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Wednesday, March 31
Up-brown Girl
You may have already met my gay neighbor, Eric. You may also be wondering why I would point out right off the bat that he is gay. Quell your worries, it doesn't bother me that he likes to be penetrated by another man, not at all. Ordinarily, I'd gladly help*.
I take issue with the fact that he likes to warble Billy Joel songs at the top of his adolescent frat-boy lungs, and then be loudly and vocally penetrated by another man for hours.
Starting at 3am.
Right underneath my bedroom.
On a weeknight when I crave sleep.
It's especially irritating that on several occasions the warbling and penetrating has been so obnoxiously loud that I've had to knock on his door (there's usually a 2 minute period of scuffling before he finally answers) and ask him to take it in his mouth instead of his ass, just so he would shut the fuck up. . . or maybe in this case have the fuck shut him up, whichever, I'm not picky.
I started out with the softly-softly approach the first time, which was answered with a vase of flowers at M and I's door a few days later, accompanied by a really nice apology note and barrelfuls of goodwill to new neighbors. Then it just kept happening more often, leaving us with the suspicion that he mightn't actually be sorry. The last time I spoke to him about it, at around 5am on Friday, I lost it - there was cussing, spitting, and blood squirting from my tear ducts. I could have vomited on his feet in rage before replacing his eyeballs with them, I was that volcanically angry.
So I have come to the point where I'm getting the landlord involved, hopefully, he'll have the authoritative clout to persuade Eric to go get penetrated elsewhere (geographically), or at the very least get penetrated at non-sleeping hours. Oh, and take a baseball bat to his audio equipment (and hopefully his head/torso/genitals). I have the feeling this will become an ongoing project.
I fucking hate him.
And if something doesn't happen soon, I will diarrhoea into a bottle, and lean it against the outside of his door.
* If by "help", you mean "Leave the room and do something that's not gay".
thus spake The Englishman at 3:19 PM
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Monday, March 29
Going once, going twice. . .
Navigating the treacherous waters known as 'Ebay dot com' is a subtle and refined art. Thus, who better to guide you through than The Englishman? Allow me to educate you on the finer points of a sadly flourishing pasttime:
- The number of exclamation marks is inversely proportional to the trustworthiness of the seller. Example - "HOT NEW **MINT** CONDITION XBOXXXXXX!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" ~ this person is obviously going to send you a Care Bears lunch box spray-painted black and filled with pebbles in return for your $200 stumped up in good faith. All caps is synonymous with trying to get you hot and sweaty about bidding on this cruel hoax.
- Once you include shipping in the price of your 'bargain', you are essentially paying the same amount as for a new version for the priviledge of sending your hard-earned cash out into the electronic ether and waiting wide-eyed and sleepless for a response.
- "NR", also known in the wild as "No Reserve" ~ a clear sign of darting-eyed, crack-addicted desperation - something anything will serve as adequate payment for this item. A rare glimpse of honesty into the actual value of the piece of human waste you're bidding on.
- "No scratches on CD/DVD/Game disc" ~ Will arrive looking like it was chained to the back of Dale Earnhardt's NASCAR (which, incidentally, is made out of five thousand angry cats sewn together) for a few hundred laps. Note the Georgia shipping address when what's left of it finally arrives in your sweaty, anticipatory hands.
- "You have been outbid by QTPa2TPrinCessGurl90210" ~ You have just lost your most prized bargain to a 14 year old girl who is richer than you. Loser.
- "Factory-Sealed" ~ "I had some saran-wrap left over from dinner".
- "Excellent condition" ~ Considering the holocaust it has just endured at my hands.
- "Shipping will take 5 days" ~ Which is more than I need to flee the country with your money and leave you with your thumb up your no-no hole.
- "Buy It Now" ~ Curse yourself later.
- "I accept PayPal!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" ~ Note the earlier equation regarding exclamation marks, and consider how life would be once this person gets their hands on your credit card information.
- "Power Seller" ~ Owns and sells more bits of human detritus than all the garage sales and swap-meets your parents ever dragged you kicking and screaming by the eyelids to. Or that weird old lady up the street who kept a lot of feral cats in her house.
- "98% positive feedback" ~ The remaining 2% were not able to be identified, as their dental records were mysteriously 'lost'.
Tune in next week when The Englishman goes over how to recruit the minds of the weak into your cult, using only reviews posted on Amazon.com!
thus spake The Englishman at 5:44 PM
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Friday, March 26
If you hadn't guessed it before, I'm an amateur comedian. Amateur, because I'm still perfecting that one flawless joke that makes someone laugh so hard their wallet spontaneously opens up and pours cash into my awaiting palms. Any day now. . .
Anyways, I say this because I like to think I have a pretty good sense of humor. The advantage of being an Englishman in the New World is that I understand the irony that is the staple of english japery, and have inherited the american sense of humor also, which in my opinion are two of the best in the world (have you ever heard a spanish joke? Horrendous!).
Being able to see the comedy in many things means that I also understand what is not funny. For instance, the type that would have Enron executives guffawing about their accounting "standards" over a sumptious dinner paid for with their employees' livelihoods. Or a passenger in first class on the Titanic flippantly joking that they hope the wretched folk stuck in steerage "wrapped up warmly" as they met their watery end on the ocean floor.
These are jokes that ordinary people are able to bandy about because they had no hand in these situations, and they are satiricizing (real word?) the instigators, rather than those who suffered the usually horrific consequences. Those who were involved in these kinds of circumstances and joke about them are usually viewed as monsters.
I find George Bush lampooning his inability to find weapons of virtually any sort of widespread destruction in Iraq to be akin to these repugnant examples. While he light-heartedly narrates show-and-tell photographs of him lifting chairs and looking under desks in the oval office, ("nope, no WMD's there. . .maybe in Dick's office. . ."), American servicemen and women are chasing the same red herring, although with one important difference:
Bush is eating steak at his $2,000 a plate fundraising dinner, while these brave men and women are eating bullets. Through their active service, they have earned the right to use such gallows humor. Despite his Air Guard Reserve "attendance", I believe GWB has not.
Perhaps for his encore, Mr. President will make light of the number of funerals of the servicemen and women that he has attended. Or poke fun at the millions of unemployed, and workers who are doing two jobs to keep from losing their homes.
C'mon, it's all in jest right?
thus spake The Englishman at 1:15 PM
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Thursday, March 25
"Corporate Accounts Payable, Mina speaking. . .JUST a moment!"
It was summer 2002, and I needed the amorphous something that I was told by my college career councellors was prerequisite to prevent my life being summed up as a several hundred thousand dollar failure that ends with me tugging off travelling businessmen in public restrooms at $5 a pop (literally) to feed my various addictions.
I needed work experience, and bad - my resume read like a prank, and elicited the appropriate responses of hyena laughter and ridicule from HR departments from miles around.
I remember how I felt when I finally found one and got 'The Call': the relief, the elation, the planning of future purchases; none of which would have to be funded by handjobs - bonus!
The company I worked for was named after an aquatic god and a spider's home. When I asked about its' origins, hoping for a spirited reply about the company's noble mission and bold vision for the future, I recieved the verbal equivalent of a shrug, and a half-mumbled "Dunno". Then I made the mistake of calling them a web design company; I was sharply rapped across the knuckles, and corrected - they were a web boutique. Apparently 'boutique' in american english meant "Three guys hunched over computers more than 9 hours a day in a draughty shithole of an old townhouse" - I was learning about working life already!
My job was to tap my untrained, yet awesome selling skills to help this small operation get off the ground, and in this whizzbang internet age, what could be more perfectly fitting and efficient for promoting a web boutique than by opening a gigantic CD database of companies, and calling each name, one after a-fucking-nother? Apparently the CEO, with his Harvard MBA, couldn't concieve of anything better, neither could he concieve of the possible use a script or even formal training would be to me. I had a half-day to read the internet bubble-tastic website (which you can find by adding 'com' to said aquatic god and spider's home), and then I was off a-dialing.
But wait, I needed to be able to annotate the names and numbers from this phone book, you know, for record-keeping. Which meant creating a database. Which through several iterations of desperate technical trial, error, and finally failure on my part to export this gigantic database intact from the CD, boiled down to the following conversation:
Me: "So there's really no way to get the names out of there. . .except maybe copying and pasting each name and number individually out of the CD, but that. . .would be. . .cra- why are you looking at me that way?"
Them: "It's that or back to handjob-ville for you"
And so I did it. Approximately 1 month later, I finished. 160 hours solid of mindlessly performing the following command:
CTRL-C, CTRL-V.
CTRL-C, CTRL-V.
CTRL-C, CTRL-V.
It was July.
My office was the only one without air conditioning.
The sweltering heat burned away all memory I had of that month - all that is left of that giant chunk of my life is me, hunched over the screen copying and pasting names and telephone numbers into excel from a database that for an extra $100 could be legally opened up for uses such as telemarketing.
That was my first month of work.
There is much more.
thus spake The Englishman at 11:57 AM
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Wednesday, March 24
If Necessity is the Mother of Invention, Skull-crushing Boredom must be its' unwanted, red-headed stepchild. . .
thus spake The Englishman at 11:32 AM
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Tuesday, March 23
Here's a cheery article to warm the cockles. And here's a brief recap of my thoughts on this issue.
I'll cut the shit. Gas prices are at an all-time high. The causes? I quote: ". . .chronically low inventories." amongst other things.
Another low-light of this article: "Energy Information Administration chief Guy Caruso said at an oil industry meeting in San Antonio on Monday that he was "really concerned" about thin U.S. gasoline inventories, which are running about 13 million barrels lower than the agency had projected."
Things are happening. There may be nothing we can do about this, but like the saying goes, knowing is half the battle.
thus spake The Englishman at 6:17 PM
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The Virgin Suicides
18 year-old lesbian sells her virginity on eBay to the highest bidder. He turns out to be a 44 year old BT engineer/weirdo, then she bleats about how horrible it was to the news.
Am I evil for not feeling a shred of sympathy?
Better question: Am I evil for being that engineer?
Best question: How about if I put the video I made of it on Kazaa?
What an idiot. To paraphrase one of my favorite movies, someone must've pissed in her mother.
thus spake The Englishman at 3:21 PM
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Boy, fetch me mah Learnin' Stick!
The miracle of a Coca-Cola lunch, I found out today, is that it comes out of you exac- fuck when am I going to learn?
How 'bout now?
thus spake The Englishman at 12:22 PM
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Classic
The miracle of a Coca Cola breakfast, I found out today, is that it comes out of you exactly the way it goes in: Liquid, brown. . .
. . .and mmmmm, sweet.
Wanna make out?
thus spake The Englishman at 10:37 AM
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Monday, March 22
Banal-ogies
The day before my wedding, my Dad took me to one side for 'The Talk'. You know, the one where he imparts all his marriage advice while holding back the tears of pride.
"Son, a marriage is like a pair of dolphins, swimming together", he began. When my expression registered befuddlement, he switched analogies on me. "Rather, it's like the two of you are in a rowing boat - if you can't learn to row together, you'll end up going nowhere."
"Are we still dolphins?", I interjected.
"What?"
"Dolphins. M and I are dolphins rowing a boat? Why are we rowing a boat if we're dolphins? And if we're going so nowhere, why not get out and swim?"
"Forget that, son. Marriage is more like. . .ah, flying a jumbo jet. You've got two co-pilots, but only one flightstick."
"Yoke"
"What?"
"It's called a yoke, not a flightstick. And I'm pretty sure they have two yokes nowadays, instead of playing musical chairs in the cockpit."
"Oh, well then forget that one. What I'm saying is, in marriage, you've got to cooperate as a unit."
"Right, or else the two dolphins in the rowing boat end up going in circles if they fight over the yoke."
"What?"
"Nothing," I said, taking him by the arm. "Let's get a drink."
thus spake The Englishman at 2:30 PM
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Sunday, March 21
Eating Britney Spears
There was (is?) a band called Pop Will Eat Itself, I think they're british. They did a phenomenally great song with the Prodigy back in the day, called "Their Law", which is how my path and theirs came to intersect, me being a big fan of the 'Prodge. But that's besides the point.
When I first heard their name, I was struck by how cool it was, but didn't really get far into thinking about it - like most boys my age, GCSE's (SAT's to my faithful yank readers), and beating off took up most of my time for the next ooohh, 10 years or so. I think college was in there somewhere, but who really knows, eh?
Fast forward to recently, when I stopped beating off long enough to really think about the genius of this band's name. I came to realize how prophetic it actually is - Pop really will eat itself.
Right now, we are only seeing the beginning of the implosion of pop culture. Don't agree? I take as my prime example Reality TV:
Reality Television (RTV) - Creativity-wise programming was sputtering in the early 90's, and ground to almost a complete halt at the end of the decade. Network execs were frantically scrabbling around for something, anything that could turn that frown of sliding viewership upside-down.
Even the venerable Seinfeld and the Simpsons had run out of new content with which to shock, provoke and entertain. Then a little show called COPS came to their attention. COPS opened the floodgates of the RTV explosion, and blazed a fresh trail that would allow many others to follow. A telling moment was when a has-been mayor of Chicago called Jerry Springer allowed his guests to sign an injury waiver and went from wandering in the TV wilderness to the newly-appointed Talk-Show King in the space of a couple seasons, deposing long-time Queen Oprah, who had settled comfortably into the top spot. As the viewers clamored for increasingly visceral experiences, the ad revenue poured in.
But the slide has begun once again, and this time, it's happening even quicker. It seems that the networks are running out of 'Reality' to televise, as more and more cyclical conversations and magazine articles are taken up with what happened on last night's episode. How can RTV exist if reality itself comes to revolve around their very content?
For example, look at the series "I Love the 60's/70's/80's/90's". This is a show that sounded like a great idea, and was actually kind of entertaining, but the theme managed to burn itself out within 4 episodes, as it ran out of decades to nostalgize. Even paring the idea down to focus on each individual year could only extend its shelf life for so long. As the producers patiently wait for 2010 to roll around before they can begin filming more episodes, the only other direction in which this series could go is publicly masturbate with a cannibalistic special: "I Love The 'I Love The 60's'". Oh, how the laughs and clips will fly as some unknown comedian bonds with the viewer about the time some unknown comedian reminisced about Space Hoppers and Chopper bicycles.
Desperately these shows sink to new lows to bring in more eyeballs, seemingly without limit or conscience. Pretty soon, when all other topics have been covered, and contestants' dignity all but strip-mined away, they will dare to test the absolute frontier of RTV - murder, live and uncut.
It's my prediction that TV as a medium of pop culture will die here as murder begins to lose its luster, and the voyeuristic public wonders once more "what else is on?".
thus spake The Englishman at 1:38 PM
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"I wonder what doing your taxes in Holland is like", she said. "It's probably like rape." she concluded.
thus spake The Englishman at 1:36 PM
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Saturday, March 20
I frequently dream of heroes.
Of being them, of seeing them, of knowing that they exist. They live a life of watchfulness, like shepherds, over the flock that we've become.
We don't know that they're there. The papers never print stories about their work; the countless disasters that are averted, the foiled plans and captives lifted from the clutches of those who would do them harm.
They work among us, unnoticed, and their power is measured not in tonnes, or miles, but in centimeters, grams, split-seconds. They fight impossible odds day after day, fucking sacrifice everything for every last increment of time and space, so that for those times when you step into traffic without looking, or are being followed late at night, you have a chance to make it home.
Sometimes they win, and other times they unwillingly must let you go. Still other times, they need your help. You will never suspect it before and after that fleeting moment when you are their instrument of good. But when they choose you, when you're in the right place at the right time, and worthy of their strength and courage, you are the savior of someone's life.
Without you, people you have never known would not live today.
thus spake The Englishman at 11:40 PM
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Friday, March 19
I will scrape and hurt you
Thanks to Drin for reminding me how fucking hilarious the Framley Examiner is.
Cover me in pecker snot. I will sting your nadbag.
thus spake The Englishman at 12:45 PM
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Thursday, March 18
Surgical Strikes
M is from the Midwest, and one of the things I find fascinating about her and her people is their ability to cut through the bullshit with an amazing economy of words.
Usually my bullshit. She usually cuts through my bullshit with an amazing economy of words.
I picture her in my mind as a towering authoritarian figure to whom I am meekly presenting a thesis, timdly laying out pages of carefully-prepared graphs and statistics on the desk. I conclude my presentation and stand there expectantly awaiting a response, before gaping in horror as this burly figure takes an arm the size of a tree trunk and dismissively sweeps the offending scraps of paper into oblivion.
But this time around, she wasn't slicing through my waffling rhetoric - we were discussing the current furor over homosexuality in the news, and she said (in an amazing economy of words) something that cut through the bullshit.
"Regardless of your stance on the topic, in 40 years time, we will look back on this as the civil rights movement of our generation."
That was it. In less than 25 words, she basically resolved an argument that people are furiously writing books about. For me at least. She made me realize that the only reason one could be in opposition of Equality is if they fear it, and the loss of priviledge it demands. *speaking of which. . .*
So I guess the question people on both sides should be asking themselves is this: Given the inevitability of equal rights, what would you like to tell your children you fought for in 40 years' time?
People are people.
thus spake The Englishman at 11:10 AM
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Wednesday, March 17
The art of misdirection
Da Drinman: Dude
Da Drinman: [referring to a report on money.cnn.com about optimism concerning the levelling off of gas prices from record highs] I love how the media portrays this shit
Da Drinman: "Everything's fine! Everything's fine! Everything's fine!"
Boom. We're dead.
thus spake The Englishman at 9:05 PM
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The Running Man is not fiction - it was a prediction
Can you hear me down there? I know, this high horse is very tall isn't it? Well I can explain. They lulled me, you see. I thought reality TV couldn't shock me any more. I was wrong.
The Swan is coming.
'Ugly' women will undergo drastic plastic surgery while the slavering millions watch in sweaty anticipation - with each round of healing, they will be voted (or should I say cast) off, unfit for the judge's tastes, until the most brutally butchered but dramatically recovered woman is left to be crowned as - you guessed it - The Swan.
"I'm sorry Judy, even with the best plastic surgery money can buy, I think you're as ugly as Satan's turdhole - you should go home now and get back to washing dishes in the basement where noone's vision can ever be infected with the disease you call your face. Bye bye!"
How can these women put themselves through this? How can ethics and standards be dragged so low?
Can you imagine the kinds of things that are said in the boardrooms of Fox?
"So my new idea, it's this edgy new take on this reality thing that seems so cool - how about we take an ordinary member of the public, some schmoe, y'know, then have him wait around a corner, and then - get this - then, we pay him to kill a man!"
"Genius, Brent, you're gonna make VP of broadcasting with this one!"
You may feel free to retch with disgust at this show, the TV execs, society as a whole. I did. I'm coming down now - could you hold the ladder steady for me? The wind up here keeps making it sway most worryingly. . .
thus spake The Englishman at 11:06 AM
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You are hated by 566,403 people in your network
A lightbulb moment on the train today.
Where is the Anti-Friendster? We could call it "Hatester". . .or better yet, "Fiendster".
Imagine it - collect together a network of people you hate, and find new people to hate through them! Find out exactly how many degrees you're removed from the loudmouthed fuck sitting behind you talking at excessive volume on his cellphone about the hot chick he's gonna get wasted and bone tonight, and hur-hur, yeah you know she did your best friend in the mensroom stall at the club, but fuck it she's hot, and sure, you'll save sloppy seconds for your friend, cos hes your bro, dude, holla. If you're that guy, and you're reading this - you're first in my network of Hate.
The possibilities of this concept, like its cute and fluffy twin, are endless. It could be the first Hating service (as opposed to Dating Service), setting up people who are likely to hate each other at first sight. The connections of rage and loathing would grow and grow - divorces, arguments, fights - all of friendster's disillusioned would inevitably migrate over to Fiendster, until at some point, the system would reach critical mass. Emotions would boil over and erupt, culminating in something not unlike a battle scene from Lord of the Rings.
And I, the creator and instigator of Armageddon, would sit back, laugh, drink beer, and laugh some more.
Afterthought: if any codemonkeys out there wanna bring this special little bit of sunshine into people's lives, I want to hear from you.
thus spake The Englishman at 10:42 AM
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Monday, March 15
Weather.com - Helping you make conversation with total strangers since 1999.
thus spake The Englishman at 6:14 PM
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Super Conversation With Your Neighbor Over Coffee 3
I have played vidogames since I was around 7 years old - I just couldn't get enough of them. It was the escapism, and the ability to do impossible things that held the appeal for me, and to some extent, still does. One minute I could be blasting my way through an armada of enemy spaceships, and the next (with a deft flick of the wrist, and slap on the cartridge), I would be leading the pack in the Monaco Grand Prix with Nigel Mansell and Mario Andretti shaking their fists in anger at this young upstart who came out of nowhere and showed them up as chumps with my superbly tight cornering.
Videogames were a habit that my parents went from encouraging, to occasionally enquiring about, to raising a disapproving eyebrow, before finally resorting to scorn and outright disapproval. "why don't you go outside and play?", my mother used to wheedle and cajole. My father insisted I read books to counteract what surely was the slow degradation of my mind into some kind of grey gruel-like gravy substance - "It's a lot better for your imagination than those damn Sega-mega-Nintendo-drive things", he would say, authoritatively.
This last comment was caught, and preserved carefully, like a dried butterfly husk, in the glass display case of my mind, and it proved its use a few weeks after the fact, when my parents decided to try playing the games with my brother and I, and y'know, bond.
After the initial fumbling with the controllers, instructions were given by my brother and I to the elders, repeated, simplified, repeated again, and dropped in favor of "press this button when I say - NOW!". My mother simply couldn't understand why the evil emperor needed to be vanquished with the righteous sword of whatever, and why our differences couldn't be discussed peacefully over a cup of tea. We ended her quest when she asked which button made her sword-swinging, muscle-bound alter-ego sit down and read a book.
My father only fared worse when, while attempting to navigate treacherous hairpin bends at hazardously high speeds, he apologised to one of the computer-controlled cars for cutting in front, and asked me where the turn signal was.
My brother and I sighed heavily, for we were learning an important truth that all kids of our generation hopefully learned at some point in their lives - Parents suck at videogames.
thus spake The Englishman at 1:45 PM
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The phone company IDT has recently taken out a full back-page spread on the local newspaper for an advertisement that screams "YOU'RE FIRED!!" in giant text with a lurid yellow background.
Ordinarily this bothers me no more than most other examples of inane advertising, but I started to get a bit freaked out this morning when I was surrounded by them on a crowded rush-hour train and I was a half-hour late to work. . .
thus spake The Englishman at 11:24 AM
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Friday, March 12
Comedy is about juxtapositioning objects and situations that do not normally go together. Example:
porn
porn
porn
porn
porn
porn
porn
porn
porn
porn
porn
porn
CHICKEN!
thus spake The Englishman at 5:50 PM
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Long ago, the Internet replaced TV for me. At last, I could choose what I wanted watch, when I wanted.
Yet there are some days when my brain-thirst for new media, fresh information, and stimulating input (ooh, pardon!) continues, unsatiated. These days are happening more often.
Like today.
3,947,502,749,572,394,738,211,194,730,239,457 websites out there, and there's nothing on. . .
I wonder what's on TV. . .
thus spake The Englishman at 12:54 PM
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Thursday, March 11
"Thank God", breathed Crusoe. "It's Friday"
After 5 years of dealings with the INS, I view our relationship as a castaway on a desert island views the sea. I am surrounded on all sides by it as far as the eye can see. Our interactions consist of me sending out little messages in a bottle, and occasionally, after months of waiting with no word or confirmation of receipt, they reply with bits of floating detritus with which I might build a fire to keep me warm for a little while, or some rope with which to repair my crumbling abode. Or, they send angry storms that flatten all I have built, forcing me to start from scratch and curse the gods that allow them to exist.
Today's particular interaction, submitting my Green Card application, fell snugly into the 'message in a bottle' category. Up at stupid o'clock in the morning (as Lump would say), a few hours' wait in the sub-zero pre-sunrise temperatures, and a strip-search at the door, all for the priviledge of meeting for less than five minutes with a dismissive customs officer who glibly informed me that "I'll have to wait a while" for them to reply.
No shit, I thought.
thus spake The Englishman at 5:18 PM
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Wednesday, March 10
Star Wars Paper Models! Must resist. . . geeking . . . OUT!
thus spake The Englishman at 4:43 PM
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Greeks bearing gifts
One of the stranger things I've encountered here throughout my travels is the yawning gap between the hospitality shown me by individuals, and the way I've been treated by entities that profess to act on behalf of the people of this country.
In my first year of college, I had no less than three people offer to take my hand in holy matrimony for the sole purpose of getting me a green card. I politely declined of course (in case any of you were wondering), on numerous occasions, but was touched by how far these people, some of whom barely knew me, were willing to stick their neck out. . .or at least offer to stick their neck out.
This wasn't simply restricted to women either - there have been several instances where guys I've known have said they'd "vouch" for me, which always used to conjure up images of me walking in on a shadowy secret mob boss meeting, and the person in question jumping into the crossfire yelling "Don't shoot! He's with me". . .
I remember I used to get quite paranoid about these peoples' proposals, thinking that some of them might be wearing a wire, just to get the sordid deal on tape to the INS. But pretty soon, they learned to stop offering for fear of my growing proficiency with handcuffs, painful joint locks and inspection of their assholes with a maglite clenched between my teeth while I demand they tell me who they work for.
thus spake The Englishman at 12:45 PM
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Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Take $200, Go Directly To Jail
GA woman tries to use fake $1mil bill at Wal-mart. . .
*sigh* Ignoring the fact that this woman is clearly not in possession of a million dollars, how did she expect the cashier to give her change??
thus spake The Englishman at 12:26 PM
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Tuesday, March 9
Every morning, as my train pulls out of the underground station on my way to work, I catch a glimpse of a spiked iron railing a few feet long, upon which are impaled several Dunkin Donuts coffee cups, presumably put there by the drivers as they wait for the lights to change. My bleary eyes just register a lurid flash of white, pink and orange, briefly illuminated by the train's lights, before they recede into the background behind myself and my fellow passengers. Noone else ever seems to watch them pass like I do, and I wonder if anyone else pays attention to what is going on while staring out into the blackness of the Underground.
I've seriously contemplated replacing the cups with severed human heads just to see if I could get a reaction.
An Afterthought: I wonder how long it would take for people to investigate whether or not the heads were real, after casually dismissing them as 'some prank'
thus spake The Englishman at 11:17 AM
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Monday, March 8
SWF Seeks MBF WLTM GSOH WTF??
I pissed myself when I read these personals.
thus spake The Englishman at 8:47 PM
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One of the more interesting topics of conversation that came out of KFC and 40oz night: America and the push for global equality.
It went something like this. Most Americans, when asked, say they would like the world to come together, and exist in equality with each other. Drinman decided to relate to me a little story to put this in a little perspective.
His first college roommate when he arrived for Freshman year was money. And by that, I mean he was money - the dude was a Middle-Eastern prince, and had his picture printed on people's wages back home. He was constantly buying ridiculously expensive shit to fill up their tiny dorm room - Gucci this, Tommy that and Georgio whatever.
One night, Drinman and his opulent companion were talking about the future - what they hoped to get out of their respective stints in higher education, when Fahad (let's just call him that) nobly proclaimed that he would like to see all of his people living equal to him. D then explained to him that in order for that to happen, he would have to give away most of what he had. This explanation was met with a blank stare.
On the world stage, I think the West is Prince Fahad - hoping for everyone to climb up to meet them at the top, without realizing that this is not how the redistribution of income works.
If it's really equality that you want, you're going to have to meet the poor halfway down the ladder.
thus spake The Englishman at 4:50 PM
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"Sign here, here, here. . .here, and inside my ass cheek"
So what's this about an amnesty for illegal immigrants proposed by Bush? I think he should take a look at the process for (attempted) legal ones. Here is a short excerpt from the one I had to fill out recently:
Section 5h1ts 4nD G1ggl35:
*Name (Family Name) (Given Name) (Middle Initial)
*Address at which you live (Street and Number) (Town/City) (Zip Code) (Country)
*Address at which you receive mail (If same, write it out anyway)
*Other names you go by (e.g. Maiden names, aka's, alter ego's, sleeper cell codenames)
*State your income (In U.S. dollah dollah bills, yo)
*State your father's income (it won't be enough, you pauper)
*State your mother's income (less her pimp's 'dues')
*List every political group, faction, club, association, organization, meeting, word, picture, entity, government, and tv show you have ever attended, joined, been thrown out of for rowdy drunkenness and groping, eaten, seen, mentioned in passing to get the scary guy on the train to stop trying to give you a 'Jesus Saves' flyer, listened to, cannibalized and evolved. (for every one you miss, we will kill you)
*State an address. Again. (we're thinking of one in particular - guess it)
*We gave your dirty wanna-be an American ass an arbitrary number when we scanned your iris and fingerprinted you like a common thief at the border. We want it. Now. (You must write out the name of the number with a space between every letter, for example, we are not satisfied with simply 100,000,000,000 - we want "O n e H u n d r e d T h o u s a n d M i l l i o n". And if you write outside the box, you're history)
*List your birth date. (In binary)
*The fourth letter of the 92nd word in your application is: (If it happens to be a vowel, you should just quit. No, really)
*What was that thing we wanted. . .you know, th-the thing, y'know? (limited to 3 letters)
*Who's the sucker in the U.S. that is vouching for you? (so we can grill them too)
*Do you promise to have superhuman powers of computational, mathematical, scientifical and making-money-for-us-out-of-nothing understanding and agree to work for the peanuts we pay you because, let's face it, you're not really American? (just say yes)
*Sign here.
*And here.
*Upside Down.
*Three times real fast.
Congratulations! Here's your **GREEN CARD**
SIKE!
thus spake The Englishman at 12:24 PM
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Saturday, March 6
Hilarious things M has said to me while drunk:
- "All I need in the Back Bay is a bubble and a Ride"
- "My vowels cost me 200 dollars!"
- "Guess what? Tyler wants salmon, and Julie wants chicken!"
- "I am the intergalactic overlord. Bring me chick peas and your children"
One of these is fake.
thus spake The Englishman at 5:51 PM
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Friday, March 5
I've been stabbed by a javelin that had just orbited the Earth.
I've been a backup singer/dancer in a 1950's commercial for that wonderful lovechild of kitchen utensils, the Spork.
I've eaten a chocolate baby.
Been an expert in sushi.
Recited the original version of Goldilocks and the Three Bears in which Goldilocks compares her spleen to a bagel with no cream cheese.
I've been Gollum.
I've been milked, blended, burned, shot, beaten, abused and evolved.
I once duelled to the death, armed only with a toilet brush.
I have a signature dance move that I (sometimes) do on request.
All of this, in its own way, is true. Because when life gets dull, I improvise.
thus spake The Englishman at 12:14 PM
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Please do not feed the foreigners
Tonight, my friends and I will celebrate our decadence by dressing in hoodies and sweatpants, driving to the local purveyor of fried chicken (I believe the owner is a military man), and, once established with our meals, we will wash them down with 40 ounces of the finest malt liquor $2.41 can buy.
And in honor of the whizz-bang interactive digital world we live in, I am giving YOU, my readers, the ability to influence my life. That's right, I am inviting all of you to weigh in on that most serious question: "What should the Englishman buy from KFC tonight?"
thus spake The Englishman at 12:03 PM
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Thursday, March 4
The McMegaWatt
More on Helium-3 - a bargain at only $3 billion per tonne! Now if we can just find a multi-national corporation that's willing to strip-mine the shit out of the Moon, we've got another 100 years of prosperity to look forward to. Hey, let the kids worry about what comes after - it's not my problem.
Today's (Latest) Mood: 21st Century self-loathing
thus spake The Englishman at 10:33 AM
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Put on a happy face!
Then again, we might just figure out how to continue driving idiot SUV's, making shit gadgets that we don't need, and feeding each other meat that makes us sick, all at a humongous profit. Amen.
Today's Mood: Apocalyptic cynicism.
thus spake The Englishman at 10:08 AM
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Freak oil
Have any of you ever heard of the term 'Peak Oil'? I hadn't until yesterday. It basically means that civilization crashes, and humanity self-destructs. Billions will die.
You're goddamn right the revolution will not be televised - the fucking TV's will not work.
thus spake The Englishman at 9:49 AM
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Wednesday, March 3
Employee of the Weak
Coming out with breakfast in my hand, I confidently stiff-armed the door out of my way and stepped onto the street. But with a quick glance behind me, I saw that the door had swung back with a vengeance into an old lady with white hair who was having a bit of a struggle managing her coffee and multiple attacks from the rabid swinging door at the same time.
Needless to say I immediately backtracked to help her, apologizing profusely.
"I'm really sorry", I said, "I didn't mean to do that."
"That's quite alright", she replied brightly.
"No", I said, "I'm an ass for doing that - an ASS."
"No, you're alright, it's ok."
She turned around and walked away, leaving me with my internal struggle. "How can she not think I'm an ass?", I wondered; "I AM an ass for doing that." I resolved to prove it to her.
At that moment another old lady came up to the door, and was having even more trouble with it than her gnarled predecessor. I gazed on at her pitiful struggle, impassive, and immobile.
Mission accomplished.
thus spake The Englishman at 10:29 AM
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Tuesday, March 2
Jeenie-yus
This picture made me laugh. A lot.
thus spake The Englishman at 5:31 PM
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Smile for me, Mona
Belle put up a great post a little while back, in which she reminisced about past loves, lovers and, erm, loving in her own inimitable style. I think the thing that struck me about it was the way she referred to these memories as 'sketches' of people, because in my mind, that's exactly what they are, and that's when you know that you really know someone.
They're little snatches and snippets of your life with someone that tell you way more about them than a date, an interview, or a feverish hookup followed by an awkward breakfast the next morning complete with promises of calling you later. In my mind, these sketches aren't in color, most of the time they aren't even moving - they are just pictures that are attached with more meaning than any other person in the world could possibly fathom.
I think I speak about this because I recently deleted all my ex-girlfriend's emails to me - now that M is my wife, I felt like I didn't need to hold on to them any more; it felt wrong to have them. My ex (A) and I emailed a lot, and I kept every single one after I dumped her from well over 8,000 miles away (yeah, yeah, because I'm a big brave man, okay?).
I didn't want to look at them for the longest time, but I remember when I finally cracked that folder open, there lay an entire relationship, perfectly preserved, from its' very early courting stages to its' stumbling, awkward end over 9 months later. Each message carried with it its' own little sketch of A in my mind - they were a look, a tilt of the head, or a particular blemish that used to be so familiar.
I find it kind of hard to picture what she looks like now, something which I wouldn't have believed when we split. In the movie French Kiss, Kevin Kline beautifully describes how you feel like you'll never get over someone you've loved, but you wake up one day, and you can't remember what their chin looked like, and a few weeks later, you forget about that thing they used to do with their eyebrows. Soon after that, you're confused about how tall they were, and can't quite recall that thing they said to you once that made you marvel at how they thought. Pretty soon, they're gone, replaced by only a vague feeling, or spark of recognition at their name.
I guess the gist of all this is that by deleting those emails, I wanted to clear out the inbox of my mind, because I need the room for as many of M's sketches as I can fit in there.
thus spake The Englishman at 2:28 PM
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"If a man says something in the woods, and there are no women around to hear him, is he still wrong?" ~ Anon.
thus spake The Englishman at 2:12 PM
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I woke up late for work, left late for work, missed a train, and waited 20 minutes for another one which came and expressed straight past my stop, despite it being completely empty and my stop being crowded with people. I then walked to a different line, missed another train going to the station I was heading for, and hiked through a giant field, discovering halfway through that the melting ice had turned it into a sea of slush, which was rapidly coating the sides of my new shoes, while simultaneously hearing a third train pull into the station I was just waiting at.
Nothing else went wrong after that, until my nostrils came online this morning and confirmed that I had stepped in dog shit. I am now gleefully tracking it around the office, because, quite frankly, if I have to go down, I'm leaving something for them to remember me by.
thus spake The Englishman at 10:34 AM
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Monday, March 1
40oz's of Steel Reserve and The Colonel's Secret Recipe
. . .And Friday's festivities are set: The quintessential American duet of beer and fried chicken.
Kids, if you're good, I might post a picture of the chicken. . .
thus spake The Englishman at 5:38 PM
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The pain. . .THE PAIN!@#
Please give me a pill or a bullet. . .either, both, NOW!
thus spake The Englishman at 3:01 PM
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So that's it. I'm officially married now - I know I was before, but now, even the honeymoon is over. So could everyone please not be talking to me in the 'goo-goo, oooh you just got married' voice any more? Please?
thus spake The Englishman at 12:46 PM
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Because my arms hurt, and you're standing up
Yes, it's true - my arms are killing me today, the near-aborted lovechild of my terrible state of fitness and my gung-ho-ness in the gym at the spa resort I went to on my honey(hiney?)moon.
A friend of mine has an excellent little quip prominently displayed in his room: "Pain is weakness leaving the body". If this is true, I expect to be benching your fat-ass mama by the end of the week. Just one rep, though, cos the bitch is heavy.
thus spake The Englishman at 12:38 PM
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