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.

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.)