A short but sweet message

Attention Americans reading this:

Ok, now I would ask all (three) of you to go register to vote, if you haven't already. As you may or may not know, there's a small election coming up in November (unless it's delayed by terrorism- i.e. a man will bomb your hanging chads). Election season is the perfect time to vote, and in fact, the only time to vote. I would strongly suggest that you exercise this right. I mean, what else did you get that you can use when you're 18? Only to be charged as an adult, and judging from my own psychological state, I am nowhere near an adult.

The other advantages to being interested in the political process include: listening to people that are strongly conservative argue ("build a wall around the borders, and put scary pictures on the outside to keep people out") with people that are strongly liberal ("Ants have the same basic human rights as us....er, ant rights"), wondering where those people from (the woodwork), or what part of the woodwork they come from, and fighting over Senate Bill 252A, The Appropriation of Funds for Jabberwocky.

Plus, if you vote, you get a cool sticker, and you might be involved in an exciting bout of election fraud.

We can only hope. Go vote!

The most complex conundrum ever presented to mankind

In my virtual possession is an item of strange value and history.  It's origins have faded into the mists of time, and one day, it's presence will only be the stuff of legend.
 
It was late in the year 2000, when people were stockpiling canned hams and propane devices of all types in preparation for the coming apocalypse that was due to strike on midnight of that year.  On the radio, I had even heard one caller to a talk show speaking about his upcoming move to Costa Rica.
 
I kind of got the impression that some people were hoping that the foretold disaster would come- everything kind of wiped away in an electronic Alzheimer's.  I admit, I often daydreamt of forging through a post-apocalypic wilderness, but then I remembered the things like hot water, food and medicine- the small luxuries of life.
 
It was then that I received the email: "Happy Birthday! Here's a Buy.com gift certificate".  My former girlfriend and current friend had sent me a $30 gift "certificate" at the above mentioned website.  I was joyful, and sent an appropriate response, then proceeded to the Buy.com site for my reward.  In no time, I was registered, and the $30 credit was in my possession.
 
But something was wrong- I clicked through all the sections- computers, sports and on and on.  Nothing caught my eye, or if it did, it was an item with a price many times what I could afford.  Even so, I thought nothing of it, and logged off, confident that I would be able to find something the next time.
 
Fast forward 4 years.  I have just logged out of the Buy.com website for the 8th time or so, my hands still empty, the $30 still mocking me.  I now realize the problem, and it's nefarious in it's intricities.  I won't buy anything for more than $30- The gift certificate should be enough to pay for an item, in my mind.  And yet, if I wanted anything for less that $30, the taxes and shipping push it past $30.  It's a thin line I tread, and I have yet to find anything that falls into that sacred category.
 
Damn thee, shipping charges.  This is why we need teleporters.
 
Of course, I could just stop being such a whiny baby and spend more money, but it's the very principle of the thing.  And it is for principle that this certificate will linger deathlessly until my own death, the termination of Buy.com, or some sort of Y2k7 bug.
 
I'm going to start storing canned ham right away

Lingering in the icy hand of Thanatos, waiting for the sweet release of death

Sometime over the last 48-72 hours, my nose was replaced by a leaky faucet.  While I would normally suspect some type of underground troll to have committed these heinous acts, the torrent began during the day, while I was at work.  I was unconscious of any change until the pressure in my sinuses began to build, raging against the frailty of my poor mortal body.  The pain began to extend outwards, into my eyes, until finally it could stand no more, and burst forth mindlessly.
 
*drip*
*sniffle*

I have a cold, and it's a rotten thing.  I need some sort of disposal unit hooked directly into my nose, so I have to stop blowing it.  There's nothing wrong with blowing your nose until the fourth time or so.  Then the tissue begins to scrape like sandpaper against the virgin skin between your lips and nostril.  Even tissue weaved by golden seamstresses on platinum looms out of the pulp of aged redwood trees would hurt after a day of constant blowing.  And may the Lord help you should you use a piece of paper towel- you may as well blow your nose with razor blades. 
 
What's worse, people at my office must think I have a bladder the size of a raisin, as much as I've been going to retrieve more tissue.  Even in the bathroom, they eye me suspiciously, as if I were collecting the stuff to take back to my desk for some nefarious purpose, like I'm making a paper-mache glider to escape.  And there's no good place to blow your nose.  Outside of the bathroom, people glance inside your office to ensure that it was a nose being blown, and indeed, not an elephant being hunted for it's precious ivory tusks.  Inside the bathroom, there's that horrific cycle of nose-blowing and hand-washing.  For once you complete one, the insistence of the other comes to the forefront.
 
I've tried to defeat these germatic foes.  At the onset, I said to myself "Aha, a cold! I will take a massive dose of vitamin C to ward it off".  But it was too late, my immune system was already crumbling like a ruin before the viral invaders.  I have sucked dozens of lozenges, pectin (which is curiously also used to seal homemade jellies) and menthol (Halls Metholyptus, which are hewn from solid blocks carted from Hell.  Indeed, the damned wail away infinity in torture, but they do have clear sinuses).  Last night I even went to the extent of putting some Vicks Vaporub on, but I only succeeded in knocking out my fiance.  My only hope left is to get in the car, turn on the heat and boil off the virii.
 
At this point, it's either them or me.

It's so hot out here, your skin will perspire!

I live in Southern California, which is better known in summer as "Why am I still living here?" There's a heat wave going on, which started sometime when the Earth was beginning to cool. Everywhere else was becoming temperate, and the Southwest would have none of it. It scoffed at cooling. It derided the merest thought of cooling down. In fact, it rages against cooling, against comfortable temperatures.

In other words, it's hot here. It's a dry heat, but fire is a dry heat too, and nobody says "Let's start a new community in that raging inferno." No, quite the opposite, people tend to run away from fire. People who live here should all just have a free house in Canada for the summer, and in return they can come down here in winter and pay for hotels. It's not fair, but that's the way it tends to go for Canadians. We have 427 days of sun a year here. That's right, it's so sunny that there are actually extra days of sun crammed between other sunny days. It's a lot of freaking sun, and I often think that this is where they send the weathermen who can't cut it elsewhere. It's like a minor league of weathermen, and I suspect their fake weather names suck too, like "Blowy Mountain" or "Dirk Precipitation". I picture them hiding under desks when we receive our annual 5 drops of rain, so that they have to pull out their dusty old "Killer Storm Watch" files and hold them as they rock themselves gently, denying the Creator who would craft such a cruel world as to actually break the unending cycle of sunlight.

They tell us that summer days are for romping around in fields catching fireflies, but that could never happen here. There are no fireflies, and setting normal flies on fire is only a temporary solution. But more than that, the reptilian parts of our brain don't want us out there. We need to crawl into the rocklike safety of our air conditioned cars and homes and places of business. And then we hiss at the hated sun for it's stupid radiation. And we shed our skin, and go sit in front of the TV, and watch all the fires burning around us, caused by morons. The typical conversation between these people is as follows:

Jeb: "Shooting bottle rockets at that dead grass field is a fine idea"
Bobby: "I concur"
Jeb: "Aiee. A fire"
Bobby: "Cruel fate, thou art an evil mistress"

I'm certain that's how everyone speaks these days.

"Quotes are used to surround words of important value"

Welcome back or just welcome. Today I'll be examining the phenomenon of quotes, or to raise the irony bar "quotes". People throw around quotes like Germans threw hand grenades in World War 2. In fact, the Germans would throw quotes at the same time as hand grenades- stuff like "Mein Leben!" and "You can fool some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but you can't fool all of the people all of the time". The former is based on my playing of Wolfenstein 3d, an authentic simulation of WW2 combat, especially the part about Hitler having two chainguns for arms. The latter can't be proven, because the soldier who would use that quote was often shot midsentence, and would have to quickly scribble the rest down on a scrap of paper, or else the hand grenade would explode, and there would be no time for writing.

To stay somewhat on point, people are fond of using quotes to prove things. For instance, if we were having a discussion about drugs, and I suddenly burst forth with "Well, Socrates said 'Let all men taste of all of the plants and animals and minerals of the earth." Then I would fix a triumphant gaze upon you, my quote firmly establishing the superiority of my beliefs over yours. Of course, Socrates never said such a thing, and even if he did, it was probably in Greek, that being his nationality.

More to the point, how can Socrates, a Greek man from thousands of years ago, ever have any sway over our beliefs of today. Sure, he may have been wise, but he didn't use a flush toilet. He couldn't even have imagined a flush toilet. He would be squatting over some pot somewhere and thinking "This is as good as it will ever get". Even if you use a more contemporary figure- a modern flush-toilet-using man such as JFK, there's not really any reason that his words are any more profound than anyone else's. The guy was allegedly a philanderer, and who knows what else he did in his private life? Maybe he picked his nose, and do you really want some nose picker telling you that you should "ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country?" Can I pick my nose for my country, you philandering, nose-picking, albino communist midget?

Perhaps I go to far. But isn't it Mark Twain who said, "It is by the goodness of God that in our country we have those three unspeakably precious things: freedom of speech, freedom of conscience, and the prudence never to practice either."?

-M

To challenge and exorcise the mental organ

Nobody should be reading this, and if they are, I will demand in the strongest terms possible that you cease and desist, because what is the Internet for, if not personal privacy?

No, gentle reader, this particular blog has come into existence for a number of reasons- some of which have to do with you, in fact. Yes, you, the person sitting in that chair, comfortable and warm as your buttocks crease deep folds in your cushion. You are wearing your underwear, probably and hopefully, and are well-satisfied with your lot in life.

It's all a sham, however. If you've delved so deeply that you have no recourse other than to read the inane ramblings of a madman, it's time to sit (which you are well situated for, unless you're at some bizarre standing computer terminal of torture) and reflect upon the many small and minute changes you should have made to your life. Think of all those times you picked a scab, and immediately regretted it as a torrent of blood poured forth from the reopened wound. Or when you clipped your nails too short, and it really was annoying for a week or so. Reflecting on these things, perhaps you'll feel strong enough to take a deep breath, over and over until you pass out. Then, when you wake up, you'll confusedly wonder why you were unconscious and go look at porn.

To stay on topic, however, it is your fault that I am wasting my time with this. Just as I don't believe in wind or the Postal Service, I also don't believe that one should write things down for the sake of it. Thoughts belong in your head: that's where they live, and dance and play.

However, when someone else looks at a thought that you've written down, then it becomes an idea. In this case, a bad idea, but an idea nonetheless. For example, you've read "Huckleberry Finn" and you get an idea, such as "Twain's narrative of the river journey is an excellent allegory to life", whereas you read this and get the idea "Oh great, another blog writer trying to be funny. Fortunately, I am too hip and opinionated to care and also I don't use words like 'hip', but I do drink coffee drinks, so that counts for something." And so because I am imparting an idea to a phantom audience that only exists in my head, it feels like I'm making a difference, and as long as I feel that way, I don't actually have to do anything worthwhile. It's how my whole generation works, actually, and I'm proud to have joined the farce.

So sit back and enjoy as I undoubtedly forget this blog even exists and never return, leaving this lone post as a solemn marker of my semi-casual attitude at work.

-M