September 30, 2010

The True Face of Madness


New podcast is up! I've been struggling to work out how to make a talk about dominance interesting and informative, and then I watched the Big Lebowski. So fuck it, let's go bowling.

On a side note from everything, I hate people who try to sell me magazines, especially when they call my phone to do it. If they sell door to door at least I can hide from them, and know the face of the enemy. On the phone though, I think "I don't know that number. Is that someone I know?" And I answer because it might be someone I'd like to talk to, and thirty seconds later I am hoping the other person dies in a fire.
Then I take a breath and cool down. After swearing at the soliciting sonofabitch, and reducing them to a quivering pile of human-shaped cowardice.
These are people who live in caves. They live terrible lives, eking out an existence only at the whim of their cruel telemarketer overlords. Their only source of solace is to call, and offer you a magazine subscription. They love magazines. They think you love them to. They don't realize there is an internet, where i can get news, photos, music and more. They are beaten every hour on the hour. These people live terrible lives, so when they call to offer you useless piles of glossy paper, be kind to them. Offer them the number of a humanitarian shelter, which rescues these poor souls, gives them a place to stay, and, if no one takes them into their home, will at least make their final days comfortable.
Don't stop hitting Jehova's Witnesses though. We are so close to a new high score.

Late Facts: The actual, real true face of madness is Patrick Rothfuss. He wrote a book called "The Name of the Wind", and another is due out sometime, and goddamit I want it now. The man is a devil.

Go to bed, already: But before succumbing to sleep, check this out!
And another blogger interviews the fellow.I desires much to watch this movie.

September 27, 2010

A Delicious Trap

The following occurred on Facebook. The name's have not been changed, because fuck it. 

Alex Thompson Sell me your car!

September 24 at 12:32pm · ·

    • Leo Helfer
      I seen a special going on somewhere that let's people get a discount if two people go to driver's Ed, instead of one. E.G. if I sign up and you sign up we both get discounts.

      btw, the score is

      Alex totaled 2 cars
      ...LB = totaled 1 car

      totaled = defined as not being able to drive it anymore.
      See More
      September 24 at 1:16pm ·

    • Kristina Locke kristina totaled 0 cars. suck it.
      September 24 at 3:28pm ·

    • Alex Thompson ‎@Leo For the record, the insurance company said I was NOT AT FAULT! So stick THAT in you pipe and smoke it.
      September 24 at 9:08pm ·

    • Leo Helfer I wanna see proof...lies... -_-
      September 24 at 11:14pm ·

    • William Hohmeister I've got a deal for you, Thompson. It's a 2001 Chevy Fictional, only $1100. Got about 30k miles.
      Saturday at 12:31pm ·

    • Chris Knapp I won't! NO!
      Yesterday at 2:01am ·

    • Alex Thompson ‎@Will message me with your cell
      51 minutes ago ·

    • William Hohmeister You are my favorite person, Alex. From now, until forever, you are absolutely my 100%, completely non-gay favorite person.
      2 seconds ago ·

Has this ever happened to you

I've been reading other blogs, trying to find out what they do that makes people like them, what I do that is similar, and what I can do better. And I think I've discovered that these people are just better human beings than I am.
Hyperbole and a Half for instance. Fucked if I know what it means, but it sounds good. It's an awesome blog too. And I feel bad because it took me like three weeks to come up with "House of Awesome".
Then I started reading blogs she linked to, like Steam Me Up Kid... which has this really funny account, right there on the front goddam page, about how her mouth smelled like a vagina. I laughed, and then I thought, man, I could never do something that good. And then the kinda douchey, 80s upbeat guy in me tried to cheer me up with shitty 80s music and a chorus line that's just "Sure you can!" which is no more believable than a little league baseball coach complimenting you on "good hustle".
So I thought about why I couldn't be that cool, and I considered several options:
1) I am not funny
2) They are much funnier than I am
3)They sold their souls to the devil for funny
Should I sell my soul for funny? Then a fly started buzzing around my spaghetti and pissed me off, so I spent ten minutes failing to kill it. I wished that it would die horribly, then I felt bad, 'cause how would I feel if someone wished that on me? Then it landed on my fucking fork, and all that guilt flew out the window as the smug sonofabitch sat there and spat all over my shit. What is there to like about flies? They distract you constantly, irritate wherever they land (a fly landed on me while I was asleep and I smacked the shit out of myself as I woke up), and then they have the indecency to land in your food. It's like having a little sibling, if that sibling puked over everything he touched.
I ended up failing again to kill it, and wishing death not only on the fly in question, but on his whole fucking fly family. I hoped that, if he had family, he had to watch them die in a fly house fire. Then it hit me.
I am a fly serial killer.
And that is why the other bloggers are much better people than I am.

September 24, 2010

Cats don't give a shit

I've been depressed this week so less than usual has been done. It makes music listening-to not very happy and laughs are in short supply. But, I remind myself, this cat does not give a shit about how I feel. So I do more podcasts. And as my pappy always said, "I've never really been happy anyway; see no reason to start now."
The podcast is short, but full of music and rants, albeit rants about the included links. I have a small request after the link fields, so follow me down. 

I've been researching ways to spread the blog around and have come up with a few: please, if you like the podcasts and think someone you know might like them, let them know about it! Friendly recommendations can do a lot. Sharing on social networking sites can also help. This amount of self-pimpage makes me feel awkward and dumb, but I like doing the podcasts and the more people listen the more I feel, "Fuck yeah! Let's keep doing this." So I'll kick a rock and look bashful, and then go back to recording.
I guess that's the only one. There were more, then I forgot them. Oh! Technorati claim. I don't really understand it, but I did it. So maybe that'll help, accidentally or something.
Also there's this!
This is basically what I hope my blog grows up to be, only with podcasts. I stumbled upon the story of a fish destroying her childhood, and have been hooked since. It is awesome, something I fully endorse here in the house of the same.

I am a Wabash Man,0,6542976.story?page=1
Go watch this. Then come back.

The parents of Johnny Smith are suing Wabash College and the Delta Tau Delta fraternity (now no longer on campus) over his death from alcohol poisoning.
I can't judge the lawsuit. Far from having all the facts, I know Johnny Smith died from alcohol poisoning, there was an investigation, the fraternity he was part of was shut down, and that's it. I can't imagine what his parents feel; parents should never have to outlive their children. I know how the grieving process goes, so I hope they mourn, move on, feel bad about moving on, and then move on from that.

Not knowing the details, however, has not stopped the news organization from reporting, complete with stupid pictures, scary music, and the classic "dark figures moving in the background" which you can see at 00:52 seconds, and again later.They open with a ridiculous headline - "Out of control fratboys, drinking themselves to death" - and then pretend to know something about the schools history.
Then this guy comes on, says people are drinking and passing out every weekend. Who is this guy? Is he a lawyer? I guess, though broad claims like that don't speak to professionalism. Ah, later it is revealed he is a lawyer. One who can describe the night of Johnny Smith's death in detail. He must have been there, perhaps with the ghost of Christmas past.  I guess interviewing people who were actually there must have been too much work.
Mrs. Smith is also in the report, visibly upset. I can't blame Mrs. Smith for participating, talking to anyone can often help a grieving person. But the reporters take several remarks of hers, sandwich them in between the lawyer and narration, leave out everything else she might have said - why she's suing, what she hopes to accomplish - and opt for the ole heartstring tug to get viewers on their side.
And their side is, pretty obviously, against Wabash. First impressions are important, and beginning a report with "Out of control fratboys" puts their objectivity into question. "Fraternity men" must have too many syllables. "Drinking themselves to death" sounds much more frightening than two deaths, And given the overall quality of the reporting, is anyone surprised that the administration didn't return calls? If this report is indicative of their general level of competence, I wouldn't say a word to them either. FOX59 seems to come with a guarantee that your words will be misconstrued, cut out of context, and used to reinforce the narrative they've already created.
Well, if by chance someone who watched the report and burned with hate against the monsters at Wabash should stumble across this blog, here are a few facts left out of that report:
Wabash does have a drinking policy. It is the Gentleman's Rule. Gentlemen obey the law, and the law says you can't drink before 21. Wabash men are trusted to take care of themselves and one another, and to accept the consequences of breaking the law.
Given the effectiveness of drinking regulations at other campuses ( increased regulation seems kinda dumb. Wabash has about 1100 men last time I checked. There are several hundred thousand incidents each year, according to these statistics; unless Wabash students are as highly motivated in busting shit up as we are at studies, these must take place at other colleges. Colleges with strict alcohol policies as well.
HELP is a twice yearly conference at Wabash that is designed to help (oddly enough) new fraternity presidents, RAs, and other campus leaders adjust to their roles. Included is a seminar on alcohol control.
Fraternities began policing themselves before Johnny Smith died. Alcohol regulation committees were formed, to prevent binge drinking and encourage more responsible behavior. Each fraternity abides by its own (fairly strict) code of "thou shalt not fuck shit up" with regards to people, property, and the good name of the school. Actives and alumni are expected to adhere to this code, and are disciplined if they fail.
A school full of men can be scary! Given the popular image of men in pop culture (sex-obsessed morons in sitcoms; sex-obsessed cavemen in many other shows) it can be easy to demonize Wabash with such a pathetic excuse for a news report. It is probably not that easy, non-Wabash folks, to accept my counter-argument that Wabash is a good place, turns out good students, and Johnny Smith was a tragic, extreme exception to the rule rather than the norm. That's okay. That's good! Not accepting things at face value shows you're thinking. If you have a college bound young man, take a look at Wabash. Judge it for yourself. Talk, not only to the administrators, but also to the men who attend it.

Late facts: At no point was it my intention to give offense to Mrs. Smith, featured in the news report. I can't imagine what losing a son is like. Best wishes go to her and her family.

September 17, 2010

Hit me like a meteor

Not Without My Anus.

Good students will recognize the title from South Park. A+ Students will know it is from Terrence and Phillip.

But first, some links! “Hello, ghostbusters? There’s a transparent black man in my living room. Yes, he won’t stop singing.”
Of course, the ghostbusters just come over to get up, get down, and boogie. I know no other singers or bands. Cee-lo Green is my master now. There’s also a cover of Kung-fu fighting up, that was in Kung-Fu Panda, which is a good movie. To break your hearts… IJ 5?
And to shake your faith in God. Seriously. Does the prospect of G. Lucas making more money off fanboys for another steaming pile of shit, while other directors labor in obscurity, not piss you off?

Okay, the reason for the title; warning, this is about poop.

There are many kinds of poop. The log, the lincoln, the question mark. The most famous is the man-child, shat out by a fellow of the same name, it was about four foot, three inches, and weighed roughly twenty pounds. We gazed upon this foul harbinger of the end days, this Beast of Revelations, and then we sealed it away like the ark of the fucking covenant.
One of the worst is the Flamer. This is most commonly encountered after devouring bowls of chili, a couple of peppers, or anything particularly spicy. I experienced this recently, and it was the worst time of my life. Your butt feels like twelve badgers just burrowed out of it, on fire. And it doesn't stop! Even when you know everything you've ate has been shat out, your body devours itself to provide the necessary materials of pain.
Complementing this is a method of pooping. "But," you say (and I laugh, cuz you said butt), "there's only one way; sitting down on a toilet." True, but what if you're taking a walk and no toilet is handy? Or the poop is so monumental that any movement, any bending of the spine, will result in immediate evacuation regardless of where you are or what you are doing? Many have experienced the groundhog, in which the monster pokes its head out, and then just as quickly disappears back into the dark recesses of your bowels.
What I'm talking about is the birdwatcher.
You have to poop. The poop is ready to go. But you are not on a toilet. Worse yet, you're walking down a high traffic street, struggling to keep it inside, while everyone watches.
Someone approaches, not knowing how unwelcome they are. They ask, "What the hell are you doing just standing here?"
You look up at the trees, point and reply, "Birdwatching."
"Oh, aye. I think I spotted a Peregrine falcon earlier." You do not remember if Peregrine is a type of falcon, or hawk.
But thankfully, miraculously, the person leaves you with your lie, until the poop is manageable again, no longer pressing the silo doors with the urgency of WWIII, and you can Penguin your way home.
It has, at times, felt like my anus deserted me. Thankfully it always came back, and we are again fast friends. I think a day time soap opera called "Not without my anus" would make a good show. The main character could be a spy, or a cop or something where someone always yelled "We've gotta get out!" at the end of a show. And he would look at them (dramatically) and say:
"Not without my anus."
Bam! next episode has a hook. You're welcome, hollywood. I just made you seventy kabillion dollas.

Late Facts:
1. When the gastrointestinal horror is upon me, I hear In the air tonight, by Phil Collins.
2. The Wolfman is a terrible horror movie. A decent comedy though.

September 15, 2010

Holly Sheetz!

A podcast in the middle of the week!

Ten out of Ten Sexiness

Eight out of Ten Sexiness

And new features too! It's like goddam Christmas, except with fewer fat men breaking into your house. Well, unless I go crazy.
Included is the story I wrote to Neon Legion's "The Sun". It's short, and not at all proof-read. I figure the longer I think about it, the less chance of it going up at all. Beware! It's violent.


The air in the clearing was wet and cold. Dew hung on the leaves and grass, sparkling under the sunlight that wasn’t quite hot enough to evaporate them. Elsewhere in the forest birds sang, crickets chirrupped (although must were yawning and checking their watches, ready to punch-out and head home to their cricket wives), and the waking sounds of animals broke the stillness. In this clearing, however, the noises were so badly absent that the air felt heavy and expectant. The absence spoke of something coming, something the rest of the forest wanted nothing to do with.
A man walked through the shrubs and into the ankle high grass. The clearing was almost perfectly round, with just a small alcove to the north, where smaller trees clumped around a boulder, like Charlie Brown’s head with a painful bump. He seemed not to notice the quiet, but cracked twigs underfoot as he moved to the boulder. He carried a bottle full of amber liquid, and a pipe with a thin stem. He set them both down on the boulder, reached down to his shoe, and pulled out a tiny packet of tobacco. He took a drink of the whiskey, filled the pipe, lit it and puffed it to life.
He was a short, thin man, with a broad face and widely separated features. His limbs were small, but twisted with muscle. His eyes had huge pupils, and appeared almost entirely black with a hint of brown.
The forest stirred around him; he took another swig of whiskey, set it down, and clamped the pipe between his teeth. A small, strange smile worked its way onto his face.
Across the clearing a figure appeared from nothingness, clad from head to toe in black, with only a slit in the mask showing eyes. It crouched, studied the man for a moment, and leaped, pulling a tanto blade and coming down aimed at the man’s heart. The man twisted, ducked under the blade, pushed up on the hilt, and the blade tilted under his pressure, and as the ninja’s eyes widened and he fell into a roll, the blade tore through his mask and into his brain.
Eyes scanning the nearby trees, the man pulled out the pipe and walked behind the boulder. A small boombox sat there. He pushed the play button, and the clearing erupted with the sound of Neon Legion’s “The Sun”.  He said, “If you’re gonna try, try all at once. No need to drag this out goin’ one atta time.”
Ninjas burst into the clearing from all sides, one even leaping atop the boulder. There was silence as the man’s smile grew, and he finished off the booze. Clamping down on the pipe again, he hefted the bottle and threw it.
The ninja he aimed at caught the bottle and threw it back. The ninja atop the boulder leaped at the same moment. The punch-dancer, leg vibrating to the beat, spun away, snatched the bottle back, and broke it over the ninja’s head. He collapsed.
The punch-dancer was surrounded now, ducking and weaving out of the way of deadly ninja strikes. He smashed his fist through the head of one, roundhoused another into New Jersey, and then he had to vault up and over to get out of the way of several sword strikes. One ninja followed his flight, and the punch-dancer connected his foot with the sonofabitch’s head, and stomped it into jelly as they landed. The cluster of ninjas turned as one, and the punch-dancer kicked the dead ninja on his boot into their midst.
He cocked his forefinger and thumb into the shape of a gun. “Pyew-pyew,” he said, firing twice. The body exploded, taking out all but a few of the ninjas.
The rest scrambled to get away, taking up positions at the perimeter. Each drew ninja stars, there was a beat, and then hurled. The punch-dancer’s hands moved so fast they became a blur. Each seized an incoming star and redirected it at another ninja. Some were fast enough to grab the stars and hurl them again, others dodged, but six fell to the weapons of their fellows.
Still, the punch-dancer knew he had to hurry. The music was winding up, and twelve ninjas remained. He sprang to them, put a fist through a torso, a kick cut one in half, and then he grabbed one by the ankles, punched him into the oncoming ninjas, and grabbed up the staff he’d left behind. He planted it in the ground, took a running start, and seized the bar with his ankles just as the ninjas were again upon him. He struck out at them as he spun, each punch making a hole. Finally there was only one.
The ninja backed up, cornered against the boulder. The punch-dancer grabbed him by the throat, drew him close, and pulled out his pipe in the other hand.
“Hey,” the punch-dancer said. “Smoking kills.”
He jammed the pipe through the ninja’s eye and into his brain, and dropped him as the music stopped. Three minutes fifty-five seconds, a new personal best.

There will be another podcast Friday. And Applejacks should reappear soon. Finally, look at this comic!
God, do you feel the hate too? It's like, fuck you cat and old lady.

P.S. Something bad happened to the Uncle Ben podcast when I uploaded the new one. And I don't keep the 'casts after I upload them. It is many sad times, since it was so young.

September 10, 2010


The game is "Zombies Ate MY Neighbors"
The author is Larry McMurtry
The artist for "Cold Man of Steel" is Russ Aimz. I think I said Russet, or something. This bugged me enough to cry your pardon.

September 9, 2010

Words is hard

The podcasts continue! Now at four, or two of the "new" 'casts, the third next week will break the old record for continuation. This one has two medium rants, and a rant about a book. It's a good book, and you should read it. Turn off the t.v. and get to it.

I haven't read anything more about the Quran-burner in Florida, but I hope he decided not to do it. Fighting stupidity with stupidity doesn't work, and burning a religion's holy book in the hope of hurting people who don't give a shit about it (the terrorists) is really stupid. Shouldn't we be burning Bibles for all the fucked-up things crazy people have done "for" Christianity?

Applejacks will continue, but later. Goodly James Morey has agreed to come onboard as artist, and I have sent him the next three scripts. AJ will likely be put up on a new site, one dedicated just to the comic.

I hope you enjoy the podcast, and tell your friends if you do. Making this into something sustainable would be so awesome I feared to actually put it into words.

September 4, 2010

Applejacks 3

Things take a turn for the worse. Will Applejacks succumb to his thirst for pie, and destroy this poor farm family? Find out next week, with three new updates and a new podcast!

Applejacks 2

Third one goes up tomorrow.

September 3, 2010

Uncle Ben Must Die!

The podcast has returned! It's short tonight, but there are more to come, probably on a weekly, or twice weekly basis. I hope it has not been too long, and that you enjoy the show.

Also, because I promised, here is the first comic I did about Applejacks. The project is on hold right now until I hear back from James. He is a much better drawer than I am, but hey! look at that adorable sonofabitch! You can click to enlarge, and use the zoom (cntrl + +-sign) because if I make it too big it doesn't fit.
As I said in the newest post, the Uncle Ben 'cast was replaced by the new one because I failed to notice I had named the new one the same as this one; you'd think I'd have noticed "New podcast" as already there, but I is dumb. Dumb as hell. I'll try to find the old file and put it back up.