12.17.2003

Me...surprised?

So, I'm sick and dying and bored so I just took that IQ test (apparently the real one) at some web site and here are the results...

"Congratulations, Guido!
Your IQ score is 131

This number is the result of a formula based on how many questions you answered correctly on Emode's Ultimate IQ test. Your IQ score is scientifically accurate.

During the test, you answered four different types of questions — mathematical, visual-spatial, linguistic and logical. We analyzed how you did on each of those questions which reveals how your brain uniquely works.

We also compared your answers with others who have taken the test. According to the sorts of questions you got correct, we can tell your Intellectual Type is a Visionary Philosopher.

This means you are highly intelligent and have a powerful mix of skills and insight that can be applied in a variety of different ways. Like Plato, your exceptional math and verbal skills make you very adept at explaining things to others — and at anticipating and predicting patterns."

Between this and my genius nuts, I got bragging rights galore until I walk into a pole again or something. I am SOOOO smurt. SMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURTSMURT

Long Day Pt.1:All Saddam, All The Fucking Time, Pt.2:Baby Jesus: Bornto Rock, Pt.3:R&B:The Formula

Ok, so everything beneath this sentence was written during my 7am to 7pm shift at the hospital where I work as switchboard operator last Sunday, the 14th…quite a long day…

12.14.03
9:47 am
At this moment it is 9:47 AM and I am in the Communications center at TCC (the hospital I sometimes work at as switchboard operator). I’ve been here for two hours and forty-eight minutes now and when I walked in at seven, the radio was set to WCBS, the news station. I don’t know if any of you ever listen to WCBS, but here’s how it goes: Something happens…anything and it is talked about over and over and over and over ALL FUCKING DAY. This story (today it happens to be the capture of Saddam Hussein) is reported, then the weather is given, then a commercial, then sports, then commercials, then Saddam, then traffic, then a commercial, then Saddam, then weather, then a commercial, then sports, then a commercial, then Saddam et fucking cetera, literally, all day. If you are skeptic, try it some time. Then picture yourself locked in a small room with this radio for twelve hours. The only things that changes in these news “reports” are the descriptive terms. “The people of Iraq are: joyous/jubilant/happy/celebrant/horny/dancing/exultant/erect/slimy/tall after hearing the news.” At the start of the day it was simply them talking incessantly about “unconfirmed reports” which they kept reporting until finally some top brass nut sac over in Iraq made a two minute statement…which was then sampled incessantly over and over and over and over. I heard that Fuck Stick G. Paul Willard or whatever say, "Ladies and gentlemen…(pause meaningfully because you know this is the equivalent of the moon landing or the invention of Viagra and you know it will be quoted for THOUSANDS of years to come)…we got him” about nine hundred times. Then there are the sports. Since there are only five sets of scores, they were listed about six thousand times. Then, of course, the absolutely in-depth DISCUSSIONS about the weather. I swear to God that I would rather them try to count the snowflakes than TALK about the snow. Jesus. I hate Saddam more for being caught than for all his atrocities. Then again, they would have just jabbered about some other shit. God I hate things.
P.S. Among the other things I hate are the people who say, “Does this mean the war is over?” almost as many times as, “And now…more on the Capture of Saddam Hussein…on WCBS…dun dun dun…

10:57 am
Okay, so some well-meaning but utterly damned-for-their-crime-against-humanity person just changed the station to…before I say it I want you all to imagine something worse than what I mentioned before…oh and New York City does NOT have any country music stations before you jump to that almost-equally-beshitted conclusion. Did you guess yet? Wrong. The answer is fucking “lite” stations that convert to “all your favorite Christmas music ALL THE TIME” starting November first. I figured out the reason why I hate Christmas music (this kind, at least) so much. It really has nothing to do with my feelings for or against Christmas. Not at all. It has to do with the fact that this kind of music sucks blood-laced shit from the still-warm anus of an obese suicide. THAT’S why I hate it, because it does that whole shit thing. Those goddamned breathy renditions of “Do You Hear What I Hear?”, those fucking twangy-ass versions of “The First Noel”, those creepy pre-pubescent covers of “Little Drummer Boy” and worst of all: any and every song that uses a Casio keyboard to imitate bells, trumpets, violins or any fucking instrument. The list of good Christmas songs is very short and includes the following songs:
First, Prince’s “Another Lonely Christmas.” This song is about one of Prince’s girlfriends who died on Christmas a few years before. Every Christmas since then he “drinks banana daiquiris until I’m blind”. I think it’s amazing to have a Christmas song in which the only thing that is associated with Christmas is loss and death. So sad, so powerful, so lovesexy. Only Prince can make a dead love sexy.
Next, the They Might Be Giants In Holidayland EP. This EP features the songs:
“Careless Santa”, which is about a guy retelling his tale of a Careless Santa. “Bag of money/Was all I asked him for” and Santa delivers…by robbing a bank then dropping the money down the chimney and breaking the guy’s arm. Then, the police trace the money back to the guy who is unable to escape because of his broken arm.
There’s also “Santa’s Beard” which features the line “I saw my baby wearing Santa’s beard/She kissed him once and whispered in his ear/I wish he would go/He’s breaking up my home”. That there kind of sums up the song although there is a lot more to it. Then there’s “Santa Claus” a song by the Sonics, covered by TMBG. This song is about wanting everything for Christmas and getting nothing…for not particular reason. Also, the original German version of “O Tannenbaum” sung slow and sad. Very “all I want for Christmas is my two slit wrists”. Finally there’s “Feast of Lights”, a crushingly depressing Chanukah song about only seeing people around the holidays, but fighting bitterly with them nonetheless.
Also on this short list are two songs by eels. The first, “Christmas Is Going to The Dogs” is a Christmas song from a dog’s perspective. Sounds borderline, I know, but since it’s written and performed by E (lead singer and mastermind of eels, you uneducated floozy) it isn’t corny at all, it ends up sounding ironic and smirking, plus, it, like the next song, rocks hard. There’s also “Everything’s Gonna Be Cool This Christmas” which sounds, just like “Christmas Is Going to The Dogs”, borderline corny, but again since it’s eels, it is anything but. The title is not a true fact, but more a fevered mantra muttered by the singer in order to assure himself that, no matter how bad it was last year or the year before “everything’s gonna be cool THIS Christmas”, but based on the lyrics, sarcastic and biting and intoned with such contempt and disbelief, he can’t quite convince himself.
Aside from these, there’s a Beck song called “Little Drum Machine Boy” which is indescribably and stratospherically funky. Funkier than James Brown’s underwear.
Those are the only songs with lyrics that I will tolerate/enjoy. As far as instrumentals go, wow, that’s a dangerous country. Since most instrumental Christmas music drives me into a genocidal rage (due to the aforementioned fucking Casio keyboard mutations) but there is something excellent in this field: The Vince Guraldi Trio’s score to “Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown”. This soundtrack is made up of tired old Christmas songs played softly and subtly by one of the greatest Jazz trio’s ever and it also features the funniest/creepiest Christmas song I’ve ever heard called “Christmastime is Here Again”. That is the only original/vocal track on the album. Everything else is bass, piano and drums- REAL bass, REAL piano and REAL drums, not a Casio in earshot.
See, pretty short fucking list, and yet I still hear abysmal R&B versions of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas”, “fun” bluesy permutations of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” and more shit in that same vein. Then there are the “funny” or “clever” Christmas songs; parodies and “kooky” Christmas songs like “Christmas in Hollis” by Run DMC and “Grandma Got Run Over by A Reindeer.” These “funny” songs serve only to insult, bore and enrage the listener. And personally, I feel that “Christmas in Hollis” is the reason the guy from Run DMC was gunned down, but that’s just me. Oh and P.S., all of those “A Very Special Christmas” CD’s? I feel that each and every participant in these should be given AIDS for making life that much worse for those who are going to be alive for the twenty or thirty thousand repeat playings. Those AIDS patients are lucky! They just get a letter signed by this famous people saying, “Hey there!! Sorry you’re dying of a terrible disease, but don’t worry, the pain and agony you feel now will be visited upon the world ten thousand fold once we record this fucking album. You’ll be long gone and hopefully the news that this atrocity shall be committed will make you feel better about dying! Best Wishes, Vanessa Williams/Elton John/ Yo Yo Ma/Simon etc.”
And “Jingle Bell Rock”? No. No no NO! “Jingle Bells” should NOT be made to “rock,” it should stop and be forgotten. Just fucking end. Bam. Done.
With all this terrible music floating around and stabbing us in the brain, is anyone really surprised that the suicide rate is so high? I’ll tell you one thing, no one is slitting their wrists because of Jesus, they’re doing it because of goddamn Kenny fucking G and his skin flute. He should wrap his lips ad the barrel of a shotgun and record that.
And Elvis donga Christmas song? Fuck that! He’s as Christian as Satan’s gay, heroin-addict brother. Why the fuck didn’t he ever record a song about jerking off to fat girls in white cotton panties wrestling? It would have meant more. Then John Lennon doing that creepy “drugged children on backup” song? Why the hell would he write a song about Jesus’ Birthday? He’s bigger than him. Asshole.
You know, one of the biggest problems is that there isn’t a shitload of Christmas songs to begin with. That’s why there are about eighty different shitty versions each of the dozen of so songs that exist and the rest are shitty original works. The one thing I will support wholeheartedly is Jingle Dogs. That’s some dope shit.

“I Hope That I Get Anal for Christmas”
By
Guido Paparazzi

Verse 1
The tree is up, the snow is down
Even Ebenezer couldn’t wear a frown
The kids are all thinking of that Santa clown
But not me, baby, I’m dreaming of your brown

Chorus
I hope I get anal for Christmas
I really hope that I do
I hope you’ll let me baby
Let me stick it in your poo

Verse 2
The town is dressed in flashing lights
Even the Grinch wouldn’t put up a fight
Hon, you shouldn’t be afraid of my Manly Might
Please let me get anal tonight

Chorus

Verse 3
The children are sledding, you can hear them shout
They think they know what this season’s about
Well, they don’t, but I do, without a doubt
Now I’ll put my penis where the poop comes out

Chorus

Verse 4
Oh how I love you let me count the ways…
What? You think ‘cuz I like the butt I’m gay?!
You crazy, babe, you don’t know what you say
I guess I’m just a Pirate of the Hershey Highway

I’m just coo coo…for poo poo…

5:28 pm
So, some hemorrhoid turned the radio back on, but to neither “news” nor “shit”, at least not Christmas shit. It’s the local R&B station. I’m not writing to blast the Blacks or anything, that’s www.kkk.com/blasttheblacks . I’m writing because in the past half hour, forty-five minutes in which I’ve been forced to listen to WBCX I’ve figured out the mathematical formula to making successful R&B.
Now we all know that R&B stands for Rhythm (which this music has, but then again if you fart regularly enough, so do you) and Blues (there’s nothing “blue” about these artists as far as “sadness” goes because every one of these bastards make more money than God, who’s worth about 6.2 billion) but what we don’t know why these high school drug dealers/drop outs/deadbeat fathers/another stereotype make so much money from it. Well, because of the FORMULA.
{a + b + c = z}
Now “z” can be a few different things, but since this IS a mathematic formula, “a”, “b” and “c” must always be the same. Here we go:

a = Title of song, repeated over and over throughout duration of song in a breathy, sometimes harmonized voice.

b = Spoken/crooned/whined/moaned lyrics rife with very thinly veiled sexual terminology and utterances of incitation and/or approval such as “Woo!”, “Yeah!”, “Come on!”, “All right!” etc.

c = A slow, 4/4 beat, usually constructed on a child’s synthesizer (i.e. “Playskool’s My First Keyboard” or “The Keyboard for the Mentally Handicapped”)

Although there is the OPTION of adding elements to the formula, as long as your R&B song is comprised of “a”, ”b” and “c”, your result will be “z”.

As stated, “z” can equal different products; here are some of the most common results:
z = financial rewards (“bling-bling”), vaginal secretions from stupid women (“juicy hos”), plus others.

Just thought I’d share.

12.17.03
12:23 pm
There, no matter how boring you found this, I had to live it, so shut up and die.

12.13.2003

Beck

I just wanted to take a moment to say just how amazing Beck is. Beck is, by far, one of the funkiest White men ever created. Midnite Vultures is the ass-shakin'-est album I own and Sea Change is one of the most chill, beautiful complex yet simplistic albums I own and they're both Beck, although aside from the vocals, you wouldn't be able to tell. He's just the shit. That's all I have to say. Yeah.

12.09.2003

A note on the previous entry...

How's this for strange...I spell checked the entry before this one because I don't want the world to know that I can neither read nor write nor spell and during the course of the spell check, "Kaitlyn" came up, as did "hm" but "cum-butt" was apparently already in the computer's data base. I don't know what to infer except that maybe Bill Gates likes to cum-butt? Who knows. He's a freaky little schwab.

You're not dead yet...congratulations.

Birthdays come but once a year...actually, that would have been a lot funnier of I had said: Birthdays cum-butt once a year...and then have some pictures of people with party hats shooting man milk on people's asses...yeah...wait, what the fuck am I talking about sex for? This is about Kaitlyn...and her Birthday. As I said, Birthdays come but once a year and thank fuck for that. Kaitlyn has been "asking what we're doing on a certain day" for nigh on eleven months (I know, I've only known her for about three or so, but god damn if she doesn't make a day seem like a motherfucking week...) and the answer is JACK FUCKING SHIT! “Jack Fucking Shit” can also be pronounced: I've updated my web site with a special Birthday thing for you so stop bitching. It all depends on where you're from. So go and look at it. Feel special and remember...this is your present.

12.07.2003

Meanwhile...

If you don't get this, don't feel bad...just feel left out. Like when you walk into a room and this person is right in the middle of a great story that could never be told again as great as it is being told right now. ..because that's exactly what this is...the greatest story ever told (no, not the fucking bible)...already in progress...
It was not cold at all. Three figures found themselves around a white Formica table. A strange man walked up to them, seemingly unaware of what had just happened. He asked them what they wanted, when he received no replies, he said he would be back in a few minutes. No one was the first to speak. Of the three, one was floating, deep in meditation, one was looking around intently with one finger in his ear and one was sniffing the new environs. All were puzzled, all were silent. Then, the floating one spoke,
“There is a disturbance in the Force.”
“No”, dissented the one with the finger in the ear, “It’s a computational error within the Matrix”.
The third dissented with confused grunts mostly then began muttering, “The ring…the Master’s ring….herm….herrrm…”
There was another silence, as palpable as any lack of sound can be, and then the source of the disruption that called them to this place seemed to throb again and all three of them froze, sensing it. The floating one ceased floating, the one with the finger/ear kinship broke the two apart and the sniffing one desisted sniffing. They all heard dark, bubbling laughter and this is what seemed to focus them all upon each other.
“GuiDiRico?” they all said.
Then again, slower, and singularly
“Guido?”
“Dirk?”
“Rico?”
They stared. Then they started. Then there were many hugs, quite a few slaps and an equal amount of tickles, despite the lack of Prince (they had all, on their separate paths, discovered and come to understand that even though Prince might not be playing or heard at a certain moment or at a certain location, he had at one point been played/heard at some time and at some location and therefore existed throughout all time and space from the Beginning of Everything to the End of Everything, meaning that there really was no such thing as a “lack of Prince”, so more correctly…) despite the lack of Prince not being played/heard at that particular moment and at that particular location, and once the hugs and slaps and tickles had ended, they began again with a feverish intensity only known to those with fevers well above 103 degrees (Celsius) and an intensity well above 3. Finally, the feverish intensity took some metaphorical Tylenol and they all stopped hugging and slapping and tickling…and began talking…to each other…
“Like the suit, Guido” intoned Rico.
“Thanks”, responded Guido, “I like the ceremonial robes.”
“Ah,” blushed Rico, “these old things?”
“Yes” said Guido.
“Oh” unblushed Rico. “Thank you.”
“And Dirk…” said Guido, turning to Dirk “…like the…armor…?”
“Hey, thanks! It’s Hobbit skin.” chirped Dirk.
“Killed them yourself?” asked Rico.
“No other way.” answered Dirk, smug and proud and covered in Hobbit skin.
“With the…uh...” Guido gestured at the huge axe that was resting next to Dirk.
“No other way.” Dirk repeated with smugness and pride and I’m-wearing-Hobbit-skin-itude.
“Speaking of axes,” segued Guido, “what is that thing, Rico?”
“Well, I’m glad you asked that Guido,” infomercialed Rico, “This here is a Light Saber.”
“Sweet,” screamed Dirk, “Where’d you steal it from?”
“Oh, I didn’t steal it…it’s mine.”
“Huh?” inquired Guido.
“Yup, it was given to me by my very own-
There was a loud burst of static and then the strange man (who turned out to be a strange waiter named RJ or something) appeared.
“Ready yet, fellas?”
Guido looked at the menu and then at RJ.
“None of this is real.”
“Uh…” said the waiter, “So you don’t want anything?”
“Not exactly…there isn’t anything.”
“Ok…how about you, Robe Man?”
“Excitement…adventure…a Jedi seeks not these things.” responded Rico calmly and then sat, silently smiling at RJ. RJ pretended not to see Rico and then turned to Dirk with his eyes running up and down the huge axe at Dirk’s side.
“Stop your eyes from doing that!” cried Dirk, “And bring me the skins of all your bean crocks”
“Yes sir!" wept RJ as he scampered into the kitchen.
They turned their attention back upon each other.
“So…where the hell have you been, Dirk? And where did you get that huge axe…is it a replica-“
They all stopped for a moment at the mention of the words “axe” and “replica” in the same sentence, lost in a memory that was bulbous, meloneous and good, all at the same time.
“No, this one’s real. I got it from the leader of the Southern Orc tribe. After that whole clone thing, I was pretty shaken up. I went traveling, looking for a green, glowing door and, sure enough, I found it. I only had two choices- go through and continue the adventure or don’t and don’t. I found myself in Middle Earth. I hung out at this bar and one night this little midget was talking smack about making fun of fat people. ‘They’re people too!’ and all that crap and then he started going into detail about how he and his fat wife have intercourse! I was sick and it was either throw up my grog that I had paid good money for or shut that bugger up…so I did.”
“Which one?” Guido asked.
“Both, actually. Then some greenish looking guy ambled up to me and started grunting and, since I was drunk I had no idea what he was saying, but next thing I know I’m in the Army…the Orc Army. One thing lead to another and eventually I was given this huge axe. How about you, Rico? You were saying something about your Light Saber.”
“Not really much to say. After the clone thing I wanted to find out more about clones so I went to NASA and asked them. They put me in this machine and, boom, I’m in this temple and there’s this shriveled puppet floating in front of me. He’s looking all expectant and so I ask him about clones. He started gurgling and then taught me the Way of the Jedi. After a while I became a Jedi Master and I was given this here Light Saber. Pretty sweet, huh? Reid would be jealous as all get out.”
“Hell yes!” sang Guido.
There were 85 high fives before the conversation continued.
“How about you, Guido? Tell us about the suit…and those bitchin’ shades.” implored Dirk.
“When my clone died in my arms…I was pretty fucked up by that. I started buying drugs from Derek and then, one night he and I went to this rave and this chick walks up to me and starts whispering in my ear, something about reality and bugs and Laurence Fishburn…and then, BAM! Her head explodes.”
“What?” whated Rico.
“Yup, pow. So I’m standing there, covered in this chick’s head and these bad ass Sam Jackson looking motherfos stride up and I say, that was phat. Do you guys know about the Fatty patrol? Because we do stuff like that but with harpoons and fat people and- then, the first guy cuts me off and they offer me a job as an Agent. I was pensive to say the least, but then they gave me my gun.”
Guido reaches into his suit jacket and produces a hand cannon about a foot long.
“Holy fuck!” explicated Dirk.
“The holiest,” replies Guido, grinning, “and after I saw that, not to mention this awesome suit and killer ear piece, I was sold.”
“Sounds like fun.” says Rico.
“But how did you get here?” asks Dirk. “How did any of us get here? I was about to slaughter these Madison trolls when I was just…here.”
“Yeah, I was dueling with Darth Bev when…yeah, I was just here.”
“Same with me…I was chasing down Heneo, the Hairy One when zap, here…wait” said Guido, “Where is here?”
An instant or two after Guido asked this, RJ appeared out of the kitchen. Guido, forgetting that RJ hadn’t been there an instant or two ago to hear the question pulled his hand cannon out of his jacket, pointed it at RJ and shrieked his question again. RJ filled his pants with someone else’s fecal matter and collapsed.
“Man, that is so inevitable,” said Guido, holstering his weapon of mass destruction.
“Wait, look! said Dirk, pointing.
The unconscious and shit stained waiter was wearing a paper hat that read “Steak ‘N’ Shake”.
“No way!” roflpuked Rico, “Steak ‘N’ Shake? Why the Hoth are we here?”
Before anyone could answer or ask why he would refer to Hoth so randomly, the dark, bubbling laughter came again.
“I feel it again…the disturbance in the Force…” said Rico.
“Yeah, and I’m picking up an error in the Matrix again.” added Guido.
“I’m sensing the Ring, man.” multiplied Dirk.
They went outside and all turned in the direction of a nearby housing development.
“Whatever it is, it’s definitely coming from there…” started Guido.
“but…wait…that’s…” he turned to Dirk, he was nodding.
“That’s Heathrow Woods…that’s where I used to live. But more importantly…” he looked at the others, “That’s’ where we found the Gates of Hell. I have a bad feeling…”
“Well, they are the Gates of Hell, Dirk, I mean it’s hard to get a good feeling about them, now isn’t it?”
“Damn it, Rico, I was being clichéd, do you mind?”
“Oh sorry,” sorrowed Rico, “It’s just that I get so lonely…”
There was a pause.
“What?” asked Guido, curiously.
“What?” said Rico, “It was a clichéd, funny thing to say.”
“Half right…” mumbled Dirk.
“What was that, Orc Boy?” growled Rico.
“Uh, nothing,“ hurried Dirk, “Hey, let’s make this a ‘to be continued’ point, what do you say? I mean, we’ve been reintroduced and this is a pretty good cliffhanger. Plus, it gives time for the writer to come up with what happens next.”
“Hey, I have a pretty looses idea about what’s going to happen next,” typed the Writer, “I only ever have a loose idea in these cases, but I am pretty hungry and the Simpsons are on pretty soon. I think I’ll stop down at the Deli and get a hero. So, yeah, good idea, Dirk.”
“Aw, my pleasure.” awed Dirk.
“Good.” typed the Writer.


TOBECONTINUED

P.S. Biggest downside to Live Journal...the inability to preview journal entries, fucker.