School is back, the now familier rythms, four years now. Class times, (and also waking times) are scattered throughout the day, leaving my internal clock ruined. It is during the school year that I become truely, physicaly addicted to caffine, If I go half a day without coffee, I will pass out for a time in mid-day no matter how much sleep I had the night before. Caffine is the addiction that will follow me into middle-age. I am domesticated. I'll buy Foldgers if it's on sale, I'm not lying.
Speaking of domesticity, I'll need a day job, a real one, where one has to wake up at the same time every day.
The entire first class being wasted on the sylybis, pointless meet-and greets. Professors who are clearly packing it in and teaching the same class they taught when the Apple-2 first came out. Professors who care deeeply but are a little nuts. Hot braised pork, good shit.
And me, staying motivated as best I can and waiting for the next phase of my life to hurry up.
Dé Céadaoin, Eanáir 17, 2007
Dé Máirt, Eanáir 09, 2007
Happy birthday
He's getting laid more on his 60th birthday than we did/will on our 21st, and you know this.
Dé Domhnaigh, Eanáir 07, 2007
Fun Fact
There is just as much rape in prison as you've heard there is. This may not sound surprising, but when people hear about a bad situation in a government institution, they usually assume that's it's even worse than what they're hearing. This is usually a smart assumption, but not in this case. Prison rape is as bad as you've heard, not worse.
I know a few ex-cons, and they're actually more eager to tell prison rape jokes and otherwise keep prison rape in the public consciousness than other people. Why is this?
Because it distracts people from thinking about how much voluntary gay sex goes on in prison, which I assure you is quite a lot. There are lots of cons who are "only gay in prison" and claim the ability to magically turn their man-lust off when they're on the outside. This is utter nonsense of course, and by the way, the criminal element is no gayer than the general population, so we all need prison rape jokes to keep us from thinking about things we would rather not.
One bad situation in prison that is worse than what you hear is the guard beatings. They are not just isolated incidents. Any prison guard you've may have met has probably beaten a prisoner just for fun. This is not a conspiracy theory, it is not the imaginary beef of difficult criminals and their slick lawyers. Everyone in prison gets beat for no good reason except for the narcs. It is quite simply endemic among the guards. You can go to prison yourself and see that I write the truth. In fact I would even advise you to rob a liquor store just for the educational experience.
I know a few ex-cons, and they're actually more eager to tell prison rape jokes and otherwise keep prison rape in the public consciousness than other people. Why is this?
Because it distracts people from thinking about how much voluntary gay sex goes on in prison, which I assure you is quite a lot. There are lots of cons who are "only gay in prison" and claim the ability to magically turn their man-lust off when they're on the outside. This is utter nonsense of course, and by the way, the criminal element is no gayer than the general population, so we all need prison rape jokes to keep us from thinking about things we would rather not.
One bad situation in prison that is worse than what you hear is the guard beatings. They are not just isolated incidents. Any prison guard you've may have met has probably beaten a prisoner just for fun. This is not a conspiracy theory, it is not the imaginary beef of difficult criminals and their slick lawyers. Everyone in prison gets beat for no good reason except for the narcs. It is quite simply endemic among the guards. You can go to prison yourself and see that I write the truth. In fact I would even advise you to rob a liquor store just for the educational experience.
Dé Sathairn, Eanáir 06, 2007
Quiz
Here's Richie Incognito, batshit offensive lineman for the St. Louis Rams and formerly of the Nebraska Cornhuskers. The question for the day is weather Richie is going to
A. Have sex with all of the women in the background, or
B. Beat them to death.
Correct answer wins a free bottle of Crown Royal.
Everybody dies except you
While driving your car, or engaging in any of the basic activities of life for that matter, always remember this simple fact, everybody dies except you.
Yes, everyone is cursed with being a thinking creature aware of his or her own mortality, except you, you can't die, you're you.
So when driving on the interstate, you can take comfort in the fact that the forces of nature understand perfectly that you just have to get to that meeting, that dinner, or that shopping engagement on time. why should it be otherwise? The universe was created for you after all. The entire interstate highway system was created just so you could be driving on it as fast as you like right now. Your Ford Explorer was mass-produced on an assembly line just so you could be driving the one you're driving right now.
so it goes without saying that you were more than entitled to install the DVD player between the driver and front passenger seats last year, it's not that distracting, you don't even watch it, of course, it's for the kids. (Well, okay, maybe you sneak a peak every now and then,you know, just when traffic is light?) At any rate, so what if it is distracting? Remember, you're you, and these are your kids.
(Your kids probably can't die. They're only hal-you, after all, but that's why you hedged your bets and had six of them, isn't it? as for the wife, soon enough my friend, soon enough.)
The rain, of course, is here to provide you with water for your showers and half-caffinated coffee. The snow? It's there to give you something pretty to look at as you put the baby in cruise control and let your mind drift. Or maybe it's there to give you some story to tell the guys at work or at family gatherings when your military cousin shows up and you need something tough to say besides re-iterating your hatred for queers.
"I tell ya I gotta laugh when they get one or two inches of snow down south and they shut down everything. We can get eighteen inches and everybody still has to go to work, winters tough up here in Nebraska, but we're tough Germans arn't we cous?"
Everybody dies except you, so let your eyes drift to the video, go ahead and drive with half of your submissive hand while eating a burger or smoking a cigarette or drinking your half-caf coffee in the dominant hand
And above all, drive hard, drive hard, pound the gas pedal into it's slot until the engine screams like the orgasmic beast you, I mean your car, is.
Go ahead and drive 85 through the rain, but take it down to the speed limit if you hit snow or ice. Not that it matters to you, of course, but there are other people on the road who arn't you, and they're going to die of something or another someday.
So slide her in easy, nice and easy, easy.
What am I talking about?
Who are these people anyway? Obstructions, nothing more, forcing you to have to turn off and reset the cruise control, take your eyes off of the Blue Collar Comedy tour, put your coffee in the holder.
Who are these people except sticks crowding your interstate? Heading to appointments that arn't yours, jobs that arn't yours, families that arn't yours, movies that arn't yours, music that isn't yours. Taking up your road, your town, your taxes, your gasoline, your schools, your restaurants, your bars, your theatres your world.
So push the pedal down into it's slot. Your Explorer will hold, everyone knows they handle great on ice. everyone else is just going to have to get out of your way. They might slide off the road, but so what. Nobody exists except you, and your universe would be much better off without these obstructions.
Yes, everyone is cursed with being a thinking creature aware of his or her own mortality, except you, you can't die, you're you.
So when driving on the interstate, you can take comfort in the fact that the forces of nature understand perfectly that you just have to get to that meeting, that dinner, or that shopping engagement on time. why should it be otherwise? The universe was created for you after all. The entire interstate highway system was created just so you could be driving on it as fast as you like right now. Your Ford Explorer was mass-produced on an assembly line just so you could be driving the one you're driving right now.
so it goes without saying that you were more than entitled to install the DVD player between the driver and front passenger seats last year, it's not that distracting, you don't even watch it, of course, it's for the kids. (Well, okay, maybe you sneak a peak every now and then,you know, just when traffic is light?) At any rate, so what if it is distracting? Remember, you're you, and these are your kids.
(Your kids probably can't die. They're only hal-you, after all, but that's why you hedged your bets and had six of them, isn't it? as for the wife, soon enough my friend, soon enough.)
The rain, of course, is here to provide you with water for your showers and half-caffinated coffee. The snow? It's there to give you something pretty to look at as you put the baby in cruise control and let your mind drift. Or maybe it's there to give you some story to tell the guys at work or at family gatherings when your military cousin shows up and you need something tough to say besides re-iterating your hatred for queers.
"I tell ya I gotta laugh when they get one or two inches of snow down south and they shut down everything. We can get eighteen inches and everybody still has to go to work, winters tough up here in Nebraska, but we're tough Germans arn't we cous?"
Everybody dies except you, so let your eyes drift to the video, go ahead and drive with half of your submissive hand while eating a burger or smoking a cigarette or drinking your half-caf coffee in the dominant hand
And above all, drive hard, drive hard, pound the gas pedal into it's slot until the engine screams like the orgasmic beast you, I mean your car, is.
Go ahead and drive 85 through the rain, but take it down to the speed limit if you hit snow or ice. Not that it matters to you, of course, but there are other people on the road who arn't you, and they're going to die of something or another someday.
So slide her in easy, nice and easy, easy.
What am I talking about?
Who are these people anyway? Obstructions, nothing more, forcing you to have to turn off and reset the cruise control, take your eyes off of the Blue Collar Comedy tour, put your coffee in the holder.
Who are these people except sticks crowding your interstate? Heading to appointments that arn't yours, jobs that arn't yours, families that arn't yours, movies that arn't yours, music that isn't yours. Taking up your road, your town, your taxes, your gasoline, your schools, your restaurants, your bars, your theatres your world.
So push the pedal down into it's slot. Your Explorer will hold, everyone knows they handle great on ice. everyone else is just going to have to get out of your way. They might slide off the road, but so what. Nobody exists except you, and your universe would be much better off without these obstructions.
Déardaoin, Eanáir 04, 2007
Hello Mr. Beran
We hope you enjoy your trip on Amtrak today, gee, it must be nice going someplace warm this time of year, gonna snow bird it are ya? I have a grandmother living in a nursing home in Pheonix and she says it's just beautiful, no weather at all. I'll just need to see your I.D. before I let you board.
"No problem"
Alright than, and your social security number?
xxxxxx
Very good sir, and could you confirm the date of birth, just to make sure?
4/4/81
I'm afraid that just doesn't sound right.
"It's right there on my drivers license"
I know what it says on your driver's license, Mr. Beran, it's just seems a little too, cute, you know.
"What's 'cute' about it?"
I don't know, the way the number of the month and the day matches up, just seems funny.
"Are you kidding?"
Don't get smart with me Mr. Beran. You'll see how much I'm kidding when I throw you off this train and call the police.
"What the hell? I'm just as likely to be born on April 4th, or June 6th, or December 12th, as on any other date"
It doesn't seem likely
"Why not, somebody is born every day, and this was the day I was born on"
Well I've never met anyone who had a birthday where the month and date matched up and I've never seen any passangers on the train with that sort of birthday. I'm afraid you'll have to come with me.
"You can't be serious" There are thousands of people who board this train every year.
Yes and I remember them all.
"No you don't"
Excuse me sir. 'Security to car 26, security to car 26 we have a hostile situation.
"Are you out of your fucking mind?"
If you talk to me in that tone of voice Mr. Beran we will have to assume that you have some violent intent. We at Amtrak are fully aware of how important we are to American comerce and culture and we know it's only a matter of time before somebody tries to attack us. Now I'm not accusing you of anything but you are clearly dishonest and unstable. We have to take precautions.
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus
It's against federal law to use that name in vain Mr. Beran
"Look, just listen to me for a minute. There is nothing biological about calended dates. They are a totally human invention. A day where the date matches up with the month is just like any other day. there is nothing on heaven or earth to prevent me, you, or anybody else from being born on such a day."
Until now, sir, I only had a faint idea about just how profoundly your madness has affected you. You are without question a threat to yourself and others, a varitable walking time bomb. a padded cell and soup out of a metal bowl is the only hope for you, nothing but alphebet soup for the rest of your days; otherwise you're bound to hang yourself with Chicken Noodle. Here comes the guard now, I bid you good day sir, let's see if Allah can get you out of this.
Get on the floor now!
"But I didn't do anything"
Shut the fuck up and get on the floor before I tase you through your scrotum
"What the hell is wrong with you people?"
What is your major malfunction? I own you sugertits!
"No problem"
Alright than, and your social security number?
xxxxxx
Very good sir, and could you confirm the date of birth, just to make sure?
4/4/81
I'm afraid that just doesn't sound right.
"It's right there on my drivers license"
I know what it says on your driver's license, Mr. Beran, it's just seems a little too, cute, you know.
"What's 'cute' about it?"
I don't know, the way the number of the month and the day matches up, just seems funny.
"Are you kidding?"
Don't get smart with me Mr. Beran. You'll see how much I'm kidding when I throw you off this train and call the police.
"What the hell? I'm just as likely to be born on April 4th, or June 6th, or December 12th, as on any other date"
It doesn't seem likely
"Why not, somebody is born every day, and this was the day I was born on"
Well I've never met anyone who had a birthday where the month and date matched up and I've never seen any passangers on the train with that sort of birthday. I'm afraid you'll have to come with me.
"You can't be serious" There are thousands of people who board this train every year.
Yes and I remember them all.
"No you don't"
Excuse me sir. 'Security to car 26, security to car 26 we have a hostile situation.
"Are you out of your fucking mind?"
If you talk to me in that tone of voice Mr. Beran we will have to assume that you have some violent intent. We at Amtrak are fully aware of how important we are to American comerce and culture and we know it's only a matter of time before somebody tries to attack us. Now I'm not accusing you of anything but you are clearly dishonest and unstable. We have to take precautions.
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus
It's against federal law to use that name in vain Mr. Beran
"Look, just listen to me for a minute. There is nothing biological about calended dates. They are a totally human invention. A day where the date matches up with the month is just like any other day. there is nothing on heaven or earth to prevent me, you, or anybody else from being born on such a day."
Until now, sir, I only had a faint idea about just how profoundly your madness has affected you. You are without question a threat to yourself and others, a varitable walking time bomb. a padded cell and soup out of a metal bowl is the only hope for you, nothing but alphebet soup for the rest of your days; otherwise you're bound to hang yourself with Chicken Noodle. Here comes the guard now, I bid you good day sir, let's see if Allah can get you out of this.
Get on the floor now!
"But I didn't do anything"
Shut the fuck up and get on the floor before I tase you through your scrotum
"What the hell is wrong with you people?"
What is your major malfunction? I own you sugertits!
Dé Céadaoin, Eanáir 03, 2007
So they hanged Saddam Hussein
At last the world is free form the next Hitler. Place your bets on who the next Hitler after him will be. Ahama.. from Iran? Kim Jong Ill? Hugo Chavez? All of the above?
What an interesting world it must be to those who imagine every antagonist to America to be "the next Hitler." If every foreign bogeyman is Hitler, than there's only one course of action to deal with all of them, isn't there?
Oh God yes.
No negotiations, no games, no patience, just the thrust and the explosion.
Hussain always was a pretty shitty Hitler, especially in the last fifteen years. He was only a serious contender for the title when we were supplying him, but you already knew that. It has been a good three or four years since Hussein has had any real influence on other people's lives. He wasn't running the insurgency after all. His capture didn't set us on the course to whatever victory means. Neither did those cute little elections.
But maybe the death of a 70-year old man who always expected this sort of end for himself will be just the thing to set all the bad guys straight. Or maybe it will be the big surge in troops. It's not as if the bad guys can go on forever, they're just fighting on their native soil with nothing in particular to live for, after all.
Than again, there was a time when saddam Hussein mattered. So his death is a legitimate occasion. You can even call it a milestone if you like.
And if you must call it a milestone, if the death of Hussein fills you with sincere glee, maybe even a sense of personal accomplishment, good for you, you're an asshole.
The sort of asshole who believes in "victory" as a moral end unto itself. The sort of asshole who feels sincere moral outrage when his (oh yes, his) favorite college football team fails to bring him satisfaction.
The sort of asshole who is deeply and irrevecably attached to the traditional masculine ideal, that man exist to form large flocks and protect them, and clings to this ideal in lieu of actually accomplishing something.
This ideal requires several things, worshipful children, thousands of dollars worth of automobiles, back yards, electronic do-dads, grand sporting events that allow assholes the opportunity to admire the masculinity of other men (In a completely non-sexual way, of course) and submissive women.
Most of all though, this ideal requires a constant supply of enemies, becuase a man cannot fullfill his duty without something to protect his herd against.
Internal enemies are quite popular these days; liberals, lawyers, uppity celebrities, college profesors, any city-dweller with the audacity to claim moral equality (lot's of brown people live in a city, not quite a coincidence.) homosexuals, "feminazis" ohhh, especially them, Hillary Clinton, that bitch.
For the more radical assholes, there's the police and fire departments, doctors, social security, OSHA,etc., any state entity that suggests that the protecters need protection.
Then there is the oldest and most effective sort of enemy, the monster from outside. The foreign invader who threatens to infiltrate the herd and pollute the gene pool. (There are those who honestly believe that ileagal immigrants are solely responsible for the recent increase in crime, most especially sexual assults. Those of us living in the rural Midwest have no need to wonder what life was like in 1890 Mississipi. The lynchings are coming, do not doubt this.)
This sort of enemy is especially useful to those in power. The outside monster, you see, can only be defeated through total obedience to the alpha male.
Those who fail to submit to power are always held suspect, of course. Failure to yield to the top cock implies disrespect for them all. But to disrespect those who, by establishing and conveinently fullfilling society's standards of "success" have symbolicly lengthened their own cocks, is simply unacceptible when the outside monster lurks.
This is a battle for the top dogs. We can rightfully do nothing except stand back and watch the alpha male fight off the intruder, anyone who tries to interfere will get his tail bit off.
The outside monster fears our discipline, fears the way we line up straight behind the head penis. To doubt this is to reject your own penis.
Read Free Republic or some other Right-Wing Forum. I assure you that nearly all of the opinions dealing with Iraq, "The War on Terror" Immigration, the economy, everything, will describe these issues in precisely these terms, many will be just as blunt about it as I have been. Just remember that these are the words of cowards. Cowards who turn to a wholly imaginary "natural law" because they are unwilling to accept that there is no such thing as human nature. cowards who embrace the non-existant maxim "survival of the fittest" in order to shirk their duty to create themselves and invent their own truth. Cowards who would rather burn the whole world down than embrace the most frightening concept of all, freedom.
What an interesting world it must be to those who imagine every antagonist to America to be "the next Hitler." If every foreign bogeyman is Hitler, than there's only one course of action to deal with all of them, isn't there?
Oh God yes.
No negotiations, no games, no patience, just the thrust and the explosion.
Hussain always was a pretty shitty Hitler, especially in the last fifteen years. He was only a serious contender for the title when we were supplying him, but you already knew that. It has been a good three or four years since Hussein has had any real influence on other people's lives. He wasn't running the insurgency after all. His capture didn't set us on the course to whatever victory means. Neither did those cute little elections.
But maybe the death of a 70-year old man who always expected this sort of end for himself will be just the thing to set all the bad guys straight. Or maybe it will be the big surge in troops. It's not as if the bad guys can go on forever, they're just fighting on their native soil with nothing in particular to live for, after all.
Than again, there was a time when saddam Hussein mattered. So his death is a legitimate occasion. You can even call it a milestone if you like.
And if you must call it a milestone, if the death of Hussein fills you with sincere glee, maybe even a sense of personal accomplishment, good for you, you're an asshole.
The sort of asshole who believes in "victory" as a moral end unto itself. The sort of asshole who feels sincere moral outrage when his (oh yes, his) favorite college football team fails to bring him satisfaction.
The sort of asshole who is deeply and irrevecably attached to the traditional masculine ideal, that man exist to form large flocks and protect them, and clings to this ideal in lieu of actually accomplishing something.
This ideal requires several things, worshipful children, thousands of dollars worth of automobiles, back yards, electronic do-dads, grand sporting events that allow assholes the opportunity to admire the masculinity of other men (In a completely non-sexual way, of course) and submissive women.
Most of all though, this ideal requires a constant supply of enemies, becuase a man cannot fullfill his duty without something to protect his herd against.
Internal enemies are quite popular these days; liberals, lawyers, uppity celebrities, college profesors, any city-dweller with the audacity to claim moral equality (lot's of brown people live in a city, not quite a coincidence.) homosexuals, "feminazis" ohhh, especially them, Hillary Clinton, that bitch.
For the more radical assholes, there's the police and fire departments, doctors, social security, OSHA,etc., any state entity that suggests that the protecters need protection.
Then there is the oldest and most effective sort of enemy, the monster from outside. The foreign invader who threatens to infiltrate the herd and pollute the gene pool. (There are those who honestly believe that ileagal immigrants are solely responsible for the recent increase in crime, most especially sexual assults. Those of us living in the rural Midwest have no need to wonder what life was like in 1890 Mississipi. The lynchings are coming, do not doubt this.)
This sort of enemy is especially useful to those in power. The outside monster, you see, can only be defeated through total obedience to the alpha male.
Those who fail to submit to power are always held suspect, of course. Failure to yield to the top cock implies disrespect for them all. But to disrespect those who, by establishing and conveinently fullfilling society's standards of "success" have symbolicly lengthened their own cocks, is simply unacceptible when the outside monster lurks.
This is a battle for the top dogs. We can rightfully do nothing except stand back and watch the alpha male fight off the intruder, anyone who tries to interfere will get his tail bit off.
The outside monster fears our discipline, fears the way we line up straight behind the head penis. To doubt this is to reject your own penis.
Read Free Republic or some other Right-Wing Forum. I assure you that nearly all of the opinions dealing with Iraq, "The War on Terror" Immigration, the economy, everything, will describe these issues in precisely these terms, many will be just as blunt about it as I have been. Just remember that these are the words of cowards. Cowards who turn to a wholly imaginary "natural law" because they are unwilling to accept that there is no such thing as human nature. cowards who embrace the non-existant maxim "survival of the fittest" in order to shirk their duty to create themselves and invent their own truth. Cowards who would rather burn the whole world down than embrace the most frightening concept of all, freedom.
Dé Máirt, Eanáir 02, 2007
I have decided to clone myself
I've decided to clone myself. The technology is already here, has been for a long time. Cloning a human being is just is easy as cloning a cow. The only reason they haven't, who says they haven't?
I'm fully aware of the controversy surrounding cloning, and it's not that I don't think cloning is wrong, not at all. Cloning is wrong, very, devient. It's just that cloning isn't as wrong as I am important.
Nebraska's own Unicameral seems likely to forbid the university engaging-in stem cell research, that's how much people fear the devience of cloning. One can only hope that Ernie Chambers can be motivated to do his voodoo on an issue not related to race or class in order to kill the idea. Because this is something the university badly needs to be involved in, we're a serious institution you know. Are we going nothing but a nursery school for the rich and a platform for deluded would-be politicians? Or are we going to be a nursery school for the rich and platform for would-be politicians that also helps the extend the average-life span?
An outsider may see the American right-wings opposition to stem-cell research and conclude that we are anti-science. This may be true, but only indirectly so.
What we are is demi-Gods, most of us anyways. The liberal media makes a hue and a cry about "diversity" but everybody knows that 97% of the country is made up of white middle-class Christians.
As Demi-Gods, we shouldn't have to try to understand anything; certainly not "science" or "facts". Schools serve no purpose beyond indoctrinating our children with the sense of their own divinity. This simply takes up to much time to leave any room for "book smarts."
It really is quite simple. There are those things that are easily understood and validate our sense of Demi-Godness. Anything that we have to try to understand must be evil. the real God is white and middle-class just like us, after all, so if we can't understand it, than God doesn't abide it.
A human zygote is "human tissue" It's "human life". That's simple, that's clear, that's meant. Should we measure humanity by the ability to think and feel? Nonsense! Anything that requires more than two steps of logic is of the devil. The truth has already been given to us. why should we busy ourselves looking for it? We are Americans.
And we Americans are not against science. We simply know that what we don't know isn't meant to be known.
So why than have I chosen to clone myself? Well, I think it's because I have matured to the point where I have accepted my own mortality. If I can't live forever, than the least I can do is to pass my genes on to another who will carry memories of me, perhaps even inherit my personality and mannerisms.
This is a desire as old as life, of course. Most people satisfy it by having children. How weak. Why should I pass on only half of myself and see my heratage diluted with each passing generation? I'm me, you understand, and the world must have the total me, one copy at a time, forever, and not a half-me polluted by female chromosomes.
I feel a new pulse within me. My decision has inspired me to grow, to acheive, to gain. Never before has wealth held much appeal for me. I'm a man of simple tastes. My only indulgences are are expensive liquor and cheap prostitutes. I don't require a lot of money to live happily.
But I do need quite a hell of a lot of money to die happily. I've figured that I'll need at least a hundred million, and that's just for a budget job. If I don't want a down-syndrome Josh or a hermaphidite Josh, I'll need to double that.
So I'll need a high paying job. Reporter, professor, lawyer? No, I'm afraid that nothing "above-board" will do. I'm only a demi-God, after all, mortal just like you, ad I do not know the day or the hour, could be any time.
So I'll need to raise two hundred million quickly, like in the next five years. Something like taking over a cartel, weapons dealing, cornering the rice market in a fourth-world country, have a torrid love affair with a major poltician and than blackmail him/her. (Note to self, this won't work in Europe)
Rest assured, I will get the money, it's only a matter of how many peasents have to be destroyed before I do.
So any healthy Teutonic woman between 18-30 interested in being the vessel for my new self should contact me. There's no need to get romantically involved, in fact it would be better if we didn't. Otherwise we could never really be sure could we? In fact it would be best if we never met at all, as I am quite irrisitible.
Do realize that you will be subjected to some rather, intimate tests if you so any sign that you are unable to keep your mouth shut, than, you do understand yes?
If you can keep your mouth shut, than you will of course be paid handsomely. But honestly, I don't want a woman carrying me if she's just in it for the money. This is your chance to be the new Madonna, a superior, technologically advanced Madonna. doesn't that mean so much more than money?
Of cpurse, Mary wasn't a real "mother". Her mortal genes did not the divinity of Christ. She was just a vessel, as shall you be. In order to protect my new self from the diseases and vulnerabilities of infancy, I've decided that my clone shouldn't be born until he is three years old. This will leave you quite infertile for the rest of your life, of course, and I cannot gurantee your own survival. I can only promise you the money and something like immortality, nothing like the real immortality I've planned for myself, of course, but understand that you are a woman and shall go the way of all the vaginite demons. You can do nothing meaningful except to contribute to the glory of a man, and doesn't this sound so mush better than getting married and cooking porridge for fifty years?
I'm fully aware of the controversy surrounding cloning, and it's not that I don't think cloning is wrong, not at all. Cloning is wrong, very, devient. It's just that cloning isn't as wrong as I am important.
Nebraska's own Unicameral seems likely to forbid the university engaging-in stem cell research, that's how much people fear the devience of cloning. One can only hope that Ernie Chambers can be motivated to do his voodoo on an issue not related to race or class in order to kill the idea. Because this is something the university badly needs to be involved in, we're a serious institution you know. Are we going nothing but a nursery school for the rich and a platform for deluded would-be politicians? Or are we going to be a nursery school for the rich and platform for would-be politicians that also helps the extend the average-life span?
An outsider may see the American right-wings opposition to stem-cell research and conclude that we are anti-science. This may be true, but only indirectly so.
What we are is demi-Gods, most of us anyways. The liberal media makes a hue and a cry about "diversity" but everybody knows that 97% of the country is made up of white middle-class Christians.
As Demi-Gods, we shouldn't have to try to understand anything; certainly not "science" or "facts". Schools serve no purpose beyond indoctrinating our children with the sense of their own divinity. This simply takes up to much time to leave any room for "book smarts."
It really is quite simple. There are those things that are easily understood and validate our sense of Demi-Godness. Anything that we have to try to understand must be evil. the real God is white and middle-class just like us, after all, so if we can't understand it, than God doesn't abide it.
A human zygote is "human tissue" It's "human life". That's simple, that's clear, that's meant. Should we measure humanity by the ability to think and feel? Nonsense! Anything that requires more than two steps of logic is of the devil. The truth has already been given to us. why should we busy ourselves looking for it? We are Americans.
And we Americans are not against science. We simply know that what we don't know isn't meant to be known.
So why than have I chosen to clone myself? Well, I think it's because I have matured to the point where I have accepted my own mortality. If I can't live forever, than the least I can do is to pass my genes on to another who will carry memories of me, perhaps even inherit my personality and mannerisms.
This is a desire as old as life, of course. Most people satisfy it by having children. How weak. Why should I pass on only half of myself and see my heratage diluted with each passing generation? I'm me, you understand, and the world must have the total me, one copy at a time, forever, and not a half-me polluted by female chromosomes.
I feel a new pulse within me. My decision has inspired me to grow, to acheive, to gain. Never before has wealth held much appeal for me. I'm a man of simple tastes. My only indulgences are are expensive liquor and cheap prostitutes. I don't require a lot of money to live happily.
But I do need quite a hell of a lot of money to die happily. I've figured that I'll need at least a hundred million, and that's just for a budget job. If I don't want a down-syndrome Josh or a hermaphidite Josh, I'll need to double that.
So I'll need a high paying job. Reporter, professor, lawyer? No, I'm afraid that nothing "above-board" will do. I'm only a demi-God, after all, mortal just like you, ad I do not know the day or the hour, could be any time.
So I'll need to raise two hundred million quickly, like in the next five years. Something like taking over a cartel, weapons dealing, cornering the rice market in a fourth-world country, have a torrid love affair with a major poltician and than blackmail him/her. (Note to self, this won't work in Europe)
Rest assured, I will get the money, it's only a matter of how many peasents have to be destroyed before I do.
So any healthy Teutonic woman between 18-30 interested in being the vessel for my new self should contact me. There's no need to get romantically involved, in fact it would be better if we didn't. Otherwise we could never really be sure could we? In fact it would be best if we never met at all, as I am quite irrisitible.
Do realize that you will be subjected to some rather, intimate tests if you so any sign that you are unable to keep your mouth shut, than, you do understand yes?
If you can keep your mouth shut, than you will of course be paid handsomely. But honestly, I don't want a woman carrying me if she's just in it for the money. This is your chance to be the new Madonna, a superior, technologically advanced Madonna. doesn't that mean so much more than money?
Of cpurse, Mary wasn't a real "mother". Her mortal genes did not the divinity of Christ. She was just a vessel, as shall you be. In order to protect my new self from the diseases and vulnerabilities of infancy, I've decided that my clone shouldn't be born until he is three years old. This will leave you quite infertile for the rest of your life, of course, and I cannot gurantee your own survival. I can only promise you the money and something like immortality, nothing like the real immortality I've planned for myself, of course, but understand that you are a woman and shall go the way of all the vaginite demons. You can do nothing meaningful except to contribute to the glory of a man, and doesn't this sound so mush better than getting married and cooking porridge for fifty years?
Déardaoin, Nollaig 28, 2006
A heartwarming holiday story for you
My sister Wendy brought her cats with her when she came home for Christmas last Friday. She origionally said that she wouldn't, they didn't like long car rides she said, and it turns out that she shouldn't have.
She lives with two cats at her Omaha apartment, a four-year-old male named Freddie and a two-year-old female named Arial. Sometimes she loads them up in little pet-transports and brings them to North Platte for the holidays, sometimes not. This year she decided at the last minute to bring them.
One reason she was weary to bring them, unstated out of politeness, is my parents dogs, Trucker and Taz. They're not that big, but they are very hyperactive and abusive towards cats.
So my sister comes home, lets the cats out of their little plastic igloos and heads back out to her car to get the rrest of her stuff. The dogs spent a few minutes circling the cats like sharks before Arial finally lost her cool and bolted. With Taz chasing her She ran through the house through the pet door into the garage, through the garage to the back door, into the backyard, over the fence and out into the night in a total of five seconds.
Nobody was worried at first. This was a house cat, after all, she wouldn't run far. So we all put on our coats, grabbed some flashlights and confidently strode out into the alley. Sure enough, we found Arial in about five minutes, hiding in a wood pile about about a block down the alley from our front yard. My sister reached out for her, but the cat was still agitated, and zipped out of sight just as quickly as she had ran out of the house.
We spent another hour or two searching the junk piles scattered about the block. (There is at least one junk pile for every average-size family in North Platte.) But we got too cold, and at any rate I had drinking to do. So Arial was left to fend for herself in the winter cold.
Now Wendy is something of a misinthrope (She's a smart woman, after all) and her cats are just about the only company she has. (Well okay, maybe that's not so smart.) She was rather distraught, proclaiming her failure in life and her failure as a person, so dramatic. I treated her the same way I treat every woman in distress. I ignored her and than started laughing at her as soon as she was out of view.
Things seemed bleak for Arial. She was a housecat, who never stepped outside of her West Omaha apartment. There was a major street about a block north of our house, where cars whiz by at fourty m.p.h., and Arial of course knew nothing of traffic. She didn't have the slightest idea of how to catch a mouse or a squiral to feed herself, and though the weather wasn't quite cold enough to freeze a furry mammal, there was no telling when it would snow again. The cat was as good as dead, any reasonible person could see this.
Wendy made up some flyers and put them up around the neighborhood. My parents computer is very old (There's no gurantee that I'll finish this before it freezes) so she couldn't download any pictures of Arial on to the posters. She just had to describe the what she looked like, black on top, white on bottom, much like Pepi Le'Pues rape victim.
Over the next couple of days, several people called us at three or four in the morning to say that they had seen a cat matching Arial's description about ten blocks west of our house. I don't know why all the calls came at this time of night, North Platte has no night life to speak of. It was up to me of course to take the calls and field the messages, and remembering what to tell my sister what I had heard while high on opium was rather difficult.
So on Christmas Eve the whole family went out to this part of town to put up more flyers and see if we could spot the cat. After a few minutes of wondering around we did see a black cat dart across the street about half a block ahead of us. We raced foward to the spot and found the cat hiding under somebody's truck. Wendy got out, leaned under the truck, and called out sweetly to her beloved. Her beloved responded by zipping out and running a block up the street before hiding under another truck.
We drove up to this truck, my sister got out and... same thing. This went on for an hour or so. Come to think of it, this cat didn't seem very thin, didn't seem very scared, except of us, seemed to be rather indifferent to it's own filthiness. In other words, it didn't look or act anything like a lost housecat.
We eventually gave up. My mom urged everyone to think positive, as she often does. "That was Arial and she's just skittish after being outside for a few days, and look at how well she's taking care of herself."
Don't be an idiot mom. It was obvious that we spent the last hour harrasing a stray cat fo no reason. We were cold, there was melted snow in our shoes, Arial had probably been dead for two days, and the people calling us at three in the morning were meth-addled morons.
I actually wish that was the end of the story. Because the actual end, while happy, is rather boring.
Arial came back on Wendsday, simply walked back the same way she ran out and mewed for food. She was, of course, nothing but fur and ribs, but alive and in one piece. Some might call it a Christmas miracle. You know, the same people who say that God gives kids cancer just to show that he can cure it if he wants to, or not.
So we gave her a bowl of food and a bowl of water and locked her up in a spare room away from the dogs. My sister had returned to Omaha some six hours earlier (take that miracle pimps) so it's up to me to take Arial back home to the filthy east. We've put some air holes into a vodka box for the trip. Arial won't be able to see a thing and she'll get tossed around a bit. That's what she gets for running away.
Last night, she wanted to come out of her fortress of solitude after the dogs had gone to bed with my parents. So I put the cover over the pet door and let her out. A couple hours later, I heard a lot of floor-scuffing and mewing coming from the kitchen.
I went out and found Arial bashing herself against the covers trying to free herself from a glue mousetrap. The trap had two very dead victims on it and apparantly the cat thought it would be a good idea to give herself the plague.
I had never been trained to remove a glue trap from a cat. So I was in a bit of a panic. I grabbed a bottle of rum from the cupboard, thinking that the alcohol might thin the glue. Then I realized that this was moronic. I calmed down and took a look at where Arials feet were stuck. One foot was attached by just a toe, the other had the fur pressed in the glue, but the skin was free. A pair of scissors and a steady eye would be enough to free her.
So I found a pair of scissors and held the cat over the sink. She had never stopped thrashing. If she didn't stop moving, I might accidentaly cut a foot off. If she scratched me again, I would do it on purpose.
Ten minutes, snip, snip, stop thrashing damn you, snip, snip, Left foot not as dainty as before, snip, snip, oh Christ I touched the mouse and it's liquifying.
The cat was free, I put i on the ground to panickly run around in circles, her usual reaction to trouble. I doused my hands in rum and spent the next ten minutes washing them with soap and water to get the dead mouse off. Tomarrow I'm bringing Arial home to Omaha in her vodka-box jail and that will be the end of the family Christmas season, and I hope that you and your family had a heart-warming Christmas and that you get laid on New Year's.
See you in 2007.
She lives with two cats at her Omaha apartment, a four-year-old male named Freddie and a two-year-old female named Arial. Sometimes she loads them up in little pet-transports and brings them to North Platte for the holidays, sometimes not. This year she decided at the last minute to bring them.
One reason she was weary to bring them, unstated out of politeness, is my parents dogs, Trucker and Taz. They're not that big, but they are very hyperactive and abusive towards cats.
So my sister comes home, lets the cats out of their little plastic igloos and heads back out to her car to get the rrest of her stuff. The dogs spent a few minutes circling the cats like sharks before Arial finally lost her cool and bolted. With Taz chasing her She ran through the house through the pet door into the garage, through the garage to the back door, into the backyard, over the fence and out into the night in a total of five seconds.
Nobody was worried at first. This was a house cat, after all, she wouldn't run far. So we all put on our coats, grabbed some flashlights and confidently strode out into the alley. Sure enough, we found Arial in about five minutes, hiding in a wood pile about about a block down the alley from our front yard. My sister reached out for her, but the cat was still agitated, and zipped out of sight just as quickly as she had ran out of the house.
We spent another hour or two searching the junk piles scattered about the block. (There is at least one junk pile for every average-size family in North Platte.) But we got too cold, and at any rate I had drinking to do. So Arial was left to fend for herself in the winter cold.
Now Wendy is something of a misinthrope (She's a smart woman, after all) and her cats are just about the only company she has. (Well okay, maybe that's not so smart.) She was rather distraught, proclaiming her failure in life and her failure as a person, so dramatic. I treated her the same way I treat every woman in distress. I ignored her and than started laughing at her as soon as she was out of view.
Things seemed bleak for Arial. She was a housecat, who never stepped outside of her West Omaha apartment. There was a major street about a block north of our house, where cars whiz by at fourty m.p.h., and Arial of course knew nothing of traffic. She didn't have the slightest idea of how to catch a mouse or a squiral to feed herself, and though the weather wasn't quite cold enough to freeze a furry mammal, there was no telling when it would snow again. The cat was as good as dead, any reasonible person could see this.
Wendy made up some flyers and put them up around the neighborhood. My parents computer is very old (There's no gurantee that I'll finish this before it freezes) so she couldn't download any pictures of Arial on to the posters. She just had to describe the what she looked like, black on top, white on bottom, much like Pepi Le'Pues rape victim.
Over the next couple of days, several people called us at three or four in the morning to say that they had seen a cat matching Arial's description about ten blocks west of our house. I don't know why all the calls came at this time of night, North Platte has no night life to speak of. It was up to me of course to take the calls and field the messages, and remembering what to tell my sister what I had heard while high on opium was rather difficult.
So on Christmas Eve the whole family went out to this part of town to put up more flyers and see if we could spot the cat. After a few minutes of wondering around we did see a black cat dart across the street about half a block ahead of us. We raced foward to the spot and found the cat hiding under somebody's truck. Wendy got out, leaned under the truck, and called out sweetly to her beloved. Her beloved responded by zipping out and running a block up the street before hiding under another truck.
We drove up to this truck, my sister got out and... same thing. This went on for an hour or so. Come to think of it, this cat didn't seem very thin, didn't seem very scared, except of us, seemed to be rather indifferent to it's own filthiness. In other words, it didn't look or act anything like a lost housecat.
We eventually gave up. My mom urged everyone to think positive, as she often does. "That was Arial and she's just skittish after being outside for a few days, and look at how well she's taking care of herself."
Don't be an idiot mom. It was obvious that we spent the last hour harrasing a stray cat fo no reason. We were cold, there was melted snow in our shoes, Arial had probably been dead for two days, and the people calling us at three in the morning were meth-addled morons.
I actually wish that was the end of the story. Because the actual end, while happy, is rather boring.
Arial came back on Wendsday, simply walked back the same way she ran out and mewed for food. She was, of course, nothing but fur and ribs, but alive and in one piece. Some might call it a Christmas miracle. You know, the same people who say that God gives kids cancer just to show that he can cure it if he wants to, or not.
So we gave her a bowl of food and a bowl of water and locked her up in a spare room away from the dogs. My sister had returned to Omaha some six hours earlier (take that miracle pimps) so it's up to me to take Arial back home to the filthy east. We've put some air holes into a vodka box for the trip. Arial won't be able to see a thing and she'll get tossed around a bit. That's what she gets for running away.
Last night, she wanted to come out of her fortress of solitude after the dogs had gone to bed with my parents. So I put the cover over the pet door and let her out. A couple hours later, I heard a lot of floor-scuffing and mewing coming from the kitchen.
I went out and found Arial bashing herself against the covers trying to free herself from a glue mousetrap. The trap had two very dead victims on it and apparantly the cat thought it would be a good idea to give herself the plague.
I had never been trained to remove a glue trap from a cat. So I was in a bit of a panic. I grabbed a bottle of rum from the cupboard, thinking that the alcohol might thin the glue. Then I realized that this was moronic. I calmed down and took a look at where Arials feet were stuck. One foot was attached by just a toe, the other had the fur pressed in the glue, but the skin was free. A pair of scissors and a steady eye would be enough to free her.
So I found a pair of scissors and held the cat over the sink. She had never stopped thrashing. If she didn't stop moving, I might accidentaly cut a foot off. If she scratched me again, I would do it on purpose.
Ten minutes, snip, snip, stop thrashing damn you, snip, snip, Left foot not as dainty as before, snip, snip, oh Christ I touched the mouse and it's liquifying.
The cat was free, I put i on the ground to panickly run around in circles, her usual reaction to trouble. I doused my hands in rum and spent the next ten minutes washing them with soap and water to get the dead mouse off. Tomarrow I'm bringing Arial home to Omaha in her vodka-box jail and that will be the end of the family Christmas season, and I hope that you and your family had a heart-warming Christmas and that you get laid on New Year's.
See you in 2007.
Dé hAoine, Nollaig 22, 2006
Merry Christmas
Mom! Dad! How ya doing? How are the dogs? Great!
Hi Grandma! You're looking great! Hi Grandpa, how did the surgery go? You'll know in three weeks? That's, interesting.
Cous! How are the kids? You still working for that one place? Oh, you've changed jobs three times since then you say. You mean since Thanksgiving? Oh, you were unemployed on Thanksgiving, I see.
Can I give aunt Beth a ride home? But of course! And her own daughter? She has a final to study for, I see. Yeah, community college is killer. I wasn't being sarcastic. I never said NU was Harvard, stop putting words in my mouth cous, it's family together time.
You like Jessica Simpson better than Britney Spears? That's great Dad. What do I think? I don't have a TV you know. I wasn't terribly attracted to images on a screen even when I did watch TV. Are you trying to relate with me Dad? I mean you're asking me as if it's self-evident that I have an opinion in the great Simpson-Spears debate.
Do I think Terell Owens is a bad influence on your nephews? What a profoundly strange question. You learned values when you played ball, you say; and what values were those? That obedience is manly? That if you're a good boy and do what your told you can shower with other men without shame?
No, a communist professor did not teach me that. No, I never said that NU was Harvard. I don't think I'm better than my family. No, you don' emberass me. No, I haven't forgot where I came from, believe me.
No, ma, I don't have a girlfriend. I did have sex with some random hotel waitress about a month ago. she was real, oh never mind. When can you expect grandchildren? Well, right now of course. You can expect Bill Shakespere to walk in here and shit a golden hedgehog if you like.
Why, you ask? Well the truth is ma, I've never felt anything but lust and general good will toward women. Even when I had girlfriends, they really didn't effect my emotions to much. I mean, I didn't feel bad when they felt bad, you know. Actually, if they wanted to talk to me about it, I broke up with them. I'm a cold-blooded bastard ma, and I like it. It's the only thing that gives me pleasure in life.
But this is family together time, let us not speak of unpleasent things. I feel the,love around me. But you know what I really feel is the sense of, I don't know, tradition. I look over there and see that cous still has that damn rat tail he had when he was sixteen years old. How much longer to 30 bruh, ouch! I see people arguing about things that happened fifteen years ago, and it really warms my heart, to know that whenever I'm in trouble, I can always come back to a place where nothing ever, ever, changes.
Now pass the fucking scotch.
Hi Grandma! You're looking great! Hi Grandpa, how did the surgery go? You'll know in three weeks? That's, interesting.
Cous! How are the kids? You still working for that one place? Oh, you've changed jobs three times since then you say. You mean since Thanksgiving? Oh, you were unemployed on Thanksgiving, I see.
Can I give aunt Beth a ride home? But of course! And her own daughter? She has a final to study for, I see. Yeah, community college is killer. I wasn't being sarcastic. I never said NU was Harvard, stop putting words in my mouth cous, it's family together time.
You like Jessica Simpson better than Britney Spears? That's great Dad. What do I think? I don't have a TV you know. I wasn't terribly attracted to images on a screen even when I did watch TV. Are you trying to relate with me Dad? I mean you're asking me as if it's self-evident that I have an opinion in the great Simpson-Spears debate.
Do I think Terell Owens is a bad influence on your nephews? What a profoundly strange question. You learned values when you played ball, you say; and what values were those? That obedience is manly? That if you're a good boy and do what your told you can shower with other men without shame?
No, a communist professor did not teach me that. No, I never said that NU was Harvard. I don't think I'm better than my family. No, you don' emberass me. No, I haven't forgot where I came from, believe me.
No, ma, I don't have a girlfriend. I did have sex with some random hotel waitress about a month ago. she was real, oh never mind. When can you expect grandchildren? Well, right now of course. You can expect Bill Shakespere to walk in here and shit a golden hedgehog if you like.
Why, you ask? Well the truth is ma, I've never felt anything but lust and general good will toward women. Even when I had girlfriends, they really didn't effect my emotions to much. I mean, I didn't feel bad when they felt bad, you know. Actually, if they wanted to talk to me about it, I broke up with them. I'm a cold-blooded bastard ma, and I like it. It's the only thing that gives me pleasure in life.
But this is family together time, let us not speak of unpleasent things. I feel the,love around me. But you know what I really feel is the sense of, I don't know, tradition. I look over there and see that cous still has that damn rat tail he had when he was sixteen years old. How much longer to 30 bruh, ouch! I see people arguing about things that happened fifteen years ago, and it really warms my heart, to know that whenever I'm in trouble, I can always come back to a place where nothing ever, ever, changes.
Now pass the fucking scotch.
Déardaoin, Nollaig 21, 2006
Welcome to American Pornography, 101
Possible essay topics:
Pornography often caters to fetishes that society considers especially 'dirty.' What is so 'dirty' about the picture at left?
Is it simply that the woman is fellating multiple partners?
Is is that the woman is '18' or "barely legal"
It is often said to be an open secret that underage girls are working in the porn industry, or that videos featuring '18' year-olds are aimed at a market that wishes they could be masturbating to 15 year-olds. Do you agree? Why or why not?
The racial element is quite obvious here, even advertised on the box.
Does society consider a white woman fellating three random black men to be "dirtier" than performing the same act on three random white men? (Note the word "devil" in the title!)
"Dirtier" than a thirteen-year-old Asian girl being violently raped by an octopus?
Compare this video with the gay prison porn we have already viewed in this class...
Did the prison films over-emphesize well-endowed black men? What are the similarities between how black men are portrayed in the gay prison films and this film? What are the differences?
Report due Monday.
Dé Céadaoin, Nollaig 20, 2006
raw girl
Absolutely ready to thrill you now, dirty, dirty dirty, she wants a real man, she don't take no shit, she'll make you moan for more, she smokes camel unfiltererds, she drinks straight whiskey, she reads Donald Trump, she almost stabbed a woman's guts out in jail, she likes Lynerd Skinyrd, she likes crystal meth, she hates being alone, she watches Maury and fuck you if you don't like it. She's pierced in thirteen different places, she hates emo kids, she had the waterfall hair fo awhile, she has three guns, she's had six abortions, she only cries when her friends do and she'll kill you if you laugh, her dad nearly beat her brains out when she was a kid, she hunts deer, she skins her own kills, her brother's in the marines, her mom died a drunk, she goes to dad's on Christmas and they talk about football.
Dé Máirt, Nollaig 19, 2006
You've got to see this
http://www.wnd.com/news/article.asp?ARTICLE_ID=53327
Soy milk turns children into homosexuals. If you've already heard of it by now, sorry. Otherwise, you have got to see this!
Soy milk turns children into homosexuals. If you've already heard of it by now, sorry. Otherwise, you have got to see this!
Democracy doesn't work
A review of submissions to the Lincoln Journal-Star's "There ought to be a law" segment. There were some good ideas, but I'm a bad person who only gets pleasure out of being intelectually superior to other people, so the good ideas will be ignored.
Move the State Fair: The Nebraska State Fair should be in the middle of the state, not on one edge. In other words, give Kearney or Grand Island a chance and have Lincoln and Omaha do the driving for once.
That's great, but you are aware that the center of population in the state is somewhere around Elkhorn, arn't you? People from Lincoln and Omaha won't drive 150 miles for the state fair, I guess that this "sacred tradition" isn't important enough to us for that. If the fair is moved outstate, it will require even more state money to stay afloat. Of course, if this money wasn't spent on the fair, it might be spent on things like better schools or safer roads, or, worst of all, helping to feed filthy hippies or illeagal immigrants. The real solution to the state fair is to let it die the slow death it deserves. failing this, keep it in Lincoln, If you don't want to make a long drive than don't. The corn Gods won't strike you down for missing the fair.
Stiffer penalties against child predators: There oughta be a law protecting our children from being abused, misguided or taken advantage of by people of trust.
Should it only be a misdemeanor crime, when our teachers, counselors, group leaders, faith leaders (people of trust) begin a sexual relationship with one of our children when they are 16, 17, 18?
These relationships happen more often than people think and are sometimes hidden by the employer of the adult.
Yes, how foolish of the state to treat a sexual relationship with an 18-year-old "child" any differently than a relationship with a 12-year-old. These bastatds should be shot, or at least have their addresses printed in the paper so we can tell our helpless children what places to avoid as they're driving in their Corvette's.
No plea bargains for meth users: There needs to be a law that there are no plea bargains for people who use or make methamphetamines. The ads on television say Nebraska is tough on meth labs, but authorities make plea bargains every day and let drug users back onto the street. If Nebraska says it is tough, it should follow up on its word.
But of course, lock the bastards up for life. Believe everything that the government and especially the police tell you. Never think for a moment that the law-enforcement industry's emphisis on meth is a scare tactic to secure government funding. Oh no, meth turns good Christian folks into murderous welfare demons. Nebraska's teen-pregnancy rate surely wouldn't be so high if our maidens wern't being tempted by the Mexican's white demon powder. The fact that many meth cases are plea bargained in no way implies that our brave district attorneys consider locking people up to be nothing but a business, or that any police brutality would be exposed at trial, certainly not. Our D.A. have no choice but to seek plea-bagains, you see, it's those damn slick pony-tailed defense lawyers that are crowding their work schedules.
Allow public policing of handicapped parking spots: Allow concerned residents to call in license numbers of vehicles illegally parked in handicapped slots and allow police to issue citations to the offenders based on this information. Too often, offenders have left by the time police get there.
There's no law stopping you from being a handicapped parking spot vigilante right now. Anybody can call the police for most anything. Try it yourself. Of course, if you're going to go on handicapped parking patrol, you'l be the one responsible for proving the offenders guilty. Bring a camera, you can take a picture of anything that's in public view. Good luck not getting your ass beat.
Ban concurrent sentences: There ought to be a law against judges sentencing people to concurrent sentences. What is the point of even taking someone through the whole legal process if they aren’t going to have a sentence to serve?
I'll let you in on a little secret. The purpose of high sentences is not so much to punish the criminal, but to scare the defence to the bargaining table even when the prosecution's case may be weak. This is the reason for plea bargains. concurant sentences, etc. Remember this the next time a politcian equates opposing more prison time for some given crime with approving of the crime.
Fingerprint discarded beer bottles: Most of the beer-bottle litter on city streets is from people drinking and driving. Have police dust the beer bottles littering the streets for fingerprints and start arresting people who have thrown them out.
That's great, but there's no way you can possibly prove that they were drinking and driving at the time they threw the bottles away. They are gonna have to raise the fine for littering a hell of a lot to pay for this. And by the way, not everyone has their fingerprints on file, at least not till the Patriot Act is renewed.
Make everyone speak English: All immigrants should have to learn the English language, including school-age individuals. And anyone applying for a job or inquiring about renting property should have to have an interpreter if he or she is not fluent in English.
Everyone should either know English or get an interpreter, o.k. You do know that this would interfere with private enterprise, right? You do know that current immigrants are learning English faster than any group of immigrants to the U.S. ever has. (Oh yes they are, no, your great-grandparents did not learn English as soon as they got off the boat No, they didn't. No... oh never fucking mind.)
There should be a law that people cannot discriminate against people they think are gay when they aren’t.
Cause, I'm like, totally not gay. If you don't want to hire any queers, that's cool bruh. But I'm not gay. I'll sue ya if you tell people that's why you didn't hire me, bruh, cause I'm not gay. I'm not gay bruh, I'm not gay.
Move the State Fair: The Nebraska State Fair should be in the middle of the state, not on one edge. In other words, give Kearney or Grand Island a chance and have Lincoln and Omaha do the driving for once.
That's great, but you are aware that the center of population in the state is somewhere around Elkhorn, arn't you? People from Lincoln and Omaha won't drive 150 miles for the state fair, I guess that this "sacred tradition" isn't important enough to us for that. If the fair is moved outstate, it will require even more state money to stay afloat. Of course, if this money wasn't spent on the fair, it might be spent on things like better schools or safer roads, or, worst of all, helping to feed filthy hippies or illeagal immigrants. The real solution to the state fair is to let it die the slow death it deserves. failing this, keep it in Lincoln, If you don't want to make a long drive than don't. The corn Gods won't strike you down for missing the fair.
Stiffer penalties against child predators: There oughta be a law protecting our children from being abused, misguided or taken advantage of by people of trust.
Should it only be a misdemeanor crime, when our teachers, counselors, group leaders, faith leaders (people of trust) begin a sexual relationship with one of our children when they are 16, 17, 18?
These relationships happen more often than people think and are sometimes hidden by the employer of the adult.
Yes, how foolish of the state to treat a sexual relationship with an 18-year-old "child" any differently than a relationship with a 12-year-old. These bastatds should be shot, or at least have their addresses printed in the paper so we can tell our helpless children what places to avoid as they're driving in their Corvette's.
No plea bargains for meth users: There needs to be a law that there are no plea bargains for people who use or make methamphetamines. The ads on television say Nebraska is tough on meth labs, but authorities make plea bargains every day and let drug users back onto the street. If Nebraska says it is tough, it should follow up on its word.
But of course, lock the bastards up for life. Believe everything that the government and especially the police tell you. Never think for a moment that the law-enforcement industry's emphisis on meth is a scare tactic to secure government funding. Oh no, meth turns good Christian folks into murderous welfare demons. Nebraska's teen-pregnancy rate surely wouldn't be so high if our maidens wern't being tempted by the Mexican's white demon powder. The fact that many meth cases are plea bargained in no way implies that our brave district attorneys consider locking people up to be nothing but a business, or that any police brutality would be exposed at trial, certainly not. Our D.A. have no choice but to seek plea-bagains, you see, it's those damn slick pony-tailed defense lawyers that are crowding their work schedules.
Allow public policing of handicapped parking spots: Allow concerned residents to call in license numbers of vehicles illegally parked in handicapped slots and allow police to issue citations to the offenders based on this information. Too often, offenders have left by the time police get there.
There's no law stopping you from being a handicapped parking spot vigilante right now. Anybody can call the police for most anything. Try it yourself. Of course, if you're going to go on handicapped parking patrol, you'l be the one responsible for proving the offenders guilty. Bring a camera, you can take a picture of anything that's in public view. Good luck not getting your ass beat.
Ban concurrent sentences: There ought to be a law against judges sentencing people to concurrent sentences. What is the point of even taking someone through the whole legal process if they aren’t going to have a sentence to serve?
I'll let you in on a little secret. The purpose of high sentences is not so much to punish the criminal, but to scare the defence to the bargaining table even when the prosecution's case may be weak. This is the reason for plea bargains. concurant sentences, etc. Remember this the next time a politcian equates opposing more prison time for some given crime with approving of the crime.
Fingerprint discarded beer bottles: Most of the beer-bottle litter on city streets is from people drinking and driving. Have police dust the beer bottles littering the streets for fingerprints and start arresting people who have thrown them out.
That's great, but there's no way you can possibly prove that they were drinking and driving at the time they threw the bottles away. They are gonna have to raise the fine for littering a hell of a lot to pay for this. And by the way, not everyone has their fingerprints on file, at least not till the Patriot Act is renewed.
Make everyone speak English: All immigrants should have to learn the English language, including school-age individuals. And anyone applying for a job or inquiring about renting property should have to have an interpreter if he or she is not fluent in English.
Everyone should either know English or get an interpreter, o.k. You do know that this would interfere with private enterprise, right? You do know that current immigrants are learning English faster than any group of immigrants to the U.S. ever has. (Oh yes they are, no, your great-grandparents did not learn English as soon as they got off the boat No, they didn't. No... oh never fucking mind.)
There should be a law that people cannot discriminate against people they think are gay when they aren’t.
Cause, I'm like, totally not gay. If you don't want to hire any queers, that's cool bruh. But I'm not gay. I'll sue ya if you tell people that's why you didn't hire me, bruh, cause I'm not gay. I'm not gay bruh, I'm not gay.
Nebraska wins volleyball championship
30 dead, $5 million in property damage in Lincoln alone. We take college volleyball seriously you know.
Dé Luain, Nollaig 18, 2006
Tales from North Platte
I knew this guy once. We'll call him Bruce out of respect to his fifth amendment rights. Bruce was a janitor at the same place where I got my first job, the old Skelly's truck stop near the I-80/U.S. 83 truck stop in North Platte. I was a busboy, and a damned good one at that.
Bruce had an office about fifty feet from the resturant, you went through the little store full of Jeff Foxworthy tapes and jingoistic T-shirts and made a right down the little hallway that led to the semi-repair shop, and there was Bruce's office. I think he was the only janitor in the world with his own office. It wasn't just a closet with all of his supplies in it. He had his own desk, lamp, stationary, etc.
Bruce worked the late afternoon/early evening shift, same as me. I would pass him and say what's up every now in than, while I was on the way to the C-store to steal cigarettes. For the most part, Bruce spent his shifts in his office, reading Penthouse. This was for the best.
There was always a fine layer of grime around the truck stop, but it didn't bother anybody, there were dirtier truck stops. The parking lot was paved, prostitutes (lot lizards) were at a minumum, There were no glory holes in the bathrooms manned by local closet-cases. We had a good reputation, and nobody expected a truck stop to be totally hygenic. There was a constant smell of skin stuck to leather throughout the place, and the customere liked it that way. A truck stop that's too clean reminds them too much of home. That's all you have today for truckstops, squeaky clean Wal-Marts with flags and Tom Clancy novels, and it's a shame. I've heard of soldiers in Iraq complain that having constant contact with their families was bad for them, left them too well connected to the civilized world to do their dirty work. It's a lot like that with truck drivers. A man needs some level of barbarism to help him do an unpleasent job.
So what all that means is that Skelly's probably shouldn't have hired a janitor and given him his own office so he could read Penthouse for eight hours. The place closed down about eighteen months after I started on. Too much payroll was part of the reason. My mother was the head cook at the place, worked there for twenty years, damn shame. The owner of Skelly's still lives in a suburban area of town called Indian Hills, he still controls much of the oil that goes through North Platte. That might not sound impressive, but keep in mind just how much money there is to be made in any facet of the oil business. The man is a low-level millionare. He used to come to Skelly's just so he wouldn't have to pay for coffee and a paper.
So Bruce, his real job was dealing pot. I dealt with him many times. He dabbled a bit in crystal meth too, both as a used and a dealer, he was never a high roller in that department.
One time I went to a Blues fest in Arnold, Ne. about 40 miles northeast of North Platte. You may have heard of this little show. It's nothing more than the house bands from Lincoln's Zoo Bar coming out to the country. But it's outdoors in the clean air in the summer and a couple of thousand people get drunk and the village of Arnold tolerates all sorts of nonsense because of the money that's brought in and it's a good time.
So about six years ago I was at the Blues Fest and I ran into Bruce and some of his family members. It was between acts, and they were fighting each other, just for the sake of competition. It was five in the afternoon and we were all already drunk. They asked me if I wanted to join in and I said sure. I lost a fight to Bruce's 15-year old cousin. I was 20. It was quite humiliating. He bloodied my nose and somebody's gnarly badass biker mom handed me a tissue.
About a year and a half before that, in winter, just after Christmas when everybody's drug and alcohol tolerance reaches a peak, Bruce was worried that the police had an informant spying on him. Maybe they did, but it's not likely. He would form a suspect in his head, proclaim his mortal hatred for him and than move on to someone else the next day.
So he kept hitting the light bulb, and started having morbid thoughts, what should he do if he ever really knew who the informant was? He had a life, a wife and kid, and needed to protect it. He said that if he ever needed to kill somebody, he would shave himself naked, cover himself in plastic, stab his victim with a knife, and than throw the knife in a sewage lagoon where it would be covered with the DNA of thousands of people. Those were his exact words by the way. He really did use the phrase "shave myself naked."
I doubt it would have worked. North Platte isn't quite so small that everybody knows everybody, but it is small enough to where everybody knows who knows who. So if a murder victim had an aquantiance who had suddenly shaved himself naked, it probably would have attracted police attention. The sewage lagoon idea might work, I'll have to study the logistics of it.
But don't worry. Nobody was spying on Bruce, and he didn't need to kill anybody. As far as I know, he's still living in his trailor with his wife and kid on the north side of town. His kid had a rat tail the last time I saw him, he was about five, he would be nine now. I have extended family members who still deal with Bruce, so maybe I'll see him over the holidays. I would prefer not to, and that kind of makes me feel bad for some reason.
Bruce had an office about fifty feet from the resturant, you went through the little store full of Jeff Foxworthy tapes and jingoistic T-shirts and made a right down the little hallway that led to the semi-repair shop, and there was Bruce's office. I think he was the only janitor in the world with his own office. It wasn't just a closet with all of his supplies in it. He had his own desk, lamp, stationary, etc.
Bruce worked the late afternoon/early evening shift, same as me. I would pass him and say what's up every now in than, while I was on the way to the C-store to steal cigarettes. For the most part, Bruce spent his shifts in his office, reading Penthouse. This was for the best.
There was always a fine layer of grime around the truck stop, but it didn't bother anybody, there were dirtier truck stops. The parking lot was paved, prostitutes (lot lizards) were at a minumum, There were no glory holes in the bathrooms manned by local closet-cases. We had a good reputation, and nobody expected a truck stop to be totally hygenic. There was a constant smell of skin stuck to leather throughout the place, and the customere liked it that way. A truck stop that's too clean reminds them too much of home. That's all you have today for truckstops, squeaky clean Wal-Marts with flags and Tom Clancy novels, and it's a shame. I've heard of soldiers in Iraq complain that having constant contact with their families was bad for them, left them too well connected to the civilized world to do their dirty work. It's a lot like that with truck drivers. A man needs some level of barbarism to help him do an unpleasent job.
So what all that means is that Skelly's probably shouldn't have hired a janitor and given him his own office so he could read Penthouse for eight hours. The place closed down about eighteen months after I started on. Too much payroll was part of the reason. My mother was the head cook at the place, worked there for twenty years, damn shame. The owner of Skelly's still lives in a suburban area of town called Indian Hills, he still controls much of the oil that goes through North Platte. That might not sound impressive, but keep in mind just how much money there is to be made in any facet of the oil business. The man is a low-level millionare. He used to come to Skelly's just so he wouldn't have to pay for coffee and a paper.
So Bruce, his real job was dealing pot. I dealt with him many times. He dabbled a bit in crystal meth too, both as a used and a dealer, he was never a high roller in that department.
One time I went to a Blues fest in Arnold, Ne. about 40 miles northeast of North Platte. You may have heard of this little show. It's nothing more than the house bands from Lincoln's Zoo Bar coming out to the country. But it's outdoors in the clean air in the summer and a couple of thousand people get drunk and the village of Arnold tolerates all sorts of nonsense because of the money that's brought in and it's a good time.
So about six years ago I was at the Blues Fest and I ran into Bruce and some of his family members. It was between acts, and they were fighting each other, just for the sake of competition. It was five in the afternoon and we were all already drunk. They asked me if I wanted to join in and I said sure. I lost a fight to Bruce's 15-year old cousin. I was 20. It was quite humiliating. He bloodied my nose and somebody's gnarly badass biker mom handed me a tissue.
About a year and a half before that, in winter, just after Christmas when everybody's drug and alcohol tolerance reaches a peak, Bruce was worried that the police had an informant spying on him. Maybe they did, but it's not likely. He would form a suspect in his head, proclaim his mortal hatred for him and than move on to someone else the next day.
So he kept hitting the light bulb, and started having morbid thoughts, what should he do if he ever really knew who the informant was? He had a life, a wife and kid, and needed to protect it. He said that if he ever needed to kill somebody, he would shave himself naked, cover himself in plastic, stab his victim with a knife, and than throw the knife in a sewage lagoon where it would be covered with the DNA of thousands of people. Those were his exact words by the way. He really did use the phrase "shave myself naked."
I doubt it would have worked. North Platte isn't quite so small that everybody knows everybody, but it is small enough to where everybody knows who knows who. So if a murder victim had an aquantiance who had suddenly shaved himself naked, it probably would have attracted police attention. The sewage lagoon idea might work, I'll have to study the logistics of it.
But don't worry. Nobody was spying on Bruce, and he didn't need to kill anybody. As far as I know, he's still living in his trailor with his wife and kid on the north side of town. His kid had a rat tail the last time I saw him, he was about five, he would be nine now. I have extended family members who still deal with Bruce, so maybe I'll see him over the holidays. I would prefer not to, and that kind of makes me feel bad for some reason.
A word on Oates
I've never much gotten into Joyce Carol Oates. I was probably overly influenced by image, she seemed too much like a prototypical English-teacher maven to me. But I just read "Where are you going, where have you been" and found it too be the most genuinely creepy story I've read in a while. Oates describes the turmoil in a teenage girl who is torn between her rightful fear of an obvious predator and her socially-taught need to judge herself according to the attention she receives from men. The Connie character shows us how so many otherwise smart young women have ended up in the grasps of the Ted Bundy's of the world, and the way that the predator gradually leaves Connie feeling helpless is terribly brilliant.
I should read some more Oates, she creates good atmosphereres. In fact, I think that reading more of her stuff is even more important than waking up before 3 P.M. or showering before 9.
I should read some more Oates, she creates good atmosphereres. In fact, I think that reading more of her stuff is even more important than waking up before 3 P.M. or showering before 9.
Dé Domhnaigh, Nollaig 17, 2006
First against the wall when the revolution comes
Anyone who spends more than $1000 on christmas decorations
Whoever made the waitresses at the Ameristar Bar wear matchin black tights. (they looked "nice" but how dehumanizing)
Whoever put up sings in said Casion saying that any one visibly intoxicated wouldn't be allowed in, this is a blatant lie.
Anyone who waits in line at a Olive Garden at a stip mall in Omaha to mark the occaion of being in Omaha (This includes my entire immediate family, you have to break a few eggs to make an omelete)
People who send me surveys over Myspace, why? In all honesty, I am completely baffled by your desire to do these things.
Anyone with a fantasy football team, the only fantasy football team you need is the one with your own custom-made invincible running back on Madden. Fantasy football is nothing but a scam to force you to watch every game of the People's Republic of the NFL.
People who refer to liberal cities as the "People's Republic" of Boulder, Austin, San Francisco, etc. Real Americans denigrate half of their fellow citizens while thinking up elaborate conspiracy theories explaning why people different from themselves are dangerous.
People who consider themselves rebellious for opposing a tax increse while making sure their yards are landscaped to precise neighborhood assotiation standards.
I'm sure I could think of some more.
Whoever made the waitresses at the Ameristar Bar wear matchin black tights. (they looked "nice" but how dehumanizing)
Whoever put up sings in said Casion saying that any one visibly intoxicated wouldn't be allowed in, this is a blatant lie.
Anyone who waits in line at a Olive Garden at a stip mall in Omaha to mark the occaion of being in Omaha (This includes my entire immediate family, you have to break a few eggs to make an omelete)
People who send me surveys over Myspace, why? In all honesty, I am completely baffled by your desire to do these things.
Anyone with a fantasy football team, the only fantasy football team you need is the one with your own custom-made invincible running back on Madden. Fantasy football is nothing but a scam to force you to watch every game of the People's Republic of the NFL.
People who refer to liberal cities as the "People's Republic" of Boulder, Austin, San Francisco, etc. Real Americans denigrate half of their fellow citizens while thinking up elaborate conspiracy theories explaning why people different from themselves are dangerous.
People who consider themselves rebellious for opposing a tax increse while making sure their yards are landscaped to precise neighborhood assotiation standards.
I'm sure I could think of some more.
Dé hAoine, Nollaig 15, 2006
No Motivation
Nope, none at all. I was planing on writing a multi-page tome on the Book of Mormon, but I really don't feel like it. I'm completely geeking out. I haven't showered yet today, I've been wearing the same clothes for three days, and I don't know if that's going to change. It's Friday don't know if know if I'm doing anything or not, maybe just another 12 hours up, 12 hours asleep thing. Fuck the world entire.
Tomorrow
I'm not one to make my blog a personal diary (That's a lie.) But I'm going to Omaha tomorrow for my sister's birthday. She wants to go too a sports bar to watch college volleyball in-wait for it, Council Bluffs. Yes my sister, who lives in Omaha, who should know a little something about Omaha, can't think of a better way to spend her birthday than to go too piss-smell parking lot Iowa, too watch college volleyball at Ameristar. She can't think of anything more thrilling on her birthday than too have two drinks and gamble in Crystal Bluffs, Christ fucking Jesus, why do I maintain contact with my family? Why do I even bother trying to be a good person?
What, after all, is gambling? It is a drug; a drug that is even lamer than nicotine. The only advantage of this drug is that it's not associated with poor brown people, making it acceptable to the middle class.
I read a story in the Journal-Star about a month ago about a housewife from Southeast Lincoln who pissed away her familiy's considerable life savings sneaking away to the Council Bluffs casinos in the dead of night. It was a fucking hilarious story, the only bad part is that she didn't meat the jail and rapetastic end that she and her family surely wish on "druggies."
So, anyway, that's what I'm doing tomorrow, getting shit-hammered on cheap Henessey while my sister tries to win her own loveboat. Fuck the world entire.
What, after all, is gambling? It is a drug; a drug that is even lamer than nicotine. The only advantage of this drug is that it's not associated with poor brown people, making it acceptable to the middle class.
I read a story in the Journal-Star about a month ago about a housewife from Southeast Lincoln who pissed away her familiy's considerable life savings sneaking away to the Council Bluffs casinos in the dead of night. It was a fucking hilarious story, the only bad part is that she didn't meat the jail and rapetastic end that she and her family surely wish on "druggies."
So, anyway, that's what I'm doing tomorrow, getting shit-hammered on cheap Henessey while my sister tries to win her own loveboat. Fuck the world entire.
Déardaoin, Nollaig 14, 2006
Another Semester done
And so it is. I'm switching majors to English next semester, which won't be too inconvenient since it was already my minor. It won't take me longer to graduate, the only thing that would prevent that is my crippling combination of cynicism and laziness, the same thing that has always prevented it.
My original major choice of news-ed seems so silly now. I just knew that I wanted to write and have a reasonable chance of getting paid for it, but since when have I given a thought to moving out of the gutter? It simply doesn't become me. Joining respectable society, showing up for work at a respectable publication to write respectable articles about respectable society, fuck that noise.
So I'm giving serious thought to grad school. Wouldn't that be nice? Get paid for letting my mind wonder and spewing my incoherent post-post-modern nonsense to a captive audience. In the meantime, I plan on celebrating the end of this semester with Beer and a Deleon's combo platter, I will try my best not to orgasm on the keyboard at the though of it.
My original major choice of news-ed seems so silly now. I just knew that I wanted to write and have a reasonable chance of getting paid for it, but since when have I given a thought to moving out of the gutter? It simply doesn't become me. Joining respectable society, showing up for work at a respectable publication to write respectable articles about respectable society, fuck that noise.
So I'm giving serious thought to grad school. Wouldn't that be nice? Get paid for letting my mind wonder and spewing my incoherent post-post-modern nonsense to a captive audience. In the meantime, I plan on celebrating the end of this semester with Beer and a Deleon's combo platter, I will try my best not to orgasm on the keyboard at the though of it.
Dé Sathairn, Nollaig 09, 2006
Pathetic gesture of Rebellion Cage Match!
Churchill vs. Kopitke!! Only one gets out alive! It's gonna be fucking raw bitches!!!
Dé hAoine, Nollaig 08, 2006
The American Moses of American history
This is Kyle "Herald Hill" Kopitke. He's made quite a living the past couple of years by promising Nebraska villages that he could bring in tourists with patriotic war museums. He also got some vets to donate their keepsakes paraphernalia to him. Some of this he put in museums, some he... did something else with. He is also accused of spending a good deal of public tax money on himself. It seems we have a good-old fashioned country shyster at work here, doesn't it? Kopitke is seen above giving a "gesture of defiance" in response to his upcoming legal troubles.
Testify Kyle. Testify.
I've acquired a slave boy
He's from Nigeria. He actually comes from a fairly well-off family. His father is a village mayor and they only have six children. They didn't have to sell him if they didn't want to. they just thought he needed some discipline.
He does my dishes, sweeps the kitchen floor, vacuums the carpet,dusts the furniture the things I can't be bothered with. I'm a very important person you know. He tells me that he's 9 though he is clearly no older than 6. I don't know why he bothers lying to me, I am subject to no law and would show it no regard even if it was. But I suppose his fiction is harmless. Very well, Amadi, (I call him Ami) you're "9". What a big strapping lad you are.
You can be rest assured that I'm doing nothing untoward to the boy. (girls cost extra) but I must admit I get a certain... satisfaction when he disobeys me and I am obliged to break out the lash. I flog him about twice a week, 30 lashes, mostly over small things, a broken dish, a stolen shot of bourbon. (Third world children grow up so fast. They have to, they'll never see fifty.)
Last week he scratched the hood of mu Continental quite badly. I don't know if it was an accident or not, the effect was the same. I wasn't sure if I could trust myself with the whip; given the state I was in, so I starved him for two days instead. Third world children know there place, much more disciplined than our own lads. They won't go crying to the authorities if you bruise them a bit. You are the only authority they have to worry about. It's quite refreshing. People forget how orderly life was before people got the idea that they were free to shake the totem pole.
Still, even the African children get uppity as they near their teens. I plan to have better employment by then, perhaps enough money for a 12-year-old Latin girl. I t will high time for me to be wed by than. Someone needs to keep the linens fresh.
But in the meantime, I'll have to find someway to dispose of Ami. The militias in Darfur or Baghdad always pay handsomely for a fresh body. Ami would be happy there. It's a dream life for any preteen boy. I remember my days with the Contras, Haycalon
days those.
If that doesn't pan out, than I'm afraid things may turn out rather badly for little Ami. I'm a distinguished man, yes. But my funds are limited, and I have tastes that must be satisfied. Most of the local pimps are rather unscrupulous. There is, I'm afraid, quite the market for new boys in my city. If this doesn't pan out, well, I've always thought it was more humane to shoot an unwanted dog than to just leave it in the woods to fend for itself, don't you agree?
He does my dishes, sweeps the kitchen floor, vacuums the carpet,dusts the furniture the things I can't be bothered with. I'm a very important person you know. He tells me that he's 9 though he is clearly no older than 6. I don't know why he bothers lying to me, I am subject to no law and would show it no regard even if it was. But I suppose his fiction is harmless. Very well, Amadi, (I call him Ami) you're "9". What a big strapping lad you are.
You can be rest assured that I'm doing nothing untoward to the boy. (girls cost extra) but I must admit I get a certain... satisfaction when he disobeys me and I am obliged to break out the lash. I flog him about twice a week, 30 lashes, mostly over small things, a broken dish, a stolen shot of bourbon. (Third world children grow up so fast. They have to, they'll never see fifty.)
Last week he scratched the hood of mu Continental quite badly. I don't know if it was an accident or not, the effect was the same. I wasn't sure if I could trust myself with the whip; given the state I was in, so I starved him for two days instead. Third world children know there place, much more disciplined than our own lads. They won't go crying to the authorities if you bruise them a bit. You are the only authority they have to worry about. It's quite refreshing. People forget how orderly life was before people got the idea that they were free to shake the totem pole.
Still, even the African children get uppity as they near their teens. I plan to have better employment by then, perhaps enough money for a 12-year-old Latin girl. I t will high time for me to be wed by than. Someone needs to keep the linens fresh.
But in the meantime, I'll have to find someway to dispose of Ami. The militias in Darfur or Baghdad always pay handsomely for a fresh body. Ami would be happy there. It's a dream life for any preteen boy. I remember my days with the Contras, Haycalon
days those.
If that doesn't pan out, than I'm afraid things may turn out rather badly for little Ami. I'm a distinguished man, yes. But my funds are limited, and I have tastes that must be satisfied. Most of the local pimps are rather unscrupulous. There is, I'm afraid, quite the market for new boys in my city. If this doesn't pan out, well, I've always thought it was more humane to shoot an unwanted dog than to just leave it in the woods to fend for itself, don't you agree?
Déardaoin, Nollaig 07, 2006
Happy birthday Noam Chomsky
Chomsky turns 346 today. It was also on this date in 1790 that he invented socialism during the French revolution. Finally, this date marks the 485th millionth time that a college student has referenced Noam Chomsky without reading any of his books.
Dé Céadaoin, Nollaig 06, 2006
Thought for the day
"Burning the Reichstag" would be a great euphemism for masturbation. I'm going to start using it, and so should you.
Country Justice
“If there was an overriding theme as to what went wrong, it was the lead investigators backed into a theory and just wouldn’t get off it when the evidence wouldn’t add up,”
I would highly recommend avoiding getting arrested in a small town. This can be rather difficult, mind you, since you don't actually have to do anything illeagal to get arrested in a small town, If a Sheriff's "hunch" leads to you, that's just about it. So the only way to be sure that you don't get arrested in a small town is not to go, which is even better advice.
But poor Matthew Livers has to live in one. He was charged with helping murder his aunt and uncle, Wayne and Sharmon Stock, last April, and has spent the last seven months in jail until it became glaringly obvious that not only did the evidence condemn him but actually seemed to exonerate him.
There was some tension between Livers side of the family and that of the murder victims, and rumors started to fly around after the killings. Understand, country folks are full of faith. They have a lot of faith in Jesus. They have even more faith in their rumors.
A pizza place North Platte went out of business a while ago because of rumors that the owner was a gay man with AIDS. Thirteen years later, there are still some that will get very angry if you suggest that this wasn't true. Our schools, you see, don't teach us how to sift empirical facts out the giant grain bin of bullshit, so we rely on the word of familiar faces to discern the truth. Please don't waste your time suggesting that this system doesn't work. There are those that know this, and there are those who will always refuse to know.
And so the remors continued to fly around Murdock and Plattsmouth, and so suspicion turned to Matt Livers: he's young and different, and so he was arrested.
Now Livers is mentally challenged, and the interrogating officers (Earl Schenck of the Cass County sheriff's department and state patrolman William Lambert) knew that he would eventually crack if they only raised their normal macho/cop/father/God act to the next level. The interrogation lasted for 11 hours. Livers could have asked for a lawyer at any time, of course. I'm sure they told him that.
Lambert: "You shot her in the face. You shot her in the face Matt."
Livers: "Dude, I didn't."
Lambert: "What do you mean 'dude"
Schenck: "Bull!"
Livers: I didn't, I mean..
Lambert: You didn't what?
Livers: "I didn't do anything."
Lambert: "You are full of shit. You did too. Tell us that we are wrong. Tell us that this is a lie. You can tell it's a lie, can't you? We know from the natural reaction of people. You are in the chair. You are sitting there, You're shaking because you know it's the truth. You know it's the truth in your heart.
I've talked to a few cops in my day. All of them, to a man, are very proud of their ability to "read people." They believe that they can spot suspicious activity by a certain twitch or crawl to someone's movements. They believe they can detect the nervousness of a liar. They teach the shit out of this at police acadamy.
All of it is nonsense, of course. The ability to read people doesn't exist, and there is no such thing as a "natural reaction." or at least, the nervousness of a mentally challenged young man being yelled at by authority figures would be much the same whether he was telling the truth or lying.
Nonetheless, the psychic detectives got their confession.
Perhaps the real question is why we still bother with the entire interrogation ritual. Out of all forms of evidence, the human word is the least reliable. We have the technology to detect microscopic blood and tissue fragment. Human accounts of a situation only get in the way of the hard scientific record.
But juries aren't moved by science. They are moved by a widow's tears. They are moved by a cop looking a suspect "in the eye" and drawing theall-important confession out of him. there have been several occasions where a confessed killer was scientificly proven innocent, but people refused to believe it, he confessed.
Attribute this to the human desire to believe that we are special. We want to believe that our relationships and interactions are somehow sacred, that they form a more profound truth than concrete, physical reality. Why do you think we are so shocked when somebody lies to us, Even though our own senses and our own judgement give us false information all the time?
The truth is that human interactions are just as self-serving,empty, and meaningless as monkeys picking the bugs off each other's backs. A lot of human misery can be done away with if only we had the courage to accept this.
Cox (Cass County attorney) said he didn’t blame the State Patrol or the Cass County Sheriff’s Office. Investigators worked hard and did as well as they could, he said. And ultimately, he pointed out, Livers and Sampson were freed.
“This is the process working,” he said.
Oh, but of course. An innocent man only spent seven months in jail. I assume that Mr. Cox would be just as forgiving if a suspect was on the loose for seven months.
Rest assured, if this case had gone to trial, Livers would have been convicted. evidence or no evidence, the small-town trust in authority would have prevailed.
A jury torn between reality and the thought of a sheriff's disapproving glare may have felt some emotional distress, but ultimately would put on a brave face and turn up the voltage. Livers would have been sentenced to death most likely. Many would have crowed about how we know how to treat killers here in the heartland.
All credit in the world goes to the Cass County public defender, Julie Bear, in performing what must be a thankless duty. Lawyers are despised in these parts. I can think of no better proof of good chracter than to be despised in Cass County.
Dé Máirt, Nollaig 05, 2006
Thought for the day
"Political Correctness" is usually a bogeyman, denounced by those who are afraid of questioning society or tradition. Very often, these people reveal the very prejudices that the "politically correct" accuse them of having through their arguments against "political correctness."
Example:
"Normal girls arn't so easily insulted. This girl just needs a deep-dicking to cheer her up."
Example:
"Normal girls arn't so easily insulted. This girl just needs a deep-dicking to cheer her up."
Tales From Omaha
I usually like to go for a walk in the country on Sunday. But it was too cold for that, so I decided to go to Omaha instead. I didn't know what I was going to do exactly, I didn't have much spending money, and if it was too cold to walk than it was too cold to go to the zoo.
So I just went. I took the scenic route, highway 6 to the new Dodge Street Freeway. Interstate 80 angles southwest towards Lincoln, and Omaha has been sprawling due west into a transportation dead end. The state has spent the last 25 years or so gradually jerry-rigging West Dodge Street into a freeway. The most recent part of this never-ending construction project is an elevated expressway between the I-680 beltway and 144th street. It's the state's biggest urban construction project since I-480 provided segregation-by freeway more than 30 years ago. No neighborhoods destroyed this time I'm afraid, and traffic does flow quite nicely.
I stopped by Crossroads Mall at Dodge and 7snd. This is the real downtown Omaha, the gateway between something that resembles a city and 20 miles of cul-de-sacs.
I thought that I might find something ridiculous there that I could mock for the amusement of my loyal readers (Jered, Dan, how ya doing?). But I didn't find anything one couldn't find in a smaller mall, nothing that hasn't been mocked before by better satirists than I. Perhaps I'm getting a bit older and wiser, no longer amused by the obvious surface-stupidity of a shopping mall. Perhaps I dig a little deeper now.
So in the Sears basement I saw one of those inflatable Christmas yard decorations. It consisted of Winny-The-Pooh slowly "rising and inflating" out of a "hunny" jar and embracing his big, tall, strong, "Tigger". I stared at it for about five minutes, not going to pretend that I didn't find it amusing. But it wasn't as blatantly Fruedian as an anti-feminist rant or "The Rock" movie. Words can't really convey how funny it was, you have to see it.
I walked past a Chile's restaurant and saw people willingly standing in line to eat at Chile's. Steely Dan was pumping out of the speaker's. I had my lunch later at the downtown Little King, (13th and Farnamish)this is the best place to eat in Omaha. Get yourself a pitcher of Rolling Rock and watch the TV, always set to one of those channels that always play MASH reruns.
One of the Booths at Crossroads had celebrity portraits, the kind where Elvis, Marilyn Monroe, and Kurt Cobain are sitting in some cosmic bar toghether. Twenty bucks. I didn't notice that the guy running the booth was looking at me the whole time. He asked me if there was anything I wanted. I said maybe and walked around the parking lot and back inside to avoid him. I'm bashful sometimes.
The food court had something called "New York Chicken" selling generic fast food and advertising it with photos taken from sometime around my conception. The Sbarro's at the food court was clearly superior from the one we have at NU. I didn't eat there but I could tell just by looking. The potatoes had a nice color, and the salad was salad-green instead of Salmonella green.
After the mall I took a little trip through North Omaha. This is the neighborhood ruined by the afore-mentioned freeway. Omaha's North Freeway leads from downtown, through and over North Omaha and than ends just before the white-middle class neighborhood of Florence. It's very blatant. The official reason about why the freeway ends there is that Florence is 'historic' because some Mormons died there on the way to Utah 160 years ago. This is bullshit. The Mormon winter quarters is actually near the very northern tip of the city, near the beltway crossing over the Missouri. (Mormon Bridge.)
While driving down N. 30th I considered stopping at one of the Liquor stores there. They still sell Thunderbird at these places and I was thinking of grabbing a souvenir. But I decided not to. I partied too hard this weekend, and I thought the locals may have been insulted if they knew an outsider was ironically buying cheap booze from one of their shops.
Then I went downtown and had lunch at Little King. I don't do this nearly enough. If your heading towards the Iowa casinos on I-480, do yourself a favor; get off in downtown Omaha, head to Little King and spend your money on something worthwhile.
I headed down 13th past the zoo and into Bellevue. I was looking for Southroads Mall, figuring that a suburban mall might have something more ostentatiously stupid than Crossroads. But I have no idea where this place is. So I turned back towards Lincoln, stopping at a SuperTarget in Millard and eating free samples of Organic Nuts until the manager started to follow me around.
Then it was back towards home, my car radio rose from the dead last week, and they were playing a rerun of "Prairie Home Companion." It was a pleasent drive.
So I just went. I took the scenic route, highway 6 to the new Dodge Street Freeway. Interstate 80 angles southwest towards Lincoln, and Omaha has been sprawling due west into a transportation dead end. The state has spent the last 25 years or so gradually jerry-rigging West Dodge Street into a freeway. The most recent part of this never-ending construction project is an elevated expressway between the I-680 beltway and 144th street. It's the state's biggest urban construction project since I-480 provided segregation-by freeway more than 30 years ago. No neighborhoods destroyed this time I'm afraid, and traffic does flow quite nicely.
I stopped by Crossroads Mall at Dodge and 7snd. This is the real downtown Omaha, the gateway between something that resembles a city and 20 miles of cul-de-sacs.
I thought that I might find something ridiculous there that I could mock for the amusement of my loyal readers (Jered, Dan, how ya doing?). But I didn't find anything one couldn't find in a smaller mall, nothing that hasn't been mocked before by better satirists than I. Perhaps I'm getting a bit older and wiser, no longer amused by the obvious surface-stupidity of a shopping mall. Perhaps I dig a little deeper now.
So in the Sears basement I saw one of those inflatable Christmas yard decorations. It consisted of Winny-The-Pooh slowly "rising and inflating" out of a "hunny" jar and embracing his big, tall, strong, "Tigger". I stared at it for about five minutes, not going to pretend that I didn't find it amusing. But it wasn't as blatantly Fruedian as an anti-feminist rant or "The Rock" movie. Words can't really convey how funny it was, you have to see it.
I walked past a Chile's restaurant and saw people willingly standing in line to eat at Chile's. Steely Dan was pumping out of the speaker's. I had my lunch later at the downtown Little King, (13th and Farnamish)this is the best place to eat in Omaha. Get yourself a pitcher of Rolling Rock and watch the TV, always set to one of those channels that always play MASH reruns.
One of the Booths at Crossroads had celebrity portraits, the kind where Elvis, Marilyn Monroe, and Kurt Cobain are sitting in some cosmic bar toghether. Twenty bucks. I didn't notice that the guy running the booth was looking at me the whole time. He asked me if there was anything I wanted. I said maybe and walked around the parking lot and back inside to avoid him. I'm bashful sometimes.
The food court had something called "New York Chicken" selling generic fast food and advertising it with photos taken from sometime around my conception. The Sbarro's at the food court was clearly superior from the one we have at NU. I didn't eat there but I could tell just by looking. The potatoes had a nice color, and the salad was salad-green instead of Salmonella green.
After the mall I took a little trip through North Omaha. This is the neighborhood ruined by the afore-mentioned freeway. Omaha's North Freeway leads from downtown, through and over North Omaha and than ends just before the white-middle class neighborhood of Florence. It's very blatant. The official reason about why the freeway ends there is that Florence is 'historic' because some Mormons died there on the way to Utah 160 years ago. This is bullshit. The Mormon winter quarters is actually near the very northern tip of the city, near the beltway crossing over the Missouri. (Mormon Bridge.)
While driving down N. 30th I considered stopping at one of the Liquor stores there. They still sell Thunderbird at these places and I was thinking of grabbing a souvenir. But I decided not to. I partied too hard this weekend, and I thought the locals may have been insulted if they knew an outsider was ironically buying cheap booze from one of their shops.
Then I went downtown and had lunch at Little King. I don't do this nearly enough. If your heading towards the Iowa casinos on I-480, do yourself a favor; get off in downtown Omaha, head to Little King and spend your money on something worthwhile.
I headed down 13th past the zoo and into Bellevue. I was looking for Southroads Mall, figuring that a suburban mall might have something more ostentatiously stupid than Crossroads. But I have no idea where this place is. So I turned back towards Lincoln, stopping at a SuperTarget in Millard and eating free samples of Organic Nuts until the manager started to follow me around.
Then it was back towards home, my car radio rose from the dead last week, and they were playing a rerun of "Prairie Home Companion." It was a pleasent drive.
Dé Sathairn, Nollaig 02, 2006
Nonsense.
I drank eleven Grolsh's last night, eleven. Now I'm trying to get a smattering of homework done before the game. Who am I kidding? Honestly? I should still be in bed with coffee being served to me by Asian slave girls. But what's one to do. Keep working, be a productive citizen. Don't drink to excess unless you are able to wake up at a reasonable hour and perform your duties. Do not drive while drunk, do not leave your car parked in any of a city's designated "Ghetto" areas where dangerous minorities are about. Do not rely on public transportation in a capitalist society.
Pull yourself out of the gutter. Citizenship is rewarded only to the virtuous. those in the success class may be allowed to frequent the local steak-house franchises and indulge in a few cocktails. Be sure to arm yourself if you enter the central business district, do not hesitate to consider any movement by the vagrants to be a threat. Undesirables must be culled.
I probably shouldn't drink tonight.
Pull yourself out of the gutter. Citizenship is rewarded only to the virtuous. those in the success class may be allowed to frequent the local steak-house franchises and indulge in a few cocktails. Be sure to arm yourself if you enter the central business district, do not hesitate to consider any movement by the vagrants to be a threat. Undesirables must be culled.
I probably shouldn't drink tonight.
Dé hAoine, Nollaig 01, 2006
Big 12 championship game
You can't possibly be prepared. You are a foolish mortal who thinks you matter to the immortals.
Oklahoma 21-17
On getting ones brilliant theory debunked
My Native American lit class hosted one Dr. David Truer today. Truer, a Univ. of Minnesota professor of Jewish/Ojibwa heritage,is the author of the novels "Little". "The Hiawatha" and "Dr. Appeles." He's somewhat famous, at least to those of us who don't have lives.
We read "The Hiawatha" in my Native American Lit class. While writing a paper on the book, I did some quick internet "research" and found some connections between the books title and one "Nanobozho", (Nanobush, Manobush, etc.) a trickster figure among northern native tribes.
A Trickster is some sort of character who willfully defies the order established by a culture's Gods/God/meaningless void etc. Tricksters are rather archtypical, Western icons such as Satan, Bugs Bunny, and Bill Clinton could all be reasonably considered to be Trickster figures.
But Tricksters are most closely associated with Native American cultures. This is because Native Americans (not that I'm one to stereotype :) don't usually view the world in a black vs. white, good vs. evil sort of way. So a Trickster who defies the order of the Gods is not necessarily a bad thing and is even occasionally a good thing.
So anyway, I'm not going to give the plot of "The Hiawatha" away, but the Simon character is a rather fucked up cat who does a lot of things that seemingly have no earthly explanations, and while doing my "research" in between rounds of Myspace and Fark I found a lot of parallels between Simon and Nanobozho, especially regarding how they treated their family members.
My professor was quite excited by my theory. I got an A+ on the paper and she had me explain the theory to the rest of the class, without telling me ahead of time, while I was ill with a cold and high on Nyquil, good times.
But than Truer came to town, and he flatly rejected my idea. He said that he didn't want to use the cliche of a real-life Indian mirroring a spiritual Trickster figure. (It doesn't take much reading of Native American Lit to know that this is indeed a cliche.) So it goes.
I should have considered the possibility that I was over thinking. Truer recently wrote a nonfiction book called "Native American Fiction: A User's Manual" in which he argues that there is actually no such thing as Native American fiction, since nearly all of Native American fiction plays off white stereotypes in some way. That is, a troubled young native lost in the modern white man's world goes through some sort of "spiritual journey" to find his "inner warrior".
Truer's "User's manual" caused a minor spat between him and some of the big names in Native American Lit: Sherman Alexie, Leslie Silko, N. Scott Momaday, etc. It raised a lot of philosophical debate among five or six pretentious, lonely people.
When he spoke here at UNL, Truer talked of moving "out of the ruts" and presenting his native characters as distinct individuals who's flaws were born out of themselves instead of society, as regular fucked up people instead of "children of the forest" separated from their homelands.
Again, I should have known I was over thinking. Truer does a lot of demystifying and cliche-busting in "The Hiawatha". Simon is a city-dwelling Indian. More than that, he is anything but lost in the city. Minneapolis is clearly his home, a place that he knows like his own skin and that he even helps to build. When Simon gets lost in the woods (Returns to nature) he nearly kills himself with his total lack of bush-skills.
Oh well, Truer is a cool guy. He refuted my theory very politely and respectfully and is a witty and engaging speaker. And I still have the A+.
We read "The Hiawatha" in my Native American Lit class. While writing a paper on the book, I did some quick internet "research" and found some connections between the books title and one "Nanobozho", (Nanobush, Manobush, etc.) a trickster figure among northern native tribes.
A Trickster is some sort of character who willfully defies the order established by a culture's Gods/God/meaningless void etc. Tricksters are rather archtypical, Western icons such as Satan, Bugs Bunny, and Bill Clinton could all be reasonably considered to be Trickster figures.
But Tricksters are most closely associated with Native American cultures. This is because Native Americans (not that I'm one to stereotype :) don't usually view the world in a black vs. white, good vs. evil sort of way. So a Trickster who defies the order of the Gods is not necessarily a bad thing and is even occasionally a good thing.
So anyway, I'm not going to give the plot of "The Hiawatha" away, but the Simon character is a rather fucked up cat who does a lot of things that seemingly have no earthly explanations, and while doing my "research" in between rounds of Myspace and Fark I found a lot of parallels between Simon and Nanobozho, especially regarding how they treated their family members.
My professor was quite excited by my theory. I got an A+ on the paper and she had me explain the theory to the rest of the class, without telling me ahead of time, while I was ill with a cold and high on Nyquil, good times.
But than Truer came to town, and he flatly rejected my idea. He said that he didn't want to use the cliche of a real-life Indian mirroring a spiritual Trickster figure. (It doesn't take much reading of Native American Lit to know that this is indeed a cliche.) So it goes.
I should have considered the possibility that I was over thinking. Truer recently wrote a nonfiction book called "Native American Fiction: A User's Manual" in which he argues that there is actually no such thing as Native American fiction, since nearly all of Native American fiction plays off white stereotypes in some way. That is, a troubled young native lost in the modern white man's world goes through some sort of "spiritual journey" to find his "inner warrior".
Truer's "User's manual" caused a minor spat between him and some of the big names in Native American Lit: Sherman Alexie, Leslie Silko, N. Scott Momaday, etc. It raised a lot of philosophical debate among five or six pretentious, lonely people.
When he spoke here at UNL, Truer talked of moving "out of the ruts" and presenting his native characters as distinct individuals who's flaws were born out of themselves instead of society, as regular fucked up people instead of "children of the forest" separated from their homelands.
Again, I should have known I was over thinking. Truer does a lot of demystifying and cliche-busting in "The Hiawatha". Simon is a city-dwelling Indian. More than that, he is anything but lost in the city. Minneapolis is clearly his home, a place that he knows like his own skin and that he even helps to build. When Simon gets lost in the woods (Returns to nature) he nearly kills himself with his total lack of bush-skills.
Oh well, Truer is a cool guy. He refuted my theory very politely and respectfully and is a witty and engaging speaker. And I still have the A+.
Dé Máirt, Samhain 28, 2006
When I am old
When I am old, will I have nothing but the accomplishments of my children to keep me distracted as the end approaches? Will I get lost in fierce competition, playing the deeds of separate personalities with my last name against the claims other parents make of their spawn? Or will I have my own interests, be able to adjust to declining abilities, and carry on professionally until I cannot? Will I die working, like Altman, or Thompson, or, well, Charles Whitman?
How strange it must be for a 90-year old to pay bills, make a grocery list, plan Christmas presents in October.
To wake up in the morning.
How strange it must be for a 90-year old to pay bills, make a grocery list, plan Christmas presents in October.
To wake up in the morning.
Dé Luain, Samhain 27, 2006
Look further
Step out of the bar on O street. Brothers, O'Rourke's, whatever. Walk east.Past The abandoned blood plasma clinic on 15th (Centennial... 15th) Move out of downtown, past the first dollar store you'll see. Some people get their food there.
Move towards 21st street. Here you find the Keg. It's not the kind of bar you find downtown. More people like to drink in the middle of the day here. They have drink specials on WWE nights. The bartender will frequently step outside for a cigarette if he trusts everybody in the place.
Some smoke Marlboros. Most smoke Rodgers, Apaches, Shields. Bikers like to come to the place on weekends. they like to drink Coors, you won't find Sam Adams here. The bikers wear the same looks on their faces as the maids, the mechanics, the unemployed who come here. They might smile and laugh if someone tells a joke about sex or somebody else's race. Otherwise they just look tired; angry and tired, all the time.
Take a detour down to N street. The rotting cat you smell is Antelope Creek, flowing through a pipe under your feet. They say the smell comes from salt deposits that form naturally in the ground here.
The chemicals they put in the grass at Antelope Park? And down in the southeast, toward the suburbs? Yeah, they probably have something to do with the smell too. What in God's name are they doing at that chicken plant? I think you know quite enough already, and you're going to eat the chicken anyway. The plant probably has something to do with the smell too.
They're going to dig up Antelope Creek. Part of a big project to bring vitality to Lincoln's city core. If there's ever a big flood, they say that the creek will burst through the pipe and explode through the ground. Lincoln has a history of simply letting her poor people get flooded out, so this is a step in the right direction. While they're at it, they figured that they might as well build a big expressway around downtown leading to nowhere in particular. this will shave a couple more blocks off of the west end of T-Town. a few more homes are to be knocked down. It's no secret that the city has been looking to do this for years, and now they have a reason. Good for them.
They plan to extend Trago Park along the path of bulldozed homes. Good for them. They'll spend a lot of money on it and it will look really nice when it's new. Than it will be ignored of course. In five years, direlects and direlect students can drunkenly avoid each other as they wonder through the latest failed attempt at gentrification.
Turn back to the other side of O, Keep heading east on N street. You'll find another dollar store; different franchise I think. I get my toothpaste there. Like all dollar stores, it has seven aisles for no discernable reason. There are never more than two people working checkout.
One of them is a big black lady. She was the clerk the last time I was there, a couple of weeks ago. She was giving advise and comfort to a bigger white lady, a bit younger. She had just had her fourth child. The father wasn't the man who had beaten her for ten years, not this time. She has done a good job of staying away from him, but it's hard. She's afraid of being alone. She has been taught that she is supposed to be afraid of being alone.
She's buying socks for her kids. She wonders what she'll get them for Christmas. She wonders what she'll do for work. She wonders about her car. It runs funny. She can't aford to get it looked at. It will continue to run funny until the engine blows in six months or a year. Than she'll scrape toghether the funds for another 89 Crown Vic another six months or a year after that. She might have another kid by then.
The black woman nods and tells her to take care of herself. She has a different sort of look on her face. Like it used to be tired and angry, but now it seems she's picked up some sort of secret wisdom that gives her a reason for satisfaction.
Head back up to O if you like. On to 27th. The Mexican restaurant at the Budget Inn I stayed at while looking for my apartment is quite good. There are Mexican grocery stores and Arab restaurants all along this strech of 27th. Most of them are pretty desperate, frequented only by friends and neighbors.
I could give you a tour all the way to the city limits, but I can tell that you've wanted to turn back for a while. That's okay. You haven't drifted too far, and there's still time to get back under the stadium's shadow before dark. Head down to the bookstore and get yourself one of those paintings of Devaney/Zeus looking down on the team from the clouds.
Move towards 21st street. Here you find the Keg. It's not the kind of bar you find downtown. More people like to drink in the middle of the day here. They have drink specials on WWE nights. The bartender will frequently step outside for a cigarette if he trusts everybody in the place.
Some smoke Marlboros. Most smoke Rodgers, Apaches, Shields. Bikers like to come to the place on weekends. they like to drink Coors, you won't find Sam Adams here. The bikers wear the same looks on their faces as the maids, the mechanics, the unemployed who come here. They might smile and laugh if someone tells a joke about sex or somebody else's race. Otherwise they just look tired; angry and tired, all the time.
Take a detour down to N street. The rotting cat you smell is Antelope Creek, flowing through a pipe under your feet. They say the smell comes from salt deposits that form naturally in the ground here.
The chemicals they put in the grass at Antelope Park? And down in the southeast, toward the suburbs? Yeah, they probably have something to do with the smell too. What in God's name are they doing at that chicken plant? I think you know quite enough already, and you're going to eat the chicken anyway. The plant probably has something to do with the smell too.
They're going to dig up Antelope Creek. Part of a big project to bring vitality to Lincoln's city core. If there's ever a big flood, they say that the creek will burst through the pipe and explode through the ground. Lincoln has a history of simply letting her poor people get flooded out, so this is a step in the right direction. While they're at it, they figured that they might as well build a big expressway around downtown leading to nowhere in particular. this will shave a couple more blocks off of the west end of T-Town. a few more homes are to be knocked down. It's no secret that the city has been looking to do this for years, and now they have a reason. Good for them.
They plan to extend Trago Park along the path of bulldozed homes. Good for them. They'll spend a lot of money on it and it will look really nice when it's new. Than it will be ignored of course. In five years, direlects and direlect students can drunkenly avoid each other as they wonder through the latest failed attempt at gentrification.
Turn back to the other side of O, Keep heading east on N street. You'll find another dollar store; different franchise I think. I get my toothpaste there. Like all dollar stores, it has seven aisles for no discernable reason. There are never more than two people working checkout.
One of them is a big black lady. She was the clerk the last time I was there, a couple of weeks ago. She was giving advise and comfort to a bigger white lady, a bit younger. She had just had her fourth child. The father wasn't the man who had beaten her for ten years, not this time. She has done a good job of staying away from him, but it's hard. She's afraid of being alone. She has been taught that she is supposed to be afraid of being alone.
She's buying socks for her kids. She wonders what she'll get them for Christmas. She wonders what she'll do for work. She wonders about her car. It runs funny. She can't aford to get it looked at. It will continue to run funny until the engine blows in six months or a year. Than she'll scrape toghether the funds for another 89 Crown Vic another six months or a year after that. She might have another kid by then.
The black woman nods and tells her to take care of herself. She has a different sort of look on her face. Like it used to be tired and angry, but now it seems she's picked up some sort of secret wisdom that gives her a reason for satisfaction.
Head back up to O if you like. On to 27th. The Mexican restaurant at the Budget Inn I stayed at while looking for my apartment is quite good. There are Mexican grocery stores and Arab restaurants all along this strech of 27th. Most of them are pretty desperate, frequented only by friends and neighbors.
I could give you a tour all the way to the city limits, but I can tell that you've wanted to turn back for a while. That's okay. You haven't drifted too far, and there's still time to get back under the stadium's shadow before dark. Head down to the bookstore and get yourself one of those paintings of Devaney/Zeus looking down on the team from the clouds.
Dé Domhnaigh, Samhain 26, 2006
Dé Sathairn, Samhain 25, 2006
Warm weekend afternoon
On a warm weeknd afternoon, all are satisfied.
Except for the cat,
who glares as you as you dare to stand up
and move toward the chips and soda.
Fuck the cat.
The mailman comes,
and the dog bravely barks him away again
he knows his purpose in life,
how about you?
Except for the cat,
who glares as you as you dare to stand up
and move toward the chips and soda.
Fuck the cat.
The mailman comes,
and the dog bravely barks him away again
he knows his purpose in life,
how about you?
Dé hAoine, Samhain 24, 2006
The NU/CU "rivalry"
Neither Nebraska's win today nor the fact the game was close for a while is surprising. Nebraska was clearly the physically superior team, and it was only a matter of time. Yet it was also clear that the Colorado players were even higher on emotion than a normal college team. College football is played by kids who are dependent on emotion in a way that wouldn't be acceptible in profesional football or professional anything. After Nebraska's fourth quarter safety, it was clear hat CU's high had collapsed.
The game was a fitting metaphor of the sordid NU/CU fued. In college football, there are geographic rivalries, like Kansas/Missouri or USC/UCLA, and there are competitive rivalries, like Nebraska/Oklahoma or Ohio St./Michigan. Nebraska/Colorado is neither, it is totally artificial. The Huskers are a boogeyman to the Buffaloes; Boulder's answer to Satanists, gays, and Communists in the heartland.
Though CU has a decent football history, it has always dealt with the problem of being in the Denver area. There are actually things to do there, and even the sports fans are more likely to choose the smooth feats of pro athletes over the over-amped follies of college kids. CU football was going through a bad streach when Bill Mc'Cartney, CU's gay-bashing, daughter-pimping former coach turned Promise Keeper, took over the team in the early eighties, leaving the Front Range metroplex even more indifferent to the Buffs than usual.
Mc'Cartney needed to bring attention to his program; national championchips and rivalries. To the pro sports fan, college rivalries are cute, quaint,like grandpa's old farm stories. Just think of last weeks Michigan/Ohio St. game, which reached a nausiating level of hype normally reserved for the ninth day before the Super Bowl. So Mc'Cartney simply decreed that Nebraska was CU's rival. All the lore, tradition, and heartbreak that come with real rivalries could come later.
It worked. Mc'Cartney's designation of Nebraska (Why not Oklahoma? Luck of the draw.) catered to the Denver area'a vanity, which is based on being the only large metropolis for hundreds of miles around; let's beat the hicks at their own game. Get the general public on board, and all that's left is getting the players and frat boys to hate who they're told too. This is a simple matter indeed, given the kinky authority fetish that football players and other knuckleheads are known for. Colorado gained some famous wins over Nebaska, (86,89,90,01,02,04) several conference championchips, and the most mythical of all the mythical national titles in 1990.
But it didn't last. Any system based on hatred of the other is bound to collapse, just ask the GOP. Despite the cute Nu/Cu rivalry, Coloradans first sports loyalty continued to be the Broncos or the Avalanche.
Than there is the culture of CU and the city of Boulder to consider. It was only a matter of time before the phallus worshipping, Christian supremicist Mc'Cartney got sick of the filthy pagans and left to focus on his cult. CU has had some talented coaches since than, but they have had the nasty habit of ignoring the thuggery of their players while showing moral failings of their own. This has made it easier for the godless socialists in the CU administration to spend money on education instead of athletics, driving away the new twenty-first century athlete who expects to be pampered and sexually serviced during his three years in college before surely moving on to diefication in the NFL.
CU went 2-10 this year. There is no reason to think the situation will dramatically improve any time soon. It's no secret that there are people in the administration who would like to do away with the football team once and for all. But still they go through the motions. They still mock Nebaska and hype the rivalry like the dead Ahab still thrusting his blade into the big red whale.
It's as if the new-age NORML types of Boulder still feel some latant sense of duty to tradition. This is the campus where students demand the retention of Ward Churchill, yet axing the football team; and the martial concept of the big rivalry game that comes with it, would be too radical, like wearing one's Che Guavara shirt to the family Christmas dinner.
So the CU students cheer on the football team because they think they have to, drink themselves blind on game day because they think they have to, hate Nebraska because they think they have to.
Hogwash. Come on, CU! You're supposed to be about breaking new ground, destroying boundries, don't puss out on me now. Go ahead and kill the starving buffalo. I can just see all of the screaming idiots of the sports world throwing fits if a major college were to make such a profound insult to manliness. I bet even O'Reilly and Scarborough would express their outrage.
Good, good, good, please let it be done, and free up Thanksgiving weekend for NU/Kansas State.
The game was a fitting metaphor of the sordid NU/CU fued. In college football, there are geographic rivalries, like Kansas/Missouri or USC/UCLA, and there are competitive rivalries, like Nebraska/Oklahoma or Ohio St./Michigan. Nebraska/Colorado is neither, it is totally artificial. The Huskers are a boogeyman to the Buffaloes; Boulder's answer to Satanists, gays, and Communists in the heartland.
Though CU has a decent football history, it has always dealt with the problem of being in the Denver area. There are actually things to do there, and even the sports fans are more likely to choose the smooth feats of pro athletes over the over-amped follies of college kids. CU football was going through a bad streach when Bill Mc'Cartney, CU's gay-bashing, daughter-pimping former coach turned Promise Keeper, took over the team in the early eighties, leaving the Front Range metroplex even more indifferent to the Buffs than usual.
Mc'Cartney needed to bring attention to his program; national championchips and rivalries. To the pro sports fan, college rivalries are cute, quaint,like grandpa's old farm stories. Just think of last weeks Michigan/Ohio St. game, which reached a nausiating level of hype normally reserved for the ninth day before the Super Bowl. So Mc'Cartney simply decreed that Nebraska was CU's rival. All the lore, tradition, and heartbreak that come with real rivalries could come later.
It worked. Mc'Cartney's designation of Nebraska (Why not Oklahoma? Luck of the draw.) catered to the Denver area'a vanity, which is based on being the only large metropolis for hundreds of miles around; let's beat the hicks at their own game. Get the general public on board, and all that's left is getting the players and frat boys to hate who they're told too. This is a simple matter indeed, given the kinky authority fetish that football players and other knuckleheads are known for. Colorado gained some famous wins over Nebaska, (86,89,90,01,02,04) several conference championchips, and the most mythical of all the mythical national titles in 1990.
But it didn't last. Any system based on hatred of the other is bound to collapse, just ask the GOP. Despite the cute Nu/Cu rivalry, Coloradans first sports loyalty continued to be the Broncos or the Avalanche.
Than there is the culture of CU and the city of Boulder to consider. It was only a matter of time before the phallus worshipping, Christian supremicist Mc'Cartney got sick of the filthy pagans and left to focus on his cult. CU has had some talented coaches since than, but they have had the nasty habit of ignoring the thuggery of their players while showing moral failings of their own. This has made it easier for the godless socialists in the CU administration to spend money on education instead of athletics, driving away the new twenty-first century athlete who expects to be pampered and sexually serviced during his three years in college before surely moving on to diefication in the NFL.
CU went 2-10 this year. There is no reason to think the situation will dramatically improve any time soon. It's no secret that there are people in the administration who would like to do away with the football team once and for all. But still they go through the motions. They still mock Nebaska and hype the rivalry like the dead Ahab still thrusting his blade into the big red whale.
It's as if the new-age NORML types of Boulder still feel some latant sense of duty to tradition. This is the campus where students demand the retention of Ward Churchill, yet axing the football team; and the martial concept of the big rivalry game that comes with it, would be too radical, like wearing one's Che Guavara shirt to the family Christmas dinner.
So the CU students cheer on the football team because they think they have to, drink themselves blind on game day because they think they have to, hate Nebraska because they think they have to.
Hogwash. Come on, CU! You're supposed to be about breaking new ground, destroying boundries, don't puss out on me now. Go ahead and kill the starving buffalo. I can just see all of the screaming idiots of the sports world throwing fits if a major college were to make such a profound insult to manliness. I bet even O'Reilly and Scarborough would express their outrage.
Good, good, good, please let it be done, and free up Thanksgiving weekend for NU/Kansas State.
Déardaoin, Samhain 23, 2006
Tales from North Platte
I went to a bar called the Den last night, 4th and Jeffers, doentown North Platte. It's the most aptly named bar I've ever been to. Smoking is still allowed indoors in these parts (the facts of biology are nothing but communist conspiracies to take away our property rights.) and the wall of smoke in the place immediatly exsasserbated the cold I've been fighting for the past few days. My voice became raspy and mucus filled every empty spot in my head, making it difficult to do things like walk, talk, and breathe.
The concept of "cutting someone off" for being "too drunk"; well that's never really reached these parts either. I saw a man say to the Dog The Bounty Hunter look-a-like tending bar that he needed a nopherfrukindrrinkma. He was served without question. I ordered a pitcher of Fat Tire and Dog gave it too me for half-price, "Here you are bro."
I saw an old friend of mine named Jordon. He was also too drunk too drink, but I split a pitcherwith him anyway. I told him that he looked pretty faded. "Really" he asked. "Yes" I said, "You didn't notice?" "No" he said innocently, than he fell into his chair and laughed.
I put a dollar in the jukebox. I've been terribly spoiled by college-town jukes. I was looking for the Flash Gorden theme, nothing so obscure, but no. If one wants Queen, one gets "We Will Rock You" "We are the Champions" and "Fat Bottomed Girls" I picked Fat Bottomed Girls. I also wanted to play "Damn Blue Collar Tweakers" by Primus. I couldn't have been serious. There were only three Primus songs availible and I imagine I don't even have to tell you what they were. Jordon punched me in the arm when I wouldn't play some jam band. He looked like he wanted to punch me in the face. Five minutes later he hugged me, again.
Oh, and by the way, an ex-girlfriend of mine was also there. She's doing,well, better than I expected. I met her new boyfriend. He seems like a decent fellow. He offered me a cigarette. My lungs were wet sponges and I hadn't smoked for three days. I didn't want to be rude. It was a Marlboro medium, agonizing.
I told Beth that I have a story 'published'. I asked her questions about the kid who got stabbed in the heart with a pair of scissors. He made a full recovery, apperantly he's a close friend of hers and I've known him for years. Knowing somebody is a rather relative thing isn't it?
We played pool and danced, everybody getting along great. Than Beth go agitated over something. She spilled my pitcher of beer and than became compleatly distraught. She did laps around the bar and parking lot for about ten minutes before finally jumping in the back of a moving pickup truck and headed somewhere.
I asked if there were any parties around. No one knew of any. This was probably or the best. The combination of alcohol and mucus flooding my balance centers left me stumbilng home with a throat that had just scoured with a steel wire brush.
The concept of "cutting someone off" for being "too drunk"; well that's never really reached these parts either. I saw a man say to the Dog The Bounty Hunter look-a-like tending bar that he needed a nopherfrukindrrinkma. He was served without question. I ordered a pitcher of Fat Tire and Dog gave it too me for half-price, "Here you are bro."
I saw an old friend of mine named Jordon. He was also too drunk too drink, but I split a pitcherwith him anyway. I told him that he looked pretty faded. "Really" he asked. "Yes" I said, "You didn't notice?" "No" he said innocently, than he fell into his chair and laughed.
I put a dollar in the jukebox. I've been terribly spoiled by college-town jukes. I was looking for the Flash Gorden theme, nothing so obscure, but no. If one wants Queen, one gets "We Will Rock You" "We are the Champions" and "Fat Bottomed Girls" I picked Fat Bottomed Girls. I also wanted to play "Damn Blue Collar Tweakers" by Primus. I couldn't have been serious. There were only three Primus songs availible and I imagine I don't even have to tell you what they were. Jordon punched me in the arm when I wouldn't play some jam band. He looked like he wanted to punch me in the face. Five minutes later he hugged me, again.
Oh, and by the way, an ex-girlfriend of mine was also there. She's doing,well, better than I expected. I met her new boyfriend. He seems like a decent fellow. He offered me a cigarette. My lungs were wet sponges and I hadn't smoked for three days. I didn't want to be rude. It was a Marlboro medium, agonizing.
I told Beth that I have a story 'published'. I asked her questions about the kid who got stabbed in the heart with a pair of scissors. He made a full recovery, apperantly he's a close friend of hers and I've known him for years. Knowing somebody is a rather relative thing isn't it?
We played pool and danced, everybody getting along great. Than Beth go agitated over something. She spilled my pitcher of beer and than became compleatly distraught. She did laps around the bar and parking lot for about ten minutes before finally jumping in the back of a moving pickup truck and headed somewhere.
I asked if there were any parties around. No one knew of any. This was probably or the best. The combination of alcohol and mucus flooding my balance centers left me stumbilng home with a throat that had just scoured with a steel wire brush.
Dé Céadaoin, Samhain 22, 2006
I'm not making this up
"But the group that planned the event, Young Americans for Freedom, said that the blog inhibited free speech, and that no professor or administrator should express an opinion publicly about anything."
New York Times
The above is a paraphrased statement from a group called 'Young Americans for Freedom' at Michigan State. This apperantly conservative group was planning a stunt called Catch an Illegal Immigrant Day, in which a student would portray an illeagal immigrant and someone would catch him. Michigan State's President, Anna K. Simon, denounced the stunyt on her blog.
The times article portrayed the fact of college officials having blogs as a novelty; elders trying to get hip with the kids. While this is rather lame, it doesn't intrest me as much as the claim that "no professor or administrator should express an opinion publicly about anything."
As a young American (sort of) for freedom, I must say that I am not intimidated into silence when a professor, president, or chanclor disagrees with me. To view every authority figure as a surrogate father is a conservative affliction that I am not infected with. To suggest that college officials violate student's freedom of speech by practicint their own...
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.
New York Times
The above is a paraphrased statement from a group called 'Young Americans for Freedom' at Michigan State. This apperantly conservative group was planning a stunt called Catch an Illegal Immigrant Day, in which a student would portray an illeagal immigrant and someone would catch him. Michigan State's President, Anna K. Simon, denounced the stunyt on her blog.
The times article portrayed the fact of college officials having blogs as a novelty; elders trying to get hip with the kids. While this is rather lame, it doesn't intrest me as much as the claim that "no professor or administrator should express an opinion publicly about anything."
As a young American (sort of) for freedom, I must say that I am not intimidated into silence when a professor, president, or chanclor disagrees with me. To view every authority figure as a surrogate father is a conservative affliction that I am not infected with. To suggest that college officials violate student's freedom of speech by practicint their own...
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.
Back in Flatrock Again
So here I am, home. North Platte is dark and quiet. It always is. Of course, I guess that the holiday has practically already started, but no, the town is quieter than usual.
My family greeted me with hugs and not much else. We are a blue-collar family, you understand. My mother works tommarow, than we go to my grandmother's to eat, than we return to routine. Except it's not mine anymore, just awkwardness.
The drive was pleasant. It was a sunny day, and warm. I made pit stop at the Big Apple in Kearney, the greatest bowling alley in the world. I loved that place when I was a kid. It has bumper cars. I own at bumper cars.
There was some sort of weird dust/mist rising off of the corn fields by the side of the interstate. It may have been overly dry dirt. It may have been some cancerous pesticide. Either one works. Neither will hasten the end of the Great American Heartland faster than the other.
My family greeted me with hugs and not much else. We are a blue-collar family, you understand. My mother works tommarow, than we go to my grandmother's to eat, than we return to routine. Except it's not mine anymore, just awkwardness.
The drive was pleasant. It was a sunny day, and warm. I made pit stop at the Big Apple in Kearney, the greatest bowling alley in the world. I loved that place when I was a kid. It has bumper cars. I own at bumper cars.
There was some sort of weird dust/mist rising off of the corn fields by the side of the interstate. It may have been overly dry dirt. It may have been some cancerous pesticide. Either one works. Neither will hasten the end of the Great American Heartland faster than the other.
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