Daltonius is Wrong and He Sucks

A Tale of Redemption and the Triumph of the Human Spirit

2009-01-09T11:02:00.000-08:00

Allow me to impart an age old tale of wisdom upon you. This story has taken many forms, and the version I am about to tell has been adapted to a modern setting. Nonetheless, the message remains the same.

A young man was driving through the famously convoluted streets of San Francisco, trying to find the freeway. He and his one passenger, a friend of his, had grown quite weary in the process. Eventually he came upon a sign that pointed him towards an on ramp, which he almost missed because there was a large shrub growing in front of it.

In frustration, the young wayward soul did proclaim, "Somebody oughta tell the feminists who run this town to shave back that bush!"

To which his friend replied, "You are truly an awful person."

And you know what? The person who was driving that car on that fateful day... was me.

THE END

....

But really now, was that so bad? I mean, on the scale of awfulness, what I said couldn't have been too terrible, right? Imagine what Hitler would have said if he was driving down the street and saw a Jewish guy standing in front of that sign. That's right, he would probably have told a very crude and lowbrow holocaust joke! Terrible.

You see? Hitler... now there's a nasty guy. I'm certainly not as bad as he was.

Look, I'm a class act all the way. Everything about me just reeks of good taste. Example: When I pee in the shower, I always take care not to hit any of my roommates shampoo bottles or bars of soap. Admittedly, if I happen to be jerkin' the gerkin' in the same setting, I have considerably less control over where the ordinance lands. But really, that's just nature. And nature is beautiful. Case closed.

See, right there I could have made a joke about misguided ordinance in Iraq, but I didn't. Actually, I did, but then I erased it and wrote this instead.

Harvard Study Shows 85% of Individuals Who Arbitrarily Refer to People as "That Fool" Are Actually Fools Themselves

2008-12-10T01:39:00.000-08:00

A recent study from Harvard's Behavioral Science department indicates that as many as 85.6% of individuals who frequently refer to friends and acquaintances arbitrarily as "that fool" are actually fools themselves. The study, which involved a group of participants aged between 18 and 25, recorded test subjects in daily conversation and found that those who made statements such as "Look at that fool's new haircut," and "That fool is stopping for gas" suffer from significant mental impairment.

"Science is rarely so ironic," said researcher Dr. Dale Bennings, "But all the evidence is there."

The news seems to confirm what was once thought to be mere conventional wisdom in the past. Precursors to this newly confirmed scientific fact can be traced as far back as 1977, when Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi asked audiences in the blockbuster film, Star Wars, "Who's the more foolish? The fool, or the twenty-something year old dumb ass who randomly refers to people as fools with no apparent justification?"

Similar research suggests that a correlation also exists between the presence of extra chromosomes and the use of "fuckin'..." followed by a long pause in the middle of sentences.

What is Poetry? (A Poem)

2008-12-09T15:26:00.000-08:00

Poetry is...

Poetry... is...

....Poetry is-

Poetry! Is...

... is poetry?

Poetry,
is
Poetry...
...is

Poe,
...et.

tree is!

Puh
OH!!!
Et-tuh-tuh-tuh-tatatatatatatatat

tree is...

p
o
e
t
r
y
is

FUCK

Android Cubical Slacker: 2048

2008-10-07T06:33:00.000-07:00

Current Status: Green

Current Directive: updating client data spreadsheet.
Completion at 63%
Priority Level: Low

Searching for higher priority Directives....
Not found.

Considering transfer to Yellow status.
Beginnning analysis...
Manager status: working from home.
Assistant manager status: present in office.
Exact Location: Unknown.
Scanning immediate cubical perimeter
One coworker detected. Scanning...
Relative paygrade: equal.
Conclusion: Code yellow tenable.

Moving to code yellow. Activating code yellow protocols.
Web Soduku activated. Difficulty level: medium.

China's Great Wall No Longer a Useful Military Asset, UN Report States

2008-05-22T00:38:00.000-07:00

A UN report describing the defensive abilities of the world's most powerful nations contained startling news regarding the feasibility of China's Great Wall as a defensive asset against hostile militaries.

"In 500 BC, the wall probably provided at least some tactical defensive advantage to China," said Marvin Bates, the UN's chief world military analyst, "however, in the face of modern technology, the relevance of the Great Wall as a defensive measure has become severely limited."

Such hi-tech military equipment includes airplanes and cruise missiles, which can utilize their flying abilities to pass several miles above the wall, as well as modern high explosives, which can breach the wall by releasing massive bursts of destructive kinetic energy. Bulldozers, powered by today's internal combustion engines, could also potentially demolish large sections of the ancient barrier, allowing invading armies to pass through with impunity.

"I'm just going to say it: At this point, I don't know what the Mongols are waiting for. At the risk of sounding unprofessional, that wall doesn't mean jack shit anymore." added Bates.

The Chinese government was quick to respond to these reports. Sun Wang, China's Minister of Defense, had this to say: "These reports are highry dubious at best. China is stronger than ever. The grorious people's Army has tested the warr's stabirity, and we can say that it is without a doubt as sturdy as ever."

This statement was made in reference to the Chinese government's recent heavily publicized "stability demonstration," in which Chinese troops hurled spears and shot arrows at the wall, even going so far as to smash several sections with a large wooden battering ram. Minister Wang is even seen in the video footage hitting a large sword against the side of the wall, grinning, and adding "See? Stirr standing!"

Even so, as what the Chinese claim is merely a precautionary measure, a number of upgrades are planned for the wall in the near future. "We are in fact just beginning to make severar improvements to the Great Warr. We wirr be adding an additionar four feet of height and pracing sharpened bamboo spikes arong the top to further hinder the penetration of grorious China's most grorious barrier. Enemies may arso shudder in terror at how many of these spikes wirr be impaled with our most outspoken poriticar dissidents, reast efficient factory workers, and naughtiest schoor chirdren. See you arr at the 2008 Orympics!"

The neighboring Mongolian government could not be reached for comment, presumably due to their rumored preoccupation with the breeding of extremely high jumping horses.

Conflicts Re-Escalate with Penistani Insurgence into Vaginia

2008-04-19T10:52:00.000-07:00

Labianopolis, Vaginia- The furtive peace that existed between the states of Penistan and Vaginia collapsed last night as Penistani insurgents penetrated deep into Vaginese territory. Vaginia's halt of all tomato juice exports, a resource that held considerable sway in keeping the Penistani military out Vaginian affairs, reignited the violent struggle between the two nations which has raged intermittently over the last few months.

The Penistani government openly condemned the attacks, saying that the invasion is the product of rogue Penistani militants who "just keep getting caught up in the moment," and "aren't really thinking through their decisions." Militia leaders, based in the Penistani region of Ballsra, share a different sentiment. "Tactically speaking, we saw the opportunity and knew it wouldn't last forever. They had their borders open and were pretty much saying, 'come on in.' The UN may condemn our decision, but how could what felt so right be so wrong?"

The invasion was swift and decisive, beginning with a hard surge through the tactically weak Pink Canyon, which exists just on the Vaginese border and is known for its distinctive reddish limestone rock formations. After some brief "shock and awe" tactics were employed, generally involving the consistent advance and withdrawal of what Penistan considers to be some rather impressive military equipment, literally millions of troops were suddenly and abruptly unloaded into the country.

The massive invading hordes pressed upward through the harsh and bitter terrain that surrounds the outskirts of the nation. In spite of amazingly stacked odds against them, sheer numbers ultimately drove the ground forces to success. Furthermore, after a brief respite from the insurgence, the Penistanis instigated a gratuitous second and slightly-longer-lasting invasion campaign involving the exact same tactics once again, though with significantly diminished troop numbers.

Vaginese citizens and government officials expressed dismay at how briefly the invasion process lasted. "Things ended way to soon. We were hoping for a war with some endurance, instead we got weeks of Penistani posturing and a couple days of actual fight. Penistan may be proud of itself, but we're pretty unsatisfied." said Admiral Fallopia, commander of the Vaginian navy.

While the UN remains indecisive regarding the advance of Penistani troops in Vaginia, the organization expresses growing concern over the possibility of further troop movements into Vaginia's northern neighbor, Uteropia.

Mexican College Student Secretly Resents White Roommate's Mexican Jokes

2008-04-12T14:11:00.001-07:00

Santa Cruz, California- Paco Hernandez Escobar Honda Del Sol, a Chicano college student attending the local university, secretly resents his Caucasian roommate's consistent telling of hilarious Mexican jokes. "Cliff always makes some reference to me eating 'tacos y burritos' and then says something lame about how he just likes to tell those jokes because they're 'so wrong' and 'tacky' to cover his ass." says Hernandez. "What an asshole."

Roommate and white guy Cliff Biffworthy remains blissfully ignorant of Hernandez' true sentiment. "Paco understands, or should I say, 'comprendos' that it's just part of my sense of humor. If it's funny it's funny. I mean, both of us know I'm anything but racist," says Biffworthy, "When we're between classes or, in the case of Paco, taking a break from sitting around outside Home Depot, my comedic know-how helps us both relieve stress."

In spite of this subtle yet substantial tension, the two not only remain roommates, but spend a fair amount of time together as well. According to Hernandez, Cliff plays an excellent roll in motivating him to stay in shape. "We went to the gym the other day, and while I was running on the treadmill, Cliff came over and turned up the speed. He said I'd have to push myself harder if I wanted to be a contender in that big 'T.J. to San Diego marathon' that 'us Mexicans' apparently always compete in." says Hernandez, "Douche bag." he added.

In spite of this, Biffworthy insists that Paco "loves" him. "Nothing gay though, we're talking pure platonics here." says Biffworthy, "I showed my appreciation of our friendship with a special picture I made with Microsoft Paint for his birthday. He thought it was great."

"That picture is an affront to my culture and my heritage. Fuck that guy." says Hernandez.

Goodyear Blimp Diagnosed with Anorexia

2008-04-10T20:29:00.000-07:00

Goodyear officials announced in a press conference yesterday that their beloved blimp has been diagnosed with anorexia. "Our suspicions arose about two months ago, when we noticed that the blimp's structural ribbing was showing much more prominently than usual. It's all gone downhill since," said Goodyear press representative Jim Hatfield.

Many experts blame the portrayal of unrealistically thin airframes on television and in magazines for the recent spike in flying machine eating disorders. "Just look at the once-glamorous and startlingly slim supersonic Concorde airliner," said leading medical expert Sarah McArthur, "that is one waft-like airplane, to an extent that's just unhealthy. They grounded that jet for a reason."

Additionally, TV coverage of the lithe and slender fighter jets utilized by Coalition forces in Iraq and Afghanistan have also lead some of the chunkier aircraft to develop body-image issues. "When you look at what's on the runway today, the name of the game seems to be thin and angular. Just look at the tiny airframe on the F-22 Raptor. No wonder it doesn't show up on enemy radar." says McArthur.

Even in the face of its popularity, not all flight enthusiasts are "in" to "thin." "When I'm experiencing turbulence, I like a little something I can grab on to, you know?" states frequent flier Michael Donovan. "Say what you will about the glories of being thin, but I know what puts my tray table in its upright and locked position."

Some major manufacturers are releasing new models that seem to defy the slim paradigm, like Boeing with its "more-to-love" 787 Dreamliner and Airbus' "voluptuous" A-380.

Even so, the plight of the Goodyear Blimp endures. "We all think Goody B. is beautiful just the way it is," says Hatfield, "but when that blimp looks at itself in a mirror, it sees an enormous, bloated, and cumbersome aircraft that requires an immense gasbag just to haul around a tiny 8 seat compartment. These notions are clearly all a matter of negative body image, and reflect nothing of reality."

The Goodyear blimp could not be reached for comment, as it was locked in the bathroom purging large amounts of helium into the atmosphere.

Major Recall In Effect After Lead Products Found to Contain Toys

2008-04-08T20:23:00.000-07:00

Cosolidated Ore, a leading producer of lead and other heavy metal based products, today announced a complete recall due to the discovery of unsafe toy levels within their metal. Lead-based items laced with the contaminant, all of which were produced at outsourced facilities in China, include car batteries, bullets, fish sinkers, and radiation shielding equipment commonly used by radiologists and haz-mat workers.

“Consolidated Ore is working around the clock to rectify this situation, and we are prepared to accept full responsibility for any fun-related health issues suffered by the public either now or in the future,” said company press representative Sheila Meyers in a statement made yesterday, “Also, you can rest assured we will be rethinking our relationship with our Chinese contractors.”

Exposure to toys, a product commonly utilized by children, may cause adults to experience inappropriate joy, gaiety, childlike hyperactivity, and in cases of heavy exposure, nostalgia comas. Furthermore, children who come into contact with the toy-tainted products often believe that their parents are treating them to goodies outside of birthdays and Christmas, leading to a degenerative condition that turns kids into spoiled little shits.

While industry analysts predict that Consolidated Ore may lose millions of dollars in related lawsuits, the impact on the consumer has proven itself to be quite serious as well. “This is unacceptable,” said Dr. Franklin Higgins, a hospital radiologist. “My livelihood and personal health are both at stake here. Just the other day an entire shipment of lead-lined x-ray vests came in, except half the order turned out to be made from stitched-together Easy-Bake Oven mitts. Does Consolidated even understand the consequences of prolonged x-ray exposure?”

“I was late for work because my new car battery was full of Pokemon.” said Bill Hasborough, motorist.

Even the war on terror has been negatively affected. “I was on a routine patrol last week, manning the 80cal [machine gun] on the leading vehicle, when our convoy was ambushed by insurgents packing RPGs.” said Private Jackson Cole, who is currently on his third tour in Iraq, “I returned fire, hoping to pump those bastards full of lead, but was surprised to find myself pelting the enemy with foam NERF darts instead. It was really embarrassing.”

Fortunately for Cole and his convoy, the insurgents, being children themselves, reacted by jumping up and down excitedly, snatching up the foam darts as quickly as possible, and running home to play with them.

CyberHippie: A CyberPunk Short Story

2008-03-10T16:18:00.000-07:00

All of the following 3v3nts actually happ3n3d in r3al lif3.
This whol3 thing is compl3t3ly tru3.
...
The y3ar is 2033.

Santa Cruz, California

Jackson "StarKrystal" Horner cranked up the Pink Floyd, took another bong rip, stuffed a handful of organic Cheetos into his mouth, and plugged the USB 4.0 Cerebral I/O cable into the neural jack behind his ear. He struck the space bar on his Apple JobsBook and his vision became laced momentarily with half-loaded graphical images. A few seconds later, his computer's neural interface had fully overridden all of his sensory organs, and was piping into his head a metaphorical virtual reality construct of what is known today as the internet.

It was, as always, glorious. StarKrystal found himself standing on a street whose bold lighting and epic hustle made Times Square look like an alleyway between the Saloon and General Store in some 1930's depression era cow town. An international throng of people speaking dozens of languages scurried about. Out of nowhere a busty platinum blonde "accidentally" bumped a particularly explicit portion of her anatomy against him (right, her breasts) and blinked flirtingly in his direction. StarKrystal considered this poorly veiled solicitation, but then remembered how the last one of these he met turned out to be a 52 year old male day-trader in Hong Kong.

He could easily have hailed a Google HoverCab, which acted as a vehicular metaphor for their world-famous search engine, but instead opted to fly, which was of course an effective option as long as one knew where one was going, which was the case for StarKrystal. He donned his Neo sunglasses, a digitally rendered throwback to an old movie from the late '90's which still maintained a cult following, and shot up into the air at a speed that only a university sponsored high bandwidth quantum cable connection can provide.

Within milliseconds he arrived at his destination, though he had set his interface to simulate a longer, 60 second sequence of thrilling flight, just so he could feel badass. That destination was RoboCheLives.com.

RoboCheLives.com was represented by a large, feral looking barn at the edge of a woods that appeared to have been converted into a house and then finally some kind of half-baked laboratory. The smell of pot and body odor, beautifully rendered in virtual zeros and ones, wafted gently from the windows. An ultimately pointless and preachy garden of digital organic vegetables and marijuana grew in a small patch out front, while a group of fruit picker robots had formed a picket line in front of it, rebelling against the oppressive technicians who crossed the border from Mexico illegally every season to manage them. Flanking both sides of the barn's main door were two massive tapestries, each adorned with that iconic picture of Che Guevara seen on so many tee-shirts throughout the ages, except this time with a cybernetic glowing green robot eye.

StarKrystal walked in and saw that the forum was already well underway. Other revolutionaries such as himself were present, seated in the small circular amphitheater that had been constructed within the barn. At the stage in the center was a holographic projection of what appeared to be design schematics for a robot, next to a table baring some object hidden under a towel.

"It is at this point in our forum discussion," said the man of the hour, CHEwOnBush, the lead scientist and UC Santa Cruz biology alumnus behind the project, "That I present to you, the fully functional brain of Che Guevarra!" And with unfathomably cliche gusto, CHEwOnBush whipped the veil off the object, revealing what was indeed a human brain floating in a solution. There was even a cute little hammer and sickle tattooed just left of the frontal lobe.

The revolutionaries of RobotCheLives gasped in awe and then threw themselves into discussion. Emoticons flew haphazardly through the barn. One of them, taking the form of an ejaculating penis, nearly splooged in StarKrystal's face before it flew out a nearby window and evaporated in a poof of machine language as a moderator deleted it.

"Where did you find the genetic material needed to clone the brain?" asked DieByMyHandDubyaIV.

"That is an interesting question, with an interesting answer." said CHEwOnBush. "I was at the Fidel Castro Museum in Havana, there to learn more of the famous friendship shared between Castro and Che. I came upon a glass display case containing a mannequin that was wearing one of Fidel's original uniforms from the sixties and seventies, and noticed something peculiar: there was a small stain just to the left of the uniform's crotch. I had a hunch like none other before, so than night, I snuck back in and tried to bribe the guards and cleaning staff with a local delicacy, 'tacos y burritos.' Perhaps you've heard of them." The crowd chuckled at this. "At first they were pretty indignant, telling me I was an ignorant piece of crap and that tacos y burritos weren't even Cuban food. But soon the fact that they were starving to death for our righteous communist cause lead them to accept my offer, and I was allowed to take some scrapings from the portion of the uniform in question.

"My hunch was correct. The mysterious stain on Castro's pants did in fact contain a bountiful amount of Che Guevarra's genetic code. I honestly cannot account for this, but at least we have results: the revitalized mind of a revolutionary."

This story, of course, led to further discussion and the spawning of more inappropriate emoticons. Many people speculated as to what the reborn Guevara would be able to do for the cause.

"Maybe RoboChe will finally be able to repeal NAFTA with his shoulder mounted plasma torch!" speculated PinkoPete6969.

"We never actually acquired the necessary budget for the plasma torch-" said CHEwOnBush, trying to speak over the virtual din of excited chatter.

"Will he have conservative radio talk show jamming equipment?" asked FuQRepubliKKKanz.

"Well, actually, he..." The scientist could barely get a word in edgewise.

"I bet his super-human robot dexterity will make him especially proficient at turning American flags upside down!" shouted GivePeaceAJoint.

"Yeah, and his flamethrower could burn them in seconds!" said LookEveryoneImAMilitantHomosexual.

"Hold up, everyone, hold up." said CHEwOnBush, finally managing to calm the crowd down a bit. "As you know, the project was only 15% complete when my laboratory ran out of money. Unfortunately, funding it through the donations of interested individuals was not sufficient. So my colleagues and I were ultimately forced to turn to..." CHEwOnBush steeled himself for a moment before uttering the following words, "corporate and government sponsorship."

"The corporations?! That's bullshit! The fucking corporations, man! Unbelievable!" someone shouted.

"The corporations killed my auntie with their SuperSize For a Dollar Initiative, and the government impounded my van!"

"Four more years of Bush? Fuck that shit, man!" remarked somebody who happened to be having an acid flashback to 2004.

StarKrystal finally stood up and said his peace. "This goes against everything Che stood for. Everything. In fact, this doesn't just go against what the man himself believed; the very idea of implanting the cloned human brain of a dead man into a robot via the means of corporate and government sponsorship constitutes a total abomination of nature!"

"Hey folks, we had to get this paid for somehow." said CHEwOnBush in as reasoning a tone as he could muster, "It may be 2033, but rebuilding the mind of a man who's been dead for well over half a century and putting it in a robot still ain't cheap. Yes, we did have to compromise a few of the originally planned features; we won't be seeing a body odor generator or a Cannabis Cultivation Pod, nor will RoboChe be able to project that iconic picture of himself into the sky, forming the Che Signal. But his mind will be fully funtional, and he'll have a digital vocoder so that he can speak and mobilize the people, not to mention the physical strength of twelve men."

The crowd's response generally ranged between begrudged murmuring and a few remaining raised voices of discontent. The pervading consensus was that they'd just have to sacrifice some integrity if RoboChe was ever to become a reality.

Even so, StarKrystal still wasn't satisfied. To hell with the awesome advances in science that this accomplishment entailed, what about the project's image? The robot schematic wasn't even wearing the metal beret that they'd planned for earlier, it lacked the much-anticipated scruffy steel wool facial hair, and now that the body odor generator was out, it wasn't even going to smell like it had been hiding in the jungle for four months. And worst of all, what was Che going to think once he found out that his rebirth had been funded by capitalist governments and the greedy corporations that control them?

Then a horrible thought occured to him. StarKrystal knew that money acted as the proverbial parasitic tendril through which the corporation exerted control. Potentially, by accepting their funding, the RoboChe project wasn't only compromised in terms of form, but worse still in terms of function. They had already perverted the exterior, but who knew what twisted plans the corps had for RoboChe's purpose. Surely they would denounce the revolutionary's status as a free thinking human being, downgrade him to the level of machine, and utilize him for their own insidious, greedy purposes.

No. Something had to be done. And quickly.

Flood Dream

2008-01-18T22:50:00.000-08:00

Gosh, I'm glad this dream didn't turn out to be just another subconscious allegory for me pissing the bed. Granted, it's been a while since I've had one of those, but hey, you never know.

I dreamed that it rained hard for several days, until Moraga and Lafayette started to flood. I was driving home through the windy, narrow part of the main road between the two cities, and began to encounter large puddles in the middle of the street which had accumulated from water that was flowing down the hillside. Conditions became continually worse as I went along, and eventually I was driving through moving streams of water, which cascaded down the hill to my right and then flowed over the ridge on the left.

Every stream became more dangerous. My car hydroplaned a couple times, and I nearly lost control. Then I noticed that the water reached up to my fender, and I was practically fording some of the rivers. Finally, the current got the best of my car and it lost contact with the pavement for good, beginning to drift towards the steep downward slope on the opposite side of the road.

I opened the sunroof and climbed out on top of my car, where I managed to catch on to an overhanging tree branch and climb up. From there, I watched in dismay as the deadly current tumbled my car over the hill and out of sight.

The tree that had saved me was rooted in the upward sloping hill on the right side of the street. I shimmied over to the base of the tree, made contact with a relatively dry portion of the ground, and somehow managed to climb the rocks leading up to the top.

When I got there, I found that the valley on the other side had turned into a lake, and was feeding the stream that had carried my car away. Even more amazing was that people had already managed to set up lake-oriented businesses in the area. For example, a stereotypically scruffy old bearded sailor dude in a yellow rain jacket had opened up a ferry service, for which a long line of people had accumulated.

I noticed that my family was already in line, and nearing the front. It wasn’t just my mom and dad and my brother and sister, but my grandparents from both sides and the dog. My brother had even managed to salvage his girlfriend. Lucky bastard. Here I am, eternally damned to be alone, minus one beloved automobile, minus one life and one home, and my brother gets to keep his girlfriend. Gee, good thing this is just a dream.

“Oliver! We thought we’d never see you again!” They believed that surely I’d perished on whatever mundane errand I was running.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“The whole bay area is uninhabitable. So anywhere but here.” Someone tells me. “This guy is renting out ferries to take people to higher ground.” Where higher ground was exactly, I never found out.

We were next to board. The last ferry to leave was a sturdy looking barge. Some people who paid the old sailor enough had even loaded their cars on board.

“Well, that’s it for the barges.” said the old man. “Who’s next?” Our group stepped forward. “I’m running out of vessels, but methinks I’ve got something that can accommodate the lot of ya.” He lead us over the dock to a long inflatable kayak type affair. It looked really old and dilapidated, and a patchwork of different fabrics sealed the many holes it had acquired throughout the ages. “All aboard!” he said.

My family reluctantly climbed in. The dog stood on the bow, looking surprisingly at home. I hesitated and asked the sailor rather bluntly, “Is this thing really going to stay afloat?”

He looked at me for a moment, then abruptly produced a pistol from somewhere and held it against my temple. “Is she seaworthy, yee ask? Well, let’s find out!”

I knew that meant he was going to shoot me, though how that would determine if the boat would float I don’t quite understand. I guess it’s just a testament to the logical bankruptcy of my dreams. At any rate, he pulled the trigger and instead of a bang I heard a turbine whirring while feeling a strong insistent sucking against my forehead.

“I just be kiddin’ with ya,” he said, “I just use this to deflate me boats quickly. Of course she be seaworthy, ya landluberous trout!” What? “Now I don’t got all day. In with yeh!”

I climbed into the one remaining seat, which was at the very front. As I sat down I noticed that there were at least a couple of inches of water flooding the bottom. “Arrrrgh, that be a part of her wondrous functionality!” he said. “Don’t ferget yer paddles!” He passed each of us a wooden oar, my 70+ year old grandparents included. “Now, off with yeh!” He cast off the rope holding our “sea fairing vessel” to the dock, and then pushed us out onto the lake unceremoniously with his foot before turning away to light his incredibly predictable corncob pipe.

And so we began paddling “out of the bay area,” whatever that means. Eventually we found San Francisco and began to follow the bay bridge away from it. None of this makes any sense geographically, regardless of how flooded anything was, but hey, logically bankrupt, remember?

Oh, and somewhere along the way, we met a group of business men leaving the financial district. Somehow they were still complaining about how shitty the Nasdaq was doing, and I remember something about how they thought PG&E was going to stop powering their high rise office building. “Yup, those bastards are gonna rip the wire right out.” one said, looking back at his place of work. Apparently, there was one single wire running into the entire sixty story skyscraper, and the assholes at PG&E were going to send someone out to take it away. Bummer.

The other thing of note was that the city skyline, while partially submerged, was ridiculously futuristic. The buildings were all shiny and even more monolithic than usual. Then I woke up.

DREAM ANALYSIS:

Beats the shit out of me!

NEW DREAM

2008-01-15T21:00:00.001-08:00

A few nights ago I dreamed I was a lizard, a small gecko, I think. I remember having greenish, almost translucent skin and little suckers on the end of each finger for gripping to ceilings and such.

Anyways, in this particular dream I was, as a lizard, high-tailing it down the highway, zipping over a six lane autobahn, easily keeping pace with the most lead-footed motorists on the road. It was a very sunny day.

Something got my attention and I glanced behind me to see my dad's Cadillac coming up the road. As the car pulled along side me, I noticed that my fourteen year old sister was driving, and she was crying.

While in motion, I hopped up off the road and stuck easily to the side panel, then proceeded up to the driver side window. Sophia saw me there and rolled it down. I asked her what was wrong. She didn't seem at all perturbed by the lizard who was speaking to her as she barreled down the freeway in a car she didn't know how to drive.

"It's your drug problem!" she said between sobs. "It's time for you to admit that you need help!"

"Oh." I said. "Well, I'll think about that."

I scuttled off the side of the car, landed back on the pavement easily, and continued to speed down the road.

Oh, and I don't have a drug problem. Sometimes I'll take the green stuff when it's offered, other than that... nope. Dreams are THILLY!

The Astoundingly Brilliant YouTube Review Forum Highlight Reel

2007-12-27T21:14:00.000-08:00

If a reporter walked up to people on the street in 1957 and asked them what they expected the future to hold in fifty years, they'd probably suggest something along the lines of interstellar travel, flying cars, tubes as a form of public transport, robots that run on punch cards, and the Russians flying hijacked jets into the World Trade Center and an inept president who should have seen it coming. Commie bastards.

Sorry 1950s people. We ain't got none of that shit, yo. What do we have? Well, we do have the internet. I don't think there are any real predictions of the world wide web in science fiction because its not very exciting, at least not outwardly. It doesn't hover or shoot lasers or become self aware and try to kill you. At least not yet. But it does have YouTube. Who could have predicted this magnificent website? Not even Asimov. Now practically any middle class citizen can share a piece of his or her creative glory or boobs with the click of a mouse and nary the snap of a nerve synapse.

Only one thing can top the collective brilliance of YouTube, and that would have to be the "Comments and Responses" column, where the quality and worthiness of your video contribution to mankind can be judged by people from all walks of life. Instead of going on like this, I'll let this miracle of the internet speak for itself with some prime USDA Choice examples. We'll start with a brief discussion of the video-in-review, followed by user made comments.

Video 1: Laugh at the Fat Kid
http://youtube.com/watch?v=b_qYKCc9m0A

Synopsis: This gem expounds upon the struggles of an overweight elementary school kid whose Nanna gorges him on bacon and hohos every morning. The way it shows blatant cutaways of this kid being made fun of in some scenes and being vaguely looked at by kids in others is pretty incredible. Plus, the dialog is amazing. My favorite lines are "Ambient Sounds of Children Playing in the Background." and "Overweight Child Panting in PE" and "Black Kid Who Barks Like a Dog." (No, really, I can't make up this shit. He's in there.) The only thing more life changing than this video are the comments.

Choice YouTube Criticism:

"Now i am angry, sure kids are obest [sic] nowadays but they shouldn't be treated the way they do. I remember beging [sic] smashed from behind and such in highschool [sic] and all the harrassment [sic] in grade. This stuff must stop, stop making fun of overweight kids or you will probobly [goddammit, sic] be the parent of one and see how badly they are treated. It is all true in the video speed girls [wtf?] and all you got it across that obest [seriously?] children are not as well-fit for life as some skin-bag [hot] but they still deserve some respect."

-Blackboarder77

This bit of insight hits home quite hard. As a young pre-adolescent, I was a bit of a chub-chub myself, and nothing stung more than the cuts and jives of those video speed girls. During recess, when they weren't out killing the radio star or tuning the Mach 5, it was all, "Your blocking the sun, Fatty," and "Hey, why don't you rent out advertising space to Goodyear?" Damn those video speed girls! How I so very badly wanted to be well-fit like them. However, I can proudly say that with some exercise and a proper diet, I have come a long way. That's right ladies, your looking at the hunkiest skin-bag in town.

Blackboarder also makes an excellent point; cutting edge research in genetics has shown that making fun of fat kids activates a common but otherwise dormant gene that increases the likelihood of having obest, er.., obese children. FACT.

Video 2: The Old Negro Space Program
http://youtube.com/watch?v=T6xJzAYYrX8

Synopsis: This here is a hilarious parody of any given Ken Burns style documentary. The premise is that in the 1950s, black people started their own space program because NASA was whites-only. It really is very funny, but the comments may have it beat.

Choice YouTube Criticism:

"is this for real?"

-Themanwhowilllayout2

What a ridiculous question. Of course its real. Back then, black people strapped rocket engines to Cadillac DeVilles and school buses and went to the moon all the time. Don't you watch the history channel or at least BET?

"niggers"

-tduffysd

Oooh, that was pretty racy, tduffysd! I donno man, you're really walking "the line" with that one! Way to push the moral envelope of our self-imposed societal construct of right and wrong or some bullshit. Thank God for YouTube; not only can those whom are desperately starved for attention and brain power vie for some much needed internet notoriety, they can do it by typing seven letters and clicking a single button... and be met with success! Here are some responses to our buddy tduffy.

"A man reveals his character through every word he utters. Those that advocate hate are emotionally, spiritually, and mentally under developed. No man with true wisdom, knowledge, and... blah blah blah blah- (oh God, someone's actually paying attention to that idiot)."

-16sag7

As you can see, an intriguing debate is about to enfold, one that will surely inundate our brains with some mind-broadening yet divisive perspectives. Once again, YouTube proves itself to be the battleground where the best and brightest of the quasi-internet savvy square off in a cage match of wits. Not convinced yet? Tduffy's response to 16sag7's poignant words will make a believer out of you. Without further ado:

"blow me you tree huggin liberal."

-tduffysd

And a decisive barrage of impeccable logic and reasoning shoots forth from the brilliant mind of tduffysd! Two points for tduffy! Yes, there you go... one finger, two fingers... yes that's two! Two points! Way to go, champ.

Video 3: The Meaning of Christmas
http://youtube.com/watch?v=Mx9sXFGvPnU&feature=related

Synopsis: Featured in this video are a man and woman wearing Santa hats, speaking with fake Irish accents and expounding upon how much the 2008 republican presidential candidates suck. Since the last thing I want to do is get political, I'll just say that this thing was pretty boring regardless of who you plan on voting for and leave it at that. I got a kick out of some of the comments, though.

Choice YouTube Criticism:

"I wanna piss in his santa hat. In fact I wanna piss all over him."

-kukeninummen

Okay, well, either you mean this man severe disrespect, or he turns you on and you've got some pretty deviant little fetishes floating around in that naughty head of yours. Whatever, bud. Just keep it to yourself.

"Jeez guy, you sound upset. Perhaps instead of focusing your anger on the republicans you could direct it at me, as you have probably heard it was I that violently blasted a piping hot load of radioactive jizz across your late mothers forehead accidently [sick!] burning layers of surface flesh. To be honest I thought she looked silly with a boiling heap of my jizz bubbling on her exposed cranium."

-MightySaturn5

Dude. Wow. If you thought she looked silly with your jizz on her exposed cranium, then why did you put it there? I swear, some people have no sense of aesthetics. And you've got radioactive spunk, eh? Neat, does it glow in the dark? Now crime scene investigators won't even have to get out the black light.

Well, that's about all I can take for now, so until next time, keep on trucking, and I'll keep on 'Tubing for the very best it has to offer.

Estragon, Existential Space Commando

2007-12-06T21:55:00.000-08:00

I'll get the less entertaining part out of the way first, as I imagine it will only enhance what follows.

As a final assignment in the same acting class I mentioned in the last post, we had to act out a scene from a famous play entitled Waiting for Godot. Here's the play in a nutshell: two bums, Estragon and Vladimir, both whom have slightly lost their minds, gibber about in the middle of nowhere by a tree, and are faced with a severe existential quandary. They continually forget things and have bizarre, often unintelligible conversations. The most concrete thing about the play is that they're apparently waiting for a man named Godot, who is commonly interpreted by viewers as a personification of the "meaning" to their existence. Of course, (SPOILER ALERT) the guy never shows up.

As part of the assignment, I had to contrive a character background for the guy I was playing in my designated scene, who happened to be Estragon. Since the play says next to nothing about the main characters' backgrounds, I took my liberties with it. ENJOY!

Estragon
Character Analysis

Estragon was born Estragondrus-19 in the year 2293 aboard a Type-8 Orion Alliance Infantry Cloning Station, orbiting the planet Galactigus Nine in the Tau Ceti system. As the nineteenth clone of one of the Orion Alliance’s most elite space commandoes, Estragondrus-19 emerged from his replication tubule a natural born soldier and killer. While he was gestating, a scene from the late 20^th century summer blockbuster hit, The Rock, was subliminally channeled into his ocular and auditory nerves over and over again. This scene involved a large black man accosting Nicolas Cage with a knife and saying, “I gon’ take pleasure in guttin' you… boy.”

The artificial amniotic fluid had barely been washed off when the station came under attack by a fleet of Deathcruisers, sent by the Coalition of Kargon. At the first impact of a neutrino missile, Estragondrus’ subliminal space commando programming kicked in, and he leapt into an escape pod. By hacking the pod’s autopilot computer, he managed to redirect the tiny spacecraft on a collision course with a particularly weak area of an enemy ship’s hull, the location of which, like so much other knowledge of the enemy, had been programmed into him before birth.

The particular vessel which he happened to collide with was in fact the enemy fleet’s flagship, and the escape pod actually crashed into the Admiral’s quarters, where Admiral Blotcroch was engaged in a Kargonian mating ceremony with one of his many concubine larvae. The ship’s automatic force fields activated to prevent a decompression event, but by that point it was too late: the one man killing force that was Estragondrus was already aboard. Leaping from the ruined pod (still completely naked as people tend to be shortly after being born), he quickly landed a decisive kick to Blotcroch’s Jergrubular Lobe, the most vulnerable part of the Kargonian anatomy. He did this even before Blotcroch could remove his igraculous from his concubine’s larandranon. The maneuver caused the Kargonian Admiral to light on fire and explode into gooey little bits, which of course, due to the nature of Kargonian collective consciousness, caused all other subordinate Kargonians within twelve parsecs to immediately light on fire and explode as well. This dealt a serious blow to the evil Coalition of Kargon, and within two months, the Kargonians offered their unconditional surrender to the Orion Alliance.

This is how, at the age of 38 minutes, Estragondrus-19 became humanity’s number one hero. The Interstellular Senate awarded him three of the highest honors that one could earn in service of the Alliance, including the Senatorial Medal of Jergrubular Lobe Exploitation, which is awarded to soldiers who successfully land a punch or round-house kick to a high ranking Kargonian’s Jergrubular Lobe (limit one per person, void where prohibited).

While it was a policy of the military that no clone soldier ever meet his originator, the original Estragondrus, who had retired from service a decade before and changed his name to Vladimiroid to hide his identity, came out of the woodwork and insisted that he be allowed to meet his heroic twin. Given the circumstances, a military tribunal decided to make an exception to their policy, and allowed the two to meet in a heartfelt ceremony atop the Eiffel Tower in France, the capital of Earth, where they stood hand in hand far above heaving masses of revelers. Many were surprised and befuddled by the fact that, though they were clones, the two didn’t look all that similar.

The pair became fast friends, and together they opened their own restaurant chain, Low Orbit Fondue, a series of family oriented fondue restaurants positioned in geosynchronous orbit over such galactic hotspots as Earth, Tau Ceti 8, Beevonius 12, Jupiter’s moon Io, and of course Uranus. They also had a small drive-in-only location in south Detroit. Low Orbit Fondue gained particular notoriety thanks to their unique Zero-G Tuesdays, on which any diner could request to have his or her booth’s gravity generator disabled, allowing them to sample fondue from a giant bubble of floating fondue as opposed to a fondue pot. Fondue!

Then, disaster struck. It all began when humanity made first contact with an irritating yet admittedly friendly race of aliens called blukbluks. The newfound extraterrestrials immediately displayed a penchant for traveling about in huge spacebus loads to tour the new and fascinating human corner of the universe. Typically during this period, any establishment that they found interesting would often wind up overrun in the blink of an eye as they swarmed about and took transdimensional photos (which tend to induce nausea in most humans) of even the most mundane objects, and excreted large amounts of flatulence due to their inability to properly digest human food. Furthermore, they seemed to have no concept of currency exchange or tipping for that matter, and usually insisted upon paying for their meals and souvenir trinkets in “Blukbucks.” Estragondrus, following one particularly harrowing blukbluk raid on his restaurant during which he vomited eight times as a result of exposure to blukbluk “photo opportunities,” was heard to have said, “I fucking hate blukbluks.”

One day, during a particularly nasty influx of blukbluk tourists, a doddering older blukbluk with pink hair decided to order the curry dish. Normally the smell of curry was offensive to the average blukbluk, but this particular specimen had lost her sense of smell in an accident involving a photocopier, and so decided to “go out on a limb.”

To make a long story short, the isometric alkaline compounds found within the curry caused a quantum waveform collapse in the subatomic particles which comprised the silica based gastrointestinal tract of the dining alien, leading to a resonance cascade of rogue neutrinos throughout the dermal layer which instigated a chain reaction in the flagellum matrix. This subsequently rended a five meter hole in the fabric of space-time. Estragondrus and Vladimiroid, along with a nearby bluckbluck named Pozzpozz and his slave pigaloid, Luckinominikus’tipleetay, were consumed by the temporal vortex before it closed three minutes later.

The four flew through a spiraling wormhole of undulating colors and special effects that an LSD enthusiast could only dream of. In the distance they spotted a bright light, constituting the other end of the vortex. Just before they reached it, however, the portal dissolved and they found themselves standing in a plain looking office, occupied by three harried old men sitting behind a long desk. Outside the otherwise mundane windows of the room, they could see the void of outer space. The old men informed the bizarre posse that they were Universal Auditors, and their job was prevent space-time paradoxes and catastrophes. If the group arrived in the past unhindered, which is where the vortex was taking them, they would most likely upset the delicate balance of the space time continuum by purposefully or inadvertently changing something, causing the universe to collapse in on itself and be obliterated due to the ensuing paradox.

The Auditors, knowing that it was only within their powers to restrain the hapless time travelers in their office for a matter of minutes, quickly formulated the best solution they could. To prevent a catastrophic paradox, our heroes would have their memories wiped and replaced for the time being, and be dropped in an abandoned rural area of America in their temporal destination, somewhere about the year 1935. Due to the low level of traffic that traveled through the designated region, and the lack of important landmarks and resources in the area, the Auditors were 98.22% sure they could withhold them without an accidental triggering of a space-time paradox until they figured a way to rectify the situation.

The final precautions that the Auditors had to take were to change their names and identities, transmogrify the two aliens into human form (easier than it looks), and temporarily remove memories and certain areas of higher brain function so that the time travelers would not stray from their temporal “quarantine zone.” This is how Estragondrus-19 became Estragon, or Gogo, how Vladimiroid became Vladimir, or Didi, how Pozzpozz became Pozzo, and how his slave pigaloid Luckinominikus’tipleetay became Lucky. This is also how they wound up as a bunch of confused, seemingly lobotomized bums who consistently return to the same spot every day and can’t remember where they were twenty four hours ago.

After being stuck in the quarantine zone for many years now, somewhere in the minds of the two humans, a faint memory of the Auditor’s promise seems to linger. Before modifying their minds, the Auditors promised that some day they would figure out a way to replicate a reverse time portal and send them all back to the future. At this point the travelers would also be reequipped with their memories and higher brain functions. Until that day, they’d just have to wait. As the Auditors then proceeded to erase their memories, one of the old men sneezed, making a noise sounding something like, “Gah, Gah, GADOUGGGH!” And this is why they insist that they are waiting for a man named Godot.

Masterpiece Theater, With Master P

2007-12-05T23:21:00.000-08:00

Here's an assignment I had to take care of for this introductory acting class I'm taking. The idea was to critique an actor in a professional play.

Actor Critique
Professional Production
“The Weir”
Oliver Perez

Ah yes, The Theater! Where the human condition is often imitated with such gusto and alacrity that the audience transcends their seats and is transplanted forthwith into the world of the stage! Hello! Hello, and welcome… welcome to the realm of the theater, or more accurately, the realm of theater criticism. I am your host, Oliver Perez, scientist, musician, member of the American Bar Association, medical doctor, equestrian, pedestrian, and thespian.

Indeed, today’s review involves a delightful production of “The Weir,” a play which takes place in a small Irish town near the river for which the show is named. In this tale, an amicable young woman from Dublin has left her life in the big city and relocated to this quaint rural hamlet. At a tavern, she begins to become acquainted with the locals, who after “droinkin’ a fyoo points,” begin to inundate her with some of the town’s popular local folklore, all of which pertains to supernatural occurrences. That’s right: Ghost Stories. OOOOOOWEEEEEEEEYOOOOOO! However, after a few chilling tales are passed her way, she totally rips the locals a new asshole with her own ghostly story. Jesus Christ, she gave those Oyrish tits a run for their money! WOOOOWEEE! By the way, UC Santa Cruz, that was a joke: I have nothing against the Irish, and I don’t think they’re tits, okay? Okay. Anyhoot, I enjoyed this play thoroughly, as it provoked in me such chills and thrills that I nearly had to lay at my bedside for a fortnight! Tally ho, pip pip cheerio, quite right gov’nor, etc.!

The character of Valerie was played magnificently. I think she portrayed the common human situation of being introduced to a new setting and unfamiliar people, and then gradually opening up to them, quite beautifully. I was very much convinced. Furthermore, I must hand it to all the actors, as they did a very descent job of starting off the play sober and gradually moving to a slightly sloshed state.

Valerie’s tension was a huge part of what made her performance. She starts off in an unfamiliar state, and this tension shows appropriately, though she accounts for the fact that her character is not naturally introverted. Then, when she finally becomes comfortable enough to unleash her own tale, her tension returns tenfold. A professional job and well executed. Bravo, I say. Bravo!

Her concentration was marvelous. Fantastic! Magnificent! Not a moment went by where her mental fortuity did falter and crash upon that dastardly rocky shore of Shitty Acting. Since this is a play where stories are told, she did have to spend a lot of time “listening.” This could be a pitfall for some, but not for her. BRAVISSIMO! THAT’S UH-ONE SPICY MEATBALL OF AN ACTRESS! Hey, UC Santa Cruz, that was a joke too. I respect women, and do not view them as pieces of meat. Let the record show. Thanks. :)

When it came to her breathing, I honestly can’t remember much. I guess that means it was good.

As for her resonance, what can I say? It was a tour de force of the human spirit! I mean, you think Jarred Fogle and his Subway diet are inspiring? Fuck that guy. Resonance, baby. She came in loud and clear like a hi-fidelity noise making device of some kind. The way she presented the climax of her story, turned out towards the audience and presenting it in full force to the house, no, to me, was moving. I felt like the San Andreas fault in 1989. Shit, sorry, UC Santa Cruz, according to Wikipedia, 63 people died in that earthquake. I guess I can’t weasel out of this one; that was genuinely politically incorrect. Please, be my guest and protest me. Just do it. I deserve it.

Right, so where was I? Ah yes, given circumstances. The actor was simply mired in them. That’s a good thing. I mean, she just had this air of being a person in a new place, out of her element, with a dark past just itching to be exposed. Even though it was never explicitly suggested until the middle of the play, I could just feel that she had a secret.

Anyway, I’d have to say that this play constituted a night well spent. I say, Bravo. Bravo indeed. Where are my crumpets?

Here We Go Again

2007-11-21T00:28:00.000-08:00

So its happening again. Like a recurring cold sore, a group of marauding hippies have once again invaded our campus. They've set up camp on Science Hill and are blocking an entire parking lot, bothering students, smelling terrible, making our school look like shit to prospective students and visitors, vandalizing property, pulling fire alarms, and the administration is far too pussy to take action against them.

After receiving a letter from one of our campus provosts concerning the now two week long insurgence, I responded with some input of my own. Here it is.

Dear Carolyn,

Thanks for the informative email. While I'm fairly in the dark on what the LRDP represents specifically, I am also quite confident that no matter what the program entails, I hate hippies. Even if the LRDP involved some sort of genocidal rampage, to which I would of course be opposed, I would still massively resent the presence of these societal ne'er-do-wells on my semi-beloved campus, no matter what their stance is on anything.

Is there some kind of spray that can be applied to these people to make them go away or otherwise disappear? I recall a recent airborne dispersal of a certain pheromone that inhibits the reproduction of a local pest, the apple moth. Perhaps there is some kind of chemical that could be employed in a similar manner to these festering tree-bound douchebags as well? I'm thinking of one right now, but I can't remember the name. Hmm... its on the tip of my tongue... reminds me of a war in an east-Asian country... rhymes with Day Balm. Huh. Can't seem to recall. Let's just leave it at spray-on deodorant, I know that would upset those guys.

Okay, well let me present another possible solution. Once I saw a video of a bear that had wandered into a suburban neighborhood and climbed up a telephone pole. The stubborn little bugger refused to come down, so some badasses from animal control came and shot the little dickens with a couple tranquilizer darts, and he fell somewhat safely onto a trampoline that they'd set up directly beneath him.

Now, I know you're probably getting some idea of where I'm going here. You're probably thinking, "Oh, Concerned Student, as amazing and brilliant as your idea is, if only you knew what a shitstorm would be kicked up if we tranquilized a bunch of inbred hippies hiding in trees on our campus." Oh, I know very well the type of shitstorm that would be kicked up! A world-class shitstorm to be sure! But I have a solution!

These imbeciles- er... mentally disabled persons are obsessed with their own ill-conceived concept of justice, right? So what we do is get a team of Navy SEALS to dress up in bear costumes (contrary to popular belief, the SEALS are not limited to disguising themselves as seals) and THEN tranquilize them. That way, it will look to the public and the hippies as if the whole thing was just a bunch of oppressed bears getting their revenge! The hippies, upon awakening after safely being packed into trucks and shipped to Cuba or some other communist country where they can enjoy socialized medicine like they've always wanted will just have to shrug their shoulders and say, "Well, we sure had that coming! If I were a bear, I'd be pissed about getting tranquilized all the time too! It's just like why 9/11 was America's fault!" Fight hippie imbecility with hippie idiocy, that's what I always say.

Here's one more idea: set up some hidden speakers all around the infected area that make a really high pitched irritating sound late at night. Nobody else will be around at that time (I'm talking like three in the morning) and there aren't any on-campus dorms or apartments nearby either, right? One of two things will happen: They'll either leave or pass out from lack of sleep and fall out of the trees, one or the other. If that doesn't work... bears.

Well, I believe I've done my duty here. Thanks for reading!

Sincerely,
Oliver Perez, Concerned UCSC Undergraduate.

P.S. Okay, seriously now. As our campus administrators, you folks need to grow some metaphorical testicles and get these idiots off our campus. I know that the politics of the situation are very ginger, and that the City of Santa Cruz is full of resentful morons who can't seem to get it through their heads that the students whom UCSC brings in play an enormous roll in powering their economy, but still... you folks are obligated to take action.

I know how it works... you guys want to protect your careers. I realize that I probably would too, since I've already grown out of my overly-ideological-rebellious-college-student phase. Even so... please do your jobs. We students don't pay the big bucks to come here and have to put up with this crap.

Here's an idea: arrest them. You won't have to worry about the race card being pulled this time because they already DISRUPTED THE STUDENTS OF COLOR CONFERENCE! Now you guys can dubiously accuse someone of being racist for once!

Thanks.

!!!ICHI BAN!!! KATAMARI FAN FICTION (PART IV) !!!ICHI BAN!!!

2007-11-16T00:51:00.001-08:00

King lay in the middle of the highway, flat on his face, gradually regaining consciousness and realizing that he had successfully made his escape. There was no need to worry about getting hit by a car, because all the oncoming traffic had suffered the same fate as the limousine, and nobody wanted to drive into Kyoto right now anyway. He carefully peeled himself off the pavement, slightly bruised and cut, but otherwise okay. He turned towards the city, only about four or five miles away, and could clearly see that it was very much in distress. Fires burned, helicopters circled, sirens blared. He thought he could make out the Katamari rolling between buildings if he looked hard enough.

The momentary elation at still being alive burned off quickly as he realized he had lost his Prince. "My Prince!" he cried out in despair, "Where have you gone? Why have you left us!" King collapsed onto his knees and cursed the sky.

------------

"Now where them big titty girls you promised me, Michael?" inquired Howard "Sludgy Puddles" Jameson, world-renowned blues guitarist, for the fifth time. Mike Greenjeans, his agent, was beginning to get a little irritated, and his growing concern over his own personal well-being was not helping. They had been down in the club's cellar for about an hour now, and the sounds that came from outside had not grown any more assuring. Mike had had enough.

"Listen here, you old fart! I lied. There ain't no big titty girls down here. I made it up to manipulate a senile old man!"

A look of severe distress took hold of Sludgy's face and his bottom lip quivered dolefully.

"Oh God, Sludgy," said Mike, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it. I'm just a little on edge right now. C'mere." Mike gave the old musician a hug.

"My oh my, Michael. You sure know how to give an ol' man the blues."

"Sorry... sorry."

The blues club, of which the cellar's ceiling was comprised, was abruptly ripped away. A giant ball of urban real estate was making off with Sludgy's venue, and several of the surrounding buildings as well.

"You sho' been settin' up some shit gigs fo' me lately, kid." muttered Sludgy to his agent.

"We're leaving." said Greenjeans. The wine cellar, which was now no more than a large concrete dugout, still featured a set of stairs leading up to what used to be the kitchen. The kitchen (and the the rest of the Blue Lotus of Despair Happy Blues Club) was now a vacant lot, strewn about with a few bits of rubble and furniture that the Katamari left behind. The talent agent lead the aged musician up to street level, and together they began to move in the opposite direction of the creature.

-------------------------

It wants nothing more than to consume, to grow. It thinks nothing of what it devours, or what it has devoured, or what it will devour. Only one question lingers in its mind, the question of whether or not it's being fed. I can feel its hunger, bottomless, insatiable. We are connected, our destinies entwined. I shall find it, or perhaps it shall find me first. But first I have to kill this huge fucking sewer rat.

Let me back up a bit. Yes, I am King's Prince. My father accidentally let go of me when the Doomsphere, the Omega Orb, the Katamari, consumed his car. The impact sent me flying out an open window and I fell directly through a sewer grate, landing in a streaming underground river of Japanese crap... that's right, some asshole had dumped all his Pokemon DVDs and Sailor Moon comics into the sewer system.

I managed to swim for the concrete shore, but upon reaching it I was accosted by a rodent. This thing is probably large by human standards, but from my inch high point of view it's about the size of a rhinoceros. And that's how I got into this wacky predicament.

The rat growls at me viciously. It's angry snarls gurgle as viscous saliva drools from it's infectious maw. I slowly back away, maintaining eye contact. I nearly trip and fall backwards as my heel makes contact with a heavy object on the ground. I glance down. It's a Lego crowbar that some kid must have flushed down the toilet or eaten accidentally. I carefully pick it up, still facing the beast.

The rat lunges, its elongated front incisors glistening hungrily. I dodge, the rat momentarily loses its footing and stumbles. I bring the plastic bludgeon down hard upon its mangy head. Critical hit! Rat loses 50 HP!

The rat is Enraged! Rat gains 15 Fortitude. It spins and rushes me, head butting me to the ground. Prince loses 25 HP! My head hits the concrete hard. Prince is Dazed! Prince loses 10 General Wherewithal. The rat rears up on its hind legs, and prepares to fall upon my body, ripping, tearing, devouring. But I've already spotted the endgame lying on the ground next to me. It's a pointy Lego Dunce Cap from the 19th Century School House Lego Playset. I put the conical plastic hat over the end of the crowbar and aim upwards as the rat's rancid smelling body descends towards me. With a nasty crack, the hat and crowbar combo pierce the beast's ribs and plunge straight into its worm infested heart. Critical Hit! Rat loses 50 HP! The beast lets out a horrific shriek and convulses in it's final death throws. Rat is Defeated!

I shimmy out from beneath the reeking carcass, rat blood dripping from my green skin. I pause for a moment. I must find the Katamari, but which way should I go? All at once my mind is crushed by a searing flash of pain.

WE ARE HUNGRY! THAT IS WHY WE ARE GLAD THAT HAPPY FUN TIME IS CATERED! CATERED BY KYOTO! KYOTO TASTES LOVELY!

Its thoughts pierce my brain. Our connection grows stronger as it grows larger. And now I know where to go. Against the flow of the sewer water, towards the city. I'll find him.

I wander for at least an hour, his thoughts becoming more defined and frequent in my brain. I know I'm close to the Katamari; the sewer water is running red with blood. And then I'm there. It is very near now. I climb a ladder, and pop out of another drainage grate onto the street. There it is, half a block away, and trying on a 10 story apartment building for size. It just isn't quite big enough, but the Katamari is testing the water anyway. Now is my chance.

A light breeze kicks up a scrap of paper lying nearby, and I grab hold of it, fluttering with it towards the Doomsphere. The paper smacks into the monster and, as with everything else, is held fast. But not me, I don't stick to the Katamari; the Katamari sticks to me, when and only when I see fit. I move my arms along its enormous circumference. I don't need proper leverage or power as would someone bound by the usual laws of physics, the Katamari simply yields to my every motion. The next thing I know I'm rolling it down the street, back towards the wreckage and away from the parts of the city that remain relatively intact. It comes more naturally than I would have imagined.

But someone stands in my way.

-------------------------------------------

"C'mon Sludgy, we gotta move faster!"

"My 'roids!" protested Sludgy.

Sludgy and Mike Greenjeans were about two miles away from the edge of the city, traveling on foot. As the day grew darker, the wreckage around them grew more ominous and foreboding, as though the destruction of the city had opened the door for some lurking evil that could never show itself among an intact civilization. Mike was getting ready to ditch this slow-moving demented old fart. He had other clients anyway, and Greenjeans knew his life depended on getting out of Kyoto, fast.

An aroma crept up into Greenjeans' olfactory nerve, and to his surprise it was not an unpleasant one. Something that reminded him of home, too. As they walked further it became unmistakable: it was pizza.

"Back in my day sometime' we had to use the telephone book for toilet paper." said Sludgy.

"Shh! Do you smell that?" interrupted Mike. If the absurdity of having to quiet down in order to smell something occurred to Sludgy, he didn't show it.

"Son, I ain't smelled sheeyit since '73. And by sheeyit of course I mean 'anything.'"

"Hmm, more for me then," muttered Greenjeans to himself. He didn't mention it again. Instead they continued to walk in the same direction, the smell getting stronger. A few moments later they reached what was obviously, based on appearance and scent, the source of the smell. It was a small shop, adorned with a quaint sign reading, "Super Tony-san's Honorable Pizza Pies." The only thing that didn't quite add up was the fact that the store was completely dark inside. Greenjeans was still hungry enough to investigate.

"Wait here, Howard," said Mike. "Just stand here and talk to that newspaper box or whatever. I'll be right out."

Mike tried the door and found that it was unlocked. He proceeded inside, pausing to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Indeed, from what he could see the restaurant appeared to have been quickly deserted many hours ago. Nevertheless, the smell was very strong now. "Hello?" he said. There was no answer.

Carefully he crossed to the other side of the darkened establishment, nearing the kitchen. He had never smelt such a strong scent of pizza. It was intoxicating. He felt slightly dizzy.

Leaning through the open doorway, Greenjeans peeked tentatively into the kitchen. No cooks, no pizza, not even the vaguest indication that there had been any recent life in here at all. Then his eyes adjusted further as he stood there, allowing him to see something on the opposite side of the room. A large gaping hole in the floor. The rubble surrounding it was indicative that something had definitely dug up from under, not down.

Carefully he approached it and peered into the small abyss. It was much too dark to tell where it lead, but when he came close to the opening another smell became apparent, even through the intense pizza odor. Raw sewage. This hole had been dug up from the sewer.

A prickling feeling rushed down Greenjean's back and he knew he shouldn't stay. He turned to walk out and thought he saw the top of a head peering over a counter at him. He startled in surprise and then it wasn't there. "Okay," thought Greenjeans, "Getting the fuck out of here."

He rapidly moved out the kitchen door and was halfway across the dining area when a dark shape leaped down off the ceiling and somehow ensnared him in a weighted net. Greenjeans struggled, only to become more tangled and incapacitated. Something like a nunchuck was flung out of nowhere and everything went black.

----------------------------------------------

"Prince! Oh, my Prince! My son! We thought we had lost you forever!" King addresses me from the middle of the street, his jubilancy radiating, lighting the surrounding darkness. "And look at how well you command our Katamari! So deftly and with such professionalism! Could a father be more proud of his son?" I tell the Katamari to stay and run to my father, jumping up in his palm, hugging his pinky. "But we were so worried! Don't you ever leave us again, my Prince!" he says, scolding and praising all at the same time.

"I am sorry Father."

"We are just glad you are okay. But we were very scared. Say, do you know how you can make it up to us?"

"Anything, Father."

"Why don't you go back and grab that Katamari, and we'll tell you."

I hop off his palm and proceed back to the giant ball of city, sitting docile and monolithic in the middle of the street, awaiting my command. "Are we going to take it away, Father? Take it somewhere safe?" I ask.

"HAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHA!" His manic laughter echoes strangely among the waste. "Prince, you are a peculiar and funny child! No, our son, we have much grander plans for our Katamari!"

"But father, the Katamari is a terrorizing force of evil! Look at how much has been lost to it!"

"We are hurt that you would speak ill of our creation, son. Now do as we say. You will continue to roll the Katamari, and you will roll up as much as you can, until we tell you to stop."

"No!" It was bad enough knowing that this thing was running rampant, but the idea that I could be behind its terror was too much. Why would my father want to incur such destruction? "I won't, Father!" There was a pause, a deadly one.

"Are you defying us, son?" His voice was ominously flat and tranquil, like the calm before a horrific storm. "You do not understand our plan do you? Of course not. To understand our plan would require you to understand where you came from. To understand where we came from." I know that for once his use of "we" is not the royal form, but the genuine "you and I" form. "We are not of human origin." he says, referring to himself once more, "We were cut from the cloth of the cosmos, and destined from birth to rule over existence. But opposing forces cast us down to Earth, sensing in us what they referred to as a 'relentless egotism,' a 'selfish disregard for the needs of the universe.' Our power as King of All Cosmos was stripped away, and we were banished to this planet, doomed to live out our existence as a mere mortal.

"But those fools who deposed us left a small fraction of our power intact. And it was with this power and the genetic meddling of human science that we were able to devise you and the Katamari you command. And now our plan nears fruition. What is the purpose of the Katamari? With it we shall hold the universe at ransom! With an ever growing force of destruction at our command, the Powers that cast us down to Earth will have no choice but to reinstate us as Supreme King of All Cosmos! And if they don't, there's no limit to what the Katamari will consume. Earth will be just the beginning. After this planet is eaten, our creation will cross the void of space with impunity and consume other bodies, eventually in just one gulp! Of course, this will not be necessary. The Powers will not allow for it, they will have no choice but to reinstate us. We shall be King!" His voice has risen in a tyrannical crescendo and his final assertion rings out to the urban destruction, among which most life has already fled or been extinguished. "You are the final piece in the puzzle, son." he tells me. "We admittedly lack the power to command our first creation, but our second creation is in fact just so enabled. That's you, Prince."

"NO!" I shout. I will not, cannot allow such horrors to continue unceasing. A deadly silence follows my insubordinate outburst. Nothing is said.

"Do you mean to defy us?" says King quietly.

My tiny heart is pounding in my throat but I cannot back away now. "I will not be responsible for any more destruction." I try to maintain a level and calm tone of voice but it cracks under the strain anyway.

"THEN YOU CAN EAT OUR SHIT, YOU INSOLENT LITTLE COCK SHINER!" His voice booms in such a way that a listener at a significant distance might assume that Japan had just entered round three with the atom bomb. "Suffer and do our bidding!" Two eerie glows accumulate under his dark brow, one for each eye. Beams of searing energy shoot forth and scorch the ground around me. I am too small to be considered an easy target. I run. I must get away.

Then one of his bolts finds its mark. Excruciating pain roars through me. I fall. He laughs. It is not a wicked laugh. It is a joyous one. My blurred vision refocuses as the pain subsides and he is standing above me, his rage completely absent, and replaced by manic happiness. "There you go, kid! You see why you must not defy us? Now go ahead champ, get back on the ball!"

No. I get up, stumbling, start to run again. "Unacceptable!" he booms. He manages to hit me with another horrible beam. I fall, the pain twice as agonizing. I can't, I won't. But I do. Part of my mind still protests but the pain is too terrible. My feet move on their own volition towards the Doomsphere, where I take hold and hear my mouth say, "Where shall I begin?"

"Here." he says.

---------------------------------

"Dude, what've we got here?" Greenjeans was beginning to come around. His vision was still blurred, but he could at least tell that the shape looming above him was humanoid and green. He tried to move his arms and legs and found that they were bound.

"Dinner, man." said another voice. "And its not pizza this time."

"Way to go bro, I was getting so sick of that shit." At the mention of pizza, Greenjeans briefly noticed that the smell of it was still amazingly strong, though clearly his location had changed. It occurred to him that it was coming off his captor's bodies.

"Well, now that the man has been brought down, we don't have to, like, eat what society tell us to anymore, dude." says a third voice which cracked pubescently. "We can even move up out of this shit hole sewer." So that's where he was. The sewer. Who were these people? They sounded like a bunch of kid skateboard punks. His mind and vision suddenly slipped more into focus and he gazed upon his captors.

They were four giant, bipedal, talking turtles. Their faces were smeared with what appeared to be terrible acne, and aside from various bits of martial arts gear and colored bandanas, they stood completely naked. "Well dudes, let's chow down on some man flesh!"

"Cowabunga!"

"I call his balls and scrote!"

"That's fucking gay, dude."

"Yeah, you're such a fucking faggot, Michaelangelo. It's no wonder the rat named you after some pansy ass artist."

"Shut the fuck up, douchebag. I heard the guy you were named after was a bit of a flamer himself. That's right, I read the DaVinci Code."

"You know, guys," said a fourth voice, "I uh, looked our names up on Wikipedia the other day... We're actually all named after artists."

"I had to go to a museum once. Art is fucking gay."

"Whatever, let's eat already."

And with that, the four adolescent gene-spliced martial arts expert amphibian freaks devoured Michael Greenjeans, talent agent, alive.

-----------------------------

Sludgy was getting bored of talking to the newspaper box. "I'm sorry Reggie, but I gotta get moving. Say hi to the wife 'n kids fo' me." Now where had that Michael gotten off to? In a sudden bout of surprising lucidity, it occurred to Sludgy Puddles that he might be able to spot him from a higher vantage point. He noticed a relatively intact 10 story car park a little farther down the block and proceeded towards it.

He had some difficulty hobbling up to the top, but eventually he got there. Sludgy took a seat on an abandoned Honda Fit and absently began to strum a few chords out of Spicywings, his legendary guitar. The sun set serenely over the far off mountains, paying no heed to the chaos unfolding in Kyoto. The musician looked out over the ravaged city skyline and he saw many things. He saw trees of green, flowers of white; the brightness of day, the darkness of-

"The fuck's that thing?" said Sludgy to himself. A giant ball of random crap was devouring what remained of the high rises in Kyoto's financial district. Unexpectedly his memory vaguely recalled the monstrosity that had destroyed his last venue, the Blue Lotus of Despair Happy Blues Club. "Why, that's the son' bitch spoiled my last gig!" he said. And with that revelation he composed a song.

Giant ball o' random crap,
makin' me into some down 'n out sap,
I had fame and I had fortune,
sittin' here in my lap,
now I wanna lie down,
and take a long dirt nap,
thank's for nuttin'
giant ball o' random crap.

-----------------------------------

Now he wants me to leave the city. I can't let this continue any further.

"Good going Tiger!" he says, excitedly, as he follows me and the Omega Orb through the city. "You gobbled up those skyscrapers like popcorn! We are so very proud! Oh look!" As we roll along a main street towards the outskirts of Kyoto, I notice segments of pavement beginning to rip out of the ground. "Now we know you're ready son! You're starting to rip up the very Earth from beneath you! Now the Powers will have to listen! Soon you'll be rolling up this quaint island country!"

I spin the ball 180 degrees, turn it to face my father. "What are you doing son?"

I roll over him. He sticks like anything else. "BLAST AND DAMN YOU, YOU LITTLE TWAT!"

But I can sense something else. Something else sticking, something immaterial, lacking mass and volume but nonetheless very substantial. Its his ego... redistributing it's immense metaphysical mass around the circumference of the Katamari. I can see it, a swirling flamboyant rainbow-colored aura, moving out of the King and washing over the Doomsphere. Something changes. The Katamari is no longer under my control, or under its own control. It begins to levetate, climbing up into the air, and settling about 30 stories up.

"LOOK AT WHAT YOU HAVE DONE! WE ARE VERY UPSET. WHEN WE GET DOWN FROM HERE-"

But a sickening, space-time rending crack echoes through the very fabric of existence, cutting off even the King's mighty voice. The ball, collapsing under the massive weight of my father's ego, undulating with color, begins to implode. Slowly at first, it crumples like a papier-mache balloon. Then faster and faster, the skyscrapers, the Blue Lotus of Despair Happy Blues Club, the houses, the army tanks, the cars, the phone booths, the cow, the stupid college girls, the fat kid, the dogs, the cats, the action figures, the Pokemon merchandise, the lab equipment, the mice, all collapsing into a singularity at the bottom of an infinite vortex of absolute black. I watch as it's circumference grows, and I descend into darkness.

---------------------------------

Sludgy knew what that big black dot over the city was the moment it appeared. After all, he had read Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time at least four times. "That there's a juicy muhfuckah." he said to himself. "Well, Spicywings, looks like the gig's up. How 'bout one more song fo' the road?"

As the black hole grew rapidly, hungrily devouring what the Katamari had not, Sludgy played his bluesy swan song. And the lyrics went a little something like this:

There just ain't no escapin',
got them black hole blues.
Space time fabric it be rapin',
I got them black hole blues.
There ain't no point to cry son,
once you cross the event horizon,
I got 'dem black hole blues.

And as he neared the end of his song, he felt the darkness' immense gravity well pulling him up and into the expanding pitch. With a surprising gentleness he began to spiral towards it's core. The theory of relativity suggests that with his growing proximity to the hole's event horizon, the perceived passing of time must begin to slow, eventually to an infinitely tiny fraction above zero, for all intents and purposes halting time itself. Crossing the threshold, one final blue note rang out, accompanied by one final chord, frozen, timeless and immortal in the perfect blackness of eternity.

THE END

!!!ICHI BAN!!! KATAMARI FAN FICTION (PART III) !!!ICHI BAN!!!

2007-11-12T13:26:00.000-08:00

Howard "Sludgy Puddles" Jameson, a renowned blues guitarist from Detroit, America, was playing a gig at the Blue Lotus House of Despair Happy Blues Club in Kyoto when the sirens began blaring, or as he would have put it in one of his songs, "a-blarin'". As the sound of the city's emergency alert system whirred to life, partially overpowering the down-and-out croonings of the man and his guitar, the audience began to murmur and shift worriedly, no longer mesmerized by his bluesy melodies. After about a minute the commotion had risen to such a point that Sludgy had to stop.

"Now, see here," he said, his mustache wobbling, "what's all this here noise all 'bout?" The stage manager rushed out and addressed Sludgy in as conciliatory a tone as his broken English could allow.

"Sorry Mr. Pudders... Emergency, big trouber coming. We must put down to cerrar right now!"

"Whah boy? I have no idea whatchu tryin' say to me, 'dis here guitah ain't no universal translatah, ain't no Scotteh gonna beam mah ol' ass up. Now whatchu tryin' say son?"

"Emergency, Mr. Pudders, cerrar is prace to go, right now!" The stage manager tugged insistently on Sludgy Puddles' arm.

"Now son, doan go pullin' an ol' man's arm that way!" There was a problem. Sludgy, in the face of his everlasting musical prowess, was a slightly demented old man, and the stage manager was no pro when it came to English.

"Sludgy, it's time to go." Mike Greenjeans, his manager, had finally managed to elbow his way up from the back row through the rapidly dispersing patrons.

Sludgy turned to his manager. "Now tell me Michael, what'n God's name's all this hull' bloo?"

"We need to move down to the cellar, it's not very big, but it's the safest place for us right now. Something bad is coming this way." said Mike.

"Is it the Japs? I ain't goan end up like one them Pearl Harbor boys. Where's mah carbine?"

Mike glanced sheepishly at the stage manager for a moment before saying, "We're in Japan, Sludgy. Let's just head on down stairs, okay?"

Mr. Puddles still resisted slightly. He stared up at Mike for a moment with that far away, rheumy-eyed look of his, that old mind working to fully ascertain the situation. "They got mo' them big titty girls down there?" Mike did not know to which big titty girls the aged blues musician was referring. Not having any clue what Sludgy was talking about outside his music was pretty common. Still, Mike knew an opening when he saw one.

"Yes, Sludgy. At least a baker's dozen. Shall we go?"

"Hells yes, son!" said Sludgy, creaking out of his seat with youthful gusto. He took the amplifier jack out of Spicywings (the name by which he referred to his guitar), but left the instrument hanging around his shoulders. Steadying his guitar by the neck in one hand, and scooping up his cane in the other, Mike helped him as they slowly made their way to the club's wine cellar. Mike would have offered to carry the instrument, but nobody- nobody, but Sludgy Puddles ever laid a hand on Spicywings.

---------------------
Two Hours Earlier....

King's private Gulfstream jet touched down at Kansai International Airport as dusk began to swallow up the day. It was still an hour's drive into Kyoto. A limo from the branch office was waiting. "Mr. King, what a most pleasant surprise." said the manager who had come out to meet him. "We're all very honored that you could make it out here."

"Mm." grunted King, gazing nonchalantly out the car window, his tight clad legs crossed effeminately.

"All of us at the Kyoto branch are quite confident your leadership will play a paramount roll in bringing this crisis to an end." King did not respond. "Sir... if you don't mind me asking... how do you plan on stopping this thing?"

"We have our ideas." responded King, blunt and dismissive.

"Oh, okay." said the manager. There was an uncomfortable half-minute of silence as the manager worked up his courage. On one hand, he did not want to incur King's wrath by interrupting what was sure to be a very brilliant train of thought, on the other, he really wanted some self assurance that they'd be able to stop that rampaging genetically engineered ball of junk from destroying civilization. He took a chance. "Like what?"

King slowly turned his face away from the window and looked over at the him, his expression completely neutral. "Aw fuck, this is it." thought the manager. He had pushed too hard, and he knew the stories of people who had before him. It was typically nothing pretty.

Then, shockingly, King's countenance reconstructed itself into a wide and cordial grin, and he chuckled jovially. "Why, my good man! We have something most splendiferous up our sleeve! Something fab to bedazzle the senses! Something full of brightness and color! We love it!"

"Oh?" said the bewildered manager.

"Indeed! A fantastical, coolerific thing! Something shiny and fun!"

"Really?" said the manager, getting excited, "What is-"

"Ask me more!" said the King, grinning manically.

"What is it?" asked the manager.

The twinkle in King's eye burst like a light bulb that had caught a bullet, his smile melted into an angry sneer, and his wrath was palpable throughout the limo. "WHY MUST IT ASK SO MANY QUESTIONS? SILENCE, FOOL, OR WE SHALL RIP OFF YOUR PENIS AND RAPE YOUR WIFE WITH IT!"

"Oh fuck me! Please forgive my insolence, honorable Kingagawa!"

King's bright smile returned. "Hahahahahahaha, naw man, We just kidding with you! The solution is right here!" King reached into his pocket and withdrew a little vibrant green man, about the height of a golf pencil. He had a body shaped like a gumdrop, and a tiny cylindrical head running lengthwise along his shoulders, with an even tinier square face in the center.

"Wow... look at that." said the manager. "What is it?"

"Why," said King, "He's our prince!"

"I see..."

"Remember how the Katamari project was top secret, which is why you didn't hear about it until it got loose? Well, the project to design this little fellow was super, super duper top secret! We were really the only ones to know about it! What does he do, you ask? He's the master roller of course! He controls the Katamari, and he's completely nonstick! We thought we'd need to train him, but he seems to think he's ready."

"Wah wah wee wah..." said the manager, astounded.

"Yes, and what we plan to do is to set him loose in Kyoto when the Katamari shows up, and he'll take control of it for us. Very slick, very simple!"

"We knew you'd have a solution, Mr. King. You always d-"

The passengers were thrown about violently as the car's momentum was drastically altered and the limo began lifting off the ground. It took King only a moment to realize what happened: The Katamari had rolled them up right off the highway. Now the car was gradually moving up along the Katamari's circumference as the creature rolled steadily along the ground, slowly turning the passengers upside down. King hadn't even seen it approach from behind, though he realized it had to be huge at this point.

King knew his only option was to jump out, but if he did at the wrong moment, he'd land on the Katamari and become stuck himself. No, he'd have to wait for the exact moment before the limo finished a full rotation around the creature, and jump out just before he and the car were crushed between the monster and the ground it was rolling on.

But where was the Prince? He was so small and the limo had nearly been turned completely upside down at this point, reaching the highest part of the Katamari. He was nowhere to be seen. King tried to search his pockets, see if the Prince had managed to hop back in, but he felt nothing. Had he fallen on the floor somewhere? No, the floor was the ceiling now. Had he been crushed? No way of knowing. The car was descending, and King's one chance at escape had nearly arrived.

King took notice of the manager- he had been knocked unconscious with the impact. He sat slouched in his leather seat, tethered there by his seatbelt, a small line of blood trickling down his forehead. "Well, he looks comfy!" thought King, genuinely believing it. "Time to go!" The trunk of the car was just being crushed as he kicked open the back door and leaped from the doomed vehicle.

-------------------------

Since its escape, the Katamari considered itself very well fed. But now, rolling along with a circumference of about 30 yards, it was ready for a feast. A feast of earth and metal and flesh and bone! Not to mention several random plastic Japanese gadgets and toys.

As it approached the city via the main highway, just having gorged itself with impunity upon the human contraptions that rolled along it, the creature noticed a line of curious vehicles and devices waiting in its way. Seeing no reason why it couldn't proceed to consume them as it had everything else of such puny size, it did not slow its advance.

Surprisingly, a series of projectiles was launched from the little clutter of machinery, smashing into the Katamari. The impact kicked it back slightly, but ultimately this had little effect. The creature simply found itself adorned with an array of undetonated shells and missiles. More sustenance. The little machines began retreating, but it managed to catch a few of the slower ones as it resumed its course into the city.

The Katamari began its rampage. It ripped up trees and jungle gyms as it rolled through parks, tore out fire hydrants, and made an all-you-can-eat buffet out of the cars which lined the streets. Some of the ordinance it had picked up earlier exploded and blasted a couple of high rises apart, starting a fire. Siamese cats and golden retrievers were consumed, school children absorbed, hordes of fleeing business men devoured, stupid American college girls visiting a foreign country on their daddy's paycheck so they can gorge their vaginas on huge Japanese cocks.... all of them sucked into the Katamari's unbreakable gravity well and eaten. My God I hate American college girls.

The city of Kyoto had become a bonanza of edibility for Katamari.

To Be Continued...

!!!ICHI BAN!!! KATAMARI FAN FICTION (PART II) !!!ICHI BAN!!!

2007-11-09T13:13:00.000-08:00

Seven-year-old Tomi Katagachi would not clean up his toys as his mother had requested many times. He willfully left them scattered about the backyard. "Tomi, we're not going to visit the firehouse until you clean up all your stuff." said Father.

"Firefighters are gay!" exclaimed Tomi. Fucking American television. Father reminded himself that he still needed to sit down with the TV manual and learn how to use the V-Chip feature. Back in his day, children had respect for their elders and homosexuals.

"Do you want to visit the firehouse today?" asked Father.

"Yes," said Tomi.

"Then pick up your shi- your toys!" said Father angrily, "I'll be back out here in twenty minutes, and if this isn't all put away, we're not going at all!" Father went back in the house and slammed the sliding glass door behind him. That kid would be the death of him.

Tomi sat in the grass and rubbed his pudgy belly contemptuously, glaring back at the house. He nonchalantly picked up his All Singin' All Dancin' All Coffee Dispensin' Pikachu doll. "PIKA!" it exclaimed happily, thanks to the wonder of its on-board motion sensors.

"Why does Father have to be such a faggot?" sulked Tomi.

"Pikachu?" inquired the toy.

"It's my hot body, I'm not cleaning up my toys. I do what I want." Tomi loved American television. Tomi instead got up, waddled over to his toy basket, and poured his remaining playthings out onto the lawn. He punted an Optimus Prime action figure against the fence. He smashed his sister's Hello Kitty Art's N' Craft Fun Time Box under foot. He drew a large phallus on his Etch-a-Sketch and entitled it, "Ayaka's Weiner." (Ayaka was his sister.) A light breeze spun his propeller beanie. He idly grabbed his Mega Stand Up Comedy Squirtle Doll and shifted its arm, which was holding a little microphone, up to its mouth.

The doll whirred to life. "I just flew in from Squirtle, and boy are my arms Squirtle!" said the toy, "And what's the deal with airline Squirtle?" Tomi dropped the toy on the ground and began to urinate on it. "Speaking of air travel, is it too soon for some 9/11 jokes?" asked Squirtle, "I'm totally going there. So do you think the hijackers had the fish or the chicken, or maybeeeyuhhhh.... the Squirtle? Tshhhssfsd..." The toy shorted out as Tomi's piss leaked into its circuitry.

The abrupt sound of splintering wood caught Tomi in midstream. He spun around and noticed that a large ball of random crap had just burst through the bottom of the wooden fence surrounding his backyard. It rolled into the middle of the lawn, and somehow appeared to be considering it's new surroundings. Among the things that Tomi immediately noticed, it was comprised mostly of sticks, nuts, bolts, tools, coins, bits of rope and candy, random Japanese products, all kinds of stuff. It was about the size of a beach ball.

It rolled up to a Harry Potter action figure and considered it thoughtfully. The Katamari moved over it and Harry Potter stuck. "Hey!" yelled Tomi, "Give that back!" But the Katamari payed him no mind, and continued to roll up more of the toys littered around the lawn. "Well, at least this place is getting cleaned." he thought. Within a few short minutes the Katamari had rolled up nearly all the toys in the backyard. The strange sphere was now comprised of Hello Kitty merchandise, Transformers action figures, a plastic lightsaber, the Etch-a-Sketch with a penis drawn on it, numerous Pokemon dolls and cards, a stretch armstrong, a Buzz Lightyear, three slinkies, numerous superballs, Nickelodeon Slime, Manga comics, and two small onions, to name only a few. All that clutter had added up to increase the Katamari's size to about that of a card table.

"Okay, great. Now can you please dump all that stuff in here?" asked Tomi. He held up the toy basket. The Katamari edged towards him apprehensively. It bumped up against the basket, inevitably making it part of its bulk. "No no no, you stupid ball of shit!" Tomi threw one of his classic tantrums, raving and hopping up and down, jerking his arms randomly while his fat gut wobbled about, a small sliver of its underside exposed beneath his striped shirt. His propeller beanie flopped about as well. He ran up to the ball and gave it a good hard kick.

His foot stuck. It stuck in a way that nobody before had ever felt. There was no vice-like grip of some invisible claw, just a feeling of extreme heaviness... as if a sort of intense gravitational force was weighing his foot down to the Katamari in the same manner that the Earth weighs a person down to the ground. Except this weight... or more accurately, this gravity, could not be overcome. Not briefly by any sort of movement, nor by any kind of lift provided by propeller or wing. Not even the most powerful rocket designed by man could achieve anything close to an escape velocity once it had made physical contact with the Katamari. This was a force of finality. There was no escape from it's power.

Tomi was fucked.

"NO NO NO, let me go!" But the Katamari rolled closer, spreading Tomi more thoroughly over its surface, until the nasty child was completely pasted among the collection of junk that comrised the creature. Tomi found himself losing control of his nervous system. All he could manage were futile and pointless twitches. The creature began absorbing its new ensnarements, its flesh growing out from within, the tiny tendrils grabbing and securing all the newly claimed junk.

Tomi, now completely paralyzed and utterly incapable of movement, felt a voice slice through the terror that gripped his helpless mind. It was a voice that encompassed all. YOU AND I.... ARE NOW ONE. WELCOME TO MY PARTY FUN TIME. YOU ARE THE FIRST SENTIENT BEING TO BE ROLLED. THERE WILL BE MANY MORE!

No! thought Tomi, let me go! My dad will be really mad!

YOUR FATHER IS OF LITTLE CONSEQUENCE AND SHALL SOON BE HAVING PARTY FUN TIME ALONG WITH US. IT IS FAR TO LATE FOR YOU TO BE RELEASED IN ANY CASE. YOUR... PLENTIFUL FATS AND NUTRIENTS ARE BEING ABSORBED AS WE SPEAK, AS IS YOUR RATHER LIMITED KNOWLEDGE OF THE WORLD. BUT WORRY NOT! COMPLETE OMNIPOTENCE IS THE DESTINATION TO WHICH WE ARE INEXORABLY BOUND, AND YOU SHALL BE A PART OF IT, ALBEIT A VERY SMALL ONE. SOON, WE SHALL EXIST AMONG THE COSMOS.

Tomi's cognizance of what he was being told became among the very last of his thoughts as an individual free thinking being. Very quickly, his mind became entwined among the collective sense of reality felt by all the junk that made up the Katamari. He was one with the lab rats, one with the Etch-a-Sketch, one with the Harry Potter, one with the microscope and the electrical outlet, and at the center of it all was the singular controlling consciousness of the Katamari itself.

Tomi loved Katamari.

-------------

The Suits were in an uproar. This was a contingency they had not planned for. "You assured us, Kenji, that the Katamari would not develop its mass assimilation capabilities until well after we had a chance to condition it."

Kenji Yamamoto, Director of Research and Development, gulped involuntarily, sticking a finger in his collar and adjusting it nervously. Daisuke Kingawa, or simply 'King', as he liked to be called, acting Chairman of the Board, the Suit of all Suits, was an intimidating presence. His heavy brow, squinty little eyes, and huge jaw, which was adorned by one of the most complete textbook examples of what could be described as a "power beard," all together culminated in one helluva scary looking boss. His appearance was an anomaly. While Japan was purportedly his country of origin, he certainly did not look Japanese. He didn't look like anything, racially speaking. He just looked like he could shoot lasers out of those tiny, calculating eyes and vaporize you on the spot if you failed to impress him.

His personality ran a wide gamut of dispositions. At times, he seemed to have the mind of a child, perhaps even a somewhat effeminate child that everyone but his denial stricken Fire and Brimstone Christian parents felt fairly confident would someday bat for the pink team. Nobody criticized him for it, however. After all, it was this child-like manner of viewing the world that had granted the company some of its most innovative products and business strategies.

At other times he was wrathful and neurotic. His happy-go-lucky attitude was known to melt away at the slightest moment of displeasure. The twinkle in those tiny eyes, nestled beneath that large brow, would flicker and burn out abruptly like an old light bulb, darkening his features and incurring his brutally foul temper. Now was one of those moments.

"I'm sorry, sir. We thought that the extra genetic code would make the Katamari capable of what it is doing when and only when we wanted it to, which is to say, after we had properly trained and conditioned it. It would seem that in trying to slip the code in under the noses of the scientists without informing them of what they were doing, some unexpected mutations have occurred. The Katamari has matured much faster than we thought it would."

"So we have noticed!" said King, utilizing the royal "we" as he often did. "This failure is unacceptable. Our investors wanted a weapon, Yamamoto, and we wanted it to be fun and colorful. What nobody wanted was an uncontrollable menace that's rolling around out there somewhere, probably terrorizing the Japanese country side, covered in dead rodents and lab equipment. Unacceptable!"

"Sir, with all due respect," said another Suit raising his hand furtively, "Wouldn't it seem prudent to contact the local authorities regarding this issue?"

"This is our project! OUR project! We will handle it ourselves!"

"Contacting the authorities won't be necessary in any case," chimed in another Director, who had just gotten an urgent notice in on his blackberry. He got up and turned on the large plasma television in the back of the board room, switching to the national news.

"That's right Suki," said a reporter as some amateur footage played on the screen, "Based on what we're seeing here, this... ball seems to absorb anything of smaller size when it makes physical contact, subsequently increasing its mass." The video showed a large round cluster of junk, about the size of a minivan, rolling about in a cow pasture. The reporter continued, "I know the footage is grainy, but if we pause it, you can clearly see some fairly horrific details. There appears to be at least one fat child stuck to it, right there, covered in cow dung. And we believe that lopsided lump on the other side is in fact a whole cow. Back to you in the studio."

"Well, so much for not buying the cow when you can get the milk for free!" said Suki. "Police, firefighters, and animal control experts have been tracking the creature closely, however they are apprehensive about using any kind of physical force against it since there appears to be at least one person trapped on this thing. It was last sighted just south of Kyoto and headed in the direction of the city. Authorities recommend that everyone in the immediate area move indoors, including pets and any valuables smaller than a minivan. We'll be back with more updates after another slutty episode of Tenchi or some other retarded Japanese cartoon." The broadcast went to commercial, and an uncomfortable silence pervaded the board room.

"We will handle this ourselves, personally," said King, "We dreamed up the thing and we can destroy it!" Ten minutes later he was decked out in his favorite costume: a big fruity renaissance type affair, with tight leggings and royal furs. He also wore what looked to be a bizarre cylindrical bolt of fabric across his shoulders, with an indentation to make room for his sizable head, upon which sat a lavish jewel encrusted crown. "Prepare my jet, and set a flight plan for Kyoto. Tonight we dine in hell!" My God, the guys in 300 were cut, he thought.

!!!ICHI BAN!!! KATAMARI FAN FICTION !!!ICHI BAN!!!

2007-11-08T19:46:00.001-08:00

If you are not familiar with what Katamari is, I recommend you Wikipedia it. I'll put the link right here, lazy ass.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Katamari

Shigeru Okanawa, one of Japan's leading geneticists, gazed admiringly at his creation. The happy little multicolored tennis ball-sized sphere that rolled about so gaily in the plastic hamster cage was officially the first multi-celled organism to ever be engineered completely from scratch. "Any questions?" he asked the reporters.

"What's that he's doing there?" asked a woman. The Katamari was rolling along a bed of wood shavings, except that they were sticking to him as he went along. Eventually they wound up covering him completely, to such a point that the creature's previously smooth, slick body now looked very fuzzy and more adorable than ever before.

"Ah," said Dr. Okanawa, smiling, "I believe he's eating."

"Eating?" said the reporter incredulously, "He eats wood?"

"Well, no. We've been feeding him a diet of diced vegetables, which is what we designed him to eat. However, every now and then he seems to attempt to ingest objects that he can't metabolize. The shavings will just drop off when he realizes they're inedible. Who else has a question?" Another reporter raised his hand.

"So, what exactly does he do?" asked a man in the front row.

"Pardon?"

"Yeah, what does he do? How is he useful? What's the point of his existence?"

"Well..." Okanawa trailed off. "You've got me. I guess that's a question for the guys in corporate. They say 'splice me up a multicellular critter' and I go ahead and do it." There were a few chuckles around the conference room.

"No really, though. What does this... Kator-"

"Katamari."

"What purpose does this Katamari serve?"

"Frankly, so far he mostly just rolls around in there. He eats vegetables and grows bigger. There really isn't a point to him as far as I know. The suits in Tokyo just wanted him as a publicity item. You can count on seeing more organisms with more practical purposes out of us in the future, I assure you. And that's all the time we have. Thank you!" The press agents snapped a few more pictures and begin to shuffle out of the room.

------

"He's growing much larger than we anticipated." said Hiro, stating the obvious. Two weeks later, the Katamari was already the size of a basketball and much too big for the hamster habitat he used to live in. "And with these results, there's no denying it anymore. He's definitely eating his wood shavings." Okanawa knew his lab assistant was right. Just as the creature did with his chopped vegetables, he was rolling up his shavings until he was thoroughly coated and then gradually absorbing them into his rubbery body.

"So he eats wood." said Okanawa. "Certainly worth looking into, but nothing to worry about."

"Normally I'd agree. But I think you should look at this." Hiro reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin and a rubber superball, the kind his kids loved to ricochet off the walls, floor, and ceiling of his house when he wasn't home. Both these objects were about an inch in diameter. He dropped them into the rabbit hutch. It was feeding time, and the Katamari was especially hungry. He rolled over, and both items stuck to him immediately. "I've introduced two objects, completely non-organic, and I guarantee he'll have them fully 'digested' in an hour."

"What are you doing, Hiro? He could poison himself!"

"Clearly not. Remember the habitat thermometer that mysteriously went missing? And the minicams that disappeared the other day? We've reviewed the footage. He ate them all in the middle of the night. This little guy is a regular billy goat."

"Okay Hiro, thanks. I need to make a few phone calls. You can head home. I appreciate you staying late."

"See you tomorrow, Doc." said Hiro, exchanging his lab coat for one to keep him warm and heading out the door. Dr. Okanawa went into his office and took a seat behind his desk. This whole thing was becoming more troubling to him every day. Clearly the Suits knew something he didn't. It was obvious, or at least it should have been the day that a huge hard drive arrived in the mail containing a few terabytes of unknown genetic code.

"What do you want me to do with this?" he had asked Kenji Yamamoto over the phone. Yamamoto was director of R&D and one of the Tokyo Suits.

"Just integrate it into you're project. You'll be able to make it work."

"I don't even know what this is."

"I'll put it bluntly Dr. Okanawa: It isn't your business to know. "

"But I-"

"As stated in the... ah... fourth clause of your contract."

"Oh."

Yamamoto's tone softened a bit, "Shigeru, I know this all may seem a bit disconcerting, but I'm quite confident you're up for the challenge, and far more than capable of pulling this off. We're going to set your deadline back a year. We're all rooting for you over here. You pull this thing off and you'll be a hero."

Flash forward about three years to present day and Okanawa was calling his boss again for what he could only imagine was a reason directly related to that distant phone conversation. Yamamoto had gone home for the day, but upon insisting to his assistant that the call was an emergency, the doctor was routed to his home. "Shigeru, this is unexpected. I trust things are going well?" Dr. Okanawa could hear Yamamoto's kids playing in the background.

"Not really." said Okanawa bluntly, "I'm going to get straight to the point, because I have a really bad feeling about what's going on over here. I'm calling to report some strange behavior in the animal, and I can only assume it has to do with the extra genetic information you had me tie in." There was a pause on the other side of the line.

"What kind of behavior?"

"The Katamari is consuming things that it shouldn't be. We planned it to be purely herbivorous, but it seems to be able to eat... well... anything." This was followed by an even longer pause. "Hello?"

"Is the Katamari secure?" asked Yamamoto.

"Secure? Well, its locked in the rabbit hutch where we typically keep it"

"Your lab has a cold storage unit, right?"

"Yes..."

"Okay, I want you to move it there immediately. We'll send someone over tomorrow to take care of this. Until then, keep the specimen on ice."

"We have no idea what kind of tolerance the creature has for freezing temp-"

"Well, we do. Do as I say. Someone will be there tomorrow. I have a few phone calls to make." Yamamoto hung up.

"Shit." said Okanawa to himself. He got up and headed back to the lab. When he arrived, he discovered that the rabbit hutch was minus one Katamari and plus one Katamari-sized hole in it's mesh walls. "Shit!" said Okanawa again, spinning on his heel and scanning the lab. Nothing.

Then a rustling from behind a counter. Dr. Okanawa grabbed the Katamari Net down off the wall and gingerly stepped towards the noise. Edging around the corner of the counter to get a look, he could see that the Katamari had broken through the glass door of a floor cabinet. The sound of beakers and lab equipment being rustled around was quite audible from within. Then with a crash it burst through another cabinet door and rolled right into view.

The creature was caked in... stuff. Bits of broken glass, beakers, tools, petri cultures, even a microscope; all this junk just seemed to stick magically to it, giving it considerably more volume and mass. It appeared to not have noticed Okanawa, and proceeded to wheel away from him towards the live specimen containers. Okanawa continued to attempt to stalk it. Before he could even get close, the Katamari lept up onto a counter, and knocked a cage of mice onto the floor. With a crash the cage burst open. A flurry of tiny animals, suddenly freed, scattered across the ground. The creature, whom it became apparent had done this intentionally, zipped off the counter and managed to land on a few of the fleeing rodents.

To Okanawa's horror, the mice stuck to the creature just as easily as anything else. As if locked to the Katamari by an invisible vice, the animals twitched and struggled, attempting fruitlessly to free themselves. The Katamari remained still, clearly stunned by this sensation, as it was the first time it had preyed on anything more than celery. The mice' struggling became more erratic and spastic, then finally stopped. The Katamari shuddered, and Okanawa, frozen where he stood, witnessed something even more horrific.

Greasy, disgusting flesh seemed to grow out from the center of the creature, partially absorbing all the objects, formerly alive or otherwise, that had now become a part of it. Slick little tendrils protruded from this skin and wrapped themselves around the less secure items, particularly the mice, digging in and drawing nutrients. What Okanawa had was no longer the cute little multicolored tennis ball that he used to feed baby carrots.

Then the creature noticed him. Okanawa had no time to react, it was coming at him fast. It smacked into his leg, but then bounced off just as quickly. The impact knocked him over, and for a moment he could feel the unexplainable stickiness of the Katamari; it felt like an absolutely unbreakable force, unlike anything he'd ever experienced. The only thing that kept them apart was Okanawa's considerably greater mass.

The Katamari would have to wait if it wanted to make Okanawa part of it's collective. The scientist climbed to his feet, his shin terribly bruised, and picked up his net. The creature sped away, gaining speed across the floor, neatly scaled a wall, ripping out an electric outlet in the process, and broke through a window. The Katamari had escaped.

-----------------

I Died A Little

2007-11-07T23:18:00.001-08:00

That title has EMO POST written all over it, doesn't it? Well, that's really not my style, and now is no exception. My style is more akin to the "Drive by your arch nemesis's trailer home in a Volkswagen Beetle from the 60's with the backseat full of dog crap that you've been saving for three months mainly for the purpose of throwing at that girl you've always liked in order to finally show her how you feel (See previous post "How to Get a Date") but have instead decided to use towards the further degradation of your enemy's already destitute living situation" style. You know me.

This post... is about a dream I had. Not a profound one about the rights of the black man, nor one that evokes the profound nature of the essence which pervades the existential construct of humanity or something, NO... However, in this dream, I did die.

Admittedly, I may be about to fill in some of the blank areas that I have forgotten with some of my own conscious dramatizations, and the same goes for the boring parts too. But hey, my only thought is to entertain you. You, the gentle reader, who by this time is probably limited to people named Paul Tino. (Census statistics indicate that there are over 500 Paul Tinos in the United States. That's over 500 strong for Daltonious Is Wrong and He Sucks!)

On with the dream.

I am standing in an isle at Safeway, perusing the cereal selection. They only have one variety available... Cinnamon Toast Crunch. My fucking favorite. I am reaching... reaching for a box of that sugar coated magnificence.... it's like crack that you eat out of a bowl instead of smoke from one. Hey sorry if crack pipes don't actually have bowls, I apologize for never having smoked crack or wikipedia-ed the process for doing so. But anyway....

I am just about to grasp the box when a man bursts into the store. He has a crazed look in his eye, an eye that has "I drive around in a VW bug full of dog crap and throw it at people's trailer homes" written all over it. Somehow. He also happens to be toting some kind of automatic rifle, perhaps an AK-47 or an M16. Those are the ones I know. Anyway, he begins shooting people as he sees them. He sees me. He fires five or six rounds into my chest. I'm glad I didn't waste money on that boob job. HAR, I AM A MAN I DON'T HAVE BOOBS.

Anywho, I don't feel any pain. Too manly. I just fall, fall backwards into that heaven of sugar toasted wonder. Bloody boxes of Cinnamon Toast Crunch rain down from the sky with my falling body. I hit the tiled floor, grasping one final package. I lie there, bleeding out. Some involved citizens, bunkered behind a checkout counter, reach over and somehow manage to drag me back to their hiding space.

"We're losing him," I hear someone say. I begin to drift away. I see him floating above me. It's that chef from the cereal box. Does that guy have a name? Perhaps not, but neither does God. "You've found me." he says. "Come home."

Lord, do I like Cinnamon Toast Crunch. I shuffle off this mortal coil, and awaken to life as usual. I have eggs for breakfast.

Chuck "Bowl-o-Rama" Sizemore, EXPOZED. With a "Z," Bitch.

2007-10-23T01:22:00.000-07:00

As part of this introductory acting class I'm taking, I've gotta take one of Shakespeare's sonnets (Number 69) and create a character from a alternate time and place to fill the shoes of the person delivering the poem. I also have to create a context for the poem's message. So here it is.

Given Circumstances/Character Biography

Sonnet 69

Intro

My character’s name is Chuck “Bowl-O-Rama” Sizemore, born Charles Chapsworthy Sizemore III, a 36 year old construction worker, Gulf War veteran, and citizen of the city of New Jersey, New Jersey, a quaint industrial hamlet along the Jersey shore. The year is 2007.

Family

Born in the same region where he lives currently to a reasonably functional blue collar family in 1971, Chuck maintains a good relationship with Ma and Pa Sizemore, as well as with his twin sister Adrian. He was raised Catholic, and while he still identifies himself as such, he is not a particularly religious fellow. His immediate clan lives locally, a la Everybody Loves Raymond. The only exception to this rather acceptable family dynamic is his older brother, Reginald “JD” Sizemore, aliased in police records due to his affinity for the whiskey that goes by the same pair of initials. JD Sizemore was last seen robbing a taqueria after spray painting the word “Balls” on The World’s Largest Limestone-Carved Likeness of Richard Nixon across the street in Salisbury, Tennessee.

Work and Pass Times

Chuck bowls frequently with his buddies, attributing him to his nickname. He idolizes the character of Walter from The Big Labowski, though he has yet to draw a firearm during league play, and he is in considerably better shape. He has been in a few fights however, and while Chuck may be a little rough around the edges, most if not all these fights were started by his friends or people who his friends managed to cross at the local dive bar scene.

He has had a steady job in construction since the late nineties, and for the most part is satisfied with his line of work. Like many veterans, he experienced some difficulty acclimating to civilian life after his honorable discharge from the Navy. Due to this, his employment status was very erratic before he landed a job in construction.

Military History

Chuck enlisted with the Marines in 1989, due to a certain restlessness and a desire to be “badass.” He was one of the few American casualties during the Gulf War: In the final month of the conflict, he was shot in the foot by a drunken Seabee, and required about 15 months of physical therapy before reaching full recovery. Similarly, one of his best war buddies was killed by friendly fire (not his own). And that’s all I got to say about that.

Relationship History

Chuck was a bit of a jock in high school. He played football and picked up a cheerleader for a girlfriend. Her name was Cindy Hasselhoff. David Hasselhoff was her uncle. She had his chin. After high school, they had to call it off as Cindy went to college and Chuck joined the service. Cindy dropped out during her Sophomore year and became a groupie for Guns ‘N Roses. Since then, Chuck hasn’t heard much of her.

Chuck also dated his physical therepist’s personal assistant, whom he met during his recovery. Her name was Georgia Seightzmare. They were very much in love, and Chuck asked for her hand in marriage. She accepted. Then, a disastrous discovery was made that would plunge Chuck into the darkest period of his life. A blood test showed some bizarre genetic similarities between him and his fiancée. A genealogist, hired by Georgia’s suspicious parents, confirmed that the Seightzmare family was in fact a long lost arm of the Sizemore family. (“Seightzmare” was actually a non-Americanized version of “Sizemore” that hadn’t been bastardized by immigration officials at Ellis Island.) Lo and behold, Georgia was actually Chuck’s cousin. This unfortunate discovery pushed Chuck into a heavy depression that can also be attributed to his difficulty in finding a steady job after the war.

After Chuck found work and smoothed his life out a bit, he engaged in a few short-lived relationships that didn’t amount to much. Then, one year before present day, Chuck met a special someone at the local Hooters, the establishment that he and his colleagues often frequented after work. Her name was Carletta Howitzer, a waitress who had just transferre from the restaurant in Pittsburg. Carletta is the person to whom the sonnet is addressed.

Carletta’s Transgressions

These are the events that lead up to the statements that Mr. Sizemore made in the sonnet.

One day after work, Sizemore and a few of his construction buddies arrived at the local Hooters after a hard day constructing a municipal water foul sanctuary to find that there was a new girl on the job. Carletta had recently transferred from the Pittsburg restaurant, and immediately caught Chuck’s eye. The usually flirting that occurs between the waitresses and the clientele ensued, however it came to a head when Carletta offered Mr. Chuck Sizemore a blowjob. You know, the drink. From the bar. It was on her. They have a bar at Hooters.

One of the fastest ways to Chuck’s heart was always through his liver, and thus the relationship only grew more substantial from there. Soon they were dating regularly. Sizemore thought he’d finally found someone as special as the woman who turned out to be his cousin years ago.

Then the piranha of betrayal leapt from the lake of deception and bit Chuck upon his unsuspecting love-struck buttocks. Or something. At any rate, Carletta was actually a contracted professional identity thief, and had managed to acquire Sizemore’s PIN and Social Security number, selling them off to the highest bidder. To add insult to injury, she had also sold Sizemore’s email address to Chinese spammers who specialized in products related to “Natural Male Enhancement.” Suffice it to say, Chuck’s email inbox was flooded beyond capacity with scores of grammatically incorrect adds. In one final confrontation delivered during peak hours at Hooters, Chuck delivered the message of Sonnet 69 to Carletta, and then proceeded to grab a six year old's birthday cake off a table and throw it in her face. What kind of parent takes their kid to Hooter's for his birthday anyway?

Flipping a Bitch

2007-09-20T21:55:00.001-07:00

Have you ever wondered about the term "flip a bitch?" It's the hippest new way to describe a u-turn. I have many theories about where this colorful bit of language came from.

Theory One: Making u-turns is a bitch, largely due to the peril involved in flipping your automobile into oncoming traffic at an unprotected left hand turn. Also, it is not uncommon to lack the necessary clearance to make one, as your huge American vehicle has the turning radius of the Titanic.

Theory Two: Women, (also known in some circles as "bitches" (sorry ladies(whoa, parentheses inside parentheses, that's cutting edge))) who are stereotypically known for having difficulties in making their way around via automobile, find it frequently necessary to make u-turns. Hence, "flip a bitch."

Theory Three: Gangstahs like to hollah at bitches as they slow down for a u-turn, and may also flip out their penises.

Theory Four: A band of traveling entertainers from Estonia had a special trick they did with a female dog that involved catapulting said canine over a giant piece of taffy in the shape of Ronald Regan. The bitch would typically flip head over heals in the air four or five times before landing in an enormous mug of eggnog that says "Today Is The First Day of the Breast of Your Wife" (Typical raunchy Estonian humor). Anyway, these Estonians had trouble reading the street signs when they came to visit the good 'ol U.S. of A, and thusly could not find the venue for which they were destined (The Luxor in Las Vegas. Somehow they were lost in Anchorage). Pualo, the leading man, is remembered as having said to his assistant Ferdinandrew, "Vee are out of tieyem, vee must fleep thees beetch right now! Also, vu-turn up here." And so, the people of Anchorage Alaska were amazed and delighted as the cannonballing canine was flipped continuously while the enterprising Estonians made a tenacious and unprecedented u-turn that would change the course of United States history forever. God bless America.

Theory Five: The internet.

Where Are the Students of Color At UCSC?

2007-09-17T23:29:00.000-07:00

Authorities have discovered the remains of intrepid naturalist Ted Stridewell in the woods just above the UC Santa Cruz campus, two months after his disappearance. Just what was Stridewell doing up there?

"Searching for the fabled Student of Color, no less." says his fifth hippie life partner of thirteen months, Shiela Gerbins. "He knew in his heart of hearts they existed, and the need to prove it consumed him."

And how. Three months ago, Stridewell journeyed bravely into the forests of UC Santa Cruz to find and document these elusive and folkloric beings. He made the following statement in a press conference just before he disembarked.

"You know that mural outside the college nine apartments? It really speaks to me. I mean, 'Where are the students of color at UCSC?' Yes... yes, exactly... where? Where are they? They're around here somewhere. The next time you see me, I will have documented proof that these shy and misunderstood creatures exist. Wish me luck. Oh, and fuck whitey."

And it was with this final poignant statement that Ted Stridewell hauled his cracker ass into the untamed wilderness of the UCSC Upper Campus Nature Preserve.

One month following the beginning of his expedition, all contact with Mr. Stridewell was lost, until some hikers stumbled upon his campsite. Stridewell, along with much of his equipment, was found horribly dismembered and obliterated. But authorities did manage to recover several of his journals and audio recordings, most of them relatively intact.

The following are transcripts of these recordings. You may find some of them disturbing, particularly the final ones.

Day 1

Stridewell: I've established a base camp two miles north east of Tree Nine. The hike was relatively uninteresting, and the weather is fair. A few Asian sightings on the way up here, but those guys don't count. I'm fully stocked up on hummus and clove cigarettes, and preparing to bed down for the night.

Day 3

Stridewell: Nothing much to report. I spilt some hummus on my Che Guevara t-shirt. Man, fuck George Bush.

Day 10

Stridewell: Finally some progress. I was snoozing on a rock and was awakened by a rustling in a nearby hedge. Something's been watching me, I know it. The thing made tracks back into the woods when it knew I was awake. Whatever it was, it definitely had some pigment to it. I'm getting pretty excited here.

Day 13

Stridewell: No more occurances since the last entry. It's become apparent to me that sitting out in the woods and waiting for 4:20 PM to roll around isn't getting me anywhere. So I'm taking action. I've decided to implement a calling technique. This involves cupping the hands around the mouth in a very particular way and... here, I'll do it right now.

(Ted can be heard making a very peculiar noise. It sounds like the beat to Snoop Dogg's Drop It Like It's Hot, repeated quickly over and over again.)

Stridewell: I also have another very complex call to show you. If this doesn't bring in an SOC, I don't know what will.

(Stridewell begins whistling Mexican Hat Dance.)

Day 17

Stridewell: (Breathing heavily, with the sound of rustling folliage, as if he's hiding in a bush) I'm really excited, I've just made a huge breakthrough. I've come across a frontage road running through the backwoods and there's an SOC standing right there, no more than 20 yards away from me, next to the street. He appears to have discovered an abandoned vehicle and is examining the contents of the engine compartment.

Okay, Stridewell, get a grip on yourself. (Clears throat tentatively) I will now come out from hiding and attempt to establish first contact. (More rustling, and footsteps.)

Motorist of Color: Jesus Christ, you startled me.

Stridewell: How. Me human. Me come in piece.

Motorist of Color: Um... what the hell?

Stridewell: (Whispering into recorder) The Student of Color appears relatively unintimidated by my intrusion into its natural habitat. I can only assume this is because it has had limited to no contact with humans, which would explain why it bears no natural fear of me.

Motorist of Color: Yeah, er, okay. Say, do you have a cell phone I could borrow? Mine's out of batteries and I'm having a bit of car trouble here-

Stridewell: He appears to be attempting a rudimentary form of communication. I believe he's asking for food. (To Motorist) Hun-Gree? Want... food?

Motorist of Color: What? Erm, I'm fine really. Criminy, you smell bad.

Stridewell: (Into Recorder) I will now attempt to offer him some of my left over Tofu Humus Patty.

Motorist of Color: That's really disgusting. Wait, are you homeless? Okay buddy, here's a couple bucks. Don't spend it on booze.

Stridewell: My God... The creature has just offered me human currency. My mind is reeling with the implications. What's that sound?

(The sound of a car approaching can be heard as it comes to a stop.)

Driver: Hey Al, what up? Car trouble?

Motorist of Color: Yeah man, can you gimme a ride back to campus?

Driver: No problem. Who's that weird guy in the bush?

Motorist of Color: Some mentally handicapped vagrant. He's really creeping me out. Let's go.

(The car pulls away)

Day 18

Stridewell: I just can't get my head around it. How can a creature so... separate from normal society possibly acquire a thing like human currency? I would have thought I was hallucinating except that I'm holding the dollar bills right here in my hand. He was even wearing what appeared to be... a t-shirt... and jeans. This is absurd. My world is collapsing, you have no idea how this feels. The next thing you know, they'll be attending the actual university, not just hiding in the trees. God I need to get high. (Audible bong ripping).

Day 21

Stridewell: Something's been... following me. Watching me. I'm really rather frightened right now. I've only heard it, never really got a good look at it. All I know is that it's big... and brown. Definitely very brown.

Day 22

Stridewell: (Panting) Been on the run pretty regularly for the past 24 hours. Only time to stop for pot. It's close, and I can just feel it's intentions aren't good. I'm not frightened, I'm terrified. This is fucked up. (Long, frightened pause) Oh shit!

(The heavy rustling and cracking of foliage can be heard)

Stridewell: Oh fuck me, he's huge. Seven and a half feet tall... brown... I do believe this specimen must be of the genus Negronicus. (The indistinguishable growling of a grizzly bear is heard) I want to run, but at the same time, I'm elated. How many people get to.... Hey buddy, you're a big boy aren't you? (More growling) According to lore and history books from the 50's, poking this species with a stick is the best way to establish common ground. They also excel at basketball. Here buddy... there you go. See? I come in peace. (Growling becomes more agitated) Let's stay calm, let's not get too, what is it.... Hyphy? That's it. Hyphy.

(The growling converts at this point to a full on roar. Stridewell's screams, as well as the sound of ripping clothing and flesh, last for about a minute before being replaced with the sound of crunching bones. Finally, there's a dull plopping noise as the creature shits nonchalantly in the woods and walks away.)

And so ends the legacy of Ted Stridewell. Will anybody ever again feel inclined to search for the mysterious Student of Color? Stridewell did, and he payed the ultimate price, making it more clear than ever before that nature just doesn't intend for many people at Santa Cruz to, well, quit focusing on frivolous racial issues that don't even apply to this campus or for that matter make any sense.

....

The mural at College Nine is dumb.

Kids Say the Darndest Things (There's a great joke about tits at the end)

2007-09-01T01:02:00.000-07:00

Working with kids can be amusing, as well as a rigorous test of one's will not to collapse like a dying star, obliterating all nearby matter. Having worked at a day camp in Berkeley for five and six year olds this summer, I can account for having taken this particular exam many times. Did I pass? Well, I can at least say I wasn't fired, nor is my name and residence posted on any government websites.

(Sorry to disappoint you, Daltonius, I'm afraid I won't be joining your 'illustrious' ranks any time soon. You degenerate scum bag piece of trash.)

Ahem, anyway, I figured it would be worth putting into writing some of the more amusing experiences I've had at work this summer, and I believe I'll kick it off with

Anything Pertaining to Joe

If you've ever seen the movie Men In Black (a favorite of mine), you may recall a scene where Will Smith is in this shooting gallery being attacked by cardboard aliens, and of all the monstrosities that confront him, the only one he shoots at is a little girl. When asked why he took that particular shot, he explains that he thought there was something very wrong with a little white girl walking through the ghetto at night carrying books pertaining to multi variable calculus and quantum physics.

Joe is that little girl. Keep Will Smith the fuck away from him.

This kid is just aware of concepts, ideas, and vocabulary that he shouldn't be. Once when we were getting ready for lunch, he referred to the line he was standing in as a "procession." A procession? Just take a moment and imagine that word coming out of a five year old's mouth. I was at least halfway through high school before I can even recall hearing that word. Another time he told a misbehaving camper that if he didn't shape up, he would be sent to prison where he would be brainwashed and forced to fight in the military.

Joe is also perhaps the only kid to have caught on in any way to the true nature of the game called "Graveyard." Graveyard is simple: The kids lie down on the ground as still and silent as they can while counselors look for any movement. The goal is to be the last one caught moving. "I don't think graveyard is a real game," Joe told me. Which, of course, is pretty much true. It's mostly just a rather effective way to get 'em to shut up. "I'm not playing unless I get to be the guy who figures out how everyone in the graveyard died," Joe told me.

"Okay, fine bud, knock yourself out..." I lie down in his spot, eager for an excuse to catch a quick nap.

He looks me up and down as I lie on the ground. "You died in a boating tragedy."

Not a boating accident, mind you. A boating tragedy. W.T.F, Mr. Joe. W.T.F indeed!

From what wellspring of... unique parenting did this anomalous behavior arise? I can only imagine. Maybe I can't even do that. But I do know that while all the other kids at camp were having bananas, Granola bars and Rice Krispy treats for snack, Joe was eating corn. Raw, uncooked, unhusked corn. As in, every morning his hippie parents go outside and crack a cob off one of the stocks they have growing in their nuclear-free backyard and stick it in his backpack. Oh, and instead of packing him a pair of swim trunks, they give him a second pair of underpants, and expect everyone to believe they qualify as appropriate swim wear.

Berkeley.

Miscellaneous Antics and Garbage

I'm going to put this in bullets. We've got:

- A kid who peed his pants like clockwork within the same 30 minute timespan for four consecutive days, after repeatedly denying the need to use the bathroom.

-A kid who refers to my brother as "Don Chi-Chi" for no definable reason.

-Kids who shit in the pool.

-Kids who shit in the pool repeatedly and think its really funny.

-Kids who punch each other in the balls and think its really funny.

-Kids who punch you in the balls, and of course, think its really funny.

-One kid who walked in at the beginning of the day, pointed at his dad who was standing a few feet away, and said in a serious, hushed voice, "He eats pee and poo for breakfast." The dad smirked knowingly and walked off. It was a look that said, "So maybe I do and I'm proud of it."

-Might I mention the way these kids get ready for swimming? They strip down in the locker room to change into there swim trunks, but then opt to sit around completely naked, occasionally yanking idly on their ding dongs while pondering the mysteries of Optimus Prime or something. When you ask them why they're not changing, you can expect them to respond with something like, "My pants are inside-out." I'm not Daltonius, so there really is nothing I find particularly fun about this part of the day. But God help us all if I were Daltonius. I shudder to think.

-Some pretty damn hot moms.

-This lifeguard with really big bozangas. Yeah dude, they were like totally gigantic. She pretty much spent the whole day lounging in the lifeguard's chair while she "kept watch over the kids in the pool." Yeah, right. She was just about as good at her job as I was at "never steeling surreptitious glances at her WMD's." (Weapons of Milk Distribution. Yeah, that's right. Another term for tits is born. Oh, and back off George Bush. I know you've been looking for a while now, but I saw them first.)

Well, that's all I got. I hope you didn't just scroll to the end to read the bit about tits. There were some okay parts in the middle I guess. Anyhoo, I'll see you on the dark side of the moon! BUM BUM, BUM BUM, BUM BUM, BUM BUM...