Monday, January 17, 2011

Being Useful

What's the problem with most blogs? That's right, none of them contain useful information. I think the most obvious reason for cataloging useful information on the Internet, which will be around forever, is to pass that information on to future generations, who will hunch over little tiny computers and read printed words and probably not get all their information from cool talking naked holograms or anything. So I will now use this awesome power I have, tantamount to immortality, to record a message about history for my offspring, should I ever have any of my own, which I plan not to, or more likely for my nieces and nephews, who will undoubtedly be rabid to read about what their weird uncle was into in his thirties. Well what I'm into is HISTORY.

So today I will tell the story of Roe V. Wade. Roe was a man who grew up in Wisconsin in the 1960s, and he fought for the rights of the Abortionists, who were the sworn enemies of the Abolitionists. He eventually died of old age in 1978 (quite young), and that's why you often see his name along with the date of his death - Roe V. Wade (1978).

No, for real, I just looked it up. Roe is another term for fish eggs, and Roe V. Wade was a famous battle between fish eggs and a fisherman who Waded into the water to eat them, way back in 1978 (hence, Roe V. Wade [1978]). The battle took place during the civil war; in fact, it was one of the most important events in American History.

Monday, January 10, 2011

Time To Monetize My Blog

Now that I've been blogging for a while, I think it's time to start cashing in. I want to thank my loyal subscribers, both of them, for sticking with me through the hard times earlier this afternoon, and for still being there to see this blog finally become successful. But first I want to tell you how I warm up for writing this blog. Thirty jumping jacks, then I run in place for half an hour. Ok thanks!

Sunday, January 9, 2011

Upon Reflection

I think it may have been unfair to assume that you assumed that I would be updating this blog as often as I (true enough, and a fair point) have been doing, so far this evening. It was presumptuous and more than a little rude, and also unfair. But now that I can look back at the events that have taken place on this web page, I can get a bit of perspective, a more enhanced perception of what the motives and themes, the motifs of this blog have come to me over the passage of time. Most of all, and at the forefront, is the theme of change. Nothing is set in stone, and if it is, eventually the stone will wear away and that thing will fall out onto the ground, or perhaps someone will notice that the area of the stone that surrounds the thing that's set in stone is starting to wear away, and that person will carefully remove whatever the thing is, and set it in another stone, possibly in a room or inside a small cave or somewhere else where the stone isn't quite so susceptible to being worn away, and maybe that thing will remain set in stone for quite a long time. At least until the house is demolished or the cave collapses, killing the person who so carefully sought to make sure that this precious thing was safe, whatever it is or was, making for a frightfully intense statement and a cautionary tale, to be sure.

Announcement Of Reduction Of Expectations To Be Placed On Me

Since you're a new reader of this blog, you probably were under the impression that I will be updating it every fifteen minutes or so, which would also imply that not a whole lot of thought is going into my posts, and that it only takes me fifteen minutes to write an entire entry. Nothing could be further from the truth. Allow me to explain. Our story begins long ago, before this blog was ever published - last Tuesday, to be exact. I should at this point mention that the main thrust of this blog is to maintain a complete air of accuracy and precision, with no deviance from the strictest objective reporting of events to take place. I intend to make the most exhaustively researched, carefully constructed blog about the events of my pointless life that anyone has ever made about the events of their pointless lives, which, that sounds like some person somewhere might have more than one life. Which is possible, if you believe in reincarnation, or if you are a cat. I wonder if cats believe that they themselves have nine lives, just from what they've pieced together from listening to humans talking about them all the time, incessantly. They don't seem terribly interested in most of anything any person has to say, if you want my honest opinion, unless you're holding a can of cat food. That is, I don't think the cats are interested in what people are saying unless one of them (the people) is holding a can of cat food - not that you, the reader, might not want my honest opinion about what cats may or may not be thinking unless you are right at this moment holding a can of cat food, which if you are for some reason reading this while holding a can of cat food then I think you would most definitely be interested in my thoughts on what cats' thoughts might be. Dogs, on the other hand, seem incredibly interested in almost anything a person might say that even seems to be obliquely directed at them. I'm sure if we'd decided that it were dogs that are purported to have nine lives, they would sure as hell know about it! They pay attention, and if you didn't have to take them outside and allow them to defecate in the street every six hours or so, they would have taken cats' jobs long, long ago, my friend. Mi amigo.

Specific Guidelines For Hanging Oneself

Ah, see how I drew you in with that alluring title? You were a little concerned, but you thought this might be another one of my brilliant posts in which I lambaste or parodize or satire something that is actually deadly serious - something like HANGING YOURSELF?! (I made a little pun there when I said "deadly serious", but I want to get serious for a second and say that you should make no mistake - hanging yourself is deadly serious business. If you are going to hang yourself, make sure you have investigated all the risk factors.) No, the last thing I would want to do is to make light of something as deadly, deadly, serious as hanging by one's own neck until inevitable strangulation and final death occur. I realize now, again, that when you read these blog posts, it's not like you have to click on the title and then it takes you to another page where the content is revealed, so really, there's no need to try to draw you, the reader, into the blog post with some sort of low-rent shabby gimmicky title. Unless of course you're browsing the index of my posts, long from now, and the title does, in fact, draw you in to reading this post, which isn't actually about hanging yourself. I suppose this is as good a place as any to begin the apology for this post. I agree the title is misleading, but who doesn't like to be misled, to be jerked around, or to have someone jerk their chain, so to speak, if the end result is being exposed to a piece of flowery iridescent prose? I realize now that you may have misunderstood what I mean by having one's chain jerked. You may think it is nothing more than a shabby, low-rent, low-brow appeal to your baser nature, a reference perhaps to pleasuring oneself, or even perhaps to hanging oneself! Which it just ran across my mind that a chain, although a little cold on the neck at first, might make an excellent option for the length of material required to loop around one's own neck before plunging from a chair or table with the other end affixed securely to a rafter - whatever that is. But never mind investigating what a rafter is, we'll come back to that, I want to really begin to fully explain my reasoning for using such a ghastly, reprehensible title for what has so far been a mostly informative and deeply philosophical blog post. Oh, but I'm out of room.

Apologies For The Title Of My Last Post

I realize now that I incorrectly titled my most recent blog post "Tonight At The Bodega", and then proceeded to write mostly about dogs and whether they have armpits or not. Needless to say, I'm sure this was a big letdown to everyone who wanted to know what ACTUALLY happened tonight at the bodega, or perhaps just to bodega enthusiasts, or to someone who may be googling "how do I get to the bodega" + "tonight". Allow me to explain. I really had quite a funny little anecdote that I had written in the text box for my most recent post, or maybe it was more of a story, no - let's say anecdote, about what happened tonight when I went to the bodega. HOWEVER (here's the explanation) I ACCIDENTALLY DELETED THE TEXT. I know, computers, right? Well, you can all breathe a huge sigh of relief, because I will now tell you what the anecdote was basically about. It was basically about how I went to the bodega, and a Daft Punk song was playing over the radio, and the men who work at the bodega were singing along to it. Isn't that something? My original draft of the Bodega Story was a bit more nuanced, I guess, and was really quite hilarious - possibly my funniest and most hilarious update so far on this blog. Did I mention the part about the guy who came in and tried to use the cash machine, but it wouldn't give him any money? Needless to say, we all had a good laugh about that one. Except him, he seemed rather angry that he could not obtain any money. He wasn't laughing at all, if you know what I mean! Actually none of us - me OR the men who worked at the bodega OR the other customers - were physically laughing. But I'm quite sure we all shared a moment of knowing superiority that left a smile in all of our hearts, if not on our faces. So that pretty much wraps up the entire synopsis of the Bodega Story. I hope I haven't left anything out...I paid cash, got a sandwich and some juice...nope, that's everything! Oh I remember! I wanted to apologize again for the title of the last blog post, formally, one last time, for it was terribly misleading and potentially quite disappointing, a situation I think I have quite neatly remedied with this current blog post. Again, sorry.

Tonight At The Bodega

Working out the kinks. Just gettin my sea legs over here. Don't pay attention for a little while. What's funny these days? Whatchu kids watchin in there? Here I'll do my impressions. No no wait wait I'll tell my Paris Hilton jokes! OK I'll just tell one of them. What does Paris Hilton have in common wait I screwed up the beginning. What's the same thing as Paris Hilton, wait. What's Paris Hilton the same as? A vacuum cleaner. Because they both suck dicks! Well, my vacuum cleaner does, anyway. I'm kidding - I don't have a vacuum cleaner. Here, I'll do another one. No little Jimmy, go ask your mother to feed you, I'm busy entertaining everyone! Whoops I sloshed a little bit of my drink out of my glass. Just keep composed, keep your composure. I, er, ah, want to thank you all for coming to my internet party. Can you see I'm sweating through my shirt? That's normal. It happens to normal people with jobs and everything. You're at work, you're putting some papers in the, machine or whatever, whatever it is people do at jobs in an office. You're walkin around, comparing your situation to a contemporary workplace comedy, and the next thing you know you're fuckin sweating right through your shirt. I know! I know. Seems like we would have figured out by now how to keep your disgusting armpits from soaking your clothes, creating large embarrassing stains. But we haven't! That's just life I guess, ha ha. Wouldn't it be funny if you saw a dog wearing a shirt and it had those little sweat circles under the armpits, well dogs don't really have armpits. Why do they put those little shirts on dogs but no pants, anyway? I guess you could draw little fake sweat circles in the approximate area of where the armpits would be on a dog's shirt, that would be pretty clever, but I just remembered that dogs don't sweat. Did you know that little Jimmy? Dogs don't sweat. No, not ever. I'm glad I can sweat and soak my fucking expensive fine clothing every time my fat ass exerts the slightest bit of effort, and I'm not as physiologically advanced as a fuckin DOG for chrissakes, who can sweat through his mouth like a normal fuckin well-adjusted evolved animal who can also lick his own balls, which are also never sweaty. God I fucking hate dogs. I don't hate them I'm just so fucking JEALous I mean what the FUCK

Well I'm Sick Of Writing About Punk Rock

Who wants to read that shit anyway? It's not like I ever really even wrote about it that much in the first place, and I hated reading about punk politics and semantics. So fuck all that. This blog is now about scooters and vacations.

When I went on vacation last year with my brother, we both slept in my cousin's pink bed. It's cool, my cousin's a girl. We rented a scooter and putted around, him riding on the back and gripping me tightly and yelling "slow down" every 45 seconds. We also said things to each other like "Can you put more sunscreen on my back? I can't reach." It was the perfect homosexual vacation.

Not that my brother and I are homosexuals. At least, not together. That I know of. I mean, he might be one, but I'm pretty sure that I'm not. All the same, we took a nap together every day in the same bed. We went to a place called Snorkel Beach, which sort of looked like where an R. Kelly video might be shot. Big white chairs, decks, billowing curtains on pavillions, that sort of thing.

We also went to some fort, where they served 40 ounce beers in 40 ounce glasses. He drank one; I didn't. I guess that's pretty macho - I had a seltzer. At night, I rode the scooter as fast as it would go, which is like 25 mph, and one time I stopped and sat on a park bench because I thought I should contemplate the ocean or something, and within 2 minutes there were half a dozen cockroaches crawling on my legs. The end.