Impregnate All Them Nuns

Been watching too much TV lately. Political shows reinforcing my beliefs, never expanding. Cartoons overloading my senses. Chicago Cubs team that shows no heart. Gave True Blood a chance. First four episodes are 95% shit. Not gonna watch it anymore. Short sentences becoming pretentious.




No more clothes for me. Too much maintenance. No more showers. Too wet. Stomach-aches gone when I get doctors to take belly away and pass into non-eating dimension. Heaven is no body maintenance. No pee. No shit. No shower. No shave. No teeth. No eat. No drink. Heaven doesn't exist. Oh well.

Honor and the Path of Radiance

(via BearMythology)


RadBread says:
"Ripples change,
Ripples appear and disappear,
There is perfect tranquility,
When one transcends both life and extinction."

For Sale: Knee Brace With Skin Attached

Blog Update:

As you may have noticed, our favorite Cheekbone Rubdown Specialist, Monty's Baseball Soup, is back and on point with a devastating left hook of a post. Laser!

Enough juice, though. It's time to announce the winner of our mascot contest.
It's RadBread.


Hoodie Hoo!

I actually haven't decided what RadBread's persona will be just yet. I got ideas, though...

1. Hard boiled city cop re-assigned to the suburbs.

2. Extreme sports dude in the 80's vein. See Thrashin'. Fuckin' Daggers ruin everything for the Webster.



3. Old-timey shoe shine boy/newsie. You know, street smart kid with moxie and whatnot.

(via Shorpy)

4. Paranoid schizophrenic with abrupt bladder emptying issues.



5. Enthusiastic, foul-mouthed, opinionated, insane, seen-it-all, philosophical piece of toast with abandonment issues.


We'll be developing this character as the future draws near. Comments and suggestions are welcome.

I say good day to you.

In Regards To Your Copious Pant Length I Challenge You To A Game Of Risk

Recently, I've discovered something. Emeril Lagasse is full of shit. As a caring and active citizen, I'm writing an open letter:

Dear Emeril,

We don't know each other at all, but I've stumbled upon a strange "coincidence". I have never had your food, nor will I, unless I go to your restaurant. Even then it will not be personally made by you. I'm not simple, and understand the fact you cannot make EVERY dish. This has nothing to do with this letter. As a matter of fact, I'm sure you are very nice and make delicious food. However sir, you can fuck right off.

I'm writing in regards to "your" catchphrase. BAM? I mean, really. Normally I wouldn't even have a problem with that being a stupid fucking catchphrase. It has absolutely no bearing on my day to day life. However, fuck you.

How dare you steal a catchphrase from America's number one sketch show: In Living Color. I loved this show with all my white heart. I feel, despite the common racial themes, they had a way of capturing the zeitgeist of the time. It paved the way for such greats as The Chappelle Show. How in your black heart could you rip off the Funky Fingers Productions characters in such a blatant and malicious manner? Again, fuck fuck fuck you.

I'm still unsure of the action to take to counter this slight on the American Public. I tried getting drunk and yelling at the patrons of a Chili's restaurant and throwing pamphlets with John Lithgow's face photoshopped to look like jalapeños. The public merely turned a blind eye to my blind rage. You evil bastard, fuck you.

I will keep this plan of action, actually.

<3 Dan


Support My Quest. You know I'm right.

It's 4am. I was reading Missed Connections again. I'm listening to DJ/Rupture's I Am Sound Boy. We Started This, Big Work Everlasting Life. A cigarette is hanging out of my mouth, and like any disconnected 24 year old, I'm staring. I noticed a rise in meta-MC. Are we all so lonely we use the internet to connect? It's as if The Nothing has spread, now I'm listening to Outer Space by Freezepop. If you don't get or love this song we aren't friends.

How common is it to feel absolutely lost? I'm fascinated by the concept of anomie. Surrounded by people and alone. It's weird. I'm lighting another cigarette. It's fine. I have a hard enough time with humanity. God, I'm whiny. I know for a fact you've stared at your wall, maybe drunk, just blank. We seek constant stimulation to avoid the real fact. It's hard to be alive. Not in a bad way by any means. It's just that you're thrust into life completely unaware of everything. You're constantly required to re-evaluate what you know and why you know it. Wham City by Dan Deacon is playing. I'm still smoking. I fucking love smoking.

I love the anti-corporation people that smoke. Myself included.

"A pox on them, but don't take my nicotine."

I love the arpeggio in Wham City. I feel like it's the payoff I want. I keep listening and I'm given this life confirming 2 minutes. An explosion of pure happy. Thanks Dan.

Back To The Funny, I guess.





Uncle Nezbit fought hard for boyscout freedom. In the 1800's he fought because he knew this rare and strange leech species needed protection.


People hunted the things to near extinction. Why? Cruelty and misunderstanding. The meat of the boyscout is gamy and tough. At best, the trophies are a chuckle at parties for the bourgeois.


I sought my local shaman in search of answers. I needed to understand this great man. To know his inspiration for the deeds of greatness he performed.


I found wisdom in the dumpster of a local Target.


I was wary due to the fact that the link between the spirit world and ours is very weak there. One can easily be lost amongst the Wil O' The Wisps. They aren't mean creatures, merely playful gremlin like beasts.



Following the unmistakable smell of year old gin, I found my advisor. With glee I asked for all the information I could. I asked the BIG questions, about Unkie Nezbittles, Douglas Adams, you name it.


His words were few. I was stunned. He spoke in quatrains like Nostradamus. These short beautiful poems of prophecy scared and delighted me. While raving and jabbering, I learned various ways to cook boots, find hope, and the mystery of the boy scouts. Those rare inedible marks of mid 1920's social artifice. Trends create false need, false need kills.


With eagerness, I questioned. My fear gone, I became bold. Soon though, his rantings became slower and more focused. Trailing off after he found a lid from a can of Spaghetti-O's to lick clean, I cried. For no reason (like how Cathy can't get a boyfriend) I sobbed.


Burgerteeth taught me much in my young age. I can drive most trains with ease. I still don't know why those fields of wild boy scouts were killed, and I weep. One day Man will find peace and his terrible nature will wash away like Burgerteeth's tan.

-Monty's Baseball Soup

I was going to stop, but I thought of something. Sabrepulse fucking RULES. Listen to him for your own sake. I'm on cigarette 8989738. Still awake and mind is running. I was going to write a huge wildlife factfile on the boyscouts. I'm not, though. I think about these things I write forever. I also don't. It's a weird blend of thinking/unthinking. I also constantly worry if they're good. Like bad.

It's a weird new anxiety to face.

Like I need a new one.

I already compulsively read lists. I can't help it. No matter how stupid or predictable. I'm reading shit like "The Top Ten Reasons Why You Fail" or "Is He A Cheater?". I have no worries about either topic. They are not relevant. I do, though. For the record ladies, he is. Sorry to break it to you, blog style. I just believe whatever Yahoo! news tells me. Without question.

Ok. I promise no more false endings. I won't promise good writing, though.

E.T. = Ewok Trouble

Clayface McTaggert And I Reading Books And Discovering We Lost The Moves

I've all but disappeared these past weeks and I feel our readership requires an Apology. There is only one that will suffice. The Lords Apology.

Lost amongst the sands of time and recently translated from The Dead Sea Scrolls. For you I reproduce it here.

Thine Le Lord.
I have slathered upon my fellow man with glee.
For this I sacrifice my heart and sole.
Shoe's Soles.
I walk upon thine beaches shoeless and carefree.
For I have discovered in your glory and kindness, forgiveness.
I am but a bug in your eyes.

Thank You.

When computers shit.

HKEY_LOCAL_MACHINE\System\CurrentControlSet\Control\CrashControl

CrashDumpEnabled REG_DWORD 0x0 = None
CrashDumpEnabled REG_DWORD 0x1 = Complete memory dump
CrashDumpEnabled REG_DWORD 0x2 = Kernel memory dump
CrashDumpEnabled REG_DWORD 0x3 = Small memory dump (64KB)

Additional registry values for CrashControl:

0x0 = Disabled
0x1 = Enabled

AutoReboot REG_DWORD 0x1
DumpFile REG_EXPAND_SZ %SystemRoot%\Memory.dmp
LogEvent REG_DWORD 0x1
MinidumpDir REG_EXPAND_SZ %SystemRoot%\Minidump
Overwrite REG_DWORD 0x1
SendAlert REG_DWORD 0x1

Nerd poop jokes. I ask, "Why?" but I just don't care. I'm having a hard time here. Frankly, I'm in bad shape. I think it's time to get to know me so you can understand The Failure.

One thing that kept me busy was getting hit by a car. That's right folks, during one of the few times I ventured from my bed made of beer cans and books about space, I got hit by a car. I can't say too much cause it was my stupid fault. FUCK it hurt. I'm ok physically, for the most part. I basically just got knocked around a bit.

The Super Nintendo was a burly fucking machine. You could drop that little bastard from space and it would work. Underwater. With squids beating. Ranch.

I really like how cyberpunk authors write. They all use this cadence and a strict usage of dramatic grammar.

(stop)

:end tape:



Slaughtermatic by Steve Aylett is a really really good book. That's all.

Lately, whenever I read a news story, I get furious. It's mostly the information technologies stuff.

"In our connected world."
"This modern network."
"Pikachu has a gun to my head."

I just ate my weight in corn bread.


No Pictures. Sorry.

-Monty's Baseball Soup

Plans

I need to take a road trip soon. I can feel it.



Maybe catch some rays



Surround myself with fine art



Indulge in local delicacies



and visit old friends

(via Banjo Wizard)