Friends often chide me for playing the Powerball and MegaMillions lotteries. They can't understand that I get real entertainment value from the few dollars I spend roughly every other week. Even though I'll probably never win, I love to let my mind drift about the things I'd do with all that money, and I can't get there mentally if I don't have that tiny little chance that it could actually happen.
Here are a few things I was musing this week about spending my lottery money on:
- Helicopter rides. Unnecessary helicopter rides, like, across town. To the 7Eleven.
- The gold rimmed black toilet some rapper had on Mtv's Cribs, that had a seat warmer and jets of soapy and rinsy water. Propbably never use it simply out of fear.
- Pimp the shit out of a Dodge Caravan. A friend and I used to sit around and design this bitch back in high school - the spinners, the tinted windows, the hydraulics... It'll be the most contradictory vehicle to ever grace the Interstate Highway System.
- Tap system from a basement keg fridge to strategically placed taps throughout the house - next to the bathroom sink, above the bedside table, level with the arm of the living room couch, etc.
- Pet monkey. His name will be Captain Morgan, becuase that's a badass name for a pet monkey.
I won't go further 'cause the list starts to get a bit full with crazy ideas, and I don't want to bother you with those.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
A Long WInded Way Of Giving Advice About How Not To Hit On People
It is important that you don't misunderstand me on this little tale. See, I got hit on this past Saturday night, and if you're not paying attention here, you're going to think me ungrateful.
I am not ungrateful, I just need to explain to you why this theoretically positive experience ended up going badly. So, here we go...
I was at a local bar that was hosting a charity concert for kids with cancer. I unflinchingly threw down my $30 cover and got to jamming out to covers of cheesy 80's songs.
I likely called down the fates at the beginning of the evening when my two fellow partygoers and I managed to find a place to stash our coats. "YES!" I proclaimed to them. "Now I can look sexy hot in my natural environment!" My heavy use of sarcasm is my only weapon against crushing insecurity.
After a while, my fellow partygoers left me; one for the restroom and one for the bar. No problem, I was confident that I could continue to bob my head and sway along to "Jesse's Girl" without their assistance. I felt calm, cool, and relaxed.
That's when it happened. I felt a tap on my arm. I turned, and was confronted by a young woman.
OK, OK, now don't get all in a bunch over the image here. I'm not using it to imply anything about her weight. I'm using it to demonstrate her breath.
(It's not a far cry from her complexion, either.)
You see, this was a concert, and in order to be heard in conversation, you had to lean in CLOSE. The result: breathing in each others' faces.
The young woman introduced herself. We'll call her Rebecca. Yes, because it very vaguely seems related to Jabba.
"Hi, I'm Rebecca, and I just wanted to introduce myself. I saw you there and I think you're really attractive."
Already, I had to fight through the noxious nerve gas bellowing from her mouth to concentrate on what she was saying. I felt like I was under seige, and I began to glance around the room desperately for my friends, and rescue. They were nowhere to be found.
The conversation continued. Believe it or not, I've been in this situation before. I don't know what I said. At first, it was a little stammering on my part, but then I managed to ask her a little about herself. And here is where Rebecca made her second mistake.
Let me clarify, in case you missed it. Rebecca's first mistake was confronting a guy she found attractive, in a loud place, with cancer breath.
Back to Rebecca's second mistake. Although she had begun with a friendly and flattering introduction, she then had absolutely nothing to say. I mean, I tried to talk to her. But it was weird. If I made a statement, she would just nod. If I asked a question, she would give the shortest answer possible. She never offered any information, and she never asked me anything.
Fucking awkward.
Worse was Rebecca's third mistake. Now, don't argue with me on this. Don't tell me it was her friend's fault; becuase if you're with friends when you begin an operation like Rebecca's, you make sure that before you go in, your friends know what to do. Rebecca clearly hadn't done the prepwork with her friend.
As I stood there trying to decide whether it was annoying that Rebecca would barely speak or whether I should thank my lucky stars for her minimal attacks with the Breath of Sorrow, I noticed a presence looming strangely close to my right shoulder.
This person simply had to be Rebecca's friend. I mean, she was standing there trying to listen to our conversation. Since her head drifting slowly like a dirigible between me and Rebecca, I had to say something. "So, is this your friend?"
"Oh, yes, this is..."
I don't remember the rest of what she said. I had stopped breathing and was beginning to black out.
Somehow I made a few more minutes of conversation out of it. Hell, at least her friend was material for something else or other so say while carrying the conversation. It was horrible, though. I kept thinking things like, "Does MY breath smell that terrible?" and "I wonder if I could find a smooth way to 'accidentally' drop a pack of mints and then offer one."
Finally, I swear, it got to the movie-scene moment of everyone standing there, looking around, and taking a deep breath. I almost whistled a tune to complete the image. Instead, I thanked my insanely weak bladder and excused myself to the restroom.
On the way to the restroom, I saw that my friends had taken up position just outside helping distance, behind me. Scumbags. They later claimed to have assumed that I knew Rebecca. Apparantly, they don't think a girl that gross would find an average guy like me to be a step up enough to find attractive. And to think my mom wonders about the sources of my crushing insecurity...
Coming out of the restroom, I tried to plan my next move. I sent the following text to one of my friends:
"THE FUCK!?!? Help me get away from this ugly girl with halitosis who's been poorly hitting on me!"
Of course, Rebecca walked past me right at that moment, on her way to the restroom as well. Fortunately she was just far enough away that she couldn't say Even then, all I could think was, "I wonder if she can see the despearate fear with which I was typing that text!"
Thereafter, I managed to stay away from Rebecca for the rest of the evening. And I think it was clear to her that there was going to be no more interaction between us.
In summary, let me say this: Rebecca wasn't attractive, but she was bold, and endearing. She walked up to someone she thought was cute and dared to speak to him out of nowhere. I don't generally have those guts. I respected her and even tried to converse with her when I could have pulled tricks to get away instantly. In short, I gave her a chance.
But understand this: you cannot--CANNOT--hit on someone with corpse breath, nothing to say, and a friend wandering into your physical space like a blind Frankenstein. In case anyone was unaware of this, please consider yourself warned.
And Rebecca, wherever you are, I wish you the best: a leash for your beast friend, an interest in the arts and world events that will equip you with something to discuss, and most importanly, a lifetime supply of Mentos.
I am not ungrateful, I just need to explain to you why this theoretically positive experience ended up going badly. So, here we go...
I was at a local bar that was hosting a charity concert for kids with cancer. I unflinchingly threw down my $30 cover and got to jamming out to covers of cheesy 80's songs.
I likely called down the fates at the beginning of the evening when my two fellow partygoers and I managed to find a place to stash our coats. "YES!" I proclaimed to them. "Now I can look sexy hot in my natural environment!" My heavy use of sarcasm is my only weapon against crushing insecurity.
After a while, my fellow partygoers left me; one for the restroom and one for the bar. No problem, I was confident that I could continue to bob my head and sway along to "Jesse's Girl" without their assistance. I felt calm, cool, and relaxed.
That's when it happened. I felt a tap on my arm. I turned, and was confronted by a young woman.
OK, OK, now don't get all in a bunch over the image here. I'm not using it to imply anything about her weight. I'm using it to demonstrate her breath.
(It's not a far cry from her complexion, either.)
You see, this was a concert, and in order to be heard in conversation, you had to lean in CLOSE. The result: breathing in each others' faces.
The young woman introduced herself. We'll call her Rebecca. Yes, because it very vaguely seems related to Jabba.
"Hi, I'm Rebecca, and I just wanted to introduce myself. I saw you there and I think you're really attractive."
Already, I had to fight through the noxious nerve gas bellowing from her mouth to concentrate on what she was saying. I felt like I was under seige, and I began to glance around the room desperately for my friends, and rescue. They were nowhere to be found.
The conversation continued. Believe it or not, I've been in this situation before. I don't know what I said. At first, it was a little stammering on my part, but then I managed to ask her a little about herself. And here is where Rebecca made her second mistake.
Let me clarify, in case you missed it. Rebecca's first mistake was confronting a guy she found attractive, in a loud place, with cancer breath.
Back to Rebecca's second mistake. Although she had begun with a friendly and flattering introduction, she then had absolutely nothing to say. I mean, I tried to talk to her. But it was weird. If I made a statement, she would just nod. If I asked a question, she would give the shortest answer possible. She never offered any information, and she never asked me anything.
Fucking awkward.
Worse was Rebecca's third mistake. Now, don't argue with me on this. Don't tell me it was her friend's fault; becuase if you're with friends when you begin an operation like Rebecca's, you make sure that before you go in, your friends know what to do. Rebecca clearly hadn't done the prepwork with her friend.
As I stood there trying to decide whether it was annoying that Rebecca would barely speak or whether I should thank my lucky stars for her minimal attacks with the Breath of Sorrow, I noticed a presence looming strangely close to my right shoulder.
This person simply had to be Rebecca's friend. I mean, she was standing there trying to listen to our conversation. Since her head drifting slowly like a dirigible between me and Rebecca, I had to say something. "So, is this your friend?"
"Oh, yes, this is..."
I don't remember the rest of what she said. I had stopped breathing and was beginning to black out.
Somehow I made a few more minutes of conversation out of it. Hell, at least her friend was material for something else or other so say while carrying the conversation. It was horrible, though. I kept thinking things like, "Does MY breath smell that terrible?" and "I wonder if I could find a smooth way to 'accidentally' drop a pack of mints and then offer one."
Finally, I swear, it got to the movie-scene moment of everyone standing there, looking around, and taking a deep breath. I almost whistled a tune to complete the image. Instead, I thanked my insanely weak bladder and excused myself to the restroom.
On the way to the restroom, I saw that my friends had taken up position just outside helping distance, behind me. Scumbags. They later claimed to have assumed that I knew Rebecca. Apparantly, they don't think a girl that gross would find an average guy like me to be a step up enough to find attractive. And to think my mom wonders about the sources of my crushing insecurity...
Coming out of the restroom, I tried to plan my next move. I sent the following text to one of my friends:
"THE FUCK!?!? Help me get away from this ugly girl with halitosis who's been poorly hitting on me!"
Of course, Rebecca walked past me right at that moment, on her way to the restroom as well. Fortunately she was just far enough away that she couldn't say Even then, all I could think was, "I wonder if she can see the despearate fear with which I was typing that text!"
Thereafter, I managed to stay away from Rebecca for the rest of the evening. And I think it was clear to her that there was going to be no more interaction between us.
In summary, let me say this: Rebecca wasn't attractive, but she was bold, and endearing. She walked up to someone she thought was cute and dared to speak to him out of nowhere. I don't generally have those guts. I respected her and even tried to converse with her when I could have pulled tricks to get away instantly. In short, I gave her a chance.
But understand this: you cannot--CANNOT--hit on someone with corpse breath, nothing to say, and a friend wandering into your physical space like a blind Frankenstein. In case anyone was unaware of this, please consider yourself warned.
And Rebecca, wherever you are, I wish you the best: a leash for your beast friend, an interest in the arts and world events that will equip you with something to discuss, and most importanly, a lifetime supply of Mentos.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
I Don't Want to Hear It
Yeah, it's looking like Penn State may suck up the field a bit this season...by Penn State's standards. In reality, it'll likely be a fairly unventful--but winning--season. These things ebb and flow, you know. No team is amazing every single season.
So shut your face that it's Joe Paterno's fault. Don't give me any of your "he's old and he's lost his touch" bullshit. Joe hasn't lost it; his team is just having a rebuilding year. He was brave enough to make a freshman his quarterback, and don't think he didn't know there would be struggles for it. But Joe's smarter than you. This is all part of a larger plan to keep an amazing program successful and respected in the long run, as it has been for decades thanks to this guy.
In case you missed it, let me repeat: Joe Paterno hasn't lost his edge. Quit talking shit just because he's old. Because, you know who else is old? Yoda.
Did you see that? That's a perfect representation of the skills remaining in JoePa's head.
So shut your face that it's Joe Paterno's fault. Don't give me any of your "he's old and he's lost his touch" bullshit. Joe hasn't lost it; his team is just having a rebuilding year. He was brave enough to make a freshman his quarterback, and don't think he didn't know there would be struggles for it. But Joe's smarter than you. This is all part of a larger plan to keep an amazing program successful and respected in the long run, as it has been for decades thanks to this guy.
In case you missed it, let me repeat: Joe Paterno hasn't lost his edge. Quit talking shit just because he's old. Because, you know who else is old? Yoda.
Did you see that? That's a perfect representation of the skills remaining in JoePa's head.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Dreaming of Evil Again
I don't know why I'm so often hunting or being chased by something evil in my dreams. It just happens. Here's one from a few weeks back, where I dreamed about trying to keep my buddy safe from demons, and perhaps the Devil himself. Hope you enjoy as an opening to Halloween Season 2010!
It was late afternoon. The day was sunny and cool. I was walking through a nursing home in a suburban town. Well, more like I was sneaking through it. It was all a one-floor structure. There was an obscenely large number of people roaming the halls - nurses, visitors, etc. I was suspicious of each and every one of them. Did they know who I was, what I was doing there? Did they recognize me?
Eventually, I located a room that seemed familiar, and knew it would help me find what I was looking for. Inside, a nurse was putting sheets on an empty bed. The room looked vacant; I guess she was prepping it for a new guest of the facility. There was a quick conversation between me and her that I basically didn't hear, but here was the gist: I asked her something, and she seemed to recognize me for what or who I was (whatever or whoever that is). She warned me of something, like a threat. I asked her something else, much more fiercely. She answered. The whole thing at this point seemed that she was either evil or knew enough about the evil folks to tell me it was useless to resist or go through with my crazy plan. Then again, she asked, why was I here? Holy shit, was I there because something important was there? Freakoutfreakoutfreakout. She tried to run away, and I wasn't about to let her, but there was chaos down the hall. Damnit, they had found me. I had either been followed or someone had spotted me.
I raced back the way I had come - toward the main lobby and entrance. I could hear angry yelling, like newcomers arriving and demanding answers from the people there. People were scurrying down the hall past me, eager to get away. I realized then that the noise was coming toward me. I cast around, trying to figure out what to do. I couldn't escape, and I hadn't found what I had been looking for. Up and down the hall, doors were open, and frightened face peered out. Except one room, on the left, near the lobby. In an inspired moment, I rushed toward the door, praying it was unlocked. Fortunately, it was, and I threw myself inside, slamming the door shut again just as the cacophony outside reached that part of the hall.
In the room, I found my John, standing next to a desk, looking as if he expected to be shot or stabbed on the spot. He didn't know me, whoever I was. We had a short conversation, where John essentially asked if I was there to kill him. I responded that I was actually there to save him. John wanted me to explain further, but at that moment, the noise outside rose to nothing short of how Hell itself must sound. Something had arrived. HE had arrived. From the hall, all was a roar of violence and anguished screams. It was overwhelming, and for a moment, I froze. I had not expected HIM to arrive.
"Out the window!" I hissed, regaining myself. John just looked at me as if I had asked him to cut off his own hand. "Now!" I bellowed. In a moment, John had thrown open the window and thrown himself outside. I was directly behind him and didn't look back.
I felt only slight relief as we crossed the manicured lawn of the nursing home and trekked into a maze of backyards. "We got away, right? What was that?" John asked over his shoulder, pressed forward by the fact that I kept moving at a brisk pace right behind him.
I chuckled mirthlessly. "I don't know how you drew HIS ire without knowing who HE is, man, but HE is pure evil. HE is like the king of all demons and evil men." Seeing Johnr disbelieving look over Johnr shoulder, I pressed on, telling the horrors that HE could commit and the powers HE possessed. I went on for some time, directing John through back yards, only crossing streets when absolutely necessary, as dusk began to approach. As I finished the litany, I mentioned, "...and HE can take and control regular people, as long as they're inclined enough in their hearts to become evil or commit horribly evil acts."
"How do you mean?" John asked. As if to answer, a dozen teenage kids on bikes and on foot, holding flashlights, guns, and anything sharp they seemed able to find, came rushing toward us between two houses, screaming both wordlessly and in simple shouts such as "Get them!" and "There they are!" Their eyes seemed glossy and dead. And it was very bad that they were so close we could see that much detail.
We ran. I can't even say how we eluded them. At one point, we pulled a half a block awy from them, and they lost track of us. We cut out from yards to cross a street, only to find a man there walking alongside his bike. The moment he saw us, his face went slack and all his energy seemed to flow from him. Then, he took in a huge breath and howled at us. In the distance, the growing mob seemed to answer in kind and approach. I ran up to the man, with his bike between us. He reached over the bike, as if to grab me like a zombie. But, I kicked out and connected with the bike, knocking the man to the ground. Kicking him again heavily in the head, I dashed back to John, grabbed his arm, and we began to run again.
About two blocks away, I noticed an empty house for sale. We ran around the back, lucky to discover that someone had left the back door open. We snuck inside, ducked behind the kitchen counter and waited for hours, hearing the neighborhood search for us. Among the searchers, we could tell there were...others. Probably those who had originally rushed into the nursing home. Large men, if that was what they were. Their voices boomed. We could feel their presence through the walls of the house.
A few hours more, and we finally relaxed. All had gone quiet. The search was over, or the people lay in wait. We weren't sure which, but I was confident that if we could stay hidden until dawn, everything would be ok. Something about dawn was powerful for us. We snuck through the dark of the house, making our way to the living room, where we planned to take turns sleeping for the night. The room had a skylight, and just as John fell asleep and I took the first watch, I noticed a shadow pass over the square of light on the floor, cast by the moon. Looking up, I saw something that looked like a man crossed with a bat. It thumped twice as it stepped around the skylight, but froze as it saw me.
"Up! Run!" I said. John jumped up and we scrambled out the back door. It was silent outside, which was terrifying - I couldn't tell where the enemy would be coming from. We made our way up a rise to the suburban street. Nothing stirred within the circle of a streetlight's glow. Then we heard a sound and dropped, pressing ourselves to the perfectly cut and now dew-covered lawn. I risked a quick glance over the rise and saw my friend Mark's Pontiac pull up, him in the driver's seat, and his wife in the passenger seat. The car stopped, her window rolled down, and Mark shouted, "Get in!"
John hesitated. "What if they're...his?" he asked. From looking at them, I was fairly confident they were not. They didn't seem half lifeless. On the contrary, they were emphatic that we get in the car as quickly as possible. So we got up and climbed into the back seats. Still, as the car sped us away, onto highways that would hopefully take us to safety, I couldn't help but wonder if HE had gained the ability of a new type of possession, where his minions seemed more normal than half-zombies. Saying nothing, and watching the night highway pass by, I began planning...just in case.
It was late afternoon. The day was sunny and cool. I was walking through a nursing home in a suburban town. Well, more like I was sneaking through it. It was all a one-floor structure. There was an obscenely large number of people roaming the halls - nurses, visitors, etc. I was suspicious of each and every one of them. Did they know who I was, what I was doing there? Did they recognize me?
Eventually, I located a room that seemed familiar, and knew it would help me find what I was looking for. Inside, a nurse was putting sheets on an empty bed. The room looked vacant; I guess she was prepping it for a new guest of the facility. There was a quick conversation between me and her that I basically didn't hear, but here was the gist: I asked her something, and she seemed to recognize me for what or who I was (whatever or whoever that is). She warned me of something, like a threat. I asked her something else, much more fiercely. She answered. The whole thing at this point seemed that she was either evil or knew enough about the evil folks to tell me it was useless to resist or go through with my crazy plan. Then again, she asked, why was I here? Holy shit, was I there because something important was there? Freakoutfreakoutfreakout. She tried to run away, and I wasn't about to let her, but there was chaos down the hall. Damnit, they had found me. I had either been followed or someone had spotted me.
I raced back the way I had come - toward the main lobby and entrance. I could hear angry yelling, like newcomers arriving and demanding answers from the people there. People were scurrying down the hall past me, eager to get away. I realized then that the noise was coming toward me. I cast around, trying to figure out what to do. I couldn't escape, and I hadn't found what I had been looking for. Up and down the hall, doors were open, and frightened face peered out. Except one room, on the left, near the lobby. In an inspired moment, I rushed toward the door, praying it was unlocked. Fortunately, it was, and I threw myself inside, slamming the door shut again just as the cacophony outside reached that part of the hall.
In the room, I found my John, standing next to a desk, looking as if he expected to be shot or stabbed on the spot. He didn't know me, whoever I was. We had a short conversation, where John essentially asked if I was there to kill him. I responded that I was actually there to save him. John wanted me to explain further, but at that moment, the noise outside rose to nothing short of how Hell itself must sound. Something had arrived. HE had arrived. From the hall, all was a roar of violence and anguished screams. It was overwhelming, and for a moment, I froze. I had not expected HIM to arrive.
"Out the window!" I hissed, regaining myself. John just looked at me as if I had asked him to cut off his own hand. "Now!" I bellowed. In a moment, John had thrown open the window and thrown himself outside. I was directly behind him and didn't look back.
I felt only slight relief as we crossed the manicured lawn of the nursing home and trekked into a maze of backyards. "We got away, right? What was that?" John asked over his shoulder, pressed forward by the fact that I kept moving at a brisk pace right behind him.
I chuckled mirthlessly. "I don't know how you drew HIS ire without knowing who HE is, man, but HE is pure evil. HE is like the king of all demons and evil men." Seeing Johnr disbelieving look over Johnr shoulder, I pressed on, telling the horrors that HE could commit and the powers HE possessed. I went on for some time, directing John through back yards, only crossing streets when absolutely necessary, as dusk began to approach. As I finished the litany, I mentioned, "...and HE can take and control regular people, as long as they're inclined enough in their hearts to become evil or commit horribly evil acts."
"How do you mean?" John asked. As if to answer, a dozen teenage kids on bikes and on foot, holding flashlights, guns, and anything sharp they seemed able to find, came rushing toward us between two houses, screaming both wordlessly and in simple shouts such as "Get them!" and "There they are!" Their eyes seemed glossy and dead. And it was very bad that they were so close we could see that much detail.
We ran. I can't even say how we eluded them. At one point, we pulled a half a block awy from them, and they lost track of us. We cut out from yards to cross a street, only to find a man there walking alongside his bike. The moment he saw us, his face went slack and all his energy seemed to flow from him. Then, he took in a huge breath and howled at us. In the distance, the growing mob seemed to answer in kind and approach. I ran up to the man, with his bike between us. He reached over the bike, as if to grab me like a zombie. But, I kicked out and connected with the bike, knocking the man to the ground. Kicking him again heavily in the head, I dashed back to John, grabbed his arm, and we began to run again.
About two blocks away, I noticed an empty house for sale. We ran around the back, lucky to discover that someone had left the back door open. We snuck inside, ducked behind the kitchen counter and waited for hours, hearing the neighborhood search for us. Among the searchers, we could tell there were...others. Probably those who had originally rushed into the nursing home. Large men, if that was what they were. Their voices boomed. We could feel their presence through the walls of the house.
A few hours more, and we finally relaxed. All had gone quiet. The search was over, or the people lay in wait. We weren't sure which, but I was confident that if we could stay hidden until dawn, everything would be ok. Something about dawn was powerful for us. We snuck through the dark of the house, making our way to the living room, where we planned to take turns sleeping for the night. The room had a skylight, and just as John fell asleep and I took the first watch, I noticed a shadow pass over the square of light on the floor, cast by the moon. Looking up, I saw something that looked like a man crossed with a bat. It thumped twice as it stepped around the skylight, but froze as it saw me.
"Up! Run!" I said. John jumped up and we scrambled out the back door. It was silent outside, which was terrifying - I couldn't tell where the enemy would be coming from. We made our way up a rise to the suburban street. Nothing stirred within the circle of a streetlight's glow. Then we heard a sound and dropped, pressing ourselves to the perfectly cut and now dew-covered lawn. I risked a quick glance over the rise and saw my friend Mark's Pontiac pull up, him in the driver's seat, and his wife in the passenger seat. The car stopped, her window rolled down, and Mark shouted, "Get in!"
John hesitated. "What if they're...his?" he asked. From looking at them, I was fairly confident they were not. They didn't seem half lifeless. On the contrary, they were emphatic that we get in the car as quickly as possible. So we got up and climbed into the back seats. Still, as the car sped us away, onto highways that would hopefully take us to safety, I couldn't help but wonder if HE had gained the ability of a new type of possession, where his minions seemed more normal than half-zombies. Saying nothing, and watching the night highway pass by, I began planning...just in case.
ohmygodohmygodohmygod!!
I truly never thought Grinderman would put out another album, and *gasp* tour in my town, but both are happening!
For the uninitiated, how to describe Grinderman... It's Nick Cave and his buddies; four very successful rockers who've decided to throw together a stripped down sound of garage rock, with songs about what it's like to be an aging man, the deliciousness of women, and a whole bunch of other hedonistic shit.
Their new video may explain the awesomeness of their sound. Not only do you get to hear the great new single, but you also get a visual representation of their awesomeness:
Lightning!
Statue crying blood!
Romans slow motion dancing in space!
Hot chick naked in bathtub!
Wolf howling at a blood red moon!
Boobies!
Weird threatening axe man and wolf man!
Band members shooting AK’s and wearing skull mask!
Orange cheerleader in space!
Super sexy thumb sucking!
Band members as deities!
Hip thrust energy blast!
Roman eye lasers!
Random 70’s monsters!
Hot chick with gun!
Fat naked masked dude with an axe!
Random soldier and cop in weird locations!
Band member dancing in boxers under blue light!
Bulging eyes!
Roman smacking an asteroid into the Earth!
Dog conducting orchestra!
Naked ass of band member Roman!
Car crashes caused by laser beams!
Roman eye lasers on glaciers causing worldwide flooding!
All sorts of characters materializing out of black smoke!
Roman fart causing a nuclear blast!
Cockroaches!
Weird pile of hair sneaking up on hot chick!
Orange cheerleader naked!
Roman wearing leopard print boxer briefs!
Exploding 90’s computer monitor!
For the uninitiated, how to describe Grinderman... It's Nick Cave and his buddies; four very successful rockers who've decided to throw together a stripped down sound of garage rock, with songs about what it's like to be an aging man, the deliciousness of women, and a whole bunch of other hedonistic shit.
Their new video may explain the awesomeness of their sound. Not only do you get to hear the great new single, but you also get a visual representation of their awesomeness:
Lightning!
Statue crying blood!
Romans slow motion dancing in space!
Hot chick naked in bathtub!
Wolf howling at a blood red moon!
Boobies!
Weird threatening axe man and wolf man!
Band members shooting AK’s and wearing skull mask!
Orange cheerleader in space!
Super sexy thumb sucking!
Band members as deities!
Hip thrust energy blast!
Roman eye lasers!
Random 70’s monsters!
Hot chick with gun!
Fat naked masked dude with an axe!
Random soldier and cop in weird locations!
Band member dancing in boxers under blue light!
Bulging eyes!
Roman smacking an asteroid into the Earth!
Dog conducting orchestra!
Naked ass of band member Roman!
Car crashes caused by laser beams!
Roman eye lasers on glaciers causing worldwide flooding!
All sorts of characters materializing out of black smoke!
Roman fart causing a nuclear blast!
Cockroaches!
Weird pile of hair sneaking up on hot chick!
Orange cheerleader naked!
Roman wearing leopard print boxer briefs!
Exploding 90’s computer monitor!
Yeah, that's what they sound like. Have a watch and listen:
Sunday, August 22, 2010
I Shouldn't Have To Give These Fashion "Tips"
I recently had a conversation with a friend about the benefits and drawbacks of both skinny jeans and leggings-as-pants. They both share the qualities of not being a good idea for everyone and being unbelievably hot when done right.
The problem is, that picture isn't how jeggings look. Actually, those aren't even jeggings, they're jeans. And if you can't look like this in skinny jeans or leggings, jeggings won't look like this on you. In reality, jeggings look terrible:
But the other day, that friend reminded me of something that I have been seeing all too much around town lately: jeggings. Her reminder came with an internet article, explaining what jeggings are and how they're going to be even more popular this fall.
Ugh. Bad idea. Seriously, jeans...or leggings. There is no in between. Except for fat Honduran women. If stretch is noticable in jeans, it's too much. The whole point of skinny jeans is to make them look like they fit perfectly, not like you had to squeeze yourself into them like a toothpaste tube.
Through some apparant hallucination, the picture below is how some women think jeggings will look on them. (Point in fact, this about the hottest thing I've seen in months.)
The problem is, that picture isn't how jeggings look. Actually, those aren't even jeggings, they're jeans. And if you can't look like this in skinny jeans or leggings, jeggings won't look like this on you. In reality, jeggings look terrible:
I appreciate the attempt to make leggings more accessible by making them seem less like your pajamas, but it doesn't work. Now, they just look like pajamas made to look like jeans. And most importantly, just because they mixed the two, it doesn't mean you can wear these even though you couldn't pull off skinny jeans or leggings.
Shame on you, jeggings and people who wear them. Total jeans fail, fashion fail, and misappropriation of the rare and refined art of leggings as pants. May God have mercy on your souls.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Time Fer Yer Fix, And It's A New Flavor
"Ooh," you say "Seven Wicked Demons is way super sexy new and sleek. It even smells like a new Lexus!" (Don't get me started on how complicated that html is.) I know, I've done an amazing job making three clicks to give the ol' blog a new look. Thanks Google/Blogger! I'm totally gonna change this again later, now that it has more options.
But really, you didn't come here for the look. Or the Lexus smell. You came for Ninjas, nightmares, and nuts I meet on the street. Well, I try not to disappoint. A few new posts below. Enjoy!
But really, you didn't come here for the look. Or the Lexus smell. You came for Ninjas, nightmares, and nuts I meet on the street. Well, I try not to disappoint. A few new posts below. Enjoy!
Yeah, I'm Warped
A friend pointed out to me today that I once drunkenly admitted to her that when I was a kid, I was attracted to Gozer the Gozarian in the movie Ghostbusters.
Yup, her:
I can't decide whether to be embarassed at this revelation of a deeply harbored secret. I mean, she's fucking weird looking. Even disregarding the 80's ridiculousness, does this show I'm into super pale chicks with short hair and crazy nails?
OK, there was that phase where I was into goth girls, but still...
I think I was attracted to Gozer because of a couple of things:
1. She was likely one of the first women in skintight clothing I'd ever paid any attention to.
2. She was an animal lover (check out those dogs - they must have taken ages to train!).
3. She was way powerful - powerful women are hot by definition.
So, you know what? I'm not ashamed. Gozer's hot. If she asked me if I'm a God, I'd say, "Slip out of that unitard covered in bubbles and give me the chance to convince you, Baby."
Yup, her:
I can't decide whether to be embarassed at this revelation of a deeply harbored secret. I mean, she's fucking weird looking. Even disregarding the 80's ridiculousness, does this show I'm into super pale chicks with short hair and crazy nails?
OK, there was that phase where I was into goth girls, but still...
I think I was attracted to Gozer because of a couple of things:
1. She was likely one of the first women in skintight clothing I'd ever paid any attention to.
2. She was an animal lover (check out those dogs - they must have taken ages to train!).
3. She was way powerful - powerful women are hot by definition.
So, you know what? I'm not ashamed. Gozer's hot. If she asked me if I'm a God, I'd say, "Slip out of that unitard covered in bubbles and give me the chance to convince you, Baby."
I Don't Even Know How To Title Ninja Posts Anymore
Oh, man. They're everywhere- sad, despondent ninjas. Even Down Under:
Monday, May 3, 2010
The Taste Police
Holy crap, get this. My work computer of course has screening software on it, making sure I don't surf the net for mail-order AK-47's or troll for kiddie porn. I get that.
But, I was recently emailed a link to a weird little video. It's in flash on its own site, but for the sake of embedding, here it is on YouTube:
Bizarre, right? Even a little creepy. Nonetheless, I was shocked when I couldn't get to its web page, because apparantly someone thinks it warrants this message:
I mean, five years in my office and I'm the only person I know who has hit the "Tasteless" bullseye on the web filter. It has, sex, porn, and all the regular categories of no-nos, so don't think this is a broad catchall.
What scares me is the idea that there really is some thought police jagoff out there deciding this stupid video is too...whatever other word beside "tasteless" would fit (I can't think of one)...for me to watch at work for a minute and twenty seconds. This, while I could run an entire eBay business from my desk. Ridiculous.
But, I was recently emailed a link to a weird little video. It's in flash on its own site, but for the sake of embedding, here it is on YouTube:
Bizarre, right? Even a little creepy. Nonetheless, I was shocked when I couldn't get to its web page, because apparantly someone thinks it warrants this message:
I mean, five years in my office and I'm the only person I know who has hit the "Tasteless" bullseye on the web filter. It has, sex, porn, and all the regular categories of no-nos, so don't think this is a broad catchall.
What scares me is the idea that there really is some thought police jagoff out there deciding this stupid video is too...whatever other word beside "tasteless" would fit (I can't think of one)...for me to watch at work for a minute and twenty seconds. This, while I could run an entire eBay business from my desk. Ridiculous.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Release The Kraken!
On a chance trip to a Pennsylvania liquor store this weekend, I happened upon a new spiced rum. I'm fairly tired of the Captain, you see. And I think this new rum is the perfect antidote.
It's called The Kraken. It has fantastic packaging and a hilarious marketing campaign, which can be found in full at http://www.krakenrum.com/. This even includes encouragement to order a drink called the Kraken Bomb.
More importanly, The Kraken tastes better than Captain Morgan, and is replacing the old sea dog in my liquor cabinet. As cleverly put in the marketing material, "Named for a sea beast of myth and legend, the kraken rum is strong, rich, black, and smooth." All true.
I suggest you give it a try, so you'll be ready when The Kraken rises from the depths and sinks The Captain's ship.
It's called The Kraken. It has fantastic packaging and a hilarious marketing campaign, which can be found in full at http://www.krakenrum.com/. This even includes encouragement to order a drink called the Kraken Bomb.
More importanly, The Kraken tastes better than Captain Morgan, and is replacing the old sea dog in my liquor cabinet. As cleverly put in the marketing material, "Named for a sea beast of myth and legend, the kraken rum is strong, rich, black, and smooth." All true.
I suggest you give it a try, so you'll be ready when The Kraken rises from the depths and sinks The Captain's ship.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Not Sure If This is a Recommendation, or Just Commentary
I have to say, I have a touch and go relationship with Massive Attack. Basically, I don’t like them much, unless someone kickass is singing on a particular track. Even those, I hate at first, until I find them stuck in my head for days.
This is the beautiful and haunting case with Flat of the Blade, off the new album Heligoland. Absent the vocals, it’s a moderately creepy track of electronica, but with Guy Garvey of Elbow adding the downright disturbing and tortured vocals, it becomes something more. Great song!
This is the beautiful and haunting case with Flat of the Blade, off the new album Heligoland. Absent the vocals, it’s a moderately creepy track of electronica, but with Guy Garvey of Elbow adding the downright disturbing and tortured vocals, it becomes something more. Great song!
Saturday, March 13, 2010
In Case You Think There's Some Grand Plan Out There, You're Wrong - No Such Plan Would Include This
The most random shit can happen just walking out your front door.
I was bringing my dog out to put in the car and run an errand. Most of Snowpocalypse had melted, but a few piles still sat on the street corners.
As I approaced my car (street parking out front), a hispanic guy walked up. From his giant Honduras keychain, I assume he was Honduran. A regular genius, me.
Guy: "'Sucse me, do you have a chovel?"
Me: "Chovel?"
Guy: "Yeah, a chovel. I gotta dig out." Guy gestures to his pickup truck, which he has driven up onto/into a large snow pile. I never did ascertain whether he needed to get the truck out or was hired to shovel the snow and just picked the dumbest parking spot in history.
Me: "Oh, uh, no. I swear. No shovel here. Sorry, man."
Guy, while beginning to walk toward me and my ferocious dog: "Oh can I pet jour dog?"
Me, while letting my dog out front a little, in order to allow her maximum conniption potential (read: BARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARK!!!!!): "No. She will bite you."
It's about here that I noticed that this man was flamboyantly homosexual. It's no judgment one way or another, just another fact that makes this story so completely random. He was wearing jeans, a tight long-sleeve shirt, and a green scarf wrapped carefully and closely around his neck.
Guy, walking nearly into chomp-range with hand out, but deciding he wanted to keep his fingers: "Is OK, is OK. She just sense de curse, and trying to eat it."
Curse? Did this gay Honduran guy who parked on a snow bank and asked me for a shovel now tell me my dog is trying to eat a curse? I decided to continue to roll with the situation. What would you have done?
Me: "Sorry, but she doesn't want to be petted."
Guy: "Is OK, jou see. I'm cursed. She just trying to get de curse. Eat it. Chomp. See?"
At this point, the Guy lifted his shirt and turned his body to show a massive scar extending from his beltline on his back, around his abdomen, and up to his ribs.
Guy: "Jou see? I cursed. They threw me off de fourth floor. I cursed, and she sense it. She trying to eat de curse. I cursed. Is OK."
Let me mention, I know of no magical force here. My dog was behaving exactly as trained - if a person is approaching quickly, she takes it as a threat, and letting her forward is my queue for her to defend/attack/wreak havoc.
Me: "Wow, man. Um...wow."
Guy: "So yeah, is OK. I cursed, but is OK. I love it here. I love America. Is wonderful. I pay de taxes."
As the Guy delivered this little speech, he approached and shook my hand with much enthusiasm. I reigned my dog in, because I determined that this man did not to be eviscerated at that moment.
I think it is fair to say that at this point, I was completely bewildered. Let us review: a gay Honduran man drove his truck into a snow pile and was wandering my street in search of a shovel. Seeing me exit my home, he requested of such from me. Upon my denial, he attempted to approach and pet my ferocious dog. Upon a near miss with a visit to the emergency room, he informed me of his curse, exemplified by a scar that can easily be described as coming from having been cut in half, which he apparantly received after being thrown from a fourth floor window, balcony, etc. He determined that my dog wanted to eat this curse, and decided that a related topic was how much he loves America, so much that he is glad to be paying taxes.
Me, in response: "Uh, great, well, good luck, and have a good day."
Again, what would you have done?
I was bringing my dog out to put in the car and run an errand. Most of Snowpocalypse had melted, but a few piles still sat on the street corners.
As I approaced my car (street parking out front), a hispanic guy walked up. From his giant Honduras keychain, I assume he was Honduran. A regular genius, me.
Guy: "'Sucse me, do you have a chovel?"
Me: "Chovel?"
Guy: "Yeah, a chovel. I gotta dig out." Guy gestures to his pickup truck, which he has driven up onto/into a large snow pile. I never did ascertain whether he needed to get the truck out or was hired to shovel the snow and just picked the dumbest parking spot in history.
Me: "Oh, uh, no. I swear. No shovel here. Sorry, man."
Guy, while beginning to walk toward me and my ferocious dog: "Oh can I pet jour dog?"
Me, while letting my dog out front a little, in order to allow her maximum conniption potential (read: BARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARK!!!!!): "No. She will bite you."
It's about here that I noticed that this man was flamboyantly homosexual. It's no judgment one way or another, just another fact that makes this story so completely random. He was wearing jeans, a tight long-sleeve shirt, and a green scarf wrapped carefully and closely around his neck.
Guy, walking nearly into chomp-range with hand out, but deciding he wanted to keep his fingers: "Is OK, is OK. She just sense de curse, and trying to eat it."
Curse? Did this gay Honduran guy who parked on a snow bank and asked me for a shovel now tell me my dog is trying to eat a curse? I decided to continue to roll with the situation. What would you have done?
Me: "Sorry, but she doesn't want to be petted."
Guy: "Is OK, jou see. I'm cursed. She just trying to get de curse. Eat it. Chomp. See?"
At this point, the Guy lifted his shirt and turned his body to show a massive scar extending from his beltline on his back, around his abdomen, and up to his ribs.
Guy: "Jou see? I cursed. They threw me off de fourth floor. I cursed, and she sense it. She trying to eat de curse. I cursed. Is OK."
Let me mention, I know of no magical force here. My dog was behaving exactly as trained - if a person is approaching quickly, she takes it as a threat, and letting her forward is my queue for her to defend/attack/wreak havoc.
Me: "Wow, man. Um...wow."
Guy: "So yeah, is OK. I cursed, but is OK. I love it here. I love America. Is wonderful. I pay de taxes."
As the Guy delivered this little speech, he approached and shook my hand with much enthusiasm. I reigned my dog in, because I determined that this man did not to be eviscerated at that moment.
I think it is fair to say that at this point, I was completely bewildered. Let us review: a gay Honduran man drove his truck into a snow pile and was wandering my street in search of a shovel. Seeing me exit my home, he requested of such from me. Upon my denial, he attempted to approach and pet my ferocious dog. Upon a near miss with a visit to the emergency room, he informed me of his curse, exemplified by a scar that can easily be described as coming from having been cut in half, which he apparantly received after being thrown from a fourth floor window, balcony, etc. He determined that my dog wanted to eat this curse, and decided that a related topic was how much he loves America, so much that he is glad to be paying taxes.
Me, in response: "Uh, great, well, good luck, and have a good day."
Again, what would you have done?
This Is My Thesis, Man! My Closing Argument!
A million thanks to Sara for finding this - she's such a gem for remembering my distaste for her home state, as well as my fascination with ninjas in the news. Thus, I was downright giddy to receive and scribble all over the following story:
Sunday, February 14, 2010
He Knows Quack-Fu
Netflix just recommended that I watch the awesomely bad 1986 film, Howard the Duck.
Doubled over with laughter at the thought of actually subjecting myself to that movie again, I Wikipedia'd it to figure out where this insane story came from. I had no idea Howard the Duck was a comic character going back to 1973!
As an aside, these are the wonderous gifts of knowledge given to me by Wikipedia.
As I read through the article I came by the section with Howard's fictional biography. Holy acid trip, Batman. Here's just the beginning:
Howard is abducted from New Stork City on his native world and dropped into the Florida Everglades by the demonic Thog the Overmaster of the dread realm Sominus.[5] There, he meets the Man-Thing and Korrek the Barbarian.[6] Shortly thereafter, Howard meets Dakimh the Enchanter and Jennifer Kale as well, but then falls off a set of inter-dimensional stepping stones.[7] Before long, he materializes in Cleveland, Ohio. There he battles Garko the Man-Frog [8], after which he is arrested for disturbing the peace and mistaken for a mutant during a strip search. Upon release (because the officer fears he has mutant abilities that could be used against him), he encounters a vampire cow, Bessie the Hellcow.[9]
Bessie the Hellcow? Are you serious? Look at that plot. I mean, come on. People actually made money with this! Screw it, I'm quitting my job to become a writer. Clearly, there's room for any semblance of talent, so long as ou can get someone to decide that your insanity is just quirky enough to make it campy and fun.
Further aside- oh man I love that Wikipedia even links to its entire page devoted to strip searches. Fantastic!
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Drunken Poetry
For an office happy hour this week, I challenged my coworkers to write poems that we'd then read after a bunch of drinks. Of course, I was the only who played my game.
So, since there was no audience for my great drunken poem there, I'm going to force it on you here. Hope you enjoy.
Why I Drink
by me.
I’ve recently been told that I
may need to get some help.
That maybe I have dwelled too long
in my own personal hell.
Some things you may not know ‘bout me
may help explain my plight.
Or perhaps just why I’m doing fine
on this auspicious night.
My mother always feared for me
when I was just a boy.
I stayed up nights all terrified
of ghosts amongst my toys.
But little did my mother know
the true scars I’d receive
were from my friends who made me play
a girl for make believe.
School was never easy for a
nerdy clumsy geek
like me who read and played no sports,
was shy and awfully weak.
My first girlfriend, and ugly thing
with pimples and bad teeth.
Her selling point, even she was
more popular than me.
A young adult, I tried my best
to shed my cursed past.
The cloud that I had lived under
could not be meant to last.
But college was a frightful tale.
I did some things, you see,
that never should be uttered to
such proper company.
“Now law school, that’s a plan,” I thought,
“That should pay off in spades!”
I fucked myself with that bold move
by getting shitty grades.
Thank God I found myself a job
and go to work each day.
The pay’s enough. My boss is nuts,
but stays out of my way.
And still, my life, it trudges on
in mediocrity.
I read sci-fi and walk my dog
and play games on the Wii.
I have no goals, no great big dreams
of ever going far.
I have no place to feel secure
except my local bar.
And so I turn to drink, my friends.
It changes things, you see.
With booze in me I’m ten feet tall,
the lord of all I see.
I’m handsome, charming, powerful
and life becomes so great.
The knocks I’ve taken seem less harsh.
I like my drunken state!
I say there’s nothing wrong with this,
the way I spend my nights.
I’m sure you all have got my back
in case of any fights.
Drinking does fulfill my life,
I’m sure that this is true,
‘cause though I’m getting drunk tonight,
I’m getting drunk with you.
So, since there was no audience for my great drunken poem there, I'm going to force it on you here. Hope you enjoy.
Why I Drink
by me.
I’ve recently been told that I
may need to get some help.
That maybe I have dwelled too long
in my own personal hell.
Some things you may not know ‘bout me
may help explain my plight.
Or perhaps just why I’m doing fine
on this auspicious night.
My mother always feared for me
when I was just a boy.
I stayed up nights all terrified
of ghosts amongst my toys.
But little did my mother know
the true scars I’d receive
were from my friends who made me play
a girl for make believe.
School was never easy for a
nerdy clumsy geek
like me who read and played no sports,
was shy and awfully weak.
My first girlfriend, and ugly thing
with pimples and bad teeth.
Her selling point, even she was
more popular than me.
A young adult, I tried my best
to shed my cursed past.
The cloud that I had lived under
could not be meant to last.
But college was a frightful tale.
I did some things, you see,
that never should be uttered to
such proper company.
“Now law school, that’s a plan,” I thought,
“That should pay off in spades!”
I fucked myself with that bold move
by getting shitty grades.
Thank God I found myself a job
and go to work each day.
The pay’s enough. My boss is nuts,
but stays out of my way.
And still, my life, it trudges on
in mediocrity.
I read sci-fi and walk my dog
and play games on the Wii.
I have no goals, no great big dreams
of ever going far.
I have no place to feel secure
except my local bar.
And so I turn to drink, my friends.
It changes things, you see.
With booze in me I’m ten feet tall,
the lord of all I see.
I’m handsome, charming, powerful
and life becomes so great.
The knocks I’ve taken seem less harsh.
I like my drunken state!
I say there’s nothing wrong with this,
the way I spend my nights.
I’m sure you all have got my back
in case of any fights.
Drinking does fulfill my life,
I’m sure that this is true,
‘cause though I’m getting drunk tonight,
I’m getting drunk with you.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Plug In, Baby
I'm told I'm crazy for having done this, but I bought tickets to see Muse at Wembley Stadium in September.
No, I have no idea how I'm going to afford a trip to London, but I at least wanted the option. I can always sell the tickets later if I have to, but I need a chance to see these guys in their home environment:
No, I have no idea how I'm going to afford a trip to London, but I at least wanted the option. I can always sell the tickets later if I have to, but I need a chance to see these guys in their home environment:
Sunday, November 29, 2009
An Unlikely Place For Art
I normally hate TV commercials. Except stuff like Sportcenter commercials. Otherwise, the stuff people claim is "cute," "amusing," or "artistic" just doesn't seem any of those things to me.
One commercial has totally gripped me recently, however. I'm almost ashamed to admit that I love the Levi's Go Forth commercial featuring a recording of Walt Whitman reading his poem, Pioneers! O Pioneers!.
The imagery isn't much. It certainly doesn't inspire me to buy Levi's. And it melts into a rapid-fire series of shots of vapid Ck-esque nudity. I think there's even an obigatory shot of homosexuality (see? Levi's is H-I-P hip. How insulting to the gay community).
But somehow, likely because the images move too quickly, and certainly because his voice is absolutely mesmerizing, Whitman's words overpower the visual input. All I can hear is him, appealing to his audience with an aged sense of urgency. And the residue of the video - the vauge impression that perhaps the Pioneers are the youth, carving something out of the wilderness of their lives. Damn, it just kicks me in the face.
I'd be angry with a commercial for moving me emotionally, if it weren't really Walt Whitman doing so. All the same, kudos to the whizzes at Wieden & Kennedy Portland for framing ol' Walt so beautifully.
One commercial has totally gripped me recently, however. I'm almost ashamed to admit that I love the Levi's Go Forth commercial featuring a recording of Walt Whitman reading his poem, Pioneers! O Pioneers!.
The imagery isn't much. It certainly doesn't inspire me to buy Levi's. And it melts into a rapid-fire series of shots of vapid Ck-esque nudity. I think there's even an obigatory shot of homosexuality (see? Levi's is H-I-P hip. How insulting to the gay community).
But somehow, likely because the images move too quickly, and certainly because his voice is absolutely mesmerizing, Whitman's words overpower the visual input. All I can hear is him, appealing to his audience with an aged sense of urgency. And the residue of the video - the vauge impression that perhaps the Pioneers are the youth, carving something out of the wilderness of their lives. Damn, it just kicks me in the face.
I'd be angry with a commercial for moving me emotionally, if it weren't really Walt Whitman doing so. All the same, kudos to the whizzes at Wieden & Kennedy Portland for framing ol' Walt so beautifully.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Sucks To Be This Guy
Thanks to Bill McG for filling in on the news searching while I got lost in the whirlpool hell of work in the past few weeks. Otherwise, I may have missed the most recent ninja story.
Now, serioulsy, how long is it going to take you people to realize I am speaking truth? Ninjas are everywhere. And in this economy, they're out of work. In such rough times, they get a little rusty. While out exercizing their aweseome set of lethal and stealthy skills, mistakes get made, and a few of them end up impaled on fences:
When will the secret mega-conglomorates of evil abandon their tiny lazer-shooting robots and save those who are most in need? They're out of work! Technology cannot replace the perfection of the most effective henchman armies in history (except in the 80's, where whole mobs of our ninja friends were decimated in oh so many crappy films). Take the ninjas back, evil empires! Save your stealthy friends before it's too late!
Now, serioulsy, how long is it going to take you people to realize I am speaking truth? Ninjas are everywhere. And in this economy, they're out of work. In such rough times, they get a little rusty. While out exercizing their aweseome set of lethal and stealthy skills, mistakes get made, and a few of them end up impaled on fences:
When will the secret mega-conglomorates of evil abandon their tiny lazer-shooting robots and save those who are most in need? They're out of work! Technology cannot replace the perfection of the most effective henchman armies in history (except in the 80's, where whole mobs of our ninja friends were decimated in oh so many crappy films). Take the ninjas back, evil empires! Save your stealthy friends before it's too late!
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