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.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
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!
Friday, July 11, 2008
In Which Eric Tells Us About Fencing His Wife
Eric's first official post, discounting The Inaugural Post, regards one thing we will likely hear much more about (his marriage) and another that, if there is a just God in this universe, we will hear much, much more about (Eric getting stabbed). Granted, the "stabbing" in question is of the fake, harmless fencing variety, but one can only hope that it leads to bigger and sharper and bloodier and more murderier things.
I notice early on that I am taking an extremely violent tack in this blog, and I find this disturbing. My therapist tells me that these feelings of aggression are, in fact, expressions of my own feelings of inadequacy, but she won't be saying that when I slice her face off.
Anyhoo, it turns out that Eric and Allison have been taking fencing lessons! This appears to have been going on for some time--"3-4 months," says Eric--and yet they are still taking said classes with children in their early teens. This slow rate of development is slightly puzzling; one would assume that a couple of healthy, fully-grown twentysomethings with college educations would quickly outpace their much younger, more awkward classmates and move on up the fencing education ladder to something at least resembling a Low-A baseball team. However, their continued toil in the lower depths of early teenage-level fencing leads me to the conclusion that Mr. Walkingshaw has found the sport of fencing to be a little bit beyond his grasp, a conclusion that seems all the more apt given that Eric himself reveals he lost the session-ending tournament to Allison. His wife. Who, I might point out, is a girl. Not that I believe she is incapable of being a world-class fencer; in fact, I have nothing but the kindest things to say about Mrs. Walkingshaw when it comes to anything except her worrying lack of taste in life partners. I am sure Allison has long been ready to move on from fake-stabbing middle schoolers, but has stayed back and even let poor Eric run up a string of unlikely victories against her in order to preserve what little remains of his athletic self-esteem.
But alas! Their next fencing lesson falls on the same day as their anniversary, and Eric has, in his infinite wisdom, decided it would be a great thing for this young couple to fence each other on that most special of special days (for married people. For people like me, a special day is a day when we don't wake up covered in sweat and wondering why our clothes our covered in the blood of neighborhood dogs and, in fact, the fur, teeth, and internal organs of neighborhood dogs as well).
So on the one hand, part of me wants to ridicule Eric for his choice of anniversary festivities (as well as the relatively large size of his nose). On the other hand, part of me wants to congratulate him, because it allows Allison to practice the spousal murder that she will one day have to perform, for real, likely in front of fewer horrified teenagers, that will save humanity from the Walkingshawian scourge.
Eric then concludes his post by drawing parallels between this upcoming Malice in Corvallis and famous duels in cinematic history, from The Princess Bride (over-rated), Star Wars: Episode One of the Sucky Ones (over-rated, by Eric anyway), and the new Indiana Jones movie (which I have not seen but since Eric seems to have liked it I will probably see, and then shit all over in the most gleeful of fashions). The key thing to draw from these comparisons is that in the film versions, someone dies at the end, while in the real life version, Eric will go on living happily ever after and I, as a result, will die a little bit inside. If only this silly little game of thrust-and-parry were for real!
I notice early on that I am taking an extremely violent tack in this blog, and I find this disturbing. My therapist tells me that these feelings of aggression are, in fact, expressions of my own feelings of inadequacy, but she won't be saying that when I slice her face off.
Anyhoo, it turns out that Eric and Allison have been taking fencing lessons! This appears to have been going on for some time--"3-4 months," says Eric--and yet they are still taking said classes with children in their early teens. This slow rate of development is slightly puzzling; one would assume that a couple of healthy, fully-grown twentysomethings with college educations would quickly outpace their much younger, more awkward classmates and move on up the fencing education ladder to something at least resembling a Low-A baseball team. However, their continued toil in the lower depths of early teenage-level fencing leads me to the conclusion that Mr. Walkingshaw has found the sport of fencing to be a little bit beyond his grasp, a conclusion that seems all the more apt given that Eric himself reveals he lost the session-ending tournament to Allison. His wife. Who, I might point out, is a girl. Not that I believe she is incapable of being a world-class fencer; in fact, I have nothing but the kindest things to say about Mrs. Walkingshaw when it comes to anything except her worrying lack of taste in life partners. I am sure Allison has long been ready to move on from fake-stabbing middle schoolers, but has stayed back and even let poor Eric run up a string of unlikely victories against her in order to preserve what little remains of his athletic self-esteem.
But alas! Their next fencing lesson falls on the same day as their anniversary, and Eric has, in his infinite wisdom, decided it would be a great thing for this young couple to fence each other on that most special of special days (for married people. For people like me, a special day is a day when we don't wake up covered in sweat and wondering why our clothes our covered in the blood of neighborhood dogs and, in fact, the fur, teeth, and internal organs of neighborhood dogs as well).
So on the one hand, part of me wants to ridicule Eric for his choice of anniversary festivities (as well as the relatively large size of his nose). On the other hand, part of me wants to congratulate him, because it allows Allison to practice the spousal murder that she will one day have to perform, for real, likely in front of fewer horrified teenagers, that will save humanity from the Walkingshawian scourge.
Eric then concludes his post by drawing parallels between this upcoming Malice in Corvallis and famous duels in cinematic history, from The Princess Bride (over-rated), Star Wars: Episode One of the Sucky Ones (over-rated, by Eric anyway), and the new Indiana Jones movie (which I have not seen but since Eric seems to have liked it I will probably see, and then shit all over in the most gleeful of fashions). The key thing to draw from these comparisons is that in the film versions, someone dies at the end, while in the real life version, Eric will go on living happily ever after and I, as a result, will die a little bit inside. If only this silly little game of thrust-and-parry were for real!
Thursday, July 10, 2008
The Inaugural Post
Hello everyone, and welcome to my new platform for belittling Eric's self-aggrandizement, and hopefully by doing so achieving some of my own. If you don't know who I am already, I am not surprised, nor do I blame you. My name is Patrick, though I have gone by other aliases, none of which, unfortunately, improved upon my given moniker. I am currently employed as an errand-boy of sorts; certainly not the lofty position of "grad student" held by aquatic rodent Eric Walkingshaw, but it does allow me considerable time to attempt to knock him down a peg. I myself am unmarried--in truth, unattached to anyone, romantically, to a rather embarrassing degree--with neither horse-trainers nor felines to call my own (I do, however, possess many pairs of clean white socks). This blog will mostly be about Eric's blog, which you can find here or, should you be so inclined, among the links in the sidebar. Thus, it will be excruciatingly boring unless you are into that sort of thing, which if you are means it would make more sense for you to read Eric's blog itself rather than this one. But if you're into blogs by people you're not interested in that are about blogs by other people whose lives you're not interested in, then this just might be the place for you (hi, imaginary boring person!). Occasionally it may feature posts on broader interests, but only if Eric himself posts on these things, and as his "broader interests" include such things as obscure board games and computer programming, you can just imagine how exciting that will be.
About the title
I spent very little time working on the title for this blog, as I already had the title of Eric's blog to work with, and as my blog's main purpose is to shadow and, whenever possible, openly mock his own, the title was very easy to come up with. Like Eric's blog's title, my title is also derived from a Kid Koala album, in this case Some of My Best Friends are DJ's. I profess no great admiration for Kid Koala, or kids and koalas in general, but I do have the Internet, a search engine, and time. Also, you may have noticed that like Eric I am linking to other pages for the subjects I am referencing, but you may not have noticed that those links do not hold to the Wiki-opoly that seems to have wrested control of Eric's soul. Instead, my links are (and shall be) to web pages that do not traffic in being informative, easy-to-use, or, for that matter, relate at all to the subject that I am referencing. For example: clowns.
I do recognize that this title is almost entirely inaccurate, since I have very few friends to begin with and none of them are, to my knowledge, blogs. However, I am leaving open the possibilty that in the future I will someday befriend a group of blogs, bond with them, and forge a long-lasting camaraderie with them, thus rendering my blog title true. The irony, of course, is that in a future where I am best friends with a number of blogs, Eric Walkingshaw will almost undoubtedly rule the world, and I as a consequence shall have been at best exiled to some hostile extra-galactic planet or, at worst, turned into some weird robotic love-slave, doomed forever to serve my master's bidding as a member of his obscenely large robo-harem. Eric is indeed a strange fellow, with strange desires indeed.
But at least I'm not saying anything untoward about his mother.
About the title
I spent very little time working on the title for this blog, as I already had the title of Eric's blog to work with, and as my blog's main purpose is to shadow and, whenever possible, openly mock his own, the title was very easy to come up with. Like Eric's blog's title, my title is also derived from a Kid Koala album, in this case Some of My Best Friends are DJ's. I profess no great admiration for Kid Koala, or kids and koalas in general, but I do have the Internet, a search engine, and time. Also, you may have noticed that like Eric I am linking to other pages for the subjects I am referencing, but you may not have noticed that those links do not hold to the Wiki-opoly that seems to have wrested control of Eric's soul. Instead, my links are (and shall be) to web pages that do not traffic in being informative, easy-to-use, or, for that matter, relate at all to the subject that I am referencing. For example: clowns.
I do recognize that this title is almost entirely inaccurate, since I have very few friends to begin with and none of them are, to my knowledge, blogs. However, I am leaving open the possibilty that in the future I will someday befriend a group of blogs, bond with them, and forge a long-lasting camaraderie with them, thus rendering my blog title true. The irony, of course, is that in a future where I am best friends with a number of blogs, Eric Walkingshaw will almost undoubtedly rule the world, and I as a consequence shall have been at best exiled to some hostile extra-galactic planet or, at worst, turned into some weird robotic love-slave, doomed forever to serve my master's bidding as a member of his obscenely large robo-harem. Eric is indeed a strange fellow, with strange desires indeed.
But at least I'm not saying anything untoward about his mother.
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