Saturday, January 31, 2009
Something about college, maybe it’s just Athens, makes every face a familiar one. I don’t even think I get around as much as most other people do but it seems I can’t step outside without seeing someone I recognize, or without someone thinking they recognize me. Case in point: today I was walking to CVS to pick up some mouthwash, floss, and rice cakes among other things. I’ve got my headphones on, listening to some Pink Floyd, and I see this short black lady is saying something to me. So I pop out the earbud and she comments “Holding that candle like you’re gonna put it out huh?” Huh is fucking right; who are you and what candle are you talking about? The only thing I have in my hand is an iPod whose music I had to stop because of your inability to accurately recognize faces. Being the polite bastard I am, I gave her a friendly “sure” and kept on my confused way. How does this woman think she knows me? Black people do not all look the same!
Friday, January 30, 2009
I’m on some sort of scooter, a vespa or something, and on my way back to the house in Rockville coming off the highway I zoom past my dad, also on one of those scooters. I come flying over the bridge, brake hard, but still make the turn onto my street at a good 40 mph. I wind up rocketing down the street at 60 mph but realize I’m going way too fast to be comfortable (damn the police), so I try to slow down. I try a whole bunch of unorthodox methods to slow down, including squeezing my penis, before it dawns on me to sit up straight and ease off the accelerator.
I get to the bottom of a hill and veer into someone’s front yard. It’s dark. Tungsten lights bathe everything in a heavy orange glow, except the purple skies. There’s a series of trees in my path and I go to the right of the first and second ones, and then in between the second and third to get back on the road where I slow to practically a crawl. Home is about 100 yards away.
Then a gray Ford van suddenly appears behind me and to my right. It slides its side door open and the passenger door pops open as well. It stops, I stop. An average-height man with no hair on his head except for a beard, in a white t-shirt and gray pants hops out. He doesn’t say anything but something about the way he carries himself says that he doesn’t mean well. Maybe it’s the piercing eyes and the suspicious grin. I scream.
I ditch my scooter and run to a nearby parked car as my dad pulls up behind the van and rolls right by the man, and me and the car, before stopping and getting off where I can’t see him. He gestures, but doesn’t say anything. I hide behind the car tire and dial 911 on a phone that’s not mine. The man goes after him, with the eyes and the smile. I don’t hear or see anything to the effect but I know my dad is now dead. The phone line goes dead. I don’t hear or see anything but I know the man turns his attention to me. And I wake up.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Shortly after throwing that wall of text at you yesterday, Dr. Slopmaster did come through with my five questions. Some good ones I’d say. Unlike most memes this one I will participate in passing along; just let me know in the comments if you want to be subject to my strong, prodding hands and I’ll give you five questions to respond to (with your own posts on your own sites, thank you).
Explain why gays should have the right to marry, if they can have a legal contract that gives them the same legal rights as heterosexual couples.
While “strong civil unions” do officially carry all the legal rights of a full-fledged marriage, the fact of the matter is that in everyday life the civilly united homosexual couple would not be seen under the same light as the married heterosexual couple. The law can try all it wants to see the two as equal but when you create such a separation like that, especially a legally sanctioned one, between two groups of people you cannot possibly claim it is equal.
Have you ever masturbated to a picture of a naked girl?
A picture? Slopmaster, I live in America, not Africa. We have high speed internet and xtube, with all the videos you could ever imagine. Yes, porn is videotaped now. That being said, yes I have masturbated to videos of women. However I have not climaxed (I don’t remember finishing off, anyway). Differences.
What is the youngest boy you would rape?
I’m particularly partial to six year olds. Their smooth hairlessness and innocence is just such a turn on. They say the younger you like them, the more of a homo you are; rumor has it Ted Haggard likes cutting open pregnant women and skull fucking seven month old fetuses. In all seriousness though I wouldn’t rape anybody and federal law restricts me to saying the youngest person I would make sexytime with is 18. But if I were in Canada and laid eyes on some 16 year old deliciousness I would not hesitate to become more than friends. Nothing younger than that in any jurisdiction, though.
Post the most flattering picture of yourself (if you’re just too ugly, post a picture of your hottest friend) and tell us what you don’t like about yourself physically, umm, in the form of a question.
While it’s not a flattering picture of me (look at that unsightly bulge of skin and fat on my neck!) I do particularly like this one. It dates from the night of my drunk post in case you were wondering. I would also post pictures of my hot friends, lawd knows I do have some, but I’ve grown to realize they might not like photos of them on the internet without their blessing so I don’t do that anymore. Took me a long time, didn’t it? As far as what I hate about myself Mr. Trebek, who would you blame if you had a body that appeared trim and fit-ish when clothed but told a different story while nude? Like a heroin addiction it’s a good thing and a bad thing, really. Mostly bad. I blame the deliciousness of barbecue meat.
Would you have sex with Obama and would he be pitching or catching?
No I would not have sex with Barack Obama, that would just be all different kinds of weird. But if it did somehow happen consentually he would most assuredly be the top.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
For a town nestled on the Western end of the Appalachian mountains, Athens sure does a shitty job of de-icing its sidewalks in the event of a winter storm. Last night, walking back from the Habitat meeting, the sidewalks uptown were a death trap. Matters weren’t helped by the fact that Athens is a very hilly town, either. I woke up early this morning to write a paper so that I wouldn’t have to rush in the afternoon to complete it. After putting something on over my nakedness I peered out my window and everything outside was covered in a shiny yet invisible sheet of black ice, seen only with the aid of reflecting light from light poles.
So it only makes sense that the university be closed today, official reason being a “level 3 snow emergency”. An unexpected free day in the middle of the week is the best kind, and what better way to celebrate than to clean out this backlog of memes I have to do? I can feel your excitement radiating through my laptop. Or is that my sperm dying?
First up is a photo meme from an Italocanuck, something about choosing the 4th image from my 4th picture folder and explaining it. Well my real 4th image was boring so I picked this one instead. And what’s to explain? It’s a dominant and aggressive Harvey Two-Face sliding a submissive and suggestively well-hung Nurse Joker’s purdy pink panties down the thigh. Let me clear up a misconception that I know is running through your perverted head: I have not, do not, and will not masturbate to this image. Rather, Josh found it at 4chan and sent it to me, thinking it would be absolutely perfect for Jon and his Jokerboner, who did not pick up on it because he is a bitch. And let me clear up another misconception: Reverend Boles probably has not, does not, and will not, masturbate to this image either. But you never can tell with those Godless atheists.
Second up would be an interview meme where I answer five questions fielded by the ever-humorous slopmaster, but he’s too busy giving himself scabies in the bathroom stalls of African night clubs. So instead we segway into one of those X number of random things about you memes I was tagged with on a certain social networking site by a certain Colorado author, and I’m doing it here because I’ve already done it over there. Come to think of it, I’ve done it here many times before, and the last time I did it I promised the next one would be filled with TMI. But I don’t have 25 revealing secrets to tell; this is not the Maury Show.
1. Contrary to my use of the term on The Tome, people who say “lulz” in vocal conversation make me want to stomp puppies.
2. I can’t tell you how excited it makes me that my crapbox is finally on its way to being replaced by Microsoft.
3. No matter how much I try and deny it, Rickrolling has been ruined by newfags. This is what happens when something cool becomes too popular.
4. Courage Wolf is just as lame as Advice Dog, and nothing you say will change my mind on the matter.
5. For the life of me I don’t understand how people are motivated by infomercials to buy things.
6. On that note, my favorite infomercial personality is Hazel, the (smokeless cigarette) chain smoking snarky bitch helping sling the Magic Bullet.
7. Everyone knows how to play guitar. I want to learn the piano.
8. Let’s see, he has: a radiant smile, a heart of gold, the will to join me in an improptu Strawberry Fields Forever duet on an escalator, the care factor to sandwich a man he just met to warm him up, and a boyfriend. Hey, fate, eat dicks!
9. I wonder why more songs nowadays don’t start with countoffs. And why do so many of them fade out? Sometimes it’s called for but often times it’s just laziness.
10. If nothing else, college has turned me into a very huggy person.
11. I have to admit, listening to Elvis takes me way back to when I sat on my grandmother’s filthy apartment floor, listening to Reader’s Digest’s Best of the 50’s CD collection. It’s nice to go back sometimes.
12. I know full well that I am too nice to people, and yet I don’t make an attempt to change my ways.
13. I think the fact that alcoholic drinks have calories is nature’s way of telling you to watch how much you drink. That and falling on your ass when you try to walk home.
14. I am rapidly becoming more and more convinced that good bullshitting skills are essential to success in any workplace.
15. I don’t really like calling people on the phone. If I get a call, that’s fine, but something about making a call to someone makes me want to put it off forever.
16. I want to say that the Internet is the future of human communication and interaction, but then again people said the same thing about LSD when it was new and look how that turned out.
17. Currently the only three majors I’m seriously considering are History, English, and Political Science. And given that I’m technically a sophomore as of this quarter, I do have to choose a major fairly soon. Shit!
18. I wonder quite a bit why “Help!” was the only song essentially unaltered and unmixed on the Love soundtrack.
19. I take forever to fall asleep while listening to music. Television, on the other hand, I’m out in half an hour.
20. I would have to choke somebody if my mother ever, ever, EVER, joined a certain social networking site. I can understand their desire to peer into their children’s lives but there are some places parents just don’t belong.
21. I have some really wide feet.
22. One type of music I particularly like is anything with a really lumbering, heavy beat and dragging vocals slightly off tune to match, which probably explains why I like this song so much.
23. Fun fact: Former President Bush (43) and I got approximately the same SAT scores. Read into that what you will.
24. Veins are sexy.
25. The amount of information any discerning reader of The Tome could gleam from it about my penis is truly alarming.
So there you have it, until Mr. Africa delivers my memetical backlog is cleared out. Now I can closely eye my statcounter to see how many people dig through the archives so they can get an accurate mind portrait of my cock. Perverts!
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Every other Tuesday we have our Habitat for Humanity meetings, where we discuss what’s going on with the organization: builds we can sign up for, fundraising activities, stuff like that. After the main meeting is the informational meeting for Collegiate Challenge participants. That’s the thing I did in Mississippi last December, and the thing I’m doing in Miami for my spring break this quarter. And like last quarter there’s a payment plan where you pay in increments, rather than the $270 or so of the full cost all at once. The first payment, $75, is due tonight. In addition I need $40 or so for urgent living expenses. Yes, that means drinks. Don’t fucking judge!
Anyway, my checking account is fresh out of money but that’s what my signature line of credit is for, when you need money urgently. It’s not the same as my credit card and has a low interest rate so I won’t be paying back money out the ass forever. I take the $115 I need tonight out of there, and pay it back as soon as I get money put into my checking account via an online funds transfer. Simple, right? Fucking wrong! I go to the ATM, enter all the relevant information, and when it comes to actually spitting out my money the machine tells me it’s an invalid account and I should contact my bank. Figuring it’s just a glitch, I try again. Again with the error message. In a fit of confusion I sit down, and try to make a call to my bank, hoping they’ll be open late or at least give me the option to leave a message. OUCU is usually pretty quick on responding to those.
Simple, right? You know where this is going.
Any call I attempt to make is redirected to the Verizon Wireless Customer Service Center, who asks me politely and electronically “not to hang up, you have not dialed a wrong number.” To continue and verify the account, they want the last four digits of “my” social security number. I figure they mean the account holder–my mom–‘s social security number (like fuck I know that information), but I go for it and put mine in anyway. Maybe my SS# is connected to this phone number. Apparently that makes too much sense.
So here I am: in need of $115 tonight, cut off from my bank account, and unable to make a phone call or send a simple text message from my own goddamn phone. I don’t know what I did to draw the suspicion/rage of the Central Intelligence Agency enough to have them suspend my bank and telephone accounts but whatever it was it must have involved The Enemy. Fucking terrorist-by-association? Really? They’re gonna play me like that? For real? Here’s an open letter I just penned, if you have the time I’d like you to read it:
Dearest President Obama,
What the shit.
Updatenzebitte: I have regained use of my phone (turns out my mother was one day late with the bill and as a result Verizon shat itself), but my bank accounts are still inaccessible, and now there is a pile of snow in the shower. A CIA assassination attempt perhaps?
I think, as a frequent reader of The Darwin Awards, my favorite crime to hear about is anything that involves negligence. Criminally negligent homicide, for example. It’s almost as if when someone is tried or convicted for criminally negligent homicide, that person is so unabashedly lazy or stupid that they are punished for it in a court of law. There’s a case somewhere in Ohio going on now, where sometime last summer or fall a high school football coach refused his kids a water break on a 94 degree day. Naturally, one of them had a heat stroke and later died. The death is not amusing in the least but the fact that Joe the High School Football Coach could go to jail for being an astounding idiot is wholly gratifying.
On this note I would like to propose that the brass-balled, Children’s Hospital extorting, Senate seat selling and soon to be former Governor of Illinois Rod Blagojevich have a second trial on the grounds that he is profoundly retarded. After making a slew of half-true (‘they’re not allowing me to call witnesses’) and completely ridiculous (‘my arrest was like the attack on Pearl Harbor’) statements for weeks, Blagjoevich had a vision of sorts. Completely ignoring the advice of his top-dollar lawyers and legal advisers, Rowdy Roddy is boycotting his own trial, instead choosing to conduct interviews on daytime talk shows. Damn the people who are actually putting you on trial and will vote on your fate, the ladies and Elizabeth Hasselbeck of The View hold veto power over the decisions of the Illinois state legislature.
Blagojevich claims the legal campaign against him is not only fabricated, but a ploy by Senate Democrats to get him out of the way so they can raise taxes (even though he is a member of the Democratic Party), and that the prosecutors are denying him a presumption of innocence to make sure his conviction and removal from office. Like OJ before, the giant fucking wall of evidence against him might be a reason why nobody is presuming his innocence. But lucky for the governor, despite his presumed guilt Simpson did get off. The first time, anyway. Hopefully Rod will then continue the Simpsonian trend and be found guilty in his second trial for being a criminal dumbass.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Saturday, January 24, 2009
President Barack Obama, and Former President George W. Bush. Two phrases it seems like the whole of the world was waiting to let enter their ears and pass through their lips in a mix of relief and disbelief that it actually, finally happened. Much like November 5th of last year people so far look to have a little more bounce in their step. Walking away from the Mall I overheard a man saying “I don’t have to qualify my nationality anymore. I used to say ‘I’m an American, but this and that. Not anymore though, now I’m just an American.”
The first leg of our Obama Hajj began with reading about Oprah’s cocaine relapse early in the morning in a remote 24-hour West Virginian supermarket. For some reason all I could think about the entire time was “Dawn of the Dead”. We got into the D.C. area around 7:30 AM or so, parking at my mom’s house who made her son and three strangers biscuits and gravy. To be perfectly honest, seeing my dogs again put a bigger smile on my face than that black dude could ever hope to inspire.
The metro was another story. We had to stand as soon as we got on (at the third stop on the line, no less), and at the fourth an entire group of hood rat niglets from Michigan got on. One of them started dancing like a stripper on the pole, completely oblivious to his ass which he had bouncing around in some poor guy’s face. We got off at Metro Center and it was surprisingly efficient there. Not so elsewhere; the line to get out of L’Enfant Plaza was an hour long, and at Gallery Place-Chinatown (where we originally were going to get off before Metro Center proved more convenient) someone was accidentally pushed onto the tracks and almost hit by a train.
Negligent manslaughter aside things were relatively smooth. We must have walked 10 or 15 blocks to the Washington Monument and along the way we passed Barack Obama t-shirts, hoodies, beanies, pins, calendars, bumper stickers, flags, blankets, bracelets, earrings, pretzel chips, bottled water, and energy “stix”. The O-BA-MAAH! Energy Stix Hummer H2 was giving out free samples of its energy product with a unique flubbery texture. Still haven’t tried it.
Getting past the torrents of Obamerchandise there were the actual inaugural festivities. Us Washington Monument folk–a good 1.5 miles or so from the Capitol, so we did not see Barry in the balls–meh’d when Aretha sang, lol’d hard when Warren mangled the Obama girls’ names (we also inserted “except the gays” in its proper places during the invocation), and cheered raucously at all the right points of Obama’s inaugural address. I didn’t see many people crying during the actual address, just firm approval. After the address some lady started with some poem, but we figured its lovey-dovey message had been done before and it had been done better so we all started piling out of the Mall. That was when we saw Bush’s moving vans, hippie/biker Uncle Sam, and had a gangbang in front of the Christianazis. One of the highlights of the trip.
At one point during the address Nick did ask me, “Do you think he really means that? He says all the right things.” I didn’t really know how to answer him. Obama does say a great many things so perfectly but so far they’re just pretty words. Yes he did make a move to close the prison at Guantanamo Bay within his first 72 hours as President but that very well could be a red herring of sorts; a promise he fulfilled just to say he fulfilled a promise. If nothing else the Bush administration bestowed upon many people the gift of skepticism. Unfortunately it seems most of my peers have had that charmed away from them. And while I can sit atop my perch and condemn condemn condemn, I’ve got to admit it: even in that 30 degree weather in front of the Washington Monument I had to fight to keep my pants on. It can be hard.
Now, you know me–I started this whole thing way way back as a rank-and-file Obamamaniac. Yes We Can, Change We Can Believe In, Hillary’s A Cunt, all that good stuff. Over time of course I fell out of love and stopped dreaming of him on a white stallion, riding in to save the day from evil corporations and the Christian Reich. I still cast a moderately enthusiastic vote for him in November. Sure President Palin has a nice alliterative ring to it, but I’m not really up for Hamas-built nail bombs becoming a daily part of American life. Maybe in 2012. Anyway, Obama’s presidency is young but he’s already had some stumbles since November (“there’s only one President at a time”). That’s understandable, nobody reasonable is expecting a savior. But please be something resembling the real deal, Barack. I’ve made this plea before and I will make it again, please do not be a bitch and fuck this up.
Friday, January 23, 2009
While making the pilgrimage I took some 230+ photographs, and then filtered out the shit ones so I had about 180 left. The below slideshow has a handful of images from that 180 that I wanted to show you people but for various reasons wouldn’t fit with the textual post I’m (still) working on. I’m a college student, busy and shit.
Hugs and Handjobs,
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Monday, January 19, 2009
At least that’s the kind of car I think we’re taking. On the last minute whim of his new foreign roommate she, Ian, myself, and whoever else wants to tag along are making the Obama Hajj. On Tuesday we’re heading to D.C. to see the big eared black man become the 44th President of the United States and possibly see the blood splatter when he gets shot while taking the oath of office.
However, in the meantime I have a research paper due Wednesday afternoon that I have not started so I will essentially be working on that all day today and there’s another paper due Wednesday afternoon that will be written from start to finish that morning. All of this means you
won’t shouldn’t hear from me until Wednesday night or Thursday morning. Just a heads up.
Oh, and for those of you that will be watching on TV–if you faintly hear a guy scream “cunt!” when Rick Warren starts praying that’s probably me.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen anything as farcical as people trying to defend Israel’s shelling and bombing of hospitals, clinics, and even United Nations installations in Gaza City. Except probably the IDF attacking those ‘targets’ in the first place. Whether or not Hamas militants really were firing from inside or nearby a hospital or school, flattening the entire city block to snuff out a couple of mortar and RPG teams reeks of a military recklessness and stupidity that should have died out after Dresden at the latest. Because of rampant Allied vengeance between 25,000 and 40,000 people burned inside their homes or escaped the flames just to bake and asphyxiate in the streets.
Judging from my telling of the story you’d surely think I see Hamas as a shining defendant of the Palestinian people. Not quite. Granted, they at least admit the slaughter of civilians is part of their strategy but it is still the slaughter of civilians nonetheless. I think the Mean Greenies and the Bad Blues are both neck deep in a vat of dog and pig shit and the two leech off of each other to sustain life. Sure Israel declared a unilateral (operative word right there) cease fire early Sunday morning local time but I mean, the whole colonial (yes, colonial) conflict is a positive feedback loop and it only seems to be getting worse and worse with time because both sides seem convinced they can win, whatever victory is anymore. Something like that. I think that was a difference with Israel vs. Arabia; the Jews kept kicking their asses on all fronts (six days!) and eventually the Arabs gave in. Not the case here.
Of course I don’t really know what’s going on there. Nobody does, and that’s the truly scary thing. In the past I’ve been afraid to show any uncertainty on this issue because there’s this mentality that if you don’t know what’s going on around you you’re either famous and thus excused or retarded. I could theorize for days on end about the roots of this conflict and I already have a few but really, I don’t know and neither do you. If you did, you’d have a solution and be hailed as a hero of peace or shot by a far right loon before opening your mouth. But the one truth, at least that’s what it seems to me, is that logic and common sense left the holy land a long long time ago. And like all the times before when Dignity packed her bags and left, the people who truly suffer are future generations. To them taking refuge in a bomb shelter and emerging to accidentally trip on their mother’s entrails will be just another day in the life.
When I’m about to fall asleep I usually let my mind wander wherever it leads itself. Stopping it requires too much effort and that’ll just keep me awake. And usually after spending a night reading about the Gazan misery it lands on in interesting “what if” scenario. What if flower power hadn’t failed? I don’t mean the not showering for weeks and dropping acid to expand your mind thing, I mean what if the entire world really took to heart messages of peace and love. After all it’s rather puzzling why humans insist on slaughtering each other on such impressive scales when the things that divide us sharpest are mere constructs of the mind. We like to say we’re the peak of evolution and that may be true for now but every now and then I’m hopeful that the people who take over after us will more inclined to peace and reason and less inclined to bizarre mob mentalities. It’s nice to dream.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Long ass meme filtered precisely to cut out the stupid fucking shit questions. I do this because I was on the computer anyway and I felt guilty about not posting Friday.
Is there someone you wouldn’t mind kissing right now?
If you’re being extremely quiet what does it mean?
Depends on the situation. Maybe I’m bored, maybe you’re boring, maybe I’m busy, maybe I’m sober, maybe you’re someone special I can enjoy silence with.
What are you listening to?
Everybody seems to think I’m lazy I don’t mind I think they’re crazy
Are you a big fan of thunderstorms?
Electric, rainy orgasms.
Do you believe in perfect?
Anything perfect isn’t worth the time or effort. It’s disgusting.
Are you a jealous person?
I might get angry at someone who has something that I want, but (so far) I don’t wish for them not to have it.
What was the first thing you thought this morning?
“Is that ice on my fucking window? Fuck class man.”
What do you think about when you are falling asleep?
Anything from milky milky milkshakes to zany zactacular zebras?
If you could wish for something over a birthday cake what would it be?
Anything really; someone to love, a sack of money, world peace. I don’t really like cake that much anyway.
Currently waiting on something/someone?
This is one of these questions I feel like I should give a really deep answer to, but I’m not really waiting for anything right now. A couple things would be nice to have but no love lost if I don’t get them any time soon.
When will your next kiss be?
Anywhere between next weekend and next year. Such is the life of a college homosexual really.
Last time you painted your nails?
I get accused of polishing my nails a lot because they’re naturally rather shiny. Who knew a vitamin-rich diet was so uncommon?
Are you satisfied with what you currently have in life?
For the most part. I mean there’s a lot of stuff I want, a couple things I sorta need, but things could be worse. Living in Iraq and such. And apparently knowing what love is at such a young age is something to be happy about.
Do people ever think you’ re older/younger than you actually are?
A lot of people think I’m 16. Man, when I turn 21 I am going to get carded all the time.
Do you think boys truly understand girls?
Sweetheart, if gay men don’t truly understand women then there is no hope for the pussy lickers.
Do you usually tell people when they hurt your feelings?
Most of the time I’ll let it slide but occasionally I’ll bring the fucking hammer down. I try to be clever about it but usually wind up tumbling on my words. For those of you who don’t already know I write a lot better than I speak.
What’s on your mind right now?
Thankfully not lovesickness.
Did anybody ever call you beautiful?
Yes, and if they weren’t straight and taken I would have swooned like a precious little homo.
How’s your heart right now?
My chest isn’t tight so that’s a good sign.
What is one fact about the last person that called you?
She attracts an unhealthy amount of gay men.
Do you think long relationships at your age mean anything?
Of course. Unfortunately I’m one of few holding that viewpoint.
What do you think of people that do drugs?
I think they’re doing drugs. We all have our fuckups and pitfalls, I can only judge the meth-head but so harshly. Unless they have children in which case they should really get their shit straight.
Will you be in a relationship next month?
Probably not. Tomorrow never knows though (your nightly dose of beatlefaggotry right there)!
Did anyone see you kiss the last person you kissed?
She licked my eyeball. Does that count?
Do you think you will be in a relationship 3 months from now?
“Probably not. Tomorrow never knows though (your nightly dose of beatlefaggotry right there)!” What’s with all the love questions, shit! There’s more to life than love, like sex.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
The other day I was walking back from the dining hall after an exhausting day on so many levels. As usual as soon as I departed I popped in my earbuds, by now it’s really just habit. Anyway I’m walking back to my room in the frigid cold, when a guy comes up to me and asks me where Smith house is. I pop the earbuds out, tell him what he wants to know, he thanks me, and interestingly enough apologizes for interrupting my music. Of all the times in the past someone talked to me while I was listening to music, nobody has ever said they were sorry even in a half-hearted routine way. We apologize when we interrupt someone on the phone, turn off the light while they’re reading, or walk in front of the television, so why don’t we excuse ourselves for interrupting the musical flow?
I don’t know how many members of the older crowd here know this, but it’s a general rule of thumb among the youth that ‘headphones on=leave me the fuck alone’, especially if we don’t appear to be doing anything else. Because then we’re most likely losing ourselves in a rising wave of chords and orchestral arrangements. Like marijuana, but legal and with a neutral odor. During my first quarter in Ohio as you know my television suffered from a crippling gunshot wound so it was just collecting dust. Music and the internet (and the occasional book) were the only two things keeping my head on my shoulders. And even now with a proper TV I’ll usually choose Bob Marley over Steve Wilkos. That is, unless, Gordon Ramsay is on BBC America yelling a new asshole into a French Pig.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
For someone who has never been in a relationship I sure do seem to have my mind set on what the fuck I want from one and what I want to put into one. Sometime last night while I was watching a National Geographic show about the National Socialist Movement instead of sleeping I realized/re-articulated to my self that while he wants nothing more than to lead an exploratory committee into my anus, casual sex just isn’t what I’m looking for. What I really want is someone to sit and hold hands with. Someone who will actively participate in my GTA bloodlust. Someone who won’t roll his eyes when I call him up at 3 AM and sing The Ballad of John and Yoko because I’m tired, bored, and/or drunk. Someone who considers a night of Top Gear and Futurama capped with falling asleep in each other’s arms and waking up the same a rousing success. I want a best friend first and foremost, not a sex god.
I suppose I understand why people ask if it’s a happy occasion when I tell them that Ian landed himself a boyfriend back on New Year’s Eve but it was a good day. He’s happy, I’m happy for him. The complete lack of negative emotion on my part tells me that him and I weren’t really made for each other. Meanwhile another man I genuinely love picked up the girl (yes, girl) of his dreams. While I’m happy for him as well this situation is different because it leaves me a little butthurt even though his status as a breeder and my status as a faggot would have made it utterly impossible for anything other than the deep friendship we already share to ever materialize. At times like this some of my comrades in cocksucking would say “if only I didn’t have a penis” but I wouldn’t give mine up to bring peace to Gaza so let’s not even go there.
Who knows though, maybe I’ll go for this anus-exploring friend of mine. In some ways he’s absolutely perfect and in others he’s so not and in even more it beats being alone and at the same time it really doesn’t. This must be that irrationality people speak of when they talk romance. If nothing else it’s confusing as fuck but what’s life without confusion and challenges to make the clarity and comfort that much more enjoyable? Or something.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
When your transportation has five inches of armored steel on the bottom, pump-action shotguns, emergency vials of your blood in the event you prick yourself with a pencil, and is fucking RPG-proof, you don’t need to go any faster than 60 mpg. Cadillac One, I rechristen thee the Gangstamobile.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Sober editor’s note: Being inspired by Sir Slopmaster’s shenanigans, when I returned from a night of mayhem I managed to type up a post with full intention of publishing it, unedited (including the title), in the sober morning. I have my hangover food and that’s really all I need at the moment.
it is 2 am as i type this post
and i figured i would give yuoiu the proletariat a look into my heavily inebriarted mindf
so this posty will be completely unedited, it’s my promise to you as an aqwedosme person
so yea, 2:30n now, drunk as fuck, IMing it up with orhan kahnm it;s preyyf fucking good. conrarty to[popular belief I am a rathe rhappy drunk, going along with anythig. and clearly, i cannot type for shit. if on;ly blogger enabled fucking voice clips. i,m sure my webcam can record =videos but I am too far fuck ing gone to even attempt that shit.
what else, what else, um, i had 8 or so solo cups full of some irish brew, i forget the name, and three shots of mandarin orange absolut. note to self–that shit is FUCKING DANGEROUS. for rwals., [pronbablty the only reaon I stoppedn is because the bottle ran oit (I did not drink the whole damn thing myself).and yet, unlike when I drink myselfm stupid on beer, I don’t feel sick. I think it;smn the carbonation.n swwet, sewwt vodka has none of thastg,
oh, and I did something i may or may not reegret laee. i smoked a cigar, that was itnerwesting. it was a really shitty one too, tasted like cardboard and chocolate,. cardboart dccholcolate. it was fucking terrible, liek ost smoked products are i;d maiheng. so yes, it was cool chilling with the good folk from the habitat trip but the cigars were kind of lasme.n at least aty the moemnt I don;t feel adidcted or like Im;m craving or some shit
anyway it wa sa friend of a friend’s borthday party. he wasn born on ew years eve so he decided to have his party after everyone got back. like i said it was go dod time to be had. lits of lol, even without he liqour.
and if you’re judginy by my typing, first of all eat a dick, I could at least walk home comptentrly. second of al, I was not the msot fucked up there. fucking dude,w ith me, lets call him steve, he was so fucking far gone men. he could not stand. he could not walk. he was lying at the top of the sairts on the verge of pukign all over the place. and it was his fudcking apartment! fuck!
so yeah, immade it out okay in perspective, i also got a dvd player. it was in the fgroxzen sand. see, on thw qa back to my place ther’s these Appart,ments called River Park, and they have a volleyball court. fucking stalin (pseudonym), he found a dvd player in the sand, gave it to me. i said i already had a advd player, what the fudck do i need this for? bbut no, it’s mine, and in the mornign I;’ll see if it works
maybe i’m weird but si setill feel conscious being drunk. like, i see the mistakes i’m making intypiing this shit but i just don’;t care enougbt ro go back and change most of them. it’sm fucking weird, innit? happty omar? i sppewlled innt it right, i think.
there;s no need tob be afraid, no need to be afrid, it’s real love, yes it’s real!Q that song just popped itno my head, and yetn is’a a john lennon song sxo stfu aboutmy beatlefaggotry. as you can clearly tell by now my fucking mind fucking wanders when i’m intoxicated. i hate the tasteof beer after six drinks or so, but shots are dangerous. sriouslty. i;ve learned.
speaking of learning, if i didn’t already mwention it i had a cigar tonight. it tated like ass. won;t be smiking regularly. i seriosuly don;t remember if i mentioned it with orhan or if i did it here, and srcolling up rwequores effort i’m just not willing to put in. and now fucking dodctorboogaloo has left! dcommitted internet suicide! not cool! this breaks my heart, he was a pretty cool dude. besrt of luck to whatever hes doing now though, teach them kids well Doc!
well i’mn going to bed, heres to not drowining inmmy own puke a’la jimi hendrix!
Friday, January 9, 2009
As it turns out, much like last quarter every Friday I only have one class to attend, then I am free for the rest of the day. What was cool about last quarter was that my one Friday class was at noon, so I could sleep late and then after class head to nearby uptown for some lunch and whatever else I needed while I was out. Very convenient. Not so this quarter. My Sociology 101 class meets every day of the work week except for Wednesday, at 9 AM. Getting up that early is not particularly difficult, it’s getting up that early for just one fucking hour long class that’s a challenge.
When I signed up for the class, I figured Sociology would be interesting enough. I hear so many good things about it as a class and even as a discipline. Let’s just say that today was not a shining example of the subject’s usefulness. At the close of class yesterday the professor talked about independent and dependent variables in an experiment. “Just a refresher,” I thought. I haven’t had a science class since May 2008, maybe some other people are a bit rusty. No big deal, you know?
But today. Oh, today. My rage kicked in right about when I realized we had spent an entire hour going over how to construct a scientific experiment, with fifteen full minutes devoted to the difference between independent and dependent variables. College students are supposed to be America’s shining future, the last best hope for this country that often seems like a backwater pisshole, and these bumblefucks dragged their knuckles all the way thorough grade school not knowing how to put together a fucking well-designed investigation?
Maybe it’s something about Montgomery County Public Schools, but they beat us over the head with ‘how to construct a well-designed investigation’ from the second we set foot in a 6th grade science class. They had these yellow sheets, sometimes pink, with each step labeled and it was up to us to fill in the blank lines. Us city-folk did this when we were ten years old. Suddenly I enter Appalachia and everyone’s a fucking science retard. Mind you, I was no Dr. Einstein, but at least I could put together an experiment without setting anyone’s face on fire.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Since my wild and raunchy incest post yesterday I’ve already had three visitors–the first from Canada–coming here looking for a loving father depositing little brothers and sisters down his son’s hungry throat. And while when it comes to page loads I am a complete whore I don’t think I’m up for another incest post just yet. I suppose I could write a dissertation on my penis, and there is certainly a lot to say in that department, but I know how some of you get when I dish out what you call “TMI” so I’ll hush the fuck up for now. After all, at the very bottom of everything The Tome of Communism is about all you people who read and comment, for what would I be without you?
If you told me “Bobby, that last sentence up there sounds drenched in sarcasm!”, well you’d only be half right. The Tome of Communism and all it entails are not my entire life, but they’re an important piece of the equation. If my life were a White Russian, music would be the vodka, my penis would be the Kahl a, The Tome would be the cream and you guys would be the ice keeping it all cold and delicious. Hopefully more than a few of you would be also the ones carrying me home and making sure I don’t fall asleep on my back after having about six too many.
If you’re wondering what brought about this sudden circle jerky group hug of a post, this just so happens to be the 1,000th post in our great revolutionary dive’s history. If you had told the fat, perverted little foul-mouthed nugget that was me in 10th grade that he would write at least another 999 of these, he would have written a blog entry about how you were full of sh*t, afraid of actually saying “shit” on the internet. And, like a lot of other things, he would have been dead fucking wrong about that.
Of course I have some regrets here and there but on the whole it’s been quite a ride and one I wouldn’t trade for all the sex and candy in the known universe. But the contributions of the hairiest man I know, Joseph Stalin’s precious baby girl, a Soviet Canuckistani in the truest sense of the term, and a man in a bunny suit with a pallet knife cannot be overlooked for they kept the proletarian juggernaut chugging along while I was busy being productive in other arenas. Because of everyone’s efforts we at The Tome of Communism have achieved what the fascists in Berlin failed to complete some seventy years ago. Maybe if we’re lucky we can make 2,000 posts before Jesus boils the oceans away in 2012.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Far be it from me to judge people on their sexual persuasions. I mean, on one extreme I’ve got friends who for them the only sex is missionary with the lights off for the sole purpose of procreation.. And then there are folks into group sex, public sex, angry sex, and a peculiar condition that can only be properly described as a complex produced by far too much time spent brutally killing virtual assassination targets. It’s a complicated situation. And I’m not going to be telling you how I get myself off, just know it’s legal in most places in the country.
Out there in internetland there is an English sexual deviant going by the handle of Josman. Josman’s website greets you with a drawing of a young man licking a muscular armpit (yes, armpit) and the comic booky text bubbles reading (emphasis his), “Now that I’ve grown up this smell has a different effect on me…it gets me hot and horny, and my cock go all hard…” It sounds like a run-of-the-mill gay porn site until you learn the licker is the lickee’s barely legal son. Thanks to a friend I was recently reintroduced to these culturally significant works of art after not seeing them for years.
One of his more well known works, My Wild and Raunchy Son, is a 33 page epic about two muscular, blond, white men with obscenely large penises who just so happen to be a father and son madly lusting after each other. They have eyes bluer than Hawaiian waters and testicles the size of toddlers’ fists. They kiss, they suck, they fuck, and piss on each other–and this is all before dinner! There’s also two sequels, My Wild and Raunchy Son 2 & 3, complete with a developed story and more big-dicked butt fucking from the father/son duo of Jack and Justin Maguire. I haven’t read 3 yet (Josman expects me to pay for this?) but they could possibly do something with a glass table, I wouldn’t put it beyond them.
See, I understand that everyone’s got their own fetish they keep hushed away from the rest of the world. And so long as they don’t get their rocks off by faceraping girl scouts I try not to fault them for it. But incest I just don’t understand. While I may say my parents can look good if they make an effort to, I’m not going to put my penis anywhere near either of them. And it’s something entirely different to want to have sex with a relative because they are a relative. I don’t think Josman’s work is supposed to be funny but how can I not laugh at lines like “I work on the bulbous cock-head while dad sucks on grandpa’s heavy low hangers,” especially when father, son, and grandson all look like Arnold from The Magic School Bus? Hear that? That is the sound of my childhood being raped. Welcome to the internet.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
-How can someone be sexually attracted to fecal matter? Seriously!
-I love how the university cable directory doesn’t list Spongebob Squarepants as a kid’s show.
-Why the fuck won’t 16 of my songs sync to my iPod? And why the fuck won’t iTunes tell me which 16 won’t sync?
-Get it up!
-Lotion costs a lot more than it really should.
-I can’t believe I didn’t notice how discoey that song was.
-How the fuck, with my musical taste, did I make it this far along without Janis Joplin?
-I don’t have class for another six hours. I don’t know how I managed that but I’m not complaining.
-You always say you’ll be back soon, but soon for you is two hours or more. What the fuck are you doing?
-Losing weight is easy when you don’t keep any food in your room.
-While I appreciate your tenacity it should be clear by now that I’m not interested.
-I don’t see what’s so embarrassing about buying condoms. It’s not like sex is a freakish act.
-Anybody else notice how inhumane it is to give a man’s computer a virus through a porn site? Not cool.
-How do you dodge the first-day-of-class homework with puppies and pizza? Color me impressed.
-If your dog were a human it would be a backstabbing gold digger, much like Heather Mills.
-I’m glad I don’t have a Wild and Raunchy Son.
Monday, January 5, 2009
In between the IDF mercilessly bombing any Palestinian who dares not proudly pledge allegiance the the Big Blue Star and Steve Jobs contracting Super AIDS, it was time for ‘Merica’s college students (some of them, anyway–stupid quarter system) to get back to the routine. Getting up at 5 AM was the shitty part. Actually, more like 4 AM due to a miscommunication with my mother who thought we were leaving an hour earlier than we really were. Around 5:30 we packed everything into the truck and with a fresh $200 (twenty five of which is already gone and another sixty earmarked for a credit card bill, no more spending for me) in my wallet it was time to get going.
Being as how I went to bed at 2 and only slept a handful of hours I uncomfortably slept most of the way to Ohio, having noticeably disjointed and utterly nonsensical dreams about sex, drugs, and friends not necessarily in that order. I completely forgot what happened in all of them minutes after waking up, but if you can imagine sitting in a theater and watching a film reel that’s been partially eaten by moths it was something like that. With distortions of space and black and red streaks running through whole images. It was weird.
Finally set foot in little ol’ Athens around noon, and after helping move the stuff in and buying a cell phone charger (five weeks after the fact did I realize I left mine in Mississippi) my dad left around 1, marking the first time in six weeks I was actually alone. And contrary to what you’d think, I got right down to being responsible by unpacking about half of my shit only to be lulled away by the warm glow of Baltimore vs. Miami. Shortly thereafter there was the inaugural wank for my dorm room in the new year–at least it better have been, I will fuck a bitch up if a janitor masturbated in my room over break. It only occurred to me after noticing the three small lacerations that I might have been a bit rough on myself. Oh well.
This morning I was promptly ten minutes late for my first class of the quarter across campus, after waking up on time and thinking I would eventually get up, falling right back asleep. “Some things never change” I said to myself in between throwing on some pants and popping some minty fresh gum as a toothpaste substitute. As soon as I start Febreezing my clothes because I don’t have enough quarters for the washing machines I’ll really be back in the groove!
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Saturday, January 3, 2009
John Lennon wrote the song “Across the Universe” in 1967. Though very happy with the lyrical content, even as a Beatle-disowning solo artist, he never quite knew what to do with it melodically speaking. The song sat on the shelf, unfinished, until 1969 and even then Lennon wasn’t really happy with how the musical aspect turned out. And much like its namesake song the movie Across The Universe, while enjoyable, doesn’t quite feel right at all.
It’s a 1960’s love story with The Beatles as background music. Or maybe it’s the music with a 1960’s love story in the background. The film has 33 tracks in it. That’s one song every three minutes, on average. In actuality the beginning of the movie is light hearted, easy to follow, and the right songs are decently spaced and in the right place. As the movie goes on it becomes apparent that the writers crafted a story to fit the music rather than writing their tale and picking appropriate songs for it. In the last half hour the music is literally a lazily assembled nonstop medley. Rather than feeling like a well orchestrated climax for the film’s characters and happenings it feels like a 30 minute montage cheesier than a Liverpool dock worker’s penis after a week without a shower.
Almost all the characters are named after people in Beatles songs. Jude (a McCartney lookalike hailing from where else but Liverpool), Lucy, Sadie, Jojo, Doctor Robert (played by fucking Bono?!), Maxwell, and Prudence who is, curiously, a lesbian and disappears halfway through the film at the hands of circus gypsies. She also reappears periodically when it’s convenient, only to disappear again.
For a Beatles musical, the songs were way too prominently featured. Take for example, “Revolution”. Jude gets lulled into the anti-war protest movement by his love interest Lucy, and when he tells Lucy at her SDS building he wants to join her, Jude is singing “Revolution”. A fucking song serves as dialogue. For three whole minutes. When he gets to the part about Chairman Mao, Jude picks a fight with a Maoist. Sometimes the movie was just too damn literal; it succeeds best when it requires the viewer to think and in its sly “I see what you did there moments”, with everything from Jude and Lucy’s familiar appearances to Max’s haircut and what’s for Thanksgiving dinner in the Edison household.
Across The Universe tries too hard. It’s enjoyable in segments, kind of like a series of music videos played end-to-end, but as a whole piece it’s disjointed like an Englishman’s teeth. The plot needed to be tighter, they could have easily cut the soundtrack in half, and Dr. Bono Robert needs to drive his bus into a sea of holes never to be seen again. And the disappearing lesbian cheerleader gypsy? Yeah.
Friday, January 2, 2009
The first time I flew on an airplane was in 2004, when we were going to Disney World down in Orlando. We flew on AirTran, a discount carrier owned by one of the bigger companies. I didn’t know any better but my mom remarked that it was a terrible flight experience all around. The soda was flat, the seats were cramped, the floors were dirty, and the service was lazy. Nobody’s flown with them since. Only two days into the new year, it seems some things never change. I suppose if you overheard Germans at a synagogue talking about arson you would shit yourself too. Idiots.