|
So here we are, already halfway through the last month of 2004, and as usual, I have neglected to keep up with regular updates. Sorry. Well anyway, this is the time of year when television is full of those crappy "Year in Review" specials that for some reason the networks seem to think everyone wants to see. Now, normally I'd have no real issue with this as it falls under the "Same Old Shit" category. What makes this year different is one marble-mouthed woman named Barbara Walters and her so-called "10 Most Fascinating People of 2004." Hosted by Barbara Walters, the special includes daytime dynamo Oprah Winfrey, real estate mogul and reality star Donald Trump, heiress and actress Paris Hilton, pop music superstar Usher, controversial filmmaker Michael Moore and Boston Red Sox pitcher Curt Schilling, among others. Now, when you think "fascinating," you would normally think "intelligent" or "interesting" or "well-read" or something, anything that would make a worthwhile topic of conversation. But as usual, you'd be wrong. Sorry, boys and girls, the closest to any of that we're going to get is "controversial filmmaker Michael Moore". And I ask you: Is this what America has come to? I mean sure, millions of people out there keep the latest tired rehash of "Survivor" on the air and around 51% of the country was retarded enough to keep its village idiot in power, but is this a symptom or a result of the epidemic of stupid that runs rampant through our fair nation? Let's be serious here, after all. Come on, Baba. We've got Nobel Prize winners from California, but who gives a fuck about them? We want the disgusting orange skinned pile of skin and bones who made both the worst porno and the worst TV show of 2004. Now THAT's fascinating! Oh hey, on line 2 I've got some guys that are pioneering the doom of the human race by allowing chimps to manipulate robot arms... but no, no... that shit's boring! What's that? Line 3's got a fat, talentless hack who got famous eating hamburgers and complaining about how much America sucks? GET ME THE PRESIDENT OF TELEVISION! Is this it, Miss Walters? This is really what we consider fascinating these days? Really? See, this is why they hate us over in the Middle East. Those fuckers, they came up with mathematics and architecture and all that shit, and what did they get for it? A few plagues, and now they live in the middle of a hot-ass, shithole, desert wasteland. Want to know how hot it gets over there? During the day in the summer, you can set a can of Spaghetti-O's outside and an hour later it will be piping fucking hot. You don't need an oven, because outside is the oven. Now imagine going through that every single day, and try to figure out how long it would take you to want to blow yourself up or blow someone else up. Hell, in D.C. your chances of being beaten within an inch of your life increase tenfold for every degree over 90 in the summer. Take some of those guys and stick them in the middle of Iraq, and the entire place would have imploded by now. You wouldn't even need a bomb or anything. But I digress. So you take all their progress, and see where it got them. Now look at us; we've got a country full of slack-jawed, reality-TV-watching mongoloids who have 200-pound children because Dr. Phil says we should let our children make their own choices, and we've got it all: nice cars, nice weather, digital cable, and all the porn the Internet can supply us with. Let's face it, America, there's really no reason we should still be around. We should have gone up in a mushroom cloud of retardation years ago. But somehow, some way, we manage to keep trucking along year after year. And the beauty of it all is that we may continue to idolize complete fucking morons and ignore the minds that make this nation go for decades to come, and the country won't skip a beat. Not even when the retards in the public eye get all the credit for the accomplishments of the people that make them dance. And no one will ever complain. God bless America, the land of the lowest bidder and the least common denominator.
Something special for you today, boys and girls, loyal readers everywhere. In addition to the two new shoulda-been-up-a-month-ago updates, which you will find below, I've also got the alpha-alpha-alpha version of my latest work-in-progress game, Chutney: Global Defender, which is a chronicle in the legend of Chutney, the polar bear with rockets strapped to him. As it is, it lasts about 30-40 seconds before all the level design stops, since I have no experience in level design and am doing this entire project solo. This is to make up for the fact that the aforementioned updates have been delayed due to my misplacing my annual September 11 state-of-the-union rant. Download Chutney Download music Anyway, on with the real purpose of this update - to kick off our Week of Horrors. This week is a special one, seeing as we've got a double-whammy of horrors with Halloween and the upcoming election, so we'll be alternating between the two. Today we'll start with the election. As you may well know, what we face this year is a "lesser of two evils" type situation. For those of you that are somehow not familiar, allow me to introduce the contenders:
He's taken the country from a huge surplus to a huge debt, stretched the military across two wars, and can barely speak his own country's language! Don't try sending him to a war though, you ain't never seen a guy dodge and weave like this cat does when a draft's comin' through! Some call him the Gravedigger because of the way he continually runs everything he controls into the ground! Without a script, he stumbles and stutters like nobody's business! Give it up for your country's champ, the Clueless Clown, Buuuuuuuumblin' Bush!
In his day, he was a prizefighter, but it wasn't long before he went down 3 times and got taken out for a TKO. Rumor has it that he's a zombie right now, but the spirit still moves the brotha! He spits a lot of game, but can he back it up? He's the one going toe to toe with the champ, and even if he's bullshittin', it can't be much worse. They call him the Man with the plan, Kiiiiiiiiiiiiiillin' Kerry! Personally, I have no desire to see either of these guys run the country, but seeing as Bush has shown himself to be a complete fucking idiot in every way, shape, and form over the last four years and I didn't vote for him the first time, I'm sticking with the guy who's got the best chance of getting rid of him. Still, I wanted to make sure I was making the right decision, and so I went to the one place I knew could give me the advice I needed: California Tortilla. You see, California Tortilla has had a double Burrito of the Month this month, one for Bush and one for Kerry. From the horse's mouth: George Bush Hickory Chicken Burrito Grilled Chicken, black beans, horseradish mashed potatoes, a heapin' helpin' of Texas hickory sauce, fresh salsa and lettuce all rolled in a large flour tortilla. John Kerry Savory Chicken Burrito Grilled chicken, Mexican rice, simmering Boston baked beans made with caramelized brown sugar, lettuce, fresh salsa and a sassy splash of Heinz 57, all rolled in a large flour tortilla.I decided to let the burritos decide. All factors were included in this experiment, including my mood, which way the wind was blowing, and what I won on the Wheel of Destiny since it was a Monday. Kerry won the coin toss, so I tried the Kerry burrito first. Prize won from the wheel: 50 cents off. Taste of burrito: Damn good. California Tortilla doesn't usually measure up to Chipotle (or I suppose some local burrito stand for you burrito-snob fucks that live in Texas or California), but when they do something right, they really nail it. Wind direction: How the fuck should I know? I was indoors. Mood: I wasn't happy about not getting the Free Burrito space on the wheel, especially since the people in line right after me did get it, but it tasted so good that I didn't care. And so I figured, if this one is good, surely the other one must be just as great! So I went back and ordered again... Prize won from the wheel: 75 cents off. Taste of burrito: Allow me to speak to anyone associated with the California Tortilla franchise, if you managed to somehow find my site by searching on Google or something. I hope you guys did this on purpose due to some Anti-Bush agenda, because this burrito was the most vile creation of man I have ever had the displeasure of tasting, and that includes a really fucking nasty sauce I tried at P.F. Chang's once. I don't know what you were thinking, you sadistic sons of bitches, but horseradish potatoes and hickory sauce have no fucking place in a burrito. In Hell's kitchen, I can only imagine a fridge stocked with these and Breakfast Burritos, and nothing to wash the horrible taste out of your mouth for all eternity. In addition, it had the amazing ability to actually taste worse with time, as I couldn't finish it in one sitting and had to come back to it later. Seriously, if that's what you were going for, I commend you. Wind Direction: The utter shittiness of this burrito actually made the winds stop and a dark hole open in the otherwise bright sky. As I looked up, I saw several silhouettes laughing maniacally at my misfortune and poor judgment in buying the concentrated evil I held in my hand. Mood: Very, very bad. So, what have we learned from this experience? Here's my interpretation: Kerry will provide an initial incentive for putting him into office. His term in office would not be anything spectacular, but will be as expected, and most people will probably be happy. Bush will provide a slightly bigger initial incentive in an attempt to placate those who hate him and to make those who inexplicably like him even more loyal. Then comes the terrible taste of reality, which will be incredibly hard to swallow and will leave an aftertaste lasting four years. It's entirely possible that some will die as a result. After getting home after conducting this experiment, I immediately went for the bathroom where I took a nice, long dump. This leads me to believe that at the heart of it all, both of them are really full of shit. I hope this groundbreaking study has helped to sway the decisions of anyone who is still on the fence. If not, the least you can do is go buy yourself a fucking burrito. I mean damn, they're giving them away for free to people who vote.
Last weekend, I enjoyed the burnt meat and sweet smells of an end-of-summer cookout on the roof of an apartment building in the area of DC known as Adams Morgan. Now I've long held a belief that the city of Washington, DC physically hates me, as I am bound to get lost every time I drive in the place, and if I don't drive, something else is bound to happen. Anyway, the night went off without a hitch, and I was on my way home after dropping off a few people. As I pulled into my street, I dimmed my lights to keep from waking up anybody in the house. Then I notice a huge pickup truck has pulled into my street right behind me. So what, you might say, they were just headed for someone else's house, right? Well I thought so too, until I pulled into my driveway and they pulled into my driveway right behind me, too. Now this is 3:15 in the fucking morning and I know nobody in my house is awake which means nobody in my house is having late night guests, so my spidey sense begins to tingle a little bit. Still, I stop in front of the house and begin to put the car in park when I glance in my rearview and see that one of the occupants of the gigantic truck have gotten out and are now running toward my car at approximately 5000 miles per hour. Right about here, I did an assessment of the situation that took approximately 1/8 of a second. 1) Someone just followed me home at 3:15 AM. 2) Someone I don't recognize is now running toward my car at 3:15 AM. 3) I've seen that kind of running before; he looks exactly like the animation of the guy running in Grand Theft Auto when you're trying to catch up to a car and steal it. 4) Huh. How about that. This kicked the Spidey-sense meter up to 11. "Holy fuck!" I yelled as I slammed the gear back into drive and filled the night with the screams of my tires as I stomped the pedal as hard as I could. Now seeing as it's a very foggy night, my lights were dimmed, and I live on a hill, I could have easily killed myself doing this. But when someone you don't know pulls into your driveway, hops out, and starts running at your car like he's being controlled by someone playing GTA3, you do NOT stick around to ask questions. Fortunately I somehow managed to stay on the road, pulled out onto the street, and sped down to the next house. Now I saw two guys wandering around my front yard, and it looked like they might have been headed my way. "Fuck!" I thought again as I backed out and sped down to the end of the street, another half mile or so down, and dialed 911. "You have reached Montgomery County emergency services. Please stay on the line and an operator will take your call shortly." Are you fucking shitting me? I could expect to be put on hold dialing 911 if I was somewhere in, say, DC, but Montgomery County is supposed to be relatively rich, and you think the least they could do is afford to keep the 911 lines well staffed for 3 fucking AM. "Your call is important to us. Please stay on the line." Finally a female voice crackled onto the line to ask me if I had an emergency. Well, had it been a real emergency, I'd probably be too fucking dead to answer that question, sweetheart. I relayed the events that had just transpired. "Do you know who these people are?" asked the operator. "I've never seen them before in my life, and when someone I've never seen before starts running toward my car at 3 am, I don't make it a habit to find out who they are," I replied irately. After that, I asked her to call inside the house to make sure I wasn't coming home to find my family dead, for which she had to put me on hold while she got the one other available operator to call inside for me. If you're from Maryland, keep in mind that this is not PG County. This is fucking Montgomery. A couple minutes passed by, which I spent with my foot on the brake, ready to mow down or butt heads with whatever decided to follow me down the street, and the operator returned. "You'll have to get closer to your house, so the police can see you when they get there, sir," she chirped. "If I wind up dead, this is your fault," I grumbled under my breath. As I drove back, I could still see another figure in the fog, pacing back and forth on my yard and smoking a cigarette. "I still see someone there, and I'm not getting any closer than I am now," I informed the operator. As I finished telling her this, I see two doughy figures appear out of the mist walking toward my car; one wearing a white striped shirt, one wearing an outdated Champ Bailey Resdskins jersey, both wearing baseball caps. "Have you called inside the house yet?" "It seems the other operator isn't available, so I'll have to put you on hold while I call inside myself," came the update over the phone. Gee, thanks. I immediately turned my highbeams on my two new friends, to which they responded by raising their hands and walking towards my car more slowly until they finally stopped by my window. Just a couple of kids, it looked like, maybe 18 or 19. "Try anything funny and I will run both of you motherfuckers over," I hissed. Champ Bailey decided to be the spokesman for the two. "We're really sorry, man," he whimpered. "We pulled into the wrong driveway, we didn't mean to." "Why were you running at my car?" "We didn't know who you were. We're friends of the neighbors over here, the Korweks." "Well, I live there. Who the hell are you?" Champ thought for a second. "Tom... Johnson." Nice try, buddy. "Tom Johnson, eh? Who's he?" I pointed at White Stripes, who was now sprinting off. "Uh... Mark McInnes." "Who's that guy in my yard?" "He's with us too." "Get your cars out of my yard." "We already did, man. We don't want any trouble. Did you call the cops?" "Damn right I did! I'm on the phone with them right now. Why is that guy still in my yard?" In the distance, I could hear White Stripes yelling "Fuck, we gotta get out of here! The cops are coming! ...Shit!" "We're really sorry, man. Just roll down your window and-" "Yeah, right. Not gonna happen." "Uh, well, just tell them we pulled into the wrong driveway, it was a big mixup, we don't want the cops involved and... shit." He interrupted his own sentence midway as the first police car rolled up to the house. After repeating the fabulous turn of events to the cop, I pulled into my garage, stumbled inside, and poured myself a drink. According to the cop, what had happened was that the neighbor parents were out of town (at least I hope), and these kids were showing up for some late night underage drinking party. The stupid kids that had pulled into my driveway were already a bit tipsy. Why they decided to do the 100-meter dash toward my car, I still don't know. I think I got to sleep around 6 AM that night. Thanks, you little fucks.
Well, it's the end of yet another summer, and having the joy of being relatively unemployed for the duration, I decided to make the best of it and possibly get a few good stories out of the deal. I always have made it a rule to do everything for the stories you can tell later, as I plan to be one of those old guys that sits on a tree stump telling exaggerated tales to a bunch of little kids when I hit Alzheimer's age; aside from that, truth is always stupider than fiction. So, I'll drop a story or two every so often, and if you don't like them, fuck you. Here goes: --- Back in June, Keil, my best friend of about 12 years, got married to a girl he was dating about 3 years, I think. Oddly enough, they met due to living in adjacent suites at our college, which I consider odd because dating someone in the same building as you is often a recipe for disaster. But everything worked out for them, I suppose; I talked to both of them when he dragged her along for a cookout, she seems relatively sane and on the level, so she is cool people with me. However, that is not the story here. The story at hand is the comedy of errors that was my trip getting there. As it does with most things, being in the Army reserves often gets in the way of one's social life. I can't count how many times I had to say, "Fuck! I've got to go to drill this weekend" to a given friend of mine in college when they were telling me of a party they were having Friday night spilling over with booze and broads, and in this case the advertised "two weeks a year" part of my commitment, known as "annual training", overlapped with Keil's wedding. Doing the good, responsible thing, I asked my squad leaders about 2 months ago to get two days off to go to Colorado (where the hitching was to take place). See, the way the Army allegedly works is, that you ask your direct superiors for permission for some request, and they pass it up to their superiors, and so on till it reaches the top, and the answer trickles back down to you. Normally this shouldn't take more than a couple days, maybe a week, because there's about 3 levels of hierarchy in our company. Well, what a surprise that not only did my squad leader didn't fucking tell anyone, he also had somewhere else to be this year than annual training, so he wasn't there for me to yell at. So I had to go up the chain myself, each person going up the chain conveniently "forgetting" to ask the next person up despite my insistence that I had less than a week to get tickets at this point, until I finally went to the first sergeant myself and got the go-ahead. Of course, by then a round trip ticket cost about $350, but hey, who's counting? Then began the real fun. On the morning my plane was to leave, I got my business pimp suit packed up along with some other items and left home at about 3:45 to get to Dulles to catch my 6:10 plane. Now, I hadn't flown out of Dulles anytime in the past 6-7 years, so I foolishly assumed that getting through the airport and to my plane would take a good hour or so, maximum. After all, the security at the other local airports isn't that bad anymore, so why should this one be? I severely underestimated the Nazi-like security present. After getting my ticket and thinking I'd had it made, I got past the ticket counter and my jaw dropped at the mile-long herd of people standing before me to be moved through security. The Dulles security system is an interesting one, all of which is explained to you by the masses of guards present: take off your shoes, take off your socks, empty your pockets, take out your laptops, you're subject to strip search and anal rape at any given moment, resistance is futile. Even people who were barefoot and only wearing flipflops had to take them off; you know, because some terrorist might have fucking flipflops composed of C4 or something. Anyway, after a good hour and a half of waiting, it's about 10 minutes to 6 and it's finally my turn to put all my worldly possessions through the conveyor belt of judgment. I pass through the scanner, nothing beeps. But just as I'm about to pack up my things and move on my merry way, the SS in charge of the scanner barks out, "WHO DOES THIS BLUE BAG BELONG TO?!" Fuck. I sheepishly raise my hand, and another refrigerator sized gentleman begins rifling through my stuff, coming to my Leatherman. Sure, it had no blade and the most it could do to a air crew is perhaps file a stewardess's nails, but IT'S MADE OF METAL, GODDAMNIT! "You have two options," the gentleman informs me. "You can either go back out and check this, then come back through the line, or..." "I guess it's yours now," I interrupted. I had about nine minutes left to O.J. it over to my plane and I had no time for hysterical horseshit. Long story short, I caught the plane with seconds remaining and arrived in Denver about 5 hours later after a layover in Detroit. Which is where error number two comes in. Once there, I was to call Keil on my cell phone and figure out where to find him. Easy, right? All I have to do is reach into my pocket for my cell phone, and... FUCK. Maybe it's in my bag? Nope, DOUBLE FUCK. Well, at least the phone only cost $50. Let me go over to this payphone and use my credit card to call him... What the fuck do you mean, my card is denied? It's a fucking check card with $5000 on it! Apparently I was so busy running around panicking that I didn't hear the PA system paging me to pick up the courtesy phone, since Keil hadn't seen or heard from me and was wondering where the fuck I was. When I told him the story up to that point, he wasn't nearly as pissed anymore. Anyway, I finally found out where he was about an hour later, and we headed out. The bride's parents, despite never having met me before, gave me a place to stay at their house. For those who live there and those who have never been there, Colorado is a really interesting place. I say "interesting" because it's like a bizarro DC area; they've got some of the same interstates running through the place, but in Colorado, random people will talk to you, suburbs stretch as far as the eye can see, there's no traffic, and I'm pretty sure I was the only black person in the state that doesn't play for the Nuggets or the Broncos. This conflicted greatly with my TV-conceived notion of the midwest, which consisted of Wal-Mart after Wal-Mart and gigantic landmonsters of women piling their crotchspawn into an SUV. But I digress. The ride to the house was uneventful until we actually got there and were getting out of the car. Being a 6'3 person sitting in the backseat, I took a little longer to get out, and grabbed onto the door's open window frame to pull myself up. Once upright, I noticed a curious sting coming from the hand holding onto the frame. I looked down and noticed that the car window was now closing on my hand, as though it wanted to claim my fingers for its own. "AAH! AAH! AAH! AAH!" I began screaming rhythmically like a bitch. Keil, his had on the "Window Up" switch, turned his head to see what the hubbub was about. "What's wrong?" he asked. "AAH! AAH! AAH! AAH!" I replied. "Oh, fuck," he said, noticing my situation. "OPEN! WINDOW! OPEN! WINDOW!" I yelled, now working English in between the screams. He began flicking the window switch the other way to no avail. "It's not opening, man!" I glanced over to notice that the keys were NO LONGER IN THE FUCKING IGNITION. No shit it won't open, the goddamn car is off! "CAR! ON! NOW!" "What? I told you the window's not opening!" Realizing that the only way to avoid amputation would be to get myself out of this, I began wriggling my fingers until I got them free of the window's death grip, releasing the part of my brain that processes speech to activate the "Curse Out" portion. "GODDAMNIT, WHY DIDN'T YOU OPEN THE FUCKING WINDOW?!" "I tried to, man! It wouldn't move!" "That's because the CAR'S NOT ON!" He looked at the key in his hand. "...Oh. Well, uh, sorry about that, dude. Didn't mean to add to the problems you've been through already. You've just been having a shitty day today, haven't you?" "You could say that." "Well, the reception's got an open bar. That should make up for a little bit of it." Fortunately, that was the end of the trying portion of my trip. The wedding went off without a hitch, the women were smokin', and the open bar was glorious. The next week, it also happened that someone wound up finding my phone and being enough of a good Samaritan to mail it back to me, so I guess everything pretty much evened out, aside from me losing my Leatherman and the astronomically priced plane ticket.. I'm convinced this is proof that there's somebody up there who greatly enjoys fucking with me and watching the resulting antics.
I told you I made no promises. But who am I kidding, nobody reads this website anymore! Ha ha! Ahem. Seeing as I finally quit the last semblance of non-military employment that I had yesterday, it dawned on me that I had absolutely no excuse left for procrastinating on updates, so here I am; you may thank that wonderful thing called unemployment. At last, I am free to become a fat, happy man at my leisure. However, there are forces out there that seek to take away these freedoms. From you, from me, from all freedom-loving Americans. Forces... of gravity. See, apparently when you get fat enough, you end up losing the ability to move, little by little. Being that fat fuck that you are, you will no doubt rely on food to fill the gaping mouth-sized hole in your soul that causes sadness at the discovery of this fact, causing a vicious cycle of gouging and fattening, until what was once a human being is long gone, replaced only by a mass of chins and rolls upon rolls of skin that gasps only for the air required to maintain its existence. You may think that I jest. But listen and listen well, for I say to you that truth is often stranger, stupider, and more morbidly amusing than fiction. Observe: STUART -- A 480-pound Martin County woman has died after emergency workers tried to remove her from the couch where she had remained for about six years. See it for yourself. Paramedics were heard to say that her last words expressed not regret at becoming a stationary mass of flesh that spent years living in her own filth, but that she had never gotten her bounty on Han Solo. Personally, I'm wrestling with simulaneous feelings of amusement that an autopsy was required to figure out that a woman that had become one with her furniture died due to morbid obesity, and great fear at the position our country's health care system must be in for them to have to conduct that autopsy to make that shocking conclusion.
But what's that, you say? You say that there are instances where your fellow Americans are jealous of the fruits of your hard work, and even go to lengths where they will heckle you on the street and tell you to... lose weight? And your doctor tells you vicious lies like that if you don't give up working so hard, it will end up killing you? Well, it shouldn't take a diehard patriot such as myself to tell you that America didn't get where it is today by listening to people that are clearly out to just trip you up and stop your progress; but if you feel that you need to fit in with everyone else so as not to look like an overachiever, then you're in luck! Just the other day, I was all set to get my afternoon trash TV fix, when I found that instead of getting the usual "Who's the father" or "Lie Detector" episodes of Maury, it was "Amazing Weight Loss Stories". Only these stories aren't very fucking amazing at all. We're not getting Jared Fogle stories, or stories of someone who became such a massive buttertroll that they finally realized they needed to work out, or even someone who lost it on Atkins. That's right, it's the new flavor of the week, Gastric Bypass surgery! One lady who was showcased told this sob story about how she was always a bigger girl as a kid, no one asked her to prom, etc etc. and that her turning point was when she was at a gas station and a guy driving by threw his soda out the window on her yelling "LOSE WEIGHT FATTY!" Which I felt a little bad laughing uncontrollably at. But I find something seriously wrong in that the first thought that came to mind to this lady was not "I'd better join a gym and get on a good diet!" but "I'd better go under the knife!" Sure she looks pretty hot now, but I think her kids might be a tad pissed when she dies from sepsis in a few years. Apparently she identified with famous 80's former fatty Carnie Wilson, who also got the surgery, and Maury hooked her up with a video message from Carnie telling her what a great accomplishment it was that she lost all that weight, 160 pounds or so. WHAT THE FUCK DID SHE DO? Carnie should be thanking her surgeon. Another guy who "lost" 300 pounds told his story of how he decided to go under the knife when he hit 560. Only problem is, he also told the story of how he ate 5 omelettes smothered with cheese every morning and had an entire pizza for lunch on a regular basis, and that "every diet under the sun" failed for him. Well no shit they're going to fail, when you're eating meals the size of a small horse every fucking day. I just feel that there's something wrong with us when we congratulate people not just for being lazy, but for "accomplishing" something that they didn't even fucking do. They're giving Fatty #2 here a couple new suits courtesy of Today's Man since he has no wardrobe that's under 9X in size. Meanwhile I do stupid things like working out and running my ass off, and here I am buying suits for $300-400 like a sucker. Where are my free suits, Maury? Where's my motherfucking 40 acres and a mule? I guess I need to see my neighborhood surgeon. Just wait till I get 100 pounds of intestine removed, then we'll see what's up, Maury... you motherfucker.
But damned if after going through all those years of suffering turned out to be a waste of time. The very day I graduate, what should I receive in my inbox than this: From: Marion Lambert [REDRDYRNANAZN@rnac.ne.jp] The best parts of this email are the subject line and the impeccable grammar and punctuation that Mr./Mrs. Lambert put into this letter, which was clearly meant for me and only me. Observing the "From" field, you'll also notice that the email is from a Japanese domain. How generous of them to take a break from battling giant lizards and tentacle-raping schoolgirls to let me know how I could have gotten a diploma that would earn me the respect of all! Perhaps I should ship them a truckload of our Japanophiles and cosplayers to show my gratitude for this selfless deed. Another great event that's transpired since February is that, in the ultimate bout of irony, the previously mentioned girlfriend broke up with me two days later, after having spent around $100 for Valentine's day shit. So you got revenge after all, Valentine, you son of a bitch. Dish served cold, and all that. Not that I'm bitter or anything, of course. Aside from those two events, I've been split between trying to finish Flash projects, trying to have a "real life" now that I've got nothing better to do, and of course avoiding updating this website at any cost. Although I make no guarantees, I'll force myself to keep the site updated on a semi-regular basis again, with new things to write about starting with the debauchery in Las Vegas that will begin next Thursday. In the meantime, you can check out the project that's begun splitting my time from Appleton City Ransom, a little endeavor named "Chutney: Global Defender". It's very basic right now, so if you don't like it, well, fuck you. Arrow keys move, A key shoots. SWF version EXE version
Looks like it's that time of year again; that time when one of two things happen: 1) You have the privilege of showering some lucky girl with candy and other assorted modes of affection, or 2) You get to be pissed off for yet another year that it's being blatantly pointed out that you're single. Surprisingly enough, for the first time in 22 years I'm actually not part of the second group. However, to all you lonely guys out there, hate not; for the grass is always greener on the other side. Sure, having someone to spend Valentine's Day with makes it a tad less irritating, but all it really does is change the name of the 'holiday' from "Single Awareness Day" to "Motherfucker, you better buy me some nice shit today or you're gonna be calling it Single Awareness Day Again" Day. There are two types of women in our world: women who completely buy into the commercialization of the day and fully expect you to lighten your wallet simply because somebody out there said so with a big grin and a sack of cash in either hand; and women who say they don't buy into the commercialization, but are lying to you. Now you may say, "But wait, raditts! My girl doesn't care about all that crap. In fact, every year she insists that we don't do anything because she hates it so much!" This leads to two more possibilities: 1) You've got a rare exception to the rule that's lying to herself as well as you. That's a keeper; make sure you keep the lie alive. 2) She's fucking someone else. Tough break, slick. Happy Valentine's Day! Honestly, I'd say that Valentine's Day is possibly the worst day of the year to not be single, because if you fuck it up, then boom, there goes the booty. You may recall that a couple years back, I staged a huge offensive to eliminate the leader of the group responsible for the travesty of this day, but even though he has not been seen since, the evil of February 14 lives on. What's that you say? You don't care about all my warnings, and you still want someone to spend the day with anyway? Well, allow me to give your retarded ass some ideas on how to fix your situation, but don't say I didn't warn you: Online personals! Pros: Finding a potential mate is as easy as a couple clicks with your mouse! All you need is a picture of your ugly mug and a few minutes and a few dollars later you can be out searching for someone just as ugly, if not uglier, than yourself. Don't want to use your picture? Hell, use someone else's! This is the Internet! The picture you choose doesn't even have to be the same gender. Not even the same age, if you're into pedophilia. Then again, if you're into pedophilia, you should probably be prepared to accept the love of Big Leroy's johnson and eventually, someone's shank when your disgusting ass gets tossed into your local prison. But hey, either way you'll get to spend this very special day with somebody, right? And that's all that really matters. Speed dating! Pros: So you want to believe that you're better than the losers who use the Internet to get a date, and that the reason you're single is because you're too "busy" to go out and date like normal people do? Well, this is a great way to keep deluding yourself. Besides, everything in today's fast paced world is all about speed! You need speed in your car. You need Domino's to have speed to deliver your pizza. You need speed on your internet connection to download porn faster. And now you can get that in your dating too. What a wonderful world we live in! Mail order brides! And finally... The Real Doll!
Well, I hope I've been of some assistance on this most cherished of American holidays. Now get out there and get something, whether the flesh be human or synthetic, whether you're giving it or receiving it. You twisted fuck.
Truth be told, I've been spending most of my time this winter working on completing Appleton City Ransom, my Flash-based River City Ransom engine featured in the last update. Although the site never gets updated, that's one thing you can (almost) count on being updated on a regular basis. In any case, we've had quite a year so far. January was full of retardation, which is something we'll come back to, but if the beginning of February is any indication, we ain't seen nothin' yet. See, apparently last Sunday there was a sporting event we Americans like to call the Super Bowl. Normally, the Super Bowl is where two football teams play for rings and bragging rights for the next six months, interspersed with memorable and expensive commercials. However, this year has turned out different; from what every channel on television was showing, you wouldn't have known what happened, who won, or that there was a football game going on at all. Yeah, you know what I'm talking about already, and this is the first and last I'll say about it. Judging by every news show, self-proclaimed "comedy" show, and "let's find out what the celebrities are doing because we have absolutely no life" show, this year's Super Bowl was a bizarre time-loop of Justin Timberlake exposing Janet Jackson's tit. Now I won't go into detail about the hypocritical puritan ethics of our fine country, but it really takes something like a black woman's bare breast on TV's most popular programming to show you how much people like to pretend they're concerned. Allow me to itemize: 1) The biggest claim is "THINK OF THE CHILDREN! THEY SAW A BOOB ON OUR FAMILY-ORIENTED SHOW! THEY'LL BE CORRUPTED FOREVER!" Now I'm not entirely sure about most kids today, but I'll wager that most kids have seen the mighty female fun-bags somewhere between 1 and 6 months of age. But surely a couple seconds worth of tit on TV is still much worse than, say, three hours of huge men being paid millions to do their damnedest to tackle and maim each other, right? 2) Or, for that matter, the other wonders the fine Halftime Show had to offer. In our post-September 11, super-patriotic, throw-away-our-freedoms-in-the-name-of-"Fighting Evil" country, you'd think that more people would take more offense to say, some white trash has-been dipshit that cut a hole in the middle of an American Flag and wore it as a poncho while singing his five-year-old songs that everyone hated five years ago. Or, say, the following "rapper" that kept grabbing his crotch while he sang yet another shitty song that sounds exactly the same as his other shitty songs, and broads way more naked that Janet Jackson ever wound up danced behind him. Or even Justin Timberlake, who was the one that tore off half her jacket in the first fucking place, while singing about how he wants his pre-teen/teen girl demographic to get naked. But who would blame poor Justin? He was a Mouseketeer, after all, and a former boy band member! And besides, he was set up by that filthy darkie; she was supposed to have a lace dress underneath! Repent, Janet Jackson. Repent for setting up that poor white boy, and repent for the children who will now run out and have sex and get pregnant because they saw your dirty mammary of Satan! 3) As annoying as all of this is, none of it is nearly as annoying as the fact that television's finest (and I use that term loosely) are complaining about the horror and unwholesomeness of this whole thing, and how children should be shielded, when I guarantee most people, even those watching the halftime show, probably missed the SUPER-CONTROVERSIAL moment in question. I for one know that if there wasn't such a big deal made over it, I wouldn't have known. I was watching The Surreal Life on UPN, and I was more appalled by the fact that not only has Vanilla Ice not been mercy-killed yet, he's been let back on TV. How interesting, to add, that these TV shows that claim that it was such a horrible thing and that kids should have their eyes shielded from titties are the same ones that have absolutely no qualms with constantly showing the clip on loop all day, where kids could easily see it. So now I have to keep my TV off for another month, because stupid shit like this will be clogging the air waves and the minds of America's bovine masses, when we should be focusing on a painful death befitting people like this. I hate Justin Timberlake on general principle, but I also hate Janet Jackson now too, because within a week she's managed to become the new Paris Hilton, and it didn't even take a horrifying raccoon/zombie sex video to do it. It's times like this that I just feel like going into the woods and blowing up thin[THE REMAINDER OF THIS POST HAS BEEN REMOVED BY FEDERAL AUTHORITIES IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE PATRIOT ACT. GO ON ABOUT YOUR BUSINESS AND DO NOT LOOK DIRECTLY INTO THE MAMMARIES.]
A big welcome out there to all three of my remaining readers! Now that the semester is over and I have absolutely nothing else to do (okay, so I have a job, but besides that), it's time to finally put forward that big effort to get this site overhaul done with and get some content back up on the site. As you can imagine, being gone for a year kinda threw me off my rhythm of updating. I tried a couple times to get back into the swing of things, but usually those attempts followed this pattern: 1) Connect to website, begin trying to re-do everything. 2) Say "This is boring and takes up time. Fuck this." 3) Turn on TV, take nap. This wouldn't be so bad if not for the fact that this results in nothing getting done for the website, and that one time that I slept so long that I didn't notice that pesky electrical fire when the TV fell over. But I digress. As some of you might know, it's the holiday season. You might also remember it being called the Christmas season many years ago, and may wonder what caused the name change. Well, it's due to a number of factors, the main one being that pesky Canada to the Christmas's U.S. called Hannukah. It has also been known to masquerade under other names such as "Chanukah" and "that Fucking Thing that Adam Sandler keeps writing shitty songs about every year." Much like Canada, Hannukah is always trying to upstage the Big C. This rivalry has been going on for almost two thousand years, ever since the guys supporting Hannukah (which will remain nameless, but I'll just say they refused to pay me off to stop slandering them) killed the Christmas mascot. No, not Santa, that other guy that managed to get people drunk off water. Which is another strike against it, because unlike Canada, you can't make a road trip to Hannukah to get drunk when you're 19. While we're on the subject of Santa, let me be the first to assure you that he does not exist. I still fondly remember the day that I learned this. Do you remember that song that Michael Jackson made before he turned into a pale zombie and ruined a few kids' lives by procreating? Yeah, "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus." Well, I actually did see it. Instead of it being "under the mistletoe," it was more like "down the street at the Wham-Bam Motel". The discovery was innocuous enough; I was just trying to figure out what had happened to Santa's reindeer, since he was driving a rusted two-tone Datsun that year for some reason. I guess my second mistake was telling ol' Pops, because I thought he'd be happy that we all might get some more toys or something. Instead, his face grew into a scowl, and he said, "Go get the shotgun, boy." I was horrified. "What for? You're not gonna shoot Santa, are you?" "Santa don't exist, boy," he hissed back. "I don't know who you saw, but that motherfucker's dead." I didn't see him for a while after that. But the important thing is that I still got my presents that year. So after all this, are you still not convinced that everything I say is always right? Well, in that case you're a dumbass, and there's really nothing I can do about that. But I can still try with this line-by-line comparison of the two holiday giants, and let you decide.
So there you go. I can only show you the facts; it's up to you to make your decision. If you pick the wrong one, think about that as you play with your eight Troll dolls or whatever crap you get this year. ~ Gentlemen... BEHOLD! Almost two months ago in my last update, I promised to show a bit of my current project, which is not really the cause of my updating, but will make for a good excuse. In any case, you can now take a look at my work in progress, dubbed Appleton City Ransom: With music, ~1.8 mb Without music, ~30 kb I suggest saving them to your hard drive, as that seems to make it perform better. You'll be able to check the progress as it goes along, as I'll be uploading the new versions as I make them. And if you get bored of that, I've got a second present for your ungrateful ass! I wanted to wait to post this until I finished it, but that might not happen anytime soon. This is another work in progress that I just kinda quit on, but will probably continue over the winter. I started this one to stave off insanity while in Iraq, to teach myself Flash, and to infuse some humor on such a crappy situation. Name all the graphics and sounds I blatantly ripped off from other games and you get a cookie! Operation Iraqi Freedom: the Home Game! Also making a return over the next few days will be the long-dormant Project Couch Run and other features that have been left to stagnate over the nearly year-long hiatus. Tell the masses on high; for we have returned. Merry fucking Christmas, everybody!
For me, about $30,000. So it's been about a year since I embarked to parts unknown, which turned out to be Iraq. At least, it was supposed to be unknown, because there was this inexplicable veil of secrecy over everything we did for the duration of our little tour, despite the fact that people at home watching CNN knew more about our situation than we did. In any case, I can't really give any excuse for the reason I haven't updated since the end of August aside from the usual, being mostly that "I didn't fucking feel like it." I probably wouldn't be writing this right now if not for the inspiration of my protege, who refuses to be acknowledged by any name other than "Devon the Gnome." Currently, our hero Devon is in Ireland taunting alcoholism every nightfall and banging bartendresses seven years his senior, the lucky son of a bitch. However, that's not the issue at hand here. If my inbox is any indication, my reputation for being part of a steamrolling force that jumps at the opportunity to stomp on foreign countries that hate us followed me home, as I have received numerous pleas for help from various African political despots. As we all know, those crazy African political factions are always ousting one another, and as a member of the Wor 'Gainst Terra, it's my personal obligation to do my part to maintain stability in the area. Apparently to conceal his identity, I received this email from a man named "MORRIS." Also, apparently to make him seem less like a man in need and more like a retarded kid selling fireworks, he cleverly titled the email "PLS, TREAT THIS MASSAGE VERY URGENT." I know I have to do what I can to make the world right, so I plan on keeping in touch with my dear friend MORRIS and will let you know the results. In the meantime, you can check out this Flash movie written by talented SA Forum ($10,love you long time) goon "Luxmore" in belated celebration of Halloween. As for myself, I've taken on a new project involving a revival of River City Ransom, which will be featured next update. And if you don't know what River City Ransom is, you are not America, and the anti-communist-anti-terra authorities will arrive shortly to dispose of you.
Well, isn't this nice... I get back from a place where a bunch of people want to kill me, and three weeks later, a hurricane is on its way to kill me too. As most of the East Coast knows, a little natural disaster named Isabel is on its way to the DC / MD / VA area. You might say that weather forecasters are often wrong and we won't see anything, but the signs don't lie; just as rats jump off a sinking ship or run out of a nuclear power plant, the masses have swarmed to the local Giant and Safeway and grabbed every loaf of bread, every bottle of water, and every roll of toilet paper. Every Radio Shack in the area is sold out of batteries, as well. You know some serious shit is about to go down when the Radio Shack has a sign on its window reading "YES! We have BATTERIES!" I suspect that the fact that the hurricane is paying a visit to our nation's capital will have plenty of other interesting consequences as well. If I know my political figures, the aftermath of the oncoming storm will have TV specials for years to come, Bush will get re-elected for his "leadership" in the Global War Against Bad Weather, and every hurricane from now on will be named after Arab figures. I hear plans are already in the works to rename El Nino to Al Qaeda, and that Bush is looking through the Yellow Pages in order to summon Superman to find and destroy Osama's Wicked Weather Machine. Until my imminent demise, at least I have the pleasure of watching the Sensational News Channel (also known as FOX) as their field reporters run back and forth frantically doing stupid human interest reports on how rednecks are rushing to preserve their chainsaaws and power tools. I certainly would love to see a two-by-four swoop by and whack one of them in the head. Now that would be good entertainment, and I for one would be watching the upcoming special, "When Storms Cause Inanimate Objects to Decapitate Reporters." FOX. It's non-stop. I wonder if traffic will be good today. Since you were promised... Well, I know I promised it, although my time has been consumed trying to fix a website I get paid to maintain, so you're gonna get it. Recently I was introduced to a website called Homefront Calgary, a Canadian website dedicated to stopping domestic violence in the city of Calgary, where apparently spouses are regularly beaten in the streets. At least, that's the impression you would get from watching the PSAs these crazy canay-juns have cranked out. If it wasn't such a serious website, I would think these commercials were complete fabrications. "The purpose of the PSAs is to shine a light on domestic abuse by putting domestic violence situations in public places where it would not be tolerated." With hilarious results. They say the Television Bureau of Canada rejected the commercials for being to graphic, but I can only imagine they were all stifling laughter as they gave out the verdict. All I have to say is that something like this on TV here in the United States of Anti-Terrorist Action would reach instant infamy. Watch for yourself: Scene 1: The boardroom! Scene 2: The restaurant!
Hi. I'm not dead yet. In fact, I'm getting better. You may have tried to access the site in the last few weeks and said, "Oh crap, the site's gone! Who will I fantasize about now?!" But the truth is that being halfway across the world makes it a tad difficult to maintain a personal and alleged "humor" site such as this one. It also doesn't help that, as I type, I won't be able to see the finished product online, as raditts.com is blocked by the mighty Websense(tm) filter under the category "Tasteless." I suspect that this is the result of using one too many "fuck"s per page or something stupid like that, and heaven help us if military personnel are exposed to bad words! So, if you wish to rectify this situation, go email whoever is in charge of Websense a whole bunch of times and tell them to take me out of their stupid fucking child-watch category. It's not like I have porn on here or tell kids to go shoot each other or anything, for fuck's sake. But in any case, if this update turns out looking kinda fucked up, that's the reason why. Anyway, upon reviving the website and my dormant email accounts, I came across all the mail I've been missing since November. Most of those were warnings that armed snipers would come and take me out if I didn't pay this month's RealDoll note, but good luck finding me in Kuwait, assholes. Aside from that were only three actual emails sent from readers of this very site, right to me. And with that, let's have at 'em! MAIL #1: From: Kimo Kid [mailto:kimokid187@hotmail.com] Well, it seems that raditts.com caters even to the "slack-jawed, knuckle-dragging chucklefuck" crowd of Internet users, and that is a fact of which I am very proud. I am additionally proud of the fact that this is my very first hate mail, and I think that if I get any prouder, my beaming ear-to-ear smile will just stretch right off my fucking face. I realize that the site may be in slight disrepair, but I seem to have mistakenly assumed that all my readers would know that being in the desert on the other side of the fucking world makes it hard to maintain a website. However, that fact didn't stifle my huge retarded grin one bit, so I summarized everything I was thinking into an email back to our mentally challenged friend: Dear Kimo Kid, I was additionally intrigued by the "muffinass" comment our subject ended the letter with. I sincerely hope Kimo is female, because I for one know I'm turned on, and I'm not really sure what to think. To find out, I did what I always do when I'm confused and need direction in life: consult Google. My first result: http://www.alohalasvegas.com/kimo.html
The Legend of Kimo™ Hmm... Seems from here that Kimo is male after all. How bizarre. But he certainly looks cool and laidback enough here for a hate-mail writing asswipe. However, forty-five seconds of analysis has made me determine that Kimo may be a possible child molester. "I love kidz"? "Do you want to hang out together"?! I bet I know his secret... he uses his cool and smug smile to enchant kids into the Kimobile where he violates their... MUFFINASS! GOOD LORD OF FUCK! Kimo Kid Raper, we here at raditts.com don't condone the rear entry of small children, no matter how much you may claim they understand what's going on, or that they like it, or whatever else your sick, twisted fucking mind may cook up. I take back what I said; you are not in fact awesome. Hip-hop your bullfrog ass back to the MSN chat rooms and read the reams of porn mail that come to your Hotmail account, you filth! Moving right along... MAIL #2: From: p n [mailto:zebbed_e@yahoo.com] Dear Peter, Despite your loose grasp on the English language, I believe I can help. Since I’ve been out of the country for about 5 months now, I haven’t had any access to the site. Then the domain expired and all kinds of fun stuff. You should be able to grab it now. That one was easy. Next... MAIL #3: From: Karen Michelle Yeisley I love you too, muffinass. That should do it for this edition. And wherever you see an open Internet connection, a bored webmaster, and a couple hours of free time... I'll be there.
So it's been about two months since you've gone without an update. Some of you may have some questions on your mind, namely "Why hasn't there been an update," and "Give me an update, fucker." The reason being, as can be seen from the title of today's update, is that I am currently on my way to getting my war on. As you would know if you paid attention every once in a while reading these updates, I'm in the Army Reserves, and it seems my number came up. If the TV is any indication - and it would never lie to me - big things are gonna go down in Iraq once again. Supposedly, ol' Saddam, that wacky Iraqi (I made a funny! LOL!!) is ready for a rematch, and plans to give us all an atomic Christmas this nuclear winter. And who better to stop him than President W himself! Personally, I really think this is a personal thing. You might say the Bushes and the Husseins are like a modern-day, international version of the Hatfields and McCoys. Only they're fighting with bombs and armies instead of shotguns and inbreeding. At this rate, once enough nepotism and crazy, spur-of-the-moment laws and bills have had their way on our government and every president is a Bush, it will just be a war every four years to ensure that our current Bush doesn't get beaten out in the next election by his cousin, brother, or what have you. Of course, it could just be the result of a bet between father and son. Perhaps one morning ol' W was sitting with his feet up in the Oval Office when his poppa called and said, "Hey boy, I hear Saddam is getting uppity again. Betcha can't whoop his ass like I did, back in nine-teen-niiinety, no siree..." and with those few words, it was on. Our friend across the pond, Tony Blair, isn't helping matters much either; perhaps he wants a cut. And this would explain where I come in; imagine the two of them kicking back at Camp David, smoking up and throwing around ideas: W: Yeah, man, so I need a good way to beat down Saddam and make it stick. And that's the best guess I have to explain why I am where I am right now. And since I have an update or three that I haven't been able to post due to extended running around like a fucking headless chicken, I will do my best to get those up while I still can. With that, I'm going to sleep.
Well, it's September again, and that can only mean one thing; that a young man's fancy turns to the new incoming crop of freshman girls. Now, for those of you that are not in college yet or are somehow otherwise not in the know, acquiring the freshwoman of your choice requires strict adhesion to certain rules of courting. You see, the courting process is often a long and strenuous one, and can sometimes take hours: 1. Identify the target. You might find said target at a party thrown by one of your pals, or if you're on a sports team, perhaps they will find you. You can also find them in those freshman level classes that you're still taking because you've been spending all your time trying to bed girls four years your junior, you fucking loser. But despite this, you may say, "What the fuck do you know, raditts? You're the webmaster of a website that gets updated on a semi-regular basis!" And if you say this, then yeah, you got me; it's no secret that this automatically eliminates me from the dating / gene pool. For my kind, the only choice is to sit idly and helplessly by while the girls you should be getting are swept off and knocked up by the nearest vapid fratbird-of-prey, while one's own superior genes of cynicism swirl down the evolutionary toilet. The only choice, that is, unless you can somehow manage to get your hands on the last hope of your species: an alternate way to get women.
1. Your ideal mate, which didn't put up any pictures because they "didn't have a camera", ends up being some hideous hosebeast that ends up consuming you whole. Your love life, as well as your physical one, ends abruptly. So as you can see, online dating services are not advisable for one who doesn't want to take the risk of being eaten or beaten, and we're back to square one. I know I was out of ideas until one day when I opened up my email account and discovered this gem among the piles of junk mail, apparently from some philanthropist who identified himself simply as "Wayne":
This Ohio Man Can Help You Meet Women! CLICK HERE!  Women all over the world respond to Wayne's Techniques! CLICK HERE Learn All of Wayne's Amazing Secrets Well, with an ad like that, who's gonna argue? I mean, this is a middle-aged guy with a scraggly beard and what looks either like a backwards baseball cap or a pink Yamaka. One look and there's no doubt this guy's rolling in the proverbial poon. I haven't actually gone to the link advertised yet, but here's my guess as to "Wayne's secret," and anyone who cares to click the link can feel free to tell me if I'm right. Assuming that Wayne here is indeed wearing a yamaka, then he must certainly be Jewish, and we all know about their vice-like grip on the media. This is only the first sign that they are setting their sights on electronic media. You know... chances are that as you read this, all the evil media leaders are sitting around a round table, drinking from chalices full of blood and saying "Today, television. Tomorrow... the Internet!" while cackling evilly. But I digress. On top of this, we observe, as I previously mentioned, that Wayne's yamaka/ultra-hip baseball cap is a shade of hot pink, which leaves little room for doubt as to his clearly flaming homosexuality. Or... does it?? It's no secret that women just go ga-ga over a guy who can dress, dance, and procure men better than them, despite feeling the urge to violently slash the throat of a woman with the same qualities. Is the time-honored Faghag(tm) method the "Amazing Secret" that Wayne has waiting for us? Better start practicing that lisp right now, thaylor. ~ At last! Rejoice, ye masses, for I have finally gotten off my ass and written another full-fledged rant for the first time in months. I've been cutting back on the full rants for a while since I've been putting more content into updates such as this, but this one just deserved its own, and was way too long to contain in a daily update. The topic: America's most recent favorite reality crap, straight outta Fox: American Idol: The Definitive Review. Now that the "summer sensation is over, I decided I'd write my slant on the entire thing, based on scribblings and musings I've had for the last few months and will now attempt to piece together with mucus and scotch tape. Enjoy it, because if you dare to do otherwise, I will kick your ass.
Yeah, I know, it's about damn time. I suppose you've been wondering if I've been dead for the last month and a half, or just plain lazy. Well, to be frank, it's been a little of both. I was off in Arkansas killing Commies for lazy sons-of-bitches like you for the last two weeks of August. Then, it was two more weeks of studying for the MCAT, so I can go to medical school and learn to cut open heads in the unlikely event that this whole "lone webmaster" thing doesn't quite work out. In between that, there was also the whole matter of moving into my apartment, but yes, I HAVE been lazy too, and if you have a problem with that or just didn't care, then fuck you. In any case, it's no surprise to all five of my regular readers that I hold a considerable amount of disdain for certain sub-cultures of sub-humans. Topping my list has been a tie between the group known as "skaters" or "sk8rz," or what we intellectuals refer to as "retards." You know the type; gigantic raver pants about twenty sizes too large for their spindly, malnourished bodies, and the ever-lovable visor worn backwards and upside-down for bonus retardation points. Being around the University for the majority of the summer between my job and handling med school applications, I saw a larger than usual amount of high-school kids that obviously played too much Tony Hawk's Pro Skater, and decided to use the college as a stomping ground to emulate the TRIPLE-X X-TREEEEME!!! exploits of their role models. I can't discount them completely, however, since they also fail to grasp two important concepts: 1) Most of the "tricks" in video games are pretty fucking impossible, no matter how X-TREME you are. The fact that most of these kids are wholly untalented shitheads doesn't help this situation much. This results in a lot of falling down, which leads to a lot of humor at their expense. What boggles the mind even more are the girls who dare to urinate in the gene pool and defy natural selection by choosing to procreate with said dipshits. I guess the brain lesions due to the fetal alcohol syndrome these ladies clearly suffered from in their infancy allows them to find something attractive in a mate that can break his legs by tripping over his VANS sk8b0rdR shoes. Fortunately, it's only a matter of time before they mature into vapid sorority girls, and the object of their affection shifts from retarded x-treme skaters to retarded alcoholic fratboys. It wasn't any of these that most recently supported my theory that all persons fitting this description should be euthanized, however; that event occurred when I went to run yet another packet of papers for my application and saw a bunch of these boils on the collective ass of humanity marveling at the glow of a Pepsi machine. Normally I would have ignored this, except one of the herd found the appropriate change, prompting another to ask: "Yo Jake, are you gonna crush a Dew, man?" Because of my ability to tune out most stupidity due to my years in college, it's a rare occasion these days when my internal "What the fuck did he just say?" meter goes off. But I have to say that in this case, the meter fucking exploded. Call me naive, I suppose, for actually having enough faith in humanity to assume that people wouldn't talk like they do on the Mountain Dew commercials, despite the fact that they try to live the commercials in some desperate attempt to be cool. As it was, I thought a global initiative should be launched to either add saltpeter or potassium cyanide to the Mountain Dew recipe to cut overpopulation and to prevent a Darwinian reversal, but this just cemented it. And so I thought that skaters definitely held the top spot for subcultures begging to be eradicated from the face of our sweet planet, with only furries running a close second. But oh, how wrong I was. When presented with the evidence, I wondered how, oh how, I could have possibly left LARPers out of my personal list of Earth's enemies. LARP stands for Live Action Role Playing. Confused yet? Well, prepare to wish you'd never heard of them. You see, there have always been D&D geeks, and for the better part of history, they've kept their deviant acts of nerdism behind closed doors, making parents' basements and backrooms of dingy Anime shops their dungeon. But then, a fringe group decided that was simply not enough. Not knowing the entire story, the first time I heard of this was when the University allowed "players" of "Vampire: The Masquerade" to have their homosexual little game. Since players of this "game" consist mostly of goths, a group that is known for standing around in public and appearing to show disdain for all they see while secretly longing for attention and friends, I never drew the connection. Not until I saw this, that is. Not only do these paragons of geekdom and utter stupidity chronicle their cavorting, they crudely videotape it as well. Behold, and scratch your hear in confusion and fright for humanity, today in the Showcase.
About a week ago was one of our newer national holidays, "Will Smith Movie Release Day." Every year or so, the timid Will Smith comes out of his hole in the ground and tries to revive his childhood rap career paired with a brand new feature film. Fortunately, it's not long until he sees the shadow of failure, and we're blessed with about two more years of freedom from him polluting the airwaves. Every July, the masses wait with bated breath to see if a commercial for a new Will Smith movie will materialize. It's sort of like Christmas; at least it would be, if Santa left flaming bags of dogshit under the tree. In any case, Will Smith Movie Release Day marks something else as well: the start of the Summer Blockbuster(tm) season! This special event is an indication for Jerry Bruckheimer, Steven Spielburg, and the rest of the moviemaker Illuminati to come out of hibernation and compete with each other to create a movie to win the three coveted awards: Most Explosions, Most Useless CG Splicing, and Most Contrived Romantic Flick. Under normal circumstances, any given "intelligent" art-house low budget movie would be a shoe-in for the third award, as indie developers seem to have an ability to cram more cheese into their films than the entire country of France. Hence, the need to keep the contest private and only between the rich kids. So today, in honor of the occasion, we shall take a look at some of the Summer Movies that are out now and are on their way into theatres. Although I have not seen, proabaly will not see, and have no idea of what most of these movies are about, that won't stop me from doing a smashing review on them. Works for Ebert, doesn't it? Now, without further adieu... Exhibit #1: The Bourne Identity
My guess is, that after two gripping hours of succesfully evading his own reflection, all will be revealed when equally untalented actor and Damon's gay lover Ben Affleck calls him on his spy-phone and asks what's taking so fucking long to fetch the Vaseline and strawberries. Exhibit #2: Men in Black II After a five-year hiatus and a couple terrible movies and rap albums, the centerpiece of Will Smith Movie Day himself has reappeared to follow up the original Men in Black movie. It seems that this time, Tommy Lee Jones is playing second fiddle, not only to Will Smith, but to a fucking dog. I just have to wonder how they talked him into this: "Yeah, you're not in that scene, that's where Will spouts a few more jive comments... He so cray-zee!... nope, that's where the dog gets to bark to 'Who Let the Dogs Out', man, the kids'll love that shit... Nope, now the dog is singing karaoke... There! The dog takes a shit on your face, then... you're out again for another 45 minutes while we work in those stupid fucking worm things." Speaking of those damned yellow turds, if I have to hear "ONCE YOU GO WORM, THAT'S WHAT YOU'LL YEARN!" one more time, I will throw a rock through my television. It doesn't even rhyme, shitheads! Anyway, moving right along... Exhibit #3: Minority Report
Exhibit #4: Mr. Deeds I have seen nothing concerning this besides the myriad of commercials. However, I gleaned two things from it, and I need no more: 1) It stars Adam Sandler; 2) It stars Adam Sandler getting his foot lanced with a fireplace poker. Even without the second fact, I can tell you what it's about based entirely on the fact that it's an Adam Sandler movie. First, our plucky hero, who will talk in either the lispy retard voice or the obnoxious pseudo-Cajun voice, both of which were beaten to death three years before he left Saturday Night Live, will experience something great to enhance his normally shitty life. This great thing will make him extremely popular, and anyone that stands in his way somewhere through the movie will be a victim of his hilarious wacky antics - hilarious, that is, if you have experienced severe brain damage. However, when our hero experiences the great conflict of the movie, which probably involves a girl he is in love with, he must choose between using his gift for good or for himself. Of course, he does the right thing and gets the girl, and your $7.50 for being stupid enough to watch the same movie for the fifth time. Now that we've gone through the movies that are out now, let's take a look at a couple of movies that are forthcoming in the next couple months: The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers Haven't heard much about this movie either, but I do know that "The Lord of the Rings" is another one of those franchises that has a rabid geek following. You know, people that run around in the forest with tinfoil armor and Saran Wrap shields, trying to cast Magic Missile at each other. I gather that they named this newest installment "The Two Towers" as the latent embers of September 11 jingoism. Since I'm told that this series features a bunch of midgets or something, chances are that we'll be treated here to a light-hearted comedy where firefighters, raised to deity status in light of recent events, will be endowed with magic powers to battle a faction of midgets that attack their peaceful firefighter colony and "change everything." Hilarity will ensue when they smack the terrorist midgets around mercilessly, and "I've had it up to HERE with the likes of you!" will become the catchphrase of the year. Austin Powers: Goldmember
So, aren't you excited? I know I'm not! If you need me, I'll be in my room watching Falling Down on repeat play. ~ This week: More Japanese insanity... or is it genius? This week, courtesy of the SA Forums (only $9.95 to register! Act now!) I was exposed to what may be the most surreal things ever drawn with a pencil. I don't understand it, I don't know why it lives, but it intrigues me so very much. Take a look at it for yourself, and excuse me while my brain bleeds: http://www.polypop.com/comix/nari/index.htm http://www.alpha-net.ne.jp/users2/gublla/Pages/comix_e.html
We now return to our story, in progrss for the last 2 weeks. It would have resumed sooner, except this portion simply requires pictures, and my former camera had an unfortunate meeting with the floor. However, it's been replaced by another camera that's smaller, better, and more Japanese, so now things are back in order. But, in any case... Part II: The Big Score When I came across the computer lying among the assorted waste in the dorm hall, I figured there was nothing I could find that could possibly top it. But oh, how wrong I was! For not one hour later, upon my descent with bags and arms full of booty, did I come across the following treasure lying abandoned in the hall:
Imagine my surprise when I learned that the cheesy early 90's high-school sitcom I used to watch occasionally had its very own board game! And, as the box says, playing this game will make your life every bit as "outrageous" as the gang at Bayside High. Who's gonna argue with that? With all those hip and rad triangles, dots and squiggles surrounding the logo, certainly not me! Especially amusing are the shots of Kelly, with her adorable forced smile, and the puzzled deer-in-the-headlights look of Screech, which just seems to say, "Wha..where am I? What the fuck happened to my line of coke!?" Sorry, Screechy old pal, Zack there got to it first. Look at that theiving son of a bitch, with that smug fucking look on his face.
But wait, that's just the beginning! The box also boasts no less than 54 FULL COLOR photos of that coke-snatchin' bastard Zack and the rest of the gang! Color photos were also a commodity of the time; it's likely that only the richest fans of Saved by the Bell could share in their wacky adventures.
And we haven't even gotten to the actual game yet! According to the instruction manual, the object of the game is, word for word: Be the first player to score 30 points. To score points, you must go out on a date with Zack AND Slater (tough deal, huh?) and meet other Saved By The Bell kids in different places at Bayside High.
As an added bonus, the box also contained the instruction manual to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles NES game. Sadly, the Pizza Hut coupons originally attached to the back of said manuals was missing.
And some more for you! Due to popular demand, I have gone to the trouble of dipping into the abandoned computer featured in the last update to provide even more poorly written goodness for everyone. You can get your grubby hands on it here, or in the Rants section.
And it's been yet another two weeks, consisting of my trying to set up a new web server, failing miserably, and deciding to go with a pay host sooner rather than later. So, in order to give you chocolatey goodness all through the summer and all points beyond, I put up $120 of my money, just for you, to get the site hosted through the next year. So if you love me, you'll paypal me a dollar or two. Come on. Please? In any case, I am now in cahoots with one of the other SA forum goons to produce something big. Something so big, that even having an inkling of what it was would make you claw your eyes out and shove pencils and toilet paper in your ears. Oh, it's big, man. The biggest thing since Project Couch Run, which I'm going to get the last few clips for eventually. And the best part is, you can't know about it. Yet. In the meantime, I've got something else for you to keep you the hell out of my business: Puzzle Bobble Online. I know a lot of you, especially those of you in college, just love that piece of shit game Snood. However, that trash is just a cheap ripoff of Puzzle Bobble, known here in the States as Bust-A-Move. It will eat your soul, it will make you fail your classes, it will fill you with never-ending bliss. So while I catch up on all the articles and rants I haven't written over the last two months, get your ass over there and pester them. You can get instructions on how it works here, because I know some of you are insufferable fucking idiots. You're welcome.
Yes, so another three weeks have gone by, and there has been no update, along with a series of downtimes. So what's my excuse this time, you ask? Well, boys and girls... I was hacked. That's right, me. It all started a good two weeks ago or so, when I was installing a new video card. However, Windows didn't agree with my switch, and chose instead to stop functioning correctly. So after looking skyward and exclaiming "Thanks, Bill!" I set myself on reinstalling Windows. 24 hours and several expletives later, I had a nice, clean, smooth-running new Windows running, and set myself to reinstalling all my software. Little did I know, however, that dark forces were at work. Filthy German computer Nazi forces, in the form of pencil-necked hackers. As we all know, upon installation Windows is an unsecure piece of crap that will crash if you sneeze at your computer screen. Well, as I was to find out later, these hackers descended on my computer the very day I reinstalled, and those damned Krauts over-ran raditts central like my computer was located in France. My first indication came about a week later, when the raditts.com index file renamed itself from index.php to index.phped, causing the site to be inaccessible. I figured that was just Windows being retarded, however, and brushed it off as trivial. I knew better, however, a few days later when my entire download directory suddenly vanished in a puff of smoke. Fortunately I didn't have anything too important in there, but it was still an act of war none the less. After that, I found some unusually large amounts of space missing on my hard drive, and investigation turned up two warez sites free to the public, and pumped full of software goodness. Somehow, the filthy bastards had gotten access to my computer, installed themselves an FTP server to run in the background, and had their way with raditts central like it was a dirty milkmaid. Now that I'm slightly more secure, I think I can safely say that I'm on top. After all, the most I lost was a couple of Futurama episodes I was downloading, and in return I got a few video games and a Jenna Jameson porn video. I honestly don't know whether I should be upset or not. Imagine if some robbers came into your house and took a few video tapes of shows you taped off TV, but left a Playstation 2 and some games in your living room, left a tool set in your garage, and left this in your bedroom:  Done think... Stop looking at that picture of Jenna, you horny fuck. So, you done thinking about that? If you are, you probably have an idea how I'm feeling. Well, I'll get caught up soon enough, but right now, I have... things to do. No, not that. I've got exams to study for, dipshit. Seriously.
I love the first day back from Spring Break. The sun shines and burns my noctural eyes! The breasts of many a supple coed bears a snazzy dual-tone tan! Every dining hall meal a delicious entree! Every class an easy A! I LOVE THE FIRST DAY BACK FROM SPRING BREAK! This year, we have an extra bonus here at UMD of having kicked some Loosier ass and taking the NCAA basketball championship, which extended spring break by a couple days. Yours truly went on the intrepid reporting circuit, facing danger itself as I stepped outside in the form of some Amazing Flying Forties. For your consumption, you may experience more in the first raditts guide on How to Start a Riot. Spring break also suggests the onset of spring, a time of everything turning green and having sex again. Along with the horniness that accompanies all this also comes the inevitable sexual deviance. Take this email I recently received, for example:  Now, if you're like me, and you should be stayed from extermination if you are, then you may wonder at this point, "What the fuck is stuffing, and why am I supposed to get money for it?" And that is an excellent question. I inquired to a few sources as to the meaning of this "stuffing," and in response I received this webpage. For those of you too damn lazy to click the link, apparently "stuffing" is the practice of cramming gerbils and other small rodents into whatever bodily orifices one may have. Widely believed to be an urban legend, the idea that this turns people on to the extent that they would offer money for you to do it is not entirely far-fetched if you consider the other wonders of alternative lifestyles brought to the world by the internet, such as people dry-humping each other in animal costumes and basically anything that comes out of Japan. In our more open-minded, post-9/11 world, everyone seems to get a chance to get to express themselves without getting their appropriate title of "disgusting fucking freak," and I guess this is no exception. And what better way to get exposure than to offer money to people to see things your way? Hell, it worked for Scientology. And look how happy it makes people: here's an artist's rendition of Mary, the money-flashing woman above, when you show her the goods:  That's right, Mary will be over-fucking joyed when she sees an ass full of gerbils. I'm sure it adds to the high from the coke she's obviously been snorting. You want to make people happy, don't ya? So come on, go for it! After all, you're gonna get paid. Stop being so damned selfish. Here's today's Moment of Zen contributed once again by sllahbocaj:
Well, it's been two weeks, and finally I've managed to pull myself into the world of sobriety and sit down in front of the radiation cube for the sake of a new update. Ol' raditts had some business to attend to over the last couple weeks in between marathon video game sessions, so between all the running back and forth and the occasional bout of studying, the site had fallen under a bit of negligence. When that wasn't happening, I just didn't feel like it due to shit like the World Tour falling apart like a Chinese motorcycle. But fear not, because I'm back, and bigger than a breadbox. Anyway, one of the things I had to do over the last couple weeks was attend the campus's hosting of Microsoft's Visual Studio.NET showing, putting me head to head against College Park's geekiest. When I first heard about it, I decided it was one of those things I could probably live a long, full life without, but then they said that there were many a door prize, including an Xbox. While I have absolutely no interest in an Xbox, I figured I could sell it for a pretty penny had I won it. I tried my best to fit in using the disguise kit I bought which consisted of a disheveled hair wig, disordered teeth, and a Pocket Protector, but still I received strange looks from the denizens. I guess I should have put in an extra $2.50 and gotten the package with the orthopedic shoes as well, but I spent it on a king sized bag of Bazooka Joe gum. Upon arriving at the scene of the crime against humanity, I could spot what looked like a mugging in progress, except no one was paying attention. Out of the flurry of fists came a torn piece of the poor victim's shirt, containg a pattern. The pattern seemed to resemble that of a penguin, and suddenly it all made sense. The air was ripe with the sound of a karaoke band feebly attempting to warm up the crowd; the kind you'd expect to find at a smoky bar downtown or one of those "retro" 80's nightclubs. They were busy covering the "hits," if by "hits" you mean "crap" like the "famous" "rapper" "Nelly". The fact that a guy as monstrous as this guy would call himself Nelly notwithstanding, you'd think that he did bad enough songs on his own, but there's nothing like a cover band to take it to that whole new level of "suck." I thought they had hit theiir peak, but then they did their cover of "Lady Marmalade." New I may be an old-fashioned prude at the ripe old age of 21, but it is my firm belief that there is something intrinsically wrong with a guy singing a song about a New Orleans prostitute. Between that and a woman in her forties gyrating for the crowd, it took everything I had to resist dropping everything I was carrying and run out of the place crying, screaming, and foaming at the mouth. I wish I had brought the radiCam to capture the moment, since it can't be adequately described in words. Then again, the camera may have self-destructed anyway, since I don't think anything less than the Ghostbusters' nuclear containment system is engineered to capture that much pure evil. After a while, the searing pain they called "music" tapered off, and the hour long "look what you can do with this!" seminar began. Fortunately, for this part I was able to turn my brain on autopilot and think about cars and explosions as the presenter displayed line after fantastic line of code on the projection screen. Then finally, an hour later came the moment of truth; the door prize drawing. Naturally, as all door prize raffles are, this one was a scam and a spindly little Asian girl won the Xbox. But I showed them by raiding their buffet tables, the cheap fucks. In any case, I realized the need to finish my epic, "Adventures in Jamaica," and I will be bringing you the concluding episodes of that harrowing tale in the next few days. For now, it's nap time.
  21. House wins, world loses. That's all for today.
Pop culture is an interesting thing to behold. This is a discovery that can only come about after arguing with someone over whether you can finish an update in time, shifting the discussion to fashion trends, and being up at 3AM, but I digress. Perhaps the most interesting aspect of pop culture is the fashion trend. It is indeed a sign that human evolution has reached a standstill, due to the fact that it runs through the same cycles over and over: 1) Someone somewhere comes up with an idea for an outfit that would just be totally awesome and out of this world! 2) Somehow, this idea proliferates. Certain people get in on the ground floor and subscribe to this outfit in order to be "underground" and "individual." 3) More people wish to be "underground" and subscribe as well, upon seeing the newly coolified kids. 4) Everyone is doing it, and it becomes so popular that the novelty dies and now what was "in" is now "out." 5) A few years pass, and we all look back at those wacky fashion trends, asking ourselves, "Who thought up that one? Ha ha!" The truth is, no one really knows for sure who really is responsible for these crimes against humanity in clothing form, who is really in the back room pulling all the strings. Through top-tier investigative reporting, the closest I can find is through "teen" magazines and Entertainment Weekly; magazines which feature those "in/out" lists which is just some moron grabbing at straws in order to keep his job, but ends up being passed as gospel to the teenyboptards that buy that shit and keep them in business once it hits the presses. Also, your average "Good Morning Shithead" show occasionally features some woman in her early fifties who is telling our cheery hosts what the new fall / spring fashions are or whatever, which can be the most hilarious thing in the world unless you're taking this fucking woman seriously, which sadly, many do. I will have to do an official experiment proving this one day, but it is my firm belief that between the ages of 13 and 18, humans, especially female humans, develop a lesion in their brain that I like to call the "gullibility lesion."
If relatively unknown brain diseases weren't bad enough, things are made even more difficult by the fact that kids can communicate with others easier than ever. Many a person has fallen fashion victim because of the sorority girl with a cellphone surgically attached to her head informing her that five minutes have passed, thus giving her the jump on knowing her outfit is now out of style. However, it seems there is a circle of life to the fashion world, as it is only a matter of time before the discarded trends of the past become the fodder of innovation and "undergroundness" once more. Just today, I saw someone walking around with his jeans French-cuffed, and I had to run for the nearest calendar to make sure I had not stepped through a timewarp to 1990, despite his backwards/upside-down visor being a prominent symbol of our contemporary wigger culture. It doesn't just stop there though, folks, not by far. Think this is a new thing? Not a chance. The parachute pants that were laughed at with the passing of the 80s are now part of the required uniform of G.I. E-tard Raver. And I hear disco is making a comeback! But why is this happening? What could cause these things to come back and manage to be even worse than they were the first time around? My theory is that the same typewriter-pounding chimps that decide what is "new" and "cool" can't think of any more bullshit to save their jobs, so they just get the same lists they wrote up the first time around. Just change a few things around, throw in the word retro - because let's face it, everyone loves quaint "retro" stuff - and boom! New trend ahoy!
A staple of rednecks everywhere, those who wear it have no loss of pride, which is really the beauty of the mullet if you think about it, which I seriously hope you don't. The men who wear a mullet are no less embarrased of it than they are of everyone knowing that they will go home and knock their daughters up that night. So, I encourage you to look to the sky sometime today, and salute the mullet: it's what keeps America going, and it may well be one of the reasons some of those smaller, weaker countries hate us. ~ What have we here? Another part of our culture that is timeless is the prank phone call. People are entertained by it, and little mischevious bastards swear by it. But it can only be funnier when the prankster gets more than he bargained for, in today's special, "Prank Call gone Wrong."
After another grueling battle with laziness, I have returned with a vengeance to make the first update of the month. Well, it's not really much of a vengeance at all, since I am still yet lazy, and want to go to sleep; but there'll be another update sometime tomorrow, and it'll be vengeful. I'm talking Old Testament shit here, complete with fire, weeping, and gnashing of teeth. Just so this update isn't a total waste though, I'd like to remind you that the ides of March approach, and with it comes the big 21 for me. As such, you may contact me to know where to bring money, presents, and supple, pouty virgins. In addition, during the week of March 25-31 I am planning a fantastical trip, full of adventures, gold, and sex, and I am seeking a crew with which to share the booty, both literal and figurative. If you're a UMDer and feel that you're up to the task, once again you may contact me for the details. Now, the issue of regular updating. This isn't something I'll probably be able to do in the next week or so, due to midterms in addition to my own natural laziness and marathon sessions of Tales of Phantasia. However, I am still, as I have in the past, seeking a sidekick to take care of updates when I'm not able to. Keep in mind that I prefer that you're actually somewhat funny, and will not write anything while stoned. You know what to do by now if you are interested. And one more thing... This one goes out to gottlieb@fas.harvard.edu in particular: If you're going to send a virus or whatever it was you were trying to send to me, you might want to make sure you don't include your email and your IP address in the message header, fuckmouth. If you're going to try to be '1337', make sure you don't end up looking like a fucking retard. I encourage the rest of you to email our friend there, and congratulate him on being promoted to Captain Shithead 2002. That's all I've got for now. Goodnight, boys and girls.
(Okay, so I forgot to post this and I've been putting it off for a few days. Shoot me. -r.) Well, Valentine's Day (or "Single Awareness Day" as it is known in more cynical circles such as mine) has come and left again, leaving a trail of candy wrappers, pink and red colored streamers and confetti, and deflowered girl in its wake. I have not heard back from my operatives yet, which is not a good sign. However, this could mean one of many things; the worst case scenario being that they were brutally slaughtered, of course, but they could also be in hiding after a job well done, or maybe, just maybe, they might not have ever existed and were really just figments of my imagination all along. In any case: Now that Valentine's Day is over and we have all acheived that after which we have chased all winter, be that the warm, comforting orifices of another lifeform, the loving caress that can only come from one's own right hand, or a RealDoll(tm), it's time to acheive the next step in accordance with the American Way, which is to become complacent. Part of this is to become fat and lazy, and to neglect the requests and needs of others. You see, here in America, everyone pulls themselves up by their own bootstraps, and everyone else, well, fuck them. That's why we've got the best damn country in the world, and everyone else is trying to either be us or kill us; it's lonely at the top. Naturally this is seen with disdain from outsiders, but that is only as long as they can resist the sweet nectar of Americana. Take Arnold Schwartzenegger, for instance; when he broke into the movie business, he was a musclebound Mr. Universe-type that played a naked killer robot, talking about how America was full of couch potatoes. Now that he's had time to become one of us, he's now a pudgy man who tried to kill Satan in End of Days. Full circle, man; full circle. As such, people think America has no traditions, which can't be further from the truth. We have a strong tradition of being as overweight and lazy as possible, and in turn, we seek to bring the rest of the world to conform to our flabby, happy ways. Just as long as they don't try to get their grubby paws on our food supply, because if they want to be fat, they can find their own. I suspect this is why you always hear about how every other country hates America; if the rich kid in your class who brought the hiking backpack full of food for lunch wouldn't share with you and you lost your money to the school bully again, you'd probably hate him too. It can't make them any more pleased that we seek to rub it in their faces as much as possible, too. If they can get American channels on their old beat-up third-world televisions, they'll see news shows on almost a regular basis that talk about how obese we are, some of us to the point that we cannot leave our beds and must be transported via forklift. And coming up this week is the ultimate display of our wonderful culture: Glutton Bowl. Apparently, our fine nation has a number of eating championships, in which morbidly obese people enter and gorge themselves to win the prize of "Most Undesirable Human Being." Now, thanks to the venerable FOX network, the world's greatest slobs can all congregate and show us their impressive eating skills. Judging from the commercials, they'll be eating plenty of disgusting shit too; raw eggs, cow tongues, and brains. All just dumped on the floor, as an amusing tongue-in-cheek "fuck you!" to Sally Struthers and the starving countries of the world that her also-gigantic ass patronizes. In America, we don't overlook the little people, either. No one is out of reach from greatness. Even as I opened up my email inbox today, hidden among all the garbage was this gem: Get Paid to Shop! Get Paid to Eat Out!
Opening the email, I was disappointed to realize that they were not scouting me for my prostitution potential, as I had surmised from the mail subject; but what did await me was just as good.  Since eating is something I've been doing for nearly 21 years now, I fancy myself pretty good at it. And any job where I can get paid to eat that doesn't involve me serving shitbrained customers is absolutely fine by me. After all, it came in the email; there's no way it can be fake, like that mail I get in sealed paper form! If you need me, I'll be off feasting on leftover Valentine's candy... and making mountains o' money. Not ready to get into the ground floor of the great Eating Revolution? Here's some Zen for you, but you better hurry up before eating stock starts to zoom!
Another Valentine's Day is upon us, and the cold late-winter air is alive with the sounds of birds chirping, lovers wooing, and hymens ripping. And somewhere out there, an ragtag yet elite team is moving into formation to execute a swift assassination... at least, that's what I think. Pure speculation; yeah, that's the ticket. Anyway, in honor of the occasion, you get to enjoy the stylings of the talented Don Herzfeldt and his short film, "L'Amour." He has managed to do with a couple minutes and some stick figures what Jerry Bruckheimer couldn't hope to do with millions of dollars and all the 3D rendering and flashy pyrotechnic explosions in the world: create a thing of beauty. Enjoy, and don't forget to pick up half-priced Valentine's Day candy tomorrow at your local grocery store.
Soldiers, the Day of Reckoning is now less than three days away, and I am taking this opportunity to give you as much information as I can on the enemy we face, the so-called "Saint Valentine." Although our ranks may be strong, this character is not to be taken lightly. He is a master of the dark arts, and for all we know, he could take us all out with a flick of his wrist. I have done extensive research perusing the annals of the Library of Google, which, as we all know, is the most reliable source of knowledge in the world. The information I have gathered shows the origins of Valentine going back as far as the Roman Empire, in which he was jailed for defying the Emperor. As you can see, even at his origins, he was nothing but a source of trouble. However, not even this is known for sure. This evil-doer has an efficient method of covering his tracks, since not only has his origin been shrouded in mystery, but the History Channel website, in an unusual break from doing specials on Hitler, informed me that there were as many as three people that went by the same name. This can only be the fruits of black magic at work. In any case, the Roman Empire crumbled at some point following the appearance of Valentine, which means he is a likely suspect. The fact that the only other information I could find suggests that he seduced the jailer's daughter does not say positive things for his case. Therefore, no longer should there be any doubt as to the dangers of this man, as he apparently has the capability to annihilate an entire country's government. His name was afterward whispered in fear across Europe; however, as he became a legend, so was his story romanticized as things are today in so many Fox shows and Jerry Bruckheimer movies. Eventually it came to the point where people believed that his devious seduction of the jailer's daughter was done in the name of love; and while most knowledgeable people would consider that a joke, whatever is told to the masses is eventually accepted as truth... much like today.
No, his plan was not to return to the spotlight via silent films; he was planning to return with a bang. Over the years, a day had been set in which his followers celebrated his existence; we know this day even now as the 14th of February. And on that day in 1929, in the windy city of Chicago, he infomed one Al Capone on the whereabouts of his business rival, George Moran. The result became what is now known as the Valentine's Day Massacre and eventually led to the downfall of the organized crime syndicates which were notorious for the first half of the century. This is the message Valentine wanted to get out; he was back, and was not one to fuck with. Using his leverage as a figure who could easily destroy opposition, he began a business that was considered rather insane back in those days; a company that capitalized on the inability to put their mongoloid thoughts into words and instead did it for them. Using a poor New York emigrant named Joyce C. Hall as his figurehead, he began to form what now envelops the world as the Hallmark Corporation. And this, soldiers, is where we come in. The Empire has more followers than it ever has, and after years of comfortable rule, Valentine is beginning to get complacent. Through a totally reliable source, I was able to gather some information on the whereabouts of Valentine for as little as a small plastic bag of laundry detergent. I guess he really had to do laundry. Based on this intelligence, I have devised a plan. Here are the necessary requirements to carry out this mission:  Deadly Ninja Midget x20.Research and kung-fu movies show that ninjas are unstoppable killing machines, and can survive under any conditions, especially space. Unfortunately, I don't have the funds to hire space ninjas, but midgets are also relatively badass.  Crazy Coked-Out Killer x1.This will most likely be some kind of Vietnam vet that got all tripped out on Agent Orange or something during the war, or failing that, we'll hang out outside the local Army recruitment center for some loser that flunked out of boot camp. If that doesn't work, or we just get tired of hanging around there since it's pretty cold this time of year, we'll just go over to UMD's honors dorms and kidnap a chubby Counterstrike player.  Patsy x1.Every good plan needs a patsy to take the heat when all is said and done. We will vote on the person we hate most, find that person, and tell him it's for a good cause, or something to put on his resume, or something like that. He'd fall for that, because he's such a little ass-kissing tool.  Here, I have mapped out the order of operations by letter. a. We will launch our assault on Castle Hallmark on the afternoon of the 14th. Valentine should be coming out on his balcony to give a speech to his followers. We will drive our previously acquired Party Wagon to the gate and club the Patsy, who thought he was going to volunteer at the adjacent old-folks home, the fucking sucker. Ninja Team Alpha will dispatch any armed guards after we tell them the guards said something about their mothers. b. Now that the gates are free, we'll sneak the Killer/Counterstrike Player in to get into position. Ninja Team Bravo will flip over the gates and mingle with the crowd / kill any more armed guards, because hey, that's what they like to do. c.The Killer/Counterstrike Player will arm his High Powered Assault Rifle as Valentine comes out to greet his people. He will use silver bullets; we don't know if it's necessary, but we don't want to take chances. His job is to empty a clip, then run like hell. If he is a Counterstrike player, he may yell "AWP WHORE!!!!11@!%@%" (optional). d. In the ensuing commotion, there will no doubt be more guards coming out to find out what happened. Ninja Team Charlie will be armed with ninja stars and other throwable ninja shit to take them out. Everyone will then proceed back to the Party Wagon, where we will plant the rifle on the unconscious Patsy and throw him out. Later on we'll go into town and pick up some chicks, because Ninjas are like that and have that kind of appeal. Final score: raditts 1, Valentine's Day 0. There you have it. And with that, I must sleep, because you have to get up pretty early to find ninja midgets and a crazed Vietnam vet.
As I stated in the last update, with the onset of the unholy St. Valentine's Day coming in less than two weeks now, I was determined to hatch a plan to seek justice for all the single, all the lonely, even all the pathetic out there, who rue the day of February 14 like an alcoholic does the sun. The only solution is to assasinate St. Patrick himself, ruler of the Hallmark Corporation. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and we must work quickly and with great efficiency if this is to be carried out. If you don't think you can handle it, you can drop out now and no one will look down on you; otherwise you'll have to be ready to go all the way. Having said that, I would like to introduce you to our heritage. The He-Man-Woman-Haters are a secret society with roots reaching back for decades, although it has been banished from the spotlight for several years. Formed by a vicious gang of kindergarteners in the 1930s, this secret society was focused on bringing down the matriarchy and forming an America under a strong, hairy fist, rather than a soft, smooth... I mean, a fist connected to one of those straight-from-hell Women.
Before you inquire as to why there are things in that picture resembling girls, however, you must remember the efficiency in which the HMWHs worked. Using their youth to their advantage, they were able to utilize their boyish charm in order to gain the affections of many a young female to do their bidding "on the inside." Being years ahead of their time, they also knew that females were not to be trusted in any fashion. After leading them to believe that they were in the clear by doing things such as allowing them into the group picture, it would not be long before they made their double agents disappear with incredibly efficiency, their trails ending at nearby hog farms.
One might assume from his casual demeanor in the photo to the left that Spanky would be a calm character, seldom raising his voice. However, one would be wrong. His temper could only be described as "explosive" when provoked, and any mention of love could at times make him spin off into a rampage of misogyny and murder. No one knows for sure what happened in his life that motivated him aside from a hunger for raw justice, but certainly he was a driven man. At the height of its power, it seemed that the HMWHs would be successful in their plan. And so they were -- until the day that one of their ranks was turned to the Enemy. The transgressor: a member code-named Alfalfa, who made the mistake of falling in love with one of the double agents acquired for HMWH subversive tactics. Alfalfa helped the female agent, codenamed "Jane," fake her death, then had her sent to a safe house. Through evil female tactics, she was able to coax classified information out of him, enough so that the Women's Lib movement could move forward and crush the freedom fighters. Once she was finished with him, she also planned the ultimate method of removing him. Jane was able to convince another HMWH member that Alfalfa planned to take out the highest ranking members and seize control himself, turning man against man. When the unassuming Alfalfa entered a pool hall one fateful night, he was gunned down on the spot, while Jane escaped into the shadows. The controversy following that incident was too much for the HMWHs to handle, and resulted in them being shunned and pushed out of the spotlight while various women's movements carried on, leading to the Matriarchy we have today. Various factions tried to regain the splendor and infamy of the past, but none were able to achieve much success. We are gathered here to change that. That is your lesson for today, brothers. At next meeting, I will reveal our battle plan. For now, enjoy a Moment of Zen.
After a long hiatus which allows us all to become fatter, stupider, and more lethargic, the University of Maryland comes back today with a vengeance. I am sure that with this semester will come back with even more ridiculous charges and housing crunches than the last; after all, that's the UMD way! This new semester means I'm also another semester closer to being launched out of the womb of college life, out into the cold, dark, unforgiving world of finding my own place to live and paying electric and bandwidth bills by usage, rather than leeching the University for all it's worth. Naturally you can see how this would be traumatizing, as I begin to slowly die when seperated from either TV or Internet for too long. If you see me shivering on a street corner with a cup begging for you to spare a little bit of bandwidth, just keep walking, man, because it's far too late for me.
I have always had a special place in my heart for St. Valentine's Day. A place in my heart where I envision various people, places, things and concepts being chained to a wall, being kicked in the junk repeatedly by guys with steel-toe boots, specially trained by me. When I think of that, it makes me feel better about how bitter I am over these damned holidays, and it's a lot more comforting than trying to sound all intelligent and saying some stupid shit like "These holidays are just made up by the greeting card companies to make more income and they're SO meaningless and people just participate in them because THEY ARE SHEEP!". This is because I know that the moment that I (or most others) get to the side where the grass is greener, I'm immediately mocking the suckers I left behind, until a few months pass and I'm right back with them again. My point is, violence is better than whining, and all the people who are all about Valentine's Day and their public displays of affection are probably going to get it on in that movie theater or on that park bench, regardless of whiny, insignificant you. Unless you come after them with a lead pipe to push your point, in which case you'll likely end up in the local lockup with a 300-pound lover all your own. Then everyone is happy! However, being happy completely defeats the purpose of being bitter, which is more fun because you're more motivated to do cool stuff like break things and plan the assassination of high-ranking leaders, rather than play kissyface with some broad who's probably going to be doing the same thing to your best friend in a couple weeks. This is why I propose forming the Neo-He-Man-Woman-Haters-Club. Our mission: the covert assassination of St. Patrick, rumored to be the head of the evil Hallmark corporation. I shall bring more information to light on this most excellent plan of mine as I think it up. For now, your Moment of Zen for today:
After two weeks of procrastination and the occasional burst of productivity, I have returned, boys and girls. And what I have brought back is a tale of monsters and mazes, of tearjerking romance, of one man's struggle in a world without justice. But it is not my story, so I'm not going to tell it. My story consists mostly of coding webpages and cursing at my monitor when it didn't do what I wanted, watching TV, and trying to convince girls that I meet the genetic standard. I think the highlight was downloading the entire series of Futurama and holing up in my room for three days to watch it all. Quite a mind-expanding experience, indeed. But I did talk to a girl, so there. ~ More wacky Japanese madness! As if the professionally-done (and I use that term loosely) Japanese sketches are frightening and hilarious enough to kill an average human being, the homemade videos that somehow manage to find their way onto the Internet reach an entirely new level. Here for your consumption tonight is a "fan" video of some... people (another term used loosely) acting out the opening sequence to the anime series "Card Captor Sakura." I managed to catch a couple episodes of this show in English, and it only ranks slightly below the Japanese bastardization of Transformers as "the stupidest fucking thing I've seen this year." Apparently the plot is that a stupid girl released a bunch of living cards from a book, and every formulaic episode consists of the girl using her magic powers and a little orange flying thing to capture one of the cards when they cause trouble over Metropolis, or Tokyo, or wherever the hell it is they're supposed to be.Naturally this doesn't stop every pencil-necked anime loving geek from jumping up and down excitedly and yelling "KAWAII!!!!! ^_^", and every time I think of that I flash back to that horrible day I made the mistake of going to a meeting of my university's Anime club. But I digress; here is the video: Card Captor Horror. And here is today's Moment of Zen:
Yeah, yeah, so I should have updated seven days ago. Well, you know what? Feel free to kiss my ass. It just turns out that I happen to be lazy. Well, that, and I occasionally have other projects to work on when I'm not sleeping and watching TV. Projects such as eating, for example. It doesn't help much that my keyboard has decided recently that it will work only when it feels like it, so I often find myself cut off in mid-sentence. I will try very hard, however, to get back on the track of updating regularly, starting tomorrow, and hopefully I will finally finish revamping the Showcase and Rant sections of the site to make it require less effort on my part to update. In the meantime, since I didn't actually have an update prepared for today, allow me to share with you what MTV decided its demographic of goth, nu-metal rapcore angsters needed to be educated on: rampant sexual deviation. It's not your garden variety either; it's the kind that, if it wasn't so fantastically fucked up, would drive you to collapse with laughter, resulting in an emotion somewhere in the middle that is similar to watching a train wreck. And it all comes from a subculture known as furries.
You might tell me that I'm not tolerant enough, and I'm worse than Hitler for voicing my opinion on two people dressed up like Disneyland mascots trying to fuck each other. And I might slap you and tell you to shut your fucking mouth, because I believe a line needs to be drawn somewhere. Sorry, but I don't believe that everyone should be sensitive about everything, and anyone who disagrees should be called a bigot, because then we end up like Japan. What do you think is worse, girls with panties so dirty that they get crunchy, or Wile E. Coyote getting it on with Bugs Bunny? I shouldn't have to make that choice. The minute I saw a guy in a puppy suit straddling a guy dressed like a coyote, a little part of me died. Thank you, MTV, for shattering a little more of what's left of my innocence. That'll learn me for daring to watch your fucking channel. I'll buy people being born attracted to the same sex, because that brings us lesbian porn. But I abso-fucking-lutely refuse to believe that someone is born with a gene that gives them a tendency to put on a fucking fur suit and lust after other people in fur suits. DOES NOT FUCKING COMPUTE. That's all I had to say for now. Enjoy your year, and expect even more fucked up trends to come in our fantastic 21st century! The Jetsons sure as hell never prepared me for this.
That is all.
In any case, this time of year brings back memories... of when I actually got presents (clothes do not count; money, however does), of when I thought a fat red man came down the chimney and put treats in my stocking, and of watching the regular yearly set of Christmas cartoons. You see, back in my day, the TV stations used to be filled with Christmas cartoons. Of course, back then, we called it Christmas and not Holiday, Reagan ruled the world, Christopher Reeve hadn't ridden that Kryptonite horse, Jim Carrey hadn't spoiled the good name of the Grinch, and we hated Ivan instead of Osama. These days, you're lucky to catch one or two Christmas specials on network TV, but they ran the gamut back then: Frosty the Snowman (later followed by Frosty the Snowman 2: Bloody Xmas), Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer, A Charlie Brown Christmas... and one other. One which boggled and twisted the minds of children across America. Our first test of mental stability aside from the idea that no matter how good you were, you'd fuck up sooner or later and the ghosts would still eat Pac-Man and the Space Invaders would kill your planet. Something made by diseased minds.
In order to preserve some semblance of sanity within me, my mind has blocked out many memories of this. What I can remember, however, was that it was a Claymation special, featuring a scantily clad boy and his sheep and donkey (or some type of farm animal) friends roaming the countryside and doing all sorts of good deeds through the beat of a drum and the power of Love. Why the kid never got sick or died when all he ever wore was a loin cloth and a drum around his neck, I am not sure, even to this day. How he managed to get by doing little more than talking to his animal friends (who responded with bleats) and beating his drum is even harder to comprehend. It is my firm belief that that show was engineered to confuse small children to the point that they would spiral off into some sort of Christmas massacre, although I never heard anything of the sort. Aside from what I mentioned above, my next clue to this belief is the fact that the show may or may not have been a series; I am not entirely sure. As though it wasn't hard enough to keep track of what the fuck was going on, the show was apparently several parts long, and naturally, the TV networks would never show them consecutively, or at a set time every day for that matter. I remember opening up the TV Guide to look for when the show was coming on next, and seeing scattered appearances all over the time grid. Imagine how mind-boggling something like that can be to an eight-year-old. If my vocabulary had been so verbose at the time, I would probably have said, "What the fuck?" I believe it was that Christmas that my older brother received as a present, a 2000-piece jigsaw puzzle. We tried to put the big bastard together for quite a while, but so many of the damned pieces were the same color, that we just eventually started to "make" them fit together by smashing them together until a fit was induced to our liking. Looking back on it now, The Little Drummer Boy was a little like that like that jigsaw puzzle, except for the mind; you couldn't quite fit things together, so the end result was similar to that of someone taking a sledgehammer to your skull. And whenever I get a dull pain in the back of my head, I still remember that fucking cartoon. Merry Christmas.
Exams are finally over, so now I can finally return to doing what I like to do best: rant about all that is wrong with the world. And boy, is there a lot of material that I'm just itching to get out; and let me tell you, living off Rold Gold pretzels for the last week really expands the mind. If there's anything the world doesn't need more of, it's women's commercials, with Fox "When Shit Happens" hourlong specials and psychic hotlines coming as close runners-up. And yes, I can hear you frothing, offended-by-everything types now, telling me how misogynistic and sexist I am, and how I should just be run right out of this here Internet. And to you I say, fuck you. Fuck you, you over-bloated, bra-burning, bonbon-eating sows, cause I don't care. Now that's misogyny right there. I don't even know if it's spelled "misogyny" because I give that much of a fuck.
The situations are endless, as must be the plight of the woman: keeping "dry"; how to maintain the perfect figure and still eat five hundred pounds of chocolate on a daily basis; deciding whether the best "feminine hygeine" product comes with or without "wings"; and the ever-present problem of "feminine itching." In many cases, they even refer to you, the viewer, as though you were a woman; even if you are not. What arrogance, I say! In my more volatile moments, I've been known to yell at and throw empty Chinese food containers at the television for insulting my manhood. If feminists really want gender equality, the first thing they've got to do is stop fucking sugarcoating things like this. The masculine equivalent of "feminine itching" is called "jock itch." And that's the nicest term we've got for it. Find me one fucking person that will be confused as to the meaning of that term. Retarded or not. I challenge you. And the commercials for jock itch haven't got new age fucking music playing in the background, or dogs playing in meadows, or any of that irrelevant shit. Most of the time you've got a picture of the bottle of miracle cream, they tell you what it does, maybe some corresponding words on the screen, COMMERCIAL OVER. That's it. Short and to the point. See also: Lengths of phone conversations. Want equality? Then your commercial needs to go like this: Does your vagina have an itch that just won't go away? Wondering if that wild night at the bar that you can't remember is responsible? Well, put down the Rohypnol and pick up Vagin-X Anti Itch Product! Solves all non-std related itching. Guaranteed! Ask for it! Simple as that. You may wonder what triggered this outburst, and I'm glad you asked. It was fueled by the repeated commercials, aired on my dear Cartoon Network as I mentioned above, for the new expedition into the wild frontier of fucking stupidity called the Oxygen channel. You may have seen this commercial if you own a television, regardless of whether or not you've ever turned it on; I'm sure they beam their stupidity straight into your brain just to let you know they curse the planet with their existence. Just in case you've been lucky enough to avoid them thus far, allow me to corrupt you. The commercial begins with a newborn nursery in what is probably a hospital, but could well be some baby-marketing racket south of the border, where guys with long, unkempt beards sell infants for their next bottle of tequila, or something. Anyway, a bunch of little girl-infants are in the nursery, and one of their little head-warming cap-thingies ends up on the floor. A nurse comes by and puts it back on. This happens a couple times, before all the other little fuckers decide to join in and throw their beany-caps on the floor too. Then, to the sound of some woman doing what I assume is supposed to be singing but sounds like rusty nails on a chalkboard, a fist raises out of one of the cribs, after which we find out this is supposed to be a commercial for the "new Oxygen channel." I suppose the commercial is supposed to be an example of "girl power" or some shit, but I can only hope it really means these stupid little fucks are trying to remove themselves from the gene pool before it's too late. My theory is that this channel is called "Oxygen" in honor of the oxygen that its creators were deprived of in childhood, causing them to repeat the mistakes first made by Lifetime.
And these, my friends, are the parents of our future generation. I can only hope that I am not around to see it. ~ Special! With a little help and inspiration from the folks over at Something Awful, I've thrown together the first version of the Linkin Park Lyric Generator. Although this could easily work for any angsty puss-metal band flying up the pop charts these days, I think it fits them best, and as generic and formulaic as their songs are, I'm sure they use a similar method to crank out their albums to the drooling masses of fleshbags such as the ones I described above. Give it a go: The Linkin Park Lyric Generator.
Well the weather outside is... 78 degrees. It must be wintertime, Maryland style. My only conclusion? Maryland is the center of a planetary anomaly, in which weather fluctuates wildly due to the openings in the time-space continuum, which provide warp zones to other worlds and dimensions. The energy released by these openings produces a massive amount of heat, which is what causes the ridiculous peaks in temperature at random times throughout the year, which are followed by periods of extreme cold. This can only lead to yet worse consequences, as it is only a matter of time before monsters of all varieties begin pouring through the warp and terrorizing the world (or at least the state), and only a one-marine army can fend them off... that is, if he's not too busy being occupied trying to kill his friends for shits and giggles. And if you haven't already lost your job by reading "Saturnalia" at work like the dumbass you are, you're probably sitting at work right about now, waiting for another early Christmas present from me. Well, allow me to give it to you: the revival of the Zen Gallery! I've been a lazy bitch and haven't updated the gallery in months, I know, but now I've designed a high-tech, multimedia, Y2K-friendly cyber-interface to house the pictures for ease of reading! Or, it might be a gallery script I typed up in an hour last night, but either way = FUN FOR YOU! There are only 15 pictures so far, but check back often as I will be updating it with pictures as time goes on. Click the link on the left, or right here: The Zen Gallery And here's one more for the road:
Here, you can learn to do the Green Leaf, so one day you may run around with a fig leaf strapped to your crotch, at least until you get peppersprayed and arrested. And here, we have an Animuation of the video. If you don't know what an Animutation is, all you need do is look at one of the originals, which I've got here. In the meantime, I am working on customizing the forums, converting everything to database form so that everything from rants to previous updates can be accessed with a few clicks. Plus, the long-dormant Gallery of Zen will be back with a vengeance, with months' worth of pictures that I've been too damn lazy to add. So give everything a look, and email me if you find something has gone awry. Until then, have fun clicking on things and giggling while drool drips out of your semi-retarded mouth, because I know that's what you like to do best.
Well, Thanksgiving is over, we have devoured every piece of turkey and turkey-related product by now, and we have progressed into becoming bloated, fat, lazy, illiterate Americans. And you know what that means: TIME FOR THE HOLIDAY SEASON! Over the years, the lines between shopping for Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas have become increasingly blurred, to the point where the entire two month period from October 31 all the way through New Year's has simply taken the name of "Hallankstmas," or "Holiday" for short. The word "Holiday" used to be regulated only to the the Christmas season, but then I suppose some pretentious politically correct marking jackass decided that wasn't fair to Jewish people, or something. And with new holidays popping up every year, something had to be done about the imposing menace, and it certainly couldn't be called "Christmannukwanzaamadan." After all, it would cost the greeting card companies seven extra cents to make the Honduran midgets in their sweatshops to print the extra letters, and that's simply too much - after all, they only charge you $4 per card; do you want them to go out of business? As Americans, this is all for the better for us anyway, as this gives us an excuse to sleep in and be lazy for the last two months of the year, since we have a chance to live from holiday to holiday. First we gorge ourselves with candy, then it's only a couple of weeks till we get to gorge ourselves with turkey. From there, we tell people we feign caring about that we'll get them something nice, so we'll get hundreds of dollars worth of gifts that we can return for hundreds of dollars in cash or store credit a few days later. If you're Jewish, you get even more holidays. Only in America, folks! In any case, I now provide you with something to ring in the Holiday season in with.. a little something called "Saturnalia." I must warn you, though: this isn't exactly work-safe. In other words, if you read this page at work and your boss looks over your shoulder while you're looking at this link, you'll probably be reading my updates from home from then on. Features the meaning of Christmas that Charlie Brown and co. didn't tell ya... phallic shaped cookies, kids who look like they're gonna be real fucked up when they grow up... oh yeah, and gratuitous shots of Santa whipping out his giant rocker Christmas wang. (Apparently when Santa's not at his workshop, he's a porn star.) Once again, not work safe. So, enjoy. ~ Some good news... The forums are back! They're empty(er) now, since I switched from the ultra-crappy Ultimate Bulletin Board to the slightly-less-crappy and more customizable VBulletin. I'm still tweaking things there, but there is a topic free for the postin'. Give it a look, and have something useful to say, can ya? ~ And some not so good news... As most of you probably already know, Terpidiots.com has been undergoing some disagreements with the ever-loving, always caring University of Maryland. We've now been told that Terpidiots will have to fork over the domain name to the University, which means they'll have to change their name and shut down for at least a few days. I'd get into how this whole situation is such bullshit, but they're doing a good enough job of that over at their site. Since they're the guys that gave me my first little kick of referral hits, I have put together this little memorial pictorial for the domain name here. Like a cat with a broken neck though, they always come back eventually, hopefully it'll be soon. 11/11/01: You do not fuck with the raditts!
In any case, it seems that I've gotten all my post-host woes all settled. It's surprising how these sons-a-bitches will blow you off until you threaten to get them shut down, at which point they'll cough up your money so fast your head will spin. This happened in two cases; the good fucknauts at HostOnce, of course, then another provider I tried to get hosting from and sent a year's worth of fees to, just to find out he was part of the same "network" as Hostonce and could not provide for me. Which would be all well and good, except, just as HostOnce, he didn't want to give me back my money. He expressed it in the most English-deficient way he could, to boot:
Naturally, I told him to fuck right off and went to the company that handles his transactions, telling them the situation (namely, the bastard wants my money for nothing). They contacted him and he refused to refund, so I sent them an email that was short and to the point:
Within hours, the guy had changed his tune:
What is it with some people that make them think they can get away with blatant robbery? This is the Internet equivalent of robbing a bank with security guards and cameras, in broad daylight, without a mask, and a Butterfinger in your pocket. You're not going to get away with it, and you'll most likely get your ass kicked. Did someone adopt a retarded child, sit him in front of a computer, and name him "Bahadir"? Or maybe in whatever country / planet this guy's in, ripping people off is the normal custom. This is proof, my friends, that Darwinism in on a crash that may lead to the end of the world as we know it; this guy should have definitely been erased from the gene pool long before he had the ability to earn money. ~ Finally! Speaking of the failure of natural selection, we have a new entry into the Showcase! today. What do you do when you're 15, bored, and living in an isolated Midwestern town on the weekend? In this little documentary, the answer appears to be "Set yourself on fire." And this little gang of three retards does just that, as one is lit on fire while the others watch and videotape the action. Unfortunately the fire doesn't snuff out the little moron, so natural selection fails once again. He does have some nice burns though, which he proudly shows off and should be a reminder to him of how fucking stupid he is... until next weekend. Check it out: Human Inferno! 10/26/01: raditts vs. The Asshole Hosting Providers As many of you might have noticed, my site has been called "The page cannot be displayed" for a few days now. And you may thank my soon-to-be-former hosting provider, HostOnce.com, for that. HostOnce has been known (by me, anyway) for its often slow access times, taking days to respond to emails (and, much to my dismay, can't be called by me since they're located in fucking Australia,) and now, for totally annihilating my site out of fucking nowhere. Allow me to present you with a timeline of the events of the last few days: About 2 weeks ago: raditts learns of new Unix servers on Hostonce, which also support PHP. PHP makes raditts smile since it's so damn cool, and can possibly score him chicks. raditts sends an email requesting to be transferred over to Unix servers. October 15, 2001: raditts puts out the call for a trusty sidekick that knows PHP to help him out and assist in the wittiness, since raditts doesn't know PHP. October 16, 2001: One confused stoner replies. October 19, 2001: raditts ridicules the stoner; the baked masses rejoice. October 22, 2001:
October 23, 2001: raditts wakes up to find that the file transfer was cancelled a few files in. He tries to reconnect to HostOnce's server, only to find that his account "no longer exists." Checking email brings no explanation to what the fuck is going on, so he decides to be the better man and email HostOnce, miraculously without the use of a single curse word. October 24, 2001: Email received from "HostOnce Abuse," informing him that "This account has been deleted for a breech of our aup for conatining copyright video footage:", followed by a list of files, half of which are files for the forum. Since no one uses the forum, copyright infringement is rather impossible there. raditts is also baffled that he is being hosted by people that can't spell "containing." Why there was nothing said about any "copyright footage" previously when most of the files had been online for two months is also beyond him. raditts proceeds to write an email, once again without any curse words, that basically conveys the message "You stupid fucking bastards." "Hostonce Abuse" later replies to inform him that they "are looking into the issue and will reply shortly." October 25, 2001: raditts waits until the evening, then writes another email to them asking what happened to "shortly." Proceeds to wait. Which brings us to today. Sure, there's "abuse" going on, but I don't think HostOnce is on the receiving end, especially since they haven't said anything about refunding my money. I guess they're too busy riding kangaroos and throwing boomerangs across their outback office to respond to my emails, but what's a guy to do? I'll tell ya what: find a new provider. So, things may be off-and-on for the next few days, but rest assured that once we're settled in a new perma-home, we'll be bigger than several crates full of breadboxes... breadboxes that carry delicious Wonderbread. Oh yeah... bread. To see older updates, go to the Oldies Section. Got something to say? Write me. |
I was hoping that I could hold off updating until I had completed neo-raditts
(aka the PHP conversion), but since it's been two weeks, I know you
slobbering mutants need something to keep you coming back for awhile.