2009 08 01 archive

Sunday, August 30, 2009

A Live Broadcast From The End Of The World

Back on the 14th of August, at 9 in the morning I opened up blogger and saved this post title. I really don’t know why; as far as I can remember nothing particularly bad happened that day. I just liked the title and decided to keep it without having anything in the way of a post saved. Now it’s about 2:30 in the afternoon, sixteen days later and as my (likely hungover) mother who just woke up walks back to her room in silence with a bowl of Frosted Maple & brown Sugar Mini Wheats it dawned on my how much has happened these past couple of weeks, and to a certain extent how little it all matters. I also caught a hint of that earlier when I caught my younger dog licking himself to a red rocket. Kids these days.

I’m convinced the people who draw the commercials for Trix yogurt are on acid. The ad was just on TV, and there were lollipop trees growing out of pink-purple and green breathmints floating in a velvet void. Only because children are its intended audience is something like that allowed on daytime TV; if it was targeted at young adults parents would cry it encourages them to drop acid and make love with everything in sight. Their two-weeks girlfriend, their sister, their loofa, everything. Don’t try it, not even once. Adults these days.
I know I grew quite a bit in college; it was my first time out on my own to any real extent (although not totally, my parents still paid my tuition) and I didn’t realize how much that independence meant until I lost it to live in a living room for two and a half months. My mother did that for four years and I’ll never know how she managed, but I gained a lot of respect for what she went through. And while I’m certainly more excited to go back now than I was to go for the first time, much like last year I don’t know what the future holds and I’m a little afraid of it. So much has happened around me and to me this summer. I am in an entierly different situation than I was this time last year and yet it’s been tinted with love, lust, and loneliness to such an extent that I find something of a brother in sheltered little me from a year ago. That being said, I need to get the fuck back home. And that home ain’t Rockville.* Six more days.
*How profound of me.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Jesus Christ It’s A Lion, Get In The Car!

It was at about 2 AM or so this morning when I first heard Ted Kennedy died. I was listening to music and talking to three friends on AIM (when I went to sleep I coincidentally dreamed that one of them died) when I glanced in the direction of the TV and actually said “holy shit” quite loudly. Not because I cared particularly about Kennedy, he’s just one of those people you never really think about dying. Like Michael Jackson.

I can say that in my heart, the death of Ted Kennedy is pretty much meaningless to me. Honestly, it is. I will grant him and his family, cancer is right up there with Alzheimer’s on the list of shitty ways to go, but fact of the matter is I didn’t know the man personally and I don’t really know anything about him politically. Ted Kennedy was and is just a name to me, a face on the TV talking about this legislation and that outrageous comment by a colleague.

Maybe because I came up in a different time where the Kennedy name is really just an almost mythological legacy, or a time when I’d sooner spit at the feet of a congressman than shake his hand given all they’ve done for this great nation. I don’t know, maybe both. People said he was a pretty okay guy and now they say he was a demigod, one of the last honarable men (read: people) in the U.S. government. Maybe when people stop kissing the ground the man walked on I can learn more about him. Michael Jackson’s stuff finally fell out of the Top 10 on iTunes, so if that’s any indication we’ve got at least a week of Kennedy worship ahead of us. Wake me when its done..

Saturday, August 22, 2009

Da Killin Gnatzi Bidness

It’s not ‘Inglorious Bastards’, it’s ‘Inglourious Basterds’–typical of any Quentin Tarantino film, normal expectations simply do not apply, and that even goes for the title. As you’ve probably heard, Lt. Aldo Raine (as played by Brad Pitt) is in da killin Gnatsi bidness, and bidness is a-boomin. Raine leads a squad of seven Jewish-American soldiers dropped into France whose job is to collect for their Lieutanant 100 Gnatsi scalps each. And he wants his scalps. Meanwhile, the charming feller you see to your right with the pipe is Col. Hans Landa of the SS, colorfully nicknamed the Jew Hunter. He hunts Jews. And then there’s Shoshanna Dreyfus, a French Jew caught in the middle of it all. You can probably see where this is going, and let me be the first to tell you that you’re positively wrong.

Without spoiling too much I can say that Inglourious Basterds is a damn long film. About two and a half hours. The dialogue is of course masterfully written but there are occasions where it just drags on unnecessarily well after the desired tension has been built. I enjoy it as much as the next guy, but sometimes your actors just have to shut the fuck up and shoot each other. And about the shooting, there isn’t much of it to be honest, but when blood does splatter it blankets the camera lens and, with a little help from the…dynamic soundtrack, conjures a mixed bag of emotions. Yes, even for Gnatsi scum sometimes you have to ask “was that really necessary?” Or maybe that’s exactly what the Gnatsis want us to think?

Austrian TV actor Christophe Waltz undoubtedly has the performance of the film as Col. Landa, possibly the best character Tarantino’s ever had and easily the most interesting Hollywood villain I’ve seen since Heath Ledger’s Joker a little more than a year ago. I really can’t heap enough praise on the character or the performance. He’s sharply dressed, intelligent, witty, friendly, can charm the panties off a nun–it’s then that I found myself liking a character called the Jew Hunter. What?? Landa dominates the scenes he’s in from the very opening of the film straight through to the laughably unpredictable ending, and I do mean laughably unpredictable in the best possible way.

Like Tarantino’s masterpiece ‘Pulp Fiction’, ‘Inglourious Basterds’ isn’t a movie you can watch once and catch everything in that one viewing. Pop culture and film references aside the characters and situations are so nuansced (and the dialogue so fucking long) that you can’t possibly fully appreciate the film having seen it only once. I can tell you that minor shortfalls aside it was a damn entertaining ride through a outrageous, unabashedlyover-the-top alternate history of 1940’s France. It was funny, tense, thrilling, surprising, and honestly at times it struck me as disgusting. It’s a movie you simply have to see at some point.

Thursday, August 20, 2009


Hello, my name is Orhan Kahn and today we are going to discuss black people. Born a Muslim and raised a Christian, that’s pretty much my life resume in one sentence. When it comes to black people, well, their life resumes usually go along the lines of century’s of slavery then suddenly President of the free world. Our dear friend Woozie is only my second major contact with the world of black people and even then it really is a flawed science. For example, my ex-fiance was black woman, but she was Indian and we all know Indian blacks aren’t classed as blacks but as brown-to-the-max. Then you have Woozie here, who is more British and French than he is American or African. And while I love him for his unique clusterfuck of nationalities (seriously, what kind of black man quotes The Beatles as if it were scripture?) I am often mislead by his middle class persona that has me calling lesser types niggers and expecting them to just deal with it. Apparently that isn’t how society works. Nonetheless, if I could call anyone a good friend, even with such a great distance between us, I would and do consider him a brother. I’ve seen the little negro leave home and enter university and return home and lose his fucking mind. Which brings me to ACT II.

When Woozie returned home to his mothers abode two months ago I shrugged off the significance of the trip for two reasons, I was embroiled in a drug relapse and I had no idea summer holidays for American folk went for, well, the entire summer. That shit is bananas. You get six weeks here in Australia, and free medical attention. We also don’t have school shootings, but hey, that’s a whole other post. Anyways. So, while I was dealing with a massive amount of drugs in my system and the drama that was surrounding my own life I didn’t really spare a thought for our dearest Woozie. Then I sobered up, pushed aside most of the drama and sat down with him…and my God, is this guy a fucking drama queen magnet or what! About a year ago I told him that he is a good person who can be treated easily as a social sponge in times of need, so to be careful of who he lends himself out to. In his own words, “Orhan Kahn, you were right.” Normally that would give my ego an erection so large that my own body couldn’t contain it, but with Woozie I never felt that erection, as much as he would’ve liked. Which brings me to the glorious ACT III.

This poor young man has been cooped up in his mothers home for the most part of the ballsack-stuck-to-your-thigh summer where his only form of intellectual stimulation has come from me challenging his blackness against his gayness. Alongside that he has had to deal with falling in love with someone who doesn’t love him back the way he would like (and no, I’m not talking about me, even though I’d marry the fucker in a second if I wasn’t so jealous about his dick size). Also, there is his grandmother who has made his nearby walking space her own personal toilet due to dementia – which I somehow made him cry about. No, I’m not sorry. Then we have a set of bike tires he can’t inflate, a pull out sofa bed that is made of fail, no privacy to jack off whenever he pleases, no way of getting wasted due to his mothers selection of plastic bottled booze, the 12lbs he has gained and the bullshit matter of people turning to him at the worst possible times in their lives. Personally I think he is making it all up, but the same could be said about me and that time I called his brother a nigger and survived. Thank God for the Pacific Ocean.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009


Hello, my name is Orhan Kahn and today I am going to discuss gay marriage. Now see here’s the thing, nobody actually hates gay people they just have it in their heads that the entire community of gays and lesbians (is that a gaggle of gays?) is having a whole lot more fun than the various groups of heterosexual folk. The fact of the matter is that they’re not, they have domestic violence, STI’s, STD’s, drug problems and Barbra Streisand. So it boggles the mind that they want in on this whole marriage scam. Yeah, I get the whole equality thing and no I’m not against gay marriage but I will propose a scenario on how I see this whole situation: if a gay man were to walk into a casino full of heterosexual people who are only their to lose half their life with almost every roll of the dice with children running around them in random circles why in his right mind would he ask to have in on that action? This was the very first thought of mine when the whole issue of gay rights came to the surface in my teenage years. And trust me, I have a very personal relationship with homophobia especially since most of my high school friends thought I was gay and commented on their assumption regularly, for the lulz. Which is what I initially thought gay marriage was a, y’know, lets get married in Vegas sort of thing. It is now the year 2009 and the whole issue has become a sorry mess on both sides of the fence.

You have the heterosexual’s who still continue to call themselves straight, even though they get caught cheating, spreading sexual disease and creating bastard children as regular as clockwork. The very same people that have made divorce a true art form; dividing assets and children like it were a broken Jenga tower. There is no fucking way they can be taken as serious as they want to be considering the level of faggotry they appear to inflict on themselves as a result of not knowing the true definition of marriage. Then there is the gaggle of gays (fuck it, I’m going with it) who for whatever crazy reason want to be married and call it a marriage. None of this segregated civil union bullshit, which I must admit is more appealing than marriage. Recently I was invited to a wedding and made a groomsman without actually being asked. So, naturally I didn’t bother showing up. I hate weddings and the idea of marriage and so should gay people. It is a cheap and far too versatile symbol of loyalty and companionship in the eyes of the Lord Jesus Christ law. Marriage is a quote out of context and should be treated as one at all times.

Homophobia is no laughing matter, even though I make homophobic comments all the time. But I say it around gay people that know I love them for their unique lifestyle. Just like I love Chinese people for Kung Pow Chicken. Though every once in a while someone will catch me out and I will see my sexist, racist, misogynistic and homophobic comments the way they’re meant to be seen. The matter of gay marriage and civil union is to me what the war on drugs is to a Mormon, not easily understood. Then again, I am the type of person who has beer for breakfast (it had a third of the carbs so as far as I’m concerned it was food) with his morning coffee. I’m a young man who has sex, ejaculates and then continues to push a half erect penis into a mostly confused vagina because “fuck science, that’s why!” I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m a perfect example of a heterosexual who shouldn’t be married but will most likely end up in a trailer park somewhere in Ohio filling it to the brim with as many demon spawn I can get out of the poor young woman I will call my wife.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

See No Future

Perhaps this is part of growing up but it never ceases to amaze me how a stable situation can descend into chaos so unexpectedly and so quickly. I won’t bore you or stress myself with the details but just know that a figurative car bomb has gone off in the lives of a handful of a couple of people I hold close to my heart. One in particular, one I’m trying my hardest to get over because that’s for the best, and one who should come crying to me when the one he thought he loved unexpectedly broke his heart via text message. (Yes, a text message.) One thing I’ve found myself saying over and over again almost ever since I met him, “Nothing is ever easy with that boy.”

Him and the rest of my ailing company are so far away though, there’s really only so much I or anyone else can do. It’s times like these you just want to give someone a hug and tell their emotionally fucked mind the reasonable truth that everything will be alright, and despite how bad things seem there is a happier happiness out there for us all. I said it for him just as much as I said it for anyone else including myself, only problem is I don’t know if anyone took it to heart. I should be thankful that I’m avoiding the same miserable pitfalls my friends have fallen into, but damn I am tired.

Twenty-four days.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

But Will Obama Cure My Over-Stretched Sphincter?

Seems people in America can’t shut the fuck up about health care these days, and for good reason. America’s the only industrialized nation without some form of widely available socialized (yes I said socialized, no that does not mean I’m a Soviet agent) health care system, and the privatized one we currently have is a pile of shit for most people. Premiums are suffocatingly expensive, and maybe if we found a way to lower those then people living in shacks in the mountains with unstable mindsets, a plastic vagina collection, and internet access could get the help they need instead of trolling the blogs of people several decades younger than them. Every day some senator somewhere hosts a “town hall” where they pretend to listen to the gripes of their constituents for a little bit, and laugh at the occasional riley audience member who has to be escorted out by the police.

Speaking of people who need to be escorted out by the police, Sarah Palin has reared her cancerous head yet again to chime in on the current health care shitstorm. Earlier, on her official facebook page, she claimed that Obamacare contains plans for “death panels” packed with “his bureaucrats [who] decide, based on a subjective judgment of their ‘level of productivity in society,’ whether [people] are worthy of health care.” In a vain attempt to inspire her defective base to action, she said ‘the America she knows and loves’ wouldn’t submit to Obama’s health care Gestapo that would almost certainly sentence people like her grandparents or her Down Syndrome baby to death by refusing coverage. What Palin fails to realize because of her moderate affluence and massive stupidity, however, is that such death panels already exist. Every day health insurance companies measure whether or not it’s beneficial to their bottom line to pay for someone’s operation. And if it’s too expensive your mother to get that liver transplant she needs, Blue Cross Blue Shield might send you some nice flowers in condolence if you’re lucky. So long as they don’t lose money on the blue dye for the roses.

But the Obama administration, internet-savvy motherfuckers they are, remain a step ahead of Sarah Palin and her army of sociopolitical rejects. The administration wants you the people to help cut through all the bullshit, all the lies and half-truths perpetrated by opponents of Obama’s will by forwarding anything that “seems fishy” to flag@whitehouse.gov. Before you go and report your Republican neighbors to the Thought Police though, bear in mind that in addition to their contact info the administration will also get yours. If the endless texts sent to those of us who wanted to know who his VP pick was as well as the usual Constitutional fidelity of the Office of the President are any indication, the White House will take their own liberties with yours after they’re done with your fellow Americans. Gruppenf hrer M ller would no doubt see shades of himself in Obama today.

Sunday, August 9, 2009

Quality Control

Being a child of 4chan there’s admittedly not much that can truly trouble, upset, or offend me out there. 1 Guy 1 Cup was funny. Tubgirl was an impressive feat in anal control. There are people who make fun of the recently dead, there’s people who venture into North Korea alone and leave with a woman on each arm (okay that’s pretty gangsta), but then there are people that make even a people like me take a step back and say “Why do you do these things?” Leave it to the Australians.

There are times where you have to wonder where and how things failed so spectacularly. Nero, Nazi Germany, Enron, and CNN Shirts are all good examples. One day not so long ago the writing staff of ABC’s (Australian Broadcasting Corporation) The Chaser’s War On Everything (like The Daily Show but with more sketches and less funny, most famous for sneaking an Osama Bin Laden doppleganger into an international conference) sat down in their brainstorming session, and one of them said ‘Hey guys, I have this great idea–let’s make fun of dying children.’ And thus, the Make-A-Realistic-Wish Foundation was born. The premise goes that children with leukemia wanting to go to Disneyworld is too impractical, so instead they’re given a pencil case. “Why go to any trouble, when they’re only going to die anyway?”

Somewhat needless to say a sketch ridiculing children saddled with terminal illnesses for wanting to meet their heroes or go on fantastic vacations from a drab hospital bed didn’t rub off so well on the public. Or maybe we’re supposed to laugh at the adults who go through so much to bring a little joy into a child’s otherwise miserable existence? Either way, the failure of someone on the staff to say ‘Hey guys, we could get very fired for this’ led to just that, and more. Aussieland’s Mandarin-speaking, rather liberal PM even said in a press conference, “having a go at kids with a terminal illness is really beyond the pale, absolutely beyond the pale. These guys collectively should get up and hang their heads in shame, it’s just wrong.”

“We’re a comedy show; sometimes we’re amazed at what offends people,” is what one of the Chaser staff said back when he still had a job. Whether or not that quote was taken out of context by the news channel, as a comedian with a job to keep on a station funded by the government, it’s in his own interest to know what will and will not offend people. Clearly he couldn’t figure this out on his own without a nation of pissed off parents yelling at his superiors to fire everyone on the show first.

Thursday, August 6, 2009

Hanged In Rags

If I ever saw someone wearing a shirt emblazoned with “Rare waterspout seen off Alaska–I just saw it on CNN.com” I would break their arms and then piss in the wounds created by their jutting bones. It just baffles me as to why someone would wear a shirt with a news headline on it. Like anyone gives a shit about some Alaskan waterspout or that you watched it online. And the “I just saw it on CNN.com” part becomes kind of silly when that shirt arrives in the mail five business days later and the link to the story is probably gone, made way for more stupid and redundant commentary or report cards on Obama’s third, fourth, fifth, and sixth 100 Days.

In their FAQ section (yes, people have frequently asked questions about shirts), there is the following gem: “I took my CNN Shirt on vacation, and I have great pictures. Where can I send them?” Well, aside from your various aunts, uncles, and cousins who surely don’t give a fuck about your vacation pictures that only remind them of how poor they are, the good folks at CNN have a CNN Shirt photo archive. Pages upon pages of CNN having aimless people show off their stupid network swag, primarily for CNN’s personal gain. It’s corporate camwhoring, except they never show their cock. And those are the worst kinds of camwhores.

The shirts are available with any headline the CNN editors thought fit to go on a shirt dating back to April when they first started offering this idiocy. The shirt with your favorite funny, intriguing, deep, of just plain quirky headline on it will run you $15, although if you really want to wear such shit you can go to the dog park around midday and smear your neighbor’s lab’s breakfast all over your chest for free.

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

Brain Damaged

One social fad I never understood was that abortion of a show Jon & Kate Plus 8. And I really do mean it when I compare the show to an abortion: I watched just one episode and when they spent half an hour doting on a girl’s room being painted pink and the ten of them plus camera crew driving on a beach I wondered why the TLC executives don’t fully flesh out ideas for shows before passing off what they found in the eye of their cock as a flagship program. At least other reality programs have drama: assholes, love triangles, alcohol, that sort of stuff. This shit had none of that.

Not only is it boredom incarnate, it’s a manipulative, greedy, destructive, lecherous excuse for a reality show. At least on other showcases of humanity at its finest, everyone consents to being made into an ass on international television. Under normal circumstances the consent of the parents to have their kids on TV would be enough but there is no doubt in my mind these shining examples of parenthood are willfully and shamelessly exploiting their eight children to make a cool couple million off of the easily-entertained retarded masses.

Words cannot express how much of a waste I think this show is. You should have seen the veins bursting in my face when I found out it’s nothing new and Jon & Kate Plus 8 is actually in its fifth season. It’s fifth season! What the hell is wrong with this country? I suppose I can find pride in avoiding such shame for such a long time, but now that it’s caught up with me–well, I can’t say I’m beside myself, it’s just that rarely does such a show come along that so genuinely displays slimy, shit-suckling excuses for people behaving at their absolute most selfish (in such a dull fashion, too) to rave reviews and ratings. At least the triumphant return of their bullshit circus act suffered a 61% drop in ratings. Maybe instant karma got the jackasses good.

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Krusty Krab

It must be stories like this that make people hate Americans. Not hate America; that’s done easily enough by foreign policy allowing the world police to kick in everyone else’s front door and fuck shit up in the name of freedom. But reading that a vast majority of American children don’t have enough Vitamin D in their bodies, now that’s something.

Vitamin D is everywhere. It’s in the milk you drink, the eggs you eat, the fish you have for dinner, the multivitamins you take, it’s even in the fucking sunlight. Yes, spending 15 minutes or so in the sun a day–the equivalent of walking to 7-Eleven and back for a bag of Cheetos and a pack of cigarettes–will make your body produce a healthy amount of Vitamin D.

I’ve had sand in my vagina ever since getting back to Rockville two magical months ago, but seriously, what the hell? I am no prime model of physical fitness. I’ve even put on 12 pounds! But even if I don’t find myself out and about I find the time in my busy, busy schedule of reading, gaming, and boredom to pop a Centrum a day. You barely have to get up and ruin that bed sore you’ve been working on to take one, and a bottle of 100 pills isn’t much more than $10. I’d think it was a small price to pay for avoiding brittle bones and heart disease–a bike ride is even cheaper–but how can 60% of parents be wrong? Bones are but crutches of the liberal elite; real men hold their bodies together with duct tape and sheer willpower. Idiots.

Sunday, August 2, 2009

Lee Harvey Oswald’s Best Friend

Eric Hansen was a sophomore at OU, living in a hall not too far from me. I didn’t know him at all, but on April 28th he did some shrooms with a friend/supplier (at least this once) and wound up falling out of his 4th floor window to his death. The friend, James Wagers, was recently charged with manslaughter. The authorities contend that if it weren’t for the mushrooms Hansen would still be alive. If Wagers is convicted of that along with the drug charges he could spend up to 11 years in prison. And while all that is well and good, what I want to know is when is someone going to do something about these damn windows?

Saturday, August 1, 2009

Absolute Anal Blast Destruction/Ask A Black Dude

Today I went and saw Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. It took every ounce of self-control to keep from whispering loudly, just as the movie started, “Snape Kills Dumbledore”. Bearing in mind I have not read any of the books save for the first, I enjoyed it–particularly all the great That’s What She Said moments. (‘Harry, you’re my friend, but..sometimes you can be really thick’). Then Tyler and I had dinner and talked a lot about sex, relationship woes, and drugs. Lots and lots of drugs. All in all a good day, for once.

So as Omar dutifully pointed out, my darling mother kinda knocked the shit out of the scheduled Ask A Black Dude for yesterday. I completely forgot about it until he mentioned it, so here we go. For any new people, the premise of these posts is you ask me any question about anything you want in the comments and I’ll answer them. Yes, you can ask for my address and phone number but no you will not be receiving an answer to such inquiries.

We Apologize

For this temporary interruption in service. Expect AABD this evening.