Oversized Wrinkly/Furry Ballsac

Of late, my sleep has been disturbed by the local wildlife. By local wildlife, I do not refer to lions or tigers or bears (oh my!); I am referring to a cat, somewhere in the vicinity of the 3 houses surrounding mine.

It started a few weeks ago, with funny noises all through the night ("rrrOWW! rrrOWW! rrrOWW!"). At first, I thought it was just another fight or whatever, and ignored it. But after a few nights of the same, it became apparent that it wasn't a fight. The truth revealed itself to me in an exclusive bare-all exposé that it now denies ever agreeing to (and is currently suing me over): somewhere in the locality, a cat was getting what sounded like the rutting of a lifetime. Every. Fucking. Night. (pun fully intended)

It's a very distracting thing, when your neighbors have incredibly noisy sex all night. Even if they're cats. But the most worrying aspect of this isn't it's effect on me; it's the effect on my dog.

The poor chap's hitting puberty just about now, or so the increasing number of boners would make it seem, and every time the cats go at it, he starts barking at 'em (yes, with wood). I can't really blame the guy; here he is, his canine balls just dropping, and the local music (which I'll bet he hears in exquisite detail) is more like what one would expect to hear in a Paris Hilton movie than anything. No, I'm not referring to cheesy horror flicks. You know the sorta movie I mean. Yes, porn. He's hitting puberty and there's a porno audio track going all night. That really doesn't blow, and I pity him for that.

He hasn't even got any way to relieve himself, if you catch my drift. I mean, it's one thing to be a randy SOB and have hands, but it's quite another to have a perpetual boner and nothing better than hard and sharp teeth (little sister: "Anna, what's wrong with him? Why's it all red down there?" me: "Uhhh...") with which to "scratch" his "itch", if you know what I mean.

But it's even more embarrassing (or so says a friend of mine who'd know) when the poor ol' randy SOB gets hisself some "company", and either can't get it up or can't get it in. Especially when the owner(s) is(are?) watching; the poor fellow's pride is just plain shot, no two ways about it. So here's my question to the world: just what are we, mankind, doing to alleviate those hordes of sexually frustrated domestic animals across the globe? Is it not our duty as the "higher species"? Do we not owe them a debt for being our companions through thick and thin?

For ourselves, we have Fleshlights and Viagra and all the different varieties of vibrators and other household objects, not to mention those greatest of masturbatory aids: the human hand. But what of them? It's a mark of shame for me to come home every day and see poor Rusty sitting there with a massive boner, licking his oversized wrinkly/furry ballsac, praying (panting?) for some relief. But what can one really do, short of finding him a lady friend (makeout buddies?), or "taking matters into hand"? The lack of self-abuse kits in this market is really rather appalling. Truly, a very sad state of affairs.

(I'm open to reader suggestions on self-pleasure aids for domestic animals. Any ideas, leave 'em in the comment space.)

Poem Without Plot

I wrote these lines without any plot
And can’t say what this is, only what it’s not

This isn’t an ode to the ‘beauty’ of ‘true love’
Nor one in praise of ‘powers above’

This isn’t a tale of maidens fair
With oversized towers and bleached blonde hair

War, peace, and all the rest you won’t find here
You’ll have to look elsewhere for those, my dear

Beyond mere babble, what lies within?
Nothing at all, neither virtue nor sin

Its lack of content I won’t obscure
Of that, my friend, you may be sure

This does, however, have an annoying rhyme
Which you can attribute to an excess of free time

Meter and thought, must they be done?
Not at all, these lines ain’t got none

Yeah, that was pretty crappy, I know
But I’m just playing for space…ho ho?

Ah, yes, ’tis truly a curse,
To be able to think in nought but verse

Such are the effects of Geography class
When mixed with a mind most vulgar and crass

Okay, I’ve run out of things to say
But I’ve got stuff to do anyway

So here I go, off I trot
Thus comes to an end, my poem without a plot

Spoils to the Taker

This happens to be one of my favorite short films. Definitely worth a watch.

As I flicked through the comments (the comments on both Engadget and YouTube are always worth a read, if only for the entertainment value), I noticed that the usual flame war was (not uncommonly) about America. Some loved it, some hated it, and you can definitely bother to read it yourself. Lazy bums, the lot of ya.

I've come across a lot of those arguments over the past few years. And I've always tried to be as neutral as possible. Now, since I have nothing better to do (okay, that's a lie, but forget about it), I figured I'd chip in with my two cents here.

(And if you don't like it, push off. No one likes you anyway. Go read whatever you like to read that agrees with your views, and dance around a fire in your grandmother's panties rubbing peanut butter over yourself for all I care.)



If there's one thing I've noticed, it's that Americans are often stereotyped as fat, lazy, ignorant slobs. And remember, I'm speaking of my experiences. Maybe where you're from, Americans are stereotyped as massive worm-like creatures who live in deep space and feed off heavy metals and ride solar currents. I don't care. This isn't about those stereotypes. This is about these ones. Anyhow.

Americans stereotyped as fat stupid white couch potatoes. Right. Well, I've noticed how these same people always get all peeved when they hear about Americans stereotyping them (say, Indians) as a race of brown people who all talk like Apu or Ashok, and run convenience stores or steal "American jobs", and charm snakes in their underwear. They say, "But we're so much more! Not all of us Chinese people are martial artists, not everyone who wears a turban has a bomb, not all of us Muslims are terrorists", and seem very indignant about it. We all remember the Danish cartoon incident - while there were other factors in play, one of them was the stereotyping of Muslims as bomb-carriers.

But what of those who stereotype all Americans as lazy, ignorant, obese white slobs, who can only sit in front of the TV like brain-dead morons? That, of course, is not stereotyping, they say - it's true! Isn't that what everyone says? "They have no right to stereotype me, but I have a right to brand them - after all, my perceptions are soo much clearer and better than absolutely everyone else's. I'm special!". Like special ed, maybe.

Isn't it hypocritical to want "them" to stop stereotyping "us", when we can't do it ourselves? Isn't it hypocritical to say "We're not all snake-charmers, but 'we' are all smarter than 'them'"? Plenty of people are willing to accept those stereotypes that suit them, and then turn around and cry foul when others choose ones that are not-so-flattering. "We Indians are genetically more capable at math and science." - IMO, that's a load of bull. Then again, it might not be. But that's not the point.

Then, of course, there are the standard accusations of American meddling and hypocrisy. I cannot count the number of times people have said "America has no right to do this or that and everything going wrong in the world is their fault!". In fact, it's become something of a fad over here - being anti-American and denouncing America (and Dubya) have become the "in" thing to do. It's become a sort of mantra, "They only went for the oil". People who know less about international affairs than my dogs have suddenly become brilliant and informed commentators, by virtue of their ability to spew bile at anything American.

Well, they can do it, and so they are. Every country, bar none does whatever it can to get ahead. India blocks Pakistan wherever it can (ARF, anyone?); China's trying to get ahead in Africa; Israel, those little tinpot dictatorships, everyone - they all do whatever they can to get ahead. No nation is in the business of international charity, not to the best of my knowledge, at least. Why should the USA be any different? Why should people expect them to do anything but lie and cheat and steal and do whatever is necessary to maintain their superiority? No one gave them the right; they took the right. A right that is given is about as useful as a virtue that is given. Can you imagine how ridiculous that would be? "I hereby bestow upon thee the virtue of honesty" - would anyone take something like that seriously? On the other hand..."I am an honest person. I always stay honest", and "I'm standing up for my right to freedom of speech" - those make more sense to me. Virtues are performed, just as rights are used. They are meaningless otherwise.

I'm not defending the decisions or actions of the Bush administration, or any other American government. All I'm saying is that they never signed up for international charity. Yeah, they claimed it was all in the world's best interest. So what? People lie when they have to, to get what they want/need. Why should a country be any different? Is any country any different? They're under no obligation to help the world. A government's first and foremost responsibility is to it's people. I get people dissing on Bush for messing his own country up - I don't get uninvolved people dissing on America for getting involved with someone else.

There are those who've gone on about Americans supposedly "overreacting" to 9/11. The ones who passionately rant and rave about the "millions dead and displaced in the Kashmir valley because of Pakistan, and when India went to the UN, they didn't authorise any action, so India didn't act. America is a pansy country! They invaded another nation after only 3000 people died!". I'm not joking. I have actually heard people say this. Perhaps it's just me, but I think that's a rather stupid line to take.

The UN didn't "authorise" any action - the US took the initiative. They not-so-politely told everybody who disagreed to fuck off, and went ahead and did what they felt had to be done. I'm not condoning vigilante actions of any sort (nor am I condemning them), or saying that it's a good thing to do what you feel like doing against international orders (or whatever), but the fact remains that that's what happened. Anyone who complains about a US hegemony? Damn right there's a US hegemony. Just like there'd be a Chinese one if China were in America's shoes, a Pakistani one were Pakistan in those shoes, or even an Indian one were India in those size 11's. America is obviously going to work towards a "new American century"; somehow, I find it very unlikely they'd work towards a Chinese or Lebanese century, don't you think?

Some feel that the US has to follow through on what it says publicly, and do the needful to completely halt terrorism everywhere, but they don't - their prime, if only, responsibility is their own interests, and nobody else's. Just like everybody else. The USA isn't obliged to do anything, period. They do what they want to do, as long as they can get away with it. India isn't obliged to block Pakistan's entry into the ARF over the otherwise-unanimous agreement of the other partners, just as Pakistan isn't obliged to be such an ass to India. But they do, because it helps them get ahead. Why is that such a hard concept for people to understand? Yes, so they may have gone to Iraq with ulterior motives - so what?

Ever notice how everyone says it's alright for them to do whatever they want to, while simultaneously denouncing everyone else for doing the exact same thing? Like how it's alright for me to rant and rave, yet I call Pat Robertson a retarded asswipe when he does? Probably not the best example to take, but yeah. You get the idea.

It seems to me that the real problem is that nobody ever stops to think about the other guy's POV. It's rare that anyone says "Well, darn it, I think I'm right, and he thinks he's right - now what makes me so much better than him that I'm "actually" right and he isn't?". Nope. Nobody does that. People seldom stop and study a situation dispassionately.

Oh well. Everyone's entitled to their own opinions, informed or otherwise. It's just that it's often a lot nicer when they're not just imitating the current fad. Because really, it's rather pathetic (not to mention tiring) to hear stuff like "I hate America - ooh! Jesse McCartney is, like, so totally hot!!!! Ohmigosh! Big Bazaar sells Abercrombie & Fitch!!!!!!!!", or "Fuck Americ- oh, dude, did you check out the new 50 Cent album? It is so dope, man!" all the time.

The sad thing is, there's no real end to these issues. Hypocrisy and following the latest fad will nearly always (if not always) be more popular than unbiased study. They're easier. And most people, myself included, prefer the easy way out. And it's usually (if not always) easier to say that the other guy is an idiot with no taste than it is to take the trouble to get what he's saying and see things from his perspective. More's the pity, I guess.

(update 10/03/07: came across this interesting article. worth a read, imo.)

Poor Chicken

i live my life in gloom
i'd like to use the word doom, but it'd rhyme
being a goth who loves to moan in open verse
i can't
bleak existence
the sun hates me
i want to eat black cheese and die

my life
so short
my wrists
so red
is there any point?
will this go on forever?

i can't think of any lines
my life sucks
i love sniffing black nail polish
it goes so well with my black douche
why do i have a black douche?

woe
woe
woe is me
for i slept with my math teacher
and he's not even a she

oh crap
i rhymed
oh no
black doom
death and destruction upon the pretty little butterflies
color is meaningless
black is the only constant
and that theme ran away
woe

here i sit
a pool of red blood
not mine
marks on my wrist
people will think it is
poor chicken
feathers are murder to clean up



Alright, alright, it's not the most politically correct thing to post, but what the hell. I felt like poking a little fun at emo poetry; y'know, the open verse kind. Or whatever you call it. Yes, it's probably mean to some people, but so's most humor. Boo hoo. Let's all go cut our wrists in shame and sorrow. Oh, woe is us.

7/7/7 - The Tragic Tale of Fuzzy Wuzzy Wumpiesnookins

7/7/7. Which is a reference to the date. Like 6/6/6, 'cept it's not. But what the hell, it's as good as anything to spin a tale out of.

So if 666 is the Beast's Number (note the caps), what's 777? No, not the line of planes. I refer to something else entirely - something with far more meat to cook and eat. Ok, last rhyme in this post. I promise.

So just what is this mysterious 777? With plenty of better things to do, I decided to investigate. After much investigation (and cookie-eating. mostly cookie-eating.), I arbitrarily came to the conclusion that 777 was a reference to the Beast's little brother: Maximillian Joseph Valentino Arnold Rudolpho Sierra Sheryl Tango Ernesto Foxtrot Antonio Pangajoringliani. Or, as his mother calls him, "Fuzzy Wuzzy Wumpiesnookins". My thoughts exactly. Let's stick with "Max".

Now Max was a sensitive guy from the start, quiet and unassuming. Not like his celebrated older brother in the slightest, it was evident from the start - and Max's lack of tusks, hair, body odor - that he was not destined for the same glory as the rest of his family. As a result, much of his time in high school was spent with his head up a toilet - and in hell, believe you me, that's one hell of a way (horrendous pun intended) to spend your time. Demon crap is nasty stuff. 'Nuff said.

Alas, demon crap swirlies had a very strange effect on young Max. Strange, and tragic. A change came over the quiet, shy, sensitive Brother of the Beast. No longer did he spend large amounts of time dressing and accessorizing in black and cutting his wrists; instead, he started to listen to Gunther Levi, and sang "Sexy Back" all day long. Yes, slowly but surely, young Max was losing his marbles.

The final straw came one Saturday afternoon - 7/7/7 -, as Max walked back home from school. Burly young 667, the scorchingly hot and incredibly hairy next-door Neighbor of the Beast, made a pass at him. His brain melted by the hours he'd spent fantasizing over Gunther and Justin, the sight of the large, porcine ho from next door asking him for a jar of KY was too much for his strained brain (not really a rhyme, so it doesn't count) to handle. His mind blew like Rip Van Winkle after he woke up and got his sock back on.

He erupted. Exploding into an all-singing, all-dancing bonanza, he single-handedly whipped all hell into a stupor with his unhealthily massive knowledge of factory-made pop music. Rumor has it that Satan himself was brought down by a rather shrill(er than usual?) rendition of "Stop" (by the Spice Girls).

The details are a little fuzzy after this, but there are indications that after extensive facial reconstruction surgery across the world, Max has since fled to Acapulco, where he is now enjoying the, ah, charms of several local girls, as well as a jet ski whose owner he appears to have crooned into drowning. His mother is believed to live with him, and local legend maintains that she still calls him "Fuzzy Wuzzy Wumpiesnookins".

The Spice Girls could not be reached for comment.

And...Poof!

The old layout is gone! But where'd it go? Clearly, a mystery for.....
.....somebody else. Like the Missing Pages Bureau. We (by which I mean me) have this sexy new layout (we'll call her Ms.T) we've been seeing for a few months now. She's undergone major surgery before; like Michael Jackson, she (Ms. T, remember) was once black. Unlike (I hope) the esteemed Mr. Jackson ("Jacko the Whacko"), however, she was covered in pink fur and had a leopard print interior. She does have a very pretty nose, though. Like Cleopatra. In Asterix. Only not. Anyhow.

Many thanks to Dr. Victor Witnwisdumb for cranking this beauty out of those crazy labs beneath his secret lair in the Fortress of Solitude. In the end, his dark ministrations bore fruit to the creation (Ms. T, in case you forgot) you see before you. Ten points to brilliant mad ("Annngrrry! Annngggry!") scientists.

Eventually, Ms. T (she) will undergo surgery again, intended to finish her (Ms. T's) modifications. But not for a while to come. For now, she's content to recover and bask in the stares of others. So start staring. At Ms. T, that is. The eyes are up there.

Orkut. Must. Die.

PR0NZ IS YUMMY!!!111
Now that that bit of stupidity is done with, on with the show.


Orkut is ghey, and may Jerry Falwell's rotting corpse butt-rape those of you who disagree.

I'm not messing around here. I can and will personally set Zombie Jerry and his insatiable "newly-perverted-by-being-a-zombie" sexual appetite upon those of you who disagree.

Strong statement, yes, but I've my reasons. A whole list, in fact. The "scrapbook" and it's usage being high on said list.

People often use the scrapbook feature as if it was an IM client, and go on messaging someone like it's a private conversation. Newsflash, asswipes: IT ISN'T. Anything you're "scrapping" a guy can and often will be read by anyone with the interest or without a life*. That covers most of Orkut's (and, incidentally, Myspace's) user base, as I've understood it.

I don't like the layout either. Not that there's anything wrong with crappy layouts, but I really think that they could've at least pulled a Myspace and let users make their own. Instead, we are treated to a light-ish blue-and-purple monstrosity, where the "cool" (and often "modest" as well) tend to use ASCII art and SMS-ese. SMS-ese (lik dis) is alright, I suppose, when you're actually SMS-ing someone, or when there's a low character limit.

And not everyone is capable of typing in coherent sentences. "wer wer u yst??////" is alright, I guess...if you're a retarded butt-monkey with brain damage. In Siberia. And everyone around was illiterate and spoke no language that even remotely resembled English. But otherwise, it's plain stupid.

Speaking of plain stupid, so're people who talk themselves up on Orkut. If I hear someone say "hi im kwel fun luvn gal who luvs 2 frk out wid ma frndz" ONE MORE TIME...suffice to say, it's not gonna be pretty. Like Anne Coulter, who is also not pretty, but on a whole 'nother scale of horrendous hideousness. Back to the topic.

People who talk themselves up on Orkut are a pet peeve of mine. They seem to want to tell everyone just how unbearably cool and and "frky" and modest (rather, "mdst") they are. Lemme give you all some useful advice: NO ONE GIVES A SHIT. Yeah, you heard me. NO ONE GIVES A SHIT IF YOU CALL YOURSELF COOL, OR HOT, OR "FREAKY", OR EVEN "THE DOCTOR OF PRANKONOMICS". YOU'RE STILL A RETARDED BUTT-MONKEY. Capisce? As if Myspace wasn't bad enough, now we've got Orkut too...

They can't even type their shit right. I'm repeating myself, I know, but still. It deserves special mention. Example:

"umm..........m nt sur wat 2 say...........im a fun-luvn gal, alwys redy 2 party wit my frendz........."

...I'm just gonna say this once: W.T.F?!? Actually, no. I'm gonna say it more than once. Because I want to, don't ask stupid questions. WTF?! It's ok to say "umm" a few times in conversation. It's alright to type it in every now and then. But "umm....m nt sur wat 2 say" is NOT alright. If you're not sure what to say, then why are you saying it? There's the bit about being a fun-loving girl, and how no one gives a rat's penis, but that's already covered.

And then there are the losers loserly (not a word? is now.) enough to try getting some action on Orkut.

"Our hroscops match, cn I meet ur prnts on snday?"

is one such relatively tame example.

"hi wanna mak frenship wit me? im gud lukng guy wit big salry wrkn in amerca and im fair n handsum"

is another classic.

Then there are those who form/join those "communities" (don't even get me started...) devoted to idiocy with a sexual twist. And, of course, they are retarded butt-monkeys as well. I'm normally an open-minded enough guy, but disagree with me on this one, and Zombie Jerry's coming out. To all those of you who think Orkut's gonna put your hand(s)/sock(s) out of business: IT AIN'T GONNA HAPPEN, YO. Booty "scrapping" is NOT gonna get you laid! Trust me on this one, because if it worked, I'd be using it. And since I don't use it, it must not work. So you may as well just switch your browsers over to whatever shitty porn you like, and get your hand(s) lubed up...Which they probably already are, because if you're the sort I'm talking about, you're that big a (sexually frustrated) loser. Rather, that SMALL a loser. Go back to your fantasies about your mothers, you incestuous freaks. And take your smelly tube socks with you.

Meh. Orkut has become like Myspace: it's impurity soils the immortal souls of those who gaze upon its foul visage. I have to sacrifice a dozen virgin kilobytes each time I see it, just to feel pure again. I can only hope the Irony Gods (who rule my fate) are as forgiving...

Sit down, son. I'm not done yet. I said, sit down.

But of course, the main thing that gets me is this: every now and then (read: every day I can), I go to a local internet place to play Call of Duty 2. I have the game, but my internet sucks, and that's a pretty fun game to play on a LAN. It's a damn sight better than CS, that's for sure. But I go there, and there they are, the Orkutters - hogging machines to send everyone on their list a "whr r u?", and replying to the inevitable barrages of "im here whr r u?". Or whatever the fuck the respondents reply with. I wouldn't exactly know. And then, of course, they must have a friend hunched over the keyboard with them, discussing dialogue as they attempt to hit on a girl-who's-probably-a-middle-aged-pedo, hoping to score. But we've been over that, boys; it ain't gonna happen. At the max, you'll get a few pictures of the pedo's (grand?)daughter naked. But that's about it. Of course, given how loserly these losers are, they'll probably spend all night at home on their beds, jerking their abnormally tiny wangs off to the mental image of the fully-clothed pictures of a 12-year-old they got.

That's not to say anything about the asswipes who turn their monitors away from the rest of the room and hunch over it, trying for all their little hearts to act like they're not staring at porn (LOL PR0NZ). Or Googling |actress name| nude, trying hard to wank without using their hands, lest anybody realize and try to join in. Freaks, the lot of them. Tch. It just figures they'd accumulate on Orkut. I mean, look at what happened to Myspace, what with all the goths and emo('?)s and other weirdos. And then, of course, there was Rupert Murdoch. Pity. But in any case, at least Orkutters are safe from (dirty) old man Murdoch. Their souls are owned by Google, to be used in its (hopefully nefarious) scheme to take over the world.

Now don't get me wrong - I respect the right of every man (and woman, and child, and everyone else) to watch whatever sorta porn rocks his boat. Really, I do. But when I've gotta wait an hour just to get a system because of them, well, that changes things. The worst part is that nothing - snide looks, glares, derisive shakes of the head, NOTHING - short of a good kick in the pants seems to make them get off their fugly butts, and let me get my game on. Dirty rotten no-good...*dark mutterings*

*Sighs* Oh well. If you can't beat 'em...
*Googles |actress name| nude. Slaps forehead and corrects mistake. Sigh of contentment.*




*Yes, this rant is fairly hypocritical, considering that my layout is no great shakes neither (this black one, at least), that Blogger belongs to Google, too, and that I don't really have a life myself. And that I have both a Myspace and an Orkut. But I'm Shiny and they're not, so :p, you retarded butt-monkeys.

How To Be A Blogger*

Y'ever get that feeling where you have stuff to do (no, not drugs), but you just can't bring yourself to do it (stop it already. pervert.)? Laziness, the higher-ups call it. I've got another term for it. And that term is...

(*whispers backstage*: C'mon, it's not in the sheet! What'm I s'posed to say?! What's the word? Whaddaya mean "stall"? What the- dammit. Never hiring on a two-for-one basis again...)

...*cue carnival music. starts juggling* it's the...the...Super-Juggler! Ordinary...uh...hippie student (so sue me) by day, crazed juggler on steroids at...uh...showtime? ...Who gets arrested for possession after he kept his chronic in his...crazed juggler balls...which he lit on fire...and...got the talking monkey high with...Crap. This is clearly one of those moments. Or not.

So just what is this mysterious malady? It's clearly not Riterblokitis, [X] or otherwise, because I'm taking my meds for it. It's clearly not a defective internet connection and way too many viruses (which were my excuses all last month). The crazy space monkeys are still on strike, but I've got normal monkeys for backup on the typewriters in my illegal filipino sweatshop. So I'm just gonna do what I always do, and blame it all on...shredded cheese and pumpkin pie. No, really. No, I was not about to cry "conspiracy". Yes I'm sure. Of course I'm sure. Enough, already. Where was I?

Ah, yes. Shredded cheese and pumpkin pie. Why? Because I'm eating pumpkin pie, and I haven't got any shredded cheese. The cheese isn't here to argue the point, and the pie's not gonna be around much longer anyhow, so they make the perfect scapegoats. As opposed to goatse-Oooh, podcast done downloading. Hold up.

Alright, done. Comedy Central, great stuff. Right. *clears throat*

So I'm gonna call it an "aversion to coherent thought". This actually explains a lot, including (especially) my rants. No, really, read them. Please? Well, this one, at least. Notice how there's not much coherence? Yes. You see, coherent thought requires that one sit down (or stand up. whatever rocks your boat) and lay one's ideas out. Crucial to being a good writer, or so I'm told. Not that I'd know firsthand, of course, but so say my sources. No, not the ones who told me Aishwarya Rai was actually an android bent on destroying mankind's minds with bad acting (although I still think they're right) and smell like pot - I'm talking about the "reliable" sources. So what do I do? I do what I always do. I ramble on about nothing in particular, hoping to get more words and make my ranting(s), raving(s), and/or rambling(s) appear to contain actual content. See? I'm doing it again. A useful technique, to be sure. One which I use all the time in class.

So. There it is. The secret of my rants. Try it out, and you can be a blogger (of possibly semi-questionable sanity) too. All you have to do is:
a) Find a layout that looks great on your pc, but annoying and hard to read on other people's.
b) Fill your rants with bullshit about absolutely nothing in particular (or, alternatively, anything that strikes your fancy. no, little boys do not count. unless your first name is michael and your last name is jackson.) until it appears like you've actually said something - hopefully, of some import.
and
c) Even if you don't do b), do a). This way, you'll have a pretty (annoying), if empty, blog.

Thar it be. How to ramble incoherently. Coming up soon: the anatomy of a good, possibly deranged, rant. Stay tuned, loyal reader!

...Yes, you can go now.

*conditions apply.

Life is a Toothbrush

I like to think of myself as an open-minded chap. Y'know, always interested in what the other guy has to say, and stuff. But if there's one thing I've learned, it's that current events are scary as all hell, and then some.

A while ago, I came to understand the true meaning behind the words "ignorance is bliss". And I've found that my life is a lot less stressful, and a lot easier on the whole, when i'm ignorant of things that would freak me the fuck out. Like the news. It's all about murders and killings and terrorists and crap these days. Hello, anchorpeople? I don't want to know about that stuff! I don't want to hear about a bunch of terrorists who've excaped from some prison. I don't wanna hear that Iran/North Korea/some other crazy dicktatorship(notice how they're all run by guys) is gonna send the world to Kingdom Come on a wave of nuclear flame! What I want to hear about is fluffy little bunnies and noble heroes! What I DON'T wanna hear is the rest of the story, where the fluffy little bunnies get run over by an 18-wheeler and turned into roadkill on the freeway and picked at by vultures and raccoons, and the noble hero turns out to have a thing for little boys, whips, and human flesh!

The same thing extends to school; learning that there's hydrochloric acid in my stomach is most assuredly NOT going to help me go to sleep at night. Ever since I learned about kidney stones, I've approached pissing with utmost caution. I now piss as slowly as possible, worried that a bunch of (not-so-)tiny stones might (very painfully) rip their way outta my kidneys via my willy. See what I mean? I think what we have is a problem. A very serious problem. We, as a people, have grown incapable of knowing when to stop. Don't believe me? Read on. As any regular reader - you over there, with the tinfoil hat - knows, I certainly don't know when to stop.

We go on stuffing our heads - and the heads of people around us - with as much information as we can, regardless of whether it's really what we/they want or not. And then we whine about knowing and try to fix it, when, had we not known, we could've saved ourselves the time and effort. Case in point? When I was 12 (or thereabouts), I read a book. One in a series called "Horrible Science", I think. From the same guys who came out with "Horrible History", or some such. Anyhow, I learned that when you flush the toilet after a session in the crapper, microscopic particles of...stuff...fly out and...well...they settle on things. including your toothbrush, if it's within a roughly 6-foot radius or so. And you put that thing in your mouth. And you think you're "cleaning" your mouth as you do it. Hell, I keep my toothbrush separated from my bathroom by several doors now. Had I not known, I wouldn't have had to devise and carry out the solution. But that's still not really the point.

See? Now, weren't you happier not knowing that little tidbit? I'll bet most of you are trying to forget it already. Good luck with that.

Now, I'm sure that a few of you will say that all this information has helped us reach a new age of rationalism, and how we're looking at a golden future, and blah blah blah, I don't know. And I don't care. I'm perfectly happy believing everything is the work of spirits and magic and all that new age crap. But I can't. Not anymore. Why not? Because I'm stuck. I'm unable to forget all this stuff I've learnt, and go back to believing pokemon are real and that I can get what I want by praying to a mystical spirit. Ah, the good old days. When everything was what it seemed, and it all seemed so good. As always, I point the finger (yes, the middle one) at society. They're such a decent scapegoat.

Oh well. What can one do? It's a crazy world after all.*

*(sung to the tune of "It's a small world aaaaaa-fter all)

(title justification: life, after all, is filled with tiny things you'd rather not know about, and I need a cooler one. preferably electric/automatic.)

The Belgariad: Epic-Fantasy-Tale

For a while now, a friend of mine has been after me to read some books by David Eddings - specifically, the Belgariad. So I finally picked up copies of the books of the Belgariad (Pawn of Prophecy, Queen of Sorcery, Magician's Gambit, Castle of Wizardry , and Enchanter's End Game, for the Google-challenged) and have been reading through them for the past couple of days. So, I figured, why not take this excu- opportunity to ramble on interminably, and review the thing? Hopefully, I'll end up avoiding spoilers, and only reveal that which is painfully obvious. Which would be most of the plot. So, uh, yeah.

The story starts with the typical ordinary-boy-unaware-of-special-destiny as the protagonist. The momentous-event-that-shakes-his-life occurs, and he's dragged on the quest-that-reveals-his-destiny.

(When I do that thing-with-the-hyphens, I'm pointing out a cliché. Fantasy seems so rife with them. Or maybe it's just me.)

Anyhow, the plot drifted on along those lines, and I was surprised - I'd expected more clichés. Eddings, however, manages to avoid most of the clichés that have popped up in so many fantasy(especially medeival-ish) series' ever since The Lord of the Rings hit it big. It has its share throughout the story, no doubt, but to a degree, it avoids them. Notable clichés include: ordinary-boy-unaware-of-special-destiny, quest-that-reveals-his-destiny, prophecy-that-predicts-titanic-clash-between-good-and-evil, and bad-guys-have-evil-sacrificial-rituals. To be fair, it's virtually impossible to avoid every single cliché out there and still craft a good story, so it's all good.

Anyhow, it all moves along toward that titanic-clash-between-good-and-evil in a fairly transparent manner. Which is to be expected, I guess; it would hardly be called a cliché if it wasn't recognizable from a mile away. But like I said, it's all good. Enjoyable, even.

The ingredients are pretty standard - we have sorcery, a good-at-heart young hero, eccentric party members with varied personalities (the smart-aleck, the wiseman, the brave knight, the true love, yadda yadda yadda), a big bad guy who's pure evil (or really bad, at least), gods, sworn enemies, revenge, the usual. It's put together pretty well. Eddings' style of writing is ok - not the best I've seen, yet far from the worst. When combined with the plot and characters, it makes for a semi-engaging read, one which sorta builds up steam as one reads it. It all holds until the ending.

In my opinion, while Eddings did a pretty good job with the rest of the story, the ending is pretty lame. The titanic-clash/climax came out to be a yawn(for me, at least), as Eddings seemed to lose his ability to avoid the clichés and hit them head on here, high, loud, and repeatedly. Whereas I was moving at a fairly leisurely pace through the first four books, I was literally flying through the last quarter of the fifth one, hoping the misery'd end soon. It all boils down to the predictable happy-ever-after ending that I despise so much - everyone falls in love, gets happily married, and lives on to be happy for the rest of their lives, with a vague promise of further adventure. Ugh.

Maybe some of that is contradicted in his later books - I wouldn't know. But what I do know is that I have a healthy (ok, maybe not) dislike of the happy-ending-where-everything-turns-out-perfect. I prefer the more ambiguous sort of endings, the ones where you have to wonder if the "victory" really was a "victory" at all, or think about whether the end was worth the means used, and the cost is greater than just a couple token characters, that sorta thing. But then, it needn't follow that formula either - I just really can't stand happy endings.

So here's what it comes down to:
Plot - 6.5/10
Characters - 6/10
Writing - 6.5/10
Climax - 2/10
Ending - 0/10

All in all, I'd rate the series a 5 or a 6. In my opinion, the average fantasy lover would be better served by playing through some of the better RPG's out there, like Oblivion or Neverwinter Nights. Maybe some of the D&D board games if computers don't take your fancy. But then, that applies to me, with my set of likes and dislikes. If you're really curious (or a huge fantasy freak), go read it for yourself (after making other people read this - we all love traffic, after all), and make up your own mind. A word of advice though - unless you're particularly strong of stomach, I'd avoid the epilogue. It's so soppy I was almost retching at the end of it. But again, that's just me.

Roach. Cock Roach.

Cockroaches are cool.

I was thinking this to myself as I watched the cockroach on my bathroom floor get up yet again after I'd whacked it the 10th or 29th time with a flyswatter. Yeah, I know I'm supposed to be all nice and stuff to animals, but when it comes to mosquitos and cockroaches, they started it.

But while mosquitos are annoying and weak, cockroaches are cool. They're tough. I've stomped them, swatted them, smashed them, burned them, stabbed them, and used Raid on them, but a lot of the time, they just get back up. And then I step on them, hard(and twist), and then they die. But they're still cool.

This thought reverberated in my skullpan for a few minutes after I'd successfully transformed the cockroach into a steaming smear on my floor (they're enemy agents, I swear), and walked away with my trusty flyswatter holstered. The thought was promptly lost as I saw that I'd left a box of Oreos on my bed.

After making a nice and proper pig of myself (not a crumb dropped, I'll have you know), the thought came back. Why did I find cockroaches so goshdarned cool?

Maybe it was because of their armor/shape scheme; they look sorta like living brown Batmobiles. With all that shiny, sleek armor, and the way they just *poof* jet across the floor (don't believe me? try getting down there and pounding one with your fist. ain't as easy as it looks, is it?), and the fact that they've got those serrated little things on their arms like Batman does...heh. I've this idea that Bob Kane actually meant to make him Roachman, but the execs up at DC didn't like it. "Roachman, striking disgust, loathing, and a desire for a can of Raid into the hearts of housewives everywhere" would probably do wonders for Raid, but wouldn't help comic sales very much, methinks.

So I took the idea a little further, and it hit me - Holy Superspies, true believer, EVERY superhero is based (at least partly) on cockroaches! Think about it: super strength? Cockroaches are kinda strong for their size. Invulnerability? Cockroaches are pretty damn durable. The whole secret agent James-Bond-y schtick? You tell me, what do cockroaches do in your house, if not sneak around and cause trouble? Flying? Cockroaches can fly. You name the power, cockroaches probably have some variant of it. Ok, sure, other bugs were used as well, but I think the main inspiration came from cockroaches. I can imagine the brainstoming they would've done in the beginning -

Guy 1: "Hmm...how about 'The name's Roach. Cock Roach'?"
Ian Fleming:"Naw, we need something less misogynistic. Something the women will love. How's about a compulsive womanizer named..."
*Ian Fleming notices a small stack of "James' Finest Illegal Bond Paper! For the BEST forgeries around!", that appeared out of nowhere to serve as a plot device*
Ian Fleming:"That's it! We'll call him Illegal Forgeries!"
Guy 1:"Uhh...ok..."
Or something like that. Whatever.

As usual, I think this all leads up to a...(say it with me now, kids...) conspiracy! I think the cockroaches are out to get us with their massively superior prototype-superpowers. The only way to stop this is by destroying the Spice Girls once and for all. What's that, teeny-bopping(what's that mean, anyway?)-kid-who-had-to-have-this-read-to-him/her sitting over there? The Spice Girls are good, you say? "Zigazig Ha" actually means something, you say? Don't believe me, you say? Fine. You just wait. One day, when a nuclear missile is accidentally launched at China (or wherever), and a nuclear war starts, and cockroaches mutate into giant, 60-foot-tall Spice Girls, don't come crying to me. You go on listening to your stupid Britney Spears on your crappy pink iPod, you teeny-bopping(there's that phrase again...)...teeny-bopper! Yeah, that's right! Run home to mommy, you wuss! Damn straight, go whine to your huge(heh) daddy who's been in the army and served 2 tours in Vie-...oh fuck.

Shit. I gotta run. But please, heed my warning! Don't waste time! Kill the cockroaches! They walk among us! They must be eradicated before it's too late!

*Shiny Butter Knife runs off stage, away from a homicidal maniac firing a huge assault rifle.*


TV Voice: "That's all for today's rant, kids! Tune in next time for another exciting episode of 'Stupid Doom-Saying Rants That Make No Sense!', with your host, Overpaid TV Voice!
And now, a message from our sponsors!"

*Voice offstage says something unintelligible. Don't they always?*

TV Voice: "Whaddaya mean we got no sponsors?! Then who the hell is paying for me?! Say what?! Did you just say downsizing?! Why're you looking at me so funn...oh. Crap."

*A sigh is heard, followed the sound of footsteps, a pistol being cocked, and a shot. Starving kids in Russia rejoice, serving someone else's plot device. Footsteps again. The mic is switched off.*

I Pity The Foo' Who Can't Think of a Better Title

Jebus Christ!

Wow. Conservapedia. CreationWiki. How utterly ghey can the conservative brigade get?

Maybe I'm being a little unfair. Maybe I'm just biased against CreationWiki because I think the idea that God created everything is plain stupid. I mean, come on, EVERYONE knows Chuck Norris created Oblivion Jesus who created Obi-Wan Kenobi who created Mr. T who created everything(except, of course, for duct tape. I claim credit for that.)!

But Conservapedia(interesting piece on it)...I haven't laughed that hard since 5 seconds ago, when I was reading some UnNews.

(By the way, here's the Uncyclopedia page on Conservapedia)

Seriously, though, beyond wasting space and unloading a bunch of Uncyclopedia links, I actually did have stuff to say about Conservapedia and CreationWiki.

It's always come as something of a shock to me to see people actually believing things just because they're told to. I'm not immune to it myself, but I'm hypocritical enough to find it odd. As a scholarly work, the Bible is (like most - if not all - religious texts), IMO, effectively raped. Where're their sources? How can the data be verified? Who actually collected the information in the first place? Where/What are his/her credentials?

I'm not saying that I don't believe in God(heh), just that I've always found organized religion a little, how do I put it, incredible. Not "incredible" as in, "Hey! In the sky! It's Mr. Incredible!", but more "incredible" as in "not credible". God isn't the same as religion. And assuming creationism is, indeed, a more viable theory than evolution(not saying it is), whose version? I mean, there're as many versions of creationism as there are foo's that Mr. T pities; who's right? Who decides? More importantly, how do you decide? Choosing from one of the many "holy books" out there would mean accepting one religious gospel as more true than the others. On what basis do you do that, since all of them (Scientology does not count) claim to come directly from the G-man(or some equivalent) himself?

Guy 1: "My holy book says this version must be true."
Guy 2: "Yeah, well, mine says otherwise."
Guy 1: "Well, mine's right from the lips of God."
Guy 2: "No, mine is!"
Guy 1: "No, mine!"
Guy 2: "No, mine!"
*Hearing this, mine workers go on strike*
(Repeat for a few hundred years. Throw in a couple Crusades when you start to get bored. Keep repeating.)
After a few thousand years...
Guy 1: "No, mine!"
Guy 2: "No, mine!"
*BOOM*
Mr. T: "Ah pity the foo' that don't agree it's mine!"
*The Mice proceed to take over everyone and start laughing at how badly these foo's just got pitied*
The Mice: "Neep neep! Neep neep! PwNd j00 n()()b, l0lz0rz!!shift+1!!111 oMg KtHx !one!one!11!"

This, more or less, is what has already happened and is happening as a result of people trying to decide whose book is right. I dunno about you, but I'd rather not get PwNd like a n()()b by a six-foot-tall invisible wizard and pitied by Mr. T like the foo' I am.

Not that I espouse Atheism; in its own way, it's as bereft of hard evidence as religion is. What proof is there that there is no God? The lack of proof that there is a God can't really qualify as such; that's like saying "I have not seen the RIAA do anything good; therefore, they must've done nothing good". Hmm. Maybe that's not the best example. But I think you get my point.

Arguing that a lack of hard evidence for is evidence against is an argument that is ridden with fallacies. "I have no hard evidence that HD-DVD's really exist. I mean, I haven't seen them for myself. Sure, I've read lots of stuff about them, I've heard other people talk about them, but I haven't seen them myself." While not a perfect analogy, I think it conveys my meaning: the moment one begins to buy into that argument(lack of hard evidence for is evidence against, and vice versa), the very foundation of absolutely everything (INCLUDING science) becomes suspect. How do I know muons are not fictional entities? Have I seen any hard evidence for them? Or that the Earth is really revolving around the Sun; again, how do I know? I've only seen evidence that other people have presented over the years. How do I know it isn't suspect? How do I know that the mathematics they've used isn't an elaborate hoax?

I don't have any answers to the question of God's existence or lack thereof. I don't even know if there are answers to be found. But I still think Conservapedia and CreationWiki are teh ghey. PWNED!

(Jesus H Christ! 18 links in this post! All but 4 of them to Uncyclopedia! Yes! 19!)

The Truth Behind Ritualised Weddings

Many are the poojas and hindu weddings I have had to attend. For those not in the know, a pooja is a hindu religious ceremony, and a hindu wedding is about the only thing on earth boring enough to cause death in the unwary.

Now, at these poojas and the wedding (hereonwards referred to as "the functions"), I noticed one thing common to all of them; well, more than one thing, really, but one thing really stuck: the priests were chanting in sanskrit. Seeing as I don't understand the language, it all sounded the same to me. At which point an ugly suspicion reared its head in my mind: what if it is all the same? What if these priests are just saying a few lines in sanskrit, and all they're doing is mixing them up and rehashing them? What if they're counting on the droning and the similiarity (at least to a layman like me) of the words to confuse us into thinking he's blessing people or whatever, when in reality he's just saying a bunch of nonsensical crap? I managed to stop , before I entered the territory of alien conspiracies, but that suspicion still niggles at me. I mean, it's what I would do...

Another thing I noticed they (the functions, that is) had in common was a certain long-windedness. Case in point: the wedding. The guy sits crosslegged in front of the girl(and vice versa) for hours on end, as certain "sacred rites" are performed. Then the couple has to be paraded around for a while, and then they sit in these incredibly ornate and incredibly uncomfortable chairs for another few hours. All under the glare of spotlights, wearing heavy jewelry and makeup and the like.

Doubtless there's some deeper cause behind this; however, my idea is based on the simple precept of most of my ideas: follow the sex. So it seems that the point of all this is to work the couple into a state of extreme horniness by allowing them to see each other, but not really do anything, for hours on end, so as to aid in the wedding-night "festivities". A sort of long-winded foreplay, if you will. Of course, this tactic may also backfire, resulting in a couple that's too tired to do anything but go straight to sleep that night. I suppose I shall have to conduct a survey...from a safe distance, that is ;).

Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but Christian weddings don't seem to have this kind of risky, hyper-extended foreplay. I mean, as far as I can tell, they basically walk up the aisle, say their vows, and start making out. I think that's far less risky; the chances of them getting too tired to get it on that night are much less, and the horniness quotient of the couple(s) should still be just fine. I suppose that's the main thing behind ritualised weddings: foreplay and horniness. In which case, I'm going to found a religion where the only ritualisation in weddings is some good old fashioned 69...and free condoms for the guests.

Of course, this kind of simplicity (in christian weddings) may also lead to the risk of a horny guy whispering sweet nothings in his girl's ear, and then, as they begin to make out, some SOB who's been ordained (a priestly version of myself, I would say) popping up and saying: "I now pronounce you man and wife". Or whatever it is they say. Not that they'd be legally married, but it may be argued that they would be "in the eyes of God". All in all, a great way for the aforementioned ordained SOB (or possibly just a guy in a priest's clothes) to screw with their heads...the best thing is that after this, a truly god-fearing couple (the ideal target, that is) cannot kill you or beat the living hell out of you without (a fear of) risking hell, or at least a serious loss of points with "the big guy upstairs" - possibly even being forced to listen to the annoying hindi “soniYE” songs with the electric drum beats and irritating techno effects.

The worst mistake you can make when pulling this trick off, however, is to target a violent, atheistic couple. Not only do they get huge discounts(in the form of non-expenditure) on weddings (all they have to do is register), they'll be more than happy to spend the money saved on a club and use it to cave your skull in, and they won't be worrying about the technicalities of applied metaphysics while they're at it.

Moral of the story? ->
1) Wedding rituals, no matter how much other people might disagree, are not about sacredness or anything; they're all about foreplay.
2) An ordained SOB (or better yet, a normal SOB in a priest's clothes) can have a lot of fun.
3) Violent atheistic couples, massive clubs, and priests/pranksters are plain bad news.

"O Lord, help me to be pure, but not yet" - Saint Augustine.

Water, Water, Everywhere...

Every summer, it either rains or it doesn’t. When it does, everyone’s happy and singin' kumbaya and all that jazz. The problems arise when it doesn’t. One of these problems pertains to the issue of sharing the water of the river Cauvery. I am by no means an expert on the facts of this issue, but as far as I know (and please correct me if I’m wrong), this is how they stand:
Fact: The river originates in Karnataka.
Fact: Tamil Nadu has the most area under irrigation, more than Karnataka.
Fact: Although other states are involved as well, the main issue seems to be between Karnataka and Tamil Nadu.
Fact: Tamil Nadu got more water in the recent verdict than Karnataka.

For quite a while, there had been no official solution to the water sharing issue; every time it cropped up, it was a big "thing", and an interim solution was imposed each year. This year, however, the tribunal has finally come to a decision, which is pretty much the same as the previous interim solution, with some minor alterations.

As with the interim solutions, the people of Karnataka (or some portion of them) don’t seem especially thrilled with this decision (the people of Tamil Nadu, on the other hand, seem fairly content with it). Their grouse seems to be that in their opinions, Karnataka deserved more water than it got, yet it received less. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem in a democracy, but their answer seems to be to create as much of a stir as possible, in the hopes that some authority somewhere will wake up and grant their wishes. By “stir”, I mean disrupting normal life, and by “disrupting normal life”, I mean strikes, agitations, bandhs, and the rest of the whole package.

In my opinion, this is plain stupid on multiple levels. First off, the notion that protesting or striking will cause the Indian Government to wake up is laughable, especially in an issue like this one; no central government wants to make a decision that could become unpopular with their supporters, or could be used by the opposition to bash them over the head later.

Secondly, instead of taking a proactive approach to this, the dissenters are (as always) blindly reacting, causing as much discomfort to the locals as possible in their misguided bid to be listened to. As far as I know (and again, correct me if I’m wrong), while the sharing of water was fixed, there were no limits placed on the expansion of the reservoir area, or that of the Cauvery’s origin; by expanding either, Karnataka could create more water resources. Sure, they’d have to give Tamil Nadu more, too, but I was under the impression that the issue wasn’t so much about how much “they” got as much as it was about how little “we” got.

Yet another thing to be kept in mind is that water isn’t a panacea for farmers; they need a whole host of other things, ranging from better transport to electricity to better seeds and fertilizers. Water isn’t going to solve all their problems, not by a long shot. Most of those crusading for a “better” verdict aren’t farmers either – they’re movie stars, or IT czars, or (worst of all) politicians, who’re not really crusading for the rights of the farmers, but for their votes. What’s more, instead of cooler heads prevailing and an amicable solution being sought, this issue has (again, as always) turned into yet another “my-state-is-better-than-yours” spat, with plenty of ad hominem arguments being bandied about.

While I fully realize that there’s plenty of blame to be spread around – with the Center, with Karnataka, with Tamil Nadu, with the tribunal, and others - my point is not that. My point is that perhaps instead of just pointing fingers and denouncing those who disagree, perhaps those in Karnataka who disagree with the verdict should seek a proactive solution within the ambit of the decision. After all, a solution from the Center – or anyone else, for that matter – which pleases all parties is nigh impossible. We might as well learn to live with it, and get on with our lives.

Oh Noes!

Well, looks like Audioslave as we know it is history.

Plenty of people have probably predicted this, and I'm fairly sure plenty are happy about it, too, but I find myself less than thrilled.

I've always liked Audioslave. Maybe it's because I listened to them before I heard Soundgarden or RATM(both fine bands, to be sure), or perhaps it's because they were one of the bands that really got me into music (Be Yourself was plain awesome), but I've always liked them. Critics can say all they want about them getting worse/sucking, but I don't care - their music does something a lot of music seems to fail to do these days: it just sounds good (and chill. unlike, say, Iron Maiden or Dimmu Borgir, neither of which are either to me). Matter of personal opinion, I know, but I'm still kinda sad to hear this. Oh well.



Be Yourself truly is a fine song. Those of you who haven't heard it before, take the time to listen to it now. I promise you, it'll be worth it.

I'll rant about my dislike of black/death metal later. I have homework now.

Do Shaved Legs Get Lice?

Period films are fun to laugh at.

I mean, look at them; there's people in ugly clothes, with nasty haircuts, and they act/talk all funny. Which is true of all Van-Damme/Arnold movies too. But they don't count because Van-Damme and Arnold are big and will asplode your head if you look at them funny. Back to the topic. My favorite period films are mid-1800's and before. If you thought your grandpa looked funny in that suit in that old picture, wait'll you see these guys. Especially the medeival ones. The guys have long hair, the ladies wear elaborately frilly dresses, and...their nails are all trimmed!

Not to be condescending or anything here, but how's that possible? I'm pretty sure they didn't have nail cutters back in the Dark Ages. And even if they did, what's with the cuts being so neat? I use a nice sharp new nail cutter, and I still mess up; how'd they do it back in the days before processed cheese? (Processed cheese is the benchmark against which all potential civilizations may be measured.)

So as I was paying attention to this, I noticed something else - the women's legs are always covered. Now, call me a sexist pig if you will (really, you don't have to), but men tend to have a thing for shaved legs. And like most of our preferences, they've been groomed into us for a long time after starting out somewhere as an odd/sick fetish (two words: high heels). So when did shaved legs start? And how?

I was thinking about all this, when I decided I'd better not. Some things just aren't meant to be questioned, and nail cutters and shaved legs are among them. New topic. Lice: little annoyances or friendly companions? The poor sods just want a home, y'know? And here we are, killing, murdering, and systematically eradicating them, as if they have no lives, or hopes, or dreams, or families. It's sick and cruel, is what it is. I'm going to start a society on the lines of the ASPCA, dedicated to protecting lice.

Y'see, having lice on our head can be a good thing; as long as we're friends with the Lice, the Mice won't dare attack us. Lice are the number one killers of Mice, even deadlier to them than Rush Limbaugh or even (*gasp*) Kenny G are to us. And that's a good thing. A very good thing indeed. (To be ranted about at a later date)

Before you ask, no, I haven't got any lice on my head. I've got reasons. Like the fact that my hair stays short, which supposedly (according to my mom) keeps lice away. (I'd like to have longer hair, but that's a story for another day) Or the fact that I wear processed cheese on my head (the answer to your first question is shaddup) on occasion. Or maybe it's just because it's my head. But whatever it is, the beggars have chosen. And they've left me outta the loop. Not sure whether I should be overjoyed or crushed...


Anyhow, anonymous guy commented about Michael Richards. You probably know him better as Cosmo Kramer. Well, here it is: the end of his career



Y'know, I think we're all a little (or more than a little) racist, and that we tend to say/do stupid things when we're angry. Yet again, an issue for another day.

Prisons of the Mind Redux

Well, my miracle cure(see previous ramble) backfired. I got a post out of it, but no essay. Which is why I flipped back a bit and hit on Prisons of the Mind. I redid it a little, and handed it in. Yeah, I know I'm lazy. Which is why I just reposted it here.

I got this interesting article in my rss feeds, check it out if/when you get the time.


(commence pointless filler in a pathetic play for space)


Consciences are prisons of the mind. People without consciences are free.

There. I said it. But before you decide to lynch me, let me explain how I arrived at this somewhat unusual statement.

Our conscience dictates the way we view everything. When I say conscience, I mean our sense of what’s right and what’s wrong. Our morality, so to speak. Of course, morality is merely a part of our conscience. A huge part, to be sure, but only a part, nonetheless. So when we view certain things, say polygamy for instance, as “right” or “wrong”, it’s our consciences telling us that it is so.

The same applies to all our opinions. Our conscience dictates our points of view, which dictate our opinions. This can, and almost inevitably will, lead to certain paradigms which would be nigh unshakeable. Which is why it would be difficult for a person who’s grown up thinking that polygamy is wrong all his life to put himself in the shoes of a person who thinks it is right, and vice versa; his conscience tells him it is so, and therefore he is unable to believe anything else. Most of us think we’re immune to it or more enlightened than that, but we often fail to understand the depth to which the effects of deeply entrenched beliefs go. We’re not immune, and we’re not more enlightened; it’s just that our firmly-held “morals” require that we must believe that we are.

That a conscience prevents us from doing certain things, I don’t think anyone will dispute. That it often bars us from doing the needful, well, I imagine a great many would dispute that point. Often, this firm belief in what is “right” and “wrong” prevents us from taking the most pragmatic path available. We may decide to go against our conscience, but the guilt or shame that comes after would seriously mess with our minds, and could drive some over the edge in certain extreme cases.

A conscience does all that. It is what makes you feel bad after you get low grades, it is what makes you feel guilty when you lie to get an extension you need, it is what prevents you from telling an obnoxious/unwanted guest to get the hell out of your house. It does all this, and then some. Also, as mentioned above, a conscience often prevents you from gaining proper understanding of a situation by preventing you from being able to put yourself in the shoes of another, which, if nothing else, could lead one to making uneconomical choices, or inflicting suffering on a person for simply doing what he had to or what his conscience told him to.

Our consciences aren’t even something that we install ourselves, really; the base work is laid by the society we grow up in, and though we may later modify it, it’s a rare person who changes it against the dictates of her society, or really changes the foundations of her conscience. Such people are usually called “deviant”, or are said to have “gone crazy”.

So essentially, we punish others for adhering to moral standards – possessing consciences – which go against ours. In a way, it’s what’s happening to Saddam; he’s stuck to his standards, whatever they may be, and because they go against what we think is right and proper, we’re trying to have him punished. Yes, I know he’s killed a lot of people, and I’m neither condoning nor condemning his actions, but he listened to his conscience, whatever it may have said, and because what his said goes against what ours say, we had him executed. In my opinion, he should've been forced to eat rotten tapioca and listen to Kenny G 24/7. But then, that’s just me.

We say that people without consciences are monsters, but do they think so? Does a so-called “monster” care about his “misdeeds”? Not at all; he’d be perfectly happy so long as he gets what he/she wants. So in a way, a person without a conscience would be happier than a person with a conscience. He can do whatever is necessary to get what he wants, and would feel no regrets later; no pangs of guilt or shame to keep him/her awake at night, no moral dilemmas to brood over, nothing of the sort. Simply satisfaction at having gotten what he wanted. The only circumstance in which I can imagine that this wouldn’t be true is if our “monster” is simply incapable of getting what he wants. But then, that upsets everyone, conscience or no.

While it seems evident that if everyone had no (or really flexible) consciences, society would break down into chaos and anarchy, that isn’t necessarily true. Contrary to what most moralists and religious fanatics would have you believe, a lack of rigid morals doesn’t necessarily imply a state of lawlessness or that one is a wanton murderer or any of a thousand other such adjectives; all it means is that one refuses to do what the mob wants him to do when it isn’t in his best interest. Shooting that annoying motorcyclist who drives by my house with his silencer pulled out in the morning may be a very attractive idea, but I’d just as soon not go to jail over it.

Leaving morality to an individual instead of legislating it needn’t put an end to all laws; for while I’ll be the first to agree that all laws are connected to morality in some way or another, extremes are generally not a good idea. I’m not advocating that we abandon laws altogether, but neither can I extend my support to a system where we apply one set of rigid rules to every situation that crops up, regardless of the fact that the line between “right” and “wrong” is different every time. Sometimes it’s just a minor adjustment, sometimes it’s a major paradigm shift, but we cannot continue to call ourselves the purveyors of justice while we continue to treat the world as a monochromatic playground of the vocal majority.

While Anarchy seems like the ideal solution, it is beyond the scope of this inane rant and tired ranter to get into its details. Let’s just say it’s the ideal solution, and return to the topic in the hand of that fellow over there in the corner.

I’ve heard plenty of arguments against flexible personal morality, and most of them rely on the premise of ensuing lawlessness, and most who make these arguments seem to confuse immorality with amorality; they’re two very different things. As such, it still seems to me that a conscience is nothing but a prison for our head of society’s making, yet another way to make us fit in with the crowd. And this is why I still believe that only the amoral are really and truly free.

(end pointless filler in a pathetic play for space)

Break out the confetti - 200th hit sometime yesterday...after a few months...most of which were long and barren...better yet, put it all away, and just give me that paper bag to put over my head...

Curse of the Cure

*I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. I willed my eyes to close, but like so much else these days, they wouldn't listen. Popped right back open they did. With a sigh, I relented to the buzzing in my head, got up, walked over to my desktop, and switched it on...*

As it so happens, I have an English assignment due "shortly". How "shortly" is not the point. The point is that I require inspiration (from the infamous River I) to get started. Getting this inspiration isn't a problem; the River I and myself are great buddies, we hang out all the time. No, my problem is, quite simply, the time at which my dear friend decides to come calling. This is usually around 1 in the morning, when I'm about to sleep. Not that I always sleep at 1(usually around 0300 these days), but whenever I do, inspiration decides to strike me. Often have I wondered why he (sometimes a she, it varies) chooses to strike me at this oddest of odd hours, and so far I have had no luck.

Until today, that is.

There I was, getting ready to go to bed, when it hit me - every time I and his (or her) suffix (nspiration, that rat) come calling, it's because I'm thinking. And not only am I thinking, I'm thinking the restless thoughts of one who is unable to sleep as early as 1. Small wonder, then, that a hyperactive and restless mind doing nothing should summon inspiration - there's nothing else to do. All I have to do from there is quickly note my ideas down in some form or the other, and pick up on them later. Analyzing what I've done so far, my work would appear to fit this pattern - most of my work has been churned out of my mind while I'm restless and lying awake, staring at the ceiling. This is annoying, and I've come to call it the Curse of the River I - as much as I love creativity and good ideas, I'd like to be able to get to sleep early sometimes. Writing - or typing - down my ideas wakes me up even further, and tends to keep me up even longer.

Yet as fascinating (and annoying) as this is, it's the curative aspect of this practice that interests me - could this be the cure for the dread disease Riterblokitis? If it can be used to treat Riterblokitis, how far can it go? Would it work on the most extreme variant, Riterblokitis [X]? In short, could this be the cursed cure for the scourge of modern Autherians and writers worldwide?

I'm not going so far as to call this a total cure for the bloated and malignant cancer that is Riterblokitis, nor is it a complete substitute to Objectixygen-purified needles of Kritticisium applied to the Ego; nothing ever can be quite as effective as that. But perhaps it can be used to ameliorate this plague, at the very least?

I have yet to complete a comprehensive field study on the effects of the Curse of the River I (CotRI for short) on Riterblokitis in any form, although I have experimented on it to some extent, using myself as a test subject. As mentioned above, there is some degree of empirical evidence to support the efficacy of CotRI as a viable suppressant for Riterblokitis. This post, for example, is a side effect of a dose of CotRI, the progress made on my (overdue, I think - not too sure) English assignment having been the main effect. But like all forms of medicine, CotRI is not without its side effects and pitfalls.

Overdosing on it has been known to initiate a short cycle of sleeplessness-ia, followed by bouts of sleepyness-in-class-itis. While many of us (including myself) already suffer from the latter, OD'ing on CotRI seems to exacerbate the effects to an almost unbearable degree. While some may argue that it's already unbearable enough, there's no sense in asking for more, is there? Or...*cue sotto voce* is there?

And so, ladies, gentlemen, and other genetic aberration, there it is: a way to alleviate your Riterblokitis. Simply go to sleep early and stew, and sooner or later, something's bound to come up. But is it really worth the price? In my opinion...hell yes! After all, who stays awake in class anyway?

No wanking in the office? Wtf?!

Now THAT is funny. And sad. An office where you can't wank? What's this world coming to?!

Just finished watching Exiled - it's a Hong Kong movie in Cantonese. Yes, I had subtitles, it wasn't dubbed. Have to say, even though i didn't get the precise dialogue, it's one of the best movies I've seen in a while. Not too much talking, but great acting and even better music and gunplay.

I'm starting off on Maple Story. Hopefully, it'll be worth the download time...

Sweat Control

*As I stood in front of the goal, the sun beating mercilessly down upon me, I contemplated ancient mysteries such as homework. Sweat dripped down my face. I used my now-soaking sleeve to try to wipe it away, but it was of no use. Sighing, I turned my attention back to the game, my clothes sticking to my body as if they were painted on, trying to ignore the sweat dripping into my eyes.*

I (used to) play a lot of soccer, and I'm (was, really) usually the goalie. But that's not the point. Of this rant, that is.

The main issue I have with going outside and playing sports is the sun. As the passage above illustrates, I sweat a lot while playing soccer. Well, everyone sweats a lot when we play soccer, seeing as it's pretty hot over here around noon(when we usually get to play), and there isn't too much shade near the soccer field. But it really sucks. Mostly because of the whole clothes-sticking-to-you thing, but also because it makes it tough(er than usual) to sit in class afterwards, what with all the sweatyness and hotness and general stinkiness in the class. So I've decided on what I want for my next birthday: a way to control the sun's intensity. More like general cloudyness and rainyness control, really.

Maybe a knob, although I'd prefer a large meter for better control, y'know? Like, near-total darkness at the bottom, and near-total brightness at the top. Not only could I make it gray and rainy-ish all the time (which is generally how I like it), but I could also extort the governments of the world for a LOT of money.

Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure there's a movie like that. The Avengers, if I'm not mistaken. I could be like Sean Connery; it wouldn't be too much of a stretch (no, I'm not old and bald. Ladies, you know what I mean *cheeky wink*).

Another thing I'll do once I get that weather control device: order the governments of the world to abolish mondays. We can have a new day of the week instead, to prevent massive chaos. It'll be called Shinyday. So the new week'll go something like Sunday-Shinyday-Tuesday. And then the rest of the week. Of course, Shinyday'll be an international holiday. A good idea, don't you think? Don't you? *pulls out large shiny knife*

- Topic Change -

I realized that I really need a life, because when the majority of your interaction with people takes place through the internet, you either need a life, or you REALLY need a life. Me, I'm pretty sure that I fall in the latter category. So I've decided to cut down on my computer usage, start studying, and get out more.

Yeah...right! *bursts into laughter*

Random non-sequitur: 2,500 lefties die each year using products designed for righties.

Indian Politics

Found this video on a friend's blog. Sadly enough, it's entirely true. And funny.




The Hole - video powered by Metacafe

Happy Effing New Year

Happy new year to all my readers. Assuming you exist.

Normally, I'd bitch and moan about how bad the previous year had been (standard operating procedure), but this last year broke the trend. Not only did I get out of my crappy old school and into a new and improved one, I also did pretty decently on my board exams, got some new games and hardware, and finished up some personal business that'd been pending for a while. No, I won't tell you what it was, you nosy bastard.

That's not to say this year didn't have its share of pits, and pretty rough ones at that. Buuuuuut I'm deliberately boring you with all this, so I'll stop. Anyway, happy new year, dear readers, and spread the joy around like stolen mayo.

(No, I didn't party. I don't party very well.)