Jul. 16th, 2007 @ 11:12 pm
After lush, glorious years without having to glance on Robin Williams' werewolf-like body, I broke down and saw Jumanji again. Despite said movie being made for kids, there really is a certain side to it that you don't appreciate until your older. While said aspect involves making lewd, acerbic comments at the screen, any movie can take on a different path of events. Jumanji is one of those movies that opens itself up to oncoming comments or jests much better than your typical fare. Most kids movies, past and present either ruin themselves in their stupidity or lack of plot (i.e. the Brave Little Toaster... what dumb bitch thought up trying to market a shiny piece of metal that gets freakishly hot when turned on so when kids try and hug it, because after all it is a brave little toaster, they scald themselves and are traumatized for the rest of their live anytime toast is presented in the near vicinity???) or are just too gooey and happy to even poke fun of in the first place. Jumanji, however, presents itself via actions presented on screen or insinuations within dialog to a variety of alternate endings... or simple dick and fart jokes us males always love.
But enough talk, have at you...
One of my favorite running jokes and alternate ending within Jumanji plays a little like Terry Gilliam's 12 Monkeys. For those of you who haven't seen it, I'll try not to ruin it, but its a time traveling movie leaving a kid with traumatic memories of his own death. Ok, that pretty much ruined it, but fuck you, it had to be done for the sake of this entry.
Anyways, before I get to the punch-line I'll wrap up what there is of Jumanji to be noted for this ending to work. Jumanji, as we all know, is an old (cursed) wooden board game with MAGICAL powers (god forbid kids love shit with magic) set in some sort of African jungle. The game itself runs by taking unwilling people, mostly kids, who pick up a playing piece and roll the die. After doing so, you are forced to play though the game itself otherwise some unwritten curse it bestowed upon you. When playing the game, events that occur on the gameboard appear in your own world, generally in your own house or place of playing. This leads us to quote the famous saying of "If you die in the game, you die for real."
We all know what the game itself is about??? Good, time to move on. In the 1950s, Robin Williams' character, a child going through puberty and part of a wealthy family, comes across this game by some form many of us call 'fate'. Finding it, he brings it back to his house to play after dinner with a girl, not as romantic as Twister or 'hide the sausage', but hes a kid, so well let it slide. In the meantime, he gets in a heated argument with his parents in which screaming, yelling, and him packing up his suitcase with Wonder Bread in order to run away. His parents then leave for some banquet dressed up for the Ritz. Just as hes about to run away, he encounters his girly friend, and proceeds to get sucked into the game that is Jumanji with her. On his first roll, the game deems that "In the jungle you must wait, until someone rolls a five or eight." As fast as (the artist formerly known as) Prince runs to an opportunity to sell an issue of 'The Watchtower', Robin Williams is sucked into the game board and disappears from our dimension. The girl, seeing all this, is traumatized and runs the fuck away, leaving the game behind her. As this is all a freakishly unbelievable story, the parents of Robin Williams as well as the police write this off as a missing childs case. As per usual, word around the campfire spreads between the kids of the neighborhood that Robin Williams was not missing, but slaughtered, cut up into little pieces and hid in the wall of his house by his own fucking parents.
Cut to 1995, the same house, now empty, but left in tacked from when Robin Williams disappeared. Some bitchy aunt and her two biological-parent-less grandchildren decide to buy up the abandoned house. Due to course of events, the bitch-ass kids come across Jumanji still with the previous two player's pieces on it. Because they fail at life, they too get sucked into playing the game. Someone then rolls a five and Robin Williams, in his hairiness and all, pops out nowhere and hilarity ensues.
The rest of the movie revolves around these kids, Robin Williams and his girl friend that started the game, finishing up the game by getting to the end and yelling "JUMANJI!!!ONE111!!!" Upon finishing the game, Robin Williams and the girl then reawaken back in the 1950s no more than a minute after he originally gets sucked into the game. Bizarrely enough, they still maintain all the memories they have from the next forty some years. As they stare in awe at each other, Robin Williams' father hurriedly walks back into the house because he forgot something important for the banquet. Still furious at his son, the father proceeds to give little care to the boy, but Robin Williams grabs his dad from behind and hugs him. "OH DAD," *Oscar winning tears* "I've missed you so much."
"But son, I've only been gone for five minutes."
"It seems like a lot longer."
"Well, I'm sorry about our previous argument. But right now I've got to get to the ball."
RIGHT HERE, RIGHT HERE. At this point, the producers could have ended the flick with something all together, new, different, hilarious and it would have fucked with the audience's head so much. If Robin Williams' dad were to get really angry now, because he has to get to the banquet, and due to the previous argument, that he would have slaughtered, cut up, and hid his son's bodyparts inside the walls of this house, the most awesome ending could have been made. Then the rumors circulating the previous history, before they finished the game, would have been true, in this reality. People would have seen this and gone fucking loopy. The kids in the audience would burst out crying as blood is splattered across the screen when the dad takes a hacksaw to young Robin Williams' arm and garden hoses of blood start pumping out through the stump.
You can't blame me though, the original ending tried to pull a similar ending, but instead used Robin Williams' knowledge of the future (in the previous reality where he was trapped in the game) to prevent the children he played the game with parent's death.
Anyways, this was just one, long and drawn out as it was, example of how Jumanji allows you to fuck it over by adding bad jokes into it. Of course theres also shorter spur of the moment jokes like "INCOMING GAME ZONE" or "STAMPEDE EARL, GET OUT OF THE WAY, GET OUT OF THE WAY", or for that matter similar Tremors jokes. Well, then again, this is one of movies, or jokes you have to be there for, and light intoxication doesn't hurt.
Goddamnit, I'm still alive.
About a month ago, a good friend, whom I shall never forgive for this, introduced me to the more 'idol' aspects of Morning Musume/Hello! Project. After watching a few specials, and dipping my big toe into the oceans of gigabytes that is the mowota, I ran far the fuck away. My personality and love for cute things kept me coming back to visit said beach once again. Since then, I have used countless hours and hard drive space to similar specials and Momosu propaganda.
Mind you, the only reason I used the above title is that a large factor of the Hello! Project fanbase are Japanese salarymen. Now, if I were to say that a variety of specials or productions weren't directed toward this audience, I'd be lying. To this date, however, there has yet to be a special where Hugh Jackman takes Yaguchi Mari from behind
(which actually doesn't sound that appealing once its spoken). Yeah, I can see it now...
Hugh Jackman: *snick* *snick* *pants fall off* I GOT YOUR SEXY BEAM
RIGHT HERE, BITCH!!!
But seriously, what Van Helsing should be doing is curing this world of two demons plaguing Morning Musume during their peak. Specifically Kago Ai and Tsuji Nozomi
. Now I'm not picking on the infamous two top because theyre the "Idiot Girl" and "Crap Girl." No, this inherent fear is far more deep rooted and has bothered me ages before when I knew Momosu simply as a music group. Just thinking about the imagery right now sends shivers up my spine and puts me into a cold sweat. Those two are sort of like characters from Silent Hill... no, fuck that UFO alien shit... more like Clock Tower. Yeah, like part of the Barrows family.
I can see them now, sitting there with those blank stares, all but mere curtains for their killing instincts. They start singing "Row Row Row your Boat" ala the Da Vinci Virus in Hackers. God, I can here it ringing in my head in that deep, slow electronically modified voice: "row row row your boat, gently down the stream, and if you hear an alligator, dont forget to SCREAM!!!"
AND THEN THOSE BLOODSUCKERS FUCKING LUNGE AT YOU WITH A HUGE FUCKING PAIR OF SCISSORS!!! OH THE HUGE MANATEES!!!
Well, I was hoping to come out with the freakish effect of Bobby Barrows cutting through the shower curtain you were hiding behind with the giant scissors, but it may have turned out like the Nihilists in red tights from The Big Lebowski. All in all, the only things I'd like to do to Kago and Tsuji are depants them during various Mini Moni costumes. No, I dont mean fuck them, I mean take off their pants and run... because some of them are downright awesome
. Fuck, I'd give my left nut (god forbid theyre only for show now) for that one blue jumpsuit with black and white checkered pockets that Mika has on some times.
On similar note, I got back last week from Anime Expo in beautiful California. As my father and I have for the past couple years, we arrive a couple days before the actual festivities start at the con. During this time were either checking out the area, waiting in line for badges, or just watching bad movies and making lewd comments in public areas. The location for AX returned to Long Beach after being situated in Anaheim for quite some time. Now being of legal drinking age, the area around Long Beach, dubbed "Adult Disneyland," was much more interesting. Among various attractions in this area was the Queen Mary, an old 1930s luxury cruise liner anchored and turned into an upscale hotel and tourist attractions. To this day I continue to refer to this place as the S.S. Anne, in hopes a tentacool would fucking kick my dad's ass.
Anyways, on the flight over this time, I showed by dad the Morning Musume Field Trip Special from 2001. Sadly enough he recognized the nine members at the time from the komodo dragon challenge
appearing in an x-mas special. Being the man he is, my father fell in love with the lovable group for reasons I'm sure all of you have figured out by now (despite many of them being legal during this time).
Back on the S.S. Anne, my dad and I are walking around, as he was looking for a bar to indulge in "Thirsty Thursday" as he so put it. We come upon the top level decks, and I admire the view. For those of you not familiar with the weather in CA, its damn nice most of the time. Not only temperature-wise, but also there is little humidity which is like fucking legion in the Mid-west. So, on the deck, here I am admiring the beautiful, sunny weather overlooking the port and buildings of Long Beach. A breath taking site from the dullness and anonymity that is Milwaukee. My dad calls out from behind me, giddy as a school girl "Fred, guess who I am." In which I reply "What, an asshole???" The fucker then jumps up and proceeds to do the iconic dance from The Peace
shouting a bastardized version of "HO~hora yukouze PEACE!!! PEACE!!!" sounding more like "OH, ILL EAT YOU, YES!!! YES!!!"
After seeing a fifty year old man try and pull off something only the Rupan look-alike Okamura Takashi can do, the only thing I could do was fall down and weep. Well, more like facepalm at the time. Worse yet, the fucking sap doesn't think I get his horrible reference. "Aw, c'mon Fred, were on a ship, its funny." AND THEN HE PROCEEDS TO DO IT AGAIN!!! All the while various on lookers from lower decks stare at a kid in a long red skirt and a old fuck whose dancing like an idiot.
Nov. 25th, 2006 @ 10:04 am
While my dad and I are setting up a TV:
Mom: "Does that say 'homie'???"
*dad and I stare at her blankly*
Mom: "Oh... HDMI"
Oct. 6th, 2006 @ 01:07 pm
So... just found out that Im going to see the three Zeta Gundam movies and see Tomino tomorrow at the Chicago INternational Film Festival. Whos going???
First movie starts at noon at Thorne Auditorium 375 E. Chicago Ave. Arthur Rubloff Building, Chicago's Northwestern University Campus. GOGOGOGOGO!!!!
Aug. 28th, 2006 @ 08:57 am
I remember starting this blog (thing), if you will, as a place to record my emotions and feelings during my life. Not only for the public, but also for myself. I was hoping that I could look back and reminisce about doing that, and feeling that. Well, this is probably the only time, and the only place I ever want to look back on.
Today, I say goodbye to an old friend. I use the term 'old' loosely. In the chronology of my life, two years is just a moment. Even in my life, two years is just a fraction. Its just a number to be counted as I sit old and senile in a nursing home, wishing to play "grab-ass" with a nice nurse, but fear the bulldog who changes my bed-pan will bite my hand off.
Despite all of that, these past two years have been the best times of my life so far. Im just grateful that I got to spend them with her.
When I came to Milwaukee School of Engineering, aserbic and paranoid, just out of High School, I remember waiting to meet her. Coming in contact with her before any other person, even my short-lived roommate, she was my first friend. The only person for a while that I felt comfortable talking with in the foerign college life.
Hell, just the first night of our reunion, she gave me confidence to say a lot of things, and we would talk eagerly through out the night. That was, until classes started, and I got to know my roommate, or at least my passion for hating him.
In these two years, she has still maintained my closest friend. Occasionally, we do spend nights just sitting and talking. Not watching a movie. Not playing a game, but talking. Didnt really matter about the subject. Anything would do. We spent long nights organizing school work. Writing reports long into the night, worrying about subtleties...
You know what, in all honesty, I cant do this right now. Im going to have to finish this when I get back. My eyes are bawling right now, and I only have an hour left with her. When I get back though, Ill tell you the rest of the story.
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Ahh, well, this is a refreshing wake-up call from my life surrounded by localized Japanese mediums. Decided to read some Transmetropolitian. Dont know why, just came across it the other day.|
Back at home, after picking up the 10th Anniversary Extended Edition of Mallrats (if theres one thing I hate in this world the most, its paying for a movie twice for 30 more minutes of footage three years later), checked down in my old comic stash of ages ago. Rekindling my youth from over 9 years past, I sorted through the back issues of Spawn, and Marvel Comic Swimsuit issues I matured into a man with, I found some keepsakes of my time. One hunk full of wax paper was a comic entitled "Rat Bastard." Yeah, that shit takes me back. I remember running around at the Chicago Comicon constantly badgering the sorry saps selling this comic as to when the next issue of "Rat Bastard" was going to be out. Yes, there I was, just looking for an excuse to say "bastard" when I was nine. Well, I was more-or-less twelve, but still maintained the mentality of three year old on speed.
The comic itself was but a shamble of pseudo-cyberpunk norms and cultures racked into a body of a 4' 7" rat who collected Pez dispensers. This gray mutant was more or less a dumbed down Doonsebury strip made to look like something which could be animated and put on UPN. Sad part was, is that it was scheduled for creation in that form.
The more and more I think about it, though, is this rat, Rosco Rodent, was probably a better idol than most other characters swarming children's mind back then. Compared to Beavis and Butthead, this guy was a god. Ren and Stimpy, posh, Rosco rules all. Granted I'd have to argue about Powdered Toast Man in hand to hand combat with the rodent, but I digress.
Yes, following the teachings of a bi-pedal rodent in an extreme capitalistic society made me somewhat cynical and too acerbic for my own good, but its better than the alternative. Man, I've known people who have grown up worshipping Jim Varney as Ernest P. Warell. Jesus fuck, Ernest's wacky hijincks may be foolish on the outside, but inside, that man is pure evil.
"One monkey don't stop no show."
Those, the immortal words from "Ernest Goes to Camp" still haunt me to this day. Though his words are as empty as his soul, just the faint soud clip of his voice in the back of my head sends a tingle up my spine. Just thinking about watching Ernest P. Warell saving Christmas, expanding himself to the the customs of Native Americans, even crashing a Batmitzvah, makes me nauseus down to my scrotum.
Ernest's wacky antics remind me of the heady days of Sputnik and Yuri Gagarin when our feeble minds trembled at the sound of televisions. Now we tremble again- at the sound of our it's silence.
But enough about my traumatized youth in the heart of whiteness.
Right now, this very instant I am writing this, just returned from my expedition out of my 8'x11' cubical in the Regent dorm to feed the mighty rumble in my stomach. I have single-handedly hunted my prey and slaughtered it in a bloodbath with my own hands. My body is still shaking from the kill and the fact that I have just spent 1.25$$ in the vending machine. The astonishing thing with said dispensery of eats is that every item within is drastically overpriced by supermarket standard. Hell, even the artery-clogging pretzels doused in salt, protected against the average consumer by 1" bulletproof glass, is fifty-five cents. And that's nothing but pure and simple old-fashioned communism.
Of course, thats what I'd say if I were Jackie Gleason, Burt Reynolds' style.
Anyways, the intriguing thing about this vending machine is that there is one item economically priced before inflation in the '60s. For more or less of my knowledge, the stock is still from the age of Sputnik. Laugh if you will, but this item has saved my life on multiple occasions.
Advertised blatantly as Frito Lay Brand "Peanut Butter," the packaging tricks people into assuming the cheese-flavored crackers is filled with anything but generic-flavored nut paste. The square cracker sandwich thing, six-packed into wrapping good enough for Ms. Daisy, are only twenty-five cents per pack. Granted you can cough down these fuckers, as dry as Richard Kiel, can plenish you better than any "Shit on a Shingle" military rations.
Naturally, with almost any other thing in this rat-infested world, is the catch. Despite being filling alone, these pseudo-cheese crackers make you thirsty as fuck. Aside from sucking up all life and saliva from your mouth, also leave a greasy after taste. The good ol' "one-two." With this extra layer of grease thanks to the peanut paste, water cannot replenish the lost wetness in your mouth. For the most part, nothing aside from liquid good for cleaning engines and killing brain-cells can help you...
...but of course, thats why the soda vending machine is within arm's length from your purchase and only a couple steps from the ATM.
Outside of bantering about the tragic flaws of human nature, whats new in my life??? Oh yes, video games.
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It hadnt dawned on me until now that I've been playing this game of LIFE for twenty and half years, but still haven't had a mid-life crisis. Anyways, I digress.|
Yes, friends, its has been a while, hasn't it. I now return, after my extensive tour of the European nations a changed man. The man you once knew as "That Fucking Douche" is no more, for I have seen the light. You know what, I'm happy about it. I love it. I want to break down the door keeping from the rooftop at the MSOE dorms and scream out to the world. That I do.
Anyways, let me give you a little light into my rebirth. I have found, that in this world, so vast and open, that there is only one true thing that stands out. Yes, those who think we are the only life in this vast solar system, have much to learn.
You see, what I've found out is this: everything in this world, all coincidences, all actions (natural and unatural), all feelings, emotions, deja vu, and the like, are due to a higher power. Yes, all of these are due to Clow Cards.
I can see it now, a man, in his late fifties, paralyzed from the waste down. Everyday he prays for feeling in his legs, so that he, life many of us can learn to walk again. One day, he finds himself no-more a gimp, and can move his legs freely. He skips and jumps down the street like a five-year-old on his birthday. "Thank you, Lord, thank you. After all these years, you've finally heard my call. Oh Thank you." In pops Sakura Kinomoto. "Return to the guise from which you came... CLOW CARD." The man falls overs to find that he was just being led astray by the WALK card.
Yes, my children, just remember, when in doubt, stand up abruptly and yell "I SENSE A PRESENCE... IT MUST BE A CLOW CARD."
Get a bad grade on a test??? Don't worry, you were under the influence of the FAIL card.
Men, do you have a discharge from your penis or a burning sensation when urinating??? Women, do you have an abnormal vaginal discharge or bleeding between menstrual periods??? Well have no fear, this is just part of the CHLAMYDIA card's doing.
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Well, the second year at Milwaukee School of Engineering is done. Well, if you count summer classes as a different entity.|
Hell, I'm happy for all the knowledge that I aquired. Thats the only thing I really have to show for it (aside from a near-dead libido). Oh, I earned it. I spent my life earning it. I got a medal, too, Jack, a medal...
...and a pink slip and a "sorry about your hand."
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Last night was far from enjoyable. Well, maybe that’s an understatement in many regards, but looking back on it, that’s another fucking ballpark.|
As many of you know, I attend college at Milwaukee School of Engineering studying to be a computer engineer (a dying breed by MSOE acceptance rate). As of Thursday night, my Spring break started. From here, I chose to stay far the FUCK away from a majority of school related activities. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy tediously programming opcode and all, but some days, fuck it.
During said break, I had no intention of lifting a finger to work, or for that matter, leave all the working to my harems of obedient sexy coeds. Alas, since I am neither a pharaoh or Girls Gone Wild attendant, this delusion passed as my dad put me to work on the surrounding property. Under the best of intentions, I let this slide, and let the man live without me pulling a Mike Tyson and going medieval on his ear.
As the man left for Las Vegas, I was freed from the shackles of hoeing up garlic mustard or spraying for buckthorn. I receive a call (more specifically an IM, but for dramatic flair) from an old friend yesterday, who expressed an interest in hanging out. I dubiously accepted (word #1 I don’t know what it means, but sounds OH SO GOOD right there) this offer and met up with the bloke. We meet in a while later in his van, very reminiscent of something my dad would ride to pick up underage girls with promises of candy, ponies and princesses all within his pocket.
At first, the blokes intentions were not clear, just meet up with some other friends and razzle the hell out of polar bears or some shit (what the fuck else is there to do in Wisconsin aside from the manly display of strength as you crack a polar bear’s neck with your bear hand, no pun intended). In about an hours time past this point, we have successfully picked up two underage women (more specifically of sophomore high school standard), stopped at two houses and run through a tank of gas. After all the commotion, we end up at one of the girl’s house. The sexy escapades set forth upon us unfold themselves as clear as day: make a home video portraying famous Russian figureheads for the likes of a suburban high school Global Studies class.
Here I am, standing with an expression of horror and despair as my skin turns pale with the violent flash of memories from my own suburban high school days. I flash out of this a second later as my shoulders slump over and a ball and chain fall into place around my ankle. That is, mentally of course. Physically, I’m bright as day and willing to help any young damsels in distress with whatever Principal Rooney throws at them.
We go about our business, while the two ladies chatter on about Kruschev and Rasputin or the like, while me and my friend watch from the sidelines. My friend proceeds to get up, and go razzle polar bears. By polar bears I mean one of the two diligently working ladies, and by razzle I mean fuck. This leaves me and the most timid of timid sophomores to finish the project.
Long story short, Rasputin get films, with no help from myself aside from “SON OF JOR-EL, KNEEL BEFORE CZAR!!!”
Me and my friend leave said place of high school shooting around midnight, too tired (or too frightened) to answer if we’d be joining them tomorrow to finish up the better half of the filming. We proceed back to the friends house, with the intentions of staying up late and playing Metal Gear Solid 3: Subsistence and me pass out on the couch only to awake next morning with such horrors bestowed upon me like a Dirty Sanchez, Cleveland Steamer or Fat Albert.
As my friend proceeds through Metal Gear, he completely defies the basic rules of any sneaking mission and plays as Gabe Logan, shooting the shit out anything that moves. After about three hours of this, and a couple reruns of Yo Mamma on MTV (worst concept for a show ever), I throw up my hands and say “FUCK IT!!!”
At this point, don’t get me wrong, I’m not pissed, or annoyed or anything like that. I may come off like that due to the fact I’m a bitter old man aging in my twenties. But seriously, I was having a damn good time.
What set me off wasn’t annoyance or anything like that, nothing as trivial as mere mortal feelings, no. The point in question was the place which I was sleeping: the couch. Now I have nothing against couches, I love them. Hell, they were more or a family figure to me than Alf, but I digress. The antagonist in question is this specific couch. The one I we were sitting on at the time. To fully understand the horror I felt, you’d have to know my friend, which would take much too much pain and agony to attempt to describe in a single literary document. All that’s really important is that said friend (and I say this in the nicest respects) is a fucking slut. The man would fuck anything with two legs. Trust me, he tried. You know that cripple dog down the street that lost the use of its arms, yeah, he tried to tap it. All niceties aside, he would of fucked Princess Di, before AND after crushed velvet.
But I’m straying from my point, again. What I’m trying to get at is that this couch, this brown and oak wood futon more specifically, was the place of so many horrible incidents. Imagine walking into a haunted house, or the like. Any horror movie, aside from teaching you the black guy dies first, also provides that every single haunted place has one of those ‘80s-sports-montage type flashbacks. On the period of sitting on this couch, I received one of these psychic communcades. Unlike the stereotypical movie, these images were not about the gruesome death of some loving family. Instead, it was the debauchery of so many innocent daughters. Don’t get me wrong, I’m into that whole thing on my own time, but fuck if I’m going to sleep on the resting place of so many dead hymens. Hell, the place reeked of sex, not physically mind you. But if I were to sleep there, fuck, my dreams would be filled of all these maidens crying for help, asking me to get revenge from beyond the astral plane. Frankly, I don’t give a fuck who you are, those images would have scared the shit off of you. Due to this, I said “Fuck it” and walked out of his house.
It was about 2:59 AM right about then, and I go out, with fair ‘adieu’ to my friend. As I walk down the cul-de-sac my friend lives, a very friendly, yet methodical image enters my head. Said image, more like moving picture, is that of Alice’s “Gate A50” (which I don’t know if she would like having posted, so I won’t bother until she wakes up). I’ll attempt to run down the 2 minute and 10 second flick she made while waiting in Detroit airport, in the shortest of attempt. For all respect of the film, it’s a simple portrayal of tourists walking past in one of the airport terminals. Nothing too out of the ordinary aside from the Sambomaster track playing in the background.
During the expedition back to my house (all two and a half miles of it), I began replaying said movie back in my head. One thought drifts to another and I began pondering the deeper workings of this island earth. Being in MSOE the male population is almost completely devoid of all physical female contact (aside from a nice-girl-turned-almost-wino, a handful of BEs and Potsie). In addition to this, I have also become familiarized much too closely with a single group of friends. Not like this is a bad thing, but I have become so, depended if you will, on seeing the same faces every day, distracting me away from expanding my chain of friends. In Laymen’s terms, this simply adds up “I’m too fucking lazy to get my ass out of the house and hang out with some other cats to razzle polar bears with.”
Well, during all of this, I began acknowledging my decline in social skills and increase in social awkwardness in the present situations. Take this night I began talking about. During said time with Ms. Timid-of-timid sophomores, I was shot for how to make conversation. Seeing all the people in “Gate A50” I don’t think I could fare for make a single ounce of communication with them aside from random movie quotes which make up about ninety percent of my daily sayings.
This however is all a build up for my most intimate of emotion. In the procession of my life, I have come upon time in which I absolutely must, and want to tell a woman (or man if the case may be, but bishies are few and far between) my deepest feelings for them. Its just one of those times when I got to grow up. Haven’t I ever wanted anything more for myself? I know I do, this poor hapless son of a bitch does. When I look into my sorry doe eyes and I just, I see a man crying out. He’s crying out, “When Lord? When the fuck can your servant ditch this foul-mouthed little chucklehead body to whom I am a constant victim of his folly, so much so that it prevents him from ever getting to kiss a girl!!! FUCK!!! WHEN, Lord when??? WHENS GONNA BE MY TIME???”
Now, Im not saying that I have to pull this with every person who has a defining attribute between two things: their legs. No, I just have to go and find some fucking courage somewhere in this miserable shell of my body to go up and tell that one person that I love them. Fuck.
Said thoughts always bring up the sad, traumatic childhood I once knew. As of today, we are about three or four days from Easter. When I walk down the grocery stores isles, I can still see the lingering scene of Christianity and revenge for Judas, all in the form of sweet candy animals. This is the one time of the year where the common rabbit is the more popular egg-laying mammal, next to the platypus. Stores are stocked with chocolate renditions of said marsupial.
During my childhood, I had a vivid imagination which still haunts me to this day. Everything I had carried some sort of a ‘soul’ for lack of a better term. You could put a fucking cheese sandwich in front and it would be my best fucking friend. Hell, I’d even move the cheesy bread wedges up and down just to get the effect that it was alive.
Alas, I digress. During the Easter season, I would always acquire a small batch of said chocolate bunnies from families and relatives. Hell, it was enough to make George and Larry proud as they live off the “fat of the land.” Each one of these figureheads would have their own names and side stories as well as a promise that I wouldn’t eat them until some quest is fulfilled. In said time I would cherish and love these bunnies. I would play with them, in their foil-filled shell and hold them close to my chest. However, to my horror, while holding them to my chest, the heat of my body would distort their faces into those akin of Pumpkin Head, or Michael Jackson. I scream out my disgust for the grimace on their face and quickly attempt to clear a patch of fake ribbon grass to lay them down. In the process of doing so, I would attempt to move aside the other bunnies. In the case of those cheap hollow ones, the exoskeleton of the bunny would crumble like Larry and the poor mice. I drop trough right there and go running to my parents, face full of large tear drops sobbing over my lost comrades.
This whole ordeal somehow, remotely links back to my original fear of not being able to tell a woman my feelings for her. No matter how cherished my love may be for that person, the initial feelings of said woman are abused as I become more and more stalker-like for not piping up and telling her my emotions.
The lesson of this story: when dealing with women, as with chocolate bunnies, don’t bother attempting to cuddle and become close with them, just eat them and get it over with.
No, no, just playin, Scooby. Somehow, in all of this there is a deep yearning to get with a woman, if only for a second. Mind you, I’m not talking about duping all these woman into following me and then proceed to shuck and devour the daughters' maidenhood en masse. No, there’s something behind it, but that Ill just leave up to John Hughes and that red head who always hooks up with her dream guy.
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Well, I'm thoughrouly convinced that Yumi Nakashima, of GO!GO!7188 and CHIRINURUWOWAKA fame, has the voice of an angel. Hell, I remember as a boy, a wee lil lad, what I wanted to be when I grew up. Most kids, boys my age would say stuff like "I wanna be an atromanaut" or "fireman". Nonono, not me. When asked the same question I would reply "The husband of Yumi Nakashima". Well, either that or Godzilla, but that was more out of pure hatred for Raymond Burr, and thats beside the point.|
Ok, totally blatant lie. I didnt even know about GO!GO!7188 until first quarter last year at MSOE. Hell, I still have the Jetto Ninjin lyrics up on my wall (next to a dry erase board I havent touched since summer sporting a countdown until AX05 and "June 24 - Ibara").
Anyways, I'm drifting from the point. What my main point for being here is this:
Your pre-registration for Anime Central 2006 is complete. Please visit: http://XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX to print your official confirmation letter to bring with you to Anime Central.
THIS EMAIL IS NOT A CONFIRMATION LETTER! DO NOT PRINT THIS EMAIL.
We look forward to seeing you in May!
Anime Central Registration Team"
...thus (sort of) proving that I will (hopefully) make it to ACEN06, because I know that at least four people have asked in the past couple weeks. Of course just paying the 40 bucks and registering doesnt mean I'm going (Remember Prom of 2003, yeah, Lindsey, no hard feelings but that was fucking low). But on that note, M503 doesnt have a prom... GAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!!!
...wait, thats not... necessarily a good thing... CRAP!!!