Larry Graves

Registration fun

So today I had to go in to see the head of the English department to get some classes set up, since the online registration had already been filled by the time juniors were allowed to vote. Basically, the process involves a whole lot of groveling and explaining the hell out of your situation in the hopes of generating a little ball of pity somewhere in the department chair's soul (questionable existence anyway, but what other choices did I have?). The result was this conversation:

Me: I just entered the education program, so my class schedule is limited from working with that. Also, I need to work at least 10 hours a week to be able to afford to go here.

Chairwoman: Well, it sounds to me like you've made a personal choice, and that you just don't want to work with the classes available.

Me: What? You mean the education program?

Chairwoman: No, of course not.

Me: So then...my job? But I have to work, or I can't afford my rent.

Chairwoman: Exactly. You've made a personal choice, and I can't do anything about scheduling problems that are choices. I can only help if it is something you can't change.

Me: ...

]]> Of course! I understand now! At some point in my past, I chose to not have the resources to be able to afford to go to college without having a job. How silly of me to forget that fateful day when I picked not having money over unlimited wealth. Now I fully understand your decision to assign me a class from 11am to 12pm, when I would typically be at work doing something other than screwing people over.

And sadly, this is not an opinion that is contained solely within the English chairwoman's wretched soul. In fact, this seems to be the norm here, with most of the students and professors just kind of assuming that anyone that goes here is comfortably nested in a big, green pile of their daddy's money. Case in point, an extra credit opportunity for one of my classes involves going to Chicago to see some musical or other. Ticket price? "Oh, not much...around 40 or 50 dollars."

WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO POOR COLLEGE STUDENTS?!?

I do seem to recall stories being told by friends and acquaintainces not many years my senior...and if memory serves, most of them involved a lot of cheap noodle-substitute, bought in bulk, which could easily be bought with the proceeds from a part-time hobby of collecting cans. But then again, those were the early years of 2000...we have progressed so far since then! Then, we had only XBox. Now, we have XBox 360! What do you mean it doesn't really do anything different? It has extra numbers in the title, DUH! Everyone knows that makes things better! I mean, come on...how else could you explain the exponentially increasing awesomeness of the Rocky series? Hell yeah, the new one will be the best yet! It has a roman numeral six!

In some sort of bastardized conclusion, this episode serves to support my theory that small liberal arts schools are not, in fact, located in the same space-time continuum as other colleges. Or, for that matter, the rest of the known world. God, sometimes I hate rich white people...

Soup

As I was eating a bowl of Chili today in the Writing Center, I added a number of crushed saltine crackers to the mix. As I poked it with my spoon, I realized that I had effectively transformed my Chili from a soup to a paste. And, as I contemplated that most miraculous of chemical (or physical? Who knows?) reactions, I felt a glowing sense of superiority over that cup of formerly liquid soup. I'm pretty sure there's a life lesson in there somewhere...but I really have no idea what it is. That, or I know that on some level, the realization within that experience would depress me to the point of drowning myself in the ice cream bucket that just won't stay frozen in my mini-fridge.

]]> The food service of Rolla has failed the athletes of the college. Since most of us live in the Quadrangle complex, thus being closest to Rayl, we traditionally eat there in packs. But this year, the People In Charge of Giving Students Financial Deep Dicking (PICOGSFDD's for short) have deemed us unworthy of nutrition. Sadly, however, they continue to give proper food service to the already overweight population of the TJ dorms at the other end of campus, thus heightening the already strong probability that some day soon, the building will simply collapse in on itself and kill the people who play Dance Dance Revolution in the lounge area (which, by the way, should be a Sin, since there is a perfectly functioning foosball table about 10 feet from where they pretend to be social). At any rate, they serve us no buffet style breakfast anymore, resulting in a near catastrophic weight loss on the parts of many athletes (which further unbalances the campus, since the hefty folk reside on the other end).

In other news, we had "steak" tonight...which is what they call chicken that has been charred beyond all hope of any flavor save that provided by "A1 Charred Chicken Sauce."

Return of the Thought Process

Yes, oh fellow English enthusiasts and subscribing psychopaths, it is that time of year again. No, not the onset of goblin-fairy crossbreeds wielding pickled zucchini for a change of pace...nor the time when Hollywood will create a movie entirely free of the ravages of "remake-ism". No, rather, it is the time of year when I, Larry Graves, return to the land of college. For those that require translation, that means roughly that I now possess the precise amount of free time required to spend hours crafting these blog entries while emptying my mind of all unwanted thought matter. Hooray! Let the corruption commence!

]]> Before I begin relating...well, whatever it is that I choose to relate, I wish to begin with a strong statement, possibly bordering on the exclamatory. I don't like ferrets. I know that there are many ferret lovers out there, including my own older brother, but I simply can't stand them. To me, ferrets look like what happens to rats that end up on the losing side of a battle with a rolling pin. They are vermin, plain and simple. And they smell...they smell of cardboard mixed with ferret litter (or whatever you call the stuff they relieve themselves in) and mold. They also gnaw on their cages, which is something like Chinese water torture, except that it would be something along the lines of "Mongolian ferret gnawing sound torture," which doesn't sound nearly as menacing or mysterious. I do believe, however, that if the Inquisition had utilized such a method instead of that tiresome "Iron Maiden" and "The Rack" business, there would have been far more spontaneous confessions (and combustions, for that matter).

I was at a car show earlier tonight, viewing a number of foreign Speed Racer-esque cars with little more than overt indifference, when I saw a sight that brought me back to my days with Sesame Street. Everyone must remember that classic song..."One of these things is not like the other, one of these things does not belong..." as the screen scrolled a bunch of slot machine rows of pears, followed by something subtley different like an orange. Well, at the end of an entire row of sleek, sexy, neon glowing penile length enhancers, there was such a sight. It was an ordinary black pickup truck from all appearances, until one looked under the hood. Yes indeed, there was a racing style engine, complete with enormous, shiny, round air filter on top of the engine. Seeing that truck out there with all the foreign speeding ticket molesters was something like seeing an Engineer in the library. It doesn't really stick out, but all the same you just know it isn't really supposed to be there. (Post Script Notation: I'm back to ripping on Engineers, since as of Sunday I will again be hearing the same old "ha ha, you'll be a poor teacher without a big house" comments. Hey...at least I'll still have my soul, right?)

That's another thing...cubicles. I have a friend who has been working in a cubicle for over three months now, and he just has this look now. It's kind of like the look that panthers and tigers get in the zoo...utter boredom that results in a loss of interest or awareness of life. Why on earth would anyone ever subject himself to that? It's like sticking your hand down a running garbage disposal to see what happens. Cubicles are like cages, except that any self-respecting animal who found a door-sized opening in a cage would run the hell out at their first opportunity. Only people actually stay in the damned things.

Oh, and as a random but semi-necessary update, the day upon with I unleash the Tides of Doom from the Ancient Tome of Pastrami on Rye grows nearer.

Yay! I'm back to inflicting my thoughts on the realm of cyberspace!
::Does a happy little GIR dance::

Mario Forever

As of today, I have discovered something new and exciting...again. Although it cannot compare to the glory that is Equilibrium (see previous entry), it is still worth at least a few humorous blog paragraphs of description. My new finding is a game called "Mario Forever," created by some gaming studio in the year 2004. Apparently, some blessed soul in the Buziol Games company decided that, since Mario has been popular since its release in October of 1985, they should resurrect it in a Windows format for all the bored college students in the world, so as to provide a new excuse for not doing homework and reports (for which we thank them kindly).

]]> So, Super Mario Brothers Forever is a graphically enhanced version of Mario that combines all of the versions together in a very strange way. Mario the original contributed most of the level designs, as well as the ever-present 'shrooms that make Mario feel about six times his normal size. From the original also comes the funny flowers that give Mario the severe indigestion and acid reflux required to vanquish his shroom-like enemies in spherical bursts of bouncing flaming death. The flowers, strangely, have now become epilepsy-inducers, since they flash more unidentifiable colors than a visualizer trying to deal with DJ IO at 245 bpm. The effect is the same, of course...Mario gains the ability to clear levels with style and ease, as well as being able to survive more hits.

Although much of the game remains intact, there is one glaring inconsistency that profoundly bothered my future roommate and I. Upon smashing Mario's head into a floating block, I was rewarded with a bizarre vegetable that rather strongly resembled a Mycon Podchild from Starcontrol 2. On a whim, I decided to let Mario eat said pod-fruit, and he gulped it down with apparent glee. He immediately sprouted a tuft of plant growth that looked kind of like the ears he used to get from that red maple leaf in Super Mario 3. Then, when I hit the fire key, I was shocked to discover that Mario had gained the ability to throw a newly devastating weapon...bouncing beets. Yes, beets. Large, brown, tufted beets that bounce back and forth three or four times before giving up the ghost and descending into the nether realms beneath the screen. Since the original Mario Brothers must have been conceived by someone on an acid trip (e.g. the ENTIRE game taking place in a plumbing system with castles), I can only wonder what the beet-makers were taking at the time.

Amazingly, the game is actually quite difficult during boss-time. To the beat of incredible techno, Mario must jump on Bowser's head four or five times before he falls into the lava pit, only to return the next level. The firebolts that Bowser fires are directionally challenged, since they move all around the screen. Also, fireballs pop up from beneath the bridge, making killing the bastard damn near impossible. I'm convinced that being able to beat ANY of the Mario Brothers games will result in an improved outlook on life...namely, that after beating Mario Bros, absolutely nothing in life can compare in difficulty. Either that, or I'm quite possibly the most pathetic creature on earth, having found myself quite unable to pass through level 3 of any of the games.

Curse you, Mario!

Equilibrium

I'm not entirely sure why this movie isn't more widely known, but having just seen it, I can honestly say that "Equilibrium" is one of the most mind-numbingly incredible films that I have EVER seen. Couple that with the fact that it has an orgasmic soundtrack, and I think it may well rank as the best cinematic experience that I've ever had from my computer. Anyone who reads this blog is now obligated to see the movie in some form, simply because not doing so should be against moral law.

]]> "The Matrix" has absolutely nothing on "Equilibrium" in any sense, including the massive scale of ass-kickery that reduced my teammates and myself to a state of drooling admirance. Though The Matrix does have some rather inspiring martial arts scenes, they pale in comparison to the fighting found in Equilibrium. I haven't the slightest idea how, but the producers managed to take gunfighting and turn it into a unique kind of martial art that I can only describe as "Gun Fu." The main character routinely manages to destroy crowds of gunwielding hostiles with unparalleled style and "badassness," leaving the viewer with a marked desire to acquire a jacket that automatically reloads one's firearm while simultaneously providing hidden slots for said firearm. Incredible. Simply incredible.

I won't say anymore about the movie, save that everyone on earth should be legally required to watch it at least once. As for me, I'll be seeing again tomorrow night, and the night after, and the night after...

The reasons why...

So I think I may have discovered the reason that so many people choose to partake of mind-altering drugs on a semi-regular basis. My theory has a lot to do with social conventions and current acceptable lifestyle choices, but a lot of it has to do with experience. Well, more accurately, the act of experiencing, since that becomes the center of all mind-altering drugs anyway. In any case, read on.

]]> To begin, we must first understand the society in which we live. Currently, we are expected to be eternally progressing through an increasingly meaningless heirarchy of social status, with the position of "student" being suspended somewhere in the leftmost regions of Limbo. Yes, for it is we the students who simultaneously prepare for the future and are the future. So, since we really don't have any way of dealing with this seeming paradox, we get a social moratorium for a few years of our lives. But, I digress.

In our wonderfully consumer-driven economy, activity is idolized, and laziness is generally frowned upon. Oddly enough, television watching is considered a form of activity by the masses, but the activity of which I speak is of a more productive nature. We must ever be striving to further ourselves, increase our knowledge base, expand our vocabulary, and generally rise toward the elusive status of either Expert (with a doctorate) or accepted Renaissance Man (by which I mean excessively opinionated dilettante...or to be more trite, a "Jack of all trades, but Master of none"). Thus, we are driven to succeed, and to prepare for success, because we know of no other way to make a life for ourselves.

Add into this equation the fact that religion has fundamentally changed in America since its inception in the notorious form of Puritanism. Now we are a country that features a number of nearly disparate religions, but the majority of our country subscribes to Catholicism and related sub-sects. Now, these religious institutions seem almost universally to have accepted the policy of "Live Life, Love God," in that order. For how can anything spiritual ever hope to compete with the encroaching "Day Upon Which Bills Must Be Paid" which haunts every family in America? Leaving aside the sometimes lamented claim that consumerism is fundamentally incompatible with any sort of religion (save possibly the power-seeking forms of Black Magick that reside in dark-background webpage chatrooms), we are still left with an incomplete acceptance of spirituality, which leaves something of a void in the average person's consciousness.

Truly, I believe that we are living faster than the speed of life. In our hurry to accomplish what must be done, we neglect to notice the very things that make life worth our ever-so-precious time. For example, sitting in a chair, or on a floor, and just feeling the universe around you, or experiencing the ebb and flow of the currents created by music.

As a result, it is up to the individual to either find a way to slow down his or her own life (which seems more or less impossible), or to otherwise find an alternate source of temporary subduing the speed of existence. Only when abusing (which, for reference, is usually defined as ANY use, no matter what quantity, of a forbidden substance) mind-bending drugs like marijuana or other depressants can the individual ignore accomplishment for a sufficient duration so as to truly experience life. Not the life that they must confront, mind you...merely the life that exists regardless of every social attempt to destroy it. The life that says that finding a different perspective from time to time is not only okay, but is an imperative for deeper understanding. And drugs do provide exactly that: a change of perspective for the user. For a time, the eyes of man become transcendent, and suddenly the user is experiencing existence through the eyes of everything, with no thought or situation beyond consideration. If that isn't an opportunity for greater understanding, I don't know what is.

I can't say that I approve or disapprove of drug usage, because I can get myself in quite a bit of trouble by going either way. But I will say that, for the first time, I think that I understand the appeal, or even the need.

Writers Trance

This is my "writer's trance," the place where all but me are suspended in a pure blue ocean, defying the gravity that binds us. And thus, mortality is not my predator, stalking my adventures with promises of a reversal of body dance movements undulating with ribbons of golden hair...

]]> "This is what you get" says Radiohead...but that's just the problem, isn't it? We're all trapped in a glowing green orb with clear skies making a marble with the blue. A blue little marble that a universal kid plays with in a spectacular game of conquest. The same conquest that comes of the acceptance of the fact that all we are is NOT, in fact, all that we can be. Our luminescence is limited only by the knowledge of our opacity. But are we truly opaque? I think that each soul has a blinding ocean of essence with the ability to manifest itself in other ways...the way you can see a person crying, and feel the colors that they experienced fading to the eternal white that claims us as captives. And that is the white light that we must escape. Darkness isn't good or bad, but rather a change in perspective. So, to truly become, we must first succumb to the shadows.

Facebook: The anti-school

Today, I was introduced to the newest addiction of the college population. More destructive than the perscription drug abuse for the use of studying, and more time-consuming than the ever-present life-ruining influence of Hardcore Gaming, this recent addition to the college scene is wreaking havoc on both social lives and GPA's. And this new danger is none other than...Facebook.com.

]]> TheFacebook is the collective brainchild of Mark Zuckerberg, Eduardo Saverin, Dustin Moskovitz, Andrew McCollum, and Chris Hughes. They define TheFacebook as "an online directory that connects people through social networks at colleges and universities." The project seems to be the response to another similar networking program called ConnectU, which has all but fallen into the forgotten cyberspace void of the unpopular dot-coms. The premise is that you can join TheFacebook, enter loads of personal information about yourself, such as where you went to High School, what your major is, and what bizarre interests you have in order to be able to contact friends from high school and people from your college that you may not know. All in all, it's not a bad idea, since many friends that go to different colleges tend to drift apart somewhat, which can be a very unfortunate loss.

The problem with TheFacebook is not in the fact that it encourages college students and high schoolers alike to keep in touch with each other. The problem is something deep-seeded and much more insidious. I believe that, somewhere hidden in the endless lines of program code making up the website, there is something evil that is slowly taking over the youth of America, and potentially the world. That something is an addictive quality that compels teenagers to spend countless hours on the website altering people's "walls" with phrases reminiscent of the trite phraselets scribbled in the yearbook attempting to summarize all of the feelings shared in around three sentences (unless, of course, you were one of those inconsiderate bastards who decided to take up an entire page with your unreadable cursive purple script. If Dante were alive today, I'm convinced you would have your own circle). At least with yearbooks, however, you only got one chance to spill your innermost longings to your friends. On TheFacebook, you can do it as many times in one day as you wish, leading to a ceaseless assault on walls in the everlastingly meaningless quest to be the "last revision," or most recent posting.

The second, even more devious inclusion on TheFacebook is the ability to create and join "Groups" for yourself and your friends. Group titles range from "Beer" and "Your Mom" to the increasingly popular "I went to a public school...bitch!" that has been spawning chapters in every major college network across the nation. Visiting some people's profiles, I was shocked by the sheer volume of groups that some people belonged to. There are some people that have managed to belong to upwards of 50 groups! I don't think there were that many separate activities throughout my entire high school, let alone my college! But even worse is the "My interests" profile section, where one can include every single thing one has ever been even vaguely interested in, from milk bottles to "Yeah Toast," and far, far beyond into the realms of (*Shudders*)...Inside Jokes. Yes, Inside Jokes have terrifyingly found their way into TheFacebook...those quasi-humorous creations that aren't amusing to anyone on the outside (which, by the way, is the majority of the world). It has excalated to the point where, on some profiles, almost 90% of the interest material is incomprehensible to all but a chosen few, although one still feels quite compelled to try anyway.

Another, even more disturbing quality of TheFacebook is the randomly spawned sympathy one feels for the geek at your high school whose pants you stole in gym class as a weekly ritual when he requests to join your friends list. To date, I have not met a single person who has reported the ability to "REJECT" the requests of anyone, even the people they loathed with fiery passion in high school. How is it that TheFacebook has eliminated the barriers felt between cliques in High School, one might be compelled to ask? The answer is rather simple...utilizing detailed lines of code, TheFacebook has rendered all registered users into the same psuedo-human entities with only the desire to have many friends, and belong to many groups. In a very frightening but very real sense, TheFacebook has taken us all back to the first year of middle school, when all that mattered was being popular and well-liked, for which we would be willing to give up even our sacred Zebra Cakes.

I was checking around online, and the most recently updated statistic is that around 1,314,665 people are currently registered with TheFacebook, which is more than the entire population of Maine. Yes, my friends, that is WELL over one million damned souls who have been sucked irreversably into the graphical realm of cyberspace, never to return to the real world. It truly is an addiction, regardless of what the creators will tell you. Just wait, ladies and gentlemen...it's only a matter of time until the addiction of TheFacebook spawns the oldest cure known to social workers: The 12-step program.

So the question remains: is there hope for humanity, now that it has been beset by the evil powers of TheFacebook? I do not know, but the future does not look bright. Every day, more users are pressured into joining TheFacebook, selling their souls to the cyberspace gods in exchange for the few phrases pasted on their "walls" from friends whose names they would not otherwise have remembered. And every day, the dark powers that reside just behind the computer screens in a 4th dimension linked somehow to vacuum sealing cry just a bit louder, knowing that soon, very soon, they shall burst forth and claim all the loyal followers of TheFacebook as their own devoted slaves, promising all the groups and friends anyone could ever hope to contemplate.

In response to these growing powers, we must begin a rebellion of epic proportions! I call each and every person with any humanity yet unsullied by TheFacebook to join me in combating the power it brings with the ultimate weapon in our arsenal: moderation. Do not dedicate your lives to TheFacebook, as it will bring nothing but faceless demonic beings from behind your computer screens! Leave your room, and your Facebook Friends, and seek out new life, and new civilizations (well, not the civilizations...but living, breathing interaction with fellow humanoids is REALLY helpful, I promise). Break free of your chains, and reclaim that heritage which is your birthright! (For those of you who don't quite know what that is, I'll give you a hint. Actually, I'll tell you outright. A SOCIAL LIFE!) Only through the reinstating of human to human contact can we stave off the voracious advances of the Cyberspace Gods...and then, we shall be free, and we will have the ever-elusive secret to life-spanning happiness...SKIN COLOR!

P.S. Swearing fealty to the Laundry Gods doesn't hurt either.

The Apocolypse

Current Mood: Rather quirky
Current Song: Day by Day - Five for Fighting
Current BAC: 0.00%, unless Trident is guilty of false advertising
Current Political Status: Leaning toward the Cthulhu party, actually
Current Location: Dorm Room
Current Pet Peeve: Giant tree branches

Alright...I just thought I'd give that a try. I figured hell, if everyone else with a blog thinks that their readers actually care what they were doing while writing, why not? I hope this has given you some profound insight into the innermost workings of my mind...and that said knowledge has not twisted YOUR mind into something resembling mine.

]]> I was chatting with a fellow English major earlier today, and we got to talking about the Apocolypse (don't even say it...or think it, for that matter. We actually do discuss the eventual destruction of the world, probably because we have to live with Engineers...so remember, when we set loose the Tides of Darkness from the ancient Tome of Pastrami on Rye, it's your fault!). Anyway, I was thinking, and I've come to the conclusion that, centuries in the future, when archaeologists are busily studying our civilization trying to figure out what the hell went wrong, they're going to look at the onset of reality T.V. and say "That's it! That was the first sign of the apocolypse!" In particular, I think the point of no return was the first airing of "The Simple Life" with Nicole Richie and Paris Hilton. I truly don't think any society in history can claim so colossal a blunder as that. Screw the burning of Rome, man...we're using electrical warfare without even detonating EMP devices!

In other news, I recently discovered the fact that I have entered the favor of the Laundry Gods. For some reason, they are pleased by the fact that I introduced their legend to the general public, and as such have rewarded me in the most thoughtful of ways. When they take the socks of college students as tribute for their greatness, they no longer hoard them. Instead, they deposit the entirety of their collection into my washing machine load of whites! I became aware of this fact when I returned to the laundry room, anticipating that my whites would have finished. Instead of finishing, the massive overload of socks (and there were pink ones!) in the washing machine managed to unbalance the entire thing and shift it half a foot off of its resting place. So, at least I'll never run out of socks. In fact, I may be able to set up a business selling the long-lost mates to other people's socks...make a tidy little profit. All Hail the Laundry Gods!

Interesting quote of the day: "Man, I'm sick and tired of voting for the lesser evil. Cthulhu for President!" - the unnamed fellow English major.

Use of the period?

So, as promised, I now deliver a series of words interrupted by not a single finishing punctuation mark, which limits me to the following: commas, ellipsese, colons, semicolons, quasicolons, and the little known microcolon, which although invisible does seem to permeate the papers of certain students who are incapable of avoiding the run-on-sentence, leading to an annoying presence of words that should simply stop; hence, my invention of the microcolon, the invisible punctuation mark that simply must exist if such papers are to be made sense of...bringing me to the topic of LEARNING punctuation for engineers, which I feel should be a mandatory course upon beginning classes at Rolla since I recently read an engineer's English 60 paper, which was full of a whole bunch of sentences that didn't make much sense together, like the example I will now imitate: "In the late 2000 years ago, the Chinese martial arts develop into the philosophically-based defensive systems found in modern martial arts throughout the world of today..." and it gets worse, leading to an impossible to avoid headache...

]]> I bet you just thought that the ellipsis counted as a finishing punctuation mark, but it really didn't...I just didn't want this entire massive sentence to clog my homepage, primarily because there is a lot of other stuff there that tends to amuse people and lead them to leave comments that make my glowy and...you know what....I'm done with this sentence...it makes me sad.

A series of Kennings

After learning about Beowulf, and the various techniques used in its creation, I have decided to utilize a few. As a point of clarification for the somewhat less informed and/or interested, Beowulf is an epic poem about a warrior and his myriad deeds of glory, and our only copy of it was a transcribed version, since it used to be an orally transmitted folk history kind of story. Now, it's significant because it gives us a great insight into the origins of English as a language...not that most folks reading this will care, since English is, after all, "a useless waste of time". Hmm...not only is that insult to English in the language itself, but it's also redundant...I guess that's what happens when one's native language is "arrogant prick". But, I digress.

]]> I have decided to make use of Kennings, which are phrases used to depict certain people. For example, Hrothgar the King is referred to as the "helmet of Shieldings", referencing his protective responsibility to his people. I figured heck...I could do that! For example, I could make up a kenning called "He Whose Discontent Springs Eternal," and any English type that read it would know exactly what it meant, while the person it refers to would have at best a sneaking suspicion that it was intended as an insult. I can come up with more, as well...such as "He Whose Certitude Never Falters" and "Spurner of the Fair". Isn't this fun?

In other news, I was informed today that words and phrases can have sexual orientation. I was aware that nouns and such had Gender in languages like German and Spanish, but I had always thought English rather lacking in the department of linguistic genitalia. Apparently, I was gravely mistaken, as it turns out that all of the sexualities that mammals demonstrate are also mirrored in their words. For example, the phrase "I'm beginning to think I've sprouted horns," I have been assured, is most definately homosexual in composition. I don't think I yet grasp the fundamental concepts behind lingual sexuality, but can you imagine the implications?

For one thing, this would entirely explain slang. I had always suspected it to be the misbegotten progeny of some unholy union, but now I might be able to prove it! If the word "waste" can be considered masculine, and the word "breath" is taken to be feminine, then the word "of" could be inserted between the two words as a symbol of interaction, most namely verbal intercourse (trans. Word Sex). So the result of the union resulting from "Waste of Breath" is slang! I can now understand why the stubborn perversion of language refuses to cease its conquest of American culture...it's resentful of its parents, since they most certainly paid him little or no attention in his childhood. This is Slang-baby's way of getting back at his parents for his miserable upbringing! Eureka! Now, I must find a time machine to stop that union from ever occurring...I shall bring with me a Giant Eraser with the power of removing corruption where it appears.

On a completely non-related topic, I was just listening to a song called "Myelin Year," and I suddenly realized that without having taken Introduction to Psychology, I never would have realized that "Myelin Year" is a really quirky way of describing a rapidly passing span of time. And here I thought that I would never use psychology in my everyday life...silly me.

Well, my energy is more or less spent in the linguistic areas, which means it's about time to begin studying.

Tune in Next Time for...

As Many Words As I Can Coherantly String Together Without The Use Of A Single Period!
(AMWAICCSTWTUOASP)
(if you have any idea what the phonetic translation is for that monstrosity of an acronym, feel free to let me know. Comments are open!)

A poetic, and ridiculous, rendition of something.

There once was a man of an average height
Who was forced by his job to work quite late at night.
And this man of the world by the name of John Paul
lived his life in a box at the end of a hall.

John Paul had a Master's of Chemical E.
His proudest achievement had been that degree.
He told himself it would equate with success,
and that money would show him as one of the best.

]]> So he conjured equations to solve problems dark
like the chemical outcomes and value of Quarks.
And to solve these equations was all he could do,
for his task was to make the most perfect shampoo.

"'Tis noble," he cried, "to keep humans so clean,
to distinguish ourselves from the low and the mean!"
And with statements convincing himself of his worth
he set out to find secrets of substance and earth.

So it happened one night while John Paul was at work
that he happily deciphered the secret of dirt.
For he figured that how to remain truly clean
was to find the reverse of all substance obscene.

"I will show them my genius, I'll dazzle them all!"
cried the man in the box at the end of the hall.
And he ran to the lab to create his own dream;
the perfect shampoo for the perfect deep clean.

But he sadly forgot the first rule of Chem E.
He forgot to bring goggles and apron, you see.
So when John Paul reversed all the substance obscene,
he reversed himself too, and became truly clean.

To be truly clean is a vacuum of dirt
and a vacuum's abhorrent to old Mother Earth.
So she got a bit angry at poor young John Paul,
that man in the box at the end of the hall.

She sent all her minions of dusty intent,
and on dirtying John they were all quite hell-bent.
So the minions of dirt swarmed about poor John Paul
and they ruined his box at the end of the hall.

In the morning, when John Paul's coworkers arrived,
they startled to see him just barely alive.
For the minions of dirt had done all that they could
and had coated John Paul in a mass of brown mud.

His coworkers tried everything in their power,
but finally had to give John Paul a shower.
But when water came down with its icy resolve
John Paul in his mudball completely dissolved.

As his coworkers watched John Paul circle the drain,
they wondered at who they would next have to train.
So the workers continued, with sighs at it all,
to their own little boxes at the ends of the hall.

This story does have a moral, if you were wondering...but I'm not going to tell you what it is, because if you can't figure it out, you're either not looking hard enough, or you are yourself destined for a little box at the end of a hall. BAH!

This, my daily waffle

It's a strange life, being an English major...I truly think that I reside in an alternate plane that just happens to parallel the one that everyone else lives in. I look at things, and I am amused because I think of how they could be framed within odd phrases. For example, I wondered today how I would describe the perfectly horizontal mustache of my English 60 teacher, before I decided that he rather reminded me of Yoda. He's short, he has really odd syntax, and I think he has been alive since the beginning of research papers, because he has created a hybrid form of MLA that must have come from the deepest, darkest pits of hell wherein a chilly Satan lies.

]]> At the moment, I'm listening to a trippy little techno piece that has phrases from the original "Battlestar Galactica" series in it. I remember watching that show when my dad used to be obsessed with it, and I always wondered about that gigantic robotic dog. It was kind of like Scooby Doo of the 25th century, except that its sidekick was a timid little shit of a manling who always seemed to get himself abducted or otherwise in trouble. I hated that show...I watched it post-Babylon 5, which had the supremely awesome Vorlon ships. For anyone who watched that show, you know that those ships were the coolest things EVER. EVER!

Have you ever felt like the generation gap has become a chasm of epic proportions? I have felt this way of late...because I cannot escape the eternal "mothers-that-have-become-bored-with-their-lives" enrolled in my classes. I have absolutely no idea what business these creatures have in education, especially since they still use the phrase "all growed up." Note the improper usage of the NON-EXISTENT FUCKING WORD! I absolutely loathe the woman in my Adolescent Psychology class...she makes this horrid references to her childhood (which, by my estimation, took place sometime shortly after the second Ice Age), all of which take the form of idiotic and irrelevant statements phrased in such a way so as to make all English majors wince in excruciating ear-induced pain. If I knew how to use the World of Warcraft Banish spell to eject her from this plane into an ethereal one where large W's and X's could chase her for eternity, screaming lessons about how to use her native language...

Ah, wishful thinking. Isn't it lovely?

Large Rodents in Sparkling Pants Eat Waffles.

I have returned.

Rejoice, oh happy subscribers to my insanity, for I have returned from my out-of-blog experience to spread ever so much more joy to the world (or at least that small part which is willing to revere me as some form of deity, even demi).

I suppose I should begin by relating some of the more memorable experiences from my winter break. Firstly, I shall mention in semi-passing that a 10-day break is simply not long enough to enjoy properly, and having to swim through the whole thing doesn�t much help one�s chlorine dependency. Secondly, I will be obvious in stating that family vacations do not, under ANY circumstances, count as relaxation. But nevertheless, my family outing resulted in an interesting story to tell!

]]> While I was out �celebrating� Russ�s recent graduation from college, I ended up at one of his friends� apartments, where I was rapidly introduced to a fascinating ritual of White culture. There, in the ridiculously luminescent artificial lighting, I encountered �Donkey Konga.� Now, for those of you unfamiliar with this particular religious exercise, it is more or less a hand-intensive version of Dance Dance Revolution. You receive an electric set of bongos that allow you to hit either with your right hand, your left hand, both at once, or clap. Then, little symbols on the screen flash across and let you know when in the song you should be whacking which part of your sacred relic. It actually seems kind of like a class��How to have Rhythm: a special in-depth study of rhythm for the hopelessly melanin-deficient (which, for you non-English majors, translates roughly as the �very white�). Do not underestimate this game, however, for if you do, your hands will be tingling for well over a week. Tapping is infinitely preferable to Clapping.

Well, now that my interesting Winter Break memories are out of the way�(just kidding�there were actually a few of them, but most of them involved relatives and such, which isn�t exactly appropriate subject matter. They get touchy when I mock them too often). Seriously though, my first few days of classes here have been nothing short of hilarious.

Monday was relatively uneventful, but Tuesday was amusing. I was informed by my English 60 teacher that I�m the first English major he has had in class for the last four years, since he has been stuck with engineers and computer science enthusiasts. Four years! Truly, that has to be about as close to Hell on Earth as any English type can come. Spending four years surrounded by people who think that �language� is a type of Italian pasta and �literature� is something that gets done to your teeth�*shudder*�I can only imagine.

Today I was in the weirdest class of my entire life. It was American Gothic Literature, and the teacher is an 80 year old with no capacity for holding sentences in his head. In 50 minutes, he didn�t finish a single sentence. The girl in front of me was being driven absolutely batty by this, and she started supplying him with words when he couldn�t think of them on his own. Sadly, this did not have the desired effect, and when he heard her words, he would get a very blank look on his face, and then start up on a completely different topic. Poor girl�I don�t think she�s going to make it.
That�s not the worst of it, though. The old coot decided sometime during class that Gothic literature can be compared directly to pornography. He started expounding on the way that pornography can be arousing in real life, and that horror literature can have effects on life as well. Then he proceeded to inflict a story upon us about a time he went to a drive-in movie that turned out to be a porno with all the sex scenes cut out. What diabolical fiend would DO such a thing? More to the point, what 80-year-old man thought it would be a good idea to TELL us about it? The answers to these questions and more after these messages.

Caitlin Keirney, the author of �Low Red Moon�, has a blog. And in this blog, she uses the word �Frelling� at least twice. Farscape reference!

Going back to the topic of the evils related to being an English major at an engineering school, I have finally had enough of the crap some of my teammates give me for being passionate about something creative. To them I say this: Yes, you will make more money than I will. Yes, you will have a large house, and yes, you will have a nice car. I truly hope those thoughts comfort you when you are trapped in that efficiently made, structurally sound, perfect set of ninety-degree angles that constitute your entire waking life. In the meantime, I will be munching buffet style in the teacher�s lounge discussing fine poetry with people who actually ENJOY their jobs. Now, if that wasn�t quite clear enough because I used too many syllables, try this: �Fuck off, and get off my back�.

So, in conclusion, I can only hope that my once reverent audience of humanoids across the Midwest has not completely dissipated due to my long lack of original input into my blog. And if it did, then this is kind of like talking to myself, making me more or less certifiably insane. So please, save the men in white coats from making a long and boring trip down to the �Middle of Everywhere�, and read my blog!

Gnomes! Angry Gnomes!

Lately, I've been experiencing the supremely irritating phenomenon of gnomish tampering. And yes, before you ask, I do have a *slight* preoccupation with gnomes, resulting from an experience with a frightening midget clown painting my face when I was young. Anyway, I've noticed that certain things are occurring which seem to have no natural explanations (which, by philosophic standards, makes them miracles unless I can find another reason for them, which is exactly what I intend to do).

]]> Although I must entertain the possibility that this Gnomish Horde is in cahoots with the Laundry Gods, I currently believe them to be entirely separate entities. Their existence can be traced back many years, to when the first shoe was invented somewhere in Mesopotamia. There, where a young man with unbearably soft feet decided to attach leather to himself with tendon strings, the first gnomes were created. For, you see, the Gods at the time (not the Laundry Gods, mind you...they came later) decided that if Man were to be protected from the cleverly placed sticks and stones designed to prevent Man from spreading himself throughout all nature, then Man should be forever plagued with a heinous malady...that of "Stones Eternally In His Shoes".

And so it was that, having no feasible way to lodge said stones firmly in Man's shoes, the Gods created the Gnomish Horde to do their bidding. The Gnomish Horde's chief occupation was to be the placing of stones within Man's footwear, wherever it might appear. The Gods, in their infinite wisdom, made the Gnomes both Immortal and Extremely Short to aid in their semi-holy quest. And so the Gnomes have persisted in their duty throughout the ages, occasionally branching out into various economic ventures designed to acquire a large amount of wealth with which to pelt their Archenemies, the inexplicably flamboyant Leprechauns.

The best way to ward off the ill effects of the Gnomes (short of simply not wearing shoes) is to leave many crumbs upon one's floor so that they may feed, become fat and happy, and eventually become so obese that motion becomes impossible without a downhill slope. That said, floors must be kept level to discourage their travel once obese, since most Gnomish Stone Placing takes place in the residences of Man. So for all of you that criticize my floor for being a bit grainy, know that I shall be happily free of the plague known to Man as "Stones Eternally In His Shoes". And aren't you all glad you have me to tell you about these things?

"Who the hell let Petrified Cheese form in the first place?"