Friday, November 19, 2010

If Travis gets to be political and talk about conspiracies, then god damnit, so will I!

Greetings, readers of the blog!
Now, I know the blog has been a bit... boring... recently.
I know, I know... Travis has gone on one of his normal political rampages and made a blogpost that was, to be honest, lacking in humor. And I know Niina isn't helping, as she has no originality what so ever. (Don't worry, Niina. It's not your fault you don't have a penis.)And me... well... I've been busy. And believe me, when you are writing 4000 word essays, you do NOT want to spend the little little free time you have left writing even more crap.Therefor, I realize the blog has been lacking a little bit recently, and I blame Ann Coulter. As should you. For everything bad that has ever happened. Ever.
EVER!

Ann Coulter has been the driving force behind every evil person ever. From the lowliest Street Thug to Hitler, Ann Coulter did it. Now, you might be confused by this everlasting truth. I mean, why Ann Coulter? I will tell you. I have found convincing evidence to back this theory up. You see, it all makes sense now. Why do you think she is behind all things bad in our world? Very simple: Ann Coulter is actually the devil.

Uncomfirmed if it's the same devil who dresses out as old ladies and stalks elevators in bad M. Night Shama-whatever-his-face movies.

Ann Coulter IS the devil. Just listen to her talk. She comes off as a transvestite with a bad temper and manical views, but it's all just a farse to throw us off her track. Think about it. She's been on Fox News, the most biased News Network there is. Dear god, last night I saw them do a report upon Call Of Duty letting children play as TERRORISTS during the game experience. So, who gains from the fear of the Terrorists? The Republicans, who just happen to be signing Fox News paycheck. And it's common knowledge the Republican Party is in league with the devil. Therefor, Ann Coulter is the devil.
Now you know.

Until next time.
/Over the Top

Thursday, November 18, 2010

Big News and I'm an Asshole

May I have your attention for just a moment? I apologize sincerely for being a lazy bastard lately. Ignoring this blog was never my attention, which is why I am going to stop. I've been inspired.

I am starting another blog called Rant and Caper, in which I will rant about things in the world that piss me off (the World Bank, the IMF, immorality, the Tea Party, imperialism, sexism, gender inequality, etc.) and will feature "capers" through my imagination in the form of demented (usually) short stories. I will continue to post humorous nonsense here for you, but I want you to be aware of my new blog.
Follow it at rantandcaper.blogspot.com.

Thanks so much for the support people. The revival of this blog will be epic. Epic.

Saturday, October 30, 2010

The Hidden Curriculum: A Social Factory

A rant by Yours Truly, Perpetually Bemused

                Within the institution of modern education lay two separate, yet equally pervasive, curriculums which prove to govern the lives, present and future, of our youth. The first, the advertised set of classes such as mathematics and history, is insignificant for the purposes of this discussion. The second, the hidden curriculum, is the one we need to recognize and is, in my opinion, perhaps the single most defining obstacle to social and moral progress. The Hidden Curriculum is ubiquitous in its quest to force a set of social expectations upon children when they are at their most malleable. The Hidden Curriculum can differ between schools depending upon the prevailing social status of its students, in order to fine-tune its social structure to perpetuate a system of inequality across the board.

                The unfortunate truth is that the hidden curriculum itself teaches ignorance of its own existence, and most people therefore do not recognize it as a harmful manifestation of the sociopolitical dominance of those in power and the perpetuation of a system that caters to the few. The largest problem is that what is “taught” are considered societal norms, and are therefore difficult to argue against, especially for a child, and the curriculum succeeds in masking itself in this way. Few are exceptions to this rule. Rebecca Walker, a premiere activist for feminism and equal rights, writes about this very subject in “Putting Down The Gun” when her son approaches her with problems. “Maybe girls will like me if I play sports” Rebecca Walker’s son confides in his mother, the hands of the hidden curriculum at work. “In a nutshell, the girls liked the jocks the best, and sometimes deigned to give the time of day to the other team, the computer nerds”. But why?

                The hidden curriculum seeks to enforce familial expectations, social roles, obedience, gender status, and the idea that dissent is unacceptable. In doing so, the education system acts as a factory; it pumps out “clones” if you will, who all share similar ideas about what is socially acceptable and what their place is within society. There are exceptions, of course, but not nearly enough to combat the problem. The majority of the population ends up behaving and believing the way the government wants them to. Girls like boys, boys like girls, men must make money and seek high paying jobs (private schools, upper middle class neighborhoods), no one must question the higher ups and men must do labor to be happy (working class families, inner city schools), men must be tough, aggressive and competitive, women must be devoted and emotional. A dichotomy is taught to form between man and woman. They are taught to be emotionally, physically, and “aspirationally” different. Men are prepared for office and war while women are prepared for motherhood. Walker recognizes this problem, though does not use the term “hidden curriculum” to describe it:
            
         “It occurred to me that my son was being primed for war, was being prepared to pick up a gun … It is a war against vulnerability, creativity, individuality, and the mysterious unknown.”

                From things as simple and difficult to argue as depicting a family as mommy and daddy, with daddy in a suit and tie and mommy in an apron, to things as difficult to spot as implied racism. But it is all taken in on a subconscious level by the student.

                Try to imagine a world without this hidden curriculum. A world where man and woman have more freedom to choose how they live their life and what they believe. A world where students are taught that dissent is to be celebrated, that gender is far more ambiguous than it is allowed to be, that men can be emotional and women can be competitive. Would there be a need for feminism? Social progress would be an inevitable byproduct of an enlightened people. The possibilities for humankind where man and woman are not shaped to perpetuate a broken system are endless. New governments, new economic systems, a renewed respect for the environment, a greater and more widespread, enlightened morality; these are all, as I see it, inevitable under a system without this hidden gender manufacturing.
If only.

PS Americans - Did you know that the Equal Rights Amendment, proposed way back in 1923, has yet to be incorporated into the Constitution? Ratified by 35 of the necessary 38 states, the equal rights amendment seeks to enforce equal rights for both sexes. That means equal pay for equal work, no discrimination on grounds of gender, and a general step in the right direction for moral and social progress.
It hasn’t passed yet. An amendment seeking equality HAS NOT PASSED. Way to go America.
Spread the word.
Also, this wasn't supposed to be funny so kiss my ass.

Monday, October 25, 2010

Shitstorm incoming

I'm going to make a post soon. But not right now. I'm not even going to apologize for being gone for so long.

But I will say I'll try harder to be a better dad for you all.

Also I'm sorry I've been gone for so long; college apps and midterms wilted the erection that is my devotion to this blog. But they're done now, I was accepted, so I'm back.

I'm not even going to apologize for apologizing when I said I wasn't going to apologize.

Also, I was in New York a while ago, and this homeless guy looks straight at me and says
"Men get menopause too! I'm horny as a motherfucker!"
I didn't give him any money because the homeless should know about menopause.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

My Attempt At Being Funny And Entertaining

Oh wait nevermind. We all know that's not possible. So instead, I'll list out my favourite movies in no order because I know everyone cares. :)

Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Bomb

Now, Kubrik is kind of an awesome as hell director. He has the balls to make movies that are 1. creepy (The Shining, Clockwork Orange), 2. Unbelievably un-understandable (2001:A Space Odyssey [and don't even argue against this. Not possible]) and 3. What oh my god my eyes are in heaven (Full Metal Jacket). Dr. Strangelove is the best (yes best) black comedy that exists that I have heard of, and no doubt will it rock forever. The sympathetic president, the crazy german scientist, and the silly captain Mandrake. And all three men are played by the same man. That's how bad-ass this film is.

The Room
What? The Room? This monstrosity? How could this at any rate be called a good movie. Because so many critics have had their say about this movie, I will spare myself the time and recommend you watch the Nostalgia Critic's review of this wonderful movie.

Instead I give you: The Room: The Drinking game.
Basic idea of the game is that one drinks whenever:
1. "Oh Hi ...."
2. There is a spoon visible in the shot
3. "Tommy is such a good person", or any variation of this
4. "But Mark's Johnny's best friend!" or any variation
5. "Don't worry about it!"
6. Lisa is beautiful
7. Horribly awkward sex scene with amazingly sensual music in the background. (Bonus Round: Every thurst into a navel is double the drink)
8. People take surprisingly dramatic news with casual nonchalance
9. Every time Lisa is bored
10. The Golden Gate Bridge
11. Nonsequitor football throwing (Bonus Round: double drinks for every person in a tuxedo while throwing said football)

So to be expected, that night did not end well for anyone involved.

Shaun of the Dead
Simon Pegg and Nick Frost are not a force to be reckoned with. I love zombies, and I love Simon Pegg, there is no reason why this is not a funny movie.

Speaking of zombies, although this is a classy and entertaining 'spoof' of the whole genre, I still doubt anything will ever beat Night of the Living Bread (1990).







And now because I am incapable of writing anything of proper length, I'm going to not write anymore. Also because I am lazy. Ha ha.

Monday, October 11, 2010

List of Soil-your-pants-Awesome people I met in Australia

Okay, first of all, I would like to denounce some rumours that has been floating around.

I've heard a person say that I am not the funniest writer in this blog, and that the only thing I do is make excuses for myself not to write.

First of all, fuck you, dear reader.
I am what is keeping this blog alive. You see, Perpetually Bemused (i.e. Travis) has gone AWOL, and Niina (i.e. Nina. Originality is not a virtue given to all creatures in this world, I do not judge) is simply a complete waste of space.

Therefor, I am god as far is it comes to you, dear reader.

Now, about my trip to Australia!
There were four highlights to this trip. Or rather, four people who made me need to change my pants, simply because anyone in their close proximity soiled themselves out of sheer awe for their awesomeness. I will now list them in the order of awesome.

4. Turban-Pilot.
Turban-Pilot was the guy who flew us from Cambodia to Malaysia. You might not think much of him, being a pilot for a shitty low-cost airline company, however, he has one major thing that makes all your arguments invalid.
He has a turban. He isn't Indian, so he's not Hindu. He isn't Arab, so he's not a muslim. Why does he have a turban? Because FUCK YOU, that's why.

3. Homeless and Potentially mentally ill Afro-dude.
HPA (Homeless and Potentially mentally ill Afro-dude) doesn't give a shit about what you think. He's 70, he's white, he's Australian. But he really loves Samuel L Jackson in Pulp Fiction, so he will have none of your shit. He wears a gray jumpsuit and sneakers, has a goatee and an Afro. He also talks to himself in a scary manner, but we'll leave what he said out of the blog, as it will seriously make this post less humerous and a lot more sad.

2. Construction-Worker Santa
Exactly what it says on the tin. He's a construction worker. Who looks just like Santa. Except he's a construction worker.
I actually saw a fucking kid yell "IT'S SANTA!"

Yes, kids! During the other 11 months of the year, Santa works as a low-payed construction worker in the shithole that is the Australian outback. The more you know!

1. Redbearded Muslim Dude.
RMD is the king of awesomeness. This dude has the whole boring, Muslim style over himself. The classical white clothing, the hat and HOLYFUCKHEHASAREDBEARD!
This guy has colored his black, long, thick beard entirely red.

.... Do I need to say more? This dude is fucking hardcore. He fights the system, and with a beard like that, the system doesn't fight back.
Appearently, The Ginger I have living in my closet (others call it my brother, whatever) tells me that appearently the Prophet Muhammed colored his hair red, and not only with the blood of his enemies! (Though, knowing muslims, that was probably an essential part in hair dye.)

Appearently, long before the Dead Kennedys sang about Holidays in Cambodia (approximately 1600 years), the Muslims were rocking red beards, fighting the Christian Regime, having like 16 wives and just doing all this crazy ass shit. Dear god, I had no idea Islam was so Punk Rock.
Thank you Redbeard Muslim Dude! Thank you for enlightening me.
Now we know!

AND KNOWING IS HALF THE BATTLE!
See? I told you....


Well, that's all folks. For now.
I'd like to see Niina sit down and write a post with more than 20 words. In your face, bitch!
(Ohgodtravisdontfiremefromtheblogididntmeanit)

Sunday, September 26, 2010

A busy schedule and potential comics

First of all: Woot woot, new design. Badass, amirite?
My enormously oversized images that Travis always yelled at me for posting might actually fit now!

Second of all: I've been busy. Okay? The IB has taken up a lot of my time. However, I have finally bested the beast (for like, a few weeks anyway) so I will now begin posting some stuff that is actually thought through, and not your run-to-the-mill "OOOoooh, lunch-break let's post shit on the blog"-posts.

It will be awesome. It might even include comics drawn by me.

Yes. I know. I'm a fucking nerd.
Until tomorrow or whenever it gets posted!

/Over the Top

Sunday, September 5, 2010

Having a Penis is Bringing Me Down

Hail, children. Classes have commenced and I am like the neglectful father, allowing my readers to stew in my indifference. But no more; I've missed you, and no amount of women can replace you.

The first class I had this semester was Women's Studies. It has come to my attention that this is the only class I am going to have to put more than a little effort into; with 5 men to about 20 women, 10 of whom appear to be angry lesbian feminists, just doing the work is not going to be enough.

The problem:
According to many feminists I have met, my penis strikes any argument I put forth invalid. Further, it's been brought to my attention on countless occasions that I am a smartass who's not quite sure when to keep his mouth shut. Even though I've been working out a lot so I don't need to keep my mouth shut, that doesn't help in a classroom full of things I can't hit... with my fists.

If only my class was full of this.

My inability to refrain from making a joke once I've seen it will undoubtedly cause my in-class problems. Couple this with the crippling penis, and that's quite a sticky situation. I am going to be repressed in my Women's Studies class. Fortunately, I have spent many hours thinking up solutions to this.

The Solutions:
Plan 1. Seduce everyone. I will enter the classroom in my best Southeast Asian clothing, ensuring I'm wearing a shade of blue somewhere. I will build a foundation with each and every woman in the class, exchange numbers, and be the only man each and every one of them will ever need. I will make offhand comments about how much money I have as I ask them to tell me about themselves. I will show them pictures of my iPod speakers. I will be marriage material. (I should consider using my posh English accent to make this even easier)

I will then arrange a personal meeting with my professor, during which I will make her forget about her husband (if she has one). I will make sure she's aware that I love feminists and feminism and professors.

After I have every female in the classroom in my pocket, I will sustain a system of dating each and every one of them (I will need a lot of money for flowers,dinners, movies, picnics, trips to amusement parks, and chocolate). What this will accomplish is simple, no woman will argue with me in class for fear of ruining our relationship, and my professor will reward me with an A.

OR

Plan 2. Crossdress. I look like a woman in makeup. How I know this is irrelevant. I would have to explain why I was a man last class by complaining about my current identity crisis. I can say I was feeling repressed by men and just wanted a taste of the power. Foolproof, but this plan implies less sex with girls and more sex with men than Plan 1.

OR

Plan 3. Remove my penis. This will ensure my opinions are valid.

While I'm leaning toward the first plan, I haven't come to a final decision yet. The first plan requires a reasonable amount of effort and logistical prowess, but the rewards are substantial. The second plan is easy enough, but lacks the bonuses supplied by the first plan. The third plan is arguably the easiest and instantly overcomes the feminist/man barrier, but I wouldn't have a penis anymore; I like having a penis.
I use it to be this.

And to do this well.

I have some thinking to do. I'd ask for your opinions, readers, but chances are you'll ask me to remove my penis.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Operation Endgame walkthrough, part 1



Last night, I watched a movie called "Operation Endgame", which can only be described as a Dark Action Comedy. Now, there were several things in this movie that confused me, EXCLUDING the choice of actors to play the deadliest assassins in the world.
Pictured: The strongest Assassin in the group, described as death incarnate. Yes. Really.


The movie starts with an attractive Asian woman pointing a gun at some guy's crotch. The guy, our protagonist, is apparently a new recruit in an organization of government super-assassins. There are two teams working for this Agency. The Alpha Team and the Omega Team. One of the teams wreaks havoc and pretty much ruins the world for everyone, and the other team tries to balance it out and sort out the trouble that the first team causes. The Protagonist asks "So why even have these teams in the first place, if they're just balancing each other out?", which is the question every fucking person with a braincell or two asks. The answer? "It's the black heart of our democracy. It's just how it is."
... THIS IS IDIOCY!
Oh... wait...Right. Sorry. I forgot that I was talking about the Government. Why am I even surprised?

Anyway, we're introduced to a group of the most unlikely Assassins ever.

Old Gentleman, Cougar, Alcoholic, Hot Chick, Handsome psycho, Black Wiz-kid, Cute innocent one, Token Asian, Normal-looking Protagonist and Ving Rhames. About every single movie-trope ever. In one movie.

Suddenly their boss is murdered, and the entire place goes into lockdown. And then, bloody murder. For no reason, Old Gentleman and Ving Rhames are killed. Gentleman is killed with a Stapler by Cougar, and Ving Rhames is killed by a Table-leg by Cute Innocent One.

Oh, come on. You didn't think Cute Innocent One was a nice person, did you? It's the nice ones you look out for in movies! Which I will be coming back to later, by the way. Believe me. In movie, the nice guys are NEVER nice...And in movies, the well built, McGyver esque black men (Ving. Motherfucking. Rhames.) get killed by 1.60 cm tall, skinny white girls. But atleast she's hot...

To be continued.

Monday, August 23, 2010

Introduction number 2, because the first one broke the site.

So, yeah. I'm gonna make another attempt to start writing in this blog. My first entry had to be deleted because it, for some inexplicable reason, fucked up the entire blog and made it unreadable.

That's me and technology for you. So, yeah.
So I'm Erik Mannfelt (hurr di durr, I've been felt by a man. Very fucking original, dickhead), writing under the pen name Over The Top.
I'm 18 years old, live in Cambodia (No, it's not in Africa. Learn your geography, retard.) and currently finishing my last year of High School. Other IB students out there, feel my pain.
I will do my best to amuse any potential readers of this block, and not make completely fucking useless entries (Looking at you, Niina) that amuse absolutely nobody.

So, yeah. This is my introduction.
Oh yeah! I draw comics. And play bass. And stuff. But you probably don't care.

Anyway, I am sitting in school right now.
Dear god, school is boring. It's like, Homework but worse. It just sucks all the fun out of your life. You know what would make school more awesome?A Zombie Apocalypse.

"That's for the F you gave me!... No, wait! School's out!... No, wait... Talk about boring you to death!... No wait..."

Honest to god, this place bores me to death. Anyway, I'll write an article or something funny later this week. So, yeah. Introduction over. Hi. Bye. And stuff.

Saturday, August 21, 2010

Songs of the Now 1

Since I just got back stateside after a fantastic Summer in Cambodia, I'm much too busy/tired/excited/lazy for a lengthy post. I've decided to use this time to start a new blog series where I will be laying out up to ten songs that have my knickers all up in my bum (this means songs that are fucking fantastic). This is not a daily, though sometimes it may be. I will be posting these freeform, whenever I find enough great songs to justify a post. This will in no way get in the way of my other posting.

The now's top songs are:

On My Balcony by Flunk
Visions by Hooverphonic
6 Underground by Sneaker Pimps
Don't Really Know Me by Snowden
Up All Night With Stereotypes by Young Jesus
Bring The Night by Sia
Brave New World by Covenant
8 Bits by mind.in.a.box
I Love 64 by mind.in.a.box

Go and enjoy these songs if you want. I certainly do.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Living Life On a Razor's Edge - The Startling Conclusion

As I pondered Lindsay Lohan and how despite her drug issues and consequent fluctuating weight her boobs always stay the same delightful size, a mustachioed masterpiece of a man approached me where I sat.

If only...

"You Travis?" He inquired with a smile that spread his magnificent face-forest and sent tingles of joy through my racing heart; Lindsay Lohan could not have been further from my mind. This man was the epitome of masculine perfection. His beard flowed down around full lips like twin waterfalls, no soul patch. Broad shoulders draped in a navy sports jacket met a powerful torso, down to a swollen beer gut which sent my budding arousal to an early grave, and not in a good way.
"Hey, buddy, you listening to me?" I realized I was staring with a disgusted look on my face. I definitely needed to say something, anything. I opened my mouth but nothing came out.
"Are you fucking crazy?" He pressed. It's Hot Seat time, if I didn't say anything, I probably wouldn't be getting stoned later.
"I prefer Lindsay Lohan's unusually consistent breasts to your spectacular mustache!" Well done. I hoped I was done looking crazy.
"Excuse me?" He was clearly confused.
"I really thought I could love you." Why wouldn't I stop? "You aren't even Tom Selleck."
"Are you buying drugs or not?" Drugs! Yes! Drugs brought me back to reality. I cleared my throat and focused.
"I'm sorry. I get fluttery around drug dealers and mustaches. You being both seems to have broken something in my brain." He looked at me the way I suspect anyone would, and I continued. "Yes, I will be buying drugs from you, are you Dushane's guy?"
He stared at me for several moments. Agonizing moments. He seemed to be reconsidering selling me drugs. I would not accept that.
"Um, you caught me on a bad day. I woke up in the wrong dumpster and brutally murdered an angry homeless woman in a strange apartment where I took a shower so Steve wouldn't know I was high last night, he's such a fucker. I'm not usually-"
"That'll be 40 bucks" He interrupted, holding out two baggies. I slid off my dumpster and thrust the money in his hand.

Five minutes later I was in my apartment smoking what turned out to be Japanese Maple, which looks a lot like weed but isn't.

I smoked it anyway.

--------

That night after violently vomiting for several hours and being told to fuck off by my friend Mike Izuzaki (who I thought must know something about what I was going through) I vowed never to buy drugs again, only mooch off my friends. That reminds me, I should give Mike a call.

Friday, August 13, 2010

Have fun with that life and stuff

Oh god I need to get so much done it's crazy and I don't have time (okay I have more time than I need really but that's beside the point), get an apartment and keep this job and get some money and move (but god first find an apartment [done and I love it], find an apartment that the landlord will let me rent please oh let me rent it I really like it) watch more movies, ok watch less movies do something more productive.

Drink less exercise more save money.

I'm going to go sleep now because the senseless dribble is starting to drive me insane, it's useless to watch distressing movies while tired and alone because it just ends in a mindfuck.

Hi.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

Living Life On A Razor's Edge - Part 2

"I'm sorry I crushed your femur, really," I sputtered, floundering around in the tub like a large flounder, "it's just, I'm really hungover and that fucker steve has me all frazzled and I woke up in the wrong dumpster-"
"My dumpster"
"Oh, shit."
"Yeah. Mistake"
I coughed as Commander Terror sent my soldiers to explore the upper regions of my stomach.
"Uhmm, look. I know how you must feel. If someone stole my dumpster I would-"
"And crushed your femur."
"Right, and crushed my femur, I would want to do something about it, too."
"I am going to crush your femur and remove your testicles."
"That's going to be difficult considering where they are." She didn't understand. But she looked ready to pounce. It was then that I realised that this woman was becoming a serious inconvenience to me, and I refuse to let a bitch be any problem of mine.

Not even one.


It was time to be daring. 
"Admire my penis!" I shrieked as I leapt to my feet. Several seconds of furious, noisy hip thrusting passed before I concluded that I had her as confused as possible. I dashed past her into the bedroom and located the closest conceivable weapon (a bottle of Captain Morgan's finest). Turning, I found the bitch that was not my problem in hot pursuit of my danglers. I lifted the bottle into the air,
"Have a drink on me!" I shouted as I brought the captain down on her head with a resounding clang. She hit the shag hard, and did not get up.

Approximately my reaction. Only I was nakeder.

I found a pair of sunglasses on the nightstand and slipped them on,
"You should watch your alcohol next time." I told her. Yeahhhhhh.

Feeling altogether far too good to get dressed, and far too awesome to not do pushups, I did pushups. After I was done doing pushups, I stole a suit from the closet and left through the front door. 

--------

Now, I should probably fast forward to my encounter with that butterfuck Steve, because my story still hasn't reached the part where I go buy drugs. 

-------
I ring for Steve's door and wait  for a response. It took him about forty five seconds to get to the intercom.

Because he's fat and wears a thong.

"Who's there?" He asked, breathing heavily.
"It's me, Travis, a homeless woman stole my keys. Can you let me in?"
"That blows" He heaved with a chuckle, "How do you lose to a woman?" That fucker, I was not going to look like a dildo in front of a dildo.
"No, it's alright, I beat her unconscious with a bottle of Morgan."
"Then where are your keys?"
"..." Shit, "Fuck you Steve, let me in."
"Fine, jackass. I have someone you can talk to about your drug problem, you know." He sighed as he buzzed me in. 

That fucker. If only he could have seen my new suit.

-----

The rest of that day was spent admiring my new suit in the mirror, feeding my cat, and touching myself. But around 8 PM I made a startling discovery.
I was out of drugs.
I would have called my girlfriend, but I don't have one; I sold her for an eighth and a spot of E. I therefore assessed my money. I had 40 bucks. Fuck yeah that's enough for two grams from my favorite dealer; I felt like weed that night, nothing too wild, not after last night. So I picked up the phone and called Dushane.
"Yo my bro, you available? I need some marijuana weed" I never know how to talk to dealers.
"Nah man, not right now, but I'll hook you up with one of my guys, where you at?" 
"My pad, can he meet me in the alley out back?"
"Hold on a sec." Lots of shouting, what sounded like gunfire, someone shouting that someone had been shot.
"Sorry, bitches up in our shit. Yeah, he'll meet you in 20 minutes." 
"Okay dude, good luck with the bitches and shit. Oh and how's my ex-girlfriend?" He hung up.

What I wish I was when I talk to my dealer VS What I am when I talk to my dealer.

The alley was shrouded in darkness and I had no idea what to expect. I waited, seated on my favorite dumpster, wondering when Lindsay would be back.

To Be Continued... (the third and last part will come soon)

 

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

Living Life On A Razor's Edge (to cut my lines) - An Adventure

  Buying drugs is never easy, but my last foray into the festival of danger that is the drug trade may very well be my last, at least until I run out of drugs again. The following took place Saturday evening, just two nights ago. It began as a typical weekday, but when I didn’t wake up in my usual post-roister dwelling, I knew something very strange was going on.
 I knew I was in the wrong dumpster because this wasn't next to me

  This also meant that I would have to go find my apartment, and without keys I would have to ask that dickhead Steve to let me in, and Steve hates drugs and people who smell like they just slept in a dumpster they didn’t recognize. I missed Lindsay, she would always know what to do. However, since a bitch is not one of my numerous problems, I forced the idea of her leathery, drug-pocked flesh and stringy hair from my mind; sex can wait. What I needed was a shower so that fucker Steve wouldn’t know I was on all of the drugs and that I slept in a dumpster that isn’t even mine. 
 My dumpster has less bears, and more Lindsay trash.
  Fortunately, finding a place to shower was going to be the easiest thing I was going to do that day. After clumsily crushing a homeless woman while climbing out of not my dumpster, I attempted to gauge my general location. I assumed I couldn’t be more than an hour’s walk from my apartment in Lower Manhattan, and the accent of the angry homeless woman with the now crushed femur confirmed that I was still in New York, so I kicked her in the face, informed her that she was not one of my problems, and fled. I didn’t have time for bitches; I smelled really bad.

  Fortunately I was only fifteen minutes away from home, so all I had to do was get cleaned up. I checked the time on my broken watch and phone I didn’t have, which didn’t help. However, judging from the sun’s position in the sky, it was daytime.
 I could tell because the sky looked sort of like this.

  I had two options, I could go down to the YMCA and shower there, or I could sneak through an open apartment window on the second floor of the building and steal a dip in their shower. Since getting raped is not on my list of "Great Ways to Spend a Hangover", I opted for trespassing, because along with that comes the potential for something that is on that list: having sex with some guy's hot wife. I realised that it's a pipe dream, considering that most beautiful married women have noses, but a man can dream.
If you're into Voldemort sex.

  Ignoring the sobbing homeless woman, I climbed up onto the dumpster and climbed a pipe conveniently close to the open window. Being hungover, this was not the easiest thing, but fear of that butterface Steve being a dick strengthened my resolve. After rolling into the bedroom and smashing a bedside lamp to bits and not being immediately killed by anyone, I concluded that the home was empty. I would have to leave a note telling the owner to keep the window closed next time. 

  I threw my filthy clothes on the floor in front of the bathroom and hopped in the shower, a large, luxurious affair that I figured the owners must have had redone, and took the most relaxing, refreshing, feminine shower of my life. 

  My hangover all but gone, I swung the curtain aside in search for a towel, screamed like a prepubescent girl, and fell backward in uninhibited terror. Standing before me was an angry homeless woman with a pair of scissors. It appeared that woman decided to make herself one of my many problems. And there wasn't a god damn towel in sight.

To be continued...


Thursday, July 29, 2010

(not) Getting Things Done At Work

Salutations my dedicated, mistreated readers. I'm back! The last week has been terrifying and involved a  lot of me getting from one place I didn't want to be to another I place I wanted to be even less where I would then carry around two heavy recording tools and a large stick with legs to make memories of things I have no intention of remembering. If you're a bit slow and haven't already guessed, I'm a photo/videographer. Now that the 60th anniversary of diplomatic relations between the United States and Cambodia (true story) has ended, I find myself released from my bonds of harried servitude and therefore able to pay more attention to the things I love, you.

I've decided to celebrate my return to the desolate, dicouraging world of internet obscurity by taking you through the many risks of having an internet connection and/or access to glue at the office.

Prior to this week of uninhibited governmental celebration, my office time was largely spent wandering bleary-eyed across the vast landscapes of the internet searching for entertainment; I had completed my assigned tasks within several minutes of having been received them, and therefore had nothing to do almost all of the time. Thankfully, the internet was more than happy to oblige my desire for entertainment. In the beginning, I was startled and confused to find that I could use the internet for more than just pleasuring myself to video games porn, but I soon got used to it and became a professional pioneer of its virtual safaris. I mastered the art of moving from one page of entertainment to the next without faltering and having to start over. A typical session of internet perusal (last wednesday) may go as follows:

I started at Cracked, which I adore, and embarked on my adventure from a Linkstorm, which leads me to a topic of vital importance. After reading through the article and staring at the pretty pictures, I am inspired to do something with my hands. After a quick search through my low-quality office supplies, I found an item with the potential entertainment value of The Pianist with clowns instead of nazis and an even greater focus on Adrien Brody's nose.

You know you would watch this.

I glanced around my desk in search of something to anoint in my newly found glue, and my eyes alighted upon a staple sculpture I had created several days before. It is at this time that I am faced with the certainty that the glorious structure, in all its pointy wonder, would be best immortalized in a shower of Chainteef Office Brand Water Glue. 

Modern Art

Disappointed by my creation of something that was much to ahead of its time to be displayed in a museum, I allowed my mind to wander while staring at the half-empty bottle of glue slowly leaking onto my pants, which is alright because their the kind of pants that suffocate one's groin all day. Amid the thoughts of my own impending, pants-derived infertility, I struck genius. I would pour the remaining glue all over my hands and think it through later.

After fashioning a pair of glue gloves like we all did in grade school, I did the thing we all did next; I rubbed my hands together and fashioned the glue into a ball. A ball which functioned more effectively than any professionally crafted bouncy ball ever has. The only downside is it instills in peeping coworkers the unwavering idea that you had just picked your nose and began playing with the findings. 

Shiny strawberry lip balm included for reference.

My glue ball lasted me about 25 minutes before it hardened and it became unusable. After some tears, I was able to pursue my nagging desire to learn more about making your own gloves; back to the internet. I found phone gloves which were disappointingly unwieldy, which led me to recycled decor, which gave me ideas for my own home decoration endeavors. The recycled decor led me to, from a link to an article on another site, something that made me want to punch a woman in the eye, and then not apologize.

If you have a job, and there is a 77% percent chance you don't, you know exactly what I am talking about when I say that the internet and mundane office supplies can entertain for hours on end, especially when you have work to do. 

Hmm, I must say, my return to internet failure is not well-represented by this rather mediocre article, but I am going to post it anyway because I am vindictive. Vindictive as, well, those women who shave and dress and dye their poodles.
I'll produce a work of quality shortly.

Monday, July 19, 2010

A Much Deserved Explanation

If it seems like I've not been posting lately, it's because I haven't been. My job has recently come under increasing work-related pressure and I must therefore devote the next five days to doing a lot of overtime. The embassy here is celebrating the 60th anniversary of diplomatic relations between the United States and the host country, Cambodia. For this reason, a number of events are occuring every day that my job dictates I must act as photographer and videographer for. This leaves little time to post, but I'll do my best.

In my relative absence, perhaps Niina and idonteven will amuse you.

You may all expect me back in posting form by Saturday afternoon.

Tidbit: Walking down the street by the river last night on the way to photograpgh some things, I encountered a troupe of latchkey children banging some birds together. It made me sad.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

My Sincerest Apologies

Fine readers, I apologize for the delay in producing more funny for you, but I've been absolutely exhausted the last two days. However, I promise to write one up for tomorrow, and I'll do my best to make it acceptable.

But please, enjoy this free Jell-O while you wait.

Yummy

PS - The reason I'm tired is because this is what my last two days was
Pictured: Me devouring Kristen Stewart and her boyfriend, Jacob




Monday, July 12, 2010

Hi, I'm Ruby Roslyn and I've been a photographer for over a week!

Hi there everybody! I'm Ruby Roslyn and I'm a photographer. My parents bought me a totally amazing Cannon D90 last week and I'm already taking beautiful photos that I post on my new Tumblr and on my Facebook so all my friends can see how unique and artsy I am. But it's not just photography that I'm good at. I like to use my Tumblr (because it's so easy and simple and unique and artsy) to post all the interesting or funny things that I think about during my days of being unique and artsy. Like yesterday I realized how life is either an adventure or nothing, so I posted that to help inspire my thousands of readers to find their own uniqueness and artsyness like I have. 


I really like to take pictures of myself, or use other pictures of me, and then use the filters in photoshop to turn them into unique art, and then I make them my profile pictures on my blog and Facebook so all my friends can see how good I am at Photoshop (not too mention how pretty I am). Here's one of my favorites of me:


I think it really shows how good at photography and photoshop I am. I had my older brother download CS5 onto my macbook because it's so much better for my photography than CS4 was. I love how many artsy stickers I have on my laptop! It really shows my uniqueness, not to mention my mac's wallpaper! It's a picture of chairs with smiley faces and a cat in the corner saying "look at these chairs"! Cracks me up every time!




Anyway, I think I should show you some of my very best photography!


This is one is of a flower in my backyard! I used a special lens my dad bought me so I could capture the flower's beauty. My Cannon D90 does a great job of capturing colors.








And this is a picture I took of an apple so I could symbolize commercialism in today's society and the president's taxes and the BP oil spill. I feel really bad for the fish and seals... so I'm doing my part to bring awareness to the spill with my art.


Those are just two of my very best, you'll have to visit my Tumblr and Facebook for the rest! 


My friends, who are almost all good photographers like me, would often ask if I took any classes to get so good at photography. I don't understand this question because art and uniqueness can't be taught! It comes naturally after getting a good camera. None of us has ever needed classes for it. It's just like beauty and being good at poetry. 
Like this one.




Some people really don't get it though. Like one time I was talking about my pictures with my friend Ella and this guy asked us if we liked Ansel Adams' pictures. I told him it wasn't funny to make up names. It turns out I was wrong and apparently he's a pretty popular photographer, which is stupid because all he did was take pictures of trees and mountains and old people. That's not art. now my friend Ella, she's a good artist. She took a black and white picture of a lawn chair yesterday that was gorgeous. I don't even know how to make my camera be black and white :(


Anywayyy it's been great talking about me, but Hairspray comes on in five minutes and I don't wanna miss it! Don't forget to keep checking my Facebook and Tumblr where I'll post status updates which overtly suggest how beautiful and unique and artsy I am!


Remember, war is always bad, and peace is always good. I was thinking that up last night :)

Saturday, July 10, 2010

Utterly useless crap.

You're welcome. :)

Agony of Choice: One Man's Quest For Audio Superiority

Having recently replaced my stolen iPod with an even better one (a royal "fuck you" to the thieves), and also finding myself suddenly not broke, I decided it was time to get a set of speakers that would make music Ke$ha proud. After asking around, I was told that speakers could be found at Sorya, a shopping center close by. Desperate for the cheap prices I presumed could be found in a Cambodian shopping center, I immediately nabbed a tuktuk to Sorya. On the Fourth floor are found electronics ranging from fecal earphones to holy-shit-I-need-to-change-my-pants headphones to look-at-that-TVs. After locating several purveyors of iPod speakers, I began my rigorous review phase:

The first set I encountered was really just a speaker. What attracted me to the iMax Mini was a large warning on the box claiming "Unbelievably Loud". Eager and aroused, I plugged it in to my iPod and was regaled with the  quietest, most distorted tale of a woman waking up in the morning feeling like a popular hip hop artist and then proceeding to brush her teeth with booze, that I have ever heard.
"Warning: Will Ruin Erection"

My arousal shattered, I refused the tiny Droideka; I wouldn't want Ke$ha to be offended.
"Oh no you didn't"

Feeling a bit depressed, I moved on to the next purveyor and found this:
"Money to buy it not included"

This JBL model (probably not a real one) proved to have startlingly big sound with great quality for such a tiny dock and my erection swiftly returned. I turned to address the store clerk, who turned out to be breathlessly attractive. I looked from the clerk to the dock to the clerk again, and my erection was conflicted over what to be more aroused by. I settled for both equally. 

Finally regaining the ability to speak, I asked her how much the dock cost. 
139 dollars. 
Shit.
I decided it was imperative that I not show this beautiful store clerk that I wasn't made of money, so after almost a minute of silence in which my face struggled to remain unchanged, I told her I would come back if I couldn't find a better, definitely more expensive one. Because I'm absolutely loaded. 

I flashed her a smile and departed, with no intention of returning. 

After judging several more models, I began to feel like I would never find the right speakers for me. They were all either too expensive, too shitty, or too looks-like-a-Pokemon (which would be awesome if I could be sure no woman would ever see it ever). 
"She won't be fondling your Pokeballs"

On the verge of giving up, I found this:
"Your arousal is justified"

The ExtremeMac Studio. I knew it was love at first sight. The following is the series of events that followed my discovery of this dock:
Search for dock. The fucker comes out of the bottom when you push it. Awesome.
Test. Holy shit that's loud! And the quality is great! Awesome.
Charging is supported! Awesome
A remote too!? Awesome. *Adjusts pants to facilitate straining arousal*
Check the voltage. 100-240! It'll work in the US! Awesome!
Cost. 70 dollars. Change of pants necessary.

Needless to say, I bought them and they are now situated on my nightstand, playing my music Ke$ha oh so beautifully.
"Those speakers make even my shit music sound decent"

Maybe now she'll spend more time wanting to marry me for my speakers and less time ruining the music industry.

Thursday, July 8, 2010

I've Done It!

I've just set up another blog where I'll be posting related to my "art"istic endeavors so I can avoid clogging up this space with content people may or may not be interested in. On this blog I'll keep posting the musings, adventures, and other interesting things I encounter/imagine/find noteworthy.

http://waitwhatart.blogspot.com/
Have a visit if you'd like, it's still got some work to be done, but again, this is where you'll find my "art"sy stuff.

General Announcement

Since I seem to be devoting a lot of time to blogging and "art"ing, I'm considering creating another blog (will be linked to from this one), which will concern itself solely with my "art"istic endeavors. This is just a heads up in case anyone wonders where my stories and pictures are going. I'll try to make the new blog easily accessible from this one.

The reason for this being I feel like I have too much varied content on this blog, which I would prefer to have devoted to musings/adventures/tidbits of an amusing (if possible) nature. I'll hopefully have this set up by tomorrow evening, my time. Feel free to contact me by email or otherwise if you have better ideas or whatever.

Thank you fine readers

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Goth Clubs > Other Clubs

I'd like to get one thing out of the way before I go on about the wonders of goth clubs, and that is that I am in no way a goth, nor do I have anything against them (quite the contrary, in fact). I just love the atmosphere and music.

First of all, I'm not a fan of dancing anyplace other than a goth club, because when I dance to notgothmusic, I look like a late-stage parkinson's patient who's about to be beaten to death for looking like a bloody idiot. Here's me at a notgothclub. Ladies?


Wow, I sure am awesome. And in case you're wondering, this disturbingly empty club is located in Kep, Cambodia. These pictures were taken approxmately 10 days ago. Further, that thing on my head which is so flawlessly complimenting my badassery dripping with awesomeness is a Buff. These linfinitely useful head ornaments are a necessity for those who find themselves traveling a lot in extreme weather and for those with beautiful hair that reacts badly when exposed to "dancing". Here, the Buff is making me awesome in the same way that a pirate is awesome. (The second picture is of me doing my impression of BP)

Moving on, and back to what I thought I would write about, the quintessential club is none other than the goth club. I frequent one not too far from my place of residence every Friday. I refuse to name the example of club perfection lest my adoring fans fan overwhelm me there. But I can assure you it is the best.

The music in a goth club is consistently the best dance music in the history of everything. Artists like Wolfsheim, The Cure, Apoptygma Berserk, Covenant, VNV Nation, She Wants Revenge, Skinny Puppy, and more caress your eardrums like only the most expensive Lebanese prostitutes can.

Another reason I love the goth club is that the dancing that goes on within is far superior to the dancing that accompanies hip-hop (looking like an asshole), pop (looking like a shithead), or metal (looking like a shitheaded asshole). Goth dancing is only matched in awesomeness by swing dancing, which I would love to learn how to do without killing myself.

The reason goth dancing is so amazing is because there are no expectations in place. Therefore, in a goth club, you are likely to encounter examples from beautiful to does-he-know-people-can-see-him. And no one will judge you! I typically dance like a fucking legend, but that wasn't so when I first started going there, but the great thing is there will always be someone looking stupider than you, so it doesn't matter. Even better, there really is no expected dress. For example, I never dress as a goth for a night at the club, and neither do many of its patrons.

The last reason I find goth clubs so compelling is the people who frequent them; goths, freaks, normies, old people, unexplainables, thatguys, and oh-my-god-I-love-hers. The goth club I visit weekly is made up of these people. My favorite are the oh-my-god-I-love-hers, obviously. Despite my lack of goth mentality/dress/lifestyle, I find the less severe goth females incredibly compelling, but then I've always been fond of weird, and glasses, for that matter. Reading glasses. Irresistible.

                                                                                                                                                               Dat glass.

Anyway, goth clubs are perfect for people-watching. These venues typically attract a cross-section of society's more interesting people, and I much prefer them over the less unique, regular club population.

If you find yourself wanting to spend an evening out partying and a goth club is within reasonable travel distance, I sincerely urge you to take the plunge. You won't regret it.
All this talk of goth clubs makes me miss home; there are no goth clubs in Cambodia.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Modern science is awesome, and I can be online while on a bus.
That is all.

Voice - A Short Story

The phone did not ring.

  6 o’clock. The phone should be ringing. It has every day for as long as he can remember. Ten more minutes now. He begins to panic.
  An old proverb forces him to the maggot-infested bed. A watched pot never boils. He slams his trembling eyes shut as the ancient springs sigh beneath his weight.
  He waits for that phone to boil. It does.
  He flails at the receiver, crawling, and snatches it from beside the nightstand and wheezes a greeting.
  Waiting.
  Silence, but then…
“Hello.” From the darkness comes a voice, cold.
  Silent sobs temporarily mute the prone, bedside form. He coughs. Sniffs. Speaks.
“I believed you lost forever.” More sobs. More silence.
  Struggling to contain himself, he chokes back tears and yanks his frail body onto the bed, pressing the receiver to his ear. His knuckles whitened with desperate effort. Glee. Sheer glee replaces despair. She is here again. He can live again.
“How are you?” She asked. So cold.
“Fine,” He lied. “And you?” Normality. He thanks God.
“I am well. I was late today, calling you. I hope that you were not much bothered”
“No, not at all! Why would I be bothered?” The lie burnt in his mouth like acid.
“Good. I have been busy lately.” Emotionless.
  Suddenly the dark, fetid, motel room felt like a suite at the Roosevelt. Pulling himself into a sitting
position, he smiles.
“It’s fine. I’m just glad you called.” Sincerity oozed from every croaked syllable. He held onto her voice, wrapping himself in it, absorbing every last note. The voice is his comfort, the port in the storm of his life.
“I must go.” Stated the passionless voice from the other end of the universe. His
motel-room turned palace crumbled, burying him in a sorrow all too familiar.
“Goodbye.” A click. Echoed in his skull. He hurls the receiver across the room.
  Every day.
  Self-loathing overcomes him. He should be used to this by now. What connection does he have to her, anyway? She is just a voice. Was she always just a voice? He does not love her. How can one love a voice?
  He grasps what comfort her voice has left him. Panics, afraid it will escape like every other time. Thrashing.
  He begins to scream.
  Every day.
  Hours pass. He rises. Sorrow. Desperation. Existence. For him they are triumvirate. On shaking knees he enters the bathroom.
  Needles will make the phone ring.

It's Cold Outside - A Short Story




He would die soon. He was sure of it. He could feel the snow, like a thousand tiny fists, pushing and pulling him to the ground. He had far to travel, and his waning strength convinced him he would not make it to dinner. 

The roaring wind ripping through his hood like hungry wolves numbed his ears; he pulled his heavy coat tighter around him. Nothing existed in the white expanse of the glacier, no shapes, and no people, only white. And the snow. But the snow wasn’t even the worst of it, he could deal with snow. The real problem was the wind. It surged across the snowy plain like some big, cold football team; and he was the only opposition. He could make little progress against a gale like this, and was about ready to give up when he heard something, a call, no, a voice, rising over the scream of the storm. 

“Dinner’s ready, Luke! Come downstairs before it gets cold!” 

What on earth? He wondered. It was a woman’s voice. He knew the voice was calling for him, but his name wasn’t Luke! It was Sir Gary Rockman, world famous explorer! But he was hungry. And he knew that if he didn’t eat soon, he would collapse here in the wastes, a feast for the snow beasts, if they could ever find him under the snow that is. 

Wait. It could be a trap, set by the snow terrors to lure him right to them, where they would gobble him up without a moment’s thought of mercy. A strange part of Sir Rockman couldn’t blame them, he would gobble himself up too, as hungry as he was. Weighing the options, however, he gathered himself and resolved to follow the voice; he would die if he opted not to, he knew.

With renewed vigor, Sir Rockman traversed the barren landscape, slowly but surely making his way to the origin of the voice, toward food, toward life. He would make it for dinner, he felt confident now. Unfortunately, he soon realized that he may have lost his way. Why wouldn’t the woman shout for him again? Desperate, and perhaps a little maddened by the nothingness surrounding him, he shouted for her against the roar of the ripping winds. 
“Stop screaming! Your food’s on the table and its getting cold!” 

She heard him! Oh how the Gods are kind! He knew the way now; he didn’t want his food to get cold. He pressed on. “I’m coming! Don’t worry. I shouldn’t be too much lon-“ His breath caught in his throat as he stepped up to, and almost over, a sheer cliff, dropping down in to a thick fog of snow. He couldn’t fathom as to its depth. He hadn’t the tools necessary to make the descent; they had been eaten by one of the snow beasts several days ago! 

“Your food is getting colder by the second L-“ he could see her, outlined at the bottom of the cliff, and she had seen him too! “Ahh, brave adventurer! Come warm yourself in my kitchen. I have food to share and stories to tell.” Finally! She could see that he was a great explorer and not some Luke. 

The rope! He remembered! Sir Rockman always had an extra rope in his sack. It wasn’t much for scaling cliffs, but it would have to be enough. He tied one end around his waist and fastened another to the bottom of a tall stone at the edge of the cliff. He hoped he had enough rope, and threw his legs over the edge. 

The climb was not all that difficult, there were plenty of handholds to support him on the way down, and Sir Rockman was ever the professional rock climber. He was approaching the bottom when something went horrible awry. Suddenly his rope gave as the stone he had tied it around was ripped from the ground! Sir Rockman plummeted to the base of the cliff, a fall that must have been nothing shy of several stories. 

“Oh my God! Luke, are you all right! Honey, he just rolled down the stairs, help me.” 

Sir Rockman looked around. The good news was he was alive. Barely a scratch on him even! The bad news though is that soon, he would not be near as alive as he was then. A giant shape tore out of the storm, coming right at him! A snow beast! It was all a trap! He was doomed! 

“ROAR! I’m a polar bear! I’m gonna eat you! Your heavy fur coat won’t save you now!”

He rolled to his feet and out of his coat, he had to start running and his coat would only weigh him down. He dashed across the plains, the bear hot on his heels. He wouldn’t escape, he was a goner. 

Luke burst out in laughter as his father wrapped his strong arms around him and lifted him in to the air. “I’m gonna eat you brave explorer! Roar!” his father bellowed as he gobbled up with kisses.  

“It’s Sir Rockman, to you, daddy!” 

“Clark, he broke the banister over here!” Called his mother from the hallway.

“Uh oh! It’s all right I showed him what's what!” he called back before turning back to his child  “And now will the brave adventurer have dinner with us?” 

He was done being Sir Rockman for the day, he was very hungry.
“Yes!” he replied.