A Real Man

A friend told me last night she and her father browse Yahoo! Personals for a good laugh. It seemed cruel enough to meet my sense of humor, but when I got around to it I found myself laughing a whole lot less. It wasn't like that 'Ha! You'll never get married manbeast!" laugh. No, it was more like "Man, how many girls do I know?" pity chuckle. Like the same chuckle you make when you fart by accident, but really you're just embarrassed as hell.

The women all seemed to fail with men at Elon. Actually, I'll make the blanket statement that they've failed with men anywhere else on this globe as well. Going to the internet pretty much means they've exhausted our physical realm for quality males, depleted their hook up reserves, and have now resorted to googling their future ex-husbands in attempt to find that special man-panion. Funny how alot of them seem to be teachers.

So why did Elon fail them? What does Yahoo! Personals have that our school didn't? I'll tell you what. A plentiful source of REAL MEN. That's right. There's a list. And they are all real. I haven't seen this list, but it's got to be their. Everyone woman notes in her profile she is looking for a 'Real Man'. Not 'Hitler Clone' or 'Monogamously Challenged Individual'. It's a good thing these girls specify, since a qualifier like 'Real Man' will stop the average white-trash, internet freak from replying.

Anybody remember their Kurt Vonneghut? Allow me to refresh. 'Here's the lesson: Women are psychotic. Men are jerks.' I can no more ask for all the crazy women in my life to leave me alone more then they could ask for a man to live up to the qualifier of 'Real' (which is really a poor choice of words). Real could mean so many things. Am I real man? Sure, my penis was there at birth. Am I a real man? Sure, I can pee while standing up. Am I real man? Sure, I'd rather beat my wife and kids than miss Sunday football. See? I'm Rational and Real. Goddamnit if I'm not the whole package.

I guess Yahoo! Personals is kind of funny, in that tragic, helpless person falling into an open manhole kind of way. If that's your bag, I guess. My advice? Lose weight or change your hairstyle. If that doesn't work, there's always eharmony.com

Reminders for class: I missed you guys. I'll be back again soon.

How To View The World Like Me

I have taken considerable time off in between finishing the story to make sure I won't just write down certain thing as happening certain ways just because I was pissed. That would be bad. The story is finished, in fact has been for two weeks. I reserve the right to amend sections of it because honesty usually doesn't win you friends.

So instead, I'll now teach you how to view the world like me. This started as a post on my facebook.com account, but turned into this long, nonsensical mess. So here are step by step instructions to seeing the world like me.

How To View The World Like Me:
1.) Turn your TV to MTV.
2.) Watch it until Room Raiders comes on.
3.) See if you can count how many times one of the people locked inside the van respond with a sound, not a sentence. Also, count for each time you want to call someone stupid.
4.) Write down the total number.
5.) Turn off your TV.
6.) Read this or this or this or this. (The more you read, the better)
7.) Read it again. Struggle to understand six or more lines.
8.) Write down the number of lines you understood.
9.) Compare your two sets of numbers. Be upset you can pick out more stupid things your culture does rather than smart.
10.) Go outside and look at the sky.
11.) Put MTV back on.

If you can sit through until commercial break after you've finished this list, do it again time later. You're in no way supposed to be able to function. Your mind should start to feel numb like someone pushed a spoon inside your ear. If the list works and MTV stays on long enough, you'll eventually have to break the neck of a kitten or a small child because MTV is so stupid. If there are no children or kittens in proximity, you will seek them out.

Reminders for class: I'll start posting again. Stop complaining. Voice Mails do not make me go faster. Plus it 'Holiday' time. Gosh Golly.

Making The Bail - Pt. 2

Side note: While Jeff was being given the sobriety test, this kid, a freshman, stepped outside the party. I will digress from my own story to talk about this kid. This kid is a winner. Winner. He's in his first semester at Elon and had already received two citations prior to the evening. Tonight would make his third.

I will preface his tail by saying that my sympathy for people usually runs as deep as being socially polite can. Unless the situation is drastic or I know you, I'm not going to do more then I need to escape the situation unscathed. Say you were on fire - I would tell a fire man. Say you were in need of money - I would point you to an ATM. More importantly, there are some situation where you should never expect help. These are the times when you have to man up. This is reality.

Flashback: Jeff is being given his sobriety test. My ass is still dropped on the couch. Outside, where Buff's party is happening, the back door opens up. A freshman steps outside onto the porch and kindly waves to Jeff and the police, despite the awkwardness of the situation. He shuts the door behind him and steps off the porch. I'm sure he chuckled to himself or swore under his breath, because that's always something I have done before I start to urinate in public.

No, really. The kid started to piss in public. One hand on his dick, the other scribbling MENSA meeting notes on the brick wall with a piece of chalk. The female officer looked to Jeff, then to her partner. 'Seriously, is this happening?' I don't know how they handled it as well as they did.

"Sir! What do you think you're doing?" she yelled to the freshman. Pulling away from photon equations, the kid looks over. This is where he noticed something - like the cops, Jeff about to be handcuffed, or maybe the flashing fucking lights. There was a whole slew of subtle clues only Sherlock Holmes would have picked up on. But the kid, obviously drunk and not in the puzzle solving mood, did pick up one of the factors. And so he realized what he was doing. And so he began to cry.

Allow me to check my watch: "1:24 am". Yes, I'll say for the record he began to cry around 1:24 in the morning. For forty minutes they had him outside in the cold, and he cried the whole time. Jeff, six feet to the right, is in handcuffs in a cop car. He got stopped by police. He failed a sobriety check. He blew a point nine. But Jeff does not cry. Why? Because he is a man. Don't confuse being a man with some overblown machismo, testosterone packed fuel ride. He didn't break the cuffs off his wrists and throw the car over his head like the Incredible Hulk. He didn't destroy half a city block with his junk. No. He sat there and took it because that's all you can do.

Crybaby McCryAndWetMyPants couldn't. He somehow got into the apartment I was in. They brought him in and sat him down on the couch. Not next to me, partially on me. Now when this happened, I had no idea why he was crying. For a moment, I felt sorry. But I noticed his weeping was that of an old lady who lost her porcelain doll collection.

That self-pitying kind, not the 'I've been hurt because a boulder fell on my arm' kind. Not the 'I just lost my whole family in a SeaWorld freak accident' kind either. It was like a girl who drinks too much and thinks everyone hates her. People know that kind of crying. You can pick it out when its that pathetic. Call me wrong, but the people around me picked up on it too. Because we began to laugh at him. Uncontrollably.

So I moved across the room to sit next to Aric, and we had to hold our hands over our mouths we were laughing so hard. Which really didn't matter because the kid was so black out drunk and bawling so loud he wouldn't have heard us. I left it got so bad.

Note Time: 2:30. Dude's been leaking for an hour. A friend of his comes by and tries to help. He starts to read the citation outloud while we're in the kitchen being mean. Yeah, I know. Whatever. His friend (who is actually pictured in that facebook picture as well) snaps at us to shutup. Now I am all for volume control. I hate loud music and I hate it when these young kids think they can turn it up for the whoopity doo of it all. But don't try to exercise power where you have none. We totally disregarded the comment to be quiet.

But we shouldn't have. Why? Because we missed out on this gem. The friend comes in to talk to crybaby, but crybaby can't respond because he's dropping buckets. So the friend reads his citation, where Jeff's charges have been underlined. The kid was cited for peeing in public, but the citation stated he has been drunk while operating a moving vehicle. When Sir CryPants hears that, he loses it. Loses mental control, muscle control, and sphincter control. And he has to be escorted from the building. (Time? Somewhere before 3)

One of the hens has some very nice words to say on the way out about how it wasn't their fucking house and good riddance. Note: Not hen's house either.

Anywho, sorry I took so much up with this one but the guy was a major vag.

Reminders for class: Part 3 is us trying to leave the goddamned house before Jeff gets banged in prison. Part 4 will be when we go to bail him out. Look for it soon. I'm done with classes.

Making The Bail - Pt. 1

I owe you this. I finally have a good story worth talking about. I usually shy away from stories that don't extend to some larger meaning, but this stuff stands on its on. I finally accomplished one of my college goals with the help of the Elon Police Department. I was able to bail a friend out of jail.

This all happened on a magical eve called Saturday night. I had come home from work after 10, and spent the better part of an hour scrubbing away the sweet Chilian scent of failure in the shower. Afterwards, I decided that I needed to get out. I looked for a quiet place to go, but the only option was Buff's.

Now, to those who don't know Buff, his wall are covered in painted handprints from all his friends. They put both hands in a selected color and sign their name. It's adorable, especially since women have the added mandate of dipping their breasts in paint and 'putting them on the glass' if you will.

I nixed the idea of going out and stayed in to watch SNL. Boring stuff, but a suitable alternative. When it finished around one, I was still up, so I decided to go anyway and say goodbye. It would beyond that point where everyone commands 'Drink' with biblical authority, but not late enough that all the good people wouldn't still be there. This is a magical time when drowsy meets caffeinated, and the best of the skeezeballs enter in to make their move on the most intoxicated women.

So I take off with my roommate and get their around one. We cut through the party with too many unattractive, drunk people hanging off each other. Note: I am overly awesomely dressed. People stare because they know they can't have this. Amidst this, I speculate on whether I should let them live. I walk to the back and out the door without passing judgment. They all are spared.

Opposite Buff's is another place, where two of my friends live. I go in and sit on the couch to watch them play video games. They are catatonic and do not move. At some point, somebody farts. I find it infinitely more satisfying then the ugly farm next door.

Then a pile of womanly women come through the door and start clucking like hens. B A H! You ruin my games. But what's this? A manly man among them? I embrace the manly man like a brother, then go back to the couch.

As I lay on the couch, the women start clucking more. Between laying eggs and totally talking over the video game, they mention something about a sobriety test and my friend Jeff.

I'm not even going to lie to you. Even when they said it was Jeff, I didn't get up. Notice how I got up to hug the man and not to watch police? I'm stoic like that. I'm like a rock in the river. God Almighty could be at the back door passing out condoms, answers, and beer and I still wouldn't get up.

Plus the hens were giving a play by play. It was like color commentary on shuffleboard. Drunken commentary. "Shit, he slid the... the.... shuffle." "Ohmigawd, he suffled it across... suffled... ha...ha... I said suffled." "Bitch, oh my God, you did. Suffled." "I know. I'm so wasted... fuck."

Reasons like that are why I didn't get up. But then one of the gamers got up to check on the police. This man's name was Chad, and one of the clucks was coming from his chick. She said something about something. In a minute, he had left his heated apartment to go talk to the cops. He came back about seven minutes later with a phone number. And directions. Our friend was in handcuffs in the front seat of the car and being taken to processing.

NA NA NA.

Reminders for class: Show up tomorrow and hear the rest. Or just wait a few days and recap it all at once. Whatever. Fine. Don't show up.

More To Come

At 3:30 this morning, I helped post bail for a friend. It is a long story that I am too tired to tell now, but I'll give you a tease. A Freshman crying his eyes out, the fear of prison rape, a pissy magistrate, an overly problematic drunk girl who might still be punched, and more.

Sure, you could ask Aric or Chad what happened, but wait for the blog. That's why you read it, anyway. I'll render the whole thing comedic. Or tragic. Depends on what music I'm listening to.

I Need A Cape

It's become clear that the real super heroes won't be emerging anytime soon to save this planet. So give me a cape. I will do it. I will fight crime and make right where others have done wrong. I will punch in the name of injustice and knee groins for the sake of righteousness. I will teabag evil. Straight teapot dome scandal style.

As I will now be fighting crime, I need certain things. An outfit for one. I'm thinking about setting myself on fire and fighting crime for twenty seconds at a time. Or maybe assless chaps. Also, I need a sidekick. Jesus has been calling, asking for the gig. LOL, he can't have it. I need a man, not someone who loses a fight to Romans. The guy didn't even kick back. Weak. Weak.

I think my sidekick should just have extreme enthusiasm, but nothing else. I wouldn't want him getting uppity and asking for shit or trying to get it his way. He should back me up, like a good mother. No matter what I do, he should be there with a baked apple pie and bucket full of chilled IBC rootbeer.

As for villains, I think I'll be fine. I could fight all the assholes at Elon and win over everyone. My twenty second fights would become such spectacles that webcams would be placed every ten feet in hopes of capturing them. But guess what? Can't do that shit. I block all the feeds. You have to go through my website and become a member for 39.32 a month. It's a deal. (plus you get a cool wallpaper of me with my foot on a log)

Reminders for class: Though everything comes to an end, not everything has to stop. Example? Happy Days, Season 8.

Pogo-Stick Mounted Eagles

I dated this girl once. Really, honest to God dates. She and I had a nice enough thing, but she had so many skeletons in her closet that they kept spilling elsewhere. Her last boyfriend had been abusive and it was something she wasn't going to get over, regardless if I was around or not. So rather then tell everyone her secret and that the weight of it was causing a rift between us, I just became an asshole.

I still debate over why I made that choice, all it did was save her face. She was able to break up with me because I appeared worthless, but it wasn't going to get her any better. She was temporarily embodied with power, not given an entire brand new line of Transformers (Autobots only). Nobody was the better for it.

So here's my boggle. If good guys should stick around, at what point can they jump ship? They've been claiming the whole time they can't do anything, but when can they soar off like an eagle on a pogo stick? After a week? A month?

Pishposh. I wouldn't have been the better for sticking around with a troubled young lady, but still wish I would've tried. Some things are inherently doomed, but we shoulder them anyway. Tiny Tim was screwed, but Dad still took him out.

Reminders for class: Appeared. Not actually worthless.

Kenji [Desirable]

Two women at my work were around the corner, unaware I checking the schedule. They were both older, the younger one married in her late twenties/early thirties. I heard my name, so my ears perked up. There were talking about me.

Sexually.

Ew.

I'm not one to think of myself in any other terms then awesome. It's an all encompassing word that probably includes sexy, but never needs to be said - like how the Total Gym is a total gym. Total is right in the title, but people sometimes forget it includes everything, even the uncomfortable man-on-man shower time. Chuck Norris had enough foresight to put that in.

I sometimes forget that I am probably one of the best looking men alive. I'm like the best kept secrets held up in every city. Sometimes you're caught up in all the hoopla; you forget there is stuff ten feet off the beaten path.

Hey! As long as we're producing thoughts from awkward experience, want to know the first time I ever felt like a sexy? Of course you do. I was dating this girl and I found out that she was cheating on me with another guy. Is that my sexy moment? Ha. Hell, no. That was my totally upset moment so I ripped off my shirt and confronted her with laser beam eye blasts.

After I tortured her with the lack of ever touching my man flesh again, she admitted she already had a man, and that I was the one who she was cheating with. There's just something sexy about that moment. I mean - yes, it's lousy - but at the same time that's so freaking awesome. She had a man friend who was already there, but she wanted Kenji to boot. She needed this? She needed this. C'mon. Who doesn't?

Don't get me wrong, I hope she felt dirty afterwards. Dirty dirty dirty. But after the swelling went down, I'll admit I felt good. I attracted someone who was taken. She already had what she needed, but I was what she wanted. That's a cool feeling. This may not be applicable all the time, but some of the time its better being wanted then needed.

Reminders for class: Take the lie out of oblivious and you're left with the obvious. On an unrelated note, I don't ever have a clue what I'm doing.

Guest List

Ok. My funeral is having a guest list. And a bouncer. My hearse will be pimping and will have a rocket launcher and a chain gun. A bit much? I think not. I have legions of fans who would try and fight their way to me and cast voodoo spells to bring me back. It's a pain, because I actually died in August '99 saving a sunken ship full or paraplegic orphans with incurable diseases. And again in '03 drinking Holiday Spice Pepsi. That was the worst.

So my hearse will be modified to mow down the fields of people who come and try to bring me back. I want my end to be peaceful, for me and family. Plus, I was told by the Indian Shaman that there is a prophecy that if I were to be buried in the ground it would start a new dark age for all mankind. The Shaman guy said I needed to be cremated and spread to the four winds in order to bring peace. I told him he could have the dust where my right nut lay, and that he could spread that to western winds because it always hung to the left. That Shaman dude gave me a pack of peanuts and told me to go gamble in his casino. I won $8. Point? I stop the apocalypse if you let me have it my way.

I'm going to start handing out the invitations now, so if you don't get one don't be surprised. It's exclusive, and I know a lot of you would give up your life to see mine extended. I'm inviting the people that I know would come to terms with my death like a hero. I know you'd like that to be you, but you're more likely to curl up into a tiny bawl of sad and not get off the shower floor for days. Let's face it, my death will probably be the hardest withdraw a human being could go through. I once worked in a rehab center and cured a guy as soon as I walked into the room, but when I left he became manic and used the bedsheets to imitate a giant womb and he stayed in there until he died. The guy just reverted. I don't want that for you. I love you. That's why you can't make the guest list.

Reminders for class: When everything ends, get drunk and remember how it began. I'm sorry, class, I'm Irish. It's the only advice we give.

Desperate Last Thoughts

I write to you trapped in a building, while hundreds - possibly thousands - of adoring women try to fight their way in. This is a genuine problem I face, but as of recently it has started becoming a daily problem. How am I supposed to function with so many people trying to get on this? I can't help that God made me with every ounce of perfect he had left.

Ok. That wasn't my point. My point is going to be that chivalry will be dead in a matter of moments and women killed it. There are few of us out there, scant few, who would generally try and be a white knight. But we're finding gainful employment an impossibility at the moment. It's an industry that relies heavy on tips and word of mouth. I try to be nice when it comes down to it, (Just not around you guys. You've already accepted me, I don't have to impress you. That's why I'll never act like that in front of you) so why doesn't it work? Oh, that's right. MTV ruined my generation and the self obsessed women that emerged from the commercial ooze suck.

I once did an experiment in college and held the door open for one hundred girls. Five of them said thank you. Oh, I'm sorry. What's that whiney female? Fluke you say? Ok. I did it again recently. Busted. You are so busted! Your gender totally sucks donkey ass through a flexy straw. It's not just random, even my female friends don't say thank you.

So what I'm going to do is recant a proclamation that I made where I create a division of women at Elon, saying that they were either whorish or crazy. I apologize. That was way off base. What I institute is that they're just manipulative. That's it. Manipulative. One word. One category.

Oh, I'm not angry while I'm writing this. In fact, the opposite. It's just that you ladies need to be aware of these little ticks you have. You can't be crawling over the last one to get to the next. It doesn't work that way. Maybe in Sluttville, PA it does, but not here.

Which brings me to another behavior. When the H-E-L-L did it become acceptable to answer a phone call in the middle of something important? If I'm telling you that your parents are dying of cancer and you flip your cell phone open to talk to Flounder down at the frat house, I'm going to take the phone from you and use it to call the Ghostbusters. Why? Because there must be something crazy going on here!

Oh, women of Elon. You wonder why I enjoy being single. *cough*

Ok. They don't wonder. But whatever. I rock.

Reminder to class: Say thank you and pay attention to who you are talking to. We're not all just marks along your drunken bar crawl for you to pass time with and look like you know.

L-O-V-E is strange to me

I was asked by a friend last night what my feelings on love were. I explained the rug called hope, but that's not actually a genuine feeling. I think that's my stock answer, like when people say 'You look good' and I launch back with 'Goddamnit, I already knew that. Why don't you go flip a truck off the freeway and come judge me again when you look a little less pretty?'

I don't know what my feelings would be. I'll have to cut the blog short today because I don't think I have feelings that wouldn't favor a heavy rant. I'll just explain my one thoughts on work in correlation to love.

If you wake up in the morning next to the right woman, do whatever it takes to get back to her at night.

Reminders for class: I hate when I can't bullshit an answer. I hate it!

Your Tattoo Is Ridiculously Stupid

I can think of no fad dumber then the waves of unnecessary tattoos that have spread over my generation. I do not think that the act of mutilating flesh for decorative or memorial purposes is wrong, per se, but I do hold reservations about placing the Creed symbol across the width of your back. It's your body, but I would still place the choice under the 'Gay Decision' category. Call me old fashioned, but I think there are only three reasons to have a tattoo; cross, country, core.

A dragon exploding out of your flesh or Pooh Bear chasing a bumble bee are not iconic enough to survive the test of time. I am willing to bet they'll even be considered archaic within your lifetime. Ever see an old woman with a Betty Boop drawing on her ass? And God, don't even get me started on people who get Chinese characters.

Our whole entertainment obsessed culture is going to open this void that will one day swallow us whole, and we'll be missing it to catch that one episode of Lost we Tivo'ed. That's not a negative outlook, just honest. I enjoy the ride. But when this civilization crumbles, we'll be judged for stupid things like tattoos.

Scientist #1: 'Their women had butterflies tattooed above their shoulder.'
Scientist #2: 'Yes, clearly that was a mark of their barren wombs.'
Scientist #1: 'Yes. It is clear in reason why their society fell.'
Scientist #2: 'Come, let us go have male on male sex.'

Speaking of girl tattoos, I might as well address them. Men just make stupid decisions on theirs, but women make unsightly one. Those wicked looking criss crossing barbwires that most girls place above their ass cracks are almost evil looking. When you lean forward and expose ass crack, am I supposed to get the impression you worship Satan? Are you conjuring demons? I get the feeling I should be making incantations in Latin and letting virgin blood spill over a pentagram.

All that needs to be said about a tattoo in that place that can be summed up by Vince Vaughn: "Might as well be a bullseye".

Hey, you might even think that stuff is stupid too, but find other stuff more excusable. Like, I don't know... a rose? Yeah, how quaint. God forbid you just start a garden or put some effort into it. Just go ahead and tattoo it on your thigh so if you ever get too busy, you have this crappy rendering of it to stop and adore. God forbid you stop to smell the roses, because those won't be flowers you smell...

Finally, there are those that desecrate their body to maintain a memory. I've lost people in my life, as I'm sure you have, but I'm not being insensitive when I say that putting a mark on yourself won't help retain the memory. If it takes a spot on your body to keep a candle burning, you've failed. If you absolutely need to ruin a spot on your body, you're probably way too overwhelmed with guilt. Try therapy. Try booze. Because if you're doing it just to hold on, one day you'll look at it with shame because you no longer harness that same spirit. Memory is something that is supposed to fade, as are feelings, like feelings. They're supposed to burn until the best parts shine and even the bad things make you smile. If you want a constant reminder, get a goddamned post-it.

My advice is to follow my example, get my temporary tattoos at Taco Bell. Brother's got a dragon tattoo. That stuff fades in a week.

Reminders for class: Core, Country, Cross. Seriously. Only reasons you should ever.

Garden State

A movie came on last night I had no intention of watching all the way through. I had been folding laundry while it was on, then shifted over to cleaning my room. Then the credits were rolling and I was in bed. I'm not sure how it happened, but I can tell you its indictment of two larger things. One, that movies are absorbing enough to distract you from whatever else you've got going on. Two, that we usually don't end up doing what we originally intended doing.

The power of film is a given. I doubt I talk about it much here because it's so ingrained into my own life. I would just be preaching. Its the only medium I know of that absolves us, teaches us, throws away our troubles, and knows how to play emotions. Do that 13th century Italian fresco paintings! Giotta can't touch this.

My other point, that we never do what we intend, is a message I will hammer you with. I can't think of many people who were able to set out and do what they intended. Then, the people I do know who accomplished what they desired are driven so much that they don't bother living life. You got the job, but what do you do now?

I won't say stop and smell the roses. I never leave my goddamned apartment except to drink on Thursdays. But I try to absorb most things with a little pinache. I could probably tell you more about that bar from the one day a week I go then all the time you've ever spent in it. Am I living life? No. But I'm trying. I know a guy who's got a lust for life that's unparalleled. The kid dancing playing video games. That's goes beyond something admirable.

Reminders for class: When you walk out of your house today, take a look to the left and right on your doorstep. You might be surprised what you'll find.

AWK-Ward

I see my world with extreme clarity, I just have trouble functioning in it. I also have trouble with operating my basic motor skills. I'm not talking about embarrassing myself in front of strangers, I mean doing things by myself and not getting it right. Sometimes dribble comes out when I talk on the phone, other times I feel like I don't know what to do with my hands. I'll stare at my bathroom sink for toothpaste and never figure out where it is - in my hand. I'll be driving my car and start patting my pockets. 'Oh, God. Did I forget my keys?' No. They're in the goddamned ignition.

So needless to say, alcohol does not help much with me being me. In fact, you might say it impairs my motor functions (Where have I heard that before?). When my friends get me ripped beyond comprehension, I believe I make the worst decisions that I'm capable of. It's usually at that point I should back off and have a Mountain Dew. Ah, but no. I will swashbuckle like a pirate to make my way through and tackle whatever odds to make my idiotic delusions a possibility. The day after is like airing out a laundry list of errors. Each memory evokes one special phrase: "What the shit?"

So now I have to pay and walk around with my tail rolled up between my vag. I lost. So if you're reading this and you know what I'm talking about, sorry. I'm just me. Awkward.

Reminders to class: Teacher isn't supposed to have his computer running or cell phone on when drinking. Remind teacher if he gets lit during recess next time.

Why I Hate Tron

There are films that people embrace for reasons I don't understand. Whenever I'm told by people their favorite movie is something like 'Blue Crush' or 'Princess Diaries', I find myself wanting to leave not only the conversation, but the planet. But I continue the talk, find the few good things I know about the movie, then silently assure myself God, nor this person's parents, created them with any particular plan in mind.

But then there is the small margin of films I despise. That's a step beyond disgusted. People who know me can you those are two things I'm not often doing. I will fake those feelings, but those in the know can tell you I'm indifferent to just about everything on the planet. Few things motivate me enough to produce genuine feeling; most annoy me enough to force out a cheap joke out and smile until it's over. Women, for the most, have the latter effect on me. The only other thing that can tick me off that much is a bad film - and people who like them.

Which brings me to Tron. I will now judge it for you under the five point system I devised in third grade. I will also speak like a third grader to further degrade this film.

Name - Tron is a stupid name. Even once you've seen the movie, it makes no sense. Before I saw Tron, I didn't know what a Tron was. Now that I have, I don't remember. Tron is dumb.
(0 out of 1)

Actors - I couldn't tell. Everybody was bright colors. Nobody had a face. I think Jeff Bridges or Jeff Daniels was in it.
(0 out of 1)

Action - There was a chase with light bikes. I think I have this game at home. This game was not as exciting as the ones I play with my dad.
(0 out of 1)

Funny - I didn't laugh at anything they said that was funny. Jeffy screamed at one point, but I think that was in pain. I still laughed then.
(0 out of 1)

Awesome - Clearly not.
(0 out of 1)

There is no reason to like this film. I hope somebody hits you with a punch to the side of your butt if you do like it.

Reminders for class: Stupid people overpopulated this planet long ago. Though they are a majority, shoot them on sight.

My Beef With Jesus

I've got this thing with religion. I can't find myself believing in it anymore. I used to, a while back, but that's not me anymore. Faith is cool because it means so many things, but whenever I tread beyond that I just get annoyed. The basic concept of worshipping a deity a convoluted mess. Seriously think about it. If your God was any other God, say a half cow-half elephant creation, wouldn't you think it was a little odd? A tad bit silly? You are worshipping something bigger then you with a cow-elephant body. Do you think my cat worships me just because I'm taller? Yes. Yes he does. He brings me dead things, and that's how I know he loves me.

But is he wrong? No. Fuck no. Everybody on this planet should worship me, as long as they know I am not a deity. And I'm not talking about worshipping in the religious sense, I'm talking about it in terms of loving unconditionally. That's kind of worship I seek.

Back to deities. Let's take the basic view of God. A white, sandal wearing, bearded God. Same one that made the world in seven days and made it rain back in '92 ruining my outdoor birthday party. That's the fucker we're talking about.

This guy is 'fair and just' and omnipotent, right? All seeing, all knowing. So tell me where bad things come into play. If he sees everything but can't stop the pain or suffering, that knocks him out of the running for omnipotent. If the opposite was true, that would mean he sees it but let's it happen anyway; that hardly makes him just or fair.

What's that leave? A third option where that sandal wearing hippy sees everything but does nothing about it? Yup, I think so. Hey, hey! Don't give me any test of character crap. You don't see parents having children then tossing their two year old in with a pack of feral dogs just to see if they have the cajones to last it out. That kid has nothing to prove to his parents. What would they want to see anyway, that he can ninja kick his way out of a pack of dogs? So I would ask what do I have to prove to a God? I'm acting just the way he made me.

All right. Bring it in now. Life isn't some giant moral clusterfuck and nobody cares about the moral quagmires of ants. Those of you who would argue that out of the billions of us inhabiting the planet right now, someone has meticulously laid down a fully realized plan for each of us are crazy. One being in charge of it all? Buddy, I have a hard enough time keeping my urine flow in the bowl.

Reminders for the class: 5% of this country is at war. The rest of us are living our lives like normal. Want to fix that? Institute the draft - all genders, all ages, no exceptions. Shit'll be fixed inside of the first 48.

Thanksgiving

I am now in the confines of my room, celebrating Thanksgiving with warm crystal light and a toilet that won't stop running. My holiday is tantamount to any other day in my life, so there is no reason I shouldn't be as I am any other day. I should be just about to go and rant about the inconsequential pieces of existence that craft the lines for common grounds in our lives, like how strangers who fart in public and don't say anything can be really annoying or that unmatched socks aren't really a problem until someone else sees them. I could crap out a whole speech on how love is actually the act of one person settling and the other being appreciative, or that we all stumble through life with no clue until we find that which was familiar before we started stumbling.

But it's Thanksgiving, and for some reason - despite routine - it does not feel like any other day. I am alone, though many generous offers were made to remedy such. This is a Holiday built around family, and since mine didn't want me home there is no reason for me to tag along and crash someone else's.

There we go. That ought to make you uncomfortable.

Anywho, I've got a bottle of Sake and a video game involving a guitar, so I'm happy. I wouldn't worry about any of what I just wrote. Just ignore it for the most part. I'm just babbling. I owe four other posts today, so this gloomy gus should be surrounded in happier things by tomorrow.

Reminders for class: Sake is bad, chilled or warm. Just a heads up.

Bust My Balls Here

When friends rag on you, I would take it as a good sign. Yes, you may think they're picking on you, but they're actually leveling you out. Sometimes there are time when even Kenji has inflated his ego too big, and needs to be knocked down a peg. That's the perfect time for when your friends should come in and remind you of all the dumb things you've done with your life. Like if you've ever walked home from a bar several miles away, thrown up on kid's jungle gym, and maybe crawled back home to fall asleep in the shower with the water blasting you on scolding hot. That is a good story to remind you that you possess a few floaws. Or maybe that could make it a daily reminder because you can't ever remember to remove the lint trap from the dryer. Regardless of the stories, it takes a good group of friends who will bust your chops relentlessly.

I would suggest that cracking the whip is almost cornerstone a to any functional relationship. Even couples find a way to snipe back and forth at each other. Think I'm wrong? Well, I'll just ask you here if you've ever heard of a little thing called spousal abuse? Talk about reminders!

Anyway, a functional niche should always find ways to balance each other out. If you have to do it by reminding them of how bad a person they are, then do it. I promise - it will not critically damage their sense of self worth or how they might perceive you and their place in the world.

I would also suggest that if you're not busted on consistently, then you might want to check yourself. Are you gay? No? Well, then what else could be the problem? Oh, I know! They could be scared of you crying or not taking it well. Yeah, you big baby. They're probably scared you'll get angry. Well that's probably your fault and not theirs. What happens is that this leads to your friends busting you behind your back, which you'll never know about. Paranoid? Oh, you should be. Like on a level that the Truman Show is actually happening to you.

Ahem. So I routinely accept my balls being busted wide open in front of God and man. In fact, I encourage it. I will often bring a story just to shame myself. Why? I'm egotistical. Despite being lampooned, I've now become the center of attention. And that's like giving the microphone to the band's drummer. It'll only end it tears.

So take your whooping, boy. God knows we beat Deakins like a pack mule, but that's only because we love him.

Oh, and I'm not sure how much of this post applies to women. You guys cry alot anyway, so I'm not sure pointing out your flaws with extreme clarity would help you out. Plus... your periods. Something. Something.

Reminders for class: Call your best friend now and remind them of the dumbest thing they've ever done. They'll thank you.

Why I've Given Up On Elon Women

I had titled this 'Why Kate ##### almost turned me gay', but I figured the effect would be about the same with the one I have listed.

There's a popular myth among girls at my school that there are three types of men at Elon: Taken, Gay, and Assholes. For them, I'm sure the simplification works. I won't try to say that they may have their sights too high in a school that thrives on superficiality, but goddamnit nobody came her for quality. Maybe they ought to try something beyond the loudest or drunkest.

In retaliation, the men [read: I] have categorized the female populous into two types of women at Elon: Crazy and Whore. I feel if I get lumped in with asshole just for being, I should get the same luxury when assigning placement with the women.

Academically, this is a place where you get recognized for being yourself all the time. Socially, I'd say you have better luck losing a foot and hobbling around Cantina, begging for sympathy.

This isn't the kind of place to find anyone. You shouldn't walk out of here without anything but a better understanding of yourself. If you walk out these halls with someone in toe, congrats. You've done something I could never.

And it's not like I haven't half-way kind of tried. I'm so easy that I fall in love with every woman who makes eye contact with me. Serious, even a glance that's going over my shoulder I interpret as unrequited love. But this school hasn't produced one person that makes me feel even slightly good about myself. But who's fault is that? It's not like the propaganda machine at this school ever had pamphlets proclaiming "Meet your soul mate, plus learn stuff". That would be selling the total package.

So Kenji's done with this place. I'll wait until I'm loaded and I'll meet a nice ex-stripper, then take care of her.

Reminders for class: I really wasn't going to turn gay. It's just that I had ran out of women.

Singledom

Of the list of greater novels published in the last quarter in the 20th Century, I would not put Bridget Jones. Yet I find myself drawn to dozens of elements within the books. The main character is a woman, and I am drawn to breasts. There is a conflict with her personal sense of worth, while I am a white male. I can relate to main character through many commonalities.

Ahem. In seriousness, I mention it because I have continually borrowed a word from that book. 'Singledom', which implies the kingdom in which all us single people live in. You who are committed to a boyfriend/girlfriend, hookup buddy, or have actually married often forget our world. You may have visited our villages on several occasions, and I'm sure you can recognize our citizens. We have some people who never leave, like the overweight nice girl and the unconfident beta male. But for those that don't permanently settle down, you'll find for the most part it is necessary to stay in our kingdom to get to wherever you are going. I would advise many of you to make an extended stay here, because you might forget how glorious it can be.

Some of our people are over anxious to leave, but that's because they haven't appreciated their vacation (or annexation) to Singledom.

Our town has many niches, but that's not always great. Of the most annoying would be the constant traveler. Those who leave over night and come right back with stories. These would be your constant hookup-ers, needy bitches, and considerate - but failing - partners. We treat these people like pariahs or lepers. We have sharped sticks in the back of our closet solely for poking and jabbing these individuals. They whine too often and we do not care since they have not learned their lessons. The particular stick I use to jab these people with is named 'Garfield',and he is very small, unlike the fat lasagna loving cat of the same name.

I myself enjoy my nice one bedroom apartment in Singledom. I find I enjoy being single, expect for when I wake up, go to sleep, see another couple, or go grocery shopping. Outside of that, it's nice to know yourself. Once you get past the fact that you don't need anyone else to function, it becomes all the greater to find someone just because you like them. No sense in rushing anything. I am not a monkey swinging vine to vine, unwilling to let go of the last before I have a grip on the next. That's not how we operate in Singledom. Fuck - that's just not how you operate anywhere. We're more of a try it before you buy it community, not a stick and move place. It's silly, but we're the type of people that believe in timeshares. I know, don't say it. We're odd.

Reminders for the class: Nothing wrong with taking time to figure yourself out, but there is something wrong with sleeping with a different person each weekend. That's not part of the process. Be honest with yourself, nobody likes that kind of person. I say a slut can't be beautiful, and a slut can only be a slut.

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Forward Momentum

I have a battle angel, one to look out for me. One who picks my sword off the soil, dusts my back, and places me where I need to be. We all need an angel, theological or otherwise, to take care of us. Our better angels, our saving grace, our redeeming feature. Without them, we'd be who we really are.

Take away all that makes us appealing, rob us of the routines that makes us regular, and starve us of the attention we depend on. We're left with someone who is us at core, but someone we'd rather not see. Inner demons and skeletons in the closet govern who we are. When the lights go out and we're left with our thoughts in the dark, don't be surprised who comes for a visit.

So I have my battle angel. Not a guardian angel, but a battle angel. Existing for only when I'm in the thick of it all. My level compass. My beacon at the next save point. I have that angel from now until whenever it is angels leave for closing time. I don't know if they're holding down a 9-5 like the rest of us, but for now I don't care. I'm being carried to where I need to be.

So why is it we always assume angels are women?

Reminders for class: When making a wrong decision, a friend will remain silent. A good friend will stand up and tell you not to do it. Your best friends will keep their mouths shut.

A little pick me up

Sometimes it's hard to get through the day.

This might help

Don't say I never did anything for you.

A Tie

I don't want to work anywhere that I can't where a tie. I like ties. I catch a hold of myself in the mirror and go "hey! Tie-man. Goddamnit, you look good. Keep that up."

Tonight, when a gentleman from the Tampa Bay newspaper came to speak, I noticed how awesome he looked in a tie. His personality was zip, actually rather boring - but that tie, MAN! He knew that tie was cracking, so he didn't even try to be cool. He was just all like 'I'm a big fat doodie and I probably made up my wife and kids, but since I have this tie it makes me more man then you Ken', and I was all like 'Yessir, you are right'.

Ties have that power. I ever tell you how I got my job? It involves a tie, a kick ass beard, and a kid with too many good looks. I will now tell you this story with utter regard for the truth.

I woke up one morning and kicked about sixty one women out of my bed I had used the night before so I could watch children's cartoons alone. I went to go turn on Dora the Explorer, universally the most talked to television show by stoners everywhere, when the signal was dead. I totally flipped out and threw my bed through the window. So I took a shower and got dressed in a suit.

Why? People don't fuck with white men in suits. Seriously. A well trimmed white man in a suit is power. My plan was to go into the cable place and bitch that our recently installed cable had been disconnected. But on the way out the door, the cable came back on. Jobless, with the day unplanned, I drove around town in a suit. People everywhere showered me with gifts. This one guy asked me to place my seed within his daughter, but she was super ugly so I said no and kicked his kneecap.

So driving around town, I see this sign for hiring. I drive down to a hotel, where they were working out of, and kick my way through a crowd of losers to get to the front of the line. When I was there, this totally old chick tried to mack it on me. I let her, because she gave me an application. When I was done, she said if I waited around someone would interview me. I picked up my cell and said "Let me make a couple calls, I'll see if I could fit you in." I totally owned her and she loved it. (Long story short, that woman now shampoos my crotch)

So I got into the interview and said about six words until they got around to hiring me. "Holy crap," this frog looking lady said "You are way too qualified. Please come back and meet our manager."

I came back like six days later in a better suit and rocked his world like a KISS concert back in the day. Also, during all of this I have a real kick ass beard and people hear White Snake and Def Leopard wherever I am. My boss grooved out to "Here I go Again" while I gave him 241 reasons why he should hire me. I was half way through the first sentence on reason one and he hired me. (Long Story Short, that man is now fathering my children)

So like I said. If I can wear a tie one day, I'll probably rock all the more. Also, I might get a shot at doing a re-write on a horror script for some company somewhere. After reading the script, they need it a lot more then I do, but it would be cool.

Reminders for class: Look professional and be me. Two steps to get ahead in life.

An Admission

The summer I graduated from high school is when I started to learn things. The majority of my knowledge was from those three months, and everything since then is thanks to movies. My real college education was near the corner at Williamson and Church, inside a rundown movie theater during matinee times for five dollars a week.

During the end run, there was a self aware vibe through the community. Knowing things were ending, we acted without regard. We commented without consideration, and... well.. we didn't dance like no one was looking... it was more like we drank like our parents didn't suspect anything. As the world began disappearing, we took to whatever we could for comfort. Jobs. Cards. Girls. Alcohol. There was solace in physicality. Things we could imprint with our presence were good things. Something to claim as first. We weren't content to swim in the pool, our ripples would fade once we left the water.

This behavior was not reckless. It was liberating. We washed clean a stigma from life, preparing to accept another. The best part? People got honest. Layers of bullshit were cut through to the core. Girls would call, not 'Lets go get ice cream' but 'Look, I've always had a thing for you'. It was shocking to hear so many (let alone one) females be honest. I know now it was the last chance to say something before it would become harbored internally; forever dry docked.

But in college, people aren't doing it so much. Same scenerio, same doomsday clock. We'll be a pumpkin by midnight. What does it hurt to be honest? What does it cost? Do it and the humiliation will be outweighed by relief. So what if you never talk again and everything goes down the crapper. At least you get it out there and won't be thinking about it on some idle Tuesday six years from now, wondering over a bagged lunch if you made a mistake.

Ah, but even I can't buy what I'm selling. That exact moment to prove myself has come twice in my life and I've failed both times. Not just with one person, but two. And the moment had been right twice. I had the words to make it alright, but I bombed and now I can't do anything to make up for missing them.

Yes, the person I wanted to care for is still around. But she's not the same. I fell for a sweet girl my freshman year. That girl was abandoned, used, and now a cosmopolitan, sororistitute takes her place. I think she snogging a limey or a aussie or something now, I don't know.

That' s a lie. Of course I know what she's up to.

So, reader, you have a chance to do all the right things before we bounce up outta this muthafu'. Your situation complicated? Right on. Do it anyway. This is a world built upon decay, ascending to decay, and will eventually breakdown and decay once we leave it. You're either building ontop of your old problems or around them. Shit don't fix. Shit never fixes. You can't move away and hope to start new. You'll only move away and bring the same baggage.

But if you can just admit it to yourself, you can find hope as you control the descent and crash somewhere safe. Look hard enough and there is beauty in the breakdown. There if life teething in every minute, every moment, before it all ends.

It should always be the night before you leave for college, and you should never regret saying what you felt.

Reminders for class: Tomorrow is Monday. Take a mental health day and pretend its Sunday 2.

The Price of A Nut

Here's where the female's infinite supply of orgasms fails: they'll never know the value of one. I didn't do anything today that made me suddenly value my one pump squirt approach to climaxing, but I did think about the relative calm that comes afterwards. In the quiet, every man becomes a rocket scientist. We are MENSA members. We are board certified, NASA astrophysicist smart.

The weight of the world is lifted, and goddamned if the stars don't line up just right to give us second sight. We divide our thought between what we want and what we know.

Every second before is leading up to what we think we want. It's tough, riding the bullet, because it's an amalgamation the things we don't want to admit. Maybe too many of the secrets come spilling out of the closet. Cosplay? Fat Asians? Toothpaste? Sure!

Done.

Suddenly our IQ's quadruple, and it becomes about what we know. We rationalize. Realize. Experience epiphany after epiphany. Then we shamefully accept it all. We understand the logistics to every problem ever befallen us. We see the fallibility in existence. We accept the crooked frame work and twisted design of life, and admit its impossibility.

That's the sad truth. The price of a nut is instantaneous, total genius. What a load to saddle. Maybe we get ten seconds of it, maybe twenty, but it's enough to understand life in total. Why? Because in the brevity of aftersex, we are concerned with everything but the task at hand.

Don't mock me - cosmic realizations occur in this moment. Don't ever think you know what a guy is thinking in the afterwards. Even if he says "That I've never been this happy before", he is thinking about why everything sucked so badly in order to make that statement true. He's just saying it in a really nice way.

Consider Atlas, who bore the weight of the world, and was only being given a moments rest by Hercules. All men, in the afterglow, are a Titan who's curse has been lifted. It's great to be able to stretch out for a moment and see things as how they are, and not how we hold them to be.

Reminders for class: Homework assignment. Crank one out. Write your thoughts in a journal. Tomorrow, we'll have the girls compare with the boys and see who had the more philosophical thoughts.

Plan B

There is a trend, I've heard, of creating alternative plans with someone you trust. The idea is that if everything fails for you and for them, you at least have each other. Although sweetly intentioned, it seems similar to the class morons cheating off one another, or the promises of a dead beat father. Though the intentions may be pure, it's set up to fail.

The notions behind plan B are simple: You both like each other, but not enough to make them Plan A. It seems to me if you're in a situation to Plan B it, you might as well admit to the possibility of Plan A'ing it.

I think they made this sad little concept into a movie with Julie Roberts. It sucked, but then again she has made little that hasn't.

I mention all this because the other day I drunkenly made a Plan B of my own. Upon making it, I realized I had several Plan B's going on, though some not as clearly pronounced as to be made into a verbal commitment like others. To discover I had so many back up plans while no fully realized plan existed was a slight shock (kick) to the system (junk).

Picture the grasshopper and the ant. In this scenario, I am an eight year old boy. While the grasshopper does nothing and the ant sacrifices, I am walking around the park with an ice cream cone on my shorts. I will not have learned a moral come winter, for I am not a member of the insect kingdom. I am an eight year old boy who cannot see beyond the next gift-giving holiday.

And since I cannot learn anything, I will make no resolution to go out and find a Plan A or try and follow the romantic comedy route to turn a Plan B into an A with my charm, wit, and unorthodox approach to love. No. I cannot do those things. I will instead continue to be me, continue to rock harder then the 80's and late 70's rolled into one, and continue to nod my head in agreeance with whatever widsom is spouted from the great spheres of the ages. I just have to admit, though the term 'Plan B' is reassuring, there are no plans in life. There's just what happens and the shit you wanted to have happen.

If we're going by what I wanted to have happen, I would have hoped those mutant powers would have kicked in by about now.

If we're going by what actually happens, then I'm clueless, and to me this is all just starting.

Reminders for the class: Though I act like I have a lesson plan for each day, I'm more or less just winging it. So are you. I'll admit my actual concerns lay far beyond these walls, at a point where the classroom is only a flash in the rearview. You might better yourself by admitting the same.

Cantina Thursdays

Cantina Thursdays will always be one of the best things in my life.

I fear I may one day become sober and forget what it was we drank, or that I may get senile and forget the strangers - the ones who clasped my back and were proud to toast with me. If I were ever to become rich and forget how great a cheap beer can be I might wind up losing a core piece of myself, and in turn forget it all.

I'll forget that a low rent bar nobody cared for was home for the best times I had in college. That among its dirty tables and wet carpeting I could ever find myself becoming sentimental, especially about being crammed into a booth.

I could forget the soggy chips and bland dip, the cold food, the overly loud bad music, and the rude manager who was never there for fun. I'd like to forget having our chairs stolen and being forced to use makeshift tables from the odds and ends of every corner of the restaurant.

I'll be sad one day if I had forgotten Molly, our only friend there. We went to the worst bar in town, a place where we still couldn't fit in, but she made us feel wanted. She'd take our order and ignore everything else for a second longer then she was asked to, making us feel important enough or worthy enough to take a seat in a dump that would water down its beer. She'd wait on us and make small talk, and even though we had no way to prove our cool, she would let us slide on by without. But I fear I'll forget all about her, just like the name of the girl at recess who used to give me gum, or why the lunch lady in middle school who would always see I got an ice cream cone when my meal was finished.

So if I can, I'd like to choose now - while I'm drunk and in a talking mood - of what I'll remember and what I'll forget. I want to forget the strangers who crashed in uninvited, picking us up and knocking us around from table to table, stealing our pitchers, spilling their drinks in our hair, and mistaking us for somebody who mattered or gave a crap. I'll forget the ugly girls who latched on and wouldn't leave, and the good looking guys who took them away at last call. I'll forget all the things that didn't matter, the drama that didn't concern me, and the price tag for damage done at the end of the night.

But I won't forget how much it meant to sit at that table. Few things were reliable as that or comforting as that. Because when I do forget all but the traces of these nights, it won't matter where I was, or what I drunk, or if I felt comfortable. What I'll take with me is how much love could fit into a tiny booth, exist among so few people, and sustain a schmuck like me.

The Man Dances, Too

Once a man has seen a woman naked, there has to be a mighty good reason for him to want to see her again. I'm sure they're charming, intelligent, or whatever other adjectives it will take to help ease this next comment, but it's the truth. Oh yes. When he finishes there is always some voice in the back of his head that telling him to get up, walk home, and go sleep in his own bed.

Some guys will fight this basic principal so much that they cuddle and spend the night. Some even deny it as a core part of themselves that they get into long lasting relationships with someone who is obviously as low as a "Class-4 - Bagger" (i.e., your average overweight, metal mouth, or general frumpy disproportionate face).

I myself would like to deny this part of me. I bite my tongue, ride the coyote ugly, and wait until its over. It's common courtesy. You don't leave the dinner table because you were promised steak and you got a cold Hungry Man XXL instead. No, you finish the cold meal, go home, and crank one out on your own time. Why? Because it spares the feelings of everyone involved.

You've seen her naked, you've gotten all you need. Tell your friends they don't need to ever touch her, neither talk to nor about her again. Nothing bad will happen if you take this route. I promise.

That is, unless you experience when one of your friends fails at life and winds up hooking up with another one of your friends. That whole fiasco is like when a network collapses from a freak virus. Except, the virus in question is the curse of alcohol combined with two fat, retarded, horny people who came together with no other options, and left with the only remaining one. Suddenly, everyone has to reorganize parties, functions, bah mitzvahs.

I guess, reader, I'm saying do not question your worth once you've spread yourself thin. You've made mistakes, but so have many before you. It's alright and you will be ok. Unless you're a slut. Nobody takes a slut home to momma. Strippers, yes - but that's only for shock value when mom keeps trying to set you up with the neighbor girl who is so ugly people's genitals have been reported to have turn to stone on the spot when they see her. A stripper can/will stop all that. Why? Because Mom'll be crying too hard to call.

So, in conclusion; Seriously, Mom? I'm fine. I don't need your help in finding that special someone. My dealer totally has my back with this stoner chick who will do anything for a hit. She already has kids, so you can become a grandma instantly. Isn't that want you want? Huh?

I digress. Even though MTV has some how managed to incorporate sex in with the term 'partying', don't fall prey to their schemes. Pulling out does not work! Alcohol is fine on its own! And always, always be sure you don't pose naked while drunk. That's like giving the milk away, then slitting the cow's neck. Nobody wins. 'cept for the dudes that get a hold of that picture. Don't let your friends hook up with your other friends. And don't dip in a pool that is clearly polluted.

Reminders for the class: Double bagging won't get rid of the memory. Yo, Joe!

Let's talk about what grinds my gears

Just watched Disney's The Sword in the Stone. Good thing I didn't look at the cover art. It's not like the freakin' DVD case would have gave away the ending of the movie or anything. It was only the kid lifting the sword up out of the stone while holy, magnificent, awesomely glowing light engulfed everything around him.

So, of course, I was shocked when it ended the same way as on the cover. I guess I was sidetracked by how the title alone could beg so many questions throughout a viewing. Like, how did the sword get in their to begin with? Who thought to place it in stone? And with such a large dilemma, who would be the one individual who would pull it out? Will the sword suffer poor resale value after being left in stone for so long?

Call me a cynic, but if your movie is called "Sword in the Stone" make it about either one of those nouns, or either the article or verb in between them. The movie had nothing to do with that sword in the stone. It was about a some crazy back asswards old man who came from the future to bitch about the past and turn a boy into various animals so he can be criminally assaulted. First the old man turns him into a squirrel - where the boy is molested. Then he turns him into a fish - where he is stalked and an attempt is made on his life. Finally, he is a bird - where he is held hostage by a suicidal owl. Holy crow, what a bad thing to teach our kids.

Seriously, why not just wheel them into the classroom and make them watch 'Requim for a Dream' until they start to shake and cry. They don't need overt methods of telling them danger is around every corner, we can actually just wait around every corner with knives and drugs and anything else that might hurt them.

I am going to be a great father some day.

Reminders for the class: One day until Cantina.

Finding A Voice

When the day ends, I'm pretty sure the only one who's influenced by my ramblings is myself. I have to reread what I say a lot, and I often doubt I'm the one who said it. I'm not sure I've gotten the feeling its me when I'm reading whatever I crapped out the night before, it has always sounded like a different person. (until yesterday)

Usually my first draft of anything sounds like a raving art student who got mad because he turned his girlfriend into a hardcore lesbian. Now my stuff sounds like a raving student who got mad because he found out he got played by a high schooler. I'm comfortable with the voice of the latter. He sounds like someone who's honest, well built, and ungodly talented.

So why care about me and my writing? The process. All of it. You shouldn't. My good looks don't transcend to the written word. Sure, you can feel my awesome coming off the page, but you need to see it to witness my true form. Anyway, you're still here reading me, which suggest a multitude (or slew) of things I can assume about you. I will now categorize all of you into three groups:

1.) That you're the kind of person who likes to procrastinate so much that they'll read blogs as opposed to work.
2.) You check away messages so often that when you've gone through your whole list of people and have nothing to do, so you've moved on to read a blog or two.
3.) You love me more then Jesus could, so you check this blog just because I made it for people like you.

There are no other reasons. Not in my eyes. As people, we try to rationalize and explain our world by the very standards that govern our lives. Notice how I did not put "crazy sex pot" in as a possible explanation. That is because I've never experience one. We cannot expand on the reasons why things happen. But sometimes we don't need to. Sometimes we're right the first time. Like when I say there are people who drink beer and then there is the rest of you poor bastards. Now that is true. It's the way its always been. Since before time. Since before God. Since before the first rays of light were sprung upon this universe and creation began, there have always been drunks in a bar, together, alone in the dark, drinking while the power is out. There is a name for these people. Champions. Champions of strength and conviction. They are the moral leaders and the studious gentleman who will remove us from our mundane lives for just a moment, amuse us with a joke, maybe get so drunk they show us their willy, then throw up all over Aric Berg's car. These are the people I admire. These people, drunk in the dark, only know their drink and know the value of their voice. These are voices I admire, voices that silence only to drink. This is a voice that calmly holds up its glass, no matter how many drunk it may be, and proclaims to the world "Cheers, bitches".

Cheers indeed.

Reminders for the class: Why doesn't listerine taste good? Why does it always leave the sensation of burning ass stuck in my mouth? I don't know. Go ask Mr. Owl.

The Center of Your Universe

Ever feel like they'll never know your name until its on the stone? Or that you'll only be remembered because you were forgotten? Well, you shouldn't. Those are stupid Emo kid thoughts. That's just morbid and depressing. Even more so because you know me. Especially since you know me - I should be the shining beacon of light in your life. Seriously. When you wake, I better be in the first ten goddamn thoughts of your day. I don't care what's on your plate or how busy you get, you should be thinking of me. No excuses. If you were to wake up and were to find your house was on fire, you should manage to incorporate me into your scattered thought process. Kind of something like this:

"Omigod. My house is on fire. I wonder what Ken is wearing right now. The children's bedroom! Oh, dear lord. There's so much smoke. I need to call 911. My door is locked. I can't get out! How will I save the kids? I hope Ken had a full breakfast this morning. Ahh! I am burning alive! Oh, no! Help! I regret that I never got to climb a mountain and write a book! I'm too young to die! Ken sure is the best piece of eye candy this planet has to offer! Ack! I die!"

There might be a slight divergence in the exact thoughts, but you should be thinking in a fashion similar to this. Notice how despite the chaos, thoughts were redirected back to me at the more critical moments. That's because I am a pillar. Count on me. I will take care of you. I am that awesome. My beard is 2nd only to that piece of hairy landmass on Chuck Norris' face. In addition, I am a very good kisser, my mom says I'm the coolest kid in school, and I have a sweet singing voice.

So the next time you start to feel depressed, pull out a picture of me and smile. I am here for you. I will be your strength when all else fails. My guns are jack diesel and you should be jealous. If you're not jealous, you haven't been leering long enough at my rock hard abs and sweet bum. You know you want to rock this.

EGO TRIP! WOOOO!

Reminders for class: Documentary and a Mockumentary coming up soon. I'll post them when done.

I Love L.A.

Making plans from Burlington, NC always seems futile. It's like if Hitler tried to take over from New Jersey, declaring it a position both necessary and vital for his future invasion of America . Like he needed a whole state of burning tires to succeed.

But tonight was kind of like that. Making the long, impossible shot that makes no sense but you do it anyway. It's like that long jump halfway through level 8-2 of the first Super Mario Brothers. You know you can't make it without failing, but goddamned if it ain't the only way across. Warp Tunnels can only take you so far, cheater McBeaver, you eventually have to make the jump.

And so I say that the only person besides Berg who is still around has made solid future plans with me in her immediate future. To L.A., in fact. We drank to it. What does that mean? Several Things:

1.) My testes have dropped. They are now caught somewhere between my thighs and knees. (Please do not visualize this region) This also indicates I will now use my college education.
2.) It acknowledging that the accolades I've gotten throughout the years here aren't just because no one else submits. They might signify something. Like accomplishment.
3.) I am not as short as I thought I was.

Who's excited to be writing screenplays for the next few months/weeks in preparation? This kid!

Reminders for class: When Monday starts, best avoid all of it. Sleep 'till Tuesday.

[ed note: went back and fixed all the things that didn't make sense. I posted drunk. really.... drunk.]

The Man Speaks The Truth

Got off of work hella late, but it was worth it. Towards the end, somewhere in between talking about Xbox 360 and stainless steel countertops, my boss said this:

"You need to quit. You are too smart for this job. This isn't something you want to do forever."

And just yesterday a friend said I should move to LA with her. The world is telling me to get out of Burlington, North Carolina, despite it being the thriving metropolis that it is. My future sense of living out a mediocre future is trumped by this new impeding mortality, failure, and doom I face outside of this city.

Niiiiice.

Reminder for class: Saturday means we don't have class. Go get laid. Drink a beer. Pretend Monday won't stop you from having fun (oh, 'cuz it fucking will).

Double

As I won't have time to post this evening, I'll do it now.

Andy Rooney just made the statement "What is a blog? I return with "Why isn't Andy Rooney dead yet?" Because he needs to die. Seriously. Old people need to step down and eek off into the woods, dying under a bush or a fallen tree. This is the natural cycle in life. Old people aren't supposed to cling onto their last moments in front of the national spectacle and curmudgeon-up the airwaves with their technophobic crap. I heard an old person in line at the grocery store today with a cell phone. The man was in poor shape. By skin, posture - the bucket was a couple feet in front of him, just waiting to be kicked. Then this guy's cell phone goes off at decibels so loud my balls ache, and everybody is looking at him. Even the crazy nail girl with the custom Lil' Jon ringtone was staring at his honkey ass going "Pick it up". But he did not, for he was old, and it was not in his ways.

So the phone rang again.

And again.

And I'm sure it went off again as he hobbled his way out.

Point being, old people suck.

Reminders for class: Old people can't see below eye level, so put stuff in their way to trip on.

Care Bears and Joe Brizz

I have a friend who will show the Care Bears movie to all his potential girlfriends (SHOES, by the way, Kelly- clearing that up quickly). This may or may not work as a guiding principal for all relationships, but goddamned if it doesn't work for him.

People tonight told me the idea was rubbish, that it would never impress them. I would agree with them, except I've seen it work. Work really well. Work so well and to such an extent eharmony.com was taking notes on matching procedures.

So maybe it's not the method, but the madness. Maybe an innate charm exists in a person. A lot of what I say isn't funny, but people laugh. Probably because I'm gorgeous and they don't want to upset me, but also maybe because it doesn't matter what I say. I'm just trying to inject some levity into the moment. If you've got the warm fuzzies for someone, anything they do or so is cute because that's what they are trying to be. Love is a slightly skewed perspective on life.

Example: Think of you last boyfriend/girlfriend. What the hell were you thinking? Seriously? What? But then at the time, you were so into that, girlfriend. I'm not offering reasons you went ahead and tapped Shelly the Barbarian or Pimply Dave, but I will say that its understandable. Sympathetic almost. Conditions, situations, extended periods of sexual isolation - they all come into play. Your whole sad, pathetic existence comes is a factor when choosing a life mate.

History too. You don't see the caviar crowd begging for triscuits and a wheel of cheese. They've been spoiled. But dine on spam and eggs for a few months, and some triscuits with melted cheese sounds good. It's all relativity. Grab a hold of a hot pan, and a minute can seem like an hour. Grab a hold of a hot girl, and an hour can seem like a minute.

So why do Care Bears work for Joe Brizz 100% of the time? I think, as I've been trying to prove, it's just Joe Brizz being himself. Politicians can recruit younger people all the time - not by their values or beliefs - but by their intensity and tone. Why should it be any different on a personal level? There are some things we just respond to. Cleavage. A dude playing a guitar. The Cardigan's brilliant masterpiece 'Love Fool'. Something instinctual tells us this would better us. I had a friend tonight tell me she was interested in thirty year old men because they offered stability and security. Gold Digging? Yes. But that's my point. We actively seek or passively submit to those characteristics we find necessary. So Joe Brizz has got it right. Maybe just being cute is enough, and the Care Bear crowd knows it.

Reminders for class: My weekends equal work and more work. Find some way to save me Saturday night. Seriously. It's my only free time.

Freezie Miracles

Proof God may exist:

I was eating a freezie pop, splitting a red between a green, when a slight tear ripped into the edge of the red one. I had put them both under hot water, making them slush like, when the liquid poured out of the bottom. It spilt all over the floor, the counter, all over existence. BUT NOT A DROP TOUCHED ME. I was wearing white, but not a single red, period looking dot got on me. Holy crow. Someone may be looking out for me.

Sometimes I question the relevance for seeking the existence of a higher power. Take paintings on cave walls from way the hell back when B.C. The primitive God-like etches from a cave dwellers perspective might seem like a crude way to explain existence. A God for crops, a a God for maternity... it all seemed like the most logical way to categorize life. If you can't find direct reason or purpose, place it in a higher power.

Now jump forward to about two days ago. Hurricanes, Tsunami, Economic Ruin. We still argue that a God willed all that - but the reason has changed. The hardcore religious would argue we deserved it. Lust, greed, sloth - pick your sin - but our actions and failure to praise him dictate the way God judges us.

Backtrack to the cavedwelling buddies of yesteryear. If they had a lousy harvest, would they say it was nature or more of a failure to appease the god's properly? Ah, I hear you saying something about the difference between their beliefs and yours. Valid point, I'm sure, but I'm not listening. Faith is cool. Organized religion is a crutch for the weak. HEY! Those weren't my words, Former Governor Jesse "The Mind" Ventura said that. He has a point though. I know many people who have faith but don't attend mass. These people rock.

Then there's the people who congregate in groups to find a common denominator to blame for the problems of the world. Seriously, Gays? Are Gays the real cause of all the problems the Catholic Church faces? Thanks Pat Roberston. Thanks Jerry Falwell. You truly are awesome. Liberty College needs to be taken down brick for brick and remade into a Gay Dance Club. I'd totally bounce there.

See, I tangeted when I started talking about religion. So many holes and I want to poke through all of them with my wang. For another night, I guess. For now, let's be thankful my white shirt didn't get dirty. That in itself was cool enough for me to forget the rest of the problems that accepting a miracle might bring about After all, it was a miracle. It's not like it was good luck or a coincidence. Just like a good harvest coming for our cave habitants. Miracles. Not just good soil and a green thumb.

Reminders for class: Holy cow, so many of my friends are out of college by January. Sweet!

Bayside

Hey, hey, hey. *What* is going *on* here?

What ever happen to Dennis Haskins from Saved by the Bell? Principal Belding seemed like a shoe in as a long standing thespian, maybe as a side character in dozens of movies. Could you picture him as the straight laced cop in a buddy buddy action film? Good Lord that would be awesome. He could even have this faux death scene where he thinks he was shot, but the bullet just hit his father's badge that he carries with him at all times. Man that would be a movie I would pay to see.

On a side note, Uwe Boll uses nazi gold to pay for his movies.

Anyway, nothing important to say here. Just got sad thinking of old Dennis. Hey! Dennis - if you read this, totally email me. We could be pen pals. I totally think you're hot.

Reminders for class: My power went out at 4 am. Any reason? I don't think so.

When I sleep, I sleep

I do not sleep to dream. I sleep to sleep. When I dance it's because I'm drunk - not because I think no one is watching. When I love it's to a degree usually in accordance to the last relationship I've had. Which in turn is dictated by the love before that, all the way back to the time I developed a concept of love based off my parents and TV.

Life is complicated and cannot be summed up with a phrase starting with 'Life is...' (thus negating what I just said). You can't find purpose in an inspirational poster and if you can you deserve to be caught under a bus. The only thing that will ever be ironic is how the next generation sees our actions.

What else am I missing? Let me check some random girl's profiles to find things that just tick me off in small, insipid little quote form. OH! Here we go. Dave Matthew's sucks. I've seen him live - guess what - he's still talentless. Watching him act in Red Fern or Because of Winn Dixie. You know what it's like watching? Cancer. Cancer that can't act.

Hmm. Bob Marley. He didn't come back from the dead to revive your stoner, college ass. Please stop applying him as such. Oh, and if you're in the loving mood and you quote Frank, you obviously didn't pay attention to that man's life. Like with Robert Frost: "I took the road less traveled". That's pretty much about suicide you dumby.

Well, that's about all the things that piss me off about profiles. I've been staring at them trying to think of a post and damned if this wasn't the most annoying thing ever. The same quote in six different places. How original.

A few notes about screen names: Princess, Queen, Girl, Grrl, Chick, Baby, Chix, Hot, Hottie, anything flower related and Big Mammer Jammers do not qualify as suitable handles. If you've got a screen name with anything like that in it, please change it. We mock you behind your back.

Reminders for the class: The best way to change the system is to sit back and wait for it to change.

Time Change

Holy crow it's late. Here's a mark of a good night - men in drag. I went to a Halloween party, which, by and large, are never good things. Usually only a couple people put some thought into their costumes, the rest just showed up. Then when people get drunk, costumes become disassembled and spread among the masses until that entire rented horse costume you put on Dad's credit card it totally in the wind. I'm not saying that's always a given, but more then likely - I'm missing my hat in this case.

I spent a good deal of the night being cornered by people I had no intention of speaking to, and found that either the extreme cold or a need for a pitcher from the keg kept leading me back to them. There is a circle of hell dedicated to the bad cocktail party from which you have no ride home. I also found that the drunker they got, the more familiar their hands did. Please, God, if you listen, do not let me ever be fondled like that again by strange, strange people. Reasons like these are why I need to wear a wedding ring as decoration. I attract crazy like a catholic priest attracts unsubstantiated child molestation claims.

Reminders for class: Monday is tomorrow. We all lose.

Seven Small Heart Attacks

My boss scares me. I'm not sure why, maybe it's the menacing pit bull glance he'll give incompetent employees, or maybe it's the way that I can't make small talk with him. Maybe I'm afraid to get a that devil look after a botched attempt at chit chat. Maybe I'm afraid he'll find out I'm a bed wetter and a Ru-Paul fan. Who knows? The point is the dude scares me shitless.

So when I left work after getting sick today, I had the feeling he was giving me the finger and planning on how to fire me. And it was some really bad ass version of the finger, the one where he shoots it behind his back and uses a special profanity he saves for the occasion. So making it through the day with no voice mail saying I was fired was a good one.

In other news, Super neutrals is coming along dandy. We should have a usable script by next week, and beyond that start filming by the 8th of November. I have no idea why the 8th, just happens to be that day that I picked. 10th seemed to far off. So good luck to me on that one.

Still feel like a heel about getting sick on my friends car.

How is it that all the girls my age make me feel like some fifty year old perv, but anybody who's over 30, taken, or married I can charm the crap out of? I maintain that my problems stem from MTV, specifically Laguna Beach, possibly the worst show ever made. I think MTV is turning the people I once knew into hot tempered, asshole, self centered people. Is there something wrong in my generation or am I ahead of my time by saying that now? My mom totally says I'm hot and a good catch, so I don't understand how other people wouldn't want me.

Reminders for class: Halloween is an important part of life. Be sure to celebrate it by pantsing a bunch of six year olds. Scars like that don't heal.

Threshold

I'm sure, loyal reader, you noticed I didn't post last night. From this we can learn two things: I am arrogant enough to believe you noticed my absence, and that I got sick. And not just sick where it's laughable. No. Not this little kid. I got sick all over my friend's car while doing forty. God pity the care behind us. What I let loose was the kind of chaos the bible talks about. Revelations 2:31 "Yeah, unto thee I release my lunch, consisting of various meats, cheeses, and other fine delectables." That's apassage that's kept me warm through the years. It's a damn good passage. I'd like to live in a world where people get drunk and quote bible passages to one another. Maybe a couple rednecks on a Saturday drinking beers and saying "That was a fucking good one" after they disperse the wisdow of the written Lord.

Well I'm off to go find a copy of FFX. It seems though over a billion copies were made and sold, and that it's used anywhere for 10 dollars, I can't find it in this podunk town.

I'll be back later kiddies. Reminders for the class: Learn you limit.

TK Static

I ate two dinners tonight. I wasn't hungry either, but God bless it the second was free. That inner poor boy inside me owns up every time free food is mentioned. Its kind of whenever a sorority chick goes "I'm so drunk" and only two or three thoughts can roll through your head. The male thought progression, ladies, works very quickly and operates how you expect:

Thought #1
That's disgusting. She is so drunk, what an embarrassment.

Thought #2
She's kind of cute when she's not yelling.

Thought #3
I'd hit that.

If she isn't drunk, skip right to step three. And that's how simple we are. It's our thoughts that make us complex, not our basic nature. Back to free food: free food is great. I ate four different types of animals today. FOUR! I can remember a time when eating one animal was a treat. Simpler times.

Speaking of simpler times, when did sending a girl flowers become not enough to even warrant a response? I used FTD.com to send someone flowers and what I got in return was the most functional voice mail ever. You people should follow my lead and note that when people only call you drunk, it's because they only call you drunk; You're probably not that appealing sober. I actually sent the flowers to gauge the reaction and goddamnit if it didn't hurt to be right.

TK Static is in town, so be sure to call him or see him sometime this weekend. The man came quite a ways to be here, the least you could do his look him up and buy him coffee.

Reminders for the class: Cantina is pretty much the only reason I get out of bed in the morning. I have Thursday nights to myself and that's it. God bless the drink.

Hot Hollywood Favorite Will Smith

You have your friends, then you have the guys you hang out with. The second group is bound to be the most flawed group of individuals you've ever met. There will be times you question why you bother meeting with them. There will be nights of drinking when you question who these people really are and why - after spending so much time with them - you still have no idea what makes them tick.

There are friends, good friends, and then the guys who you feel comfortable saying 'It's me' into the other end of a message machine. A friend won't speak up when you go to do the stupid deed because it's not his business, but a good friend will tell you to get the hell off the landmine field. Then there's the great friends, who won't speak up when you crawl from the bar to go bag the ugly chick because he plans on saving it as ammunition for the next time you call him out. But friends don't end there.

There's also bar friends, friends you only see in passing, friends who only see you between relationships, friends who call you only when they're drunk, the friends you can only when you're drunk, the friends who changed, the friends who grew up, the friend who's got a thing for you, the friends who moved away, and the friends who died. There are friends from class, the friends from work, the friends from the neighborhood, your friend's friend, friends of the family, and friends with benefits.

There is no point to me telling you all this, but it should behoove you to know it. The people who's names we bother to remember have to serve a purpose, otherwise we'd smile and nod and go on in conversation even though we can't remember their name. Ever carry on a relationship with some one who' s name you've forgot? I did that to a buddy's girlfriend for eight months until they broke up. Now I never saw a point to it, she wasn't my friend and she wouldn't be there forever. She wasn't a friend I'd joke around with, a friend I'd carpool with, or even a friend I'd share a coke can with. The only way I remembered her name was because she became an overall bad person after the event. And we always remember the names of bad people. Timothy McVay, Ted Bundy, Charles Manson, Oprah Winfrey, and Judas.

But finally, there's the friendships we build up in our head. Like now, I'm watching "Enemy of the State" and my best friend is Will Smith. He doesn't even know my name, but I'm fine with that. I've seen him half naked and he ain't got shit on me.

Kombat with a C

When you figure out the answers, be prepared to have the questions shift. Today was what you'd call an interesting series of events. A professor described my writing today as a "hand cannon", which I took well, then modified that thought with "being aimed at the side of a barn". I think he's suggesting a great deal of power without any purpose, or maybe he thinks shooting up barns is the bees knees. I can't tell. Lot of anti-Amish sentiments floating around here lately. Maybe he thinks I should champion their voice. What better place then on the internet, because how the hell will the Amish ever find out?

I've started on my degree audit and may have found out that I declared my English major along with the new program in the English department for incoming freshman. Their motto: "More Credits, More Freedom". The subheading? "Guess who's screwed the pooch because we didn't tell upper classman?" So I might be F'd for one class in the spring. How ungodly bad would that be? I want out of here! I'm sick of college. Not the people, not the other things. I've come to terms how bad Greek life is ruining a crop of good people. I've come to terms with pop collars. They suck, but daddy's made his peace. These are not the things I want to rid myself.

I just want to be worthless and work a job and not have to worry about readings or things like conjugations. I am too old to still be here. I'm 22. 22! I do know people who just graduated as Seniors and they're a year above me. So, is that an excuse? Yes. At this point, I'll take whatever I can get. Being a super senior is embarrassing enough, having to stick around past when my other friends graduate would be deathly. The cure sould be more alcohol, but that was the cure to being a super senior. I'd like to start a dependency problem, since most good writers have one, but I don't think I have the stomach to be unintentionally mean. Maybe I'll just take up dating (because there's an open sea of discovery) and hope for something better. I could always fill out a J-Date.com slip.

Reminders for the Class: Send in your best super hero power that would be assigned to someone totally lazy. Iceman to chill his beer, maybe controlling the weather to get out of school. I need sloth people!