Nice Halloween costume. Too bad you totally stole that idea from me and my totally real, totally non-imaginary girlfriend.
Here's a picture of my costume. And here's one of my girlfriend's.
Not be immodest, but I think we totally owned you guys.
Friday, November 14, 2008
In Which I Once Again Play Catch-Up With the Nefarious Mr. Walkingshaw
Three more posts.
Perhaps it is time to admit that my foe is winning this battle. It is increasingly hard for me to muster up the motivation to denigrate him on the Internet, seeing as how all my previous attempts to discredit, capture, eliminate, or even simply momentarily sadden him have all failed miserably. Perhaps I should just change the name of my blog to "Some Miserable Douchebag Tries to Heap Said Misery on Another Human Being, but Being the Miserable Douchebag That He Is, Fails Miserably." That would be a long title, and difficult, I imagine, to slip past the Blogger character limits. Ah well.
So maybe I should just get back to work; put my shoulder to the grindstone and try, once more with feeling, to knock this wide-nostriled evildoer down a peg. But really, I must admit, my heart is not in it. I mean, look at the material I have to work with here: Jack Zduriencik? I have to waste two of my three obligatory posts talking about Jack fucking Zduriencik? Is this what my life has boiled down to? Debating about/sharing opinions on the newly-hired general manager of a baseball team that happens to call the local metropolitan area home? Why have a blog? Why not just call in to sports talk radio?
Christ. I mean, I have no real strong feelings about this man whom I've never met, will never meet, and who I would probably honestly not give two-and-a-half-shits about were it not for his present occupation. But apparently Eric does. Such strong feelings, in fact, that they are indeed mixed, and we all know that mixed feelings are the strongest feelings of all, and the kind most worthy of devoting words to on the Internet. Nuance and equivocation--those are the hallmarks of bloggerdom, and what truly every websurfer is looking for when perusing the wilds of public sports opinion. It comes as no surprise, then, that such thoughtful and non-reactionary sentiments are inspiring a virtual wildfire in his comments section. Despite the din, I do wish to offer up my own half-inspired opinion, if for no other reason than to keep this increasingly irrelevant and unnecessary little enterprise going.
First: Whatever Jack Zduriencik may do--and this includes running over Felix Hernandez with his car--it is rather unlikely that he will be a worse evaluator of talent and implementer of reason-based decision-making than the previous general manager.
Second: I base the first assumption on the assumption that Felix Hernandez does something worthy of being run over by a car, like deciding to continue "establishing his fastball." Not saying it was his decision to do that, just saying if he keeps on doing it, I mean come on doesn't the kid have a mind of his own and realize he is infinitely more talented than the hacks telling him what he should be doing? Just sayin'.
Third: Eric keeps talking about holes springing up in dikes, and while I understand the analogy, I also find it amusing that such an enlightened and technocentric person like himself still falls back on folksy Dutch wisdom.
Fourth: Thanks for the pronunciation guide! And to think all this time I was pronouncing his name wrong and nobody gave a damn.
Fifth: I agree that his firing of Fontaine was a downer, but I also understand that the guy probably wants to have (and now does have) his own team, of his own guys, to help him reach his goal of building this team in his own way. Whether that way ends up being fruitful or not only time will tell, but at least he won't be able to fall back on blaming it on holdovers from the previous administration. If he succeeds, he does so on his own merits and on the backs of his own decisions--and the same goes for if he fails.
Sixth: Also, any decision he makes that infuriates Eric makes me a little happier. Just a little. Is that a little smile forming at the corners of my mouth? Someone take a picture!
Seventh: Zed--can I call him Zed?--Zed and I are going to be fast friends, I can tell, and I'm sure he'll give me a good listen when I try and explain how valuable a player like David Eckstein can be to a team. And how we really miss the heart and team-oriented approach of Ryan Franklin around here. These issues should be addressed tout de suite.
Eighth: Eric probably disagrees with the last statement, but I'm afraid me and ol' Zed are having trouble hearing him from way down there in Corvallis. I'm sorry, Eric, but you'll just have to shout louder! Preferably in the middle of the night and directly at your burly, irritable neighbor's open window!
Perhaps it is time to admit that my foe is winning this battle. It is increasingly hard for me to muster up the motivation to denigrate him on the Internet, seeing as how all my previous attempts to discredit, capture, eliminate, or even simply momentarily sadden him have all failed miserably. Perhaps I should just change the name of my blog to "Some Miserable Douchebag Tries to Heap Said Misery on Another Human Being, but Being the Miserable Douchebag That He Is, Fails Miserably." That would be a long title, and difficult, I imagine, to slip past the Blogger character limits. Ah well.
So maybe I should just get back to work; put my shoulder to the grindstone and try, once more with feeling, to knock this wide-nostriled evildoer down a peg. But really, I must admit, my heart is not in it. I mean, look at the material I have to work with here: Jack Zduriencik? I have to waste two of my three obligatory posts talking about Jack fucking Zduriencik? Is this what my life has boiled down to? Debating about/sharing opinions on the newly-hired general manager of a baseball team that happens to call the local metropolitan area home? Why have a blog? Why not just call in to sports talk radio?
Christ. I mean, I have no real strong feelings about this man whom I've never met, will never meet, and who I would probably honestly not give two-and-a-half-shits about were it not for his present occupation. But apparently Eric does. Such strong feelings, in fact, that they are indeed mixed, and we all know that mixed feelings are the strongest feelings of all, and the kind most worthy of devoting words to on the Internet. Nuance and equivocation--those are the hallmarks of bloggerdom, and what truly every websurfer is looking for when perusing the wilds of public sports opinion. It comes as no surprise, then, that such thoughtful and non-reactionary sentiments are inspiring a virtual wildfire in his comments section. Despite the din, I do wish to offer up my own half-inspired opinion, if for no other reason than to keep this increasingly irrelevant and unnecessary little enterprise going.
First: Whatever Jack Zduriencik may do--and this includes running over Felix Hernandez with his car--it is rather unlikely that he will be a worse evaluator of talent and implementer of reason-based decision-making than the previous general manager.
Second: I base the first assumption on the assumption that Felix Hernandez does something worthy of being run over by a car, like deciding to continue "establishing his fastball." Not saying it was his decision to do that, just saying if he keeps on doing it, I mean come on doesn't the kid have a mind of his own and realize he is infinitely more talented than the hacks telling him what he should be doing? Just sayin'.
Third: Eric keeps talking about holes springing up in dikes, and while I understand the analogy, I also find it amusing that such an enlightened and technocentric person like himself still falls back on folksy Dutch wisdom.
Fourth: Thanks for the pronunciation guide! And to think all this time I was pronouncing his name wrong and nobody gave a damn.
Fifth: I agree that his firing of Fontaine was a downer, but I also understand that the guy probably wants to have (and now does have) his own team, of his own guys, to help him reach his goal of building this team in his own way. Whether that way ends up being fruitful or not only time will tell, but at least he won't be able to fall back on blaming it on holdovers from the previous administration. If he succeeds, he does so on his own merits and on the backs of his own decisions--and the same goes for if he fails.
Sixth: Also, any decision he makes that infuriates Eric makes me a little happier. Just a little. Is that a little smile forming at the corners of my mouth? Someone take a picture!
Seventh: Zed--can I call him Zed?--Zed and I are going to be fast friends, I can tell, and I'm sure he'll give me a good listen when I try and explain how valuable a player like David Eckstein can be to a team. And how we really miss the heart and team-oriented approach of Ryan Franklin around here. These issues should be addressed tout de suite.
Eighth: Eric probably disagrees with the last statement, but I'm afraid me and ol' Zed are having trouble hearing him from way down there in Corvallis. I'm sorry, Eric, but you'll just have to shout louder! Preferably in the middle of the night and directly at your burly, irritable neighbor's open window!
Friday, October 17, 2008
In Which Eric Hates On Australians
There are times in life when one must take the good with the bad. For example, today, when The World's Greatest Company and Friend to All Mankind sent back my 4th-time's-a-charm repaired gaming console in time for me to fritter away my weekend hours without having to interact with other people. This was good. The bad came when I got home, and found myself on the receiving end of a two-pronged assault by everyone's favorite curly-haired, bulbous-faced robot sympathizer, Eric Walkingshaw.
The opening volley came via e-mail, where Eric gleefully flaunted his capture of Darryl Strawberry, a former fantasy baseball associate of mine who had undertaken a secret espionage mission against my former captor and sworn enemy. My perennially underachieving imaginary baseball team had, a few years back, provided an alibi for Darryl during one of his many run-ins with law enforcement, and by way of paying me back good Mr. Strawberry had agreed to snoop around Eric's home and work for a while and see what he could see. Unfortunately, as Eric's e-mail graphically made clear, things did not go so smoothly.
The e-mail in question was brief; two bravado-filled sentences accompanied by a photograph of Eric's beaming, cartoonishly-proportioned face. Next to his face, held up by one of his assumed-still-human hands, was poor old Darryl--captured, posed, and then somehow turned into either a three-ring binder or giant baseball card (it's hard to tell, given the extreme closeness of the photograph). There was nothing else--no ransom demands, no details on Darryl's health, no potential release dates--just unabashed, childish gloating. He was like a dictator holding aloft the severed head of a dissident, awash in the glow of his own self-satisfaction.
I have to admit I feel at least partially responsible for Darryl's likely demise, as a tall, pock-marked former Major League All-Star is a fairly conspicuous agent of espionage. But irregardless of Darryl's lack of stealth (which he should have enhanced by wearing that Cloak of Concealing I gave him, acquired after much toil under the watchful eye of the High Lord Razelmayne), Eric's cruel treatment of this one-time American hero is downright barbaric. Turning a man into a three-ring binder? What foul robot magicks my adversary must possess!
But before I get too depressed by imagining the details of this horrid transformation (just where did Eric acquire a miniature replica of a 1988 New York Mets uniform, anyway?), I must address Eric's other action against me--updating his blog. After working for nearly a whole hour to catch myself back up with Eric's sporadically-updated web diary, I now have to set fingertip to keypad for yet another foray into mockery? I am not a machine, Walkingshaw! I have my limits!
But in keeping with the theme of taking good with bad, the bright side is Eric's entry today was mercifully brief, and thankfully very bathroom-centric. I am well-versed in bathroom commentary, having honed my skills at the venerable Washington Institute of Juvenile Humor, and I am confident that my turd-riffic ability will have you all urine-ing for more--it is, after all, a highly sought-after commode-ity.
Eric's bathroom complaints center around the plumbing, which unlike my bowel movements is highly irregular. He pooh-poohs the faucet arrangement, noting that they're aligned backwards and control their opposite functions. Normally, I wouldn't give two shits about this kind of insignificant wankery, but one must answer when doody calls.
There is also a complaint about the wiring inside the bathroom, which leads to this wonderful moment of semantic brilliance:
Finally, there are two light switches which control two lights...
Genius! Oscar Wilde, eat your heart out!
And then, just when you thought he'd exhausted his supply of mind-bending comments for one day, he drops the A-bomb:
Maybe our apartment's construction crew was Australian?
I have to admit, even given my inherent disregard for Eric's personality, I was dumbstruck by this closing comment. In this day and age, to revert to such inflammatory and quite frankly bigoted speech is genuinely shocking. After all the torment that Australians have had to go through in this country--being sent to separate schools, forced to talk with a funny accent, dress up in kangaroo outfits and take their children and belongings and go live and work in Australia--Eric has to add accusations of incompetent apartment construction? Why? Is it really necessary to perpetuate the stereotype that Australians are foolish, no-good layabouts, concerned only with waltzing their matildas under their billabong trees and surfing with kookaburras? Uncalled for and unnecessary, in my book. How dare you, sir?
You should be ashamed to derive happenis from such bigotry. There was no need to go that fart.
The opening volley came via e-mail, where Eric gleefully flaunted his capture of Darryl Strawberry, a former fantasy baseball associate of mine who had undertaken a secret espionage mission against my former captor and sworn enemy. My perennially underachieving imaginary baseball team had, a few years back, provided an alibi for Darryl during one of his many run-ins with law enforcement, and by way of paying me back good Mr. Strawberry had agreed to snoop around Eric's home and work for a while and see what he could see. Unfortunately, as Eric's e-mail graphically made clear, things did not go so smoothly.
The e-mail in question was brief; two bravado-filled sentences accompanied by a photograph of Eric's beaming, cartoonishly-proportioned face. Next to his face, held up by one of his assumed-still-human hands, was poor old Darryl--captured, posed, and then somehow turned into either a three-ring binder or giant baseball card (it's hard to tell, given the extreme closeness of the photograph). There was nothing else--no ransom demands, no details on Darryl's health, no potential release dates--just unabashed, childish gloating. He was like a dictator holding aloft the severed head of a dissident, awash in the glow of his own self-satisfaction.
I have to admit I feel at least partially responsible for Darryl's likely demise, as a tall, pock-marked former Major League All-Star is a fairly conspicuous agent of espionage. But irregardless of Darryl's lack of stealth (which he should have enhanced by wearing that Cloak of Concealing I gave him, acquired after much toil under the watchful eye of the High Lord Razelmayne), Eric's cruel treatment of this one-time American hero is downright barbaric. Turning a man into a three-ring binder? What foul robot magicks my adversary must possess!
But before I get too depressed by imagining the details of this horrid transformation (just where did Eric acquire a miniature replica of a 1988 New York Mets uniform, anyway?), I must address Eric's other action against me--updating his blog. After working for nearly a whole hour to catch myself back up with Eric's sporadically-updated web diary, I now have to set fingertip to keypad for yet another foray into mockery? I am not a machine, Walkingshaw! I have my limits!
But in keeping with the theme of taking good with bad, the bright side is Eric's entry today was mercifully brief, and thankfully very bathroom-centric. I am well-versed in bathroom commentary, having honed my skills at the venerable Washington Institute of Juvenile Humor, and I am confident that my turd-riffic ability will have you all urine-ing for more--it is, after all, a highly sought-after commode-ity.
Eric's bathroom complaints center around the plumbing, which unlike my bowel movements is highly irregular. He pooh-poohs the faucet arrangement, noting that they're aligned backwards and control their opposite functions. Normally, I wouldn't give two shits about this kind of insignificant wankery, but one must answer when doody calls.
There is also a complaint about the wiring inside the bathroom, which leads to this wonderful moment of semantic brilliance:
Finally, there are two light switches which control two lights...
Genius! Oscar Wilde, eat your heart out!
And then, just when you thought he'd exhausted his supply of mind-bending comments for one day, he drops the A-bomb:
Maybe our apartment's construction crew was Australian?
I have to admit, even given my inherent disregard for Eric's personality, I was dumbstruck by this closing comment. In this day and age, to revert to such inflammatory and quite frankly bigoted speech is genuinely shocking. After all the torment that Australians have had to go through in this country--being sent to separate schools, forced to talk with a funny accent, dress up in kangaroo outfits and take their children and belongings and go live and work in Australia--Eric has to add accusations of incompetent apartment construction? Why? Is it really necessary to perpetuate the stereotype that Australians are foolish, no-good layabouts, concerned only with waltzing their matildas under their billabong trees and surfing with kookaburras? Uncalled for and unnecessary, in my book. How dare you, sir?
You should be ashamed to derive happenis from such bigotry. There was no need to go that fart.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
In Which Eric Goes to Germany (While I Do Not), Which Conveniently allows Me to Catch Up on Several Blog Posts with One Unnecessarily Long One
As you may know from reading Eric's blog (and don't expect any in-text linkage to his blog, either, especially since I've devoted the entire right side of my blog for that nefarious purpose), recently the curly-locked mecha-fetishist spent some time in Europe--Germany in particular; Munich in particular particular. Ostensibly he was there for some kind of computery conference-type thing, but I think I know Eric well enough to say that the real reason he journeyed halfway around the world was to get some nice, up-close sightings of Buxom Bavarian Babes, which I have capitalized because that's the way Eric tends to say it. I, as a human male of the heterosexual proclivity, cannot blame him for this. Nothing gets the blood a-boiling more than a Buxom Bavarian Babe, with the possible exception of a cannibal's cooking pot.
However, it goes without saying that Eric's adventure in the land of lederhosen and dirndls left me feeling, well, left out. My current lack of educational funding (or, for that matter, desirable intelligence) leaves me out of the loop when it comes to this computer-science-brainbox-conference-trips-to-lands-with-high-populations-of-traditionally-dressed-and-attractive women business. Now I could take the "high road" and simply congratulate Eric on his successful trip and his wonderful foreign experience, but that's exactly what Eric and his robot pals would want me to do. Instead, I will thumb my nose at their elitist snobbery and instead take what I call the "low road," where I passive-aggressively mock his trip by focusing on my very own "staycation" and the wonderful adventures I myself had while he was away. As an added bonus, this allows me to stop talking about Eric for a while and start talking about myself, which any of my imaginary friends will tell you is my (and, incidentally, their) favorite subject.
So away we go:
Part One: Landing
I land here in Lynnwood not via plane, but via waking up in my bed in the morning. How's that compared to a ten-hour flight, huh?
Part Two: Day One
Upon venturing outside, I am awestruck by the beauty of the local skyline. Not every city has the vision to make all its buildings look exactly the same. It is a bold statement of solidarity, of the true unity of our people; these buildings represent our collective squareness and mundanity. Surely Munich, with its centuries-spanning architectural designs and elegantly crafted exteriors, suffers from a massive internal conflict, unsure of its true identity as a city. I revel in the dulling simplicity of this town's architecture; it's a reassuring breath of conformity in a time of great global upheaval, filling me with a strong desire to retire to my sleeping quarters and spend this wonderfully sunny afternoon mindlessly shooting at computerized space-villains with my video-gaming box. Which I do.
Part Three: Day Two
I will admit that Lynnwood is sorely lacking in Buxom Bavarian Babes, but what we lack in that department we more than make up for in unwed teenage mothers. Also sketchy-looking streetwalkers. Though the latter really only tend to appear sporadically, and in very specific locations. Still, not all the world can have Buxom Bavarian Babes; and every indigenous culture is just as valid as any other.
I do spend the better part of this day trying to engage the afore-mentioned locals in conversation, but my attempts are either rebuffed completely or misinterpreted--as either "bein' all nosy an' shit" about their bulging, pregnant bellies; or, more unfortunately, as some kind of solicitation. Which, also unfortunately, lands me in the local jail.
Part Four: Day Three
I am in the local jail. They are kind enough to lend me a pad and some very sharp pencils, which I question, given that prisoners aren't supposed to have anything they can kill themselves with. Upon my questioning, they also supply me with a short strand of rope, a loaded revolver, and several shards of broken glass. They are a strange folk, these local police. Especially the one who keeps taking "bets" on which "implement" the men around the precinct would rather watch me do myself in with. I say, not very professional behavior, in my book.
All in all, the jail is made up of the same sanitary drabness that seems to be prevalent in this area; no narrow staircases or lavish, ornate Bismarck-era ballrooms for us, no sir! From what I can gather, the typical day in the life of a Lynnwood law-enforcement officer consists of writing speeding tickets, teaching D.A.R.E. classes, confiscating minor narcotics from teenagers, and then "disposing of the contraband." I notice they tend to giggle a lot and congregate in unseen areas of the station while they do the latter. Must be some kind of local custom, probably going back to those heady settler days of the early-to-mid 20th century.
Perhaps not as exciting as having to calm down excessively ebullient Buxom Bavarian Babes, but these fine law enforcement officers are serving the public good in their own special way. Also they appear very red-eyed and somewhat paranoid a good deal of the time. This might require further looking into.
Part Five: Day Four
I try to take my mind off women, especially their relative levels of Buxom Bavarian-ness, by indulging in the vast array of local cuisine at my fingertips. For breakfast I had deep-fried egg product with the finest ground sausage patty, all sandwiched between a delectably moist biscuit bun and rounded off with a side of deep-fried pressed potato substance. Also I had a Coca-Cola--straight from the fountain! How many eateries in Munich have Coca-Cola fountains? Probably not too many, I'm guessing. They're too busy with their "fine beer" and "cognac" and "uncarbonated non-tooth-rotting beverages." Neophytes!
The choices for food here are astounding. Feel like teriyaki? Just walk five yards and look in a random direction! Poultry on the brain? Enjoy a bucket of fried chicken! A whole goddamn bucket! Or perhaps you're more into a hearty beef concoction? We can either slap it in a bun with some ketchup and cheese or put it on a plate with some other high-cholestorol products! It's your choice!
The air is truly fragrant with the mixed smells of the many small local eateries here. There is even, I hear, some kind of underground, subterranean place where you can have something called a "subway sandwich" made for you. I don't know what that entails, but it sounds like some good deep-fried deliciousness. I shall seek out this "sub-way" at another time; for now, I must scarf down my lunch of beef-pattie-on-beef-pattie-on-beef-pattie-on-piece-of-stringy-lettuce-on-ketchup-on-mustard-on-thick-gooey-cheese-on-bun. Yum!
For dinner, I had a triple bypass operation. The street doctor was very courteous and delicate, and only mugged me after he'd completed the procedure. Highly recommended!
Part Six: Day Five
I have a grease-and-heart-failure hangover. Thankfully, the quaint grocers nearby have an ample supply of foodstuffs and medications to get me through my day. Is that a fresh copy of
2 Fast, 2 Furious I see in the DVD aisle? For only six bucks? Looks like I've found my cure!
Part Seven: Day Six
I take a walk around town again, and realize I am running out of things to do. Bowling?
Alright. Christ. Bowling.
Part Eight: Day Seven
Buxom Bavarian Babes.
Buxom Bavarian Babes, Buxom Bavarian Babes, Buxom Bavarian Babes.
Eric, you propitious fiend!
Part Nine: Day Eight
Okay, so maybe things aren't looking so exciting right now. But maybe I'm just not digging deep enough. I must dig through the surface of fast-food joints and convenience stores and strip malls and unveil the thriving, idealistic, artistic underground of this fair town! Surely there is something here to rival the literary works of Bertolt Brecht and Thomas Mann, or the revolutionary artwork of Gabriele Munter, or the classic, mold-breaking films of Rainer Werner Fassbinder and Werner Herzog. All I need to do is find it.
And here, here on the south wall of this old school building, I believe I have stumbled across the canvas of the inspired youth! It's a drawing that is simple, yet evocative; inscrutable, yet somehow...oh Lord. Oh Dear Lord. That is foul. Loathsome. To draw that...on a public structure...oh, dear Lord.
But what is this, floating in the breeze? A scrap of paper...perhaps a romantic poem, a paean to a lover lost? Or an eloquent yet forceful diatribe against the power-that-be? Or...Oh. I see. Apparently the young lady mentioned on this scrap of paper "doesn't give it." Short, to the point.
Well, then, I suppose it's up to me. Let this hate-inspired blog stand as the pinnacle of Lynnwood's artistic endeavor! Let me carry the torch for for our grassroots arts community! Allow me the honor of being our, if you will, Laureate! And if this shall come to pass, then...well...in all honesty, that's kind of sad. I'm going to bed.
Part Ten: Day Nine
To cheer myself up, here's another Buxom Bavarian Babe.
Well played, Walkingshaw. Well played.
However, it goes without saying that Eric's adventure in the land of lederhosen and dirndls left me feeling, well, left out. My current lack of educational funding (or, for that matter, desirable intelligence) leaves me out of the loop when it comes to this computer-science-brainbox-conference-trips-to-lands-with-high-populations-of-traditionally-dressed-and-attractive women business. Now I could take the "high road" and simply congratulate Eric on his successful trip and his wonderful foreign experience, but that's exactly what Eric and his robot pals would want me to do. Instead, I will thumb my nose at their elitist snobbery and instead take what I call the "low road," where I passive-aggressively mock his trip by focusing on my very own "staycation" and the wonderful adventures I myself had while he was away. As an added bonus, this allows me to stop talking about Eric for a while and start talking about myself, which any of my imaginary friends will tell you is my (and, incidentally, their) favorite subject.
So away we go:
Part One: Landing
I land here in Lynnwood not via plane, but via waking up in my bed in the morning. How's that compared to a ten-hour flight, huh?
Part Two: Day One
Upon venturing outside, I am awestruck by the beauty of the local skyline. Not every city has the vision to make all its buildings look exactly the same. It is a bold statement of solidarity, of the true unity of our people; these buildings represent our collective squareness and mundanity. Surely Munich, with its centuries-spanning architectural designs and elegantly crafted exteriors, suffers from a massive internal conflict, unsure of its true identity as a city. I revel in the dulling simplicity of this town's architecture; it's a reassuring breath of conformity in a time of great global upheaval, filling me with a strong desire to retire to my sleeping quarters and spend this wonderfully sunny afternoon mindlessly shooting at computerized space-villains with my video-gaming box. Which I do.
Part Three: Day Two
I will admit that Lynnwood is sorely lacking in Buxom Bavarian Babes, but what we lack in that department we more than make up for in unwed teenage mothers. Also sketchy-looking streetwalkers. Though the latter really only tend to appear sporadically, and in very specific locations. Still, not all the world can have Buxom Bavarian Babes; and every indigenous culture is just as valid as any other.
I do spend the better part of this day trying to engage the afore-mentioned locals in conversation, but my attempts are either rebuffed completely or misinterpreted--as either "bein' all nosy an' shit" about their bulging, pregnant bellies; or, more unfortunately, as some kind of solicitation. Which, also unfortunately, lands me in the local jail.
Part Four: Day Three
I am in the local jail. They are kind enough to lend me a pad and some very sharp pencils, which I question, given that prisoners aren't supposed to have anything they can kill themselves with. Upon my questioning, they also supply me with a short strand of rope, a loaded revolver, and several shards of broken glass. They are a strange folk, these local police. Especially the one who keeps taking "bets" on which "implement" the men around the precinct would rather watch me do myself in with. I say, not very professional behavior, in my book.
All in all, the jail is made up of the same sanitary drabness that seems to be prevalent in this area; no narrow staircases or lavish, ornate Bismarck-era ballrooms for us, no sir! From what I can gather, the typical day in the life of a Lynnwood law-enforcement officer consists of writing speeding tickets, teaching D.A.R.E. classes, confiscating minor narcotics from teenagers, and then "disposing of the contraband." I notice they tend to giggle a lot and congregate in unseen areas of the station while they do the latter. Must be some kind of local custom, probably going back to those heady settler days of the early-to-mid 20th century.
Perhaps not as exciting as having to calm down excessively ebullient Buxom Bavarian Babes, but these fine law enforcement officers are serving the public good in their own special way. Also they appear very red-eyed and somewhat paranoid a good deal of the time. This might require further looking into.
Part Five: Day Four
I try to take my mind off women, especially their relative levels of Buxom Bavarian-ness, by indulging in the vast array of local cuisine at my fingertips. For breakfast I had deep-fried egg product with the finest ground sausage patty, all sandwiched between a delectably moist biscuit bun and rounded off with a side of deep-fried pressed potato substance. Also I had a Coca-Cola--straight from the fountain! How many eateries in Munich have Coca-Cola fountains? Probably not too many, I'm guessing. They're too busy with their "fine beer" and "cognac" and "uncarbonated non-tooth-rotting beverages." Neophytes!
The choices for food here are astounding. Feel like teriyaki? Just walk five yards and look in a random direction! Poultry on the brain? Enjoy a bucket of fried chicken! A whole goddamn bucket! Or perhaps you're more into a hearty beef concoction? We can either slap it in a bun with some ketchup and cheese or put it on a plate with some other high-cholestorol products! It's your choice!
The air is truly fragrant with the mixed smells of the many small local eateries here. There is even, I hear, some kind of underground, subterranean place where you can have something called a "subway sandwich" made for you. I don't know what that entails, but it sounds like some good deep-fried deliciousness. I shall seek out this "sub-way" at another time; for now, I must scarf down my lunch of beef-pattie-on-beef-pattie-on-beef-pattie-on-piece-of-stringy-lettuce-on-ketchup-on-mustard-on-thick-gooey-cheese-on-bun. Yum!
For dinner, I had a triple bypass operation. The street doctor was very courteous and delicate, and only mugged me after he'd completed the procedure. Highly recommended!
Part Six: Day Five
I have a grease-and-heart-failure hangover. Thankfully, the quaint grocers nearby have an ample supply of foodstuffs and medications to get me through my day. Is that a fresh copy of
2 Fast, 2 Furious I see in the DVD aisle? For only six bucks? Looks like I've found my cure!
Part Seven: Day Six
I take a walk around town again, and realize I am running out of things to do. Bowling?
Alright. Christ. Bowling.
Part Eight: Day Seven
Buxom Bavarian Babes.
Buxom Bavarian Babes, Buxom Bavarian Babes, Buxom Bavarian Babes.
Eric, you propitious fiend!
Part Nine: Day Eight
Okay, so maybe things aren't looking so exciting right now. But maybe I'm just not digging deep enough. I must dig through the surface of fast-food joints and convenience stores and strip malls and unveil the thriving, idealistic, artistic underground of this fair town! Surely there is something here to rival the literary works of Bertolt Brecht and Thomas Mann, or the revolutionary artwork of Gabriele Munter, or the classic, mold-breaking films of Rainer Werner Fassbinder and Werner Herzog. All I need to do is find it.
And here, here on the south wall of this old school building, I believe I have stumbled across the canvas of the inspired youth! It's a drawing that is simple, yet evocative; inscrutable, yet somehow...oh Lord. Oh Dear Lord. That is foul. Loathsome. To draw that...on a public structure...oh, dear Lord.
But what is this, floating in the breeze? A scrap of paper...perhaps a romantic poem, a paean to a lover lost? Or an eloquent yet forceful diatribe against the power-that-be? Or...Oh. I see. Apparently the young lady mentioned on this scrap of paper "doesn't give it." Short, to the point.
Well, then, I suppose it's up to me. Let this hate-inspired blog stand as the pinnacle of Lynnwood's artistic endeavor! Let me carry the torch for for our grassroots arts community! Allow me the honor of being our, if you will, Laureate! And if this shall come to pass, then...well...in all honesty, that's kind of sad. I'm going to bed.
Part Ten: Day Nine
To cheer myself up, here's another Buxom Bavarian Babe.
Well played, Walkingshaw. Well played.
In Which Eric's Betrothed Becomes a Fencing Champion of Sorts
Point 1:
Haha! Eric, you are the inferior fencer in your household! Looks like it's pretty clear who wears the knickers in this relationship.
Point 2:
As excited as I am that my dream of an Allison-induced Eric-stabbing closes in on realization, my joy is somewhat tempered by the fact that her grand victory has come over a man who swordfights with children for a living. Perhaps not the highest level of competition around.
Point 3:
On the other hand, I don't remember Eric saying he defeated The Instructor, so by the transitive property of fencing skill, Allison > Eric. How's that for pseudo-math, robot boy?
Point 4:
"Robot boy" is a childish, unimaginative insult. My aims would probably be better served by making some kind of snarky comment about the largeness of Eric's facial features, predominantly the nose.
Point 5:
Big-Nosed Robot Boy? Yes, that's much better.
Point 6:
Allison, if you are reading this and if your hangover has subsided, might I request that when you inevitably slay your collaborationist husband, you do so while declaring "From Hell's heart, I stab at thee!?" I'm sure Herman Melville would approve.
Haha! Eric, you are the inferior fencer in your household! Looks like it's pretty clear who wears the knickers in this relationship.
Point 2:
As excited as I am that my dream of an Allison-induced Eric-stabbing closes in on realization, my joy is somewhat tempered by the fact that her grand victory has come over a man who swordfights with children for a living. Perhaps not the highest level of competition around.
Point 3:
On the other hand, I don't remember Eric saying he defeated The Instructor, so by the transitive property of fencing skill, Allison > Eric. How's that for pseudo-math, robot boy?
Point 4:
"Robot boy" is a childish, unimaginative insult. My aims would probably be better served by making some kind of snarky comment about the largeness of Eric's facial features, predominantly the nose.
Point 5:
Big-Nosed Robot Boy? Yes, that's much better.
Point 6:
Allison, if you are reading this and if your hangover has subsided, might I request that when you inevitably slay your collaborationist husband, you do so while declaring "From Hell's heart, I stab at thee!?" I'm sure Herman Melville would approve.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Diary of My Discontent, Part 2
I acknowledge that once again there has been a gap in my correspondence. I would take full responsibility for this, but as you may well know, that is just not my nature. So instead I'll lay the blame at the feet of the real culprits: court-appointed psychiatrists. As if I am somehow a "danger to society" who "harbors deep delusions about his fellow citizens" and "cannot be trusted with a toothbrush, let alone drive a car or ride public transportation." First of all, that toothbrush had it coming; secondly, do you realize how long it takes to walk everywhere in the suburbs? Rather a long time, I can assure you. The local grocer is open 24 hours and I still have to leave my house an hour early to get there before it closes.
Anyhoo, enough about my legal troubles; back to the action, eh? Just how did I intrepidly escape the clutches of that curly-haired nasal monstrosity called Eric Walkingshaw, and return to my less-than-grateful community? Well, read on:
Day 8
Depression. My escape is at least good two weeks away, if my calculations are correct; it is indeed difficult to register the days properly in my darkened prison tower/apartment bathroom, especially given the fact that I have adopted a few traits from my feline roommates and began sleeping at irregular intervals. Also I've begun combing my hair by licking my palms and running them across my scalp--which isn't all that bad, actually, since I'm beginning to resemble a Bunnyman. In any case, the grand Walkingshaw moving adventure will not be happening for some time, and I have two options: rack my brains to find an alternate solution, using all the willpower and ingenuity that I can muster to find my way to freedom; or, on the other hand, whimper and cry.
Day 9
I choose option two.
Day 10
Having nearly dehydrated myself with my weeping, I saunter over to the water bowl to find it empty. Strange, I think; then I realize that I haven't been fed for two days either. I also haven't heard the strange, deep-throated caterwauls that often wake me frightfully from my catnaps until I remember it's just the sound of Eric talking, and not some extra-dimensional monster creature bent on devouring my life-force. Have I been abandoned by my captors, left to rot in this large-laundried, racquetball-court-having apartment complex? The kittens are eyeing me hungrily. I meow threats at them, but they just cock their heads as if they can't understand. I can't help it if I have a thick accent! I was born human!
Day 11
At last, information! I heard the front door open today, and Allison rather foul-mouthedly celebrating a victory she had over someone called "The Instructor." I ask you: is it at all lady-like for a woman of such fine breeding to refer to male genitalia in such a derogatory manner? I submit that it is not.
There is a large amount of movement and rustling noises coming from the bedroom area. I fear the worst; thankfully, it is revealed that Eric is simply packing for some kind of trip, and it was not the audio portion of what I had assumed to be some kind of unclean co-mingling, if you catch my drift. As if my presence here wasn't horrific enough...
Anyway, Eric is apparently heading off to Germany for a while. Strange; I was not aware that the Germans were robot sympathizers--this may force me to re-think my love for gigantic unhealthy sausages.
No, wait--I can't help it. Robot-lovers or no, them Germans make some damn fine sausages. Herzerkrankungen!
Day 12
I yearn for gigantic unhealthy sausages. Instead, I am fed all the leftover bulk foods that Eric has left behind. I instantly gain 27 pounds.
Day 13
When all seems lost, hope, like the Terminator disappearing into a vat of molten steel, warms the cold, cynical insides of my heart. Allison's three-day-long bender following what I now understand to be a fencing victory of some kind has opened the door to my escape. Literally: she has left the bathroom door open after feeding the cats and I, having passed out on the floor, bottle of Jagermeister nestled in her hand. I slowly peer out of the open door, into the world that I left behind nearly two weeks ago; it is strange, for I feel almost reluctant to leave this place, as if it has become like a home to me. The two kittens I've spent so much time squabbling with stand awkwardly behind me; I cannot tell if they are wishing me farewell or pleading silently for me to stay.
Allison emits a loud unconscious burp. There is a widening pool of drool on the floor next to her face. Clearly, I have overstayed my welcome.
I step out of the bathroom and into the apartment proper, which is littered with empty bottles, all beer and liquor of German origin: St. Pauli Girl, Jagermeister, Warsteiner, and a variety of schnapps. It appears her victory celebrations have morphed into a self-destructive pining for her absent husband. I feel a tinge of sympathy, and then I smell something that eerily resembles the aroma of the litterbox, and I beat a hasty retreat.
The crisp autumn air smacks me in the face like the welcome-home slap of a jilted bride. I am free! Free! I do a cartwheel. I blow kisses at passers-by, shouting pleasantries at them, but they all look at me with a combination of fear and disgust. In my joy, I confuse this for wonderment, but upon reflection, I should have realized that when they were whipping out their cell phones and dialing hurriedly, they were not in fact calling friends and acquaintances to "get a load of this guy," but were instead informing the local police about the crazed man running in torn rags through the the streets of Corvallis, meowing like a kitten and looking oddly like he once belonged in a seminal 1980s rock band from Liverpool.
Day 14
The Corvallis jail is rather well-kept, I must admit. And the beatings are relatively gentle. If you're going to get arrested for indecent exposure and just generally being a transient crazy, might I recommend doing so in Beaver country?
Anyhoo, enough about my legal troubles; back to the action, eh? Just how did I intrepidly escape the clutches of that curly-haired nasal monstrosity called Eric Walkingshaw, and return to my less-than-grateful community? Well, read on:
Day 8
Depression. My escape is at least good two weeks away, if my calculations are correct; it is indeed difficult to register the days properly in my darkened prison tower/apartment bathroom, especially given the fact that I have adopted a few traits from my feline roommates and began sleeping at irregular intervals. Also I've begun combing my hair by licking my palms and running them across my scalp--which isn't all that bad, actually, since I'm beginning to resemble a Bunnyman. In any case, the grand Walkingshaw moving adventure will not be happening for some time, and I have two options: rack my brains to find an alternate solution, using all the willpower and ingenuity that I can muster to find my way to freedom; or, on the other hand, whimper and cry.
Day 9
I choose option two.
Day 10
Having nearly dehydrated myself with my weeping, I saunter over to the water bowl to find it empty. Strange, I think; then I realize that I haven't been fed for two days either. I also haven't heard the strange, deep-throated caterwauls that often wake me frightfully from my catnaps until I remember it's just the sound of Eric talking, and not some extra-dimensional monster creature bent on devouring my life-force. Have I been abandoned by my captors, left to rot in this large-laundried, racquetball-court-having apartment complex? The kittens are eyeing me hungrily. I meow threats at them, but they just cock their heads as if they can't understand. I can't help it if I have a thick accent! I was born human!
Day 11
At last, information! I heard the front door open today, and Allison rather foul-mouthedly celebrating a victory she had over someone called "The Instructor." I ask you: is it at all lady-like for a woman of such fine breeding to refer to male genitalia in such a derogatory manner? I submit that it is not.
There is a large amount of movement and rustling noises coming from the bedroom area. I fear the worst; thankfully, it is revealed that Eric is simply packing for some kind of trip, and it was not the audio portion of what I had assumed to be some kind of unclean co-mingling, if you catch my drift. As if my presence here wasn't horrific enough...
Anyway, Eric is apparently heading off to Germany for a while. Strange; I was not aware that the Germans were robot sympathizers--this may force me to re-think my love for gigantic unhealthy sausages.
No, wait--I can't help it. Robot-lovers or no, them Germans make some damn fine sausages. Herzerkrankungen!
Day 12
I yearn for gigantic unhealthy sausages. Instead, I am fed all the leftover bulk foods that Eric has left behind. I instantly gain 27 pounds.
Day 13
When all seems lost, hope, like the Terminator disappearing into a vat of molten steel, warms the cold, cynical insides of my heart. Allison's three-day-long bender following what I now understand to be a fencing victory of some kind has opened the door to my escape. Literally: she has left the bathroom door open after feeding the cats and I, having passed out on the floor, bottle of Jagermeister nestled in her hand. I slowly peer out of the open door, into the world that I left behind nearly two weeks ago; it is strange, for I feel almost reluctant to leave this place, as if it has become like a home to me. The two kittens I've spent so much time squabbling with stand awkwardly behind me; I cannot tell if they are wishing me farewell or pleading silently for me to stay.
Allison emits a loud unconscious burp. There is a widening pool of drool on the floor next to her face. Clearly, I have overstayed my welcome.
I step out of the bathroom and into the apartment proper, which is littered with empty bottles, all beer and liquor of German origin: St. Pauli Girl, Jagermeister, Warsteiner, and a variety of schnapps. It appears her victory celebrations have morphed into a self-destructive pining for her absent husband. I feel a tinge of sympathy, and then I smell something that eerily resembles the aroma of the litterbox, and I beat a hasty retreat.
The crisp autumn air smacks me in the face like the welcome-home slap of a jilted bride. I am free! Free! I do a cartwheel. I blow kisses at passers-by, shouting pleasantries at them, but they all look at me with a combination of fear and disgust. In my joy, I confuse this for wonderment, but upon reflection, I should have realized that when they were whipping out their cell phones and dialing hurriedly, they were not in fact calling friends and acquaintances to "get a load of this guy," but were instead informing the local police about the crazed man running in torn rags through the the streets of Corvallis, meowing like a kitten and looking oddly like he once belonged in a seminal 1980s rock band from Liverpool.
Day 14
The Corvallis jail is rather well-kept, I must admit. And the beatings are relatively gentle. If you're going to get arrested for indecent exposure and just generally being a transient crazy, might I recommend doing so in Beaver country?
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
The Diary of My Discontent, Part One
Day 1
My plans of launching an electronic attack on Eric's cyberspace defenses has been derailed by the fact, unbeknownst to me, that Eric has lost his Internet connection. Whatever am I to do with these downloaded photographs of extreme fecal discharge now? Perhaps there is some adventurous college student with a score to settle that I can sell them to. Also, I appear to have dropped my lucky ten-dollar bill--probably in that dumpy town I spent the night in. Hopefully this development will not come back to haunt me in a bitterly ironic fashion.
Further complications arise when my plans to surprise Eric at his front door using my clever "Chloroform Salesman" disguise is thwarted by his insistence on not being at home. His friendly neighbor, possibly alerted by my incessant pounding of Eric's door and high-pitched wails of frustration, informs me that Eric and his missus are out apartment-hunting. I thank the young man for this information by chloroforming him. His face sure does look funny with a penis drawn on it!
I decide to take a more guerilla approach and, prying open Eric's balcony door, set about enacting Operation Kitty Kidnap. The results are disastrous: the kitties are in no mood for kidnapping, and express this via sharp clawing of my face and arms. I am tearing the black one from off my eyelids when the front door opens and, much to my surprise, Eric is not keen on my uninvited visit. Currently, I am occupying a closet in his bathroom area, which reeks from the unkempt litterbox placed nearby, as well as my own fearful perspiration. Thankfully, my captor has allowed me to keep my handy notepad and pen, which helps me occupy the time inbetween crying fits.
Day 2
I awake to a domestic dispute, which in this household consists of Eric and Allison talking reasonably and calmly through their disagreements. Eric seems intent on keeping me prisoner at least until someone named "Robby" is consulted, whereas Allison seems more interested in not having an abductee mucking up their moving plans. I attempt to voice my own opinion on this matter, but the two of them either ignore or cannot hear my demands to find my mommy.
For lunch, I assert my evolutionary dominance and manage to steal some bits of Meow Mix from my feline roommates. I wash it down with a few laps of toilet water, which is surprisingly pleasant.
It appears Eric won the argument, as I hear the doorbell ring and Eric greet the mysterious "Robby," whose true nature becomes apparent as their conversation proceeds thusly:
Eric: pleased, Wookie-like groan
Robby: Bleep bleep blorp!
Eric: confused grunt
Robby: Blorp! Bleep blorp blorp!
Eric: conciliatory walrus wail
From the cadence of his groaning, I take it I am to remain a prisoner for quite some time.
Day 3
Doing your business in a litterbox: why have we humans not adopted this practice? Possible answer: getting litter nuggets out from under your toenails is a bitch.
Day 4
Eric came home today griping about some pear that hit him on the head. Note to self: recruit more pears! They appear to be sympathetic to my cause, unlike those treacherous, backstabbing pomegranates.
Day 5
Confound it all! I had been hoping that my presence, not to mention my increasingly offensive body odor, would have Eric on a razor's edge by this point, and hopefully cause him to slip up, security-wise. But alas! Today he came home in good spirits, and celebrated by once again refusing to feed me. From what I gather, he was able to repair his car for free, acquired some tasty squash (squash! A pox on that collaborating vegetable!), and found himself a ten-dollar bill sticking out of the mud.
Wait a minute...lost ten-dollar bill...Albany...mud....
Nooooooooooo!
Day 6
Recently learned fact: flaky skin fragments are good for peeling, not necessarily for eating.
Day 7
The Walkingshaws have found a new apartment! My opportunity for escape may be near. Surely in the tumult of moving house, they will neglect their abductive duties and allow me to slip free. The time has come for a plan of some sort. Hours of neck-craning eavesdropping has allowed me to glean a few details, which may yet prove useful:
--There is no second bathroom in the new apartment! Oh, sweet smile of grace, you shine upon me! No more will I be relegated to sharing my existence with cat feces and toilet water! Perhaps I shall be confined to a nice, comfy utility closet, or simply beat about the head with a hammer and left to bleed to death. The flame of my hope has not yet been extinguished!
--A smaller on-site laundry. Does this mean my rag replenishment will become less frequent? But where will I get my nutrients?
--No racquetball court. Ha ha! Victory for the non-paddle-sport enthusiasts!
--Ping Pong table? Rats! Victory snatched from the non-paddle-sport enthusiasts!
--Bigger kitchen. Wait--bigger kitchen? Meaning to say they've had a kitchen all this time? Lying fiends! And here I am eating my own toenail clippings!
--Gigantic walk-in closet: Hel-lo, roomier cell!
--Right next to WinCo. Great. Even more frequent, overly enthusiastic testimonials about their bulk foods section.
--They'll be moving...I can't quite hear that...the moving date is...October 15th. October 15th. October 15? October 15!!??
Noooooooooooo!
...to be continued...
My plans of launching an electronic attack on Eric's cyberspace defenses has been derailed by the fact, unbeknownst to me, that Eric has lost his Internet connection. Whatever am I to do with these downloaded photographs of extreme fecal discharge now? Perhaps there is some adventurous college student with a score to settle that I can sell them to. Also, I appear to have dropped my lucky ten-dollar bill--probably in that dumpy town I spent the night in. Hopefully this development will not come back to haunt me in a bitterly ironic fashion.
Further complications arise when my plans to surprise Eric at his front door using my clever "Chloroform Salesman" disguise is thwarted by his insistence on not being at home. His friendly neighbor, possibly alerted by my incessant pounding of Eric's door and high-pitched wails of frustration, informs me that Eric and his missus are out apartment-hunting. I thank the young man for this information by chloroforming him. His face sure does look funny with a penis drawn on it!
I decide to take a more guerilla approach and, prying open Eric's balcony door, set about enacting Operation Kitty Kidnap. The results are disastrous: the kitties are in no mood for kidnapping, and express this via sharp clawing of my face and arms. I am tearing the black one from off my eyelids when the front door opens and, much to my surprise, Eric is not keen on my uninvited visit. Currently, I am occupying a closet in his bathroom area, which reeks from the unkempt litterbox placed nearby, as well as my own fearful perspiration. Thankfully, my captor has allowed me to keep my handy notepad and pen, which helps me occupy the time inbetween crying fits.
Day 2
I awake to a domestic dispute, which in this household consists of Eric and Allison talking reasonably and calmly through their disagreements. Eric seems intent on keeping me prisoner at least until someone named "Robby" is consulted, whereas Allison seems more interested in not having an abductee mucking up their moving plans. I attempt to voice my own opinion on this matter, but the two of them either ignore or cannot hear my demands to find my mommy.
For lunch, I assert my evolutionary dominance and manage to steal some bits of Meow Mix from my feline roommates. I wash it down with a few laps of toilet water, which is surprisingly pleasant.
It appears Eric won the argument, as I hear the doorbell ring and Eric greet the mysterious "Robby," whose true nature becomes apparent as their conversation proceeds thusly:
Eric: pleased, Wookie-like groan
Robby: Bleep bleep blorp!
Eric: confused grunt
Robby: Blorp! Bleep blorp blorp!
Eric: conciliatory walrus wail
From the cadence of his groaning, I take it I am to remain a prisoner for quite some time.
Day 3
Doing your business in a litterbox: why have we humans not adopted this practice? Possible answer: getting litter nuggets out from under your toenails is a bitch.
Day 4
Eric came home today griping about some pear that hit him on the head. Note to self: recruit more pears! They appear to be sympathetic to my cause, unlike those treacherous, backstabbing pomegranates.
Day 5
Confound it all! I had been hoping that my presence, not to mention my increasingly offensive body odor, would have Eric on a razor's edge by this point, and hopefully cause him to slip up, security-wise. But alas! Today he came home in good spirits, and celebrated by once again refusing to feed me. From what I gather, he was able to repair his car for free, acquired some tasty squash (squash! A pox on that collaborating vegetable!), and found himself a ten-dollar bill sticking out of the mud.
Wait a minute...lost ten-dollar bill...Albany...mud....
Nooooooooooo!
Day 6
Recently learned fact: flaky skin fragments are good for peeling, not necessarily for eating.
Day 7
The Walkingshaws have found a new apartment! My opportunity for escape may be near. Surely in the tumult of moving house, they will neglect their abductive duties and allow me to slip free. The time has come for a plan of some sort. Hours of neck-craning eavesdropping has allowed me to glean a few details, which may yet prove useful:
--There is no second bathroom in the new apartment! Oh, sweet smile of grace, you shine upon me! No more will I be relegated to sharing my existence with cat feces and toilet water! Perhaps I shall be confined to a nice, comfy utility closet, or simply beat about the head with a hammer and left to bleed to death. The flame of my hope has not yet been extinguished!
--A smaller on-site laundry. Does this mean my rag replenishment will become less frequent? But where will I get my nutrients?
--No racquetball court. Ha ha! Victory for the non-paddle-sport enthusiasts!
--Ping Pong table? Rats! Victory snatched from the non-paddle-sport enthusiasts!
--Bigger kitchen. Wait--bigger kitchen? Meaning to say they've had a kitchen all this time? Lying fiends! And here I am eating my own toenail clippings!
--Gigantic walk-in closet: Hel-lo, roomier cell!
--Right next to WinCo. Great. Even more frequent, overly enthusiastic testimonials about their bulk foods section.
--They'll be moving...I can't quite hear that...the moving date is...October 15th. October 15th. October 15? October 15!!??
Noooooooooooo!
...to be continued...
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
In Which I Explain My Unnoticed Absence
It has been quite some time since I last posted, and quite some time since I have been able to sit comfortably in a chair, fully clothed, and enjoy all the wonders of modern computer technology. The reason for this is twofold:
a) I went on a journey a short while ago
b) Said journey developed into unexpected incarceration and mental degradation at the hands of the fiendish Eric Walkingshaw
Roughly three weeks or so ago, I decided that all this anti-blog blogging foolishness was just that and that I needed to undertake something more tangible, more hands-on, if I was ever to expose to the world the mad menace that my colleague/arch-enemy Eric Walkingshaw truly is. So I packed up a few supplies, drew up some rudimentary plans, and set off for the great wilderness of central Oregon, uncommonly referred to as "Beaver Country," which I can only assume is in relation to some kind of ritualistic, backwoods sexual depravity.
When I arrived things went smoothly at first: I found a cheap hotel with a one-eyed attendant who gracelessly showed me to my room and assured me the hidden camera that I heard whirring behind the bathroom mirror was not a hidden camera at all but simply "noisy insulation." From this impromptu and cockroach-ridden HQ I was able to study my plans, diagrammed to the finest detail on Denny's napkins, and prepare for the kidnapping, assault, or execution of Eric Thomas Walkingshaw, whichever came first and whichever proved easiest to accomplish with a belly full of peppermint schnapps and Mr. Goodbars. I then proceeded, as I had planned, to ingest copious amounts of peppermint-flavored liquor and peanut-inhabited chococlate bars, before passing out on the floor to the sounds of the motel proprietor chuckling perversely from within the wall cavity.
It was when I awoke that everything started to go awry. I kept a short journal while I was away on my mission, and in the ensuing posts I will reveal my entries to you, so that you may better understand the horrors I endured in that godforsaken savage-land.
a) I went on a journey a short while ago
b) Said journey developed into unexpected incarceration and mental degradation at the hands of the fiendish Eric Walkingshaw
Roughly three weeks or so ago, I decided that all this anti-blog blogging foolishness was just that and that I needed to undertake something more tangible, more hands-on, if I was ever to expose to the world the mad menace that my colleague/arch-enemy Eric Walkingshaw truly is. So I packed up a few supplies, drew up some rudimentary plans, and set off for the great wilderness of central Oregon, uncommonly referred to as "Beaver Country," which I can only assume is in relation to some kind of ritualistic, backwoods sexual depravity.
When I arrived things went smoothly at first: I found a cheap hotel with a one-eyed attendant who gracelessly showed me to my room and assured me the hidden camera that I heard whirring behind the bathroom mirror was not a hidden camera at all but simply "noisy insulation." From this impromptu and cockroach-ridden HQ I was able to study my plans, diagrammed to the finest detail on Denny's napkins, and prepare for the kidnapping, assault, or execution of Eric Thomas Walkingshaw, whichever came first and whichever proved easiest to accomplish with a belly full of peppermint schnapps and Mr. Goodbars. I then proceeded, as I had planned, to ingest copious amounts of peppermint-flavored liquor and peanut-inhabited chococlate bars, before passing out on the floor to the sounds of the motel proprietor chuckling perversely from within the wall cavity.
It was when I awoke that everything started to go awry. I kept a short journal while I was away on my mission, and in the ensuing posts I will reveal my entries to you, so that you may better understand the horrors I endured in that godforsaken savage-land.
Monday, August 11, 2008
In Which Eric Takes a Step Towards Umbilical Freedom
More often than not I use this blog as a means to tear Eric down off his pedestal, or at the very least make petty insults about him. But today I find myself applauding Eric's efforts, since in this case he has shown himself to be selfish, childish, and unreasonable; shown himself, in fact, to be human, more so than he has in a long long time.
I've never known Eric to be much of a whiner, but given the natural tone and cadence of his speaking voice, I can only imagine that when he does whine it is well-near unbearable. So I could forgive his wife and friends and family for caving to Eric's demands to move his date of birth further from Christmas, as apparently all the love and adoration and material wealth he gained from his birthday and Christmas being so close together was not enough to sate his desire for acceptance and monetary manifestations of love. After all, surely it is easier to fork over the dough for a bloated DVD set of fantasy-film goodness than to listen to Eric gripe about it for hours on end.
But as much as I understand, or pretend to understand, his loved ones' plight, I am on Eric's side in this matter. As far as the subject of birthdays is concerned, I have long been opposed to their clockwork tyranny. Once a year, every year, the date never changing; as if we are not men of independent thought and free will, but slaves to the machinations of the Gregorian calendar. Fie, I say, Pope Gregory XIII, and to you as well, Aloysius Lilius! You spent your time devising and decreeing a restrictive, oppressive calendar system while the Incident at Honno-Ji was occurring? Have you no shame?
But I digress. Eric's fight against the might of birth-celebration convention is a worthy one indeed. I can't claim to have the same feelings about birthdays as Eric does--he being of the liking variety, while I find them to be inconsequential and overrated exercises in self-affirmation--but I fully support him and his second birthday, even though I won't actually celebrate it or send him presents or, for that matter, even really think about him. Even though we are enemies, there is no reason for our differences to impede our march towards a better world, a world where we are not slaves to the actual date of our vaginal expulsion.
I realize that perhaps some of you found that previous sentence offensive, and for that I apologize. I did not in any way intend to demean or ignore those of you who were born via Cesarean, or via test-tube; just because you weren't ripped from your mother's womb through her cervix and labia, with placenta and birth fluid dripping off you like gravy, doesn't mean you are any less of a person, though I am rather surprised at your ability to read this.
That said, I applaud Eric and give him kudos; although I would much rather see the practice of celebrating birthdays abolished altogether, simply changing the dates arbitrarily and even adding second or third birthdays is a great leap forward in the quest to undermine and devalue this absurd tradition. For the moment, Eric, we are brothers-in-arms.
And the card I bought for you must have been lost in the mail. Probably eaten by dingos. Curse the wild beasts of the Willamette Valley!
I've never known Eric to be much of a whiner, but given the natural tone and cadence of his speaking voice, I can only imagine that when he does whine it is well-near unbearable. So I could forgive his wife and friends and family for caving to Eric's demands to move his date of birth further from Christmas, as apparently all the love and adoration and material wealth he gained from his birthday and Christmas being so close together was not enough to sate his desire for acceptance and monetary manifestations of love. After all, surely it is easier to fork over the dough for a bloated DVD set of fantasy-film goodness than to listen to Eric gripe about it for hours on end.
But as much as I understand, or pretend to understand, his loved ones' plight, I am on Eric's side in this matter. As far as the subject of birthdays is concerned, I have long been opposed to their clockwork tyranny. Once a year, every year, the date never changing; as if we are not men of independent thought and free will, but slaves to the machinations of the Gregorian calendar. Fie, I say, Pope Gregory XIII, and to you as well, Aloysius Lilius! You spent your time devising and decreeing a restrictive, oppressive calendar system while the Incident at Honno-Ji was occurring? Have you no shame?
But I digress. Eric's fight against the might of birth-celebration convention is a worthy one indeed. I can't claim to have the same feelings about birthdays as Eric does--he being of the liking variety, while I find them to be inconsequential and overrated exercises in self-affirmation--but I fully support him and his second birthday, even though I won't actually celebrate it or send him presents or, for that matter, even really think about him. Even though we are enemies, there is no reason for our differences to impede our march towards a better world, a world where we are not slaves to the actual date of our vaginal expulsion.
I realize that perhaps some of you found that previous sentence offensive, and for that I apologize. I did not in any way intend to demean or ignore those of you who were born via Cesarean, or via test-tube; just because you weren't ripped from your mother's womb through her cervix and labia, with placenta and birth fluid dripping off you like gravy, doesn't mean you are any less of a person, though I am rather surprised at your ability to read this.
That said, I applaud Eric and give him kudos; although I would much rather see the practice of celebrating birthdays abolished altogether, simply changing the dates arbitrarily and even adding second or third birthdays is a great leap forward in the quest to undermine and devalue this absurd tradition. For the moment, Eric, we are brothers-in-arms.
And the card I bought for you must have been lost in the mail. Probably eaten by dingos. Curse the wild beasts of the Willamette Valley!
In Which Eric Plays a Shitload of Tetris
So Eric played a bunch of fucking Tetris recently. He seems to think this is a really big deal. Meanwhile, a panda ate a whole bunch of fucking bamboo and some douchebag said a bunch of ignorant douchey things.
Also, Russia invaded Georgia...wait a minute....
Eric, are you controlling Russia's army with your Tetris!? You must stop! Or at the very least Allison you must improve because that means you're Georgia and all those deaths are on your hands! Your hands!
Actually, it turns out that Eric simply played a shitload of Tetris. Whooptee-goddamn-do.
Also, Russia invaded Georgia...wait a minute....
Eric, are you controlling Russia's army with your Tetris!? You must stop! Or at the very least Allison you must improve because that means you're Georgia and all those deaths are on your hands! Your hands!
Actually, it turns out that Eric simply played a shitload of Tetris. Whooptee-goddamn-do.
In Which Eric Sucks All the Joy Out of Everything
Do you love to play board games?
Neither do I. But Eric Walkingshaw does, and he has done for as long as I can remember. Back in those halcyon days, before he turned against his own race in support of the covert robot plot against us, Eric would often try and get his friends together for a bit of Risk, or maybe some Skip-Bo, or even try and lure us into his family's lair and spend the evening boring ourselves to tears with Settlers. So enthralled with tabletop gaming was Eric that he didn't even realize Skip-Bo was more of a card game than a board game, and when he finally did learn that distinction he plunged headfirst into that sordid, quadruple-suited world, wasting his teenage years sitting by campfires and playing pinochle and canasta and all manner of other games that sound like sexually transmitted viruses, often in the company of unsavory fellows like this one.
I will admit that I did engage in such chicanery from time to time, usually when the Risk train rolled into town and derailed my dreams of having everyone gather and discuss our favorite Tupperware products. But unlike dear Eric, I played to lose. The game itself was of little fun to me; the only enjoyment I got out of it was the backstabbing and frustration that boiled to the surface as friends and sometimes siblings took their dice rolls a tad too seriously. Also there was one time when someone started goose-stepping around the table. But Eric proved rather adept of this game of mostly chance, a fact he wasted much breath reminding us all about, gleefully celebrating his prowess with the kind of bravado and swagger normally reserved for American football players.
So I suppose I should have seen this board game post of his coming. All the signs were there from an early age that he'd get involved in some kind of maniacal boondoggle such as this. Also, there were his constant verbal affirmations that yes, he loved board games, and in fact liked to analyze them and figure out why he enjoyed them so much, and intended to write about them on his blog. And also the first post of said blog, where he mentions specifically that he'll probably write about board games at some point. Still, when I opened up my Microsoft-developed (and perfected, I might add) web browser (Go Microsoft!), and saw that long treatise explaining his pseudo-scientific process for evaluating his own enjoyment of board games, I was stunned. Eric Walkingshaw is many things, but one thing I did not take him for, despite his pro-robot leanings and disturbing sexual inclinations, was a soul-crushingly antiseptic stick-in-the-mud.
Although I hold many grudges and differences of opinion with Mr. Walkingshaw, I've never once denied that he is a man who enjoys things. From his glee at beating arch-nemesis Stallings the Elder at Risk or NBA Jam or Tip-21 or Goose-Hatchling-Smashing, to his enthusiastic love for the gastronomically-challenging eatery Izzy's, Eric's shit-eating grin is a common sight for his friends/wives/accused-but-never-officially-charged-stalkers. But as it turns out, behind that grin--a grin that could melt the face off the most innocent baby--is nothing but the turning gears and dull, mechanical musings of a killjoy.
Rather than just embrace board games--the games he loves, not I--for what they are (to him, as I hate them, you understand); rather than simply accept the magic and wonder that fills his heart as he claims a hexagonal piece of grassland or whatever the hell it is that he does; rather than give in to the moment and let his heart be captured by the character cards and the 16-sided die and the muted smell of Doritos and ginger ale; rather than do that, Eric has instead gone all scientific, ripping the heart out of the pastime he so adores and replacing it with analytic nonsense and introspective tomfoolery.
So Eric can talk about "compelling decisions" and weigh them against the importance of "creative play," can analyze and try to quantify the push-pull relationship that exists between the two concepts, and can aspire to devise a formula that will help create the "perfect" game according to his arbitrary standards. He is free to do so. But I wonder if perhaps the little boy that lives inside of him--that lives inside all of us, especially those of us who have mental handicaps, not that I'm saying that there's anything wrong with that or that I'm somehow unaccepting of such people--I wonder if that little boy is gasping for air, feebly wasting away as Eric's scientific endeavors draw the life from his frail little body, as his inquiries and computations stamp out the last remnants of imagination and wonder that linger in his soul. I've known for quite a long time now that Eric was losing his way--choosing computers over the arts, siding with robots over humans, refusing to admit that The Princess Bride is not nearly as good a movie as he protests it is--but I've never known, until now, how perilously close he was to abandoning the simple pleasures of ignorant, uneducated joy. Will he never again watch a butterfly float on the wind and giggle? Will he never again be surprised by an erection in the bath? Has he already forgotten the excitement of biting into a Mr. Sketch marker, believing it would taste exactly how it smelled?
If so, then the Eric Walkingshaw I once knew and somewhat tolerated is no more. If board games can do no more than elicit a curious, analytical response in him, then all hope is lost. It is only fortunate that when the day of reckoning finally comes, I will feel no remorse when I reprogram his robot bride to attack instead of seduce him, although in all honesty Eric could have made it a lot more difficult by not putting those two switches so near each other, and labeling them so clearly.
Neither do I. But Eric Walkingshaw does, and he has done for as long as I can remember. Back in those halcyon days, before he turned against his own race in support of the covert robot plot against us, Eric would often try and get his friends together for a bit of Risk, or maybe some Skip-Bo, or even try and lure us into his family's lair and spend the evening boring ourselves to tears with Settlers. So enthralled with tabletop gaming was Eric that he didn't even realize Skip-Bo was more of a card game than a board game, and when he finally did learn that distinction he plunged headfirst into that sordid, quadruple-suited world, wasting his teenage years sitting by campfires and playing pinochle and canasta and all manner of other games that sound like sexually transmitted viruses, often in the company of unsavory fellows like this one.
I will admit that I did engage in such chicanery from time to time, usually when the Risk train rolled into town and derailed my dreams of having everyone gather and discuss our favorite Tupperware products. But unlike dear Eric, I played to lose. The game itself was of little fun to me; the only enjoyment I got out of it was the backstabbing and frustration that boiled to the surface as friends and sometimes siblings took their dice rolls a tad too seriously. Also there was one time when someone started goose-stepping around the table. But Eric proved rather adept of this game of mostly chance, a fact he wasted much breath reminding us all about, gleefully celebrating his prowess with the kind of bravado and swagger normally reserved for American football players.
So I suppose I should have seen this board game post of his coming. All the signs were there from an early age that he'd get involved in some kind of maniacal boondoggle such as this. Also, there were his constant verbal affirmations that yes, he loved board games, and in fact liked to analyze them and figure out why he enjoyed them so much, and intended to write about them on his blog. And also the first post of said blog, where he mentions specifically that he'll probably write about board games at some point. Still, when I opened up my Microsoft-developed (and perfected, I might add) web browser (Go Microsoft!), and saw that long treatise explaining his pseudo-scientific process for evaluating his own enjoyment of board games, I was stunned. Eric Walkingshaw is many things, but one thing I did not take him for, despite his pro-robot leanings and disturbing sexual inclinations, was a soul-crushingly antiseptic stick-in-the-mud.
Although I hold many grudges and differences of opinion with Mr. Walkingshaw, I've never once denied that he is a man who enjoys things. From his glee at beating arch-nemesis Stallings the Elder at Risk or NBA Jam or Tip-21 or Goose-Hatchling-Smashing, to his enthusiastic love for the gastronomically-challenging eatery Izzy's, Eric's shit-eating grin is a common sight for his friends/wives/accused-but-never-officially-charged-stalkers. But as it turns out, behind that grin--a grin that could melt the face off the most innocent baby--is nothing but the turning gears and dull, mechanical musings of a killjoy.
Rather than just embrace board games--the games he loves, not I--for what they are (to him, as I hate them, you understand); rather than simply accept the magic and wonder that fills his heart as he claims a hexagonal piece of grassland or whatever the hell it is that he does; rather than give in to the moment and let his heart be captured by the character cards and the 16-sided die and the muted smell of Doritos and ginger ale; rather than do that, Eric has instead gone all scientific, ripping the heart out of the pastime he so adores and replacing it with analytic nonsense and introspective tomfoolery.
So Eric can talk about "compelling decisions" and weigh them against the importance of "creative play," can analyze and try to quantify the push-pull relationship that exists between the two concepts, and can aspire to devise a formula that will help create the "perfect" game according to his arbitrary standards. He is free to do so. But I wonder if perhaps the little boy that lives inside of him--that lives inside all of us, especially those of us who have mental handicaps, not that I'm saying that there's anything wrong with that or that I'm somehow unaccepting of such people--I wonder if that little boy is gasping for air, feebly wasting away as Eric's scientific endeavors draw the life from his frail little body, as his inquiries and computations stamp out the last remnants of imagination and wonder that linger in his soul. I've known for quite a long time now that Eric was losing his way--choosing computers over the arts, siding with robots over humans, refusing to admit that The Princess Bride is not nearly as good a movie as he protests it is--but I've never known, until now, how perilously close he was to abandoning the simple pleasures of ignorant, uneducated joy. Will he never again watch a butterfly float on the wind and giggle? Will he never again be surprised by an erection in the bath? Has he already forgotten the excitement of biting into a Mr. Sketch marker, believing it would taste exactly how it smelled?
If so, then the Eric Walkingshaw I once knew and somewhat tolerated is no more. If board games can do no more than elicit a curious, analytical response in him, then all hope is lost. It is only fortunate that when the day of reckoning finally comes, I will feel no remorse when I reprogram his robot bride to attack instead of seduce him, although in all honesty Eric could have made it a lot more difficult by not putting those two switches so near each other, and labeling them so clearly.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Top Five Favorite Active Baseball Players
1. Jose Vidro
2. Jarrod Washburn
3. David Eckstein
4. Ryan Franklin
5. Omar Vizquel
Just missing the cut were Derek Jeter and A.J. Pierynski, and maybe Jeff Kent. Anyway, it's clear that I like clubhouse leaders who are undervalued by "statheads." Chemistry is the most important ingredient of a winning ballclub, after all. Bonus points if they're really humble, like Franklin and Pierzynski.
This list is never subject to change, because all these guys are totally fucking awesome.
2. Jarrod Washburn
3. David Eckstein
4. Ryan Franklin
5. Omar Vizquel
Just missing the cut were Derek Jeter and A.J. Pierynski, and maybe Jeff Kent. Anyway, it's clear that I like clubhouse leaders who are undervalued by "statheads." Chemistry is the most important ingredient of a winning ballclub, after all. Bonus points if they're really humble, like Franklin and Pierzynski.
This list is never subject to change, because all these guys are totally fucking awesome.
Monday, July 28, 2008
In Which Eric Forces Me to Update My Links
So in his latest act of mind-boggling hubris, Eric Walkingshaw has updated his website, not with any real content, but with a change of address. The new location? http://eric.walkingshaw.net
Ooh, bravo, sir. Well-played indeed. If only, in addition to changing your web address suddenly and forcing everyone to update their links (bastard), you provided us with an unsolicited list of reasons for this abrupt decision! Oh, what's that? You did? Well, sir, let's take a look:
1) With every at-bat that Jose Vidro steals from Jeff Clement I fear that I am closer to soiling OSU's good name with an obscenity laced tirade on this blog, previously hosted on OSU machinery.
Hmm. A noble gesture, I suppose, until one realizes that the "good name" of OSU has already been sullied by the likes of alumni Randy Conrads, who founded Classmates.com (thanks a lot for allowing my high school to continue to pester and mock me!), former Bachelorette Meredith Phillips (thanks for contributing to the downfall of society!), and screenwriter Mike Rich, who penned masterpieces like Radio and The Nativity Story...although I will give him a pass for Finding Forrester, since it gave us this beautiful line (at 1:25). So as much as you'd like to think otherwise, Eric, a profanity-laced tirade about Jose Vidro? That might actually be a boon for your educational institution.
2) There are some cool Blogger features that I couldn't use with the previous set up.
Yes, because Lord knows the world has been waiting for you to unleash some of those cool Blogger features on us. Many a citizen the world over is waiting with bated breath for this glorious day to come! I ask you this, Eric Walkingshaw, in half-seriousness: is there a feature that destroys undercover robot agents with the press of a button? Because I for one would use the shit out of that feature.
3) My new URL is my name.
Ah, and there is the crux of the matter. Well, kudos for honesty, sir. Even if it does mean I have to update my links. Do you realize how many mouse clicks that took me? Several, sir, several. I hope you're happy.
Ooh, bravo, sir. Well-played indeed. If only, in addition to changing your web address suddenly and forcing everyone to update their links (bastard), you provided us with an unsolicited list of reasons for this abrupt decision! Oh, what's that? You did? Well, sir, let's take a look:
1) With every at-bat that Jose Vidro steals from Jeff Clement I fear that I am closer to soiling OSU's good name with an obscenity laced tirade on this blog, previously hosted on OSU machinery.
Hmm. A noble gesture, I suppose, until one realizes that the "good name" of OSU has already been sullied by the likes of alumni Randy Conrads, who founded Classmates.com (thanks a lot for allowing my high school to continue to pester and mock me!), former Bachelorette Meredith Phillips (thanks for contributing to the downfall of society!), and screenwriter Mike Rich, who penned masterpieces like Radio and The Nativity Story...although I will give him a pass for Finding Forrester, since it gave us this beautiful line (at 1:25). So as much as you'd like to think otherwise, Eric, a profanity-laced tirade about Jose Vidro? That might actually be a boon for your educational institution.
2) There are some cool Blogger features that I couldn't use with the previous set up.
Yes, because Lord knows the world has been waiting for you to unleash some of those cool Blogger features on us. Many a citizen the world over is waiting with bated breath for this glorious day to come! I ask you this, Eric Walkingshaw, in half-seriousness: is there a feature that destroys undercover robot agents with the press of a button? Because I for one would use the shit out of that feature.
3) My new URL is my name.
Ah, and there is the crux of the matter. Well, kudos for honesty, sir. Even if it does mean I have to update my links. Do you realize how many mouse clicks that took me? Several, sir, several. I hope you're happy.
In Which Eric Forces Me to Consult Wikipedia
It has been some time since I last posted, but since Eric Walkingshaw himself seems to have fallen by the wayside (dare I dream of the fall of mankind's most dastardly robot collaborator?), I only have the smallest amount of catching up to do. Alas, this first installment of delayed-reaction blogging has sunk me to a new low.
I have consulted Wikipedia.
Now, you might be thinking to yourself, "How exactly does this constitute a 'new low' for a man who once famously tried to wedge himself under a couch during a rather humiliating panic attack?" And you'd be right to think that, but you'd also be an asshole. So please stop bringing that incident up, won't you, asshole?
The reason for my foray into the unsubstantiated-fact-ridden-world of Wikipedia is Eric's post of Wednesday, July 23, entitled "The Ease of Metaprogramming with Echo." Now normally such a title would elicit a knee-jerk response of "Nerd!" followed by sneering and pointing and the threat of a swirly or some other toilet-related humiliation. Unfortunately, since Eric has decided to dash off to graduate school in the People's Socialist Republic of Oregon, he is not within swirly range, so I am forced to battle him with my words, which, as anyone who has happened to read this blog over the last month or so realizes, is a bit of a problem.
It's not that I lack the vocabulary to attack Eric: for example, "Eric's nose is so large and bulbous that it has been known to interfere with closing elevator doors." Also, "Eric Walkingshaw is a pooface." The problem doesn't lie in words, but, I am afraid, in context. While calling Eric a pooface is satisfying, it doesn't quite destroy his enthusiasm for "metaprogramming with echo," whatever the hell that means. And since I have long directed such childish taunts at Eric with seemingly little effect, despite the immense pleasure I derive from doing so I feel I must try something different, something more substantial, something more...informed.
And thus, Wikipedia. If this is where Eric gets his information, well then by Jove it's where I shall get mine too. He who lives by the scarily democratic and nerd-frequented online encyclopedia dies by the scarily democratic and nerd-frequented online encyclopedia. At least, that was the plan, anyway.
The reality is that I found this under the entry for "echo (framework):"
Echo is a web application framework that was created by the company NextApp. It originally started as a request-response web application framework that leveraged the Swing object model to improve the speed of application development. Through the use of the swing model, Echo was able to employ concepts such as components and event-driven programming that removed much of the pain of web application development.
I wasn't sure if this was the "echo" I was looking for. So I tried "echo (command)," and found this:
In computing,
This seemed more likely, especially since the "usage example" looked fairly similar to Eric's example in his post (i.e. it was a bunch of nonsensical gobbledygook). So it seemed I had figured out what "echo" was, but the only problem was I still had no idea what the fuck it was. Slightly dazed by this unfortunate paradox, I decided to try my luck with "metaprogramming." The result:
Metaprogramming is the writing of computer programs that write or manipulate other programs (or themselves) as their data, or that do part of the work at compile time that is otherwise done at run time. In many cases, this allows programmers to get more done in the same amount of time as they would take to write all the code manually.
Okay, okay, some arcane terms in there, but I think I get the gist. The gist...well, I think the gist is...see, metaprogramming is like a program, right, but it writes other programs, and you can use this echo thingy to do it for you kind of, except what practical usage could there be, but there must be, right, because otherwise why would...no, wait, metaprogramming allows you to program things without programming...everything? Hmm...
You know what? Forget knowledge and context. Forget a reasoned, intelligent, informed cut-down. Eric? This is you.
I have consulted Wikipedia.
Now, you might be thinking to yourself, "How exactly does this constitute a 'new low' for a man who once famously tried to wedge himself under a couch during a rather humiliating panic attack?" And you'd be right to think that, but you'd also be an asshole. So please stop bringing that incident up, won't you, asshole?
The reason for my foray into the unsubstantiated-fact-ridden-world of Wikipedia is Eric's post of Wednesday, July 23, entitled "The Ease of Metaprogramming with Echo." Now normally such a title would elicit a knee-jerk response of "Nerd!" followed by sneering and pointing and the threat of a swirly or some other toilet-related humiliation. Unfortunately, since Eric has decided to dash off to graduate school in the People's Socialist Republic of Oregon, he is not within swirly range, so I am forced to battle him with my words, which, as anyone who has happened to read this blog over the last month or so realizes, is a bit of a problem.
It's not that I lack the vocabulary to attack Eric: for example, "Eric's nose is so large and bulbous that it has been known to interfere with closing elevator doors." Also, "Eric Walkingshaw is a pooface." The problem doesn't lie in words, but, I am afraid, in context. While calling Eric a pooface is satisfying, it doesn't quite destroy his enthusiasm for "metaprogramming with echo," whatever the hell that means. And since I have long directed such childish taunts at Eric with seemingly little effect, despite the immense pleasure I derive from doing so I feel I must try something different, something more substantial, something more...informed.
And thus, Wikipedia. If this is where Eric gets his information, well then by Jove it's where I shall get mine too. He who lives by the scarily democratic and nerd-frequented online encyclopedia dies by the scarily democratic and nerd-frequented online encyclopedia. At least, that was the plan, anyway.
The reality is that I found this under the entry for "echo (framework):"
Echo is a web application framework that was created by the company NextApp. It originally started as a request-response web application framework that leveraged the Swing object model to improve the speed of application development. Through the use of the swing model, Echo was able to employ concepts such as components and event-driven programming that removed much of the pain of web application development.
I wasn't sure if this was the "echo" I was looking for. So I tried "echo (command)," and found this:
In computing,
echo is a command in DOS, OS/2, Microsoft Windows, Unix and Unix-like operating systems that places a string on the terminal. It is typically used in shell scripts and batch programs to output status text to the screen or a file.This seemed more likely, especially since the "usage example" looked fairly similar to Eric's example in his post (i.e. it was a bunch of nonsensical gobbledygook). So it seemed I had figured out what "echo" was, but the only problem was I still had no idea what the fuck it was. Slightly dazed by this unfortunate paradox, I decided to try my luck with "metaprogramming." The result:
Metaprogramming is the writing of computer programs that write or manipulate other programs (or themselves) as their data, or that do part of the work at compile time that is otherwise done at run time. In many cases, this allows programmers to get more done in the same amount of time as they would take to write all the code manually.
Okay, okay, some arcane terms in there, but I think I get the gist. The gist...well, I think the gist is...see, metaprogramming is like a program, right, but it writes other programs, and you can use this echo thingy to do it for you kind of, except what practical usage could there be, but there must be, right, because otherwise why would...no, wait, metaprogramming allows you to program things without programming...everything? Hmm...
You know what? Forget knowledge and context. Forget a reasoned, intelligent, informed cut-down. Eric? This is you.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
In Which Eric Goes Name-Dropping
Well well, it appears Eric Walkingshaw is no mere anonymous graduate student with an unhealthy association with numbers. In fact, Eric has a little bit of that wonderful currency, so rare and special in these modern times: close ties to a person of small fame.
Consider me awed, Mr. Walkingshaw! Here I was thinking you, like me, were a nobody, a person of unremarkable breeding and background cursed with a relatively advanced intelligence but no better for it. To toil in obscurity, your gifts going unrecognized--that was the lot for you and I. But no more! At least, in your case, anyway, what with your fancy baseball connections and all.
So it turns out Eric was childhood friends with a current minor-league baseball player. So it turns out Eric and his friends once beat this professional athlete and his friends at a game of pickup football. So it turns out that Eric, despite his current profession, closet full of board games, love for robots, and blog-happy ways, can count himself as one with the alpha males.
Well, well done, sir. I congratulate you on your promotion to the top of the pack. As I, with my brittle bones and lack of physical stamina, with my fingertips dancing delicately over the keys on my laptop, sit in this quiet room and dream not the pipe dream of athletic accomplishment, you can sit back in your Barca-lounger or La-Z-Boy or whatever comfy relaxation apparatus you might have handy and wistfully remember those bygone days, when you ran with the big boys and could beat them at their own game.
Don't think I don't know what this is all about, Walkingshaw: it's more gloating for you, a look-who-I-know-that-scummy-little-douchebag-Patrick doesn't. I see where this is all going. First it's this Minaker fellow (who, admittedly, seems like a genuinely good dude, what with his academic accomplishments and 10-point smile), next it's some Oregon native who goes on to play pro football, and then years down the line when you're rolling in your mountain of robot-love-doll-business cash, you'll casually drop me a line to remind me you're having a dinner that evening with several heads of state and the starting left back for the Parramatta Power. Fair enough. You win. That's right, you win. You are an athlete in a computer scientist's body; but with your social skills and your sheer physical determination, you will cast off the chains of intellect and mingle with only the coolest and most robust of our sex; meanwhile I will remain the faceless bag of bones that I am, whiling away the late-night hours giving serious contemplation to those phone sex ads on cable TV.
And as if that were not enough, you add salt to the wound by revealing your close kinship with Mr. Andy Stallings, a fellow man of letters whose poetic prowess is much admired by yours truly; surely he and I could be great friends indeed, uniting our pens in rebuttal to your gauche muscledom. But no! He sends baseball tidbits your way, keeping you up-to-date on all the latest in obscure record-assaulting, while ignoring me and my obscenity-laced treatises against all things Walkingshawian. He forsakes the art of the online hate blog and instead caves to your charisma and charm, no doubt aided by some kind of high-frequency signal radiating from your satellite-dish-nostrils to dull his senses and make him easier to manipulate.
Very well, Eric. Have it your way. Enjoy your status as an honorary "jock," and join in when your cohorts laugh down their noses at I and my fellow social outcasts. But don't be alarmed if you see me smiling, ever so slightly, from the corner of my little, seldom-kissed mouth; for I, too, have tricks up my sleeve. I, too, have connections--not minor-league doubles-hitting connections, but connections nonetheless, connections that may very well some day end up producing a piece of mass media that fictionalizes the rise and oh-so-glorious fall of a large-nosed, computer-literate robot fetishist, whose own hubris and predilection for all things chromatic leads him to end his life amidst the rabble of civilization, in dark alley outside let's say a baseball stadium, where his former buddies have forgotten all about him as they raise their trophies and trophy wives in celebration of some kind of ball-game victory.
Perhaps that character sounds familiar, hmm? And perhaps when this let's say Hollywood blockbuster multi-Oscar-winning film is released, you'll see a name at the bottom of the poster that rings a distant bell, that brings to mind a suburban high school and a red goatee and watching Adult Swim in someone's basement. And then you'll know whose bony hand has been working behind the scenes, whose soft, uncalloused fingers have been pulling the strings, and whose nasal voice will be breaking into a laugh as the plaudits roll in.
And if all of this isn't clear enough, let me put it another way:
My good friend Brad once worked with Justin Motherfucking Timberlake! Who's the alpha male now, bitch!?
It's me, by the way.
Consider me awed, Mr. Walkingshaw! Here I was thinking you, like me, were a nobody, a person of unremarkable breeding and background cursed with a relatively advanced intelligence but no better for it. To toil in obscurity, your gifts going unrecognized--that was the lot for you and I. But no more! At least, in your case, anyway, what with your fancy baseball connections and all.
So it turns out Eric was childhood friends with a current minor-league baseball player. So it turns out Eric and his friends once beat this professional athlete and his friends at a game of pickup football. So it turns out that Eric, despite his current profession, closet full of board games, love for robots, and blog-happy ways, can count himself as one with the alpha males.
Well, well done, sir. I congratulate you on your promotion to the top of the pack. As I, with my brittle bones and lack of physical stamina, with my fingertips dancing delicately over the keys on my laptop, sit in this quiet room and dream not the pipe dream of athletic accomplishment, you can sit back in your Barca-lounger or La-Z-Boy or whatever comfy relaxation apparatus you might have handy and wistfully remember those bygone days, when you ran with the big boys and could beat them at their own game.
Don't think I don't know what this is all about, Walkingshaw: it's more gloating for you, a look-who-I-know-that-scummy-little-douchebag-Patrick doesn't. I see where this is all going. First it's this Minaker fellow (who, admittedly, seems like a genuinely good dude, what with his academic accomplishments and 10-point smile), next it's some Oregon native who goes on to play pro football, and then years down the line when you're rolling in your mountain of robot-love-doll-business cash, you'll casually drop me a line to remind me you're having a dinner that evening with several heads of state and the starting left back for the Parramatta Power. Fair enough. You win. That's right, you win. You are an athlete in a computer scientist's body; but with your social skills and your sheer physical determination, you will cast off the chains of intellect and mingle with only the coolest and most robust of our sex; meanwhile I will remain the faceless bag of bones that I am, whiling away the late-night hours giving serious contemplation to those phone sex ads on cable TV.
And as if that were not enough, you add salt to the wound by revealing your close kinship with Mr. Andy Stallings, a fellow man of letters whose poetic prowess is much admired by yours truly; surely he and I could be great friends indeed, uniting our pens in rebuttal to your gauche muscledom. But no! He sends baseball tidbits your way, keeping you up-to-date on all the latest in obscure record-assaulting, while ignoring me and my obscenity-laced treatises against all things Walkingshawian. He forsakes the art of the online hate blog and instead caves to your charisma and charm, no doubt aided by some kind of high-frequency signal radiating from your satellite-dish-nostrils to dull his senses and make him easier to manipulate.
Very well, Eric. Have it your way. Enjoy your status as an honorary "jock," and join in when your cohorts laugh down their noses at I and my fellow social outcasts. But don't be alarmed if you see me smiling, ever so slightly, from the corner of my little, seldom-kissed mouth; for I, too, have tricks up my sleeve. I, too, have connections--not minor-league doubles-hitting connections, but connections nonetheless, connections that may very well some day end up producing a piece of mass media that fictionalizes the rise and oh-so-glorious fall of a large-nosed, computer-literate robot fetishist, whose own hubris and predilection for all things chromatic leads him to end his life amidst the rabble of civilization, in dark alley outside let's say a baseball stadium, where his former buddies have forgotten all about him as they raise their trophies and trophy wives in celebration of some kind of ball-game victory.
Perhaps that character sounds familiar, hmm? And perhaps when this let's say Hollywood blockbuster multi-Oscar-winning film is released, you'll see a name at the bottom of the poster that rings a distant bell, that brings to mind a suburban high school and a red goatee and watching Adult Swim in someone's basement. And then you'll know whose bony hand has been working behind the scenes, whose soft, uncalloused fingers have been pulling the strings, and whose nasal voice will be breaking into a laugh as the plaudits roll in.
And if all of this isn't clear enough, let me put it another way:
My good friend Brad once worked with Justin Motherfucking Timberlake! Who's the alpha male now, bitch!?
It's me, by the way.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
In Which Eric Uses Math to Zzzzzzzz
Huh? Whuzzat? Hmm?
Oh, sorry, I must have drifted off there. Judging by the amount of drool that has congealed on my laptop, I've been out for a good hour or so. Boy. I wonder what prompted me to crash so quickly?
Oh, yes. Eric's walking post. Man, did that ever bore the socks off me. I mean, walking, right? How exciting can that possibly be? Just mentioning Eric's daily walk makes me very slnfjuwebfhkwjerbfk.
Oh, jeez, sorry. I passed out again. Man, that's some powerful stuff, that Eric's walking post. Even with the colorful (by CGA standards) graphs, and the fancy GoogleMaps link, I still find it hard to keep my eyelids open. And the math! Oh, the math! I tells ya, if this is the kind of excitement I missed out on by never taking a math class in college, then boy howdy do I regret it!
That, by the way, was sarcasm. I can understand if your senses were so dulled by Eric's walking post that it's hard to discern sincerity from irony at the moment. I know for me it's becoming harder to discern pleasure from pain...no, wait a minute...I remember...it's coming back to me...yes! "Pleasure" is a world where Eric's walking post does not exist. "Pain" is the opposite of that.
Still, as my therapist says, "Try to think positive, you miserable little worm!" And so I shall. There has to be a silver lining in all of this, and I think I know what it is: Eric's daily route to school. With this information, I can now plan an assault on him when he least expects it! I'll simply wait for him as he takes a diagonal route across one of those...sleepy...reszidennnnshullllllllllllll...
Huh? Oh, cripes, I fell asleep again. This shield of tedium is impenetrable indeed! How can I ever formulate a successful attack plan if I keep falling asleep at the proverbial wheel? Damn you, Eric Walkingshaw! Damn you and your confounded banality!
And by the way, I did try telling that guy that those aren't significant savings. And do you know what he said?
"Do you mind!? I'm trying to eat a big-ass hamburger over here!"
He may not look it, but he's a reasonable man. And one thing's for sure: he'll never bore you with a walking story. I mean, honestly, look at him! The man travels by forklift, for Christ's sake!
Oh, sorry, I must have drifted off there. Judging by the amount of drool that has congealed on my laptop, I've been out for a good hour or so. Boy. I wonder what prompted me to crash so quickly?
Oh, yes. Eric's walking post. Man, did that ever bore the socks off me. I mean, walking, right? How exciting can that possibly be? Just mentioning Eric's daily walk makes me very slnfjuwebfhkwjerbfk.
Oh, jeez, sorry. I passed out again. Man, that's some powerful stuff, that Eric's walking post. Even with the colorful (by CGA standards) graphs, and the fancy GoogleMaps link, I still find it hard to keep my eyelids open. And the math! Oh, the math! I tells ya, if this is the kind of excitement I missed out on by never taking a math class in college, then boy howdy do I regret it!
That, by the way, was sarcasm. I can understand if your senses were so dulled by Eric's walking post that it's hard to discern sincerity from irony at the moment. I know for me it's becoming harder to discern pleasure from pain...no, wait a minute...I remember...it's coming back to me...yes! "Pleasure" is a world where Eric's walking post does not exist. "Pain" is the opposite of that.
Still, as my therapist says, "Try to think positive, you miserable little worm!" And so I shall. There has to be a silver lining in all of this, and I think I know what it is: Eric's daily route to school. With this information, I can now plan an assault on him when he least expects it! I'll simply wait for him as he takes a diagonal route across one of those...sleepy...reszidennnnshullllllllllllll...
Huh? Oh, cripes, I fell asleep again. This shield of tedium is impenetrable indeed! How can I ever formulate a successful attack plan if I keep falling asleep at the proverbial wheel? Damn you, Eric Walkingshaw! Damn you and your confounded banality!
And by the way, I did try telling that guy that those aren't significant savings. And do you know what he said?
"Do you mind!? I'm trying to eat a big-ass hamburger over here!"
He may not look it, but he's a reasonable man. And one thing's for sure: he'll never bore you with a walking story. I mean, honestly, look at him! The man travels by forklift, for Christ's sake!
In Which Eric Tries to Pull a Fast One On the Scientific Community
New dinosaur indeed!
Attention, scientific community! Are you really prepared to allow this sort of fabrication and self-serving exaggeration into your ranks? Have you no respect for yourselves and your profession? Have you learned nothing from Piltdown Man, the Tasaday Tribe, or the Bat Child? And since when is Eric Walkingshaw's personal blog the appropriate forum for announcing amazing new discoveries? Has Scientific American fallen so low in the public's esteem?
The very idea that there was once a book-shaped dinosaur, who apparently wore Ray-Bans as early as the Late Jurassic Period (before everyone started wearing them, as the hipstersaurs might say), is quite frankly ludicrous. Everyone knows that there was no such thing, as evidenced by the simple unanswerable question, "If there were dinosaurs shaped like books, then why didn't the dinosaurs learn to read?" The logic there, I'm sure you can tell, is infallible.
I have been to the Badlands, and I can assure you: nowhere in that desolate, incomprehensibly protected wasteland is there any shred of evidence of such a creature ever existing. The few paleontological sites I was allowed to visit/trespass on were inundated with tiny bone fragments, smarmy graduate students, and lots and lots of goddamned rocks, but nothing that looked even remotely like the fossilized remains of a giant, book-shaped dinosaur. As the scientists present shouted at me to remove my ass from the premises post-haste, at no time did they say anything about their amzaing new discovery, which one would assume they would, given that they spend so much time with their noses in the dirt with often nothing to show for it aside from a dirty nose, back pain, and the demoralizing knowledge that there are thousands upon thousands of less-qualified, less-intelligent college undergrads having way more sex than they are. And as the local sheriff's office whisked me away in one of their fine vehicles, giving me a lovely from-behind-caged-windows tour of the entire park, not once did I hear about the overwhelming media presence, or even a complaint about those pesky scientists getting all rowdy in celebration over their book-shaped-dinosaur discovery.
Quite frankly, scientific community, I am disappointed in you. I expect better! Why do you insist on faking new dinosaurs when your time is much better spent on more important discoveries? And that reminds me, if I take more than the recommended dose, does that mean it'll explode? Because I do not want that.
And while I'm on the soapbox: South Dakota, the hospitality of your prison cells is less than satisfactory!
Attention, scientific community! Are you really prepared to allow this sort of fabrication and self-serving exaggeration into your ranks? Have you no respect for yourselves and your profession? Have you learned nothing from Piltdown Man, the Tasaday Tribe, or the Bat Child? And since when is Eric Walkingshaw's personal blog the appropriate forum for announcing amazing new discoveries? Has Scientific American fallen so low in the public's esteem?
The very idea that there was once a book-shaped dinosaur, who apparently wore Ray-Bans as early as the Late Jurassic Period (before everyone started wearing them, as the hipstersaurs might say), is quite frankly ludicrous. Everyone knows that there was no such thing, as evidenced by the simple unanswerable question, "If there were dinosaurs shaped like books, then why didn't the dinosaurs learn to read?" The logic there, I'm sure you can tell, is infallible.
I have been to the Badlands, and I can assure you: nowhere in that desolate, incomprehensibly protected wasteland is there any shred of evidence of such a creature ever existing. The few paleontological sites I was allowed to visit/trespass on were inundated with tiny bone fragments, smarmy graduate students, and lots and lots of goddamned rocks, but nothing that looked even remotely like the fossilized remains of a giant, book-shaped dinosaur. As the scientists present shouted at me to remove my ass from the premises post-haste, at no time did they say anything about their amzaing new discovery, which one would assume they would, given that they spend so much time with their noses in the dirt with often nothing to show for it aside from a dirty nose, back pain, and the demoralizing knowledge that there are thousands upon thousands of less-qualified, less-intelligent college undergrads having way more sex than they are. And as the local sheriff's office whisked me away in one of their fine vehicles, giving me a lovely from-behind-caged-windows tour of the entire park, not once did I hear about the overwhelming media presence, or even a complaint about those pesky scientists getting all rowdy in celebration over their book-shaped-dinosaur discovery.
Quite frankly, scientific community, I am disappointed in you. I expect better! Why do you insist on faking new dinosaurs when your time is much better spent on more important discoveries? And that reminds me, if I take more than the recommended dose, does that mean it'll explode? Because I do not want that.
And while I'm on the soapbox: South Dakota, the hospitality of your prison cells is less than satisfactory!
In Which Eric Continues to Insist on Not Dying
I suppose it was inevitable that Eric, being the master tormenter that he is, would return once again to the subject of fencing, specifically the part that doesn't result in his own gruesome death. About a week or so ago he informed the world of his brilliant and unbelievably romantic idea to celebrate his first wedding anniversary by engaging in a duel of swords with his betrothed. Whereas most new grooms would be content on going out to a fine restaurant, writing a beautiful lyrical poem, or simply treating his wife with the grace and devotion that they deserve, Eric instead opted for the less-popular option of putting on claustrophobic fencing gear and slashing at each other for a half-hour or so. I suppose this is the sort of social behavior one picks up from the farmlands of Western Oregon. Is it any wonder that the state allows medically-assisted suicides and once elected a nefarious toe-sucker to the U.S. Senate?
Anyhow, the great First Anniversary Fake Murder Extravaganza apparently went off without a hitch, as Eric dutifully (and long-windedly) reported on the action yesterday. I must admit I found it hard to read, not only because of the prevalence of opaque fencing terms, but also because I knew that at no point in the story, no matter what the result, would Eric die an ignoble death. The whole thing was just a big tease.
Still, there is value to a close examination of Eric's blow-by-blow account; it gives us, the future fighters for human freedom, some insight into Eric's battlefield thought process. Are there weaknesses we can exploit? Are there tendencies we should be aware of? Does the comical size of his nose in any way affect his mobility? Is it a weak spot, like Achilles' heel or King Hippo's bizarrely-taped belly button? Let's see what answers lie within:
The anniversary duel turned out to be as epic as the billing promised. As reigning first session champion, Allison got to select the terms of the fight: 7:00pm, first to 15 (win by 2), on the strip, under the covered basketball court outside Lincoln Elementary School (the premier fencing domain in Corvallis).
Two things: One, Corvallis clearly is lacking in quality fencing domains. What, did they shoot for ball first? Was the match make-it-take-it after two stabs? Second, if the duel was indeed as epic as the billing promised, one of those two (preferably Eric) would be dead. I call bullshit!
Eric then gives us an unsolicited glossary of fencing terms, clearly believing that there are people in this world currently uninvolved with fencing who are chomping at the bit to learn more. Excuse me, Mr. Walkingshaw, but some of us have better things to do than feed our minds with knowledge. For example, feeding our stomachs with shitty junk food.
In his prelude, Eric offers us this observation:
Going into the match I was planning on being much more aggressive than usual. My lunge and reach are longer than Allison's and when we free fenced the week before, I noticed that she was caught off guard a bit by my aggressiveness.
I plan on taking this quote out of context, adding a few strategic ellipses, and then using it as a means to portray Eric as a perpetrator of domestic abuse. To wit: "...I was planning on being much more aggressive than usual. My lunge and reach are longer than Allison's...I noticed that she was caught off guard a bit by my aggressiveness..." Stay tuned; later on I will add words that appear innocently in the rest of his report and my slander shall be complete. The pen, as they say, is mightier than the sword, especially when the sword is a rubber-tipped fencing toy and the pen has been dipped in poison and also shoots lasers.
For now, however, let battle commence:
I could tell that Allison was caught a bit off guard by my aggressiveness so I only pressed harder, extending the lead to 6-3. I think all of Allison's points up to this points were off ripostes, as she wasn't being very aggressive and I wasn't giving her any time to think about attacking. At this point I thought I was going to run away with it, as I had both a pretty good lead and a lot of momentum. I thought about toning it back a bit to avoid any hurt feelings, but Allison quickly forced me to reconsider. Deciding that the best way to combat aggressiveness was with aggressiveness, she started attacking like crazy.
For all of Eric's adoration of robots, and the cold, unblinking rationalism that is inherent in their being, Eric himself is and has always been an unreasonable, unpredictable human being, just like the rest of us canned-cheeseburger-eating, toe-sucking, Battlefield-Baseball-enjoying schlubs. It is with no small amount of pleasure that I discover Eric's lead evaporated at the same time that he considered relenting in his non-stop assault on his wife. It will probably do nothing to raise the esteem of humanity in his eyes, but at the same time Eric was getting beat by a girl, so it's well worth it. Also, the idea of Allison attacking Eric like crazy is the sort of thing he'll have to get used to, as she is the key to saving the world from his menace.
But I'm getting off-track here. Allow me to skip ahead a little bit, and dispense with a few snarky comments:
Our blades got bound up multiple times, I lost a tip (the little plastic thingy on the end of the sword), and things were basically just messy.
Oh, the "tip" is the thing on the end of the sword? The "tip" of the sword, if you will? Thank you for clearing that up for us, Eric, and thank you as well for assuming our IQ to be in the single digits.
...my sword was flat against her side, I went into a sort of sawing motion and managed to catch her with my tip before she got in a riposte. It was ugly.
We are talking about fencing here, right? You know, there is a place on the Internet for this sort of lewd writing. It's called...well, the Internet, actually. Carry on.
I saw an opening and went for the fleche. Bad move. Allison avoided it easily and stabbed me on my way by to even things up. She said after the duel that I've never scored against her on a fleche, and looking back, I think she's right.
Aha! Note to future self: goad Eric into attacking his wife with something called a "fleche." Wife will stab Eric. Eric will perish. Humanity survives. Also, be sure to grab something at the drug store for your flatulence problem. Also also, try to refrain from revealing embarrassing personal details about yourself in notes to yourself.
So it's all tied up and our instructor is desperately trying to get us to tone things down a bit and recapture our form.
Wait...there's an instructor present during all of this? Is this the kind of education we taxpayers are shelling out for? Bloody students! We've got wars to fight and mortgage companies to bail out!
Allison lunges as I coupé, a bold move and a really nice, clean point into my preparation.
I can only assume/hope that "preparation" is a fancy fencing euphemism for "balls."
Finally, there was a lot of frantic action that ended with us both standing there stabbing each other...
What a lovely anniversary! You know, you think you've seen true love in your life, you think you know all there is about what makes a happy couple, and then lo and behold the Walkingshaws show up and take everything you know and throw it all right out the window. For nothing screams romance like the frantic jabbing of one another with fencing swords. I can only hope that one day I, too, will get to experience such deep and meaningful love!
I think we may have an anniversary tradition on our hands.
Oh, great. So that means we get to hear about it all again next year, and for years to come. Whoopee.
So all in all, not too much valuable information to glean here. Allison was nearly a match for Eric and has sworn vengeance, which we know she will achieve when humanity needs it most. Eric is a weak fleche-er, if that is the correct term. Apparently Eric's enhanced nose-size is not necessarily a weakness, although it is funny-looking indeed. Despite all that detail and all those words--those interminable words!--we are left with little to aid us in our fight against this machine-loving villain.
But on the plus side, I have been able to complete my slander. Et voila!
"...I was planning on being much more aggressive than usual. My lunge and reach are longer than Allison's...I noticed that she was caught off guard a bit by my aggressiveness...I bound her up...There was a lot of frantic...stabbing...and Allison vowed vengeance."
What a lout thou art, Monsieur Walkingshaw! Thou deservest the gallows for thine callous treatment of thine lady!
At least, that's how I imagine your fellow fencing dweebs would say it. What a bunch of wusses.
Anyhow, the great First Anniversary Fake Murder Extravaganza apparently went off without a hitch, as Eric dutifully (and long-windedly) reported on the action yesterday. I must admit I found it hard to read, not only because of the prevalence of opaque fencing terms, but also because I knew that at no point in the story, no matter what the result, would Eric die an ignoble death. The whole thing was just a big tease.
Still, there is value to a close examination of Eric's blow-by-blow account; it gives us, the future fighters for human freedom, some insight into Eric's battlefield thought process. Are there weaknesses we can exploit? Are there tendencies we should be aware of? Does the comical size of his nose in any way affect his mobility? Is it a weak spot, like Achilles' heel or King Hippo's bizarrely-taped belly button? Let's see what answers lie within:
The anniversary duel turned out to be as epic as the billing promised. As reigning first session champion, Allison got to select the terms of the fight: 7:00pm, first to 15 (win by 2), on the strip, under the covered basketball court outside Lincoln Elementary School (the premier fencing domain in Corvallis).
Two things: One, Corvallis clearly is lacking in quality fencing domains. What, did they shoot for ball first? Was the match make-it-take-it after two stabs? Second, if the duel was indeed as epic as the billing promised, one of those two (preferably Eric) would be dead. I call bullshit!
Eric then gives us an unsolicited glossary of fencing terms, clearly believing that there are people in this world currently uninvolved with fencing who are chomping at the bit to learn more. Excuse me, Mr. Walkingshaw, but some of us have better things to do than feed our minds with knowledge. For example, feeding our stomachs with shitty junk food.
In his prelude, Eric offers us this observation:
Going into the match I was planning on being much more aggressive than usual. My lunge and reach are longer than Allison's and when we free fenced the week before, I noticed that she was caught off guard a bit by my aggressiveness.
I plan on taking this quote out of context, adding a few strategic ellipses, and then using it as a means to portray Eric as a perpetrator of domestic abuse. To wit: "...I was planning on being much more aggressive than usual. My lunge and reach are longer than Allison's...I noticed that she was caught off guard a bit by my aggressiveness..." Stay tuned; later on I will add words that appear innocently in the rest of his report and my slander shall be complete. The pen, as they say, is mightier than the sword, especially when the sword is a rubber-tipped fencing toy and the pen has been dipped in poison and also shoots lasers.
For now, however, let battle commence:
I could tell that Allison was caught a bit off guard by my aggressiveness so I only pressed harder, extending the lead to 6-3. I think all of Allison's points up to this points were off ripostes, as she wasn't being very aggressive and I wasn't giving her any time to think about attacking. At this point I thought I was going to run away with it, as I had both a pretty good lead and a lot of momentum. I thought about toning it back a bit to avoid any hurt feelings, but Allison quickly forced me to reconsider. Deciding that the best way to combat aggressiveness was with aggressiveness, she started attacking like crazy.
For all of Eric's adoration of robots, and the cold, unblinking rationalism that is inherent in their being, Eric himself is and has always been an unreasonable, unpredictable human being, just like the rest of us canned-cheeseburger-eating, toe-sucking, Battlefield-Baseball-enjoying schlubs. It is with no small amount of pleasure that I discover Eric's lead evaporated at the same time that he considered relenting in his non-stop assault on his wife. It will probably do nothing to raise the esteem of humanity in his eyes, but at the same time Eric was getting beat by a girl, so it's well worth it. Also, the idea of Allison attacking Eric like crazy is the sort of thing he'll have to get used to, as she is the key to saving the world from his menace.
But I'm getting off-track here. Allow me to skip ahead a little bit, and dispense with a few snarky comments:
Our blades got bound up multiple times, I lost a tip (the little plastic thingy on the end of the sword), and things were basically just messy.
Oh, the "tip" is the thing on the end of the sword? The "tip" of the sword, if you will? Thank you for clearing that up for us, Eric, and thank you as well for assuming our IQ to be in the single digits.
...my sword was flat against her side, I went into a sort of sawing motion and managed to catch her with my tip before she got in a riposte. It was ugly.
We are talking about fencing here, right? You know, there is a place on the Internet for this sort of lewd writing. It's called...well, the Internet, actually. Carry on.
I saw an opening and went for the fleche. Bad move. Allison avoided it easily and stabbed me on my way by to even things up. She said after the duel that I've never scored against her on a fleche, and looking back, I think she's right.
Aha! Note to future self: goad Eric into attacking his wife with something called a "fleche." Wife will stab Eric. Eric will perish. Humanity survives. Also, be sure to grab something at the drug store for your flatulence problem. Also also, try to refrain from revealing embarrassing personal details about yourself in notes to yourself.
So it's all tied up and our instructor is desperately trying to get us to tone things down a bit and recapture our form.
Wait...there's an instructor present during all of this? Is this the kind of education we taxpayers are shelling out for? Bloody students! We've got wars to fight and mortgage companies to bail out!
Allison lunges as I coupé, a bold move and a really nice, clean point into my preparation.
I can only assume/hope that "preparation" is a fancy fencing euphemism for "balls."
Finally, there was a lot of frantic action that ended with us both standing there stabbing each other...
What a lovely anniversary! You know, you think you've seen true love in your life, you think you know all there is about what makes a happy couple, and then lo and behold the Walkingshaws show up and take everything you know and throw it all right out the window. For nothing screams romance like the frantic jabbing of one another with fencing swords. I can only hope that one day I, too, will get to experience such deep and meaningful love!
I think we may have an anniversary tradition on our hands.
Oh, great. So that means we get to hear about it all again next year, and for years to come. Whoopee.
So all in all, not too much valuable information to glean here. Allison was nearly a match for Eric and has sworn vengeance, which we know she will achieve when humanity needs it most. Eric is a weak fleche-er, if that is the correct term. Apparently Eric's enhanced nose-size is not necessarily a weakness, although it is funny-looking indeed. Despite all that detail and all those words--those interminable words!--we are left with little to aid us in our fight against this machine-loving villain.
But on the plus side, I have been able to complete my slander. Et voila!
"...I was planning on being much more aggressive than usual. My lunge and reach are longer than Allison's...I noticed that she was caught off guard a bit by my aggressiveness...I bound her up...There was a lot of frantic...stabbing...and Allison vowed vengeance."
What a lout thou art, Monsieur Walkingshaw! Thou deservest the gallows for thine callous treatment of thine lady!
At least, that's how I imagine your fellow fencing dweebs would say it. What a bunch of wusses.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
In Which Eric Feebly Attempts to Embrace Failure
I had to take a brief sabbatical following my near-mental-breakdown after responding to Eric's last post, but I am well refreshed now and ready once again to attempt to tear Mr. Walkingshaw a new butthole, although this time, due to court order, I must do so from a distance and with words instead of in person and with a butter knife (note to self: next time, bring Ginsu!).
In today's post, Eric addresses his second great love, baseball (his first love, of course, being the robotic re-creation of Wayne's World-era Tia Carrerre). Specifically, he addresses those local Sultans of Suck, the Mariners, and their recently released giant first baseman, Richie Sexson. What insights does Eric have to bring us about the aging athlete and his rapid decline from free-swinging power hitter to free-swinging douchebag non-hitter? Well, if you count numerical gobbledygook as "insight," then plenty. If, however, you're looking for the kind of wit and inside-the-box thinking of such laudable luminaries as ESPN's Jayson Stark or Fox Sports' Mark Kriegel, then you're left sadly wanting.
Like a math teacher in an after-school special (the kind where the teacher inspires the students, not the kind where the teacher statutorily rapes them), Eric believes that through the power of numbers we can come to understand our world, and solve the mysteries of the universe. Thankfully, most of us abandoned such wild hopes once we stopped watching Sesame Street, or at the very least once we figured out that math is hard. And with his magical, mystical "numbers," Eric attempts to show us that contrary to popular belief, Richie Sexson was not a terrible defensive first-baseman, but actually an unsung defensive hero, snagging errant throws with a dexterity not even matched by a level 50 Half-Elven Thief. But numbers schmumbers, I say! We all know Eric's little theory is far from true, not the least because Richie Sexson has never proven himself capable of performing a successful saving throw when encountering a master-level floor trap in the Cave of the Unguarded Magical Pantaloons (Who has, you ask? Just a certain native of Kara-Tur who goes by the name Satrick Pheehan, that's who).
I counter Eric's "numbers" with the most irrefutable evidence available to mankind: the eyewitness account. I have watched the Mariners play their game of base-ball on at least a half-half-dozen occasions, one of which probably featured Richie Sexson at the first base. And while he is no doubt a large man and has been known to have an admirable love for drink, I could detect, with my own two peepers, no great skill in his ability to catch balls thrown at his face by diminutive Caribbeans. In fact, it seemed to me that he did so with great reluctance, as if he was tempted to let the balls smash into his enormous, flat-faced noggin and remove him from this mortal coil. On at least two occasions I can recall the big fella simply letting balls go right by him, refusing to stretch his tree-trunk arms an extra seven feet to interrupt the errant throw on its way towards the right field corner. "You lousy bum!" the disgruntled fan who'd mysteriously teleported from 1930's Brooklyn yelled from the seat next to mine. "Why, Roosevelt himself could have caught that zipper, and in his wheelchair too!"
I'm sure that many more such misplays have occurred over the course of Sexson's bafflingly long career, although they've probably been accompanied by fewer exhortations of the phrase "Dadgum!" than they were on that particular day. And how can I go about proving this, you might ask? Well, let me forgo Eric's quaint approach of "providing supporting evidence," and instead fall back on this time-tested and unbeatable tactic: Because God told me so.
Yup. That's right. Straight from the Lord's mouth: Richie Sexson is a terrible fielder. Told me in a dream, he did. What, are you calling God a liar? Because if you disagree with me, that's what you're doing, you know.
Good. With that settled, I'd like to point out one last thing: this whole "defending the indefensible awfulness of Richie Sexson's fielding performance at first base" trick is a clever, if over-used, ruse to get us to believe that Eric embraces the fallibility of human beings. Any casual Eric observer--or for that matter any obsessive Eric stalker with no less than thirteen restraining orders from seven different states--knows that Eric much prefers the steely, calculated perfection of robotics to the unpredictable, unreasonable reactions of humanity. But you're not fooling anyone, Mr. Walkingshaw! We can see through this transparent "I love Richie Sexson" act! In fact, you give yourself away within the confines of that very same post, where you carelessly extol the virtues of Albert Pujols, whom everyone knows is a robot hellbent on bending that beautiful human game of baseball to his iron will. Albert Pujols is one of the few robots brave enough to openly flaunt their roboticism, whether that be through self-portrait or simply by adopting the name "Pujols," a name so laughably ridiculous that only a nigh-indestructible machine who can melt your face off with its flame-hands would be brazen enough to keep it.
So nice try, Eric, but you'll have to do better than that to fool me. Why don't you go play with your precious numbers some more? I've got some important business to attend to; Goram the Dark has invited me along on his dungeon-raiding expedition, deep in the heart of the Foul-Tree Forest. I could really use a new pair of chainmail greaves, so here's hoping!
In today's post, Eric addresses his second great love, baseball (his first love, of course, being the robotic re-creation of Wayne's World-era Tia Carrerre). Specifically, he addresses those local Sultans of Suck, the Mariners, and their recently released giant first baseman, Richie Sexson. What insights does Eric have to bring us about the aging athlete and his rapid decline from free-swinging power hitter to free-swinging douchebag non-hitter? Well, if you count numerical gobbledygook as "insight," then plenty. If, however, you're looking for the kind of wit and inside-the-box thinking of such laudable luminaries as ESPN's Jayson Stark or Fox Sports' Mark Kriegel, then you're left sadly wanting.
Like a math teacher in an after-school special (the kind where the teacher inspires the students, not the kind where the teacher statutorily rapes them), Eric believes that through the power of numbers we can come to understand our world, and solve the mysteries of the universe. Thankfully, most of us abandoned such wild hopes once we stopped watching Sesame Street, or at the very least once we figured out that math is hard. And with his magical, mystical "numbers," Eric attempts to show us that contrary to popular belief, Richie Sexson was not a terrible defensive first-baseman, but actually an unsung defensive hero, snagging errant throws with a dexterity not even matched by a level 50 Half-Elven Thief. But numbers schmumbers, I say! We all know Eric's little theory is far from true, not the least because Richie Sexson has never proven himself capable of performing a successful saving throw when encountering a master-level floor trap in the Cave of the Unguarded Magical Pantaloons (Who has, you ask? Just a certain native of Kara-Tur who goes by the name Satrick Pheehan, that's who).
I counter Eric's "numbers" with the most irrefutable evidence available to mankind: the eyewitness account. I have watched the Mariners play their game of base-ball on at least a half-half-dozen occasions, one of which probably featured Richie Sexson at the first base. And while he is no doubt a large man and has been known to have an admirable love for drink, I could detect, with my own two peepers, no great skill in his ability to catch balls thrown at his face by diminutive Caribbeans. In fact, it seemed to me that he did so with great reluctance, as if he was tempted to let the balls smash into his enormous, flat-faced noggin and remove him from this mortal coil. On at least two occasions I can recall the big fella simply letting balls go right by him, refusing to stretch his tree-trunk arms an extra seven feet to interrupt the errant throw on its way towards the right field corner. "You lousy bum!" the disgruntled fan who'd mysteriously teleported from 1930's Brooklyn yelled from the seat next to mine. "Why, Roosevelt himself could have caught that zipper, and in his wheelchair too!"
I'm sure that many more such misplays have occurred over the course of Sexson's bafflingly long career, although they've probably been accompanied by fewer exhortations of the phrase "Dadgum!" than they were on that particular day. And how can I go about proving this, you might ask? Well, let me forgo Eric's quaint approach of "providing supporting evidence," and instead fall back on this time-tested and unbeatable tactic: Because God told me so.
Yup. That's right. Straight from the Lord's mouth: Richie Sexson is a terrible fielder. Told me in a dream, he did. What, are you calling God a liar? Because if you disagree with me, that's what you're doing, you know.
Good. With that settled, I'd like to point out one last thing: this whole "defending the indefensible awfulness of Richie Sexson's fielding performance at first base" trick is a clever, if over-used, ruse to get us to believe that Eric embraces the fallibility of human beings. Any casual Eric observer--or for that matter any obsessive Eric stalker with no less than thirteen restraining orders from seven different states--knows that Eric much prefers the steely, calculated perfection of robotics to the unpredictable, unreasonable reactions of humanity. But you're not fooling anyone, Mr. Walkingshaw! We can see through this transparent "I love Richie Sexson" act! In fact, you give yourself away within the confines of that very same post, where you carelessly extol the virtues of Albert Pujols, whom everyone knows is a robot hellbent on bending that beautiful human game of baseball to his iron will. Albert Pujols is one of the few robots brave enough to openly flaunt their roboticism, whether that be through self-portrait or simply by adopting the name "Pujols," a name so laughably ridiculous that only a nigh-indestructible machine who can melt your face off with its flame-hands would be brazen enough to keep it.
So nice try, Eric, but you'll have to do better than that to fool me. Why don't you go play with your precious numbers some more? I've got some important business to attend to; Goram the Dark has invited me along on his dungeon-raiding expedition, deep in the heart of the Foul-Tree Forest. I could really use a new pair of chainmail greaves, so here's hoping!
Saturday, July 12, 2008
In Which Eric Confuses Mockery with Popularity
While trumpeting his own virtues and over-reaching in his desire to call attention to himself at every opportunity are the cornerstones of Eric Walkingshaw's personality, I find his latest attempt at self-congratulatory blog-posting to be, quite frankly, a little puzzling. It has left me perplexed, staring at it with varying degrees of intensity and focus, trying to decipher its hidden meaning like I would a symbolic poem or Magic Eye poster. And yet, a full 33 hours after he originally posted it, I am no closer to solving this mystery than I am to growing a second penis out of the back of my neck.
What gets me is this: why does Eric Walkingshaw conflate my mockery with some kind of tacit approval? Is my message unclear? Have I been less than forthcoming? Have I unwittingly constructed my written thrashing of his self-important blog in such a fashion that upon a casual read it appears that I am in fact, as he puts it, his "biggest fan?" I have done much close reading of my own words, as well as a good deal of soul-searching (only some of which involved physically pleasuring myself), and have come to the relieving conclusion that no, I have not. The only reasonable answer I can come up with for Eric's bizarre misinterpretation of my intentions is that Eric Walkingshaw, married cat-fancier and 3-D fantasy board game enthusiast, is dumb as a bag of hammers.
Not in the general sense, of course; I would place a fairly large wager on Eric being able to beat a bag of hammers at a game of Trivial Pursuit, for instance, or at some sort of essay-writing contest (though the bag of hammers' 2002 entry, "Nail, We Are Brothers in This World of Toil" was quite eloquent). I'd even concede that Eric could score higher on an aptitude test. But when it comes to reading comprehension, I'm afraid Eric comes up short. While it remains to be seen whether a bag of hammers could prove its ability to read--its only form of communication besides the written essay, after all, is to shift its weight such that its contents rattle in varying tones--even if it couldn't, it would do better at understanding the written word than Eric has done in this case. The purpose of my blog is rather obvious. How? Let me count the ways:
1) The very first sentence I ever wrote on my blog begins like this: "Hello everyone, and welcome to my new platform for belittling Eric's self-aggrandizement."
2) Within the confines of my first post, I poke fun at Eric's nerdy interests, call him a "strange fellow," as well as an "aquatic rodent," and also expose his addiction to Wikipedia.
3) In my second post, I make the first of what is certain to be a massive litany of observations regarding the size of Eric's nose (it's big).
4) I also tease Eric about losing at fencing to a girl, and quite literally hope for a future, real stabbing of Mr. Walkingshaw to take place.
5) I pooh-pooh Eric's evaluation of several action/adventure films, all of which I found less satisfying experiences than he did. Granted, this is more a difference of opinion than an expression of disgust, with my opinion being that Eric's opinion sucks.
So the case seems pretty clear to me: I dislike Eric Walkingshaw. I express this dislike by mocking the words he writes in his blog, and whenever possible pointing out the enormity of his snoot. The only thing I can possibly imagine causing any kind of confusion is when I said "part of me wants to congratulate him;" but since I wanted to congratulate him on allowing his wife to practice murdering him, I'd hardly qualify that comment as anything approaching "fandom."
But I am a reasonable man--at least, that is what my therapist tells me when I break down in tears and threaten to run myself through with the meat skewer that I inexplicably bring along to all our sessions--so I will offer to clear up whatever misconceptions there may be about this blog by relating an incident from earlier in my own life, an incident which illustrates the difference between "popularity" and "a deeply held and immensely enjoyable disgust for another human being."
When I was in middle school, I found myself torn from the safe confines of a prepubescent world and dropped into the middle of a teeming morass of rampaging hormones and competitive jackassery. I was nearly destroyed by this maelstrom. Teased to the brink of--actually, often right over the brink of--girlish tears, I would while away the long school days by curling up into a ball in the corner of the room and fantasizing about growing wings and flying away from that horrible place, only to return with an atom bomb I had acquired on my travels and turn all those bastards into radioactive dust. But my innocent, childish fantasies could not protect me from the horrors of the real world, as I discovered one fateful day when a very popular brunette who was in my class came up to me in the hallway, looked me right in the eye, and said "You smell weird." And then she walked away. Now, I had two possible conclusions to draw from this encounter: one, that since a popular girl had spoken to me, no matter what she said this was to be taken as a sign of acceptance, and from that day forward I, too, would be one of the chosen ones, eating lunch at the same table and awkwardly fondling each other at the same eighth-grade dances; or two, she actually thought I smelled weird, and her telling me so was just an expression of her palpable disgust with my very existence.
Naturally, I chose to form the latter conclusion, which was both reasonable and the reason why to this day approaching brunettes fill me with a sense of dread and panic only relieved by the repeated mutterings of the words "everyone dies, everyone burns" in a hurried, hushed tone. However, inexplicably, when presented with what can only be described as an exactly parallel situation, Eric Walkingshaw chose to draw the former conclusion, and thus maintain his self-image as a man beloved by the people, a veritable demi-god who enjoys the worship of millions.
Which actually may be the case. Judging by the comments Eric has received on his posts, he is indeed a man of many friends. Why can't I have these friends? Why do they always tease me about my haircut? Why do they give me those strange looks when I leer at them desirously from behind my sculpture of myself with a penis growing from the back of my neck? It's all so unfair!
What gets me is this: why does Eric Walkingshaw conflate my mockery with some kind of tacit approval? Is my message unclear? Have I been less than forthcoming? Have I unwittingly constructed my written thrashing of his self-important blog in such a fashion that upon a casual read it appears that I am in fact, as he puts it, his "biggest fan?" I have done much close reading of my own words, as well as a good deal of soul-searching (only some of which involved physically pleasuring myself), and have come to the relieving conclusion that no, I have not. The only reasonable answer I can come up with for Eric's bizarre misinterpretation of my intentions is that Eric Walkingshaw, married cat-fancier and 3-D fantasy board game enthusiast, is dumb as a bag of hammers.
Not in the general sense, of course; I would place a fairly large wager on Eric being able to beat a bag of hammers at a game of Trivial Pursuit, for instance, or at some sort of essay-writing contest (though the bag of hammers' 2002 entry, "Nail, We Are Brothers in This World of Toil" was quite eloquent). I'd even concede that Eric could score higher on an aptitude test. But when it comes to reading comprehension, I'm afraid Eric comes up short. While it remains to be seen whether a bag of hammers could prove its ability to read--its only form of communication besides the written essay, after all, is to shift its weight such that its contents rattle in varying tones--even if it couldn't, it would do better at understanding the written word than Eric has done in this case. The purpose of my blog is rather obvious. How? Let me count the ways:
1) The very first sentence I ever wrote on my blog begins like this: "Hello everyone, and welcome to my new platform for belittling Eric's self-aggrandizement."
2) Within the confines of my first post, I poke fun at Eric's nerdy interests, call him a "strange fellow," as well as an "aquatic rodent," and also expose his addiction to Wikipedia.
3) In my second post, I make the first of what is certain to be a massive litany of observations regarding the size of Eric's nose (it's big).
4) I also tease Eric about losing at fencing to a girl, and quite literally hope for a future, real stabbing of Mr. Walkingshaw to take place.
5) I pooh-pooh Eric's evaluation of several action/adventure films, all of which I found less satisfying experiences than he did. Granted, this is more a difference of opinion than an expression of disgust, with my opinion being that Eric's opinion sucks.
So the case seems pretty clear to me: I dislike Eric Walkingshaw. I express this dislike by mocking the words he writes in his blog, and whenever possible pointing out the enormity of his snoot. The only thing I can possibly imagine causing any kind of confusion is when I said "part of me wants to congratulate him;" but since I wanted to congratulate him on allowing his wife to practice murdering him, I'd hardly qualify that comment as anything approaching "fandom."
But I am a reasonable man--at least, that is what my therapist tells me when I break down in tears and threaten to run myself through with the meat skewer that I inexplicably bring along to all our sessions--so I will offer to clear up whatever misconceptions there may be about this blog by relating an incident from earlier in my own life, an incident which illustrates the difference between "popularity" and "a deeply held and immensely enjoyable disgust for another human being."
When I was in middle school, I found myself torn from the safe confines of a prepubescent world and dropped into the middle of a teeming morass of rampaging hormones and competitive jackassery. I was nearly destroyed by this maelstrom. Teased to the brink of--actually, often right over the brink of--girlish tears, I would while away the long school days by curling up into a ball in the corner of the room and fantasizing about growing wings and flying away from that horrible place, only to return with an atom bomb I had acquired on my travels and turn all those bastards into radioactive dust. But my innocent, childish fantasies could not protect me from the horrors of the real world, as I discovered one fateful day when a very popular brunette who was in my class came up to me in the hallway, looked me right in the eye, and said "You smell weird." And then she walked away. Now, I had two possible conclusions to draw from this encounter: one, that since a popular girl had spoken to me, no matter what she said this was to be taken as a sign of acceptance, and from that day forward I, too, would be one of the chosen ones, eating lunch at the same table and awkwardly fondling each other at the same eighth-grade dances; or two, she actually thought I smelled weird, and her telling me so was just an expression of her palpable disgust with my very existence.
Naturally, I chose to form the latter conclusion, which was both reasonable and the reason why to this day approaching brunettes fill me with a sense of dread and panic only relieved by the repeated mutterings of the words "everyone dies, everyone burns" in a hurried, hushed tone. However, inexplicably, when presented with what can only be described as an exactly parallel situation, Eric Walkingshaw chose to draw the former conclusion, and thus maintain his self-image as a man beloved by the people, a veritable demi-god who enjoys the worship of millions.
Which actually may be the case. Judging by the comments Eric has received on his posts, he is indeed a man of many friends. Why can't I have these friends? Why do they always tease me about my haircut? Why do they give me those strange looks when I leer at them desirously from behind my sculpture of myself with a penis growing from the back of my neck? It's all so unfair!
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