I am The Trooper

I saw the president on TV today talking about 9/11 again. We shall never forget. Very soon we might get Iran good, but this frustrates me. Who supplied Iran with the information and encouragement? Russia, that's who. Now, my suggestion is that we get the current weiners off the hill and install a leader who's willing (and not a huge pussy) to go in and take those former commies out! As a kid, I'd always dream of being in the army specifically so I could fight the Russians. "The horse he sweats with fear, we break to run, the mighty roar of the Russian guns, and as we race towards the human wall, the screams of pain as my comrades fall." I would always dream of saying this, and riding my trusty old steed off into the death pond. But, as my luck goes, I will have none, and my nostalgic cries for battle will go unheard. Kids today will have this same feeling in twenty or so years when they will yearn to fight terrorists worldwide. And then we will, but only when the time is right. The time to fight the Russians is nigh and right, but first we have to use the democratic process to get the correct people in office. Don't let me down Brian.

Motivational Equity

The time has been passed through playing the A-Team board game (brought to you by Milton Bradley). It's incrementalized my thinking moreso than it already was, which is to say, it's made me smarter, but more inefficient. The basic premise is that the secret code must be rescued from the secret fortress with the help of B.A. B.A. is not a gamepiece, because obviously any "battle" would be easily won by him. Again, he only assists. Each turn is accompanied (and hampered) by battling guards and the other A-Team members. Somehow, the creators, in the shuffle of creation, forgot that the A-Team is in fact a team, and would traditionally look for the secret plans as such. They certainly wouldn't battle with dice everytime they encountered one another. Nonetheless, a better waste of time than any other distraction might provide. Also, I'm really good, so my bias is quite apparent.

Raging Bull, Superman, ride them all. Come one come all. I championed each and every one, and I suggest you attempt the same. Amusement parks are funny; they're much like airports. People go there to work everyday and you wonder if they're real. The environment is certainly not. It's a created kingdom of magic and wonder, but the people are robots there. The trip consisted of a detour through an even stranger land, the outer subdivisions of the big town, I will say. Even there, you don't know where you're at, but the people appreciate that feeling more than I'll ever understand. That place isn't real either; simply a confusing realm of an area where nobody belongs. They like it that way. One man was viewed making a collect call from a pay phone with loafers and athletic shorts on. "Dad... ummm... I don't know where I'm at and I've found myself in the usual get-up. Can you pick me up?" NO.

The Nazis came to Madison on Sunday. Mike Quieto, whom I will sit with at a TAA booth tomorrow, was seen in a pink bunny suit. "Where else can you jump around in a bunny suit and not be the most ridiculous?" He asked in a newspaper interview. Read it at the Capital Times website. Nazis usually have an empty feeling of belonging and only long for good times and a chant.

A huge spider lived in my house until tonight. It appeared beside me on my vinyl pile. I said, "Jesus Christ!" Loudly... to myself. My dog played it cool while I dropped B.O.R.T.'s Calculus book on it. That fucker finally was put to good use. As a matter of fact, only Jesus himself knows how many times that book's been put to good use. He can count on one hand. He is the savior. The spider would have been my demise, but my motivation to kill flattened it. I looked at it in close inspection. It most certainly had the required poison amount to send me to the promised land. Good luck Mark, with your spider problem.

So, in conclusion, don't forget to finish reading via internet, the story regarding that Troy guy and his roommate Aydin. I have a passport that I found, as a sidenote. I should get rid of that thing before I get arrested.

"It only fit, as Troy perceived it, so nicely into the rut that his life was. The new way bridged the rut and would crash down and shut-out the rest once Troy crossed under it. The rut explained Troy's life into his mid-30s - a general channel, maybe of banality, that he was awkwardly comfortable in. On occasion, the heavy rains washed silty mud onto Troy's shirt."

New Heights of Realism

Fiestawizard's pent-up post release has inspired me to at least use my near-constant web-grazing for the greater "good" and post.

Check out the floating head in this new game! We're getting closer and closer to plugging our spinal cords into a machine, baby! Yes!

Evangelical Message of Hope

I made this after being inspired by a documentary about the evangelical political movement. They actually used little cards just like that. They say, "vote for the cross." Lessons can be taken from my cult presentation. I want to make a shirt like this too.

Surveilance Operation #0067

I apologize for this high posting rate that right now sits at about 0.5/hr. But, as luck would have it, some strange events have transpired. Normally, "strange events" would include undercooked hotdogs, strange mold on wall and/or floor, multiple viewings of somebody I think I see outside my window, running out of scotch tape, or waking up on my couch with my glasses and/or neck bent out of shape. Now, tonight I didn't deserve any door visits, but it was insisted upon. Apparently Miriannna (as I will refer to her as), the older lady upstairs, knocked at my door, smelling lightly of booze. She claimed to be on the phone with the landlord, and he wanted to talk to me about helping out at a "sale." I was confused, then curious, but either way I still only cracked the door about 3 inches. My dog was itching to sink her teeth into warm, blood soaked flesh. She has bloodlust, did I mention that? So anyway, I tell her that I'll call him to get her away from the door zone. I won't call him, but she leaves. That would normally end this type of shenanigan in a safe and sterile manner, but not this night. She knocked again a while later with pen in hand and, with some caution, I gave her a fake name and phone number. For some unknown reason, she was the conduit of information for my landlord. He encourages her to drink, then has her do odd jobs around the building; clean floor mats, wash out light fixtures, search for lost change. Then, I thought, what if she was just taking my information for her own personal "young man" collection? She seems to be the type afterall. Soon enough though, my landlord (Neubauer we'll call him) called me and asked me if I was looking for work at the "sale." Oh, maybe moving a few items, helping with some loading, or maybe even painting some new sign, I thought. No, no, I'm afraid what he's looking for is a good night-watchman. That's right, a typical 10 pm - 7 am job for a couple of days watching sale items sit at some community center. "When I thought who might be interested, I thought of you," said Neubauer. Hmmm, yes. And if something gets tampered with? He's willing to give me an old Louisville and some gas grenades he says. Me... is who you can always count on. MEEE!!!

The Dynamic Aura Dynamo

.., and other hidden life messages found on your media shelves. Or, in other words, how to change your old, worn-out aura. And really, there's more than just one way, in fact, there's thousands of ways to accomplish these things, some more complicated than others. I won't go into any of them, because I'm only guessing that there are many. I'm far too lazy to ever find out, and that's why this post will be right up my alley. I don't think I even have the gumption to explain why there might be so many other methods, other than it's my "instinctual feeling," which has merit in itself.

After reading Chuck Klosterman's newest book, I've realized a) that Klosterman loves using alphabetical lists like this, and b) people define themselves and explain their lives through (usually) poorly written music. Well, I shouldn't say poorly, one might argue that it's geniuously written music. It simply depends on how much of a mastermind you think the specific musician is. It also seems that in many cases, musicians have predicted their own demise, as I've recently thought about. Let's look at a few examples:

1) John Denver's I'm leaving on a Jet Plane - I think we need not say anymore about this one.

2) Chuck Schuldiner's Pull the Plug and Suicide Machine - both favoring death over suffering. Chuck died of brain cancer.

3)... okay, so maybe I didn't do my research. So what if I only have two examples. Now, let's suppose Motley Crue gets killed by anything that could be defined as "looks," then I'll have something golden here.

But beyond artist self-prophecy, listeners of music certainly do live life according to certain lyrical principles. And most of the time, people wreak of the particular music they listen to. For sure, people that listen to the Grateful Dead and their descendants smell like pot and fish sticks, people that listen to Styx usually smell like stale Pabst and ham sandwiches, and people that listen to Christian music smell like fabric softener and bunnies. No, no, I lie, it's not that simple. People use music to explain their lives away. That's no profound statement as it stands. The thing to note is that people are living their lives using someone else's idea of what life is rather than taking a little time to do it themselves. And this, my friends (in short) is why we are addicted to media in this country - it's used as a means to define us and each other, and fuck, is that ever a load off of my shoulders. I was planning on spending a good portion of the next few hours defining myself, but instead I'm watching "House," which is accomplishing that task for me. It's showing me that by being a wise-cracking genius always ends in a magnicent display of coolness and heroism in the end. After this I will watch The Real World Reunion where I can see more people created in the image of other people, and so on and so forth. Nothing real. Then the Little League World Championships, where Saudi Arabia has one white kid named Nick and an Asian kid named George Luo, which has nothing to do with what I just said but is peculiar.

With all of that said, we can now conclude that my thesis is not strong or even well supported by anything other than my endless and wasteful banter. In other words, I've completely been affected by the things I just spoke of.

The Tiger Master Inflection

bort n. Poorly crystallized diamonds used for industrial cutting and abrasion.

I'm not sure that I should have the privilege to comment on anything via the internet anymore, what with all the dangerous implications nowadays. Nonetheless, I hear the sound of perseverance ; monotone and high in amplitude. The sound allows me to persevere like I always said I would. Now, I once had a whole lot of language prepared in my head for a post such as this, but much of the language has escaped through the tiny holes that were drilled in my mind by the benzene formula you gave me. But, I'll be doing the final laughing, as I took some form of short notes that will assist me later. This assistance won't even come close to matching that of Mr. Karr, though, the Johnny Bonets killer. Strangely, he confessed, and not-so-strangely, he's one strange fucker. Now, here me out, as I am so anxious to report this that my hands are purple and my knees are knocking about: Karr is the name of Kitt's nemesis on Knight Rider. Yes, yes, it appears that all along, we (the public) have simply been a necessary part of a Knight Rider episode. So, I don't want to ruin it for anyone, but I called Michael Knight himself (2233 is the number to the giant car phone inside of Kitt), and he assured me (so long as I keep my dirty mouth shut) that he would soon uncover the whole plot and win an award from the president. With that said, I hope that you don't tell anyone about this, and then maybe, if I put a good word in for you, you can also get a lock of Hasselhoff's chest hair sent to you in a bubble envelope with signed copy of his newest music collection (he sings to John Tesh tunes and dances to almost anything hip-hop).

As my second move, as commanded to me by the tiger master himself using his infecting inflection, I have a few things to say about Troy Mulmers (sp?) and Aydin Craigmore, those two guys who were in a dangerous relationship because one had suspected the other of conspiring to murder him erroneously. Troy had some papers from the network sent to him by accident and he was forced to accept his fate. It sounds like everything Aydin did made Troy more and more certain that his end times were near. The funny thing is that, looking back, Troy would always have these awkward conversations with Aydin, created out of Troy's feelings of hopelessness. Most often he would suddenly pound Aydin with questions about yardwork and how he could assist with his disabled grandma. In the end (now here's the real gut-busting part) Aydin was so confused that he assumed he was schizophrenic (he had bad breath, which might be a symptom), so he ended up arranging this ultimately tragic, but quite elaborate, scheme, that would, "end all scheming," as he put it. Anyway, search for it and get some info. on your own. I certainly can't do this story justice in one short paragraph. Boy, if I had a dollar for everytime I couldn't do justice, I'd be economically wealthy, but still just a self-defeating shit pile with no justice abilities.

A Plagiarized Sunday Afternoon Meditation

Here at Extension54, we're often concerned with the state of our world. The past weeks have been trying for all of us, with rumors of nuclear holocaust always around the corner, when our leaders lead by fear instead of true strength. To conquer our fear, I offer the following:


I'm reduced to a whine and a whimper, obsessed
with feelings of doomsday.
I arrive at your doorstep, sooner or later,
loaded with guilt,
overturned with the need for forgiveness.
And then I find myself at home
and you embrace my broken spirit into wholeness.
Yes, bruised and battered, I am,
but accepted and loved I am.
That reality is like a cool drink on a hot day.
It is like ointment on a deep cut.
It is healing and hopeful
this arrival your doorstep;
sooner or later,
I unload and my spirit is filled anew.

-anonymous

Your Existence is Top-Level Wild!

A mossy, filed down human skull skewed with dynamic windstorms. Strobing on the left of a green nature. Two crosses embed themselves as they moved from front to back in a pyramidal figure placed against a cold, blood-red sky. Player piano tunes, warped and throbbing, provide the background music. Circus jesters prance before and open a gate to the industrial zone. The rails of steel wrap around and crush them and I feel it, blue acrid smoke fills their ventricles and rips them apart. The wrapper from the candies I just ate speaks in christian tongues to me and in some way reminds me that I will not allowed to be a deacon this time around. Darkness please.

Thankfully I received my wish. Apparently those candies had been somehow tied to an experiment used against me. Hours, days, or weeks later, I wondered if those symbolic systems of imagery had some sort of underlying meaning. My answer was then, “nope.” Just a general warning as to the effects of psychedelic drug use and how it can be a really great time, especially when you’ve volunteered to mull over a few things in a dank, dark, spider infested shed at the outcast farm.

Luckily, before my illusions, I had a chance to think about a few items. Namely, I promised myself to clean the urine stains from the area rug in my living room and finally install that gas fireplace in there. For reasons beyond me, I believed that adding a bit more “room” would solve my problematic life in a much easier manner than say, building a robot from scratch. In essence, this is what all the people of this region should do. That is, drop the war against the forces that be, demolish all conspiracy theory, and serve like they were bred to do. During this, they should enjoy living in a urine free environment by the warmth of a fire. Famished and only semi-hydrated by the moisture from the floorboards, I opened the cage, then the shed, and stumbled out into the camp. Emtpy. I guess the exodus began today and the infestation would begin soon. The sign said “vacancy.” I gathered up the left-over supplies and started walking. It went unnoticed for several miles before I realized that Ardell Rutherson was in fact walking by my side. He was a good old friend from my deforestation days. Before there was fertilizer, the largest area industry was forestry. The raw product being used to make wood chips for gardening applications, as well as for hamster beds and immigrant walls. In two years, all trees were removed in the area and while on the job, at exactly 10:46 a.m., the company simply took its equipment away and told us they’d be back after some routine maintenance. I walked back home after I realized that it was nothing more than malarkey that they’d be back. Old Ardell, then 60, was unable to find a ride and certainly unable to walk due to old man legs, and has been in this area roaming about and eating scraps ever since. Now 86 years old, he quietly informed me that he had witnessed the outcast move on their plans, as he had watched them for several weeks. He said he planned to finally walk back to civilization, on the condition that I buy him a hot egg dinner with toasted nuts. He remembers those toasted nut breakfasts that he was so fond of 20 or so years ago. I agreed to his promise, and then told him I had to go to the bathroom. A little privacy turned into me sprinting with all the might I had, which turned out to be enough to escape. As I ran, I certainly did not yell, “see you in hell!” That’s for sure. Who would I be at this point to be such a braggart about my speed? A nobody, that’s who… a nobody.

The Mooreth Creek Transformation

"Apparently he had problems. It was apparent to the parents of course, and the other children. He, however, couldn't identify the differences, but knew they existed in full on account of the looks and notes. Apparently, nobody here could pick up the pieces or put the old ones together in an efficient time context. It was too apparent that the end was immminent and save the all mind when impossible, at best, at best. They spoke unclearly to him; nothing he could understand. Ugly null faces is what he saw at the ice cream parlor. He wasn't afraid, only wondering and wandering. He knew of two styles: one to make you interpret, and one to explain the interpretation for you. Problem exception: nobody could pick up this scent that he emitted with the style. Frothy action mouth at the negative sixteen altitude constantly - his mind would say when people talked."

The following was a short piece printed in "Highlights for Kids," the magazine I used to read as a child, but now I read at the dentist. I think it's a commercial for MTV's Made. Somebody might help me?