Is it just me, or does it feel like my brain is melting?

30 04 2008

You know, in case you haven’t noticed, I try not to do a whole lot of “serious” blogging. I try to keep things as stupid as possible light and humorous in tone as I know how. This is mainly for selfish reasons–because I’m a depressive and get bummed easily–but also to keep you slavering cocksuckers my readers entertained. It’s not that I don’t care about or discuss serious issues; it’s just that they don’t appeal to me as much as the stupid and strange things in the world.

Having said that, this video is one of the most awesome and powerful things I’ve seen in a very long time. Keep in mind that I’m including both Batman Begins and the video of Danny Bonaduce dropping Johnny Fairplay on his face in that summation.

For those of you too lazy or technologically unequipped to actually watch it, it’s a video of a lecture by neuroanatomist Jill Bolte Taylor as she describes the events that transpired while she suffered a fairly serious stroke. For those of you too stupid to understand the import of that sentence, it’s a video of a lady describing, in lucid detail, the time her brain started bleeding itself out into her fucking skull. That, my friends, is beyond anything you or I could ever imagine.

What’s so amazing is that she was able to function, albeit in a severely limited fashion, enough to be able to call for help. I can barely use the phone when I have a migraine, let alone a full-blown stroke. The level of intelligence she must possess has to be astronomical; during and after a stroke, your overall brain function is considerably diminished, so to function on the level of an average person during one is pretty damned impressive. Besides, how often do neurologists get to observe brain phenomena from a first-person point of view?

Now, the way she describes the discorporated feeling she had is reminiscent of a particularly spectacular psilocybin trip. The perception of increased size, euphoria, motor function distortions, and the feelings of intermingled epiphany and confusion delineate a shockingly accurate recount of one or two fairly heavy psychedelic mushroom frolics I have personally experienced.

This isn’t to say that they’re equable–what with the partial paralysis and pronounced brain hemorrhaging–but it’s still a little disconcerting to see even those few similarities between casual recreational drug trips and a major, potentially deadly neurological event. Contrary to the prevailing opinions of my friends and family, I wouldn’t recommend either to you, my dear readers.

Maybe one day I’ll write about the craziest mushroom trip I ever had to deal with–the climax of which mainly involved driving…on the freeway…at night…in a rainstorm…with all of the damn windows down–but not tonight. For now, I’ll just leave you with that video, and a couple words of wisdom:

Psychedelic mushrooms, for all their demonization by various anti-drug propaganda movements, are capable of rendering a person into a state of unimaginable happiness and cosmic understanding. Moreover, it’s practically impossible to not have a good time, so long as they were all “good” mushrooms, and not the kind that will cause immediate renal failure and eventually an ugly death. If you’re feeling down, or have too many loose threads in your mind that distract you from your God-given right to be happy, take a ride on the mushroom trolley.

Do not, on the other hand, assume that LSD is in any way comparable to psychedelic mushrooms. That kind of thinking can lead to psychosis, suicide, and a pronounced increase in falling out of thirteenth-story windows screaming “I can fuck the sky!”. That’s a pretty stupid thing to do, since you can’t fuck the sky. Even if you could, the ground is a little bit more discriminating in allowing people to fuck it. Generally, when falling from that height, the ground fucks you.

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On second thought, R.E.M. is much better than stomach cancer.

30 04 2008

I had a friend in high school who hated R.E.M. I don’t mean that he just kind of disliked them, or that maybe Michael Stipe pissed him off once at a gay club in Seattle; no, he outright despised R.E.M. I never understood why, since I’ve been a fan of theirs since I was a little kid. My dad was heavily into The Carpenters, Stevie Ray Vaughn, and R.E.M. I got into them by listening to his copy of the Monster album–you know, the most accessible one for a kid my age–and I immediately dug it.

My friend, who has since gone on to hate such varied acts as The Dandy Warhols (whom I like) and REO Speedwagon (whom I don’t, but really, he’s a little late to hate the Wagon), had compared them to having stomach cancer and eating a fistful of habanero peppers. Now, I can’t think of many things more painful than that, but R.E.M. isn’t even on the close-seconds list. Maybe an extended Rush listening session with Alex Lifeson sitting beside you describing gay bestiality porn while hitting you in the kidney with a reflex hammer is close to my friend’s comparison, but not really.

I picked up the latest R.E.M. greatest hits album for eight bucks the other night, and I haven’t stopped listening to it yet. It’s awesome, if a bit lacking, as most greatest hits albums tend to be. There are a few personal favorites I would rather have seen on the playlist, but for eight dollars, I’m not going to bitch too loudly. One thing, though: It’s the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine) is not one of their best efforts. It’s good, and damned catchy, but God Almighty annoying after one or two listenings. Love Hurts is another I would feel better hearing less of, but even it’s not nearly as grating as (And I Feel Fine). Maybe it was the ubiquitous trailer to…what was that movie again? Dammit. Mid-Nineties, something about aliens, Randy Quaid dies in a plane crash…

Shit. Okay, never mind.

Independence Day! Oh thank God. That could have kept me up for a year thinking about the title to that damn movie. Anyway, if you’ll remember, that song was like the anthem for that movie, only it was played not at baseball games, but every thirty goddamned seconds for a year on every single channel available for human viewing. For me, that will ruin a good song every time.

As I said, the new R.E.M. greatest hits isn’t mind-blowing, but it’s worth it for the price. Why not pick it up and intentionally not listen to two or three of the tracks?

Alternately, you could buy it, crank up that song on repeat, and spend the rest of the night making alien-killing sounds while your neighbors’ kids hide under their beds.

So, in summation: R.E.M. is much better than having stomach cancer and eating a fistful of habanero peppers. Just take my word for it.

EDIT!

Okay, because I am a multi-layered cosmos of stupid, I need to clarify a few things about this post:

1) The album is called “The Best of REM: In Time, 1988-2003”.

2) “Love Hurts” is not on any REM album ever sold to anyone, ever. That’s by Nazareth. I’m sure you all knew that. “Everybody Hurts” is a much better song, with the added bonus of actually being an REM song.

3) That song is not on this album. I just assumed it was for some unknown reason.

4) That reason  is that I am painfully, crushingly, mind-bogglingly stupid.





Sure-footedness is not a state of mind

24 04 2008

It’s a good thing I wasn’t born a super-villain. If I had been, then many people would die on a fairly regular basis. I like to think that there would be a steady stream of super-evil atrocities issued forth from my sinister lair, rather than just one big ‘ol “Ka-boom! There goes Miami!” kind of thing. Also, utterly obliterating Miami would be like a second Holocaust, since the place is fairly brimming with elderly Jews. That’s just not for me.

I’m pleased that I’m not a super-villain, and also not a super-hero. That would simply be too much pressure, like having sex with George Clooney. I’m also pretty glad that I was there today to witness one of the truly pivotal moments in human history. These times only come along every so often, and those who are around to see them are surely blessed. I’m speaking, obviously, of watching a young man about my age take a fairly graceful tumble from about fifteen feet flat onto solid, unfriendly concrete. It was, in a word, majestic.

In several more words, it was also completely fucking terrifying. Some carrier of a particularly virulent strain of dumbass decided to go prancing atop a row of plate steel racks without the benefit of a) a hardhat, b) a safety lanyard, and c) awareness of the force and theory of gravity. I do the same thing all the time, but, for reasons evidently unknown to the poor now-misshapen sap, I rarely lose my balance. I credit my intense dislike for having things on my body forcibly rearranged as the leading factor that keeps me head-up and not in traction.

Anyway, the guy was just hopping and skipping–yes, literally skipping–on top of these racks while attempting to satisfy some as-yet unknown purpose. I was watching from the safety and comfort of a forklift driver’s seat some thirty yards away, all aquiver with trepidation and, I admit, some measure of excitement. It just seemed inevitable that something bad should happen to the poor fucker. Firstly, he was breaking more-or-less every applicable safety rule, especially the one that states “Do not skip on top of things”; secondly, he was wearing a Creed t-shirt. Karma is a wheel, and also despises Scott Stapp.

Anyway, I had only been watching for about a minute when he fell. He either misjudged the distance between the floors of the racks, or lost all motor function while skipping like a bearded schoolgirl. One second the asshole was up in the air, the next he disappeared from sight. It happened in literally an instant, like diarrhea farts.

Well, long story short, he got hurt pretty badly. I’m almost positive his clavicle was broken, but I can’t be sure. There were far too many unnatural angles in that area to be certain. He’s a pothead, so he’ll lose his job, and he’s a temp, so there aren’t any unemployment benefits. I’m just glad he wasn’t one of my minions. I won’t even begin to tell you how hard I would kick their asses for that level of stupidity.

How does all of this relate to the superhero angle? Well, simply put, if I were a superhero, I would have been able to dash the thirty yards over to him the instant before he fell. Not to prevent it, though.When the gods are handing out object lessons, I stand clear. Mainly, it would have been so I could have had a front-row seat to a fucking fabulous pratfall.

Seriously–kudos, my good sir. Kudos.

Dumb-shit.





It’s 3 a.m. and I must be lonely

24 04 2008

Just kidding. I’m not going to get all maudlin or post Matchbox 20 lyrics. It’s just three in the morning, and I’m wide-fucking-awake. That probably won’t be the case two or three hours from now, since I’ll be at work.

I pulled a muscle in my back this afternoon by dragging around whoever-is-reading-this’s mom, and couldn’t get to sleep. So what did I do? Why, I took two of my brother-in-law’s migraine muscle relaxer thingies, of course. Two of these little red and white bombs make him “loopy”, so I should be flat-out circular in a little while, since he outweighs me by a good forty pounds. Oh well, at least my back won’t hurt.

Anyway, I wrote a thing about the dog. It’s on the laptop, but I’m not, so you won’t be reading it tonight, by God. It’s kind of funny, I guess, in a weak sort of Garrison Keillor kind of way. Speaking of which, have you ever seen that guy? Christ Almighty. I wrote a thing about my pug, then immediately referenced an author who looks like one.

Don’t believe me?

     

There. Told you.





Fine, I’ll give the baby back.

22 04 2008

Sorry I haven’t been updating like I should. You guys are like family to me, seriously. Well, if you discount the fact that I never (well, rarely) discuss anal sex with my family, then we’re practically cousins. As it happens, I’ve been neglecting you for a good cause: this guy’s blog archives have kept me from your grabby, suffocating, loving arms for the noble cause of selfish entertainment.

And now for a witty segue!

*whispers offstage*

Oh, okay. Ahem. And now to completely change subjects without so much as a second’s warning!

There’s nothing more apt to make me sick with glee/sickness than the thought of stolen babies. I can’t remember what made me think of this–maybe I read something about it earlier?–but I just wanted to go on record as saying that I do not support the theft of infants for personal gain. If by some strange set of circumstances someone should steal a baby in the name of charity and humanity, well, I could get behind that, I guess. Just so long as there’s no money changing hands, I’m peachy keen.

Speaking of stealing babies, I’m still looking for a job in the town to which I’m about to move in little more than a month. Holy fuck, is that right? A little more than one month? Christ Almighty, I’m beginning to panic. Or rather, I should be. At the moment, I couldn’t give a shit if I stole someone else’s shit and was simply looking to make a quick buck.

Too many nights where I only get two or three hours of sleep, followed by nine straight hours of work with barely a breather, have turned me into something resembling a zombie. Well, a zombie who doesn’t eat brains and is vehemently against the theft of infants for personal gain. Just so that’s clear. Some zombies have no social mores.

I’m not one of those.

Goodnight everyone.





It’s always important to remember…

22 04 2008

That if you have rancid Italian-food gas, release it when your boss’s boss is not standing right in front of your fan.





I hope you go blind. Seriously.

18 04 2008

There is a time and place for everything, guys. The Byrds said it much more prettily than that, but the concept is the same: there are appropriate venues for specific actions. Tennis should be played on a tennis court. Crack should be sold in the ‘hood. Anal sex should always be performed–always–in the butt. When one or the other of a proper couple is altered, the universe becomes imbalanced, and has to right itself by giving us television shows like Lost, and by inventing ass cancer.

Having said that, I swear I caught a minion jerking off in the bathroom today.

I won’t go into too many details, because we all know what jerking off is about: not so much the “jerking” as the “off”. Suffice to say that I went searching for one of my wayward minions today, a kid who conveniently wanders off whenever there’s work to be done. After about twenty minutes, I ended up quitting the search on the reasonable, mature, wholly defensible grounds that I had to take a massive dump. By “wholly defensible” I mean that no one in their right mind would ever require me to prove my assertion that I had, in fact, taken a massive dump. However, I digress.

Upon entering the shop bathroom–one toilet stall, one sink, one urinal–I noticed a pair of (safety-write-up-worthy) Nike basketball shoes swinging around haphazardly beneath the door of the toilet stall. The toes were pointed straight out, like someone stretching early in the morning, which is completely understandable; the only problem was, it was almost lunch time.

I didn’t stick around and watch the show, because I would like to achieve at least one more guilt-free erection before I die, and there’s no way I could ever a) get it completely up, and b) have sex with The Girlfriend without the image of a self-abusing minion popping into my head.

Obviously, I didn’t want to call his name or knock. I’m usually pretty polite about things like that–when and if they come up (accidental punnage, sorry)–but remember, I had to unload a book-of-the-month-caliber steamer posthaste, and this little jerk-off (sorry again) was wasting valuable clean pants time. So, before I left the bathroom, I did the only reasonable thing I could think of…

After a stern talking-to from my supervisor’s supervisor, I was compelled to apologize to the man I had terribly embarassed by my insensitivity and lack of couth.

“Sorry, Garrett,” I said sheepishly.

“That’s okay, Kenneth,” Garrett cheerfully replied around a massive lump of chaw in his lip. “I know you weren’t trying to pull nothin’ over on me.”

“Yeah, but you know how it is…”

“Hell,” he retorted gleefully. “If it had been me, I’d have sent Barbara in there after ‘im!”

Yes, Dear Reader, you understood that correctly: “Garrett” is not my minion, but a regular employee who has been with my company for thirty years. He is also a Vietnam veteran, gun enthusiast, and a devout lover of snakes. That last attribute came in handy when I told him that there was a big-ass snake in the men’s room, but I couldn’t figure out whether it was a king snake or a moccassin.

It took maybe ten seconds for the entire event to transpire, but it was worth it, if while viewing only from the sidelines. Garrett had burst into the bathroom with a broom and small wastebasket in hand, and a full-face welding mask on with the tinted lens pulled up. He looked, in short, fucking scary.

Garrett assured me that the scream from the bathroom most likely came from the minion, who may or may not have been actually jacking off. Garrett wasn’t sure, since he was looking at the ground for the snake. The minion was so embarassed, I assume, that he took the rest of the afternoon off, leaving without even getting his paycheck.

All in all, I’d say it was a good ten seconds spent wisely.