Saturday, February 28, 2004
Crazies...
New starflyer album. Hot. Sentence-fragmentingly hot.
Today's post is brought to you by Post®. Post®, maker of over two kinds of breakfast cereal and maybe some other stuff, has little bond other than common sympathy with its lower-cased counterpart in the blogging world. Yet beneath all the corporate trappings of a capital P and trademark sign, Post® is really made up of the same four letters as post, and the shared pronunciation is undeniable. So in the spirit of camaraderie, the maker of Toasties®, Boasties®, and possibly Grossties® has deigned to sponsor a single post. And this is it. Wow.
New starflyer album. Hot. Sentence-fragmentingly hot.
Today's post is brought to you by Post®. Post®, maker of over two kinds of breakfast cereal and maybe some other stuff, has little bond other than common sympathy with its lower-cased counterpart in the blogging world. Yet beneath all the corporate trappings of a capital P and trademark sign, Post® is really made up of the same four letters as post, and the shared pronunciation is undeniable. So in the spirit of camaraderie, the maker of Toasties®, Boasties®, and possibly Grossties® has deigned to sponsor a single post. And this is it. Wow.
Wednesday, February 25, 2004
What?
Pants-too-tight MacKenzie
His pants were white as snow
And everywhere MacKenzie went,
His pants were sure to go.
They followed him to school one day,
Which was against the rule.
It made the children laugh and play
To see a man so cool.
Pants-too-tight MacKenzie
His pants were like Tae-Bo.
And everywhere MacKenzie went,
his thighs were sure to show.
Pants-too-tight MacKenzie
His pants were white as snow
And everywhere MacKenzie went,
His pants were sure to go.
They followed him to school one day,
Which was against the rule.
It made the children laugh and play
To see a man so cool.
Pants-too-tight MacKenzie
His pants were like Tae-Bo.
And everywhere MacKenzie went,
his thighs were sure to show.
Tuesday, February 24, 2004
Continued
Yes, now for the product that will change your life, if you're suffering from unwanted facial glare, etc.
Introducing Insta-Dull! One spray renders any surface grimy, unreflective, and sleep-inducingly boring! We've taken pure extracts of blather, prattle, yammer, and drone, stirred in a little essence of talk show, and poured the whole mixture in a blender with a full spectrum of gray carpet samples, and the result will knock your socks off! (in the least exciting way possible.) But don't take my word for it. Just take a look at the ending to some book I found, before and after I sprayed it with Insta-Dull:
Before: "In the last seconds of his life, Henri made one final grasp at the rope which hung, ravelling, from the roof of the burning skyscraper. Choking on the ashes of the world as he once knew it, he screamed his goodbyes into the blistering night air. So fell the last of the good men, and powerless, the world was swallowed in darkness forever."
After: "His pace slowing by several steps, Henri thought for the third time that day that his actions, if not his thoughts, on the fourth day following the last new moon had been questionable at best. Or perhaps questionable was not precisely the correct word, though on many occasions he had secretly thought that were he questioned, he may, barring such common distractions such the weather or a case of indigestion, be more than able to provide a perfectly reasonable defense for all, or part, of that which he had done on that day which, though seemingly inconsequential to those who had been present, was nonetheless bla bla bla..."
The results speak for themselves! Order now, if you're still awake, and you can receive this powerful dulling agent for all your glare/interest-reducing needs! But that's not all! Insta-Dull is also clinically proven to cure even the most severe cases of reimbursitis (inflammation of the paycheck). Order today and watch your days get duller and your wallet get smuller! Er, smaller. You know how it is with those slogans. They have to rhyme and all.
Yes, now for the product that will change your life, if you're suffering from unwanted facial glare, etc.
Introducing Insta-Dull! One spray renders any surface grimy, unreflective, and sleep-inducingly boring! We've taken pure extracts of blather, prattle, yammer, and drone, stirred in a little essence of talk show, and poured the whole mixture in a blender with a full spectrum of gray carpet samples, and the result will knock your socks off! (in the least exciting way possible.) But don't take my word for it. Just take a look at the ending to some book I found, before and after I sprayed it with Insta-Dull:
Before: "In the last seconds of his life, Henri made one final grasp at the rope which hung, ravelling, from the roof of the burning skyscraper. Choking on the ashes of the world as he once knew it, he screamed his goodbyes into the blistering night air. So fell the last of the good men, and powerless, the world was swallowed in darkness forever."
After: "His pace slowing by several steps, Henri thought for the third time that day that his actions, if not his thoughts, on the fourth day following the last new moon had been questionable at best. Or perhaps questionable was not precisely the correct word, though on many occasions he had secretly thought that were he questioned, he may, barring such common distractions such the weather or a case of indigestion, be more than able to provide a perfectly reasonable defense for all, or part, of that which he had done on that day which, though seemingly inconsequential to those who had been present, was nonetheless bla bla bla..."
The results speak for themselves! Order now, if you're still awake, and you can receive this powerful dulling agent for all your glare/interest-reducing needs! But that's not all! Insta-Dull is also clinically proven to cure even the most severe cases of reimbursitis (inflammation of the paycheck). Order today and watch your days get duller and your wallet get smuller! Er, smaller. You know how it is with those slogans. They have to rhyme and all.
Monday, February 23, 2004
I'm gonna go place.
(today's sbemail was fantastic. really. it hasn't been this good in months.)
My roommate says I crack and piss him up and off, respectively.
Do you suffer from unwanted facial glare? When you're in a reflective mood, do onlookers scream and writhe in pain, hands grasping to shield their retinas? Can you kill ants with a glance? (in France?) Are you radiant in a bad way? If so, somebody out there might have just the product for you. And that somebody might be me.
Introducing the new... oh, crap. It's bedtime. I mean, tune in next time to find out about this life-changing new product that will change your very life!
Sorry... *yawn*... it's a really... exciting product... I... *yawn*... promise.
(today's sbemail was fantastic. really. it hasn't been this good in months.)
My roommate says I crack and piss him up and off, respectively.
Do you suffer from unwanted facial glare? When you're in a reflective mood, do onlookers scream and writhe in pain, hands grasping to shield their retinas? Can you kill ants with a glance? (in France?) Are you radiant in a bad way? If so, somebody out there might have just the product for you. And that somebody might be me.
Introducing the new... oh, crap. It's bedtime. I mean, tune in next time to find out about this life-changing new product that will change your very life!
Sorry... *yawn*... it's a really... exciting product... I... *yawn*... promise.
Sunday, February 22, 2004
it's the way that grapefruit looks at me...
"People are going to think you're a murderer," he said as I wiped the sword clean on my white t-shirt. "Nonsense," I wrote on the wall with my finger, still dripping red. Adding quotation marks and my signature to the inscription, I assured my friend of my unstained reputation. "No one will think I'm a murderer. Now where's my 100% Official Murderer hat?"
He handed me the hat, which I donned, and we walked out the door. We waited around for a taxi cab, but no cab came, so I went back inside and got one from the taxi cabinet. We hailed it; it hailed back, and we started walking home.
I tried to hide when I saw the police dogs turn the corner. They came at me at barkneck speed, and I didn't have a prayer. I fell flat on my back before I hit the ground. "Throw me a bone here," I said, and they barked all the louder at my humor so dry. Bone-dry. Before long, my shirt was in tatters, each dog silently licking clean his own piece of the booty. Shirtless, I was hauled off to jail for the first time in several paragraphs.
The truth is, I didn't murder those tomatoes. They made a vengeful attempt on my life after I sold their military secrets to the pizza place down the street to pay off my considerable debts. They vastly outnumbered me, but I, my friends, am not called Bensaki the Catsup Samurai simply because it sounds cool. I successfully defended my life, and for that I am here in jail, rotting like a tomato or something. If you think of a better simile, or a way to bust out, let me know.
"People are going to think you're a murderer," he said as I wiped the sword clean on my white t-shirt. "Nonsense," I wrote on the wall with my finger, still dripping red. Adding quotation marks and my signature to the inscription, I assured my friend of my unstained reputation. "No one will think I'm a murderer. Now where's my 100% Official Murderer hat?"
He handed me the hat, which I donned, and we walked out the door. We waited around for a taxi cab, but no cab came, so I went back inside and got one from the taxi cabinet. We hailed it; it hailed back, and we started walking home.
I tried to hide when I saw the police dogs turn the corner. They came at me at barkneck speed, and I didn't have a prayer. I fell flat on my back before I hit the ground. "Throw me a bone here," I said, and they barked all the louder at my humor so dry. Bone-dry. Before long, my shirt was in tatters, each dog silently licking clean his own piece of the booty. Shirtless, I was hauled off to jail for the first time in several paragraphs.
The truth is, I didn't murder those tomatoes. They made a vengeful attempt on my life after I sold their military secrets to the pizza place down the street to pay off my considerable debts. They vastly outnumbered me, but I, my friends, am not called Bensaki the Catsup Samurai simply because it sounds cool. I successfully defended my life, and for that I am here in jail, rotting like a tomato or something. If you think of a better simile, or a way to bust out, let me know.
thanks for the freakfest
okay, i can explain. i couldn't find any of my posts, but it turns out they were working overtime in the post office. they pushed paper for so long that finally the paper pushed back. it was an ugly scene. but in the end i got my posts back, and now i'll continue bringing them to you.
hey, if nothing else, my vacation will have got rid of all those casual fairweather types who only read occasionally and don't own the home trivia game. time to party.
til next time, heed this warning well: never take salamanding lessons from a gecko. those guys don't know the first thing about how to salamand.
okay, i can explain. i couldn't find any of my posts, but it turns out they were working overtime in the post office. they pushed paper for so long that finally the paper pushed back. it was an ugly scene. but in the end i got my posts back, and now i'll continue bringing them to you.
hey, if nothing else, my vacation will have got rid of all those casual fairweather types who only read occasionally and don't own the home trivia game. time to party.
til next time, heed this warning well: never take salamanding lessons from a gecko. those guys don't know the first thing about how to salamand.
Thursday, February 12, 2004
Did you see where that frequent?
Well, I'm not sure how to say this. I'm taking a break for a while. It might be for a week or two, or maybe longer. I'm confident that by this time you've learned how to keep your days freaked up all by yourselves. So you won't have too much trouble in my absence. Take care.
bensaki
Well, I'm not sure how to say this. I'm taking a break for a while. It might be for a week or two, or maybe longer. I'm confident that by this time you've learned how to keep your days freaked up all by yourselves. So you won't have too much trouble in my absence. Take care.
bensaki
Tuesday, February 10, 2004
Some might, some might sell out on the birthrite...
Dear [name of student],
We here at [name of college] are totally sweet, and what's more, we continually strive to remain among the most awesome people in history. (When we say "awesome," we mean "really totally rad in every possible way.") In this process we sometimes, regrettably, surpass certain of our students' levels of awesomeness by leaps and bounds. This has recently become true in the case of you, [name of student], for whom we are now entirely too cool. We have examined several alternatives to completely blowing you off, such as upgrading your wardrobe to meet today's increasingly demanding standards and introducing you to some of the bands we like, but after heavy research in areas such as your family background, your acquaintances' opinions of you, embarrassing pictures of you as a baby, and love poems you wrote to that [girl/boy] you liked in fourth grade, we have determined that there is no way you will ever be as cool as us.
So what, exactly, does this mean for you and your academic future? While we, personally, don't give a crap, it remains in our best interest to track your progress and ensure your enrollment somewhere we can easily and conveniently make fun of you. In that spirit, we would like to recommend [names of three of four other, decidedly less awesome colleges], who are way unpopular and would gladly accept anyone willing to enroll with them. The nerds.
In short, we can't be seen with you anymore, and we want all our stuff back. But make sure there's no one around when you bring it to us. Better yet, just leave it in a box under your stupid desk, and we'll pick it up after school.
If you have any questions, contact our registrar, who is screening her calls for the likes of you.
Regards,
[First letter of the name of the college, followed by a hyphen and the word "money"]
Dear [name of student],
We here at [name of college] are totally sweet, and what's more, we continually strive to remain among the most awesome people in history. (When we say "awesome," we mean "really totally rad in every possible way.") In this process we sometimes, regrettably, surpass certain of our students' levels of awesomeness by leaps and bounds. This has recently become true in the case of you, [name of student], for whom we are now entirely too cool. We have examined several alternatives to completely blowing you off, such as upgrading your wardrobe to meet today's increasingly demanding standards and introducing you to some of the bands we like, but after heavy research in areas such as your family background, your acquaintances' opinions of you, embarrassing pictures of you as a baby, and love poems you wrote to that [girl/boy] you liked in fourth grade, we have determined that there is no way you will ever be as cool as us.
So what, exactly, does this mean for you and your academic future? While we, personally, don't give a crap, it remains in our best interest to track your progress and ensure your enrollment somewhere we can easily and conveniently make fun of you. In that spirit, we would like to recommend [names of three of four other, decidedly less awesome colleges], who are way unpopular and would gladly accept anyone willing to enroll with them. The nerds.
In short, we can't be seen with you anymore, and we want all our stuff back. But make sure there's no one around when you bring it to us. Better yet, just leave it in a box under your stupid desk, and we'll pick it up after school.
If you have any questions, contact our registrar, who is screening her calls for the likes of you.
Regards,
[First letter of the name of the college, followed by a hyphen and the word "money"]
Monday, February 09, 2004
Sunday, February 08, 2004
Eschew eschewing gum
This is the true story of my trip to The Land of Nothing But a Chestnut.*
As I stood there on the airplane, I knew something was wrong. Not only were there no visible seats on the smooth, cylindrical metal floor, it was becoming harder by the second to keep myself attached to the accelerating plane. As I flew off, the realization hit me seconds before the runway that I ought to have been standing in the airplane. Momentum dragged me across the pavement until a suitcase on a nearby luggage cart popped open and a halter top hit me in the face, bringing me to a quick halt. I stood up and walked the remaining seven thousand miles to The Land of Nothing But a Chestnut. On the border of said Land stood much more than a chestnut. To get a good idea of what there was, take a chestnut and add three giant mutant pigmen with bulging muscles and forehead veins, ready to impale you upon hundreds of tiny pieces of lead at a moment's notice, then subtract the chestnut. Yeah. So I nonchalantly dropped to my hands and knees and casually began to crawl past them, whistling an inconsequential tune. A few seconds later my head hit shin, and I looked up to see a gruesome spit-laden mouth growl, "What do you think you're doing?" I told him, "Goo goo, ga ga," in keeping with my infantile camouflage. Mistaking my innocent babblings for foreign nationalistic rhetoric, he bellowed something about filthiness, infidels, renunciation, and slaughter, and slammed the barrel of his gun down my throat. I coughed a bunch. It looked like the end was immanent, but I checked my dictionary and discovered it was imminent. Suddenly I had a vision of the Electric Disco Fencepost, and he told me what to do, by way of interpretive dance. So I stepped on the pigman's toes, screamed in his nose (yeah, i know... but it worked) and gouged his bad attitude out. Finally free to enter The Land of Nothing But a Chestnut, I found it surprisingly vacant. Pulling out the crude map of TLONBAC that the old senile pretzel vendor-turned-cartologist had drawn for me, I read his vague directions leading to an unnamed "point of interest." I was uneasy, but I proceeded. As I turned the final corner I beheld, shrouded in a thick fog of nothing at all, a single chestnut. The map fell from my suddenly convulsing hand, and I stared for days until my mind was utterly blown and I died. There I can be found to this day, an expression of pure ecstasy on my slightly decayed face. They'll probably cart me away one of these days.
*Condensed version of the story: I went there. There was nothing but a chestnut. Far out.
This is the true story of my trip to The Land of Nothing But a Chestnut.*
As I stood there on the airplane, I knew something was wrong. Not only were there no visible seats on the smooth, cylindrical metal floor, it was becoming harder by the second to keep myself attached to the accelerating plane. As I flew off, the realization hit me seconds before the runway that I ought to have been standing in the airplane. Momentum dragged me across the pavement until a suitcase on a nearby luggage cart popped open and a halter top hit me in the face, bringing me to a quick halt. I stood up and walked the remaining seven thousand miles to The Land of Nothing But a Chestnut. On the border of said Land stood much more than a chestnut. To get a good idea of what there was, take a chestnut and add three giant mutant pigmen with bulging muscles and forehead veins, ready to impale you upon hundreds of tiny pieces of lead at a moment's notice, then subtract the chestnut. Yeah. So I nonchalantly dropped to my hands and knees and casually began to crawl past them, whistling an inconsequential tune. A few seconds later my head hit shin, and I looked up to see a gruesome spit-laden mouth growl, "What do you think you're doing?" I told him, "Goo goo, ga ga," in keeping with my infantile camouflage. Mistaking my innocent babblings for foreign nationalistic rhetoric, he bellowed something about filthiness, infidels, renunciation, and slaughter, and slammed the barrel of his gun down my throat. I coughed a bunch. It looked like the end was immanent, but I checked my dictionary and discovered it was imminent. Suddenly I had a vision of the Electric Disco Fencepost, and he told me what to do, by way of interpretive dance. So I stepped on the pigman's toes, screamed in his nose (yeah, i know... but it worked) and gouged his bad attitude out. Finally free to enter The Land of Nothing But a Chestnut, I found it surprisingly vacant. Pulling out the crude map of TLONBAC that the old senile pretzel vendor-turned-cartologist had drawn for me, I read his vague directions leading to an unnamed "point of interest." I was uneasy, but I proceeded. As I turned the final corner I beheld, shrouded in a thick fog of nothing at all, a single chestnut. The map fell from my suddenly convulsing hand, and I stared for days until my mind was utterly blown and I died. There I can be found to this day, an expression of pure ecstasy on my slightly decayed face. They'll probably cart me away one of these days.
*Condensed version of the story: I went there. There was nothing but a chestnut. Far out.
Thursday, February 05, 2004
A fair is a veritable smorgasbord, orgasbord, orgasbord.
I know you've all had those days when you felt more like nonsensical syllables than words. Or if you haven't, you probably skop bop shibbledy bop shoe day. Either way, that's the kind of day i'm having right now. Skee-ball. So if you don't mind, here is the tale of Boing fiddle-dee Venghis Khan, as told by Smirk Wilderly Cheesball McSnee.
"Once upon two typogriffical potbellies, nifty nine nineball sparcheesi lagoon. Inkus blinkspiff chokeldy morgan, fee phi noisemaker spork. Grank took a dehrft in the wimbledon snowball, fifty-five gallon galosh. Josh. Normifpicktacular, bach bach bacardi, ankle pant panda bear golfcake religion. After a bowspock, nor in a toefrock, lappis m'geller trifecta the clown. Eeen. Eeen. Eeen for an hour, bigger than poptarts, pineapple funk. Smoggus and boggus and creamcheese and floggus, ignore a flotacular roman cigar. Nip nip Nigeria, bundt cake bacteria. Fingus fo-tungus bionic fine art. Minkspotes and celery, jim-jiving jello. Ducksnap that fellow with festering cod. Gorgonsmith tugboat with scarf-monkey beandip, nobody sneaks in the purple brick toad."
(Today's story has been entirely fictional. Any similarity between the characters, places, and events of this story and real people, places, and events is next to impossible.)
I know you've all had those days when you felt more like nonsensical syllables than words. Or if you haven't, you probably skop bop shibbledy bop shoe day. Either way, that's the kind of day i'm having right now. Skee-ball. So if you don't mind, here is the tale of Boing fiddle-dee Venghis Khan, as told by Smirk Wilderly Cheesball McSnee.
"Once upon two typogriffical potbellies, nifty nine nineball sparcheesi lagoon. Inkus blinkspiff chokeldy morgan, fee phi noisemaker spork. Grank took a dehrft in the wimbledon snowball, fifty-five gallon galosh. Josh. Normifpicktacular, bach bach bacardi, ankle pant panda bear golfcake religion. After a bowspock, nor in a toefrock, lappis m'geller trifecta the clown. Eeen. Eeen. Eeen for an hour, bigger than poptarts, pineapple funk. Smoggus and boggus and creamcheese and floggus, ignore a flotacular roman cigar. Nip nip Nigeria, bundt cake bacteria. Fingus fo-tungus bionic fine art. Minkspotes and celery, jim-jiving jello. Ducksnap that fellow with festering cod. Gorgonsmith tugboat with scarf-monkey beandip, nobody sneaks in the purple brick toad."
(Today's story has been entirely fictional. Any similarity between the characters, places, and events of this story and real people, places, and events is next to impossible.)
Tuesday, February 03, 2004
Monday, February 02, 2004
Freak on
So the Superblow superblew. I don't understand why people like me who hate football still end up watching that mess. It does hearken back, though, to the tradition of watching a ball get dropped on New Year's Eve, even when you're not a Chicago Cubs fan. Ok, no more sports will be mentioned in my blog. Ever.
I'm thinking about getting a soul. Preferably one with some credit left on it in case i ever need immeasurable worldly riches, but i'm not picky. I just need one for my soular-powered car. It runs on faith. Although it will never quite replace my old Dodge Spirit. That was the best car I've ever driven. And though it is gone in body, i like to think it is still here in... um... in... never mind.
So the Superblow superblew. I don't understand why people like me who hate football still end up watching that mess. It does hearken back, though, to the tradition of watching a ball get dropped on New Year's Eve, even when you're not a Chicago Cubs fan. Ok, no more sports will be mentioned in my blog. Ever.
I'm thinking about getting a soul. Preferably one with some credit left on it in case i ever need immeasurable worldly riches, but i'm not picky. I just need one for my soular-powered car. It runs on faith. Although it will never quite replace my old Dodge Spirit. That was the best car I've ever driven. And though it is gone in body, i like to think it is still here in... um... in... never mind.
Sunday, February 01, 2004
