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2003-11-04 - 9:25 p.m. Fellow citizens ... What the FUNK? Geezly-crow-Christ-on-a-cracker. I decide to lay my head down for a few moments. I'm tired, after all. I think I've earned a brief respite from filling your gaping heads with the sweet, pearly nectar of my spewing knowledge. I dream strange dreams of gourds with hats and my right eye twitches and I open my eyes and realize that I have become a Star Wars prequel-era battledroid, a clanking thing of pixels in the background of the climactic scene, lockstepping along and talking in short, guttural bursts of communique before being blown to tiny pieces by a Gungan energy catapult. "Roger-roger!" Criminy. "Next time, shoot faster!" ... Right. I think that there may be a very real possibility that I've gone quite mad. I knew I wasn't cut out for work. I always knew it. I never envisioned myself as holding a job. It always sounded so monumentally STUPID. It's a complete mug's game. You've got to come in, hat in hand, and beg for the chance to break your spine down into sawdust and pulp your grey matter into pudding in exchange for a handful of silver and the chance to relax twice a week. Fucking mug's game, that is. When I was a kid, I didn't want a job. I didn't want to be clocked and managed and given performance evaluations and wear a nametag and be part of a team and get a check on Thursday night with those cursed pull-tabs on the sides. No. I wanted to be a cyborg magician ninja kung-fu deathmaster from Hell. I keep checking the want ads, but I've yet to even see a Seeking ... notice, let alone a reasonably-priced training course. Bah. So, it's been a month or so. Let's do what I always do when I realize that this infinitesimally small chunk of the vast quivering web represents 98.6% of my online presence, and let's encapsulate my life in a pithily-worded review for you to chuckle over on your way to do entertaining fulfilling things that will keep your days brimming with delight until I show up at your windowsill one night to carve out your eyes with an ornamental silver Shakespeare letter opener, available in our Gifts department for only $29.99, with a 10% discount for Barnes and Noble members. Yes, we'll see what happens THEN, won't we? Who's laughing NOW, breeder? WHO'S LAUGHING NOW?! ... All right. No one. Fine, I can live with that. It's know not a very GOOD bit of humor, but ... well ... fuck you! Don't you go followin' me! Mon dieu, what a buncha ... Oh. Yes. What I (and Some of the Rest of You Heaving Masses) Have Been Up To: A. Ha-ha-ha. Allow me to gloat in a rhetorical fashion. Clark has died a horrible, humiliating death in Iowa, while Dean has made a run of the state and taken a monstrous bite out of what is generally accepted to be Gephardt's territory. No one who can't take at least one county in Iowa can take the country, and you can bank on that, baby. And you know how it happened? That's right. The people of Iowa all read the scathing editorialization of that befuddled Sgt. Slaughter which I thoughtfully left up here for 35 days, and turned in droves to Doc "Savage" Dean. How do you like THEM cornstalks? B. I'm another fricking year older, and another fragging year wiser, and my toes hurt, and back aches, and my eyes are going, and my blood is thin, and I'm discombobulated, and I find today's youth culture appalling, and New College isn't as wild as it was when I was there, and television used to be character-driven, and homosexuals were more flaming once, and I can't find banana Yoo-Hoo anywhere, and chocolate doesn't taste as good anymore, and I hate all of you except for Blazer, Charspider, Overdrive, Julieclipse, Nootropil, and a few relatives, who got me presents. The rest of you can expect me one night ... in the cool dark ... just after your eyes have drifted shut ... only to snap open again as you hear the distinctive whoomph of a propane torch being ignited at the foot of your bed. Mother-loving bastards. We'll see what kind of presents you get for me when you're SMOKING HEAPS OF CARBON! "Aunt Beru! Uncle Owen!" C. I'm still working for the Man, and working hard for the money. Fortunately, the work is soothing, and the benefits are excellent, and the pay is just barely adequate enough that I don't feel wracked with heaving Catholic guilt when I buy a six-inch BMT at Subway. In fact, Sheddes and Lourdes would be the perfect employers, if only:
Incidentally, don't forget those presents. D. Halloween has also come and gone since last I jandered through these electron passageways, and it was fine and good. It was a real pleasure to get to see people that I haven't laid eyes on in over three months, although it was made slightly wistful by the knowledge that I won't see them again until Graduation PCP. Ah, well. Such are the perils of living so TERRIBLY FAR from campus. Why, I live almost TWICE as far away as, say, the SHELL STATION! I can see why NO ONE WOULD EVER DREAM OF COMING BY! SWINE! MISERABLE, MOTH-EATEN, NUN-BEATING SWINE! Except for KidEternity and Aquarius. They're good eggs, probably laid by half-mad jeweled ducks, and their lives are destined to become pure symphony. Yes, so, that was fun. And there was a spirited shadow cast doing their level best with The Rocky Horror Picture Show. A good enough piece, but with all due respect, I think I really should've gone to see the one on the Quay. I've seen most of these kids doing it before, and I've seen the movie well over a millenium's worth of times, but I've only seen the play once. ONCE! And how often does something like that come to Sarasota? Scheisse!. I'll probably have to end up seeing it in Gainesville again. I didn't end up bothering with the Halloween PCP this year, because, quite frankly, it just didn't feel worth the titanic effort involved in putting on a bunch of buffoonery, liquoring up just enough to make the evening blitz by in a tolerable fashion, and then making a bunch of blathering chatter over a bunch of throbbingly bad music. My costume will keep until some later date, and no one I've talked to had anything spectacular to report. Just another mishigoss. There's plenty of those to go around. Besides, I had broccoli linguine to make. E. I finally got a hold of the latest installation of the Smackdown! series for the PS2. Well worth the protracted anticipation, I'd say. The new grappling system is superb, and the career storylines include some very entertaining angles. Plus, of course, I kick absolute ass at it. If anyone ever feels like they're in need of a humiliating whupping, come on down. If I ever figure out a convenient method of getting screenshots, I'll put up a capture or two of my perennial character in action. The only real disadvantage to the game, that kills it's festive aspect, is that newly-created characters have abysmal stats, and need to wrestle for at least two years to become serviceable. So whenever I make someone into a character, which I do fairly routinely as an artistic exercise and a form of voudoun, I'll need to put a great deal of effort into making them playable. So only people who really earn the Wheel-love will get their visages pasted into my memory card to be forever beaten-down. Junglefreak, baby, you know I love you. Boo-yah. F. For the first time ever, I might spend Christmas somewhere other than my house or a relative's house. I had been planning to go to Missouri to spend the joyous Yule with Julieclipse's lovely clan, but my malicious employers have a fiendish plan for the holidays, to wit: "No taking time off, no vacation days, and no sick days without a real doctor's note. If you don't show up, we'll assume you've quit." They're serious about retaining help for the Christmas season, and if the way they've been battening down the hatches like Texans expecting a visit from Santa Anna is any indication, this should be an interesting ride. I think my family's going to come stay with me, giving me the chance to play the Christmas Host with the Most for the first time in my career. Be sure to drop by if you're in town for the season for cookies! Oh, wait. I forgot. I live in the Gobi Desert, where NO ONE DARES TREAD! Bah! That's all the update you get, fools! This interview is over! Get that damned camera out of my face! *KKZZZZZTTTT!* 
 
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