one to give up, I just kept selling and selling, and now I've got more money than my wazoo can hold!
Hope you enjoyed reading, and that this book is as helpful to you as it was to me! Not that I had this book, haha, I wrote it! But, I did all of these things myself, and that's how I know it will work for you too.
Thanks again,
-Author Brooks
If only I could have figured out that information on my own. Instead, I spent money on a book that explained, in detail what I had to do to make and sell gorilla meat. This book was also filled with review after review saying, "When I first started selling gorilla meat, well, let's just say it wasn't as easy as this book makes everything for new readers! Haha." and, "Golly, author Brooks really knows his gorilla meat, and it's clear because of how many times he says gorilla meat in the book itself. Go ahead, try and count! It's just too high, haha. But honestly, this is a great gorilla meat primer for anyone interested in the gorilla meat industry.".
I'm sure those people meant it enthusiastically, and definitely and really read the whole thing, and it revolutionized their gorilla meat selling careers. The kind of book I look for in self help is the kind that's as full of itself as the Titanic was of water near the end there. This book was so much more full than that. I'd recommend it to anyone, who ever wanted to see how many times they could bear reading a single repeated upbeat phrase before they exploded.
My guess is about 16 pages of actual reading.
I've heard that gorillas are really tasty, and was hoping to get into gorilla-cooking, and see if it was for me. A lot of the reviewers said they sure wish they had read this book before they started cooking gorillas, because their first gorillas came out awful, and this book pointed out all of their mistakes and so on.
So I was ecstatic and excited.
Then, I got to the book, and it was filled with useful headings and content like,
((note, I say "like" above, but this is verbatim.))
"So you're never cooked a gorilla"
I'm a very successful gorilla meat cooker. I used to be a lowly homeless slacker, who didn't even own an oven. Through passion, and dedication for gorilla meat, I built up a lot of great cooked gorilla meat and sold it. I'm now more than stupidly wealthy, and I didn't even try hard. I've never actually tried hard in my life, and I'm going to tell you exactly how not trying very hard led to great success on my end. It's mostly about getting lucky, and reading this book will help you in the getting lucky department.(Note: pun intended, but untrue. You won't get lucky like that. But you'll definitely get lucky in the other way, without trying, if you buy and read this book cover to cover.)
"The best way to cook a gorilla"
Gorillas are completely delicious, and if you add just the right spices they'll be even more wonderfully delicious. Why, one time when I wanted to have some gorilla, I just added some really good spices, and that really made the gorilla stand out, and it was a delicious gorilla. All my friends said, "Wow this is such a good gorilla, you added some really great spices." So that's what you should do, add some really good spices, and make your gorilla stand out.
After you've added some really good spices to the gorilla, you're probably going to have to cook him. Most people would cook him, and cooking the gorilla would really add to the overall flavorfulness of that gorilla. If you'd really prefer not to cook him, you don't have to. As I said before, gorilla tasting is a very personal experience, and no one can tell you how to do it. But you should definitely cook the gorilla, or else it won't be very good.
"How to sell your cooked gorilla"
Alright, now that you've learned all about how to properly cook a gorilla, we're going to have you sell the gorilla. Probably your friends will want to sell their cooked gorillas too, in which case they should definitely read this book. You may want to give them this book, because it was so helpful to you.
Anyways, what you're going to want to do is find someone who buys gorilla meat. Then you're going to want to sell them your gorilla meat. If the buyer is looking for Lowland gorilla meat, you're going to want to make sure your gorilla meat is Lowland gorilla meat. It's not unheard of to sell really good Mountain gorilla meat to a Lowland gorilla meat buyer, but usually people buying Lowland gorilla meat want to buy Lowland gorilla meat.
"How to deal with rejection"
It's a sad but true fact that everyone faces rejection, especially gorilla meat cookers and sellers. You're going to have to make that a part of your repertoire. You'll probably face a whole lot of rejection, just like I did. Don't worry, I only spent about two hours a day trying to sell gorilla meat, and after just a week of doing that I sold my first batch! That seller quickly died of food poisoning, and I was again out of work. But I wasn't put down, I just kept on trying to sell my gorilla meat, and after hearing "No that's infected bad gorilla meat." hundreds more times, I finally sold another batch. Then, as the fates were against me, that seller also died of food poisoning. Never one to give up, I just kept selling and selling, and now I've got more money than my wazoo can hold!
Hope you enjoyed reading, and that this book is as helpful to you as it was to me! Not that I had this book, haha, I wrote it! But, I did all of these things myself, and that's how I know it will work for you too.
Thanks again,
-Author Brooks
If only I could have figured out that information on my own. Instead, I spent money on a book that explained, in detail what I had to do to make and sell gorilla meat. This book was also filled with review after review saying, "When I first started selling gorilla meat, well, let's just say it wasn't as easy as this book makes everything for new readers! Haha." and, "Golly, author Brooks really knows his gorilla meat, and it's clear because of how many times he says gorilla meat in the book itself. Go ahead, try and count! It's just too high, haha. But honestly, this is a great gorilla meat primer for anyone interested in the gorilla meat industry.".
I'm sure those people meant it enthusiastically, and definitely and really read the whole thing, and it revolutionized their gorilla meat selling careers. The kind of book I look for in self help is the kind that's as full of itself as the Titanic was of water near the end there. This book was so much more full than that. I'd recommend it to anyone, who ever wanted to see how many times they could bear reading a single repeated upbeat phrase before they exploded.
My guess is about 16 pages of actual reading.
Friday, September 28, 2012
Autobiography
Kevin Stevenson was born in the spring time of 1989. He grew up in the wild north, with aspirations to become a rocket scientist. After many years of practice, and study, he figured that it was below him as a profession, and instead turned to writing.
By the age of six he was already publishing such classics as, "Gone With the Wind", and "Great Expectations."
Kevin attended college with the intent of becoming a professional writer. He got a bachelor's degree in game design, apparently, to stick it to himself. While attending college he began working at the student run newspaper. He was a very hard worker, and after just a year and a half he was appointed to "Head Writer," Which was unusual, because he was just a janitor.
Post college is a place where letters go to learn more about traveling around the country.
After Kevin finished college he set out to cure cancer. He submitted a bill to his local government, but it, along with six hundred others, was vetoed.
He died in 1821, and was buried in the Protestant Cemetery, Rome. His gravestone can be found there to this day. You can see the inscription, "Here lies one whose name was writ in water." If you have any comments or questions, feel free to contact Kevin by leaving a comment below.
By the age of six he was already publishing such classics as, "Gone With the Wind", and "Great Expectations."
Kevin attended college with the intent of becoming a professional writer. He got a bachelor's degree in game design, apparently, to stick it to himself. While attending college he began working at the student run newspaper. He was a very hard worker, and after just a year and a half he was appointed to "Head Writer," Which was unusual, because he was just a janitor.
Post college is a place where letters go to learn more about traveling around the country.
After Kevin finished college he set out to cure cancer. He submitted a bill to his local government, but it, along with six hundred others, was vetoed.
He died in 1821, and was buried in the Protestant Cemetery, Rome. His gravestone can be found there to this day. You can see the inscription, "Here lies one whose name was writ in water." If you have any comments or questions, feel free to contact Kevin by leaving a comment below.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
ALPHA KAPPA ALPHA
College. Who doesn't fondly look back upon their college days, as the good ones? People who haven't attended? Those who suffer from dimentia? Alright, I'm done asking rhetorical questions to myself while I write. My point is: College was a great time, and I really found myself. In oodles and oodles of debt.
Even to this day I remember the first college girl I exchanged numbers with. Why we didn't just keep the ones we had, I'll never know. She was a good girl, working an extra job through the federal work study program at the school. She worked at the strip club they attached to the dorms. She had to pick up the extra work, because in the rough economy Frat parties even had to charge girls to get in. They issued a statement saying, "We're sorry, but with the rising costs of alcohol, and the fact that we're all in stable loving relationships, we're going to have to charge everyone $5 to get in. BYOB." That was of course interpreted from their original statement : "ALPHA KAPPA ALPHA, ALPHA KAPPA ALPHA, ALPHA KAPPA ALPHA ROCKS!"
Throughout college I did develop emotionally. But I also learned a lot, going to classes and studying. Nothing made classes harder than those characters I'd meet though. You know the ones, the ones who couldn't speak a word of english or the ones who would just smoke pot and have themselves a good giggle all class. Those were just the good professors.(Note to professors: Haha, just kidding. How's that letter of recommendation coming? Do you need help translating it into English?)
Since then I've been paying off my student loans and working. My financial advisor was really helpful in determining which repayment plan was best for me. There were just so many: I could pay a set monthly amount that would never change, for ten years; I could pay an increasing amount over the course of ten years; or they could shoot my girlfriend and dog. It was a tough choice, but I decided that running away to a foreign country and starting a blog was my best bet.
If anyone knows any good lawyers who specialize in "how to sneak back into a country, not go to jail for loan evasion, and apologizing to your girlfriend and dog" I'd really appreciate a referral.
PS: If you work for the government, I'm just kidding about the loan evasion.
PPS: If you don't work for the government, that first post script was a lie.
Monday, September 24, 2012
Road Trip C
This is the next entry in the ever-increasingly-creatively named "Road Trip" bits. You can tell I thought a lot about the title. The first post, I'll admit I only spent about ten minutes coming up with the, "A." For the second part, I mused a bit and considered, "b" before finally settling on the more impressive, "B." So here, forgive me for blowing your mind, but I went with, "C." Next week, who knows what next week will be.((I'll give you a hint. It's going to rhyme with, "D."))
Alright people, you've lucked out. Sure, none of you donated, but I don't remember much of the deliberations that went on while trying to decide where we should go. So I won't get into that more than I can.
My Uncle, who sometimes visits Washington for various secret reasons, said we should visit the Air and Space Museum. In the course of our deliberations, one of us stated, "I think my Uncle said the Air and Space Museum was cool." Which was followed, after a few "Oh[s]" and "Hmmm[s]"((I'm making up the grammar here as I go.)) with us walking to said cool place.
So, there were six of us at this museum and for the first fifteen minutes or so, we all had that "stick together" kind of mentality. We sort of awkwardly followed each other, like the worst kind of dropouts from spy college. Pretending to buy post cards and seem nonchalant, right next to our target doing the same. It was a mess. That is until one of us had the genius idea to "split up, and meet back at the door where we came in, at about 1:00pm." This was met with much shrugging and exclamations of, "Uh.. sure."
There's a great deal of good advice at the Air and Space Museum. One such gem dashed many of my hopes. It stated boldly, "...do not touch unexploded bombs." Though I suppose people who don't follow that advice would have their hopes dashed in a much more explosive manner. Otherwise I learned something quite interesting about something along the lines of bombs being dropped from planes, and inaccuracy and perhaps the shape of the bomb, that I can't remember in the slightest right now. Which infuriates me, for I was quite pleased to have read such an interesting snippet. So, the next time you're at the A&S Museum, please scour the premesis for what I'm talking about. It was up the stairs, all the way to the right down the hall, into the exhibit on the left, right before the exit.
Most of the rest of the party did something, I'm sure. People have expressed to me that they continue to live and be, whether or not I can see them. I just can't comment on what specifically they did. Well, I can say, "Boy whatever they did was stupid-pa-toopid!" But, what I really mean is that I cannot say with any certainty what they did in their time away from me.
We met up generally about 1:15pm in a spot that was almost like the one we agreed to meet upon. Almost like it in that we were all there, but not in the "it was the same spot" sort of way. After that we thought about where we should go next. Our friend posited, "We could go see art. Is your preference modern, or less modern?" The responses varied from, "Modern art is dumb." to "I want to see modern art!" to "Old art is dumb." Suffice to say, we decided upon visiting the lot of art museums.
We started off in the older "classic" museum. Where all the rooms are the same size, and connected in the same way, so that if you lose your friend you cannot possibly find them without resorting to echolocation. Or as the curators call it, "Being a fucking prick."
Here there were quite a lot of pretty statues, and paintings the size of my house. Sometimes you see things like that and think, "Oh isn't that quaint." Then you wonder, "How exactly, did that artist paint that, without leaning on the middle of the picture and riddling it with ladder holes? I wonder if there was a sort of swinging contraption similar to that which skyscraper window-washers use?" Half an hour later one of the security men asks you kindly to stop your slack jawed druling and go appreciate art in some other area, where he doesn't have to look at you.
So, on you go.
This continued, until on we went.
Now, some of you more clever readers have started to point out that "There is no donation button!" That shows a complete lack of drive. Why, if I were reading my writing I would donate every penny I had to me. I'd track me down to do it! I wouldn't take the easy, "But there was no form online for it!" way out. No sir.
So with that I say, next week, we're going to go look at Modern art if you don't donate. If you donate, we can get to the pub, where people sit down quite harshly!
((The first post in this road trip series can be found, here))
((The second post in this series can be found, here))
((The fourth post in this series can be found, here))
Alright people, you've lucked out. Sure, none of you donated, but I don't remember much of the deliberations that went on while trying to decide where we should go. So I won't get into that more than I can.
My Uncle, who sometimes visits Washington for various secret reasons, said we should visit the Air and Space Museum. In the course of our deliberations, one of us stated, "I think my Uncle said the Air and Space Museum was cool." Which was followed, after a few "Oh[s]" and "Hmmm[s]"((I'm making up the grammar here as I go.)) with us walking to said cool place.
So, there were six of us at this museum and for the first fifteen minutes or so, we all had that "stick together" kind of mentality. We sort of awkwardly followed each other, like the worst kind of dropouts from spy college. Pretending to buy post cards and seem nonchalant, right next to our target doing the same. It was a mess. That is until one of us had the genius idea to "split up, and meet back at the door where we came in, at about 1:00pm." This was met with much shrugging and exclamations of, "Uh.. sure."
There's a great deal of good advice at the Air and Space Museum. One such gem dashed many of my hopes. It stated boldly, "...do not touch unexploded bombs." Though I suppose people who don't follow that advice would have their hopes dashed in a much more explosive manner. Otherwise I learned something quite interesting about something along the lines of bombs being dropped from planes, and inaccuracy and perhaps the shape of the bomb, that I can't remember in the slightest right now. Which infuriates me, for I was quite pleased to have read such an interesting snippet. So, the next time you're at the A&S Museum, please scour the premesis for what I'm talking about. It was up the stairs, all the way to the right down the hall, into the exhibit on the left, right before the exit.
Most of the rest of the party did something, I'm sure. People have expressed to me that they continue to live and be, whether or not I can see them. I just can't comment on what specifically they did. Well, I can say, "Boy whatever they did was stupid-pa-toopid!" But, what I really mean is that I cannot say with any certainty what they did in their time away from me.
We met up generally about 1:15pm in a spot that was almost like the one we agreed to meet upon. Almost like it in that we were all there, but not in the "it was the same spot" sort of way. After that we thought about where we should go next. Our friend posited, "We could go see art. Is your preference modern, or less modern?" The responses varied from, "Modern art is dumb." to "I want to see modern art!" to "Old art is dumb." Suffice to say, we decided upon visiting the lot of art museums.
We started off in the older "classic" museum. Where all the rooms are the same size, and connected in the same way, so that if you lose your friend you cannot possibly find them without resorting to echolocation. Or as the curators call it, "Being a fucking prick."
Here there were quite a lot of pretty statues, and paintings the size of my house. Sometimes you see things like that and think, "Oh isn't that quaint." Then you wonder, "How exactly, did that artist paint that, without leaning on the middle of the picture and riddling it with ladder holes? I wonder if there was a sort of swinging contraption similar to that which skyscraper window-washers use?" Half an hour later one of the security men asks you kindly to stop your slack jawed druling and go appreciate art in some other area, where he doesn't have to look at you.
So, on you go.
This continued, until on we went.
Now, some of you more clever readers have started to point out that "There is no donation button!" That shows a complete lack of drive. Why, if I were reading my writing I would donate every penny I had to me. I'd track me down to do it! I wouldn't take the easy, "But there was no form online for it!" way out. No sir.
So with that I say, next week, we're going to go look at Modern art if you don't donate. If you donate, we can get to the pub, where people sit down quite harshly!
((The first post in this road trip series can be found, here))
((The second post in this series can be found, here))
((The fourth post in this series can be found, here))
Friday, September 21, 2012
When Break Dancing Becomes Literal: A Look at the Elderly
"NEW YORK (Reuters Health) - A fresh look at earlier studies shows there are several steps seniors can take to prevent falls - a major health concern for the world's aging population."(1) We had no idea that, "several steps" was a major health concern for seniors. Though in hindsight, we realize the only way to fall is if you take that first step. So, You heard it here first, it's possible to prevent the elderly from falling. From the same people who told you that "You can move your bed around in your room if you want," we continue to provide only the most accurate and up to date information.
The report states: that while poking seniors with sticks is amusing, it may increase their liklihood of falling. Specifically, when you do so at the top of the stairs. The main thrust of the study was to see if avoiding such antagonistic behaviors, among other common causes, would reduce the incidence of falling. It does indeed! Color us shocked as shit people.
But, in a world where the elderly are constantly depressed, they're always due for a check-up and not getting checked out, what is the solution? The study claims that getting regular exercise "that contains multiple components such as strength and balance training"(1) is most beneficial. So unlike for everyone else, good health for the elderly depends a lot upon diet and exercise. We interviewed some elderly folk to see how they feel about this news.
We interrupted one Mary Ann Winters while she was busy commiserating with her two-year old neice about the woes of diaper wearing. "Well this is simply the best news!" she stated, "Before I was just glad I baby-proofed the house for my neice here, it really saved my patoot when I fell last winter!" So, some people are plussed with these findings, but what about the others?
Benjamin Galfnit stated, "Oh what's the use. I know these hob-knobbing brats are just feigning interest in me. Why, ever since my medicare was replaced with medidon'tgiveafuck and my children moved me into a nursing home, WHICH by the way, is not the same as what baby's get when they nurse, I don't much care for how things end up. Study or no study."
These worries were brought to the forefront recently, when due to a freak accident, the world's most adult adult video was actually released. This breaking footage is too gruesome to share, but it's safe to say that, one woman is not as hip as she used to be. Thankfully, this doesn't have to be the case in the future.
Scientists are still looking into whether or not there's a link between sex in nursing homes and the rise of STDs in the elderly populartion. We continue to give it to you as we get it, thanks for tuning in.
(1) http://www.chicagotribune.com/health/sns-rt-us-preventing-falls-in-seniors-is-possible-studbre-20120912,0,7052248.story
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Wooing the Wealthy
This week, me and Microfriction((Will link when posted)) had a contest to write a story based on a scenario. That scenario was something like, "Suave newcomer Billy tries to woo croctchety hermit Anne." I say something like that, because I changed their names, and crotchetyness levels, and whether or not it was clearly depicted that the main character was a newcomer. But, otherwise I think it's pretty faithful to the scenario.
The Story:
*Ding dong*
...
"Who is that? I thought we were alone today, baby." A sweet young blonde thing, apparently down on her luck, as the underwear she could afford to buy only covered about one-third of what underwear was supposed to cover, said in a we-better-be-alone-today manner.
"Do not worry about it" replied a man who seemed ripped out of an Abercrombie wall picture. The one with abs you could actually see, black and white, contrast kicked up, and 6 times larger than life. "Today, it is only us."
*Ding dong*
"Oh for chriss..." The blonde got up from the bed with a start. The advertisement-boy stared out from the middle of the mattress. Watching short blonde curls bounce and hop as Krissa, the blonde was gifted with a name in her younger years, stomped towards the window. "Oh, ew."
*Ding dong*
"She's like. Is your grandma visiting?" Krissa intoned in a way that made you immediately think, "As if!" or "For sure, for sure." whether you knew those phrases or not.
"OH mierta!, what time is it?! Damn!"
"Baby, this better not be getting in our way."
"Uh. Oh Okay. Baby, you're... you're. You're my baby!" Lightning doesn't strike often, and for Richard, because you need a name like Dick to be an Abercrombie model, it struck even less. What some people would call a bad idea, and brush off, Richard would be ecstatic to trip upon. Usually, he settled for much less.
"I know, but who is that wrinkly... thing?!"
Richard was diving around the room looking to get his clothes back in a seemly order. Hopping around with his jeans half way up his legs, and a beater half down his torso he started aiming for the door. "No, no. You're my baby, like you're my daughter, Okay? Tonight you're my daughter."
"Ohhhh. Kinky."
"No, no. Not kinky. It's normal, okay?"
"Like, ew. It's like, normal for people to sleep with their daughters where your from?"
*Ding dong*
"No. Okay. Listen, you're just my daughter, and she's my girlfriend okay. You're here visiting, on vacation from school. Uh, put your clothes on!" With that Richard made it out the bedroom door, and started down the stairs finishing his last neatening touches.
*Ding dong*
Reaching the front door, Richard jerked it open. "What the hell took you so long? I got gas runnin' all through my body, and it's just waitin to explode out." The old woman shoved her way in. She was wearing what seemed to be a small black hat with a lot of intricate plumage, or quite possibly, it was just a dead crow. Though deceased as her wardrobe may or may not have been, everything about Esma oozed money. A pearl necklace hugged her neck, ever so slightly tighter than the diamond necklace right below it, with rings and earrings to match.
"Esma! You look great this evening, mon amor" stated Richard as he procured a long stem rose out of what appeared to be thin air.
"I know it! But quick, where's your bathroom, before this here hallway turns into a veritable bed pan." At this point the old woman started doing a peculier dance, not unlike she had already begun to go the bathroom. Her blouse reminded Richard of a trash bag that was holding two or three kittens, and the kittens couldn't agree on a way to sit, and were constantly fighting about it.
"Uh, right this uh way, my petit.." Richard tried to remain composed, but was having trouble as just then, he saw Krissa up at the balcony, having utterly failed to clothe herself. Somehow, she had even lost the bra she had been wearing moments earlier. How could she have lost it? Richard wondered. It wasn't even that big of a room.
"Oh, I see it. Why don't you tell me what's for dinner while I'm at it." As Esma walkined into the bathroom, Richard gestured wildly while trying to mouth to Krissa to go get clothes on. "Oh uh. Dinner tonight? My specialty."
"I don't want any oven baked pizza, no matter how much hot sauce you put on it." Esma screeched. Not in an angry way, but rather her voice only had one setting, and it was screech.
A little taken aback, "Well it's too late to go to the store now. Besides, uh, my daughter is visiting, it's her favorite." Said Richard. He was unsure what to do with Esma. She would probably expect some kisses. A few kisses for the older woman, now and again, would surely be worth it. But, could he do it? That, and oddly enough no one had ever complained about his oven baked pizza before. This situation caught him off guard. He usually burned them, the pizzas not his dates, and never got around to eating them.
"Meet, my daughter." said Richard. As Esma finished in the bathroom and walked out, Krissa came down the stairs in a maid's outfit. "The maid?" Esma asked.
"Uh no. That's my daughter." Richard, not being one to switch plans quickly, did not switch plans quickly.
"Your daughter's a maid? What is she, a year younger than you?" Esma, ever skeptical of other women dressed in maid's outfits when she was over for a date, began heading back towards the door.
"No, uh! No! She's not my daughter, my daughter's maid is visiting. Is what I said." Richard, quite pleased he had thought of such an ingenious cover up, was beaming. Esma, confusing as it was to tell which direction she was going, or where precisely she was, based on her wardrobe's many varying velocities, was probably most of the way out of the house.
"Listen bucko. I haven't been this put off on a date since last Thursday. If you want some of my sugar, you better not already have some honey from the pot." Esma said as she slammed the front door shut behind her.
Richard said, "Dammit! Where did you even find that outfit?" Krissa, unsure how she was ever in danger from some hag, was now firmly back in the lead, in courting Richard. Or, having Richard court her.
"Up in your room. I'll show you." Krissa said. With that, she grabbed his hand, and up towards his room, to inspect the stock of his wardrobe, they went.
So, now you should head over to Microfriction and read his version of whatever it is he decided the scenario was. ((Again, will link when posted.)) It's undoubtedly very good, but my take on it was probably much better. Just sayin'.
Monday, September 17, 2012
Road Trip B
So, I received absolutely zero donations since I last wrote. Some of you would much prefer dragons and are still willing to give me money. In which case, I will re-release this, with said more exciting elements.
So here we all are, in two cars on our way to public transportation. Because, after you drive for a great deal of time any alternative becomes attractive to you. Above ground subways, whatever it is they're called, are an endearing and appealing novelty. Just so long as you're not the one who has to turn the stupid wheel on the car, or yell obscenities at people who cut you off. Perhaps a helpful passenger could perform those chores for you, but passengers are often frightened of the prospect.
The way my friend's neighborhood is set up is quite ingenius. That is to say, not geniusly. There are more speedbumps, inopportune hills, and stop signs per square mile than follicles of grass. Maybe there's a word besides follicle. I don't care. The few daring cars that make their way onto these "roads" always come to a complete stop, and then gun their way through any intersection they find, and hope no cars were coming on the cross roads. That's because there are also ingeniously a great deal of bushes and trees that make it so you can't see anything at all.
Have you ever noticed that when you're following someone vehicularly that their accelerator seems a bit more snappy, and traffic laws seem to be more of a nuisance than something that could get you fined? I've always been of the mind that if I just explain the situation to the officer they will kindly track down my friend, who sped off through the next stop sign and hit a pedestrian family or two no doubt, and ticket them, and probably scold them for being inconsiderate.
After running a marathon of yellow lights, we arrived at the station where we would be able to board another form of transportation.
As I so discreetly aluded to last time, we were traveling on Labor day. Labor day in Washington D.C. is a lot like the only day I've really spent in Washington D.C., so I cannot say whether traffic was particularly heavy or not. I can say we got on the trains, and followed my friend and his wife at alternating intervals through the labrynth of public transport. They seemed to disagree, at times, as to which way was out. But only, I think, because out seems more like a subjective hopeful sort of thing down there, rather than an infallible compass or mappable direction. Eventually we got to "the mall."
I say that, because when you get to The National Mall, you're oddly stricken by a lack of ear piercing stands, cellphone case kiosks, and people who offer to do funny weaving sort of things with your eyebrows. Because in Washington they don't know about our modern lexicon. So while regular people understand "mall" as a place to shop, in D.C. they're under the impression it's more a "promenade" or generally cozy place for people to walk. Also, it's about 100 degrees in the mall. Or out at the mall. Either way, it is quite a hot day, and they have utterly failed to air condition the whole of the outside.
As we walked around, thinking of where to visit first, we saw a large number of people waiting around holding rifles, instruments, and wearing heavy wool uniforms right next to their very sporty fancy cars. Though I suppose if you're going to wear a funny sort of uniform and a hat with feathers, you'll probably want a sporty car, so your self respect doesn't beat you senseless and run off with some cute girl.
After some consideration we decided where to go next. Again, I'm expecting donations here! If you don't donate this week, "some" consideration could turn into a vertiable ent moot of consideration, with a timely break for tea and crumpets about halfway through. If we get above $10, we can cut through all the consideration and get right to the place we went to. I won't even describe walking to the place, we'll just be there! Instantly! See you then.
((The first post in this road trip series can be found, here))
((The third post in this series can be found, here))
((The fourth post in this series can be found, here))
Friday, September 14, 2012
Projections
Recently I've been doing a lot of personal projects and looking into self-motivation and what really inspires people to work. But every now and again, I'll log off of facebook.
Pretty much all of my free time is spent working. It's free time, because even though I'm working there isn't anyone to give me money for it. So, it's very important that I have something solid and widely graspable to show when it's time to call it quits, project finished or not. Though recently, I just haven't gotten the same sense of accomplishment from exposing myself in public.
I figure the next logical option is to actually finish a project. Which is arguably the hardest part of any project. If I could get paid just for starting projects, why, you'd see blueprints coming out my wazoo!((Apologies to those who didn't need the mental image. To those who did need it: Ew.))
Obviously then, I've started taking on projects that will help me finish other projects. Also, I've been just trying to accomplish little things that I know I can do. Such as; reading a book all the way through, sending an email to a friend, and challenging bears in hand-to-hand combat.((Haha! They don't have hands, they have paws!)) Finishing each of those tasks fills me with the confidence I need to take a break. I've found out a lot about my motivation and work habits.
If you're curious about your own motivation, there's a test you can give yourself. First, be a child. Second, have someone offer you either; one marshmallow now, or two marshmallows an indeterminate length of time later. Third, no matter how long they make you wait, go for the two. That will indicate you're a strongly self motivated and capable individual. Probably you'll be more attractive too. If you already took one, welcome to humanity.
Pretty much all of my free time is spent working. It's free time, because even though I'm working there isn't anyone to give me money for it. So, it's very important that I have something solid and widely graspable to show when it's time to call it quits, project finished or not. Though recently, I just haven't gotten the same sense of accomplishment from exposing myself in public.
I figure the next logical option is to actually finish a project. Which is arguably the hardest part of any project. If I could get paid just for starting projects, why, you'd see blueprints coming out my wazoo!((Apologies to those who didn't need the mental image. To those who did need it: Ew.))
Obviously then, I've started taking on projects that will help me finish other projects. Also, I've been just trying to accomplish little things that I know I can do. Such as; reading a book all the way through, sending an email to a friend, and challenging bears in hand-to-hand combat.((Haha! They don't have hands, they have paws!)) Finishing each of those tasks fills me with the confidence I need to take a break. I've found out a lot about my motivation and work habits.
If you're curious about your own motivation, there's a test you can give yourself. First, be a child. Second, have someone offer you either; one marshmallow now, or two marshmallows an indeterminate length of time later. Third, no matter how long they make you wait, go for the two. That will indicate you're a strongly self motivated and capable individual. Probably you'll be more attractive too. If you already took one, welcome to humanity.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
A Poem for Rent
Today I sing such a sad, sad song.
I think, "What have I done wrong?"
It appears that without my consent
the terrible time arrived, due is my rent!
Money doesn't with land-people belong...
"RENT" is screamed and wrung is the gong,
the ringing in my head goes BONG! BONG!
Here in my bank account is now a large dent,
Who is there to save me? Where is Clark Kent?
So I drive to the ATM at a nearby bank,
Pull out my plastic and yell, "I'm sank!"
I place the card into its slot
And hope it gives it back, I need it a lot.
Treacherous and vile, who invented rent?! skank!
I'm paranoid that some mugger's now at my flank
Pulling the classicest of all known prank
That's funny cosmically, to those un-shot,
But much lacking comically, to my current plot.
Safe I appear, though who knows for sure?
I aim back for "home" not really mine! And what's more!
Loaded and weighted I enter the abode,
I say, "Want my rent money?" ((I'm not one for code...))
She takes it in her hands, and holds twenties galore.
Calmly and casually she retreats behind her door
Coming back with a receipt. That's all I have in store.
The trade is complete, my roof agrees to not leave me for
anything, in the next month. "I'll stay too" agrees the floor.
Monday, September 10, 2012
Road Trip A
Quick disclaimer: Somewhere between fact and fiction in a fun way. You decide what's true and what's not!
How does one begin writing about one's travels? Possibly, one could converse with two or three and together they could dissect the many facets of moving from place to place. But, perhaps, even better, would be to just, as it were, start, immediately and without hesitation, getting right to the point and heart of things, writing...
So this adventure began in May. Not the early part of may, right after my birthday, when I'm still convinced people owe me presents and expensive dinners, no no. The later May. The time, most closely related to my brother's birthday. That is to say, his birthday.
We had a party for him. I left directly after the party. Well. I left at 4:00am. The party probably ended at 10:00pm, afterwards we played Risk, and generally talked about how silly it was that I would be leaving in a matter of hours for an indeterminate length of time. ((That length of time is the duration of summer employment at Stanford, plus however long it takes me to find a job and become wildly successful, or run out of money and kindly ask for transport home. Currently, still indeterminate.))
This adventure began with four people into a standard Mazda 3. For those of you who are unaware, "standard" means "possesses a stick shift." It is probably not the standard way that car comes. A Mazda 3, the model I got, is a happy constantly smiling sort of car. She's always pleased to see you, even if you haven't gotten her oil changed, taken her out to a car wash as often as you'd have liked to, and so on. She'd still be smiling if you had a hooker and cocaine game of hide and seek involving crowbars and police in the backseat.
Everyone backed about half a days worth of clothes, or whatever they could fit into a space about the size of their pockets, whichever was smaller. To say, the smallest version of a Mazda 3 possible, gets a little cramped with four gents, and bags and boxes galore, is a lot like saying incontinence is shitty and unpleasant. That is to say, a gross understatement.
So anyways, it's four am. Maybe 2:30am, but definitely early. And there's four of us in a car, wondering if caffeine can really help in pretending you're not tired. By the way, Irish Cream Java Monsters are ideal for road trips, the Loco Moca or Mean Bean will do in a pinch. If you're desperate grab one of the Starbucks Doubleshot Energy drinks. Get a regular Monster, or Red Bull if drinking Anti-Freeze is appealing to you.
The lot of us are driving from Upstate New York to Stanford, California. Our first locational goal is Washington DC. Takoma park area. Not to be confused with the post-trip temporary destination of Puyallup, which is not far from Tacoma, Washington. You may, or may not be well versed with America's geography, but I'll have you know, Washington is absolutely not on the way to Stanford. We chose that location, because we had a friend we thought we should see.
We got to Washington sometime in the morning. If you start driving at 3:30am you're bound to get somewhere by morning. We found a nice parking spot in the middle of the sidewalk outside our friends place, and went in for some nice peanut buttery somethings. Maybe it was a sandwich. Perhaps, it was a sandwich with zero peanut butter employed. It's honestly tough to say what kind of sandwich I had at roughly 11:00 in the morning after having tiredly driven for some eight to ten hours. But, there was in fact some sort of refreshing something, that was, if I know my friend's hospitality inclinations, potentially edible. He has a wife you see, and I always trust wives to know what is and isn't edible, and instruct me if I seem to be making some terrible mistake.
Oh, the other people in this story? You want to know names? Well, instead, how about I tell you about their fathers? That's always a popular kind of story thing. You talk about one man's father's father's father and how he was probably a blacksmith of great regard. Well, I can't go that far back, but let's see.
There's me. My father's a lawyer. He works for the law. There's another person, his father is an auto mechanic. For cars, not like an automatic mechanic. But whatever an automatic mechanic is, that sounds great. Another, his father. Well his father has been on the roof of a school where I lost my hackey sack. I'm not positive that he's paid to do that sort of thing, but I can say for certainty he has done that sort of thing. The final of the in-car story members' father is the owner of a gym. He also acts, quite convincingly, as a personal trainer.
So, again, us four with a friend and a wife, the wife is the friend's only and we did not all pick one up during our travels, have all come together through hours of driving and edible goodness, and we're about to set out on more adventuring. Tune in next week to find out what! Donate money and I'll embellish the story to be much more exciting. If we get up to twenty dollars I'm beginning to remember a fight with a dragon at the mall. For zero dollars, we probably watched a parade, because it was Labor Day.
Money for me, gets you dragons. No money for me gets you parades. Maybe just people standing around before parades, depending on how much no money has been donated.
*A note to friends who are referenced in this story:
Namely John, Adam, Bill, Scott, Jim, and Jill((Names have been changed to obscure identities)) if you would like me to further obscure yourself, or your father as I have described him, please send me a personal note, and I'll add vagueness.
((The second post in this road trip series can be found, here))
((The third post in this series can be found, here))
((The fourth post in this series can be found, here))
How does one begin writing about one's travels? Possibly, one could converse with two or three and together they could dissect the many facets of moving from place to place. But, perhaps, even better, would be to just, as it were, start, immediately and without hesitation, getting right to the point and heart of things, writing...
So this adventure began in May. Not the early part of may, right after my birthday, when I'm still convinced people owe me presents and expensive dinners, no no. The later May. The time, most closely related to my brother's birthday. That is to say, his birthday.
We had a party for him. I left directly after the party. Well. I left at 4:00am. The party probably ended at 10:00pm, afterwards we played Risk, and generally talked about how silly it was that I would be leaving in a matter of hours for an indeterminate length of time. ((That length of time is the duration of summer employment at Stanford, plus however long it takes me to find a job and become wildly successful, or run out of money and kindly ask for transport home. Currently, still indeterminate.))
This adventure began with four people into a standard Mazda 3. For those of you who are unaware, "standard" means "possesses a stick shift." It is probably not the standard way that car comes. A Mazda 3, the model I got, is a happy constantly smiling sort of car. She's always pleased to see you, even if you haven't gotten her oil changed, taken her out to a car wash as often as you'd have liked to, and so on. She'd still be smiling if you had a hooker and cocaine game of hide and seek involving crowbars and police in the backseat.
Everyone backed about half a days worth of clothes, or whatever they could fit into a space about the size of their pockets, whichever was smaller. To say, the smallest version of a Mazda 3 possible, gets a little cramped with four gents, and bags and boxes galore, is a lot like saying incontinence is shitty and unpleasant. That is to say, a gross understatement.
So anyways, it's four am. Maybe 2:30am, but definitely early. And there's four of us in a car, wondering if caffeine can really help in pretending you're not tired. By the way, Irish Cream Java Monsters are ideal for road trips, the Loco Moca or Mean Bean will do in a pinch. If you're desperate grab one of the Starbucks Doubleshot Energy drinks. Get a regular Monster, or Red Bull if drinking Anti-Freeze is appealing to you.
The lot of us are driving from Upstate New York to Stanford, California. Our first locational goal is Washington DC. Takoma park area. Not to be confused with the post-trip temporary destination of Puyallup, which is not far from Tacoma, Washington. You may, or may not be well versed with America's geography, but I'll have you know, Washington is absolutely not on the way to Stanford. We chose that location, because we had a friend we thought we should see.
We got to Washington sometime in the morning. If you start driving at 3:30am you're bound to get somewhere by morning. We found a nice parking spot in the middle of the sidewalk outside our friends place, and went in for some nice peanut buttery somethings. Maybe it was a sandwich. Perhaps, it was a sandwich with zero peanut butter employed. It's honestly tough to say what kind of sandwich I had at roughly 11:00 in the morning after having tiredly driven for some eight to ten hours. But, there was in fact some sort of refreshing something, that was, if I know my friend's hospitality inclinations, potentially edible. He has a wife you see, and I always trust wives to know what is and isn't edible, and instruct me if I seem to be making some terrible mistake.
Oh, the other people in this story? You want to know names? Well, instead, how about I tell you about their fathers? That's always a popular kind of story thing. You talk about one man's father's father's father and how he was probably a blacksmith of great regard. Well, I can't go that far back, but let's see.
There's me. My father's a lawyer. He works for the law. There's another person, his father is an auto mechanic. For cars, not like an automatic mechanic. But whatever an automatic mechanic is, that sounds great. Another, his father. Well his father has been on the roof of a school where I lost my hackey sack. I'm not positive that he's paid to do that sort of thing, but I can say for certainty he has done that sort of thing. The final of the in-car story members' father is the owner of a gym. He also acts, quite convincingly, as a personal trainer.
So, again, us four with a friend and a wife, the wife is the friend's only and we did not all pick one up during our travels, have all come together through hours of driving and edible goodness, and we're about to set out on more adventuring. Tune in next week to find out what! Donate money and I'll embellish the story to be much more exciting. If we get up to twenty dollars I'm beginning to remember a fight with a dragon at the mall. For zero dollars, we probably watched a parade, because it was Labor Day.
Money for me, gets you dragons. No money for me gets you parades. Maybe just people standing around before parades, depending on how much no money has been donated.
*A note to friends who are referenced in this story:
Namely John, Adam, Bill, Scott, Jim, and Jill((Names have been changed to obscure identities)) if you would like me to further obscure yourself, or your father as I have described him, please send me a personal note, and I'll add vagueness.
((The second post in this road trip series can be found, here))
((The third post in this series can be found, here))
((The fourth post in this series can be found, here))
Friday, September 7, 2012
Condiment of the Gods
I'm particularly a fan of food. I've been eating it for a good portion of my life, and I've become acquainted with its niceties. Not just any food mind you, any food with Frank's Redhot on it. Now that's not a euphemism for Frank the Bull's excitement or anything. It’s just a hot sauce, that Frank happens to be the owner of. How it is this "Frank" came to own every single bottle of the Redhot is beyond me, but I buy it from the store and have yet to run into a Frank that complained about it. I never did understand why people would keep their own personal stock of something in all the grocery stores across the country. Beck does the same thing with his beer. Silly twits.
Anyways, what food, you ask, does this hot sauce make better? The following list is by no means exhaustive but it is a start; brown rice, white rice, fried rice, grilled cheese, plain cheese, sandwiches of any make, subs, bananas if you're crazy, eggs, toast, omelets, pork, steak, chicken, chicken fried steak, anything you would also put Sriracha on, anything you've already put Sriracha on, meat loaf(the singer), meatloaf(the food), in soups, and many other places.
Now, don't mistake me, I don't think Frank's Redhot is more worthwhile than say, the miracle of birth. But perhaps, the whole birthing process would be a bit more amusing if some Redhot was administered during the process. How and why is up to your imagination, but I'm sure great joy will follow. Why, I wonder now if that’s where all baby Franks come from? A sort of rite of passage, if you want to be called Frank, you need an understanding, and non-grudge holding mother.
If you can think of any other time when hot sauces could be indiscreetly applied, please feel free to send pictures!
Anyways, what food, you ask, does this hot sauce make better? The following list is by no means exhaustive but it is a start; brown rice, white rice, fried rice, grilled cheese, plain cheese, sandwiches of any make, subs, bananas if you're crazy, eggs, toast, omelets, pork, steak, chicken, chicken fried steak, anything you would also put Sriracha on, anything you've already put Sriracha on, meat loaf(the singer), meatloaf(the food), in soups, and many other places.
Now, don't mistake me, I don't think Frank's Redhot is more worthwhile than say, the miracle of birth. But perhaps, the whole birthing process would be a bit more amusing if some Redhot was administered during the process. How and why is up to your imagination, but I'm sure great joy will follow. Why, I wonder now if that’s where all baby Franks come from? A sort of rite of passage, if you want to be called Frank, you need an understanding, and non-grudge holding mother.
If you can think of any other time when hot sauces could be indiscreetly applied, please feel free to send pictures!
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Weight Loss Via Wallet Fasting
As a speaker here I don't want to put anyone to sleep, but euthanasia is gaining popularity at a lot of conferences, as opposed to listening to the spea... what? Sorry, I nodded off for a second.
But! I'm here to talk to you about being professionally broke. Sometimes I have to get two to three jobs to maintain being broke. I've got so many student loan payments, car payments, and my rent is due. I can't even afford to eat more than once a day. My girlfriend gets real angry when she sees me having breakfast.
So here's the lowdown, after this you'll know how to get into debt, have questionable job prospects, and feel bad whenever you have fun. People say if you're broke you should get fixed. Dogs don't like it, and neither do we! Here's how to get and stay broke!
Alright, first things first. We need some debt. You're thinking car payments, electrical bills, hospital payments, and that's all great. But first things first, you gotta start young. We're going to college! Slack off in high school, so you don't get any scholarships for college. If while you're in college you want to drunkenly knock a girl up that'll be a great addition to your debt. ((Drunkenly knocking a girl down will get you potential jail time. So really any knocking you want to drunkenly do is cool.)) Also, since you're in school, credit card companies like to take you out on to a nice dinner, movies, and finish off with some expensive wine, then a few weeks later tell you that you owe them for that. So sign up for two to three of those. Use them anti-judiciously.
Alright, now we've got you into debt, and that's great. We've just got to keep you there. So here you have two options, graduate college, or drop out of college. Dropouts have to lie on their resumes to get good jobs, and graduates have to lie on their resumes to secure fast food employment. So it's up to you and whether you like lying to sound more successful, or lying yourself humble. Note: good jobs don't hire you, they just interview you. It's a game they play, HR workers get bored too!
Now we're good and broke. We've achieved a job that nets us anywhere from $7.25hr on the low end to $7.50hr at the tip top. All we need now is to stay in at night and "work on getting a better job" or, "feel depressed" as it were. If that's not working for you, call up your successful friend, the one who magicked their way into Google's loving arms, and convince them to buy you some pity drinks. That way you'll inevitably hear a story about how hard working at Google full time is, if that doesn't make you feel bad, you can go outside and kick puppy dog, or have a baby start crying when you hold them.
After following those three easy steps you've got yourself a good decade of being broke, no problem. If your student loans ever get in danger of running out, there's always grad school!
Monday, September 3, 2012
Back to Reality
A nice vacation. A way to relieve yourself from the stresses of work. A way to forget about what the phrase "work ethic" means, and what anyone would do with such a thing. A way to remind yourself why you can't stand trying to set up an orgy at the zoo with your flaky friends. And, a way to thoroughly depress yourself when you have to go back to ghost writing that blog for work. "OooooohhooOooooOOOOoooo" is a good day and a half of writing for a job like that.
You spend all of the night before your last night of vacation thinking about how tomorrow is your last night of fun, and the day after that you'll have to get back to facing reality. This puts you into a state which psychiatrists refer to as, "A shitty mood, with a bad attitude." The only way to cope is to drink a lot, and talk to your friends about how you really don't want to deal with the day after tomorrow. It doesn't make you feel any better, but man has yet to invent any other solution.((NaCl dissolved in water, poured in the eyes was hypothesized to be superior, but the data remains unclear.))
Then, right at the last minute you get a tiny bit excited about the possibilities of the future. You're going to hit the ground running and really make a difference. You're not just going to be a ghost writer, you're going to be a spirit novelist! Brimming with excitement you think of how great it's going to be and write down all of your plans and thoughts. You then pass out contentedly.
Wake up the next morning, realize you have to snap back to reality tomorrow, and throw out all your ideas, because they interfere too much with your moping. Work begins again.
Then, before you know it, you can't wait until your next vacation.
You spend all of the night before your last night of vacation thinking about how tomorrow is your last night of fun, and the day after that you'll have to get back to facing reality. This puts you into a state which psychiatrists refer to as, "A shitty mood, with a bad attitude." The only way to cope is to drink a lot, and talk to your friends about how you really don't want to deal with the day after tomorrow. It doesn't make you feel any better, but man has yet to invent any other solution.((NaCl dissolved in water, poured in the eyes was hypothesized to be superior, but the data remains unclear.))
Then, right at the last minute you get a tiny bit excited about the possibilities of the future. You're going to hit the ground running and really make a difference. You're not just going to be a ghost writer, you're going to be a spirit novelist! Brimming with excitement you think of how great it's going to be and write down all of your plans and thoughts. You then pass out contentedly.
Wake up the next morning, realize you have to snap back to reality tomorrow, and throw out all your ideas, because they interfere too much with your moping. Work begins again.
Then, before you know it, you can't wait until your next vacation.
Friday, August 31, 2012
Apartment Hunting
Time to go find an apartment. The word apartment comes from the Latin roots, "apart", to be away from, and "meant", where you meant to end up living. There's also condos, which is short for "Confidence men do rip you off." In this scenario the confidence men are landlords((Hairy land whales that were stuffed into a wife beater and are actually serfs)) and they'll rip off your arms and your wallet.
It's 98 degrees on the planes of the nieghborhood you hope to live in. With a straw hat on your head, and an elephant gun in hand, you're ready to shoot a lot of land ladies. You go to your first three apartments, and it goes pretty smoothly. They only attempt to poison you with a tuna fish sandwich once, and their offers of obviously questionable "Poland Springs," aka "communist water," are met with stares that say you mean to call them idiots and question the deftness of how their mother dressed them.
After going back and forth between going to a run down place with no contract killers and a month-to-month lease, and a nice place that requires a year commitment and the signing of many forms you decide to sneak into your car and live there. You can always jump the fence and use one of those fancy apartment hot tubs to shower, and have parties, and go to the bathroom.
Remember, drive safely, you only get one house.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Six Word Stories for Quick Reading
With no ado, here they are:
- Roommate wanted. No junkies. Sorry Grandpa.
- Triplicate forms. "Safety first." Sleep well.
- Fly away. Don't return. Stupid jailbird.
Alright, and now for some ado. Over at Microfriction, there is a similar array of stories. We thought, "Hey, if I can sometimes get my point across given a five page essay topic using an intro, body, and conclusion, why not try to do the same, but with only six words?"
We wanted to see who could cram the most meaning into as few words as possible. The goal? To make stories. Six word sentences are fun in their own way, but they don't necessarily make a whole story. For instance, "Silence echoes through our loving memories." Is a lovely line. Why, it's oxymoronic nature makes it all the more fun. But it's just a line. Just a thought, not a story. Only a beginning, or middle. Perhaps an end even! Stories need more, and writing them in six words is all the rage.
So go on! Head on over to Kongregate.com, play a flash game or two, pretend like you read the stories at Microfriction, then come back here and comment that after some deep delineation you think that my stories are surprisingly meaningful, and you'd like to buy me some coffee.
Tune in next week for our 6,000 word zero meaning extravaganzas. We'll compete to see just how little we can say, while continuously saying it.
- Roommate wanted. No junkies. Sorry Grandpa.
- Triplicate forms. "Safety first." Sleep well.
- Fly away. Don't return. Stupid jailbird.
Alright, and now for some ado. Over at Microfriction, there is a similar array of stories. We thought, "Hey, if I can sometimes get my point across given a five page essay topic using an intro, body, and conclusion, why not try to do the same, but with only six words?"
We wanted to see who could cram the most meaning into as few words as possible. The goal? To make stories. Six word sentences are fun in their own way, but they don't necessarily make a whole story. For instance, "Silence echoes through our loving memories." Is a lovely line. Why, it's oxymoronic nature makes it all the more fun. But it's just a line. Just a thought, not a story. Only a beginning, or middle. Perhaps an end even! Stories need more, and writing them in six words is all the rage.
So go on! Head on over to Kongregate.com, play a flash game or two, pretend like you read the stories at Microfriction, then come back here and comment that after some deep delineation you think that my stories are surprisingly meaningful, and you'd like to buy me some coffee.
Tune in next week for our 6,000 word zero meaning extravaganzas. We'll compete to see just how little we can say, while continuously saying it.
Monday, August 27, 2012
Crazy
I know a girl who has a dog. She just barks all the time. The girl that is, the dog just sort of sleeps a lot. Like, after your friend just got married, and you got really drunk last night, and you woke up and had terrible McDonald's for breakfast, but didn't care because it was food, and then just sort of didn't want to move, so you didn't move. That's what the dog is like. If, of course, you did all that with a knitted sweater on, and feathers in your hair. Because that's also what the dog is like.
But the girl, she's crazy as a loon. She wakes up in the morning, and instead of brushing her teeth, goes straight to coffee. The thing is, she has perfect teeth. She's crazy. Just like how psychopaths explode in the sunlight, psychopaths also have perfect teeth, no matter how often they do or don't clean them. It's one of the perks of psychosis. The downside being of course, people don't talk football with you anymore. The upside is that they will talk a lot of blue-cheese-smiling-Winnebago with you. They could talk about that all night, the crazy... people.
So anyways, she's got that dog. The one with the feather and sweater. So one day, it decides to run away. Make a life for itself out on the streets, yah know? Except, all the dog wants to do is sleep, like it did in the old days. So it's gotta find motivation that may not exist. Spent all her youth being sleepy and ignoring crazy people. So, now the dog's all losing it's mind, not knowing what to do, or how to live the life it always wanted to live. Could drive yah crazy, it could. Drove the dog crazy. Drove the owner crazy. Everyone got drove crazy, then ran out of gas.
Friday, August 24, 2012
How to Enjoy Beer
A guide to beer drinking:
So, you're a person of the opinion that beer is good for dousing your shoes with after your shoes have been particularly disrespectful. Probably having to do with tying themselves together in knots, as shoes are constantly in want of doing.
Well, here is a handy guide to get you to change your opinions about beer! First thing's first, go to college. Be 19 or so when the drinking age is 21, and find a "friend"(Someone who wants to sleep with you) who is older than 21 to buy you beer. They will by you awful beer. It will be Coors Light. Or, if you're unlucky, it might be Coors Light. Don't worry, it's a million times better than Skoal Vodka. Or, as they say in Russian, "Bitter awful terrible liquid, that's not even improved by the addition of Fun Dip" and Russians love their Fun Dip.
After partying on that for two to four months, you're going to either want to: (A) start studying and get a degree in your major, (B) find friends who are less cheap and bring you to better parties. If you go with (A) you'll be driven to drinking heavily alone, as all your friends are out partying while you're studying. So, for the sake bomb of being happy, go with (B).
Here's where the starting to like beer comes into play. Someone will give you a Guinness. Hopefully, this person will be a Toucan with the beer on its beak. You'll drink it and think, "My God Patty! This is the most wonderful not Coors Light I think I've ever had, also, did I just eat four dinners? Why am I so full?" Done, you'll now enjoy beer. You're also 75% more Irish.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Quick and to the Point
I've been reading a lot about writing lately. (Writing early is such a drag. Who can think in a coherent fashion prior to two cups of coffee, a good hour-long walk, a shower, perhaps a bit to eat, a nap, some fleeting ruminations on writing, lunch, a time of messing around on the computer, and then a good period of mental preparation before launching into a serious bout of procrastination, before being ready to write?) I've also been writing recently(It's such a good word) about reading a bit, as I've always felt it important for my ridiculousness to come full circle, no matter how square or straight the track it's on appears to be.
So with that in mind, I say, "I am a fan of the subordinating style." Or Hypotaxis if you will. Which comes from the ancient Greek conjunction of "Hippo," a large cruel water-dwelling cow-horse abomination, and "Taxi," a way to get from point A to point B and take in the most scenery while still managing to give a good walloping to your wallet. Those Greeks did get awful colorful in their definitions. Chartreuse has been spotted in eight to ten classic Greek dictionaries.
We shall now, if your patience does permit, though understandably there may be other considerations upon your time, take a moment and return to the style of writing in which one does, as quickly as humanly possible, but with a willingness to take a detour here or there, get to the very depths of what it is that could potentially be mumbled or uttered. My only hope is that after going through all of the things I have said, and taking some time to yourself to divine the truthiness of what you've read, you will both gain an understanding, and appreciate the ridiculousness language can, if used in just such a way, provide to you.
That's what I've spent my time doing. Reading, and writing. Hope it entertains you. Who can say for sure?(Oh! Oh! I can! "For sure!")
Monday, August 20, 2012
Classic Literature
Recently I've been reading a lot of classic literature. A Tale of Two Cities(1859), George Orwell's 1984(1949), and Junk in the Badonkadonk(1923). That's just the list! I could go on.
My goal is to write George Orwell's 1949, and get in Jules Verne's Time Machine, so I can write it in 1984 and have a good chuckle about extravagant means of wasting time.((I'm perfectly aware that H.G. Wells wrote a novel "The Time Machine." Jules Verne had a real one, and that's the one I intend to use. Go ahead ask him, he'll tell you. I'll wait here.))
Reading all of these books though has been teaching me a lot. For one thing, to quote a particularly cogent and well phrased novel, "If the red is rose and there is a gate surrounding it, if inside is let in and there places change then certainly something is upright." Before Tender Buttons I had no idea what it would mean if the red was rose. I hate to say it, but my mind never even went on to the next logical assumption that there would be a gate surrounding it. What a shallow and pedantic brain I have.
Also, it's a fact that Charlotte's Web was originally going to be Raleigh's Web, but after too much lying, cheating, and stealing at the bars Raleigh got sent away up north, and Charlotte became the main character. You can look it up if you want. I found that information at http://www.ifiwereawriter.com/2012/08/classic-literature.html. The guy who writes everything, son of the guy who read some things and wrote some other things, son of the guy who made some telephone calls, seems really intelligent, and does a lot of hard research.((I also learned that familial relationships are quite impotent in ye old thymey bookkes.))
Also, another little known author fact is that Fyodor Dostoevsky tried publishing a number of titles under the moniker "Unotoevsky" but was sued by a certain card game for trademark violation. Thankfully the Toevsky Card Company went out of business. For his second attempt at publishing he changed his name prefix to the word, "Dos." Which is Spanish for, "Failed at publishing the first time or two."
Many people, I fear, are of the opinion that classic books are, "going the way of the dodo." But it's better than going the way of the don'tdon't if you ask me. And to those people, I say, "this." Then I walk away quite smugly. They don't know what hit them, and I got to be nonsensical. A win for everyone, specifically everyone who is me.
Friday, August 17, 2012
Cover Letter
(Perhaps your name is Bill? If so, pretend it says, "Dear Billy Boy".)
Dear Hiring Manager,
When I saw you were hiring for the position of QA Tester, I thought, "That's me!" Not because I am good at QA, or even know what it means. I just need a job. After reading the description though, I'm sure I'm more than qualified. I've found bugs in my own soup! I'm sure I can locate them in your software.
Also, I noticed it was an entry level position that requires 1 year of professional QA experience. Which I thought was quite reasonable, as otherwise, too many inexperienced people would apply.
However, I am one of "those people" as they say. The ones that leave the toilet seat up in bathrooms that is. I'm also inexperienced. But, what I lack in experience I make up for with a complete lack of morals! I'll lie about how much work I've done pretty regularly. As far as you'll ever know, I'll be on task or ahead of schedule! "Doing great Bill!" is my go to phrase whenever anyone says anything to me. ("About those STDs you got...?" "Doing great Bill!" "Yes, doing "The Great Bill", I told you to avoid hookers with titles. But, are they clearing up?...")
Now, recently I've run into the tactic, where a company asks me if I want to come in for an interview, and then doesn't respond again. I'm sure they just wanted to know if it was, in fact, something I wanted. I know how much time is wasted interviewing potential candidates, and why do it if you can just *not* do it, am I right? So, just let me know if that's a method that your company employs too. And how much does it make an hour?
As you can see I'm incredibly fucking qualified for the position. I'm sure I'd do great, because I'm non-stop fucking awesome all over. With that in mind, I'd like to humbly request an interview with you at your earliest(for real! ha-ha!) convenience.
Sincerely,
-Kevin Stevenson
Dear Hiring Manager,
When I saw you were hiring for the position of QA Tester, I thought, "That's me!" Not because I am good at QA, or even know what it means. I just need a job. After reading the description though, I'm sure I'm more than qualified. I've found bugs in my own soup! I'm sure I can locate them in your software.
Also, I noticed it was an entry level position that requires 1 year of professional QA experience. Which I thought was quite reasonable, as otherwise, too many inexperienced people would apply.
However, I am one of "those people" as they say. The ones that leave the toilet seat up in bathrooms that is. I'm also inexperienced. But, what I lack in experience I make up for with a complete lack of morals! I'll lie about how much work I've done pretty regularly. As far as you'll ever know, I'll be on task or ahead of schedule! "Doing great Bill!" is my go to phrase whenever anyone says anything to me. ("About those STDs you got...?" "Doing great Bill!" "Yes, doing "The Great Bill", I told you to avoid hookers with titles. But, are they clearing up?...")
Now, recently I've run into the tactic, where a company asks me if I want to come in for an interview, and then doesn't respond again. I'm sure they just wanted to know if it was, in fact, something I wanted. I know how much time is wasted interviewing potential candidates, and why do it if you can just *not* do it, am I right? So, just let me know if that's a method that your company employs too. And how much does it make an hour?
As you can see I'm incredibly fucking qualified for the position. I'm sure I'd do great, because I'm non-stop fucking awesome all over. With that in mind, I'd like to humbly request an interview with you at your earliest(for real! ha-ha!) convenience.
Sincerely,
-Kevin Stevenson
Monday, May 21, 2012
HBF_04
Dancers definitely still dying. I do sure hope that our detective friend can figure it out! Otherwise, well. This will be a pretty sad story. So keep tuning in, for hope's sake!
Friday, May 18, 2012
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
HBF 02
Whoa, that's text inside the comic itself! I'm mighty impressed over here. Text-in-the-comic. What's next, an actual comic border? A panel border that doesn't look like a taped demarcation line between two siblings' side of the room? I doubt it, but possibly! What's next for sure though, more Hard Boiled Fluff.
Monday, May 14, 2012
HBF 01
This is the first panel of Hard Boiled Fluff. I've learned that drawing on a computer screen with a pen somewhere else, is interesting. By that I mean It looks like I drank a lot of coffee and had someone shake me while I drew. ((It's a weird office situation, I don't want to talk about it.))
I'll be posting more of it on my usual M/W/F schedule. So keep tuning in!
Monday, May 7, 2012
A sketchy post
I made that with "apen!" It's a thing, where I draw on paper, and it draws on my phone. Before you all start calling me and asking for commissions and generally offering me all your money, ask me for my phone number. Rarely does just guessing work!
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Recent sketchtastic
Friday, April 13, 2012
Coded Spy Nonsense
A brief history of spying in the modern world:
What do Dolly Parton and the Dalai Llama have in common? Wealth!("Common Wealth" is a sneaky segue. I worked on that one for hours.)) They're both Russian sleeper spies! Don't believe me? That's because they're very good at what they do. Dalai and Dolly together make up the Cabbage Patch Cell.
What is it, specifically, a Russian sleeper spy does, you ask? Well, they nap! Sleeper spy is a term that comes from the cold war era. As you know, it takes more energy for your body to warm itself, so very often people got tired. The Russian spies especially would become narcoleptic during their winter time stake-outs.
In 1954, to combat these Russian intelligence agents, the British trained their own super spy. They called him, Bond. Ionic Bond. He worked by attracting charged criminals into his lair, and making them kill the girls he liked. It didn't help the British out very much. Mostly it just made the Russians very angry, because of how many Russian girls Mr. Bond liked. Luckily, the sleeper agents were too groggy to form a coherent counterattack.
The dissolving of the USSR in 1991 also caused the British's chemical Bond agents to disappear, and now only sleeper cells exist. No one is really sure, but there have been numerous suppositions that those cells are in the pancreas and liver, waiting for the right time to strike.
What do Dolly Parton and the Dalai Llama have in common? Wealth!("Common Wealth" is a sneaky segue. I worked on that one for hours.)) They're both Russian sleeper spies! Don't believe me? That's because they're very good at what they do. Dalai and Dolly together make up the Cabbage Patch Cell.
What is it, specifically, a Russian sleeper spy does, you ask? Well, they nap! Sleeper spy is a term that comes from the cold war era. As you know, it takes more energy for your body to warm itself, so very often people got tired. The Russian spies especially would become narcoleptic during their winter time stake-outs.
In 1954, to combat these Russian intelligence agents, the British trained their own super spy. They called him, Bond. Ionic Bond. He worked by attracting charged criminals into his lair, and making them kill the girls he liked. It didn't help the British out very much. Mostly it just made the Russians very angry, because of how many Russian girls Mr. Bond liked. Luckily, the sleeper agents were too groggy to form a coherent counterattack.
The dissolving of the USSR in 1991 also caused the British's chemical Bond agents to disappear, and now only sleeper cells exist. No one is really sure, but there have been numerous suppositions that those cells are in the pancreas and liver, waiting for the right time to strike.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
The Modern Amazonian Worrier Woman
Monday, April 9, 2012
Another Short Story
Here's another story I'm trying out: The man waited, for love.
At first glance it's quite boring, yes? Waiting is hardly interesting. But, for love? Well that's intriguing. Was he hoping love would find him, sitting patiently and knowingly expecting it's arrival within the hour? Or is it more, he was in this dreadfully boring situation in the first place, because he promised love he would.
Either way, I was still waiting. It has been some time since someone played the keep me waiting game. But this boy could play. Luckily I've an air of nonchalance that infuriates people who want me to get angry about waiting. It doesn't make things happen faster, but it does make them mad.
Then I met with Bruno and now I'm off to... What's that? You want more details on how the meeting went? Well, I suppose I could humor you.
Bruno's office looked much the way you'd expect a mass murderer's office to look. Large picture of himself on the wall in the old style. Very large comfortable chair on his side of the desk, uncomfortable folding chair on your side. Thug standing in the shadows of the corner of the room. Sun blocked out, you know.
Not fully knowing why I was there, I opened with a "Well, let us get down to business then, shall we?" Hoping of course, that Bruno would fill in the missing parts of my understanding.
He responded in his own way, "Well yes, Mr. Penterbottom. You have until Friday. If I am still in want of it by Friday, I will break your legs."
As if I wasn't quite sure what he meant with his subtle implication there, he brought in some poor schlup and had his legs broken by the shadowy thug. Okay, not Bruno's legs to be clear, but the poor schlup's legs rather. Again, I'm not quite sure on the etiquette of breaking someone's knees. I feel the thug went a little over board with insulting the schlup's mother and kicking him in the ribs after the fact.
"Any questions?" Bruno intoned.
"What do you mean 'break my legs?'" I'll admit, that wasn't, in hindsight, a good question to ask. Nor was it wise to imitate his accent and put one of his cigars in my mouth. Shadowy quickly broke two of my fingers. Two fingers I was rather fond of, the pinky and the ring.
"Like that, only lower." Bruno responded, and then turned to his desk in a way that said our conversation has ended. I resisted, though it was difficult, explaining that no matter how low I was to the ground when he broke my fingers, that would not be like breaking my legs. I did not however, resist leaving his office quite quickly, nor did I resist looking deeply hurt at Shadowy. He would not be getting invitations to any of my holiday parties.
Another story to leave you with: Splints on a Shoestring Budget.
At first glance it's quite boring, yes? Waiting is hardly interesting. But, for love? Well that's intriguing. Was he hoping love would find him, sitting patiently and knowingly expecting it's arrival within the hour? Or is it more, he was in this dreadfully boring situation in the first place, because he promised love he would.
Either way, I was still waiting. It has been some time since someone played the keep me waiting game. But this boy could play. Luckily I've an air of nonchalance that infuriates people who want me to get angry about waiting. It doesn't make things happen faster, but it does make them mad.
Then I met with Bruno and now I'm off to... What's that? You want more details on how the meeting went? Well, I suppose I could humor you.
Bruno's office looked much the way you'd expect a mass murderer's office to look. Large picture of himself on the wall in the old style. Very large comfortable chair on his side of the desk, uncomfortable folding chair on your side. Thug standing in the shadows of the corner of the room. Sun blocked out, you know.
Not fully knowing why I was there, I opened with a "Well, let us get down to business then, shall we?" Hoping of course, that Bruno would fill in the missing parts of my understanding.
He responded in his own way, "Well yes, Mr. Penterbottom. You have until Friday. If I am still in want of it by Friday, I will break your legs."
As if I wasn't quite sure what he meant with his subtle implication there, he brought in some poor schlup and had his legs broken by the shadowy thug. Okay, not Bruno's legs to be clear, but the poor schlup's legs rather. Again, I'm not quite sure on the etiquette of breaking someone's knees. I feel the thug went a little over board with insulting the schlup's mother and kicking him in the ribs after the fact.
"Any questions?" Bruno intoned.
"What do you mean 'break my legs?'" I'll admit, that wasn't, in hindsight, a good question to ask. Nor was it wise to imitate his accent and put one of his cigars in my mouth. Shadowy quickly broke two of my fingers. Two fingers I was rather fond of, the pinky and the ring.
"Like that, only lower." Bruno responded, and then turned to his desk in a way that said our conversation has ended. I resisted, though it was difficult, explaining that no matter how low I was to the ground when he broke my fingers, that would not be like breaking my legs. I did not however, resist leaving his office quite quickly, nor did I resist looking deeply hurt at Shadowy. He would not be getting invitations to any of my holiday parties.
Another story to leave you with: Splints on a Shoestring Budget.
Friday, April 6, 2012
Lights!
Lights are like a metaphor for life. ((Which is a simile.)) Lights have switches, and lights can be either on, or off. If you know where the switch is you can turn them on and off. Just like life. Sometimes, the light will still work, but you need to replace the bulb because it burned out. Burning out happens. Some lights are on sliders, which adds more control to how much light they put out. Just like people, who are on sliders, where you can control how much light they put out. ((Boy do I love metaphors.))
Some lights, are just creepy. They sit in the men's bathroom and make you feel uncomfortable the whole time you're trying to pee. Other lights are really very pretty, and you'd just like to spend some time with them. Basking in their warmth.
Some lights are on bridges, and sometimes they fall off. Some lights are inside of cars, and they drown in lakes. Really, lights are very human when you think about it. They're controlled by electrical impulses.
Some lights are douchnozzles. Some lights you have sex with, and get the shock of your life from. See? Lights are a perfect metaphor for life. In every way. What ways can you think of that lights are like life?
Some lights, are just creepy. They sit in the men's bathroom and make you feel uncomfortable the whole time you're trying to pee. Other lights are really very pretty, and you'd just like to spend some time with them. Basking in their warmth.
Some lights are on bridges, and sometimes they fall off. Some lights are inside of cars, and they drown in lakes. Really, lights are very human when you think about it. They're controlled by electrical impulses.
Some lights are douchnozzles. Some lights you have sex with, and get the shock of your life from. See? Lights are a perfect metaphor for life. In every way. What ways can you think of that lights are like life?
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Well, it is a start!
Dear readers,
I've been wondering. What kind of fork would a baseball player use to eat? I have this finely sketched picture for you to view, and learn.
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I've been wondering. What kind of fork would a baseball player use to eat? I have this finely sketched picture for you to view, and learn.
Oh, a pitch fork! Quite! Ha-ha-ha. Ha-ha-ha. Hahahhaha. Hah. Hum. Sorr.. hahaha. Hahahah. Hah. Hemph. Heh. Hah. Heh. Ha... Oh, phew, what a doozy. Quite the punch line eh?
Also, over the past week I've drawn some faces. This one has some redeeming value.
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Monday, April 2, 2012
A Short Story
Mr. Penterbottom here. I was hoping to share some short stories I've been working on. (1.) A boy wanted ice cream. He threw a fit. He got ice cream. (2.) A girl leaves crying.
Now, after writing those I wondered, which one is the best story? Obviously! It's the girl who leaves crying. Why can't the boy compete? You already know everything about him. He wants ice cream. He is not tortured. He is lusting after a silly indulgence. But, the crying dame. Is she not distressed? Is it not our sworn duty to protect her? Here we're supposed to ignore flippant children. Possibly, though some do disagree, hit them when they're being too flippant. I myself am not one for hitting children, but that's only because I was, in fact, hit.
Oh anyways, back to the girl. Why did she leave crying? That's the mystery. Surely it was... heartbreak? Perhaps. As you know love can begin with a look. Well, maybe the gaze was broken. Or maybe he looked away entirely from this girl. Oh one can't always be sure when it comes to looks. Eyes are hard to follow. Why once, I was chasing a pair down alleyways and through slums in New York City. Never did catch them. I tried for days though. A glimpse here, a hint there.
Sidetracked again. That girl, the crying one. As immaterial as she was before, she became in fact a centerpiece of my life's story. She set me on my current path as it were. Let me just say, and remember this, nothing good will come of comforting a crying girl. But, as they say, "Resistance is futile." Ha-ha. Hah. Forgive me, humor from before your time.
Now, I'm off to see Bruno. Yes, I'm afraid you guessed it. He is in fact the boy who wanted ice cream. All grown up. Well, as all grown up as such a child could become.
Now, after writing those I wondered, which one is the best story? Obviously! It's the girl who leaves crying. Why can't the boy compete? You already know everything about him. He wants ice cream. He is not tortured. He is lusting after a silly indulgence. But, the crying dame. Is she not distressed? Is it not our sworn duty to protect her? Here we're supposed to ignore flippant children. Possibly, though some do disagree, hit them when they're being too flippant. I myself am not one for hitting children, but that's only because I was, in fact, hit.
Oh anyways, back to the girl. Why did she leave crying? That's the mystery. Surely it was... heartbreak? Perhaps. As you know love can begin with a look. Well, maybe the gaze was broken. Or maybe he looked away entirely from this girl. Oh one can't always be sure when it comes to looks. Eyes are hard to follow. Why once, I was chasing a pair down alleyways and through slums in New York City. Never did catch them. I tried for days though. A glimpse here, a hint there.
Sidetracked again. That girl, the crying one. As immaterial as she was before, she became in fact a centerpiece of my life's story. She set me on my current path as it were. Let me just say, and remember this, nothing good will come of comforting a crying girl. But, as they say, "Resistance is futile." Ha-ha. Hah. Forgive me, humor from before your time.
Now, I'm off to see Bruno. Yes, I'm afraid you guessed it. He is in fact the boy who wanted ice cream. All grown up. Well, as all grown up as such a child could become.
Double Post Day!
That's right! Two posts in one day.((The second is incoming.)) But I didn't want to overload the other post with silly babble about how things work and so-on.
There's a new schedule in town. It is as follows:
-Monday -> Recurring character day! Just when you thought you'd heard the last of him*, he'll be back! So, if you read the writing here, but want more consistency, come back on Mondays.
-Wednesday -> Comic day! Or general kind of art day. I'll draw a thing, and then post a thing. That will be followed up with you viewing a thing. If that's your thing, kinda thing.
-Friday -> A humorous non-fiction piece. With possible fictional content.
*He may be a she. Not necessarily. But possibly.
We're all excited over here about these new changes, let us know how you feel about them. Excited? Content? Exuberant?
There's a new schedule in town. It is as follows:
-Monday -> Recurring character day! Just when you thought you'd heard the last of him*, he'll be back! So, if you read the writing here, but want more consistency, come back on Mondays.
-Wednesday -> Comic day! Or general kind of art day. I'll draw a thing, and then post a thing. That will be followed up with you viewing a thing. If that's your thing, kinda thing.
-Friday -> A humorous non-fiction piece. With possible fictional content.
*He may be a she. Not necessarily. But possibly.
We're all excited over here about these new changes, let us know how you feel about them. Excited? Content? Exuberant?
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Exciting! Just Not Now
Please bear with us over the next month while we reevaluate and update our processes. Posting will be put on hold during this period. Thank you for your understanding and readership.
-The Management
-The Management
Monday, February 27, 2012
Did You Ever Read..?
It's a classic book. It's a book that only goes to show and prove how classic classic books are. "Penthouse Chronicles Volume 4." Have you read it? It's really changed my perception of the world. You should read it. Oh, you definitely will? Fantastic!
Hey did you read that book? No? Oh that's fine. I'm over it. But have you ever read another book that means something deep to me? It's "The Good Girl's Guide to Bad Girl Sex." They teach you all about bank robberies and spousal abuse, all the while never attaining satisfaction. When you buy it you get put on an FBI watch list. Probably just a Timex though, you've got to buy something like "Building Bombs and Blowing Senators - A Prostitute's Inside Look at Government, Finances, and Love" to get on their Rolex list. BBaBS is great though, it's a post-modern romp of sexuality mixed with just enough realism to give you something to hold onto.
Hey, did you ever read that book we talked about? Good, it was old news anyways. I just picked up, "How Cooking Nothing But Grease Fat Made Me Disgusted About Eating and How You Can Also Lose 30lbs a Month Starting Now!" You should come over for dinner tomorrow, having someone to talk to for the first month of not wanting to eat helps ease the pressure.
By the way, I am looking at this great book, it's "How to Talk to Friends and Keep Them." Will you go with me to buy it? Oh, yeah no I'm usually busy Mondays too, I just don't have work tomorrow is all. Yeah, no I'll let you know how it is though!
Hey did you read that book? No? Oh that's fine. I'm over it. But have you ever read another book that means something deep to me? It's "The Good Girl's Guide to Bad Girl Sex." They teach you all about bank robberies and spousal abuse, all the while never attaining satisfaction. When you buy it you get put on an FBI watch list. Probably just a Timex though, you've got to buy something like "Building Bombs and Blowing Senators - A Prostitute's Inside Look at Government, Finances, and Love" to get on their Rolex list. BBaBS is great though, it's a post-modern romp of sexuality mixed with just enough realism to give you something to hold onto.
Hey, did you ever read that book we talked about? Good, it was old news anyways. I just picked up, "How Cooking Nothing But Grease Fat Made Me Disgusted About Eating and How You Can Also Lose 30lbs a Month Starting Now!" You should come over for dinner tomorrow, having someone to talk to for the first month of not wanting to eat helps ease the pressure.
By the way, I am looking at this great book, it's "How to Talk to Friends and Keep Them." Will you go with me to buy it? Oh, yeah no I'm usually busy Mondays too, I just don't have work tomorrow is all. Yeah, no I'll let you know how it is though!
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