Thursday, February 26, 2009
The United States of America is perhaps one of the most unique countries on the planet. We have been bombing someone somewhere for over sixty continuous years, we have the highest incarceration rates in the western world, a woman who hunts wolf cubs from a helicopter was almost elected Vice President, and our country was unapologetically built on the backs of African slaves and lands of slaughtered natives. And if anybody bitches about it, we bury them in a flood of partisan talk and the occasional JDAM. What a marvelous place to live!
The American Dream is a thing of near mythical proportions. For some, it’s to pull themselves up by their bootstraps and become richer than anyone could possibly imagine. For others, its simply to have a roof over their head and amenities like clean water. Some come here looking for a new start to life, to break free from their native land and all its burdens and begin anew in the land of opportunity. For me, it’s to make everything taste like bacon. Enter Justin and Dave, who share the American dream of me and many other men. They have done what so many millions have dreamed of and invented the greatest condiment ever: Baconnaise and nubilefilm.xxx
check out the meaning here
Baconnaise is exactly what it sounds like: bacon that you can spread like mayonnaise. And if that weren’t all-inclusive enough it is vegetarian safe and certified kosher like Baconnaise’s older brother, Bacon Salt (comes in three flavors). The website even offers delicious Baconnaise recipes like Baconnaise Deviled Eggs, Macaroni Salad, Fry Sauce (bonus if you use W Ketchup), Caesar Dressing, and the famous No-B-L-T: lettuce, tomato, and Baconnaise. There is also Baconnaise Lite, in case you just came over from Canada and aren’t yet used to eating like an American. Oh, and did I mention bacon flavored lip balm? I know that when I’m tenderly kissing my significant other nothing gets me more in the mood than the smell and taste of hickory smoked pork!
Really, this review of the product says it all:
“I am considering nominating Baconnaise as the official sandwich spread of our happy family here, because it seems to me to be everything that is good in the world: bacon, made spreadable. I mean, there are no drawbacks here. There is bacon, and there is mayonnaise, two of the greatest inventions of mankind, coming together in holy matrimony.”— Anne Fitzgerald, Elastic Waist
America: A land where the sacred institution of marriage now includes bacon and mayonnaise. I love this country.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
You know, some people might say I have problems.
Case in point: last night after waking up just before 9 and deciding to blow off my morning class, I found myself slithering around a bombed out Austrian city block, circa 2006 or so. Me and my M-16 were quickly the only ones left of the Red Team after my teammates left the game to look at hentai or whatever it is nerds do when they die too much. Soon enough my rifle ran out of ammo and I took to my secondary weapon, a measly pump action shotgun. Managing to pick people off with it from half a map away (with my point of view following the pellets), I racked up ten or so kills before I found the semiauto shotgun from GTA 4 underneath a vanquished foe. Shortly after getting that I died; a helicopter stuck its nose into the control room I was hiding in (how did it even manage to get inside a warehouse?), I shot it twice in the nose, the explosion threw me across the room. Fail.
Then something happened and I came down the mahogany steps of a run down former mansion–clearly no longer in a videogame– and saw at a desk to my left a sexy redheaded woman and a construction worker who was on the computer watching someone flush vomit down a toilet. An old white couple was in the kitchen cooking something and you could smell it through the sanitorium green wall, with black mold and small, nimble trees growing out of it. Regardless, it was time to bounce so myself and the redhead (the construction worker fell out of the narrative, simply ceased to exist) ran out into the courtyard towards the cars.
The skies were a steely light grayish green, and there was an oil refinery visible far, far off into the distance. Suddenly these two things (one of which suddenly disappeared like the construction worker) ran up in front of us and started growling, blocking the path to the cars. They were like greyhounds, only much longer, taller, and thinner. They had the hair of trimmed golden labs matted thick with oil, and rather than the teeth the first thing we noticed was the flat, fire engine red gums. Shortly thereafter though, our dog tackled the remaining oildog and killed it with a single bite to the neck. The redhead expressed worry at our dog’s killer instincts, I patted him on the head, and the three of us ran to the black SUV, and just as we were about to get in I woke up. With a raging erection, no less.
Speaking of erections, the other day over lunch two friends and I were discussing a certain kind of porn that has, surprisingly, never been done as far as we know. I’ve seen quite a bit on the intrenet but I hadn’t even thought this possible. We’re looking for penis sounding; that would be one guy sticking his penis in another man’s penis. All three of us know about docking, but that doesn’t count because it’s one penis inside the other man’s foreskin. I want it in the urethra, dammit! I am on the hunt for it, the other two probably are as well, and should the two of you that read this and are willing to look at gay porn come across it, you have my email address. Rewards may or may not include chicken.
So yeah, some people might say I might have problems.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Gathered around the comforting entrance to the university’s steamy utility tunnels, the topic of the conversation apparently turned to suicides. See, earlier in the night one of us was stumbling around after a hard day and several times mentioned cutting himself up with a razor. Such talk can safely be attributed to a supremely shit day and the effects of a dash of alcohol but nonetheless the discussion prompted someone else to tell the fate of a friend of theirs from high school. Long story short he was only moderately depressed about this and that, family and the school put him on suicide watch, pumped him full of various antidepressants, and right as they thought he was getting better from an illness they didn’t know they overestimated he hanged himself in the closet. I’ve always thought it somewhat counterproductive that antidepressants make people kill themselves, but I digress.
Ever since leaving home I’ve met people who only a little into their 20’s have already attended the funerals of five friends, or have a variety of psychological disorders that make them more or less dependent on regular medication, or watched people die in front of them, or have had legitimate call-the-police stalkers, and these are only the issues people have told me about. I can’t relate to any of them. I don’t know if sheltered is the right word or not, but my life noticeably lacks any real emotional scarring. Sure, I’ve had my hard days and dead pets but nothing nearly as miserable as a friend found hanging by her neck with her father’s silk tie. I think lucky is a better word than sheltered.
The closest thing I can remember to a recent tragedy befalling the family is my grandmother being diagnosed with colon cancer, but at the time I was only 14 or 15 and didn’t really know what was going on. And what’s come in the wake is just a pathetic (yes, that’s the right word) state of affairs rather than a life-jarring event (at least for me). It wasn’t something instant at all, just a process slow and steady enough so that by the time I noticed what had happened I couldn’t really be bothered with it. Shrug my shoulders–“such is life”–and go about my business. Maybe lucky isn’t the right word, either.
Maybe I just absorb things rather than letting them tear me down like they would most people. (I really don’t cry that much; is that a symptom or a problem?) I don’t know if that’s healthy or not. Really, I don’t even know if that’s what is going on. I do know that not being able to relate with a sad friend when you relate on all other levels is one of the most uncomfortable feelings a person can experience. On one hand I want to be able to identify with people’s suffering. On the other, I’m happy I can say I lead a happy life and it would make me happy to keep it that way. I don’t want anything particularly awful or unexpected to befall me. However, if the lives of my newly found peers are to be any indication I will soon enough understand other people’s misery. Such is life.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Well it’s been a while since we had one of these, hasn’t it? I try to do them once a month but our last one was in December. And this, being the shortest month of the year and Black History Month, what better time for AABD?
Last night, ACRN had its quarterly semiprivate screening of the Tommy Wiseau epic The Room. As is customary in these time honored traditions, the small group drank some 48 cans of beer and ate just two late night, hot-as-fuck pizzas. I’ll have you know that I did not drink that much and I still remember the whole night. The movie only lasted us until a little after midnight so the rest of the evening was spent defacing the calendar on the refrigerator and drunkenly yelling at each other on a variety of issues including oral sex, The Dave Matthews Band, and race relations in America. Don’t question drunk logic!
Anyway, I’m sober, I’m bored (not related to being sober), and I’m waiting for my crapbox to come back after Microsoft finished repairing it a few days ago. Please be so kind as to throw some questions my way to help me pass the time; as you know by now, anything goes.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
One thing about Rockville I noticed is that there are very few seriously religious or openly religious people. There are plenty of families that show up to church every Sunday, but speaking in sweeping generalizations it seems like they do it in a Simpsonian sort of way; the only reason they go is because they’ve always gone. The faith in their hearts is long gone or in some cases never really existed. And then there’s the Holiday Christians but everybody’s got those. Point is everybody’s just too busy with one thing or another to truthfully worry about the prospect of eternal salvation or damnation as the case may be. A lot of things changed socially for me when coming to university but the religious aspect is probably the most notable change in the company I keep.
I still haven’t set foot in a church during a worship service since 1997 or 1998 and only crack a Bible once in a while to find Ezekiel 25:17. But the number of even moderately religious people I’ve met since August has skyrocketed. With the combined factors of Athens being nestled in western Appalachia and people from all over the region descending on OU to drink and maybe receive an education, I suppose it makes sense that the town would have a raging hard-on for the Lord. And then there’s always the fervently anti-religious. I haven’t run across very many of them but they are out there. I can understand their disdain for organized religion in general but it seems very juvenile to me to single out one faith for verbal abuse. I’m an equal opportunity offender; I’ll dump on anyone for anything but always in good fun, and I think that’s the thing that realy sets me apart from them.
Really the only thing I wonder is how long the religious people I’ve met will stay religious as they declare their majors and begin to focus their fields of study. Courses will get harder and command more of their attention and time. I haven’t met very many religious or even churchgoing upperclassmen compared to the numbers of freshmen and sophomores that identify as such. College is a place where education, Jesus, and Anheuser-Busch all compete for the time and attention of the young and impressionable. A lot like the rest of America, really.
Monday, February 16, 2009
There he was, after a scant two rum-and-cokes and three beers a complete train wreck, lying there on the bricks crying. Not sobbing, no, just a silent and steady stream of tears, occasionally muttering something about hating his life. It all began 24 hours prior when he met a woman for the first time, again. At least that’s what we think happened because he and she knew each other from somewhere–they even remembered each other’s names–it was just that nobody could even guess from where. Different classes, different majors, different residence halls, different friends, but all that they had in common was uncanny. He laid down his game hard, and she ate it all up. Things were going so well, after I mentioned to her behind his back that despite appearances he is not gay, I was wondering why I was still there. I’ll bet you’re wondering how he could have fucked this up. It’s simple, really: he didn’t get her phone number.
The sad reality of the situation didn’t hit him until shortly after she had left the building and he was all alone with two gays and a fag hag. Yes, he kicked himself about it for a bit but soon moved on to other matters so the rest of us figured that “the boobs that got away” (they were marvelous boobs, I have to admit) weren’t that big a deal to him. That, of course, was impetus to tease him mercilessly about it. There were even “That’s what she would have said” jokes. By the time we wound up gathered around the hookah it began becoming clear that he was really a bit distressed over the situation, but by then the joke had worn thin. At any rate by the end of the night he seemed to genuinely be over it.
Fast forward to the next night where, after a scant two rum-and-cokes and three beers, the man was lying there on the bricks. Not sobbing, no, just a silent and steady stream of tears. It was somewhat unnerving for sober me, so I can only imagine how he felt inside. Had I realized this woman, or more accurately his failure to follow through, was getting him down so much I wouldn’t have brought it up as much as I did. Of course I felt, and feel, like shit because I can’t help but think I made a bad situation worse even though today, a weekend removed from the fiasco, he seemed fine. So I don’t think I’ll be mentioning the events of Wednesday night again unless I get her number. Then he’ll love me forever.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
As you can clearly see I haven’t posted anything more substantial than a comment reply since Wednesday. I told you I blamed a particularly bad cold for my lack of motivation, and that’s true. Those of you who love me enough to care about me will a: feel bad that I am romantically alone on Valentine’s Day (tear tear), and b: wonder where the fuck I’ve been since I am beginning to feel better. The second half of my week has been pretty interesting to say the least; it’s involved, among other things, sleeping on an air mattress passing as a couch, having rum spilled on me in a residence hall lobby, and spending a night with a woman who looks kind of like a young Paul McCartney who always reminded me of a woman anyway.
What was just supposed to be a Wednesday night dinner with two friends before doing some lameass survey calling for three hours turned into literally a whole night of bonding and love, and not like that. I failed at Mario Kart 64 (is it honestly my fault I had the better system?), was there when a friend of mine failed miserably at life (more on that later), smoked a hookah (which was fun but no I won’t be making a habit of it mother), ate some pudding with my tongue (chocolate complimented the tobacco nicely), and wound up at a local coffee shop failing at Scrabble. After that I wound up staying awake the rest of the night on my newly acquired AIM account, something I haven’t had since middle school. While going sleepless wreaked havoc on my classes Thursday, you’ll notice my evening did not involve lameass survey calling, so I consider the night/day a success.
What I didn’t mention is that this night was spent in its entirety with a homosexualist and his #1 fag hag whom we will call Sharon, two people whom I only knew tangentially beforehand. Sharon is a kind soul; very welcoming and loving, pretty much what I expected. Bootymeat (because he has a very large ass for an Irishman, and doesn’t like being called that), on the other hand, is someone I admittedly judged quite harshly before getting to know him on any level at all. Hypocritically I hate it when people do that, and ironically I judge people who do that. Point is, I was wrong about the man. Romantically we would be about as compatible as Thomas Jefferson and Joseph Stalin but the man and the good times that always seem to follow him around could make a decent friend. And lawd, dat ass.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
I have to fork over $175 for a spring break trip, I have officially given up (for the time being) on a paper that was due Monday, my printer has somehow injected itself with AIDS, I still have lameass survey calling to do for three hours which I may or my not go to, and it is apparently about to thunderstorm for the rest of the evening. But you know what? The window is open, I am relaxed, and despite the thunderstorms I’ll probably go for a walk. Today, grades can suck lemons; I am going to enjoy my afternoon and evening.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Last night I had my first measurable bit of exercise in years–this is America, dammit–and it came in the form of intramural field hockey with the radio station. And although the other team had to forfeit because they didn’t have their ID’s with them or something, we still played a casual game with them, which we promptly lost 3-1. And in between my hacking coughs and painfully dry throat spasms (this cuntacious head-and-chest cold, which I caught two Saturdays ago and then caught again last Friday night, has been keeping me from regularly posting) I had a very good time. I do remember that as a younger child I liked the occasional physical activity; I don’t know when or how that got derailed over the years. I only wish we could have played outside. The weather’s been fantastic, fabulous even, for early February.
So imagine the nonplussed look on my face when I come back to my room, crash in the chair, see that my downloads failed, restart them, turn on the TV, and see a commercial on Nickelodeon for something called Bugville. For the low low cost of $29.95 some corporation somewhere will take six to eight weeks to mail your child five caterpillars plus food, and a bunch of plastic crap including an activity guide and “all new super see-through pop-up butterfly treehouse”, which may or may not be coated in lead.
So the question begs to be asked, what kind of parent would pay $30 for something kids have been doing for free for generations? bear in mind my mother hates all things bug related, so I never personally cultivated butterflies in a tupperware, but I did play with caterpillars in the grass and they weren’t that hard to trap. I just don’t understand why someone would be so stupid, or more likely lazy, to pay $30 for five caterpillars when there are likely hundreds of them crawling around in your backyard for free at any given springtime moment. This is America, I suppose.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Ever since catching Barack Obama on an off moment, Samuel Wurzelbacher the Unlicensed Plumbing Aficionado has become something of a rat, or perhaps a cockroach. Maybe an infestation of earwigs. Either way, he just will not go away no matter how much we try to push him into the water. The man is trying, and unfortunately not entirely failing, at building a career off of making a man look like an idiot for 30 seconds. It’s such an American thing to do, and if people like him represent us to the rest of the world then their disdain for Americans is easily explained. The ‘man’ has a website, a book, news interviews, a job as a ‘war correspondent’, and just the other day served as a policy adviser to a major political party. Guess which one?
The GOP must be stumbling around like a headless rooster if they’re inept enough to turn to this bumbling attention whore for policy advice. Wurzelbacher dismissed the current stimulus plan, and presumably any other forms of government intervention, as “welfare”. I think Herbert Hoover would like to have a word with you on economic non-interventionism, Joe. You can argue the specifics of the Obama plan all you want–I’m sure it’s got thousands of holes–but to casually dismiss something without really knowing what it entails and attaching a ‘bad word’ to it (got tired of calling things socialist?) is the sort of lazy man’s politicking that leads to the intellectual debasement of society. And with enough stupid people such as yourself, an enterprising figure could easily lead the people down a road to fascism or Soviet-style communism. Notice how I distinguished between the totalitarian Soviet system and actual communism? That’s called critical thinking Sammy, something you painfully lack.
When asked by the San Francisco Chronicle if he has political aspirations, he said he’s not sure if the American people “deserve” him. As if he’s the Batman with a flat, hairy ass–the dumbshit we deserve, not the one we need. Dim-witted, thick-skulled, and arrogant as all hell–you’d think the Republican party would have learned over the past eight years that shit like this flies as well as a pig strapped to a popsicle stick trebuchet. But this shit soaked swine is riding his 15 minutes well past its natural life. Could he actually manage to continue infecting the public square? Hell, could we expect Palin/Wurzelbacher 2012? Don’t count it out.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
“I was fooking a guy, safe sex of course. I told him I was getting close, and he says “I dont want you to cum in me.”
I was confused and asked why, he said that he thought that you’re not supposed to and its unsafe.
I quickly explained to himself how its perfectly safe, theres a reservoir and thats how its designed to work.
He didn’t seem entirely convinced and says “Are you sure?” I couldn’t resist myself to respond with this, since it was the most perfectly horrible moment to say it:
“I’m not just sure, I’m HIV positive.”
Awkward rest of the night, had to convince him I was joking several times, and showed him where the saying was from. Was it worth it? Definitely maybe.””
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Have you ever just watched your hand move? I don’t mean seen it out of the corner of your eye as you’re typing a letter or opening a bottle, I mean have you ever sat down and watched your hand? Seen your fingers flex, the tendons in your hand respond to every movement, felt the bones and muscles work in unison to make the movements possible. Or when you stretch your fingers all the way apart like a piano player does, and that tendon on your wrist right by the veins juts out of the skin. It’s really a fascinating thing, something that’s been occupying my attention for most of the past two days.
Something about this week so far has felt in some ways so very ordinary and in others fundamentally different than any other week I remember having in a very long time. The air is crisper, the sounds are clearer, and despite overcast skies, freezing air temperatures, and an unexplained bum left knee it feels good to walk half a campus away to class. Even as I’m coming down a cold I can honestly say any day above ground is a good day. And why not make a good day better? Exercise requires effort and time that I will be putting in soon enough but eating better and eating less only takes a bit of patience, really. It’s something I can easily do now. The dining halls serve up some supremely shit pizza, anyway. I’d be shocked if they managed to fuck up lettuce.
I’d also like to add, had I died that night I hope you all would have been able to at least appreciate the terrible irony in the title of my final post being “Doing It Wrong”. That didn’t dawn on me until today, and I lol’d. I expect nothing less of you.
Monday, February 2, 2009
When I was down in monochrome Ocean Springs, Mississippi last year and met up with a Mr. Sutton, one of the first things he asked was if I had lost weight since in his words I wasn’t nearly as overweight as I led readers of The Tome to believe. Ever since going to college I’ve kept a pretty steady 210 pounds; that seems to be where my body’s weight naturally hovers around if I eat remotely properly. People are always skeptical when they hear how much I weigh and I suppose I should take it as a compliment that I don’t look as fat as I really am. I guess I’m one of the lucky ones. In fact one of the things I remember from Saturday night is someone being truly surprised at how much I weigh. We got to talking about our respective body weights and how well we hold our alcohol. You can see where this is going.
Around midnight a completely trashed me and a guy who weighs 190 pounds found some boxing gloves and got into an impromptu match that ended in my defeat, probably because I was holding in my right (or was it my left?) hand my very own orangey bottle of Sweden’s finest. Everything after that didn’t happen according to my memory but if everyone else’s words are to be trusted I had just a tad too much. Only after waking up at 7 AM sprawled on the bathroom floor, lying in a state of misery for four hours, puking at 11, taking 40 minutes to stumble/crawl home (a commute that normally takes 15 minutes), collapsing in the snow, puking again, lying there convulsing for a minute, and seeing a photo of me I don’t remember being taken on facebook did it dawn on me just how much I really had. It also helped that everything tasted and smelled like fucking oranges. You think that sounds good until you actually experience it.
If the collective memory of the people who were there is to be trusted I guzzled three beers and roughly 70% of that damn bottle over a time span of 3-4 hours. And if you’re thinking to yourself “Why, Woozie, that’s nearly a lethal dosage” you’re absolutely correct. In fact half of people with a .40 BAC die of alcohol poisoning, and my dumb ass really pushed it with an unintentional .37. I guess I’m one of the lucky ones, but I’m not going to press it anymore. For the time being I’m done with all things alcohol. Of course such a claim means nothing until I act on it. There are two 21st birthday parties I’m attending this weekend and then I should be able to prove myself to myself. All I’ll have to do to stay true is think of fucking oranges again. And who knows, maybe I’ll drop some weight while I’m at it.