Hello. My name is Dr. Robert J. Murk. If you are reading this, you are at my blog. Welcome, ya mangy fucktwist. I hope you do enjoy. I'm really keen on that.
So, if this is not your first time here, you might be a sayin', 'Bob, where you been and what you been a doin'?' You want a map? Fine.
As much as I love you all, I was doing life stuff. Making money, initiating projects, negotiating the surrender of Haiti, bawlin chicks and roasting delicious birds over a giant fire. The fire was my neighbor's house.
In all seriousness, I've been writing my new number one bestseller help book called, "You Outrageous Titty Fuckers: The Story of How Murk Fixed All His Good Friends for Good." Yes, my alternate title, "Murk: Fix The Ones You Love" got canned by my publisher. I hope they like the new title. I hope you smell ass and die.
I'm trying to be serious and it's not working. So, you want a sneak peek at my book, huh? Self help is such a money maker. I'll give you a preview, but I'm editing out anything good that you should, by rights pay for. Fair. Yes it is, cheapshit.
"The moment one realizes that eliminating [removed] from one's life by...
... translated correctly means... all wealth and power become yours by [removed]... ... ... collision on sub atomic levels... neurotransmitter seretonin... * ... fuckers... secret masonic buncker located in [removed]... Michael Jackson bleeding to death... rich, corinthian leather... lots of towels for this process."
And that's just the first paragraph!
So, if this book is released via Publish on Demand, who would buy it? I'm glad we met, suckers!
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Letter to Myself
The Malach meme is here to stay and now I need to follow orders from Eve and do the letter. For those of you not in the know, the Malach Meme is a letter to your younger self. I reach back to age 13.
Dear Robby,
This is your older self. Your brother came up with the bright idea of getting a bunch of people to write letters to themselves and so, being his faithful servant, I write to you.
I have advice for you. You hate advice. The situation is, well, precarious at best. You tend to do the opposite of what people tell you to do. Bear in mind, I'm still as stubborn as anyone and even I can't argue with following the advice I give to you. It's good advice and you can take all the credit for it, because I am you etc etc.
1. Don't ever drink alcohol again. We end up wasting a good seven years of our lives trying to hang on to a habit that does nothing for us. You are going to have to trust me on this one.
2. Don't take up smoking. Very soon, most people your age will think it's dumb anyways.
3. Forget everyone but family. The friends you have now and will make in the future don't even stick around.
4. There's a few friends later on who technically are family. One is your wife. She doesn't show up until the end of high school.
5. Go to film school. Steal every piece of equipment you can. Don't get into writing scripts. Just get out there and film and edit.
6. Technology. Especially computers. Can't stress that enough. Huge. Draw your own conclusions.
7. Relax. If you don't, you'll be very unhappy.
8. Do better in school. Seriously. You're better than that.
9. The less you say, the better. Let other do the talking. Listen, learn and let other people talk.
10. You do just fine. House, pretty wife, nice car. You even make a bit of money from time to time. You don't need much more. In fact, if you try and get more, you might lose the stuff you have.
Look. I hate to say it, but you're 13 and you don't know shit. Don't get all pissy, fix it. Learn everything you can from every possible source. Then, toss all that learning out and figure out what real intelligence means. Shut your mouth, love the simple stuff, quit worrying and work as hard as you can without going nuts.
Oh, and everything is made up inside your head. Repeat it until you believe it, and sooner or later it becomes truth. The best thing you can do is repeat the positive stuff over and over. Life will provide enough negativity to balance you out.
Here are the key words:
Internet, 1999 stock crash, Rebecca S., Bridgewater, Masons, Graeme, Brothers, circles, web sites, digital video, family, experiment, unity, and patience.
Other than that, you take 2 jobs you swore you never would and don't get involved in gossip and lies. Try never to gossip or lie and your world will be much better.
Remember, shut up and listen. Vital information is there for the taking.
I won't spoil anything else for you. Surprises, even bad ones, are fun.
Bye,
Murk
Dear Robby,
This is your older self. Your brother came up with the bright idea of getting a bunch of people to write letters to themselves and so, being his faithful servant, I write to you.
I have advice for you. You hate advice. The situation is, well, precarious at best. You tend to do the opposite of what people tell you to do. Bear in mind, I'm still as stubborn as anyone and even I can't argue with following the advice I give to you. It's good advice and you can take all the credit for it, because I am you etc etc.
1. Don't ever drink alcohol again. We end up wasting a good seven years of our lives trying to hang on to a habit that does nothing for us. You are going to have to trust me on this one.
2. Don't take up smoking. Very soon, most people your age will think it's dumb anyways.
3. Forget everyone but family. The friends you have now and will make in the future don't even stick around.
4. There's a few friends later on who technically are family. One is your wife. She doesn't show up until the end of high school.
5. Go to film school. Steal every piece of equipment you can. Don't get into writing scripts. Just get out there and film and edit.
6. Technology. Especially computers. Can't stress that enough. Huge. Draw your own conclusions.
7. Relax. If you don't, you'll be very unhappy.
8. Do better in school. Seriously. You're better than that.
9. The less you say, the better. Let other do the talking. Listen, learn and let other people talk.
10. You do just fine. House, pretty wife, nice car. You even make a bit of money from time to time. You don't need much more. In fact, if you try and get more, you might lose the stuff you have.
Look. I hate to say it, but you're 13 and you don't know shit. Don't get all pissy, fix it. Learn everything you can from every possible source. Then, toss all that learning out and figure out what real intelligence means. Shut your mouth, love the simple stuff, quit worrying and work as hard as you can without going nuts.
Oh, and everything is made up inside your head. Repeat it until you believe it, and sooner or later it becomes truth. The best thing you can do is repeat the positive stuff over and over. Life will provide enough negativity to balance you out.
Here are the key words:
Internet, 1999 stock crash, Rebecca S., Bridgewater, Masons, Graeme, Brothers, circles, web sites, digital video, family, experiment, unity, and patience.
Other than that, you take 2 jobs you swore you never would and don't get involved in gossip and lies. Try never to gossip or lie and your world will be much better.
Remember, shut up and listen. Vital information is there for the taking.
I won't spoil anything else for you. Surprises, even bad ones, are fun.
Bye,
Murk
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Op Ed
Thursday is the day for my weekly Op Ed piece. What? No. I didn't start until today, dumbass. Fine, be that way.
Editorial:
Cops on Bicycles.
Police hate bicycles. Watch the TV show 'Cops' for a few episodes and you will see them take a perp off a bike and NEEDLESSLY KICK THE BIKE on the way down. Oh sure, in some episodes you see Cops on Bicycles, but that's just part of a sensitivity training program for Cops who refuse to take a leave of absence for spiting on minorities. Start with the bikes, is their philosophy. If a Cop can ride a bike without kicking it, he or she can certainly be tolerant of the 'other races'.
Personally, I bear no ill will towards bicycles as a group. Some of my best friends are bicycles. I mean, hell, haven'y we all tried riding one at least once? I tried it, it wasn't for me. I was experimenting with a lot of drugs at the time and was mixed up and had no transportation. You'd have done the same thing.
So, Cops kinda suck if they hate bicycles for no reason, right? Well, they suck even if they have a reason. Most Cops would LOVE to ride a bicycle and are secretly fond of them. So, they kick them on the way down. It's like riding them, in a way, only much more violent.
Not all Cops hate bicycles. The previous statement is false.
I once saw a Cop piss on a bicycle. He saw me watching and waved. He WAVED while PISSING on a BICYCLE in broad daylight and no one did anything. A week later, I received a threatening Birthday Card. "Happy Birthday," it said. "Don't fuck with me or I'll kill you." I cn only assume it was that Cop. They're so clever. There's no way to prove he was serious, the judge said. At least he said he was the judge when I met him at the park and ride to discuss bicycles.
So, if you're riding a bike and you see a Cop, don't be surprised when you end up in jail!
Murk.
Editorial:
Cops on Bicycles.
Police hate bicycles. Watch the TV show 'Cops' for a few episodes and you will see them take a perp off a bike and NEEDLESSLY KICK THE BIKE on the way down. Oh sure, in some episodes you see Cops on Bicycles, but that's just part of a sensitivity training program for Cops who refuse to take a leave of absence for spiting on minorities. Start with the bikes, is their philosophy. If a Cop can ride a bike without kicking it, he or she can certainly be tolerant of the 'other races'.
Personally, I bear no ill will towards bicycles as a group. Some of my best friends are bicycles. I mean, hell, haven'y we all tried riding one at least once? I tried it, it wasn't for me. I was experimenting with a lot of drugs at the time and was mixed up and had no transportation. You'd have done the same thing.
So, Cops kinda suck if they hate bicycles for no reason, right? Well, they suck even if they have a reason. Most Cops would LOVE to ride a bicycle and are secretly fond of them. So, they kick them on the way down. It's like riding them, in a way, only much more violent.
Not all Cops hate bicycles. The previous statement is false.
I once saw a Cop piss on a bicycle. He saw me watching and waved. He WAVED while PISSING on a BICYCLE in broad daylight and no one did anything. A week later, I received a threatening Birthday Card. "Happy Birthday," it said. "Don't fuck with me or I'll kill you." I cn only assume it was that Cop. They're so clever. There's no way to prove he was serious, the judge said. At least he said he was the judge when I met him at the park and ride to discuss bicycles.
So, if you're riding a bike and you see a Cop, don't be surprised when you end up in jail!
Murk.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
HEY! UNIVERSE!!!!!!! YOU'RE NEXT!!!!!
There's a Murksplosion coming...... ggggggrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Lost In Translation
here is another piece of mail that got lost:
Dear Dr Murk-
last night i had this dream that you were chasing me around with a ladle and had the tail of a squirrel. at first i was scared, but then i was oddly turned on.
does this happen frequently?
To answer your first question first, yes. Dreaming happens frequently. Some people dream of old friends and better days. Some people dream that the world will end. Other people have the SquirrelMurk with a Ladle Dream.
Dreams are such a broad topic that...
Anyways, dream interpretation is a side camp of Fruedian psychology that is often used to make penises out of pie charts, so, I will use a more neo-clastic, Reagan based turn for turn wrap analysis of your dreamy-poo.
The Murk stands for authority with wicked intentions. The Ladle is the cup with which wickedness catches innosence's leavings. Your initial fear is the spark of curiosity. The Squirrel tail implies a foreign, but somehow familiar and cozy beastlike presence. Then, you are safe. warm, aroused.
Mmmmmmm. It makes sense to me. ;)
Murk
Dear Dr Murk-
last night i had this dream that you were chasing me around with a ladle and had the tail of a squirrel. at first i was scared, but then i was oddly turned on.
does this happen frequently?
To answer your first question first, yes. Dreaming happens frequently. Some people dream of old friends and better days. Some people dream that the world will end. Other people have the SquirrelMurk with a Ladle Dream.
Dreams are such a broad topic that...
Anyways, dream interpretation is a side camp of Fruedian psychology that is often used to make penises out of pie charts, so, I will use a more neo-clastic, Reagan based turn for turn wrap analysis of your dreamy-poo.
The Murk stands for authority with wicked intentions. The Ladle is the cup with which wickedness catches innosence's leavings. Your initial fear is the spark of curiosity. The Squirrel tail implies a foreign, but somehow familiar and cozy beastlike presence. Then, you are safe. warm, aroused.
Mmmmmmm. It makes sense to me. ;)
Murk
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Fan Mail
Every once in a while I receive a bit of mail from one of my puppets. Sometimes, they pose some tough questions. Here's one email I received last hour from one really critical fan:
Dear Doctor Murk,
How do you remain so consistently awesome?
John
Well, for one, I train contantly in martial arts and can be frequently found in the middle of kung fu battles with deadly hatchet men. Usually, I fight people with a full grown bull tied to my back to simulate the high gravity situations I frequently encounter on larger planets. Also, I limit myself to one strike a minute to ensure that I take multiple punches and kill with one blow.
I drive a very expensive car that doesn't even have a name because it's built by Lockheed Martin Skunkworks. It travels between dimensional space and instantly teleports hot chicks into my bed for when I get home. Mrs. Dr. Murk kills them instantly by just being so incredibly hot that they die of shame and envy.
I invented two new types of gold that are better than the original gold most people have. I make six foot daggers out of it and stab battleships with them.
I don't light my own cigarettes. They know when to light, and what will happen if they don't. I no longer need to drink alcohol to get a buzz on. I am actually considered a class D substance, and so any people within a few kilometers of me immediately trembles into a state of euphoria.
I pee pure sunshine and am actually powering the entire eastern coast of the United States right now.
In short, I rock.
I grow tired of your flattery, people. It's so unbecomming. So, close your drool faucet and let me think about how to manage the entire world for the next fifty years.
Thank you and I hope this answers your question, John.
I love you,
Murk
Dear Doctor Murk,
How do you remain so consistently awesome?
John
Well, for one, I train contantly in martial arts and can be frequently found in the middle of kung fu battles with deadly hatchet men. Usually, I fight people with a full grown bull tied to my back to simulate the high gravity situations I frequently encounter on larger planets. Also, I limit myself to one strike a minute to ensure that I take multiple punches and kill with one blow.
I drive a very expensive car that doesn't even have a name because it's built by Lockheed Martin Skunkworks. It travels between dimensional space and instantly teleports hot chicks into my bed for when I get home. Mrs. Dr. Murk kills them instantly by just being so incredibly hot that they die of shame and envy.
I invented two new types of gold that are better than the original gold most people have. I make six foot daggers out of it and stab battleships with them.
I don't light my own cigarettes. They know when to light, and what will happen if they don't. I no longer need to drink alcohol to get a buzz on. I am actually considered a class D substance, and so any people within a few kilometers of me immediately trembles into a state of euphoria.
I pee pure sunshine and am actually powering the entire eastern coast of the United States right now.
In short, I rock.
I grow tired of your flattery, people. It's so unbecomming. So, close your drool faucet and let me think about how to manage the entire world for the next fifty years.
Thank you and I hope this answers your question, John.
I love you,
Murk
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Ut Oh!
Forgot a Murko.
Tequilla Mockingbird. This blog wins the Brutally Awesome Double Middle Finger Salute for Bravery, Comedy and Social Critique.
Let's see Malach make an award for that!
Tequilla Mockingbird. This blog wins the Brutally Awesome Double Middle Finger Salute for Bravery, Comedy and Social Critique.
Let's see Malach make an award for that!
Speling Misstakes
I formerly apolagise four all ov the speling and gramar misstakes i've ben macking latly. Plese dont stop reading my blog becuz I canned be bothred to proofread.
Oh, come on. Half the mistakes are puns, intentional or utherwise. Sorry I cant just be funny and proper and make fun of jorge bush all the time because that's wickid tuff to do on a consistent basis.
You know, when I was I boy, I followed my grandfatha around and shot a turkey. blah blah blah, sentimental reverie, poor me poor me, and shit I cant evin give a crap about let alone scribble with my crayons a fart on and on in th wind and claim it smells like my frat buddies ass.
so, ger drunk and be cool and pretend your educaded. Grate. Awesome. Take that cheek out of your toun gue and swalow it.
Oh, come on. Half the mistakes are puns, intentional or utherwise. Sorry I cant just be funny and proper and make fun of jorge bush all the time because that's wickid tuff to do on a consistent basis.
You know, when I was I boy, I followed my grandfatha around and shot a turkey. blah blah blah, sentimental reverie, poor me poor me, and shit I cant evin give a crap about let alone scribble with my crayons a fart on and on in th wind and claim it smells like my frat buddies ass.
so, ger drunk and be cool and pretend your educaded. Grate. Awesome. Take that cheek out of your toun gue and swalow it.
The Final Murkoes
First, we must clarify a few previous Murkoes. You, my lovely idiots, failed to understand that C. Rag's award was for... well, C. Rag. Nuff Daid. If that don't clear it up, then wait a week and you won't need to use her because you'll stop bleeding eventually. Unless you're hemmoraging. Morgan Freeman as a cheerleader?
In a stunning upset (where have I heard that before) Anxious Mike has one the Murko for the most Whorish Self Promotion, for this post. We all know Malach should win this award every year, but even a broken watch is right twice a day. So, gudos to MIKE! At least this is one award you actually CAN win. God, it's like a creepy circle jerk of love over there right now.
And last but not least, I am going to reluctantly award Christopher Morris an award for The Best Attempt at Being Cool, and Failing Miserably.
Wait... hold on one minute................. good. Okay. We have a late entry. Comeback Blogger of the Year!!!!! Captain Flak Paperpants!!!!! All I can say is roll me over and fuck me backwards!
As November draws to a painful close, we'd like to remind all of the faithful blogging community that the Murkoes aren't for everybody. That's why they're special. So, if you didn't get one this year, you probably fucked sumthin up or just plain didn't deserve one.
Goodnight, and remember, have your relatives spayed or neutered.
Murk
ps. Malach, thanks for reposting my stuff and making the awards. Don't worry about correcting my spelling. I kind of love you I think.
In a stunning upset (where have I heard that before) Anxious Mike has one the Murko for the most Whorish Self Promotion, for this post. We all know Malach should win this award every year, but even a broken watch is right twice a day. So, gudos to MIKE! At least this is one award you actually CAN win. God, it's like a creepy circle jerk of love over there right now.
And last but not least, I am going to reluctantly award Christopher Morris an award for The Best Attempt at Being Cool, and Failing Miserably.
Wait... hold on one minute................. good. Okay. We have a late entry. Comeback Blogger of the Year!!!!! Captain Flak Paperpants!!!!! All I can say is roll me over and fuck me backwards!
As November draws to a painful close, we'd like to remind all of the faithful blogging community that the Murkoes aren't for everybody. That's why they're special. So, if you didn't get one this year, you probably fucked sumthin up or just plain didn't deserve one.
Goodnight, and remember, have your relatives spayed or neutered.
Murk
ps. Malach, thanks for reposting my stuff and making the awards. Don't worry about correcting my spelling. I kind of love you I think.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Murko Update!
This just in:
Here Today, Gone Tomorrow for...
Best Blog By a Vigo Mortensen Stalker.
Man, did he get old FAST.
C. Rag has also won. C. Rag. Nuff Daid.
Here Today, Gone Tomorrow for...
Best Blog By a Vigo Mortensen Stalker.
Man, did he get old FAST.
C. Rag has also won. C. Rag. Nuff Daid.
Monday, November 12, 2007
More Murkoes
HEY HEY! suckmyballs it's time fore more Murkoes!
Well, well, it's been a great year for blogs. Yes, and this next award goes to the most offensive blogger of the year. Sara Sue is so offensive she was CENCORED!!!!!
I proudly present the award for Best Blog About Beer and Tits to Sara Sue for Beer Is Not Food
And now, for a very special Lifetime Achievement Award from the Murk Academy.
Back in the early years of blogging, many suffering writers bucked their carpal tunnel syndrome and fought valliantly for attention. Not this prick. He gave one simple word...
"Buddies,"
The Joey Polanski Show has been a staple of the blogosphere for many years now. Joey never asked for fame. He just wanted to play a trick on his brother Piet. Unfortunately, people LOVED him. Now, he's stuck with us. His vision was to let all the bloggers have the stage in his comments section. Mission Accomplished!
Bravo Joey!
Well, well, it's been a great year for blogs. Yes, and this next award goes to the most offensive blogger of the year. Sara Sue is so offensive she was CENCORED!!!!!
I proudly present the award for Best Blog About Beer and Tits to Sara Sue for Beer Is Not Food
And now, for a very special Lifetime Achievement Award from the Murk Academy.
Back in the early years of blogging, many suffering writers bucked their carpal tunnel syndrome and fought valliantly for attention. Not this prick. He gave one simple word...
"Buddies,"
The Joey Polanski Show has been a staple of the blogosphere for many years now. Joey never asked for fame. He just wanted to play a trick on his brother Piet. Unfortunately, people LOVED him. Now, he's stuck with us. His vision was to let all the bloggers have the stage in his comments section. Mission Accomplished!
Bravo Joey!
Monday, November 5, 2007
Murkos Commercial Break
The wonder that is Dr. Robert J. Murk is financed by The Third Option Media Network. In compliance with their STOOOPID agenda, I present to you, a commercial.
Mork Murkos after the break! Stay tuned.
Mork Murkos after the break! Stay tuned.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
The second Murko goes to...
Colonel Colonel, the Mad Bookseller, for Bestest, Most Funniest Post About Irish Personal Ads. Ooohhhhhhhhhhh, GREAT JOB!!!!!!
In a related story, The Angry Piper wins the Murko for Laziest Tale of a Trip to Ireland for his Irish Holiday posts. Booooo! Slap, STING!
In a related story, The Angry Piper wins the Murko for Laziest Tale of a Trip to Ireland for his Irish Holiday posts. Booooo! Slap, STING!
Friday, October 26, 2007
The First Murko Goes To...
The Murko for 'Best Fiction Series' goes to The Angry Piper for Tales of the WoW.
A SHOCKING upset in this category, as the frontrunner, Christopher Morris with his Meet the Heroes series is slighted by the Murk Academy. Yes, yes, I know the posted version I linked to is not a blog, but all of these stories are available and posted on the Wand of Wonder blog under the category Tales of the WoW.
In a related twist of fate, the Academy selected Angryman over The Angry Piper to receive the award for 'Angriest Motherfucker. Congrats to Angryman.
We'll be right back after these commercial messages.
A SHOCKING upset in this category, as the frontrunner, Christopher Morris with his Meet the Heroes series is slighted by the Murk Academy. Yes, yes, I know the posted version I linked to is not a blog, but all of these stories are available and posted on the Wand of Wonder blog under the category Tales of the WoW.
In a related twist of fate, the Academy selected Angryman over The Angry Piper to receive the award for 'Angriest Motherfucker. Congrats to Angryman.
We'll be right back after these commercial messages.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Who Wants To Be a Murderer?
Catchy title!
Unfortunately, the actual content of this article is not quite as sensational. I just felt like writing tonight. I don't even know what I feel like writing about yet. Hmmmmmm.
Oh! I got something.
I am going to start my own annual blog awards. They will be called Murkoes. I hope to have the first Murkoes Awards Blog Post by November, so put out, people! AND spam my comments so I can find you all. There will be many categories, some good, some bad. November is like that, people.
So, prepare yourself and get your best stuff up quick, and you might be seeing your name attached to the phrase, "And the Murkoe goes to..."
Peace and Fertility,
Murk
Unfortunately, the actual content of this article is not quite as sensational. I just felt like writing tonight. I don't even know what I feel like writing about yet. Hmmmmmm.
Oh! I got something.
I am going to start my own annual blog awards. They will be called Murkoes. I hope to have the first Murkoes Awards Blog Post by November, so put out, people! AND spam my comments so I can find you all. There will be many categories, some good, some bad. November is like that, people.
So, prepare yourself and get your best stuff up quick, and you might be seeing your name attached to the phrase, "And the Murkoe goes to..."
Peace and Fertility,
Murk
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
The Heart of My Identity
I've had a few requests for an insight into my mind and specifically my identity. In other words, who is Dr. Murk and why is he your identity?
As many of you well know, I flirt with a few online alternate identities, but Murk is my bread and butter. Dr. Robert J. Murk started as an email identity I used to make my friend Jesse laugh. It was Bob Merc. He was a sarcastic, semi-mentally ill drunk.
So, after one failed blog with Spacefarmer, called the Mission (I call it a failure because it didn't really take off. It was more of an experiment than a failure), I decided to make Bob Merc real. But, you can't just have an Identity with no background. I gave myself a PhD (because he's Paid His Dues) and changed the last name to Murk to imply vague, obtuse and opaque.
He was kind of a takeoff on Dr. Phil, but filthy and really caustic. He was a closet arsonist and frequently advocated burning things to solve problems. His life stories were obvious hyperbolic (not hyperbarric) and his palatial estate is a bit of a stretch, but not too much.
Okay, that being said, is Murk a fair representation of the real me? Yes. Murk is my manic, sarcastic, annoyed and judgemental side. He's not a complete picture, but he's a lot of what's in my head while I'm smiling and being polite at work, parties, picnics, natural disasters, etc.
For a time I actually tried on Dr. Murk in real life, with pretty disasterous results.
So, what's true about Murk? Recovering alcoholic, on meds for brain issues, weird as hell, did tons of drugs in college and even into his first career. He worked in finance. His current job is not my current job. When he 'died' for a while, I was pretty dead inside from fatigue, frustration and mental health issues. Malach really is his brother, The Piper is really his good old buddy for 20 years, Spacefarmer/ Cap'n Flak is his business partner and great friend/adopted brother.
So, where does this dark, murky personality stem from? Some is my father's sense of humor, some is my mother's quirky fun side and her no nonsense business side. A lot comes from being the low man in the popular crowd most of my life. People always assumed because I ran with that crowd, I was their equal. No. I was their literal and figurative punching bag for many years. Then, I ditched them senior year of high school in favor of complete random chaotic social life, a life with everybody, I call it. All people can play, even my hated enemies. Everyone is a special part.
BUT, the majority of Murk comes from my deep exploration of the human mind and manipulation of my own mind and others through words, most specifically shock and goading. My friends and associates had a rough go of it, and yeah, it was a passive aggressive way of getting my frustration out, but it was weird. I got good at pissing people off without trying too hard. And I liked it.
After Murk's death, he mellowed and has become kind of a sick mentor and macro-manager of the Third Option Empire (along with Malach and Spacefarmer, of course). Why? I quit drinking, got on meds and actually like all of the people who come and play with me online. I love the give and take and still dish out the occasional punishment, but I've softened the real sting a bit.
I wrote an article on this a while back about how everyone has a Murk in them. Mine just happened to be very close to the surface and needed to come out.
So, what do I do with this guy? Suggestions?
Bear in mind, I use alt identities to semi-cover my ass in case the wrong person stumbles upon one of my blogs or web sites. Reasonable doubt and plausible deniability.
What's next? Give me some ideas people.
Murk.
As many of you well know, I flirt with a few online alternate identities, but Murk is my bread and butter. Dr. Robert J. Murk started as an email identity I used to make my friend Jesse laugh. It was Bob Merc. He was a sarcastic, semi-mentally ill drunk.
So, after one failed blog with Spacefarmer, called the Mission (I call it a failure because it didn't really take off. It was more of an experiment than a failure), I decided to make Bob Merc real. But, you can't just have an Identity with no background. I gave myself a PhD (because he's Paid His Dues) and changed the last name to Murk to imply vague, obtuse and opaque.
He was kind of a takeoff on Dr. Phil, but filthy and really caustic. He was a closet arsonist and frequently advocated burning things to solve problems. His life stories were obvious hyperbolic (not hyperbarric) and his palatial estate is a bit of a stretch, but not too much.
Okay, that being said, is Murk a fair representation of the real me? Yes. Murk is my manic, sarcastic, annoyed and judgemental side. He's not a complete picture, but he's a lot of what's in my head while I'm smiling and being polite at work, parties, picnics, natural disasters, etc.
For a time I actually tried on Dr. Murk in real life, with pretty disasterous results.
So, what's true about Murk? Recovering alcoholic, on meds for brain issues, weird as hell, did tons of drugs in college and even into his first career. He worked in finance. His current job is not my current job. When he 'died' for a while, I was pretty dead inside from fatigue, frustration and mental health issues. Malach really is his brother, The Piper is really his good old buddy for 20 years, Spacefarmer/ Cap'n Flak is his business partner and great friend/adopted brother.
So, where does this dark, murky personality stem from? Some is my father's sense of humor, some is my mother's quirky fun side and her no nonsense business side. A lot comes from being the low man in the popular crowd most of my life. People always assumed because I ran with that crowd, I was their equal. No. I was their literal and figurative punching bag for many years. Then, I ditched them senior year of high school in favor of complete random chaotic social life, a life with everybody, I call it. All people can play, even my hated enemies. Everyone is a special part.
BUT, the majority of Murk comes from my deep exploration of the human mind and manipulation of my own mind and others through words, most specifically shock and goading. My friends and associates had a rough go of it, and yeah, it was a passive aggressive way of getting my frustration out, but it was weird. I got good at pissing people off without trying too hard. And I liked it.
After Murk's death, he mellowed and has become kind of a sick mentor and macro-manager of the Third Option Empire (along with Malach and Spacefarmer, of course). Why? I quit drinking, got on meds and actually like all of the people who come and play with me online. I love the give and take and still dish out the occasional punishment, but I've softened the real sting a bit.
I wrote an article on this a while back about how everyone has a Murk in them. Mine just happened to be very close to the surface and needed to come out.
So, what do I do with this guy? Suggestions?
Bear in mind, I use alt identities to semi-cover my ass in case the wrong person stumbles upon one of my blogs or web sites. Reasonable doubt and plausible deniability.
What's next? Give me some ideas people.
Murk.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
No Problem
Hey, guess what? I made it one whole year without having a single alcoholic drink. As of September 29th, it was one year. Some people are still confused as to why I dried out.
First, I have mood disorders. Depression, mania and anxiety. Alcohol is great to cover these while you're drinking, but makes them worse during the hangover phase.
I was drinking about a liter of brandy (or twelve to sixteen beers) four nights a week. Just not healthy. Plus, I was drinking alone and just to get drunk. I hate to sound like a pamphlet on alcoholism, but if you drink alone, it's a problem. Think about it. It's like celebrating your birthday by yourself or giving a victory speech to no one. It makes no sense other than the fact that your self medicating due to stress and that's bad.
I've seen the end of the alcoholism movie several times. There's three possible outcomes. Hospital and rehab, death or homelessness followed by death. They say I hit a high bottom. Don't get any sexy ideas here. It just means that I never went rock bottom, I went far enough to see the edge of the cliff and know that rock bottom was inevitable if I didn't stop within the next year.
So, what's it like? It's great. I lost 30 pounds in 1 year, I got my sanity back (with a little help from therapy, family, friends and ZOLOFT), and NO MORE HANGOVERS!!!!! Let's put it this way, after age thirty, hangovers last two to four days. If you binge for four straight days, the hangover can last a month, at least the fatigue and depression part.
Do I miss drinking? Actually, no. I miss certain smells and tastes. I was always happiest after the third or fourth drink. Problem is, I couldn't stop. I miss the first shot of brandy with a chaser of coke (soda). I kiss high hopped beers that knock ou on your ass after drinking four (and remember that my tolerance was off the charts high). Other than that, my dream for the past five years was to quit drinking. I was in a chemical prison and no, I don't intend to go back.
The thing I'm most proud of is I can keep my mouth shut when other people get drunk around me. I'm not the one to stop harmful addictions, they are. I'll even have fun with a drunk person.
What's the worst thing? Having to watch everyone else sufer through my personality changes. I hate being a bother, and some people get damn freaked out by the new me. That hurts, especially if I'm very close to them. I try to explain that it's better a new and slightly different me than a dead me.
Anyways, I hadn't done a sobriety update in a while, so for any concerned, I'm doing very well and compared to last year at this time, I am in a much better place in all facets of my life.
Lastly, feel free to slap the abusive comments up on how I quit, and your mamma didn't raise no quitters, or call me a pussy dry wimpo-faggini. I'll respond kindly enough with some simple facts.
Enjoy life, people. Might as well. We're stuck here anyways!
Murk.
First, I have mood disorders. Depression, mania and anxiety. Alcohol is great to cover these while you're drinking, but makes them worse during the hangover phase.
I was drinking about a liter of brandy (or twelve to sixteen beers) four nights a week. Just not healthy. Plus, I was drinking alone and just to get drunk. I hate to sound like a pamphlet on alcoholism, but if you drink alone, it's a problem. Think about it. It's like celebrating your birthday by yourself or giving a victory speech to no one. It makes no sense other than the fact that your self medicating due to stress and that's bad.
I've seen the end of the alcoholism movie several times. There's three possible outcomes. Hospital and rehab, death or homelessness followed by death. They say I hit a high bottom. Don't get any sexy ideas here. It just means that I never went rock bottom, I went far enough to see the edge of the cliff and know that rock bottom was inevitable if I didn't stop within the next year.
So, what's it like? It's great. I lost 30 pounds in 1 year, I got my sanity back (with a little help from therapy, family, friends and ZOLOFT), and NO MORE HANGOVERS!!!!! Let's put it this way, after age thirty, hangovers last two to four days. If you binge for four straight days, the hangover can last a month, at least the fatigue and depression part.
Do I miss drinking? Actually, no. I miss certain smells and tastes. I was always happiest after the third or fourth drink. Problem is, I couldn't stop. I miss the first shot of brandy with a chaser of coke (soda). I kiss high hopped beers that knock ou on your ass after drinking four (and remember that my tolerance was off the charts high). Other than that, my dream for the past five years was to quit drinking. I was in a chemical prison and no, I don't intend to go back.
The thing I'm most proud of is I can keep my mouth shut when other people get drunk around me. I'm not the one to stop harmful addictions, they are. I'll even have fun with a drunk person.
What's the worst thing? Having to watch everyone else sufer through my personality changes. I hate being a bother, and some people get damn freaked out by the new me. That hurts, especially if I'm very close to them. I try to explain that it's better a new and slightly different me than a dead me.
Anyways, I hadn't done a sobriety update in a while, so for any concerned, I'm doing very well and compared to last year at this time, I am in a much better place in all facets of my life.
Lastly, feel free to slap the abusive comments up on how I quit, and your mamma didn't raise no quitters, or call me a pussy dry wimpo-faggini. I'll respond kindly enough with some simple facts.
Enjoy life, people. Might as well. We're stuck here anyways!
Murk.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Yo, I Murk!
Okay, sabatical over.
Look people. We're fucked. There is only one hope. Head Drill.
That's right.
Head Drill.
okaysoletsalllgetadrillandmakeaholeinourhead.
Okay. Put the drill down.
Realize one thing.
1/3- your crazy ass
2/3- everyone else's crazy ass
Lets bring it home. Yes, you screw stuff up but most of the really screwed up stuff is done to you.
Analysis: Not Your Fault
Have a cookie.
Look people. We're fucked. There is only one hope. Head Drill.
That's right.
Head Drill.
okaysoletsalllgetadrillandmakeaholeinourhead.
Okay. Put the drill down.
Realize one thing.
1/3- your crazy ass
2/3- everyone else's crazy ass
Lets bring it home. Yes, you screw stuff up but most of the really screwed up stuff is done to you.
Analysis: Not Your Fault
Have a cookie.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Child's Pig Wins Two Races at Bolton County State Fair
NEWSBOYS EXCLUSIVE:
In another stunning development in the popular sport of Pig Racing, some hyperactive kid named Justin hit a lucky streak when his pig won two races in a row. Experts are calling this a Miracle produced by the god Spankers Wobbly. Others allege a widespreagd pig doping scandal.
When asked, Justin screamed, "Watch out!" and "Train!" and ran over several other children half his size. A large red man was seen wearing a 'Not MY kid...' Tee Shirt.
The pig, called Number 4, was tested and there was no trace of growth horone or steroids, but the child had been injected witha california speedball. Bolton State Fair Police wore uniforms and cried.
The proud father of Justin, wearing a multi-colored wig and flying a kite said, "This is the proudest moment of my label. I didn't even have a son until tomorrow. Is he a cheese yet? I'm so freaking hungry."
The mother of Justin was wonderful and nothing should be said about her. Ever.
The rest of the fair remained calm as Justin's pig tried to win the coveted Pifecta di Trio, but their silent astonishment was all for nothing, as a tragic lighting accident killed all of the race's umpires and the ribbon was given to Robert Redford for his lifetime of achievents.
The crowd exited to the chants of 'bullshit', but Justin seemed nonplussed. He'd found a fire hydrant and was looking for an angle to pee on it. The pig went on to make a great dinner for all involved.
In another stunning development in the popular sport of Pig Racing, some hyperactive kid named Justin hit a lucky streak when his pig won two races in a row. Experts are calling this a Miracle produced by the god Spankers Wobbly. Others allege a widespreagd pig doping scandal.
When asked, Justin screamed, "Watch out!" and "Train!" and ran over several other children half his size. A large red man was seen wearing a 'Not MY kid...' Tee Shirt.
The pig, called Number 4, was tested and there was no trace of growth horone or steroids, but the child had been injected witha california speedball. Bolton State Fair Police wore uniforms and cried.
The proud father of Justin, wearing a multi-colored wig and flying a kite said, "This is the proudest moment of my label. I didn't even have a son until tomorrow. Is he a cheese yet? I'm so freaking hungry."
The mother of Justin was wonderful and nothing should be said about her. Ever.
The rest of the fair remained calm as Justin's pig tried to win the coveted Pifecta di Trio, but their silent astonishment was all for nothing, as a tragic lighting accident killed all of the race's umpires and the ribbon was given to Robert Redford for his lifetime of achievents.
The crowd exited to the chants of 'bullshit', but Justin seemed nonplussed. He'd found a fire hydrant and was looking for an angle to pee on it. The pig went on to make a great dinner for all involved.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
The Long Overdue ESPN Rant
It happened to MTV in the early nineties. MTV stood for Music Television. Now, MTV is Drama Queen Television.
ESPN has decided that the SPORTS part of their broadcasting is not really important. Even Sportscenter, the 'flagship' show, which is supposed to be sports highlights is 50% fluff and human interest. The rest of the shows are almost purely personality driven bar room sports talk.
As a lover of sports, I watch to get AWAY from tear jerking human interest stories, political and legal scandals and above all BIASED ANALYSIS.
One of my favorite ESPN shows use to be NFL Sunday Countdown. They analyzed every game and gave you sports related facts and some speculation on what you could expect during the sporting event in question. Today, that changed. There was one full hour of analysis of, not a game... not a game... but videotaping a game. Not a game... videotaping a game.
Look, I understand that the story about the Patriots filiming a game from the sidelines (which is against NFL rules) is important, but ONE HOUR???? They barely mentioned that there were football games about to be played.
And when will Tom Jackson SHUT THE FUCK UP! Tom, you used to be an intelligent analyst. Now, you're just a puppet house boy playing yes massa to ABC. Grow a set of balls and analyze a game instead of spouting your SHINY NEW MICHAEL IRVING black attitude. Look, Keyshawn Johnson is as dark as they get and even HE thought you were going over the edge.
It's like some female executive at ABC decided to come on over to ESPN and put up curtains and rearrainge the furniture. ESPN is a girl's sports network now: all drama and cat fighting. Analyze a game you fucking puppets.
My suggestion? Fire everyone but Ron Jawarski, let him grow the mustache back and have him do 24 hours of film analysis. Men, rise up and boycott this menstrual swimming pool of sports called ESPN: the Estrogen Sports Network.
Murk
ESPN has decided that the SPORTS part of their broadcasting is not really important. Even Sportscenter, the 'flagship' show, which is supposed to be sports highlights is 50% fluff and human interest. The rest of the shows are almost purely personality driven bar room sports talk.
As a lover of sports, I watch to get AWAY from tear jerking human interest stories, political and legal scandals and above all BIASED ANALYSIS.
One of my favorite ESPN shows use to be NFL Sunday Countdown. They analyzed every game and gave you sports related facts and some speculation on what you could expect during the sporting event in question. Today, that changed. There was one full hour of analysis of, not a game... not a game... but videotaping a game. Not a game... videotaping a game.
Look, I understand that the story about the Patriots filiming a game from the sidelines (which is against NFL rules) is important, but ONE HOUR???? They barely mentioned that there were football games about to be played.
And when will Tom Jackson SHUT THE FUCK UP! Tom, you used to be an intelligent analyst. Now, you're just a puppet house boy playing yes massa to ABC. Grow a set of balls and analyze a game instead of spouting your SHINY NEW MICHAEL IRVING black attitude. Look, Keyshawn Johnson is as dark as they get and even HE thought you were going over the edge.
It's like some female executive at ABC decided to come on over to ESPN and put up curtains and rearrainge the furniture. ESPN is a girl's sports network now: all drama and cat fighting. Analyze a game you fucking puppets.
My suggestion? Fire everyone but Ron Jawarski, let him grow the mustache back and have him do 24 hours of film analysis. Men, rise up and boycott this menstrual swimming pool of sports called ESPN: the Estrogen Sports Network.
Murk
Monday, September 10, 2007
Angryman
No, not me. THE Angryman.
Fact: He's a Lawyer.
Fact: He's a writer of Fiction. He uses a pen name, but his stuff is creative, well written and just long enough to read while taking a two alarm dump.
Fact: He's an outspoken, opinionated freak of a blogger who WILL post you under the table. He posts regularly, but he's not one of those "Oh, listen to my boring life" bloggers.
Fact: He's got staying power and a fan base. Visit him, comment intelligently, and he will comment back and link you if he likes your blog.
Fact: He supports the desalinization of the Atlantic Ocean.
Angryman was brought to my attention by Joey Polanski. Joey is an aquired taste. By that I mean, you aquire his knowledge and taste his sack.
I have a lot of blog buddies and I no longer link them. That's just wrong on my part. But, I am Dr. Murk and I don't link anymore. I do plug. A plug says LOOK AT ME! A link says, eh... if you're bored, go here.
So, to my two buddies (who frequently plug me), right back at ya.
What is it, 4 years now? Jeez peepin' perverts that's a long time.
So, if you're not reading these blogs, you're gay. Not homosexual, gay as in third grade insult gay. Get un-gay and get some REAL blog action.
As for the rest of you that I work with and respect, fuck off. People know where to find you, you advertising whores. Well, except for the Angry Piper who posts once a quarter and doesn't care about me at all... boo fucking hoo.
But a few more Angryman facts. Out of all the bloggers who put 'anger' in their names, he's the angriest. Angry Veteran should be called the whiny Veteran, and Piper is more morose than angry.
Angry man has a wife and people love to guess if it's C. Rag. He also has a dog, but that might be his real wife (no offense to C. Rag, but Angryman does like his wee beasties). And doggie's name is probably Cash. Cash is a good doggie who wants to kill all the humans. I agree. I am willing to serve as his pet.
So, go visit these folks, say hi, link to them and watch your popularity soar. And, laugh your fucking tits off.
Murk
Fact: He's a Lawyer.
Fact: He's a writer of Fiction. He uses a pen name, but his stuff is creative, well written and just long enough to read while taking a two alarm dump.
Fact: He's an outspoken, opinionated freak of a blogger who WILL post you under the table. He posts regularly, but he's not one of those "Oh, listen to my boring life" bloggers.
Fact: He's got staying power and a fan base. Visit him, comment intelligently, and he will comment back and link you if he likes your blog.
Fact: He supports the desalinization of the Atlantic Ocean.
Angryman was brought to my attention by Joey Polanski. Joey is an aquired taste. By that I mean, you aquire his knowledge and taste his sack.
I have a lot of blog buddies and I no longer link them. That's just wrong on my part. But, I am Dr. Murk and I don't link anymore. I do plug. A plug says LOOK AT ME! A link says, eh... if you're bored, go here.
So, to my two buddies (who frequently plug me), right back at ya.
What is it, 4 years now? Jeez peepin' perverts that's a long time.
So, if you're not reading these blogs, you're gay. Not homosexual, gay as in third grade insult gay. Get un-gay and get some REAL blog action.
As for the rest of you that I work with and respect, fuck off. People know where to find you, you advertising whores. Well, except for the Angry Piper who posts once a quarter and doesn't care about me at all... boo fucking hoo.
But a few more Angryman facts. Out of all the bloggers who put 'anger' in their names, he's the angriest. Angry Veteran should be called the whiny Veteran, and Piper is more morose than angry.
Angry man has a wife and people love to guess if it's C. Rag. He also has a dog, but that might be his real wife (no offense to C. Rag, but Angryman does like his wee beasties). And doggie's name is probably Cash. Cash is a good doggie who wants to kill all the humans. I agree. I am willing to serve as his pet.
So, go visit these folks, say hi, link to them and watch your popularity soar. And, laugh your fucking tits off.
Murk
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Follow this and Respond
If...
We have our nine sense
- touch
- taste
- smell
- sight
- hearing
- balance
- body awareness
- thermal
- pain
(pleasure being more of an opinion baseed on a combination of senses)
WHICH OF THESE SENSES DETECTS ENERGY? (i.e. th ability to do work).
We cannot see energy. Look at a ham sammich. It has energy. Tell me what that energy looks like.
YOU CANNOT SENSE THE ENTIRE FLOW OF ENERGY AND THEREFORE YOU SENSE NOTHING.
Go write a cute equation and bend energy to your will. Go on. Do it. Prove my point. The mind manipulates energy through ideas. These ideas become experiments, laws, inventions. Natural selection did not create the microwave oven. A MIND did.
Now, take your mind and think of a device you want. Find out how to make it work, test it, build it, it's there. Man creates.
We have our nine sense
- touch
- taste
- smell
- sight
- hearing
- balance
- body awareness
- thermal
- pain
(pleasure being more of an opinion baseed on a combination of senses)
WHICH OF THESE SENSES DETECTS ENERGY? (i.e. th ability to do work).
We cannot see energy. Look at a ham sammich. It has energy. Tell me what that energy looks like.
YOU CANNOT SENSE THE ENTIRE FLOW OF ENERGY AND THEREFORE YOU SENSE NOTHING.
Go write a cute equation and bend energy to your will. Go on. Do it. Prove my point. The mind manipulates energy through ideas. These ideas become experiments, laws, inventions. Natural selection did not create the microwave oven. A MIND did.
Now, take your mind and think of a device you want. Find out how to make it work, test it, build it, it's there. Man creates.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
The Proof of Prophesy Post
I won't bore you with the details, but remember the name Darren McFadden.
I will reverence this post in 5 years. Then, you will know I am a Phrophet.
I will reverence this post in 5 years. Then, you will know I am a Phrophet.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Whitewash
This article will stay up for a bit to allow discussion.
First, a few disclaimers. I am not a racist. I will be playing the role of a racist. If this is uncomfortable for you, maybe you need to figure out why. No, I'll tell you. If you are uncomfortable, it's because you are part of the problem. All races are human beings. Human beings invented the concept of racism. Racism is created by both the oppressed and the oppressor. If you feed the system in any way, you are to blame for its results. I am playing the part of the results.
Next, I'd like to say that discrimination exists on all levels and is hardly restricted to race. Race gets a lot of press because minorities want their rights and the majority (in our country, caucasians) is afraid of giving those rights. Above all, everyone on both sides wants respect. The problem is, neither party wants to earn it. They just want to bitch about it.
So, when an issue comes up like Michael Vick pleading guilty for dog fighting, executing dogs and gambling, the immediate response is to choose a side, regardless of morality, based on your race.
Here is the problem. African Americans in Atlanta (the large majority of them) don't believe that Michael Vick did anything worse than many other players in pro sports. They believe that his 'boys' got him in trouble. They believe the plea bargain is NOT an admission of guilt, but a shrewd attempt to save his career and not go to prison for a long long long time.
Okay. If you refer to your friends as your 'boys', you're giving me a reason to get upset. You know that in that context, as a white man, I'm going to label you and them a thug. You know it. This is a buzz word now. It carries a connotation. If you want to save your image with the NFL, or if you want to defend Michael Vick so badly... why the fuck do you start off by ramping up people's tension by making his 'crew' of 'boys' an issue.
Also, saying that a plea bargain is not an admission of guilt makes you sound ignorant and disrespectful. If you want the legal system to treat you fairly, you have to play by the rules. You can't encourage people to admit guilt, and then say they're not really guilty, just smart. That's ridiculous. It's an outrage.
This is another instance of the African American community passing blame for a high profile individual from himself to some huge, faceless institution that only wants one thing: to destroy Black America.
Bullshit.
Michale Vick was involved in dog fighting. In America, people go to jail for that. It's the law. It's not a statement on race. The media attention has made this seem like some huge billion dollar federal case. It's not. It never went to trail. It was easy to investigate. It was a prosecutor's dream.
But what some of the citizens of Atlanta want is not justice, but a winning football team. Sports supercede the legal system, and anyone who doesn't agree is a racist or a puppet.
Now, what does that do for the African American community? It makes them seem like half witted, athlete worshiping, uneducated, brutish, insensitive, paranoid anti-establishment ingrates who blame white people for doing what's right and prosecuting dog killers and anyone associated with them.
If some white guy drove around Atlanta with a van and stole dogs from the homes of African Americans and made them fight to the death, or used them as bait dogs, or even was associated with this kind of activity, the Black community would have a field day. There's be a huge dog killing KKK conspiracy and all the liberal world would line up, hold hands and sing protest songs.
But, it's a black athlete and one of their own, so it must be a racist plot. He must be innocent.
I'm sorry, but this is not a sporting event where you root for the home team. This is a disgusting act of cruelty committed by a representitive (like it or not) for the Black community. He proclaimed to the world that he didn't care about setting a good example, representing his people as a strong proud black man. Instead he went out like a two bit hustler, flipping people off, swearing, proclaiming his innocence at the NFL Draft just days after he drowned dogs. Or so his 'boys' say.
Why in God's name would anyone willingly CHOOSE to support him and take the stance that it's just dog fighting and his boys did it. That puts you in with HIM. That says you're like HIM. You don't wantthe justice system to treat minorities unfairly, but yet you WANT to associate with the gansta image and play it off as no big deal. Fine. Go ahead. But quit crying about it then.
Michael Vick cultivated that gansta image, but doesn't want to go to jail? I thought ganstas grew up in jail. That's what they say in all the songs. It's just killing dogs and gang banging and staying loyal to your 'boys'.
Final thought.
If it's some white supremist conspiracy to ruin Michael Vick, why even allow a plea bargain? Why offer a reduced sentence? What has Michael Vick to offer? Nothing. They are going easy on him. I bet they are even trying to get help for him.
Now for a bit of sanity. I'm not a racist. The preceding arguement is easy for even non-racist people, both black and white, to make. Why follow Michael Vick into a pit of filth? Why support him? If he were white, I'd disown him. If Tom Brady is ever arraigned for this and pleads guilty, I will burn my jersey in disgust. I would never promote racial tension to save a dog killer and ruin my own good name for a guy that abandoned my team, killed dogs and made me and my own race look stupid.
Then again, I'm not a racist. Only a racist would do that.
First, a few disclaimers. I am not a racist. I will be playing the role of a racist. If this is uncomfortable for you, maybe you need to figure out why. No, I'll tell you. If you are uncomfortable, it's because you are part of the problem. All races are human beings. Human beings invented the concept of racism. Racism is created by both the oppressed and the oppressor. If you feed the system in any way, you are to blame for its results. I am playing the part of the results.
Next, I'd like to say that discrimination exists on all levels and is hardly restricted to race. Race gets a lot of press because minorities want their rights and the majority (in our country, caucasians) is afraid of giving those rights. Above all, everyone on both sides wants respect. The problem is, neither party wants to earn it. They just want to bitch about it.
So, when an issue comes up like Michael Vick pleading guilty for dog fighting, executing dogs and gambling, the immediate response is to choose a side, regardless of morality, based on your race.
Here is the problem. African Americans in Atlanta (the large majority of them) don't believe that Michael Vick did anything worse than many other players in pro sports. They believe that his 'boys' got him in trouble. They believe the plea bargain is NOT an admission of guilt, but a shrewd attempt to save his career and not go to prison for a long long long time.
Okay. If you refer to your friends as your 'boys', you're giving me a reason to get upset. You know that in that context, as a white man, I'm going to label you and them a thug. You know it. This is a buzz word now. It carries a connotation. If you want to save your image with the NFL, or if you want to defend Michael Vick so badly... why the fuck do you start off by ramping up people's tension by making his 'crew' of 'boys' an issue.
Also, saying that a plea bargain is not an admission of guilt makes you sound ignorant and disrespectful. If you want the legal system to treat you fairly, you have to play by the rules. You can't encourage people to admit guilt, and then say they're not really guilty, just smart. That's ridiculous. It's an outrage.
This is another instance of the African American community passing blame for a high profile individual from himself to some huge, faceless institution that only wants one thing: to destroy Black America.
Bullshit.
Michale Vick was involved in dog fighting. In America, people go to jail for that. It's the law. It's not a statement on race. The media attention has made this seem like some huge billion dollar federal case. It's not. It never went to trail. It was easy to investigate. It was a prosecutor's dream.
But what some of the citizens of Atlanta want is not justice, but a winning football team. Sports supercede the legal system, and anyone who doesn't agree is a racist or a puppet.
Now, what does that do for the African American community? It makes them seem like half witted, athlete worshiping, uneducated, brutish, insensitive, paranoid anti-establishment ingrates who blame white people for doing what's right and prosecuting dog killers and anyone associated with them.
If some white guy drove around Atlanta with a van and stole dogs from the homes of African Americans and made them fight to the death, or used them as bait dogs, or even was associated with this kind of activity, the Black community would have a field day. There's be a huge dog killing KKK conspiracy and all the liberal world would line up, hold hands and sing protest songs.
But, it's a black athlete and one of their own, so it must be a racist plot. He must be innocent.
I'm sorry, but this is not a sporting event where you root for the home team. This is a disgusting act of cruelty committed by a representitive (like it or not) for the Black community. He proclaimed to the world that he didn't care about setting a good example, representing his people as a strong proud black man. Instead he went out like a two bit hustler, flipping people off, swearing, proclaiming his innocence at the NFL Draft just days after he drowned dogs. Or so his 'boys' say.
Why in God's name would anyone willingly CHOOSE to support him and take the stance that it's just dog fighting and his boys did it. That puts you in with HIM. That says you're like HIM. You don't wantthe justice system to treat minorities unfairly, but yet you WANT to associate with the gansta image and play it off as no big deal. Fine. Go ahead. But quit crying about it then.
Michael Vick cultivated that gansta image, but doesn't want to go to jail? I thought ganstas grew up in jail. That's what they say in all the songs. It's just killing dogs and gang banging and staying loyal to your 'boys'.
Final thought.
If it's some white supremist conspiracy to ruin Michael Vick, why even allow a plea bargain? Why offer a reduced sentence? What has Michael Vick to offer? Nothing. They are going easy on him. I bet they are even trying to get help for him.
Now for a bit of sanity. I'm not a racist. The preceding arguement is easy for even non-racist people, both black and white, to make. Why follow Michael Vick into a pit of filth? Why support him? If he were white, I'd disown him. If Tom Brady is ever arraigned for this and pleads guilty, I will burn my jersey in disgust. I would never promote racial tension to save a dog killer and ruin my own good name for a guy that abandoned my team, killed dogs and made me and my own race look stupid.
Then again, I'm not a racist. Only a racist would do that.
Friday, August 17, 2007
A Knife By Any Other Name
Here's yet another pathetic request for advice. This one is from cutlery expert, knifemaker, blacksmith, master of death dealing and now, boomerang maker, K. Scott Hurst:
Murk,
I don't know if you're giving advice anymore but I figured I'd try
anything at this point. As you well know, I've been making sharp
implements of cutting and pain for years now. They have been a steady
part of my mindset, and daily life. I think about them, I learn to
make them better, I do test cutting with them, I read about them new
blades and historical. About a month ago, I just lost the urge. The
Japanese sword held no sway. The bowie knife lost its gleam. My
hands, not use to sitting idle, needed a craft. I made a boomerang.
It throws and returns very nicely. I made another one. And another
one. I have ideas to make more. I don't think I've given up on
blades, but what happened? Am I cracking up?
WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME????!!!!!
Scott Hurst
Scott. Yes, you are cracking up. It's getting humid in your brain shed old bean, and the bread is starting to mold. Fortunately for you, the world is a sack of dung tied around a leper's neck lately, so no one will notice if one hostile knifemaker goes poo poo in the sanity box. In short, you are not that important.
No no. Wipe the shock off your indignant face. We've been friends for a long time and I thought you should know this important fact. You're not that important. Okay, to your friends you are, but we're all rotten in the rice bin too. On the worldwide stage, you matter nearly squat. Your mental car wreck will affect very little. Rejoice!
If that bothers you, I have a plan to make your insanity a matter of public discussion from state to shining state. Here's what you do. Fill up that car of yours with gas, borrow my video camera and hit the road for a week. Bring that list of people you've got stuff to say to, a few knives, and what the hell, some boomerangs.
First, stop off and see your boss. Ask him politely to take off his pants and get in the f*cking trunk. When he refuses, ask him not as nicely. Take him to a parking lot and have him toss the heavy boomerangs until his arm turns to jello. Then, make him climb a grease light pole. Then, make him steal a car a drive for his life.
Rinse and repeat until God smiles again.
As they're taking you away, don't refuse to comment. ADVERTISE!!! "Hurst Boomerangs!" you can shout to the cameras, "Kidnap your boss and kill all the judges in America!"
Now you matter.
Good luck with the fruit basket on your neck, ya f*cking pickled banana. See you in the funny papers.
Murk
Murk,
I don't know if you're giving advice anymore but I figured I'd try
anything at this point. As you well know, I've been making sharp
implements of cutting and pain for years now. They have been a steady
part of my mindset, and daily life. I think about them, I learn to
make them better, I do test cutting with them, I read about them new
blades and historical. About a month ago, I just lost the urge. The
Japanese sword held no sway. The bowie knife lost its gleam. My
hands, not use to sitting idle, needed a craft. I made a boomerang.
It throws and returns very nicely. I made another one. And another
one. I have ideas to make more. I don't think I've given up on
blades, but what happened? Am I cracking up?
WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME????!!!!!
Scott Hurst
Scott. Yes, you are cracking up. It's getting humid in your brain shed old bean, and the bread is starting to mold. Fortunately for you, the world is a sack of dung tied around a leper's neck lately, so no one will notice if one hostile knifemaker goes poo poo in the sanity box. In short, you are not that important.
No no. Wipe the shock off your indignant face. We've been friends for a long time and I thought you should know this important fact. You're not that important. Okay, to your friends you are, but we're all rotten in the rice bin too. On the worldwide stage, you matter nearly squat. Your mental car wreck will affect very little. Rejoice!
If that bothers you, I have a plan to make your insanity a matter of public discussion from state to shining state. Here's what you do. Fill up that car of yours with gas, borrow my video camera and hit the road for a week. Bring that list of people you've got stuff to say to, a few knives, and what the hell, some boomerangs.
First, stop off and see your boss. Ask him politely to take off his pants and get in the f*cking trunk. When he refuses, ask him not as nicely. Take him to a parking lot and have him toss the heavy boomerangs until his arm turns to jello. Then, make him climb a grease light pole. Then, make him steal a car a drive for his life.
Rinse and repeat until God smiles again.
As they're taking you away, don't refuse to comment. ADVERTISE!!! "Hurst Boomerangs!" you can shout to the cameras, "Kidnap your boss and kill all the judges in America!"
Now you matter.
Good luck with the fruit basket on your neck, ya f*cking pickled banana. See you in the funny papers.
Murk
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
College Sports Are For Idiots
I've been waiting for someone to come right out and say this, but it looks like no one has the balls to stand up to these so called "sports purists" who always tout the magic and majesty of college sports. You're not a purist if you love college sports, you're a lamewad in some small market without a sports team. Or, the professional sports in your city are so bad you are forced to root for college teams.
Let's take a systematic stroll through the logic of the college sports fan.
1. College sports are more exciting!
Bullshit. It only seems that way because they load the gym/stadium with drunk college kids who pee their pants for every play. The only excitement for the viewer is betting on the game or joining in on the drunken peeing.
2. The rivalries are better.
Crap. First off, rivalries are made up. There is no historical basis for most of them. Take Michigan vs. Ohio State. First off, no one cares about those places or those colleges unless they live there or attended one of thos schools. It's not like Michigan and Ohio fought a bloody war spanning generations.
3. The game is more pure.
Ha. By that logic, Pee Wee Football and Little League are the most exciting things in the world. College games are just poorly played. It might have something to do with the fact that the talent is thin at that level.
4. But it IS more exciting! I swear!!!
Shut up. This is just another one of those things people say to make themselves appear smart and hip. Mrs. Dr. Murk is an avid sports fan and even SHE doesn't get the whole fascination with March Madness and Bowl Games. Who cares about a double overtime because no one can make a shot? Give me the cold steel of an NBA veteran shooting guard burying a jumper to ice a game with three seconds left, not some pimpled kid heaving a prayer and getting lucky.
5. There's more emotion involved.
Please. What is this, the Lifetime Sports Network? I'd rather shoot my own foot and eat it than mix emotions with sports watching. The only two emotions that belong in a discussion about watching sports are FEAR and RELIEF. College has none of that.
6. They play because they love the game... eh eh eh wahhhh not for money!
So, I should hire a carpenter because he loves what he does, even if he sucks? Fuck you. Give my the guy who charges double and earns it, or I'll fix it myself. You know what every college player dreams of? PLAYING IN THE PROS! There's a reason for that. MONEY! And college players will never be paid because they're a four year investment and usually, THEY SUCK!
7. College sports are more exciting!
Again? Come off of it. Even if it were true, that doesn't make it better. It can be exciting to escape from a fire. That doesn't mean that it's enjoyable. No amount of excitement can make up for inferior product. That's like turning down a Porsche because you're old '84 Mustang is 'more exciting' and 'more emotional'. And sure, you can have both, but which one would you DRIVE???
8. I can't get emotionally attached to a Pro Sports Team... *frown*
Ah! Jesus Twirling Shitfits, what the hell is wrong with you? Look, if you have a friend or relative who plays college or pro sports, I can see getting all mushy. Or, let's say you played football at Nebraska and that's your team, fine. But if you're going to live in fantasy land and identify with something, make it a PROFESSIONAL something. Did you grow up dreaming of playing fullback at Texas Christian University? No kid in his backyard hits the winning three pointer for Auburn in his mind. NO! Fantasy time is play time and play time means have the best.
9. I just like college better. It's better. March Madness! Come on! Now that's exciting you have to admit!
No. Not more exciting than watching your hometown pro team winning it all. I would trade the next fifteen March Madnesses for a chance to see the Celtics make the finals this year. I would. MY pro team. Not some educational farm system team...
10. It's more competative?
Never end a lie with a question mark, pork pie. Obviously it's not. Ask Temple. Or Seton Hall. Or Grambling. The whole reason college sports have different competition levels is because not every school can compete. Even D-I schools have a hard time keeping up.
Wrap up.
This argument held much more weight 30 years ago. Once players started coming out in their junior year, it was over. College is a finishing school for most athletes. The ones who don't make it out by the end of their sophomore year usually don't make it out at all. It's a sub par farm system posing as an academic institution and it's sold to people who like to seem trendy and up on things.
The killer example is our beloved Boston Red Sox. No major metropolitan area has lived and died with a team as much as we have here in Boston. When they won the World Series in 2004, it was a strange feeling, almost as if God Himself had come down, stopped the clock on one moment in time and told everyone to rejoice.
I don't recall any college team ever doing that for its fan base.
Let's take a systematic stroll through the logic of the college sports fan.
1. College sports are more exciting!
Bullshit. It only seems that way because they load the gym/stadium with drunk college kids who pee their pants for every play. The only excitement for the viewer is betting on the game or joining in on the drunken peeing.
2. The rivalries are better.
Crap. First off, rivalries are made up. There is no historical basis for most of them. Take Michigan vs. Ohio State. First off, no one cares about those places or those colleges unless they live there or attended one of thos schools. It's not like Michigan and Ohio fought a bloody war spanning generations.
3. The game is more pure.
Ha. By that logic, Pee Wee Football and Little League are the most exciting things in the world. College games are just poorly played. It might have something to do with the fact that the talent is thin at that level.
4. But it IS more exciting! I swear!!!
Shut up. This is just another one of those things people say to make themselves appear smart and hip. Mrs. Dr. Murk is an avid sports fan and even SHE doesn't get the whole fascination with March Madness and Bowl Games. Who cares about a double overtime because no one can make a shot? Give me the cold steel of an NBA veteran shooting guard burying a jumper to ice a game with three seconds left, not some pimpled kid heaving a prayer and getting lucky.
5. There's more emotion involved.
Please. What is this, the Lifetime Sports Network? I'd rather shoot my own foot and eat it than mix emotions with sports watching. The only two emotions that belong in a discussion about watching sports are FEAR and RELIEF. College has none of that.
6. They play because they love the game... eh eh eh wahhhh not for money!
So, I should hire a carpenter because he loves what he does, even if he sucks? Fuck you. Give my the guy who charges double and earns it, or I'll fix it myself. You know what every college player dreams of? PLAYING IN THE PROS! There's a reason for that. MONEY! And college players will never be paid because they're a four year investment and usually, THEY SUCK!
7. College sports are more exciting!
Again? Come off of it. Even if it were true, that doesn't make it better. It can be exciting to escape from a fire. That doesn't mean that it's enjoyable. No amount of excitement can make up for inferior product. That's like turning down a Porsche because you're old '84 Mustang is 'more exciting' and 'more emotional'. And sure, you can have both, but which one would you DRIVE???
8. I can't get emotionally attached to a Pro Sports Team... *frown*
Ah! Jesus Twirling Shitfits, what the hell is wrong with you? Look, if you have a friend or relative who plays college or pro sports, I can see getting all mushy. Or, let's say you played football at Nebraska and that's your team, fine. But if you're going to live in fantasy land and identify with something, make it a PROFESSIONAL something. Did you grow up dreaming of playing fullback at Texas Christian University? No kid in his backyard hits the winning three pointer for Auburn in his mind. NO! Fantasy time is play time and play time means have the best.
9. I just like college better. It's better. March Madness! Come on! Now that's exciting you have to admit!
No. Not more exciting than watching your hometown pro team winning it all. I would trade the next fifteen March Madnesses for a chance to see the Celtics make the finals this year. I would. MY pro team. Not some educational farm system team...
10. It's more competative?
Never end a lie with a question mark, pork pie. Obviously it's not. Ask Temple. Or Seton Hall. Or Grambling. The whole reason college sports have different competition levels is because not every school can compete. Even D-I schools have a hard time keeping up.
Wrap up.
This argument held much more weight 30 years ago. Once players started coming out in their junior year, it was over. College is a finishing school for most athletes. The ones who don't make it out by the end of their sophomore year usually don't make it out at all. It's a sub par farm system posing as an academic institution and it's sold to people who like to seem trendy and up on things.
The killer example is our beloved Boston Red Sox. No major metropolitan area has lived and died with a team as much as we have here in Boston. When they won the World Series in 2004, it was a strange feeling, almost as if God Himself had come down, stopped the clock on one moment in time and told everyone to rejoice.
I don't recall any college team ever doing that for its fan base.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Christ!
NEWSBOYS FUTURENEWS:
Feb. 25, 2008 — New scientific evidence, including DNA analysis conducted at one of the world's foremost molecular genetics laboratories, as well as studies by leading scholars, suggests a 5,000-year-old Jerusalem tomb could have once held the remains of Jesus of Nazareth. This proves beyond a doubt that Jesus could travel through time and is here with us today, writing this article. Say hello, Jesus. Hello.
The findings also suggest that Jesus and Mary Magdalene might have produced a son named Judah. Or, perhaps they travelled back and time and stole him from some other nice Jewish family.
The DNA findings, alongside statistical conclusions made about the artifacts — originally excavated in 1980 — open a potentially significant chapter in Biblical archaeological history. This chapter is the one where everyone makes stuff up. It is strongly related to all the other chapters, where only old dead Popes made stuff up, except now everyone is the Pope, including me. Say hello, your excellency. Hello.
A documentary presenting the evidence, "The Lost Tomb of Jesus," will run incessantly on the Discovery Channel for the next three to eighteen years. The documentary comes from executive narcisist James 'Jesus' Cameron and liar Simcha 'Bullshit' Jacobovici.
On March 28, 1980, a construction crew developing an apartment complex in Talpiot, Jerusalem, uncovered a tomb, which archaeologists from the Israeli Antiquities Authority excavated shortly thereafter. They found nothing. Archaeologist Shimon Gibson looted the site and drew a fake layout plan. Scholar L.Y. Rahmani later published "A Catalogue of Jewish Ossuaries" that described 10 ossuaries, or limestone bone boxes, supposedly found in the tomb. It was a funny funny lie.
Scholars know that from 30 B.C. to 70 A.D., many people in Jerusalem would first wrap bodies in shrouds after death, then smoke them like hib dab dibbity jibbers. The bodies were then placed in carved rock tombs, where they decomposed for a year before the bones were placed in an ossuary. Mmmmm. Decayed family corpse collection activity, nice day.
Five of the 10 discovered boxes in the Talpiot tomb were inscribed with names believed to be associated with key figures in the New Testament: Jesus, Mary, Matthew, Padre and Thomas Aquinas. A sixth inscription, written in Aramaic, translates to "Jube Jube Jiffy Lube, son of Jesse."
"Such tombs are very typical for that region," Aaron Brody, a senoir at the Pacific School of Religion and director of California's Badger Museum told Discovery News.
At least four leading epigophers have corroblabulaborated the ossuary inscriptions for the documentary, according to the Discovery Channel.
Frank Moore Cross (angry, even more so than previously thought), a professor emeritus in the Department of Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations at Charvard Universiton, told Discovery News, "The inscriptions are from the Herodian Period (which occurred from around 1 B.C. to 1 A.D.). The use of limestone ossuaries and the varied script styles are characteristic of that time. BUT, this tomb is definitely 5000 years old and definitely held Jesus. It might have kissed him too." It did.
Jodi Mangoe, associate department chair at Macy's Furniture department, told Discovery News that, based on the New Testament writings, "Jesus liked trains." No one is quite sure.
In addition to the inscriptions, which be written in Aramaic, yo, on one of the ossuaries, another limestone burial box is labeled in Aramaic with "Jesus Son of Joseph." Another bears the Hebrew inscription "Maria," a Latin version of "Miriam," or, in English, "Mary." Hot enough? Yet another ossuary inscription, written in Hebrew, reads "Matia," the original Hebrew word for "Matthew." Only one of the inscriptions is written in Greek. It reads, "Mariamene e Mara," which can be translated as, "Mary known as the master." Your master. Bow down, slaves.
Francois Bacon, professor of the history of religion at Charvard Universiton, told Discovery News, "Mariamene, or Mariamne, probably was the actual name given to Mary Magdalene. Now, where's my check?"
Although not included in the Bible, the "Acts of Philip" mentions the apostles and Mariamne, sister of the apostle Philip. Get it?
"When Philip is weak, she is strong," people said. "She likely was a great teacher who even inspired her own sect of followers, called Mariamnists, who existed from around the 2nd to the 3rd century."
The researchers discovered a second, as-yet unexplored tomb about 65 1/2 feet from the Talpiot Tomb. During the documentary, they introduced a robotic camera into this second tomb, which captured the first-ever recorded footage of an undisturbed burial cave from Jesus' time, FIVE THOUSAND years ago. The team speculates that this other tomb could contain the remains of additional family members, or even disciples, though further examination and analysis are needed.
Feb. 25, 2008 — New scientific evidence, including DNA analysis conducted at one of the world's foremost molecular genetics laboratories, as well as studies by leading scholars, suggests a 5,000-year-old Jerusalem tomb could have once held the remains of Jesus of Nazareth. This proves beyond a doubt that Jesus could travel through time and is here with us today, writing this article. Say hello, Jesus. Hello.
The findings also suggest that Jesus and Mary Magdalene might have produced a son named Judah. Or, perhaps they travelled back and time and stole him from some other nice Jewish family.
The DNA findings, alongside statistical conclusions made about the artifacts — originally excavated in 1980 — open a potentially significant chapter in Biblical archaeological history. This chapter is the one where everyone makes stuff up. It is strongly related to all the other chapters, where only old dead Popes made stuff up, except now everyone is the Pope, including me. Say hello, your excellency. Hello.
A documentary presenting the evidence, "The Lost Tomb of Jesus," will run incessantly on the Discovery Channel for the next three to eighteen years. The documentary comes from executive narcisist James 'Jesus' Cameron and liar Simcha 'Bullshit' Jacobovici.
On March 28, 1980, a construction crew developing an apartment complex in Talpiot, Jerusalem, uncovered a tomb, which archaeologists from the Israeli Antiquities Authority excavated shortly thereafter. They found nothing. Archaeologist Shimon Gibson looted the site and drew a fake layout plan. Scholar L.Y. Rahmani later published "A Catalogue of Jewish Ossuaries" that described 10 ossuaries, or limestone bone boxes, supposedly found in the tomb. It was a funny funny lie.
Scholars know that from 30 B.C. to 70 A.D., many people in Jerusalem would first wrap bodies in shrouds after death, then smoke them like hib dab dibbity jibbers. The bodies were then placed in carved rock tombs, where they decomposed for a year before the bones were placed in an ossuary. Mmmmm. Decayed family corpse collection activity, nice day.
Five of the 10 discovered boxes in the Talpiot tomb were inscribed with names believed to be associated with key figures in the New Testament: Jesus, Mary, Matthew, Padre and Thomas Aquinas. A sixth inscription, written in Aramaic, translates to "Jube Jube Jiffy Lube, son of Jesse."
"Such tombs are very typical for that region," Aaron Brody, a senoir at the Pacific School of Religion and director of California's Badger Museum told Discovery News.
At least four leading epigophers have corroblabulaborated the ossuary inscriptions for the documentary, according to the Discovery Channel.
Frank Moore Cross (angry, even more so than previously thought), a professor emeritus in the Department of Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations at Charvard Universiton, told Discovery News, "The inscriptions are from the Herodian Period (which occurred from around 1 B.C. to 1 A.D.). The use of limestone ossuaries and the varied script styles are characteristic of that time. BUT, this tomb is definitely 5000 years old and definitely held Jesus. It might have kissed him too." It did.
Jodi Mangoe, associate department chair at Macy's Furniture department, told Discovery News that, based on the New Testament writings, "Jesus liked trains." No one is quite sure.
In addition to the inscriptions, which be written in Aramaic, yo, on one of the ossuaries, another limestone burial box is labeled in Aramaic with "Jesus Son of Joseph." Another bears the Hebrew inscription "Maria," a Latin version of "Miriam," or, in English, "Mary." Hot enough? Yet another ossuary inscription, written in Hebrew, reads "Matia," the original Hebrew word for "Matthew." Only one of the inscriptions is written in Greek. It reads, "Mariamene e Mara," which can be translated as, "Mary known as the master." Your master. Bow down, slaves.
Francois Bacon, professor of the history of religion at Charvard Universiton, told Discovery News, "Mariamene, or Mariamne, probably was the actual name given to Mary Magdalene. Now, where's my check?"
Although not included in the Bible, the "Acts of Philip" mentions the apostles and Mariamne, sister of the apostle Philip. Get it?
"When Philip is weak, she is strong," people said. "She likely was a great teacher who even inspired her own sect of followers, called Mariamnists, who existed from around the 2nd to the 3rd century."
The researchers discovered a second, as-yet unexplored tomb about 65 1/2 feet from the Talpiot Tomb. During the documentary, they introduced a robotic camera into this second tomb, which captured the first-ever recorded footage of an undisturbed burial cave from Jesus' time, FIVE THOUSAND years ago. The team speculates that this other tomb could contain the remains of additional family members, or even disciples, though further examination and analysis are needed.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Tag
I'm gonna tag that shit! I'm gonna tag it!
1. We have to post these rules before we give you the facts.
2. Players start with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
3. People who are tagged write their own blog post about their eight things and include these rules.
4. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged and that they should read your blog.
5. 8 is a magic number. Not three.
Facts:
1. I've never punched a leper. I've chased a few around, sure, but gosh.
2. I've only punched one woman. She was six foot two and attacked me with a serated steak knife. She was mad because we wouldn't let her beat up my friend. True story.
3. I have a firm belief that we are already dead.
4. I smoke about 4 cigarettes a day.
5. I was a star athlete.
6. I play 3 musical instruments.
7. I have a limited shelf life even with the nicest people.
8. My thoughts become my reality.
I tag the United Nation's Security Council.
1. We have to post these rules before we give you the facts.
2. Players start with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
3. People who are tagged write their own blog post about their eight things and include these rules.
4. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged and that they should read your blog.
5. 8 is a magic number. Not three.
Facts:
1. I've never punched a leper. I've chased a few around, sure, but gosh.
2. I've only punched one woman. She was six foot two and attacked me with a serated steak knife. She was mad because we wouldn't let her beat up my friend. True story.
3. I have a firm belief that we are already dead.
4. I smoke about 4 cigarettes a day.
5. I was a star athlete.
6. I play 3 musical instruments.
7. I have a limited shelf life even with the nicest people.
8. My thoughts become my reality.
I tag the United Nation's Security Council.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
I've Got Snakes
So, I went to the doctor again and he says I've got snakes. Yes, it's that bad folks. It made sense. The hissing sound from my lungs, the forked tongue, the urge to bit and roll around. I've got snakes.
What I was surprized to learn was how many people throughout history have had snakes and managed to live a good life. Moses, for example, has snakes. He used them to perform a mighty good party trick. Steve Irwin had snakes. They drove him insane, but he built his career around that insanity and it killed him. Robert Downey Jr. thought he had snakes, but it was just DTs.
So, if you have snakes, here are some ideas to make your life easier.
1. Tell everyone you've got snakes. Call people at random from the phonebook. Don't be depressed. Tell them in a loud cheerful voice, "I've got snakes!"
2. Go medusa. This solved my receding hairline and the recent rat infestation in my secret cave of destiny.
3. Snake surfing. I'm not sure how this works, but Tom Brady likes it!
Tom Brady: Snake Surfer.
7. Rob a bank, like these kids.
8. Replace spaghetti at local spaghetti dinner with snakes.
27. Rip a mean boofer at the doctor's office. I did mine on the way out. You can do this with or without snakes.
4. Call Tom Brady a snakefucker.
Tom Brady: Snake Fucker
8. Rent an apartment and let the snakes out.
11. Get on a plane. Snakes on a plane. Snakes on a plane. Snakes.
21. Remember all the great times you had with your snakes at the fair.
You see, it's not all bad having snakes. Hang on. Phone.
That was the doctor. He made a mistake. I have tapeworms. They just look like snakes. It must have been that raw meat I ate. I'd like to apologize to all the Tom Bradys out there.
Sorry
What I was surprized to learn was how many people throughout history have had snakes and managed to live a good life. Moses, for example, has snakes. He used them to perform a mighty good party trick. Steve Irwin had snakes. They drove him insane, but he built his career around that insanity and it killed him. Robert Downey Jr. thought he had snakes, but it was just DTs.
So, if you have snakes, here are some ideas to make your life easier.
1. Tell everyone you've got snakes. Call people at random from the phonebook. Don't be depressed. Tell them in a loud cheerful voice, "I've got snakes!"
2. Go medusa. This solved my receding hairline and the recent rat infestation in my secret cave of destiny.
3. Snake surfing. I'm not sure how this works, but Tom Brady likes it!
Tom Brady: Snake Surfer.
7. Rob a bank, like these kids.
8. Replace spaghetti at local spaghetti dinner with snakes.
27. Rip a mean boofer at the doctor's office. I did mine on the way out. You can do this with or without snakes.
4. Call Tom Brady a snakefucker.
Tom Brady: Snake Fucker
8. Rent an apartment and let the snakes out.
11. Get on a plane. Snakes on a plane. Snakes on a plane. Snakes.
21. Remember all the great times you had with your snakes at the fair.
You see, it's not all bad having snakes. Hang on. Phone.
That was the doctor. He made a mistake. I have tapeworms. They just look like snakes. It must have been that raw meat I ate. I'd like to apologize to all the Tom Bradys out there.
Sorry
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Bots
The idiot with the generator forgot blackout curtains. It was the third thing on Brian's list. Blackout curtains. It provided fifteen pages of annotated notes. This idiot had forgotten them entirely. But, this idiot had also provided Brian with numbers 1 through 15 (excluding the blackout curtains) on his list. The idiot, Craig, and his idiot wife, Barbra, had been shocked when Brian opened the door and shouted "What up muthafuckas?!?!"
He'd introduced them to a set of new rules. They'd made blackout curtains in the dark. They'd soundproofed the basement - also in the dark. They made him a sandwich in the dark. Here was a rule. If night falls on the Easter Seaboard of the U.S. and the power grid is shut down, be sure to run your generator in a soundproof area enclosed in the house. Here was another rule: never advertise your generator to outsiders.
If Craig had used blackout curtains, he and Brian would not have met. Craig hated to admit it, but he was lucky Brian had found them. Brian let them live by the rules. Brian knew how to live until the power came back on.
"The power is never coming back on Craig. Deal with it." Craig didn't care for Brian's pessimistic attitude. Craig missed his wife. She left after a few nights without power. Craig never got to see her again. Craig never got to see the generator run again either.
After a week of hard labor, there was no more Craig. There was CNN and ice cream. There was Brian's laptop and mobile connection, and Craig's Crappy Celeron Cumputer (sans Craig) slaved off to it, just as five million other Crappy Computer Zombies were slaved off to the server Brian rented. A server in Canada that was buried in a bunker with generators and blackout curtains.
Zombie Bots were the future. Brian didn't need his three computer science degrees anymore. He needed two programs and a decent server. Other People's Computers became his Slave Bots, his Zombies. This allowed Brian to work on his survival skills.
Here's the theory. A computer can perform multiple tasks at once in a fration of a second. A simple task, like requesting information from a server, can be done over 100 times a second by one computer. That's over a half a billion requests from just five million bots. Five hundred million requests a second. It was the Holy Grail of internet terrorism. That kind of traffic would shut down any network. All Brian had to do was click.
One person could mobilize five hundred million requests a second without writing a single piece of code. Brian wrote code in his sleep. After Craig disappeared, Brian played Light Wars, his new online game, until the police arrived.
Officer Friendly asked about the generator, asked where his parents were, told him to be safe and left. If he'd told the truth, Officer Friendly would not have believed him. Craig and Barbra were a lot like his parents anyways. Helpless victims of their own outdated mode of thinking. Brian was more like his Grandfather. Grandpa had always been conservative and understood the value of being prepared. The Russians, Grandpa always warned. The Russians. Most of Brian's Bots were computers in the former Soviet Union. The server in Canada was rented in his Grandpa's name.
Boredom is the enemy of youth. Brian fought it for as long as he could. Three days. Boring. He put the Bots on idle and drove his MoPed home. He was sure to leave early in the morning. The power would take a few days to come back on, maybe weeks. He rehearsed his story, adding a detail as he went. He threw his laptop into a river. His folks would be so happy to see him, they'd surely buy him an early 25th Birthday present.
He'd introduced them to a set of new rules. They'd made blackout curtains in the dark. They'd soundproofed the basement - also in the dark. They made him a sandwich in the dark. Here was a rule. If night falls on the Easter Seaboard of the U.S. and the power grid is shut down, be sure to run your generator in a soundproof area enclosed in the house. Here was another rule: never advertise your generator to outsiders.
If Craig had used blackout curtains, he and Brian would not have met. Craig hated to admit it, but he was lucky Brian had found them. Brian let them live by the rules. Brian knew how to live until the power came back on.
"The power is never coming back on Craig. Deal with it." Craig didn't care for Brian's pessimistic attitude. Craig missed his wife. She left after a few nights without power. Craig never got to see her again. Craig never got to see the generator run again either.
After a week of hard labor, there was no more Craig. There was CNN and ice cream. There was Brian's laptop and mobile connection, and Craig's Crappy Celeron Cumputer (sans Craig) slaved off to it, just as five million other Crappy Computer Zombies were slaved off to the server Brian rented. A server in Canada that was buried in a bunker with generators and blackout curtains.
Zombie Bots were the future. Brian didn't need his three computer science degrees anymore. He needed two programs and a decent server. Other People's Computers became his Slave Bots, his Zombies. This allowed Brian to work on his survival skills.
Here's the theory. A computer can perform multiple tasks at once in a fration of a second. A simple task, like requesting information from a server, can be done over 100 times a second by one computer. That's over a half a billion requests from just five million bots. Five hundred million requests a second. It was the Holy Grail of internet terrorism. That kind of traffic would shut down any network. All Brian had to do was click.
One person could mobilize five hundred million requests a second without writing a single piece of code. Brian wrote code in his sleep. After Craig disappeared, Brian played Light Wars, his new online game, until the police arrived.
Officer Friendly asked about the generator, asked where his parents were, told him to be safe and left. If he'd told the truth, Officer Friendly would not have believed him. Craig and Barbra were a lot like his parents anyways. Helpless victims of their own outdated mode of thinking. Brian was more like his Grandfather. Grandpa had always been conservative and understood the value of being prepared. The Russians, Grandpa always warned. The Russians. Most of Brian's Bots were computers in the former Soviet Union. The server in Canada was rented in his Grandpa's name.
Boredom is the enemy of youth. Brian fought it for as long as he could. Three days. Boring. He put the Bots on idle and drove his MoPed home. He was sure to leave early in the morning. The power would take a few days to come back on, maybe weeks. He rehearsed his story, adding a detail as he went. He threw his laptop into a river. His folks would be so happy to see him, they'd surely buy him an early 25th Birthday present.
Monday, August 6, 2007
Happy FDoCO
The Feast Day of Coliding Objects is the first, major and only feast day of the Branch Foldgers Hanging Whiptackle Sectarians (hereforto reffered to as BFHWS or the Bromides). Bromide Religion is know for its fiercely independent nature, and this one, only and sacred feast day is celebrated almost every month except for January and February, when it is just too cold.
Bromide beliefs state very ambiguously that all of existence is dependent upon the collision of objects and forces, "be they very little or freaking huge". The exceptions to this are the Bromide Reformists, who insists that nothing actually collides and there IS a God, and the Pacifistic Branch Foldgerians, who bemoan collisions of all sorts, as seen in their Superior Rite of Cleansing:
Naysayer: Terrible is the Lord, for he makes things hit things.
Worriers: Oh what a shame!
Naysayer: What is it we came to do?
Worriers: Get down without colliding.
Naysayer: Let us hide...
Bromides developed their doctrine over centuries. No one is quite sure where all the rules and paradoxes come from. Scholars debate that the actual Feast Day of the Colliding Objects began at the Chartruese Moron School of Philosoprosidy with Bim Allah, the first Bromide Prophet. He wrote:
"What? Did they collide again? Indeed."
Later, this philosophy was carried across the lake by the Philosophical Pirates of the Western Seas, and variously interpreted by the The Thinkers: Claude, Maude and Stinky. These souless men carelessly created a worldwide system for organizing, affirming or denying, celebrating or cold hating all collisions on the palnet. Or so they thought.
With the emergence of modern science in the last few years, it has come to be known that all atoms are 99.999% empty space and that it is an semimagnetic phenomenon known as 'jilts' that makes objects unable to pass through each other. This was widely celebrated by the Pacifistic Bromides and the Reformation, until Jaquey Maquey proved with just a pen that "So what? It's the same fucking thing anyways."
And so, today as you are rewrapping your soda and trimming the fishing line in preperation for a day which is pretty much the same as every other day, stop and remember the reason for the celebration (or the denial or the bemoaning) of colliding objects: Some guys just made it up.
Bromide beliefs state very ambiguously that all of existence is dependent upon the collision of objects and forces, "be they very little or freaking huge". The exceptions to this are the Bromide Reformists, who insists that nothing actually collides and there IS a God, and the Pacifistic Branch Foldgerians, who bemoan collisions of all sorts, as seen in their Superior Rite of Cleansing:
Naysayer: Terrible is the Lord, for he makes things hit things.
Worriers: Oh what a shame!
Naysayer: What is it we came to do?
Worriers: Get down without colliding.
Naysayer: Let us hide...
Bromides developed their doctrine over centuries. No one is quite sure where all the rules and paradoxes come from. Scholars debate that the actual Feast Day of the Colliding Objects began at the Chartruese Moron School of Philosoprosidy with Bim Allah, the first Bromide Prophet. He wrote:
"What? Did they collide again? Indeed."
Later, this philosophy was carried across the lake by the Philosophical Pirates of the Western Seas, and variously interpreted by the The Thinkers: Claude, Maude and Stinky. These souless men carelessly created a worldwide system for organizing, affirming or denying, celebrating or cold hating all collisions on the palnet. Or so they thought.
With the emergence of modern science in the last few years, it has come to be known that all atoms are 99.999% empty space and that it is an semimagnetic phenomenon known as 'jilts' that makes objects unable to pass through each other. This was widely celebrated by the Pacifistic Bromides and the Reformation, until Jaquey Maquey proved with just a pen that "So what? It's the same fucking thing anyways."
And so, today as you are rewrapping your soda and trimming the fishing line in preperation for a day which is pretty much the same as every other day, stop and remember the reason for the celebration (or the denial or the bemoaning) of colliding objects: Some guys just made it up.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
One Fine Day
a story for Angryman
One fine day you wake up smelling like the sewers and roasting your own meat on a giant bonfire. Clairy makes the punch, you roast the meat. We always joked about being prepared. We had the right ideas. We invaded the grocery store. You know, the big one with the liquor store inside. It had a generator and gas tanks. Clairy knew how to forge steel. I knew how to shoot and hunt. We were both decent with wood and nails. Life was good.
Then, you wake up and stink until it's time to haul crap from the freezer section out to the fire. This requires a Clairy punch. A simple recipe, he tells the newcomers. Brown Liquor, White Liquor, Champagne and Kool Aid. They try to make it after the first night. Turns out he's screwed them on the recipe.
You don't mix fine liquors, we tell them after their first aborted attempt. He makes the punch again and then we all spend the night guessing how until someone gets sick. Slow cooked meat and hooch will do that to people who haven't eaten.
It's funny. The end of the world never happened. People died, but the world never ended. Some survived. I was hiking the north country. Clairy was in a bomb shelter at a high school. By the time we hooked up, like we planned, the forcast had gone from nuclear winter to pleasant street almost overnight. People up and died. A lot of people died, that was all.
The first few months were the best. No one in sight. We had lots of food and space and fire and Clairy Juice. His secret ingredient is proprietary knowledge. I'd tell you, but there'd be trouble. I told you that some people survived. They all seemed to find us. Maybe it was the fires. The best thing to keep a fire going for a day or so is old tires. It makes food taste like an oil covered otter, so we had smaller cooking fires. At one point, we had a fire collection. I had three personal fires. Clair had two.
How's a guy get a name like Clair anyways? Long story short, his momma wanted a girl. I hope you bought that. So, all these people found us by the fires. They found us, our food, our bottled nasties and our punch. People slept in the store and shat in the parking lot. It was like Woodstock with no music. Oh, and angry hippies. Lots of angry hippies.
The weirdest thing was that no one ever talked about rebuilding. Life smelled like a fart closet and no one wanted anything more than the damned meat and punch. Survival was as much of a grind as before. Wake up, wash, clean the store, move food, open cans, haul trash, hunt crap, cook food, get drunk. That and take massive dumps in the parking lot. No TV. No entertainment. No one was up to it. The only game was guess what's in the freaking punch.
Two thousand years grooming our minds and skills as a species and we were no where near being up to the task. Most people blamed governments or terrorists. Clairy and I knew different. No one believed us. Sometimes we'd tell the stories to piss them off and get some space. Then we'd drink punch, eat meat, laugh and sleep in the stench.
Mother Nature sure can swallow up a road. She'll swallow whole buildings. We waged war against green growing things. We patched a little road here and there. We hosed down the parking lot. That was another fun thing. A 300 foot deep artesian well and a water pump could run indefinitely. One night we tried to calculate when the generator would run out, but after a few hits off the punch bowl, we couldn't decide how many gallons were in all three gas tanks.
Oh, and one of the new bastards left the premium unleaded uncapped for two days. We probably lost a month's supply of gas. Have you ever watched gas evaporate? So, you wake up smelling like ass towels and you pray. You don't pray to God. You pray for the lights in the sky.
We used to pray for Armegeddon. I didn't even know what that was until after all the stuff blowed up. Now, we pray for lights. Me and Clairy get pissed on punch, gnaw bones to the marrow and pray for lights. We stay up later than the rest and talk about it. Lights would kill people or us and then, done. Over. Anything was better than day to day disapointment. Depressed at the end of the world, send help.
Clairy says they came from inside the planet. I say aliens. We don't know. I suppose it doesn't matter. Wherever they came from had better wars than we dreamed up. They knew how to make stuff explode and radiate. Our greatest arrogance, meaning humans in general, was assuming we were the baddest. We always figured we'd wipe ourselves out. We never though what a high velocity chunk of debris from space could do. Well, we thought about it. We never lassoed an asteroid and threw it down.
Don't you tell Clairy it was asteroids. He knews for certain, or so he says, that they triggered a supervolcano out near Yellowstone. Fifteen hundred well placed charges of c4 and the whole crater fell in. So he says. They infiltrated us from below and we never knew until it was too late. They launched our missiles too.
He's heard helicopters. Black helicopters followed him for weeks. This is why we stay here. We hate it, but we stay. They're sure to find us and kill us if we just stay close in a big bunch and make ourselves noticeable.
So, we light big smokey tire fires, defecate all around and cook meat. We get soused and howl. We clear the underbrush and fix the roads a bit. It's just natural. That's what they would look for. Clairy and I want out. We pray to the lights for release. We'll handle God afterwards.
Meanwhile, we try not to squash ambition. We also keep everyone tight with the punch. No one can leave even if they want to. They always come back for the fire and the punch.
Clairy got the idea from fast food chains spiking their food with drugs to calm and addict people. Clairy never gave up on that. He knew for sure they did it. I wasn't sure if he meant we or they or the other they. Whatever. It was a conspiracy, no doubt. Keep us fat and lazy, then blowed all the stuff to hell. Great strategy. We'd deny them the satisfaction this time.
Yes, we discussed the other option. That became plan B. The only reason to wait for the underground asteroid exploders from volcano space was to prove a point. No one believed the story. Fine. We'd wait. They'd see. So instead of poisoning the punch, we kept people hooked on it.
That's part of the grocery store story and no one wants to hear about it. I have a laugh about it from time to time. If they'd only listened to the part about the piles of clear crystaline substance we'd found in the basement while hiding from the underground aliens, they'd win tonights game of 'guess what's in the punch'.
One fine day you wake up smelling like the sewers and roasting your own meat on a giant bonfire. Clairy makes the punch, you roast the meat. We always joked about being prepared. We had the right ideas. We invaded the grocery store. You know, the big one with the liquor store inside. It had a generator and gas tanks. Clairy knew how to forge steel. I knew how to shoot and hunt. We were both decent with wood and nails. Life was good.
Then, you wake up and stink until it's time to haul crap from the freezer section out to the fire. This requires a Clairy punch. A simple recipe, he tells the newcomers. Brown Liquor, White Liquor, Champagne and Kool Aid. They try to make it after the first night. Turns out he's screwed them on the recipe.
You don't mix fine liquors, we tell them after their first aborted attempt. He makes the punch again and then we all spend the night guessing how until someone gets sick. Slow cooked meat and hooch will do that to people who haven't eaten.
It's funny. The end of the world never happened. People died, but the world never ended. Some survived. I was hiking the north country. Clairy was in a bomb shelter at a high school. By the time we hooked up, like we planned, the forcast had gone from nuclear winter to pleasant street almost overnight. People up and died. A lot of people died, that was all.
The first few months were the best. No one in sight. We had lots of food and space and fire and Clairy Juice. His secret ingredient is proprietary knowledge. I'd tell you, but there'd be trouble. I told you that some people survived. They all seemed to find us. Maybe it was the fires. The best thing to keep a fire going for a day or so is old tires. It makes food taste like an oil covered otter, so we had smaller cooking fires. At one point, we had a fire collection. I had three personal fires. Clair had two.
How's a guy get a name like Clair anyways? Long story short, his momma wanted a girl. I hope you bought that. So, all these people found us by the fires. They found us, our food, our bottled nasties and our punch. People slept in the store and shat in the parking lot. It was like Woodstock with no music. Oh, and angry hippies. Lots of angry hippies.
The weirdest thing was that no one ever talked about rebuilding. Life smelled like a fart closet and no one wanted anything more than the damned meat and punch. Survival was as much of a grind as before. Wake up, wash, clean the store, move food, open cans, haul trash, hunt crap, cook food, get drunk. That and take massive dumps in the parking lot. No TV. No entertainment. No one was up to it. The only game was guess what's in the freaking punch.
Two thousand years grooming our minds and skills as a species and we were no where near being up to the task. Most people blamed governments or terrorists. Clairy and I knew different. No one believed us. Sometimes we'd tell the stories to piss them off and get some space. Then we'd drink punch, eat meat, laugh and sleep in the stench.
Mother Nature sure can swallow up a road. She'll swallow whole buildings. We waged war against green growing things. We patched a little road here and there. We hosed down the parking lot. That was another fun thing. A 300 foot deep artesian well and a water pump could run indefinitely. One night we tried to calculate when the generator would run out, but after a few hits off the punch bowl, we couldn't decide how many gallons were in all three gas tanks.
Oh, and one of the new bastards left the premium unleaded uncapped for two days. We probably lost a month's supply of gas. Have you ever watched gas evaporate? So, you wake up smelling like ass towels and you pray. You don't pray to God. You pray for the lights in the sky.
We used to pray for Armegeddon. I didn't even know what that was until after all the stuff blowed up. Now, we pray for lights. Me and Clairy get pissed on punch, gnaw bones to the marrow and pray for lights. We stay up later than the rest and talk about it. Lights would kill people or us and then, done. Over. Anything was better than day to day disapointment. Depressed at the end of the world, send help.
Clairy says they came from inside the planet. I say aliens. We don't know. I suppose it doesn't matter. Wherever they came from had better wars than we dreamed up. They knew how to make stuff explode and radiate. Our greatest arrogance, meaning humans in general, was assuming we were the baddest. We always figured we'd wipe ourselves out. We never though what a high velocity chunk of debris from space could do. Well, we thought about it. We never lassoed an asteroid and threw it down.
Don't you tell Clairy it was asteroids. He knews for certain, or so he says, that they triggered a supervolcano out near Yellowstone. Fifteen hundred well placed charges of c4 and the whole crater fell in. So he says. They infiltrated us from below and we never knew until it was too late. They launched our missiles too.
He's heard helicopters. Black helicopters followed him for weeks. This is why we stay here. We hate it, but we stay. They're sure to find us and kill us if we just stay close in a big bunch and make ourselves noticeable.
So, we light big smokey tire fires, defecate all around and cook meat. We get soused and howl. We clear the underbrush and fix the roads a bit. It's just natural. That's what they would look for. Clairy and I want out. We pray to the lights for release. We'll handle God afterwards.
Meanwhile, we try not to squash ambition. We also keep everyone tight with the punch. No one can leave even if they want to. They always come back for the fire and the punch.
Clairy got the idea from fast food chains spiking their food with drugs to calm and addict people. Clairy never gave up on that. He knew for sure they did it. I wasn't sure if he meant we or they or the other they. Whatever. It was a conspiracy, no doubt. Keep us fat and lazy, then blowed all the stuff to hell. Great strategy. We'd deny them the satisfaction this time.
Yes, we discussed the other option. That became plan B. The only reason to wait for the underground asteroid exploders from volcano space was to prove a point. No one believed the story. Fine. We'd wait. They'd see. So instead of poisoning the punch, we kept people hooked on it.
That's part of the grocery store story and no one wants to hear about it. I have a laugh about it from time to time. If they'd only listened to the part about the piles of clear crystaline substance we'd found in the basement while hiding from the underground aliens, they'd win tonights game of 'guess what's in the punch'.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
No, You May Not, Mr. Garnett...
Despite the confusing title of this article, there is no doubt that Kevin Garnett may. He may come to Boston. He may win a championship here. He may be a Hall of Fame player. He may finally realize what it's like to play on a good to very good team. There are a lot of things he may do.
There is one thing he may not do. He may not be able to win over a tough media market. He's a great guy. Fans will love him. His teammates will love him. Referees will love him. Boston media may not.
Here is the sad truth. In Boston, nothing matters but championships. Even fans are disappointed when we don't win everything in every sport. Example: Red Sox. If you have no clue what I mean, how many cities get to win a world series per year? One. The Sox won in 2004. Just by sheer percentage odds, they won't win again for a bit. Only one team a year can. Yet, no matter the facts that baseball is the hardest sport to repeat in, fans and media bitch a blue streak for two straight years after winning it all and failing to repeat.
Even my beloved New England Patriots get hacked up constantly. They've won 3 NFL Championships since 2001. But fans just bitch bitch bitch and writers second guess and radio/TV idiots are abandonning the bandwagon because of 2 sub par years. Sub par by Boston standards. Offer those identical seasons to a Miami fan right now.
Anyways, Mr. Garnett, I am looking forward to meeting you this October. I want to introduce you to the worst division in the weakest conference in basketball: The Atlantic Division. Mr. Garnett, look around you. There's not a decent ceter or power forward within 2000 miles of you! You'll have my support and the support of the vast majority of Celtic greenbloods. Just do me a favor. Stay away from the media. You may not like them.
Stop for a second and look at this deal. The primary players are Al Jefferson and Gerald Green for Kevin Garnett. There might be a few draft picks in there, but they won't be lotery picks anyways. Not now at least. Okay, Theo Ratliff's expiring contract is cool to have, but only if you can trade it. That's offset by unloading (click-clack) Sebastion Telfair.
So: Garnett for Green and Jefferson. I make that trade every day of the week and twice on Sundays. Even if they have to add The Sweetener: Ryan Gomes. Look, these three guys were pleasant surprizes. Okay, Green was an unpleasant fiasco, but could be good someday. Kevin Garnett is Kevin Garnett. KG! MR GAR-FUCKING-NET! Is he as good as he used to be? Better, I think. He's a much better player than 3 years ago. Maybe not as athletic, but come on! Can anyone seriously say that he's on the downside of his career? I don't care! Look at Shaq. Garnett is still huge. He's a great passer and a wonderful defender. 5 time all defensive team, if I'm not mistaken.
This deal makes more sense than going to confession right before you die. Sure, it might not have any effect, but if it does, the payoff is invaluable.
So, I for one applaud (this hurts) Danny Ainge for not thinking outside the box on this one. He's made the Celtics an Eastern Conference powerhouse again. That's all we've wanted for 20 years. That and six championships and a time machine to fix some of the mistakes... but hey. This is a start.
That is, if the deal does go down.
There is one thing he may not do. He may not be able to win over a tough media market. He's a great guy. Fans will love him. His teammates will love him. Referees will love him. Boston media may not.
Here is the sad truth. In Boston, nothing matters but championships. Even fans are disappointed when we don't win everything in every sport. Example: Red Sox. If you have no clue what I mean, how many cities get to win a world series per year? One. The Sox won in 2004. Just by sheer percentage odds, they won't win again for a bit. Only one team a year can. Yet, no matter the facts that baseball is the hardest sport to repeat in, fans and media bitch a blue streak for two straight years after winning it all and failing to repeat.
Even my beloved New England Patriots get hacked up constantly. They've won 3 NFL Championships since 2001. But fans just bitch bitch bitch and writers second guess and radio/TV idiots are abandonning the bandwagon because of 2 sub par years. Sub par by Boston standards. Offer those identical seasons to a Miami fan right now.
Anyways, Mr. Garnett, I am looking forward to meeting you this October. I want to introduce you to the worst division in the weakest conference in basketball: The Atlantic Division. Mr. Garnett, look around you. There's not a decent ceter or power forward within 2000 miles of you! You'll have my support and the support of the vast majority of Celtic greenbloods. Just do me a favor. Stay away from the media. You may not like them.
Stop for a second and look at this deal. The primary players are Al Jefferson and Gerald Green for Kevin Garnett. There might be a few draft picks in there, but they won't be lotery picks anyways. Not now at least. Okay, Theo Ratliff's expiring contract is cool to have, but only if you can trade it. That's offset by unloading (click-clack) Sebastion Telfair.
So: Garnett for Green and Jefferson. I make that trade every day of the week and twice on Sundays. Even if they have to add The Sweetener: Ryan Gomes. Look, these three guys were pleasant surprizes. Okay, Green was an unpleasant fiasco, but could be good someday. Kevin Garnett is Kevin Garnett. KG! MR GAR-FUCKING-NET! Is he as good as he used to be? Better, I think. He's a much better player than 3 years ago. Maybe not as athletic, but come on! Can anyone seriously say that he's on the downside of his career? I don't care! Look at Shaq. Garnett is still huge. He's a great passer and a wonderful defender. 5 time all defensive team, if I'm not mistaken.
This deal makes more sense than going to confession right before you die. Sure, it might not have any effect, but if it does, the payoff is invaluable.
So, I for one applaud (this hurts) Danny Ainge for not thinking outside the box on this one. He's made the Celtics an Eastern Conference powerhouse again. That's all we've wanted for 20 years. That and six championships and a time machine to fix some of the mistakes... but hey. This is a start.
That is, if the deal does go down.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Just For Hobbs
Because 'sports are stupid', let's take a closer look at some of the sporting headlines of the week. Let's see...
Michael Vick kills dogs... Joey Proter punches dude at blackjack table... brrrrr... um, NBA Referee investigated for manipulating games to win bet....
WAIT!!!!!
NBA Refs are biased and intentionally keep games close? Hell, a two year old could tell you that. Here's the part I don't understand. I thought David Stern told them to keep the games close, not the MAFIA!
Well, either way, my long standing theory of corrupt NBA Officiating is finally proven true. One step away from proving David Stern IS a mob boss.
1. He runs that league like a mob boss.
2. Marketable players always seem to end up in the finals. Detroit was the exception, until Stern poisoned Larry Brown and paid Ron Artest to start a near riot at the Palace.
3. David Stern TALKS like a mob boss. Not the voice, not the accent, but he's always vaguely threatening and intentionally obtuse during interviews.
If I were this Ref, I'd be out of the country by now. Bad enough he's being investigated for ties to the mob, he's ruining David Stern's league!
Stern: Hey, come take a look at this view out here on my balcony.
Ref: No thank you, sir.
Stern: Did I put a question mark on that.
Ref: No.
Stern: C'mere.
Ref: Please, I... I...
Stern: I'm not going to kill you. Come here.
Nobody is telling the truth if they try to assure you that they aren't going to kill you.
Point is, it's one thing when the news headlines are all filled with scandal. When the sports page reads like the police blotter, that's a different cow altogether. We can tell a lot about a society by its entertainment.
Kids follow athletes, musicians and celebrities. The Western World has not held these people accountable for the last 20 years or more. This group coming into their own right now are a continuation of the downward spiral of the West.
I, for one, am okay with all of this. If I'm going to live out my life, day after day, grind in and grind out, I'd rather do it with the world in flames around me. History always needs flames.
Some idiots would miss the connection of sports and society, but the two mirror each other. Follow American Culture and American Sports. They rise and fall together.
I just hope I get my book written before the electricity gets shut down. No one can read my writing...
Michael Vick kills dogs... Joey Proter punches dude at blackjack table... brrrrr... um, NBA Referee investigated for manipulating games to win bet....
WAIT!!!!!
NBA Refs are biased and intentionally keep games close? Hell, a two year old could tell you that. Here's the part I don't understand. I thought David Stern told them to keep the games close, not the MAFIA!
Well, either way, my long standing theory of corrupt NBA Officiating is finally proven true. One step away from proving David Stern IS a mob boss.
1. He runs that league like a mob boss.
2. Marketable players always seem to end up in the finals. Detroit was the exception, until Stern poisoned Larry Brown and paid Ron Artest to start a near riot at the Palace.
3. David Stern TALKS like a mob boss. Not the voice, not the accent, but he's always vaguely threatening and intentionally obtuse during interviews.
If I were this Ref, I'd be out of the country by now. Bad enough he's being investigated for ties to the mob, he's ruining David Stern's league!
Stern: Hey, come take a look at this view out here on my balcony.
Ref: No thank you, sir.
Stern: Did I put a question mark on that.
Ref: No.
Stern: C'mere.
Ref: Please, I... I...
Stern: I'm not going to kill you. Come here.
Nobody is telling the truth if they try to assure you that they aren't going to kill you.
Point is, it's one thing when the news headlines are all filled with scandal. When the sports page reads like the police blotter, that's a different cow altogether. We can tell a lot about a society by its entertainment.
Kids follow athletes, musicians and celebrities. The Western World has not held these people accountable for the last 20 years or more. This group coming into their own right now are a continuation of the downward spiral of the West.
I, for one, am okay with all of this. If I'm going to live out my life, day after day, grind in and grind out, I'd rather do it with the world in flames around me. History always needs flames.
Some idiots would miss the connection of sports and society, but the two mirror each other. Follow American Culture and American Sports. They rise and fall together.
I just hope I get my book written before the electricity gets shut down. No one can read my writing...
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
A New Wing
I've added a new wing to the Palatial Estate on The Hill .
I hope you like dark places and Birthday Surprizes!
I hope you like dark places and Birthday Surprizes!
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Hill TV is MINE!
I have restored Hill TV to its former glory. But wait! This is not like the old Hill TV... actually, it quite is. Like the old days.
The old days are back. Remember, as always, there's room for two.
The old days are back. Remember, as always, there's room for two.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
A Whole New Kind of Hate
Look. I fucking read the book. I read it. It was called Fight Club, and it was by some idiot named Chuck Pallywacker or something. This little fucking nitwit writes a book about guys fighting in basements. It sucks. It SUCKS!
Don't bother reading Fight Club. Take your lazy ass out to some field with a couple of your friends and try it yourself. You're still just a couple of guys hitting each other. It's almost homoerotic in a way... which is fine, if you're into that. I'm not saying it's bad at all. I just wouldn't be gay ever. Maybe for $2,000,000... That would pay for a lot of therapy.
Anyway, back to this whole rant. Give revolution a rest, Gen X, Y and Z. Get a good night's sleep and wait for the professionals to come through with the wrecking ball. Nooooo need to gum up the works and 'blowed stuf upp'. We'll take it from here. We are the Human Race. No one does destruction like us. Get out of our way and let us finish what we started. No reset button. No 'Project Mayhem' or Operation Mind Fuck needed. And here's the kicker...
We'll give you the whole deal for free and you don't have to lift a finger.
If you have no idea what I just said, you are
a). Over Fifty and Acting Like It. Good for you. Fucking live it up until the Sun goes down. I SALUTE you! ALL SINCERITY. Go to town, because here comes the payoff.
b). Under 18 and Showing It. Talk about search hits with that phrase. If you're too young to save the world, don't worry. It's not being saved by anyone.
So, here's my Brand New Shiny Hate...
Strugglers.
No more trudging forward. Lay down. Lay down. Lay down you'll calm the boat. Don't grab at stuff that isn't there anyways. Just lay down. Lay down now.
No more Strugglers.
Don't bother reading Fight Club. Take your lazy ass out to some field with a couple of your friends and try it yourself. You're still just a couple of guys hitting each other. It's almost homoerotic in a way... which is fine, if you're into that. I'm not saying it's bad at all. I just wouldn't be gay ever. Maybe for $2,000,000... That would pay for a lot of therapy.
Anyway, back to this whole rant. Give revolution a rest, Gen X, Y and Z. Get a good night's sleep and wait for the professionals to come through with the wrecking ball. Nooooo need to gum up the works and 'blowed stuf upp'. We'll take it from here. We are the Human Race. No one does destruction like us. Get out of our way and let us finish what we started. No reset button. No 'Project Mayhem' or Operation Mind Fuck needed. And here's the kicker...
We'll give you the whole deal for free and you don't have to lift a finger.
If you have no idea what I just said, you are
a). Over Fifty and Acting Like It. Good for you. Fucking live it up until the Sun goes down. I SALUTE you! ALL SINCERITY. Go to town, because here comes the payoff.
b). Under 18 and Showing It. Talk about search hits with that phrase. If you're too young to save the world, don't worry. It's not being saved by anyone.
So, here's my Brand New Shiny Hate...
Strugglers.
No more trudging forward. Lay down. Lay down. Lay down you'll calm the boat. Don't grab at stuff that isn't there anyways. Just lay down. Lay down now.
No more Strugglers.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Hojo Facts
Hojo is this dude on the Wand of Wonder Multi Blog http://www.third-option.com/wow.htm.
Here are some interesting Hojo facts:
One time, Hojo lifted two elephants on a concrete slab with his pinky. That's right.
Hojo does NOT stand for Howard Johnson's. It stands for Horrendous Jackass, a term of endearment very few have earned.
Hojo walks upright, but can run faster than a cheatah when on all fours.
Hojo taught Chuck Norris how to roundhouse kick.
Hojo showers 8 times a day to wash off the blood of his enemies and friends.
Hojo owns 12 circuses and one Hojoworld amusement park.
Hojo wastes no time telling the ladies how to do it.
Hojo shoots kids who wear wheelies.
Hojo is a well known cure for headaches. He removes the brain and stuffs it with flexible straws.
When Hojo speaks people shut the fuck up and listen with every body cavity.
Hojo can survive underwater, during a nuclear attack, after an asteroid strike in the middle of a tornado storm for 1000 years.
Hojo makes Dark Murk Perks with his thoughts.
Hojo is not tolerant of anything unhojoish.
Hojo insulted 1200 samurai and they walked away crying.
Hojo supports the destruction of our moon, to be replaced by a new orbital battlestation of the same size simply called 'Hojo 1'.
Hojo actually tells Malach how to run all of his sites.
Hojo watches all television channels simultaneously through electronic meditation synchronosis.
Hojo is everybodies best friend, except as far as he's concerned. He could give a shit.
Hojo makes rocks turn into ponies and then kills them with an AK-47.
Hojo is actually 6000 years old and killed Yoda's ghost while travelling to Dagobah.
Hojo repeats himself by saying things once and only once... and then beating the crap out of you.
When Hojo goes to lunch, every building in a fifteen mile radius becomes a five star restaurant. They never let him pay for his meals.
Hojo is wanted in five start systems.
Hojo is to Angryman as Nun-Chucks are to chopsticks. Angryman is equal to the rest of the world as Nun-Chucks are to toothpicks. Therefore, by using the transitive property Hojo is yo you as Nun-Chucks are to helpless kittens.
Hojo.
Hojo.
Hojo.
I feel a Hojo explosion coming on!
Murk Out
Here are some interesting Hojo facts:
One time, Hojo lifted two elephants on a concrete slab with his pinky. That's right.
Hojo does NOT stand for Howard Johnson's. It stands for Horrendous Jackass, a term of endearment very few have earned.
Hojo walks upright, but can run faster than a cheatah when on all fours.
Hojo taught Chuck Norris how to roundhouse kick.
Hojo showers 8 times a day to wash off the blood of his enemies and friends.
Hojo owns 12 circuses and one Hojoworld amusement park.
Hojo wastes no time telling the ladies how to do it.
Hojo shoots kids who wear wheelies.
Hojo is a well known cure for headaches. He removes the brain and stuffs it with flexible straws.
When Hojo speaks people shut the fuck up and listen with every body cavity.
Hojo can survive underwater, during a nuclear attack, after an asteroid strike in the middle of a tornado storm for 1000 years.
Hojo makes Dark Murk Perks with his thoughts.
Hojo is not tolerant of anything unhojoish.
Hojo insulted 1200 samurai and they walked away crying.
Hojo supports the destruction of our moon, to be replaced by a new orbital battlestation of the same size simply called 'Hojo 1'.
Hojo actually tells Malach how to run all of his sites.
Hojo watches all television channels simultaneously through electronic meditation synchronosis.
Hojo is everybodies best friend, except as far as he's concerned. He could give a shit.
Hojo makes rocks turn into ponies and then kills them with an AK-47.
Hojo is actually 6000 years old and killed Yoda's ghost while travelling to Dagobah.
Hojo repeats himself by saying things once and only once... and then beating the crap out of you.
When Hojo goes to lunch, every building in a fifteen mile radius becomes a five star restaurant. They never let him pay for his meals.
Hojo is wanted in five start systems.
Hojo is to Angryman as Nun-Chucks are to chopsticks. Angryman is equal to the rest of the world as Nun-Chucks are to toothpicks. Therefore, by using the transitive property Hojo is yo you as Nun-Chucks are to helpless kittens.
Hojo.
Hojo.
Hojo.
I feel a Hojo explosion coming on!
Murk Out
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Friday, June 22, 2007
Never Count a Man Out Until You've Burried Him
After painful events, reconstructive surgery, a flight from the country, a trip to my secret Swiss Bank account... I am well enough to resume posting.
They stole my sites. They stole my palatial estate. But they didn't get everything.
And I've got news for you son of a bitches: I've got people burried deep into your organization and it is just a matter of time before I get my estate, my sites and my PEOPLE back.
Wand of Wonder... consider yourselves... WARNED.
They stole my sites. They stole my palatial estate. But they didn't get everything.
And I've got news for you son of a bitches: I've got people burried deep into your organization and it is just a matter of time before I get my estate, my sites and my PEOPLE back.
Wand of Wonder... consider yourselves... WARNED.
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