WHO WAS THAT MASKED MAN???

I just finished perusing a few of the other blogs that this site has to offer. Sometimes, I find it really interesting to read about complete strangers' lives. It sort of reminds me of postsecret, even though the blogs that I have accessed have been anything but confidential. In spite of the very personal writing, there is a distinct anonymity that comes with reading that ramblings of a person you have never met, and likely never will meet. I hope that like myself, the unrecognized authors out there get a little satisfaction from the prospect of complete strangers reading their musings and relating, if only for a fleeting moment. I realize that I might be a little idealistic and pretentious to think that a stranger may gain any sort of insight or satisfaction from reading the tripe that I publish, but I do not care. When I first began writing this blog, I didn't care one little iota whether or not anyone read it beyond myself. However, time makes fools of us all, I suppose. Now, I get a little comfort when I think that some anonymous individual out there may someday read my little insignificant corner of the internet, and perhaps, possibly, maybe enjoy it.

THE THINGS WE COME UP WITH AT 1AM

I was having a conversation with my friend Ryan last night over an independent film from the seventies and a few beers. The topic of conversation was literature and writing. We discussed what it takes for an individual to become proficient at writing. Since last night, I have given consideration to our discussion, and have reached the following conclusions. Writing is something that you are either good at or you aren't. Sure, there is room for improvement in all cases, and practice is always necessary to keep a mind sharp. However, I am sure that most knowledgeable people would agree with me when I say that proficient writers have an innate ability to relate their exact emotions to large amounts of strangers with little to be lost in translation. This is something that cannot be taught, although it may be refined. It something that goes beyond aligning symbols on paper. Kurt Vonnegut once described writing as idiosyncratic arrangements of 26 phonetic symbols and ten Arabic numbers in horizontal lines on a page. Given Vonnegut's penchant for satire and irony, it is safe to assume that he was speaking rather simplistically. Grammar can be taught to even the simplest mind, although more often than not, the simplest minds ignore grammar. In my opinion, the ability to write is based in a person's ability to recognize the common bonds between two people, living, or dead, real or fictional, and to evoke emotion, because that is what makes us human. Capturing this moment in words is was makes a good writer a brilliant one.

GAINFULLY EMPLOYED....SORT OF

I recently started a job in the Blue Valley school district as a special education paraprofessional. I know what you're thinking..not exactly my field, but it provides me with full benefits, and I am really enjoying it so far. I have considered going back to school to get a teaching certificate, and I'm fairly certain that this job will provide me with the insight required to make that decision. More importantly, it will allow me to save money until I can find a position in my field. Until then, my job is the tits. I work as the liaison between the teachers and the special education department. Basically, I report to the case managers on the progress of the particular students that I follow for that day. Obviously, some kids require more help than others, but most of them are actually really cool. I get to hear the gems that come out of their mouths. Aside from getting them back on task, or quieting them down, I really don't have that many problems thus far. Plus, the novelty of being the authority figure in the whole high school dynamic has yet to wear off. I suppose I am going to ride this one out and see where it goes, at least until something better (i.e. better paying) comes along. Who knows? Maybe I'll take a shine to this gig and something bigger will come out of it. It's too soon to tell.

WHAT LIES IN STORE FOR OUR HERO?

It has been several months since I have written anything for my little corner of the internet. Not that it matters. I am fairly certain that I am the only one that reads this tripe. That, however, is quite alright. I write for myself. Any feedback that I may receive is an added bonus. If my intentions were to receive pats on the back from the various people in my life, I would have left this business on myspace. Since my last installment, I graduated from KU, (hold your applause) and I am currently in the process of fine tuning my resume and searching for a legitimate job. Thats right! No more slinging pizza for this man. (hopefully!) As it turns out, finding a job can be rather difficult. I have reluctantly discovered that the summer can be a rather dull period for a person that has neither a job nor class to attend. My days are usually spent in front of the computer, printing and mailing resumes, reading, or keeping myself busy otherwise.
One problem that I have encountered is the question of what to submit a company as a writing sample. I have found that much of my writing is overly cynical, obscene or inappropriate in some other fashion. I have examples of schoolwork that I have written over the years, but I doubt that a potential employer would like much to read about quixotic figures in 18th century literature. Boring, uninspired writing such as this may be my last resort. Of course, this is not something that I even have to worry about at this point, as I have yet to receive interest in a writing sample from a potential employer in the first place. My current situation is quite disheartening, but I suppose it was never meant to be simple. I am sure that something will come along eventually. I just do not like to play the waiting game.

MARCH IS MY FAVORITE TIME OF YEAR

There are several reasons for this statement. The obvious one is that spring is teasing us. I can't stand the dreariness of winter, and I understand why suicide rates go up around the holidays, especially in cities that are constantly subjected to atrocious weather, like Seattle. No, cold weather is for saps. There are few feelings better the one you get when you take that first drive of the year with the windows down. A convertible would be preferred, but I have not afforded myself that luxury at this point in time. I digress. The real reason March is so enjoyable for me is that I am able to indulge completely in the exquisite ceremony that takes place every year. I am referring, of course, to the NCAA championship tournament, and the conference tournaments that lead up to it. It's like an entire month of Superbowl Sundays. There is simply nothing like it in the realm of professional or collegiate sports. The parity in the world of NCAA basketball is so great, that amazing upsets and great games are always ensured. Being a fan lets a person break completely loose. If you are lucky enough to have tickets, I recommend that you get a hotel room close to the tournament's whereabouts, even if you live in the same city. Make sure to stock up on booze and other provisions. The NCAA conference tournament experience is not defined by basketball alone. Grab friends and attack the city. Stay up late, visit unfamiliar bars, fraternize with strangers, trash hotel rooms, drink constantly, sleep in, and miss the first game of the next day. The games themselves are amazing. Aside from the twelve dollar beers and hicks from Columbia that have made the two hour trip still morosely clinging to the hopes that their pathetic team might somehow luck their way into the big dance, there is not much to dislike. If you leave the arena at the end of the day with your voice intact, you are not doing it correctly. There is something cleansing about the whole ordeal. there is something very real and altogether humanizing about coming together with thousands of other individuals to get excited about something that has no real consequence. When it is all over with, you should be worn out and dirty, wearing stale clothes from the night before, with a great sense of satisfaction. Try as you might, this satisfaction will not be enough to hold you over until next year.
The NCAA tournament is an entirely different animal altogether. It is highly unlikely that you will be able to follow your team around the country to watch their games, so you will undoubtedly have to settle for watching the games at bars with strangers, or intimate gatherings of friends in the den of whoever is unfortunate enough to have the largest TV.
Filling out a bracket for the NCAA tournament is a fool's science, much like meteorology. Anyone that claims they know whats going on in this area is completely full of shit, or a complete idiot, or both. The years in which you think you have it all figured out, you have some kids from some backwards school like George Mason playing possessed for 2 straight weeks and somehow finding themselves in the final four, as was the case last season. Of course, they were on borrowed time. They were housed by a Florida team that later back doored their way into a national title. Naturally, it was fun to see these kids from Virginia knock out perennial powerhouses like North Carolina and Connecticut, but it would also have been nice for them to put up a fight in the semifinals. In short, they fucked the brackets of an entire nation save for those faithful idiots turned geniuses that picked George Mason to go all the way.
March turns any decent fan into a raving savage that barks orders at his TV and flops across the couch whenever a call goes the other way. Everyone turns into a coach. Throw cash bets into the mix, and the NCAA tournament can turn a normally composed individual into a blathering numbskull in the span of time it takes for an errant in bounds pass to turn into a dazzling buzzer beater. It's because this one is for all the proverbial marbles. You lose, you go home for seven long months to think about what could have or should have happened differently. It sounds simple. Just win six games in a row. Whittling sixty five teams down into one national champion is simple in theory. However, each win down the line becomes exponentially more difficult to achieve. The entire tournament is one month long gauntlet and it takes a lot of skill and even more luck for a team to come out on the other end unscathed.
All of this is what makes March so intense. Throw a spring break and copious amounts of alcohol into the mix with the great basketball and good weather, and there isn't much not to like about this time of year. It is an experience that one should be completely committed to. No half assing this business.

AD ASTRA PER ASPERA

It has been quite some time since I have had the kind of visceral experience that only the town of Lawrence has to offer. I know that moving into Overland Park was the best financial decision that I could have made, but it is safe to say that I miss living in Lawrence. There is something to be said for downing a bunch of whiskey with two of your closest friends, sneaking beer out of the bar and running from rooftop to rooftop above Mass. Street. Sadly, I fear that those nights have long since passed. My friends no longer call Lawrence home, and there is very little to tie us to the town altogether. Don't get me wrong. I have a very good time with my new friends in Kansas City, and there is much fun to be had here. However, Lawrence has a certain panache; A certain guttural attraction that knows no bounds. It is hard to pin down, but I certainly miss it. On several occasions I narrowly avoided arrest, assault, alcohol poisoning, or some other situation of discontent. During one such incident, the driver of a Jeep Cherokee in front of me sprayed my windshield with his washer fluid, simply because he thought I was following him too closely. I responded by calmly pulling alongside him and motioning for him to roll down his window. Upon doing this, I hurled the orange juice that I had in my car through his open window, drenching him with a pulpy orange mess. Needless to say, a short car chase ensued, but his bulky Jeep was no match for my nimble monument to German engineering. Was my reaction a bit rash? Perhaps, but that fucker had it coming. His sideways visor and the Dave Matthews Band sticker on his rear windshield convinced me of that much. Fuck that guy.
Lawrence itself is an enigma. It is the only town in all of Kansas to consistently vote Democrat. It presents itself as a progressive environment, yet there are many reasons why it fails to live up to that standard. It is expanding in all directions, and the new construction is very reminiscent of Johnson County. The town has implemented a smoking ban that mandates that bars and restaurants are strict smoke free environments. For such a progressive town, It sure presumes a lot. More legislation insists that a certain percentage of a businesses profit must come from food sales, if it is to be allowed a liquor license. This is an effort to curb the ever growing number of bars in the downtown area. Both of these mandates take power away from the small business owner, and keeps them from deciding how to run their own business. Yet, in spite of its faults, Lawrence remains to provide all of its inhabitants and patrons with a blast of a time. Even if you don't get your jollies from hiding from police officers behind air conditioning units like me, there are plenty of other, more legal means of entertainment. The bar scene is top notch, and because of this, many many great bands are drawn to this little corner of earth. There is something in this town for people from all walks of life, and for being in the middle of the bible belt, it isn't half bad. I wouldn't mind living there again, but for the time being, it is not so bad Living in Kansas City. Even though the experiences that I have had here are pale in comparison to the debauchery and sinister glee that Lawrence provides, it is just a short jaunt down K-10, which is close enough to experience on any given night.

STAGNATION

Those of you that know me also know that I am in a transitional period in my life. Everything around me is changing at a pace that is becoming rather difficult to keep up with. This is happening on a personal, social and even global scale. Friends that I have known for years are graduating, moving to far off lands, getting worthwhile jobs, getting married, getting pregnant, and otherwise perpetuating the cycle of human life. The world is changing as well. Why is this so difficult for me to partake in? For years, I have been dreading this transition. I adopted an apathetic and sometimes morose attitude towards my own future. I felt that there was little for me to look forward to. I think that it played a rather large role in my inability to muster the stones to graduate from The University of Kansas. And only now, as my graduation seems to be an inevitability, am I realizing that I have payed a price. My fear induced apathy has caused life to pass me by. It hasn't passed completely, thankfully, but I have put myself into a position of distinct disadvantage. I have lost friendships, opportunities, and potential love with my ineffectual disregard for the changes going on around me. I know that there are many people that may not even have an inkling of what they would like to do with themselves. But I ask you which is worse; a person that truthfully does not know the path they would like to take, or a one that knows what they want out of life, but lacks the proactivity, ambition, or gumption to achieve it? While I must admit that it is rather refreshing to see this in type, even if only to have a concrete perception of what is actually wrong with me, I have done little to change this current trend. I suppose graduation is a large step in the right direction, but what is next? In this world, very little is certain. It is a dark and politically correct age that we have entered, and much to my own chagrin, I fear that it is far from over. As a nation, we are burning bridges faster than we can cross them. There is no common ground. No compromise. I'd like to say that I have turned over a new leaf, and that everything will turn out splendidly in the long run, but I suppose that only time will tell. Ask me in six months.

PARTY ETIQUETTE: AN IN DEPTH LOOK INTO THE SEEDY UNDERBELLY OF HAVING FUN.

In order to maximize the fun for all persons involved in throwing or attending any given house party, there are a few rules and guidelines that should be addressed. Some are merely suggestions that may aid a person with their partygoing experience. These rules and guidelines may inhibit a few individuals from acting the way they normally would, but the overall result would be a much happier event for everyone involved. Let's get started.
Turn off your cell phone. This may seem like an odd request, but I simply cannot stress this enough. Booze and cell phones simply do not mix. This also applies to any other communication device. Drunken phone calls, emails, text messages, or instant messages usually serve little to no purpose, and more often than not, they will come back to bite you in the ass the next day. When you wake up the next morning, with vomit encrusted on your cheek, and you stumble over to your phone with a taste in your mouth like a cat shit in it while you were sleeping, seeing that you thoroughly embarrassed yourself by text messaging your ex 75 times doesn't help the situation.
Make a plan and stick to it. I know this may seem like a no brainer, but someone fucks this one up every time. Collaborate with friends, make plans, designate drivers, and follow through. Nine times out of ten, someone doesn't plan, and ends up crashing on the couch in the house of a person they don't know because they drove, and then drank too much, or because a friend left them high and dry without a ride. It isn't rocket science! If you're going to drink, don't drive! If you do drive, and you bring people, make sure they have a ride home!
Buy your booze ahead of time. As a sick and fucked up rule, liquor stores generally close before house parties really get started. Take this into account! After the first instance of being shit out of luck without anything to drink, no one should make this mistake again. If by some stroke of idiocy or bad luck, you do end up at a house party without anything with which to imbibe, don't fucking steal from people. If you have friends at the party, more often than not, they'll likely provide you with a little something. If you dont have friends, too bad, so sad. You might just have to go one night without anything to drink. Tragic, I know. There are few things in the world that I can tolerate less than thieves. I'm sure that most people that steal alcohol are normally good natured people that would never steal from anyone, let alone their friends. I don't know what it is about a person's desire to drink or just the house party atmosphere that makes a person think that it is alright to take the provisions that other people have paid for. One way to curb alcohol theft is making an example of those that perpetrate these heinous malfeasances by exposing them. Public humiliation may be the only way to show these people that what their doing is wrong. Sure, they may think they are only taking one beer or one shot, but those beers and shots add up. Even without taking into account the principles involved in stealing, taking a persons beer decreases the potential amount of fun (or vomiting) for the person that actually took the time to do things right. I could go further into the world of alcohol etiquette, but this essay serves as an all encompassing look into the house party dynamic, and not simply an introspective account of drinking itself.
Now lets move onto the actual party itself. Some of these guidelines may seem self explanatory, but if people didn't break them, I wouldnt be writing about them.
First and most importantly, KEEP YOUR FUCKING HANDS TO YOURSELF. People wonder why their parties turn into complete weinerfests. I'll bet I know why that happens. It's because when women do show up at these parties, they are groped, grabbed, prodded, violated, pushed, shoved, and degraded until they decide they don't want to come to the next party. It is really quite simple. If a woman doesn't know you, or doesn't want you to touch her, it's probably a dick move to grab her ass as she walks by. It's common courtesy. If a girl is considerably drunk, don't take advantage of her! Believe me. If you dont alienate women, they are more likely to show up and have a good time. This increases the men's chances of getting laid. It's the law of diminishing marginal utility. the more women at the party, the less you feel like there should be more women at the party. I know this is far too much to ask for some people, but I'm willing to bet these people wouldn't be getting any in the first place.
Leave politics at the door. Come to a party with an open mind. In any cross section of society, there will always be people with differing opinions. I will never understand why people wait until they are in an altered state of consciousness to talk about in depth intelligent topics that require thought and concentration. Attend parties to enjoy yourself, and not to bicker about evolution, religion, or politics. Catch up with friends you havent seen in a while. Dance. Listen to music. People watch. Eat, drink, and be merry.
Avoid former lovers. This proves to be exceedingly difficult in cases in which the ex lovers spend time in the same social circle. If you know ahead of time that the person you've been pining over for months is going to be at the party ahead of time, you might want to sit this one out, or at least refrain from drinking to the point of embarrassment. This serves to eliminate a lot of potential drama.
Act fairly professional. Parties are times for unwinding, and having fun with friends. This usually entails drinking, which is perfectly acceptable. However, drinking, acting like a total and complete fuckhead, vomiting, and forcing others to take care of you keeps others from being able to unwind and have a good time. No one likes to babysit. Also, acting like a belligerent, bellicose, bumbling fool is quite unbecoming. You are not likely to make many friends, if you are the one falling into people and knocking them over, yelling over everyone elses voice, and vomiting in the yard. Clean up after yourself. Everyone is guilty of this. Don't leave that beer bottle on the coffee table. Find a trash can. If you spill something, notify the homeowner and then clean it up. There really isn't much else to say about this one. Act like an adult.
Basically, it all boils down to the golden rule. Treat others like you would like to be treated. It applies in almost all of the aforementioned situations. So now I post this here, like Martin Luther nailing his 95 theses to the doors of the Wittenburg Castle Church. Its up to you now. Take it and run with it. Change comes gradually. Together we can work towards a better future.

TONSTICALS

Written June 1, 2005

I had my tonsils out, right after I got through with finals. I can't say i recommend the procedure. After the surgery, while I was laying in the hospital bed, still all fucked up from the anesthesia, the doctor comes in with my left tonsil in a jar. He told me it was the biggest one he had seen in five years. From what i remember, taking into account the state of mind i was in, my tonsil was roughly the size and shape of a testical. A bloody lump that they cut out of me with a fucking knife! How is that the preferred method of treatment? Isn't there some sort of salve or holistic healing method that would help me out with chronic tonsilitis? Anyway, the recovery period for an adult tonisillectomy is two fucking weeks. Two weeks of being incapacitated during the short span of time that I have between semesters. I was on liquid Lortab and amoxicillin, and it still fucking killed me. Sidenote: When you've just had your tonsils out, the last thing anyone can say to you to make you feel better is "Well, now you get all the ice cream you want!" The ice cream is not some cureall for a gaping hole on the inside of your neck. In fact, the doctor told me not to eat ice cream because of the extreme temperature shift or some shit.

Oh yeah. I also had this wedding to attend. Not just attend, actually. I was a groomsman. The groom was a friend that I have known my whole life. Anyway, before the ceremony, all of the attendants went downstairs to the bar and ordered shots. I didn't think it would be a good idea to dowse the open sores in my throat with tequila, so I came up with the bright idea of doing a shot of my liquid Lortab. Turns out, drinking 2 ounces of codeine and then standing up for a long period of time is a bad idea. I bowed my head for a prayer in the middle of the ceremony, and when I lifted my head afterwards, I blacked out. All I remember is the sound my hard soles made on the wood floor and my head hitting the ground. When i came to, all I saw was the groom with a big grin on his face. Unfortunately, noone got it on video. At least it was entertaining. Hell, if it had been someone else, I would have thought it was a riot.

Summation: Painkillers are fun, but not fun enough to justify major oral surgery.

THREE YEARS LATER, AND NOTHING TO SHOW FOR IT


Well, its been quite some time since I have written anything for this pitiful little corner of the internet, but due to the constant prodding of parties who will remain nameless, I have made my triumphant return. But, fear not! I remain a cynical and unwavering fink with an extreme distaste for pretty much everyone. A lot has happened in three years. On several occasions, I probably should have died from alcohol poisoning or some other poor decision on my part. Unfortunately, one event that has not yet happened is my graduation from the esteemed University of Kansas. Due to illness and constant procrastination I have almost made it a six year ordeal. Lets hear it for general apathy! Alas, my undergraduate career will come to an end in May, barring some unseen monkey wrench. Lack of money prohibits me from drinking large amounts of whiskey these days, but perhaps that is a good thing. Only time will tell. Thats all for tonight. See you in three years.

THESE PEOPLE SUCK AT LIFE
So my car was recovered. It wasnt a pretty sight. It was found in a ditch without wheels and about half the motor. There was a lot more damage, but that isnt what this rant is about. Its about my dealings with the towyard that the car was brought to. Its this shitty little place at the end of a cul de sac in the industrial zone in Kansas City, right next to a trailer park. Gloria, The toothless wonder working the front desk, was the person with whom I had the pleasure of conversing. She had a bun hairdo and smelled like Waffle House.

Gloria: You were driving with an expired registration.
Me: no i wasn't
Gloria: yes you were.
Me: look at the fucking license plate. see that little number next to the month? the little 04?
Gloria: (sheepishly shifting her fat ass from one side of her stool to the other) The paperwork that was in the car wasn't up to date
Me: What the fuck were you doing in my car?

After I escaped Gloria's wit, I was able to look upon my sorry car uninterrupted. Or so I thought. I started removing things like cds, my parking pass, and assorted clothes, and this geriatric hick on a forklift pulled up and told me i couldnt take anything out of it because the insurance company hadnt taken possession of it yet. I didnt want to argue with this guy cause he looked like an older "Blue" from Old School. If thats possible. I started putting shit back in and pocketed whatever I could while the old fucker wasn't watching. I dont think he even knew where he was. As i put the shit I pilfered from my own car into my brother's car, I thought about how pitiful this place actually was. I was depressed after five minutes in this shithole. Gloria must be ready to commit suicide. All I have to say to that is: Remember Gloria, when slitting your wrists, its down the road, not across the street.

THE PERPETUATION OF LITERATURE THROUGH MEDIA

I watched the movie "Igby Goes Down" this afternoon, because a friend told me it was good. All I can say is, the storyline was brilliant. In fact, I thought it was brilliant the first time I read Catcher in the Rye. "Igby Goes Down" is a coming of age tale about a highschool age kid with problems at home. He shirks the responsibility of his academic career, to take off, fend for himself, and drink his way through life. Sound familiar? I guess since Salinger strongly opposed producing Catcher in the rye for the screen, this one is as close as we get. I also guess that if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself. Just so happens i have an idea for a movie. It starts out with this farmboy all american kid, that is thrust into intergalactic warfare by unseen mystical forces, only to find out that the leader of the evil regime is his father. Epic battles ensue. End scene with a muppet luau in the forest. This thing will write itself i swear.

TRICK OR TREAT BITCHES

Well, Halloween is upon us, but to enjoy the holiday fully, it helps to understand where it came from. It goes as follows:

The word itself, "Halloween," originated in the Catholic Church. It comes from the corruption of All Hallows Eve. November 1, "All Hollows Day" (or "All Saints Day"), is a Catholic day of observance in honor of saints. But, in the 5th century BC, in Celtic Ireland, summer officially ended on October 31. One story says that, on that day, the disembodied spirits of all those who had died throughout the preceding year would come back in search of living bodies to possess for the next year. It was their only hope for the afterlife. The Celts believed all laws of space and time were suspended during this time, allowing the spirit world to intermingle with the living. Naturally, the living did not want to be possessed. So on the night of October 31, villagers would put the fires in their homes out, to make them cold and undesirable. They would dress up in all manner of ghoulish costumes and noisily paraded around the neighborhood, being as destructive as possible in order to frighten away spirits looking for bodies to possess.

In the 7th century, Pope Boniface IV introduced All Saints' Day to replace the pagan festival of the dead. It was observed on May 13. Later, Gregory III changed the date to November 1. The Greek Orthodox Church observes it on the first Sunday after Pentecost. Despite this connection with the Roman Church, the American version of Halloween Day celebration owes its origin to the ancient (pre-Christian) Druidic fire festival called "Samhain", celebrated by the Celts in Scotland, Wales and Ireland. Samhain is pronounced "sow-in", with "sow" rhyming with cow. In Ireland the festival was known as Samhein, or La Samon, the Feast of the Sun. In Scotland, the celebration was known as Hallowe'en. In Welsh it's Nos Galen-gaeof (that is, the Night of the Winter Calends. According to the Irish English dictionary published by the Irish Texts Society: "Samhain, All Hallowtide, the feast of the dead in Pagan and Christian times, signalizing the close of harvest and the initiation of the winter season, lasting till May, during which troops (esp. the Fiann) were quartered. Faeries were imagined as particularly active at this season. From it the half year is reckoned. also called Feile Moingfinne (Snow Goddess).(1) The Scottish Gaelis Dictionary defines it as "Hallowtide. The Feast of All Soula. Sam + Fuin = end of summer."(2) Contrary to the information published by many organizations, there is no archaeological or literary evidence to indicate that Samhain was a deity. The Celtic Gods of the dead were Gwynn ap Nudd for the British, and Arawn for the Welsh. The Irish did not have a "lord of death" as such. Thus most of the customs connected with the Day are remnants of the ancient religious beliefs and rituals, first of the Druids and then transcended amongst the Roman Christians who conquered them.

The custom of trick-or-treating is thought to have originated not with the Irish Celts, but with a ninth-century European custom called souling. On November 2, All Souls Day, early Christians would walk from village to village begging for "soul cakes," made out of square pieces of bread with currants. The more soul cakes the beggars would receive, the more prayers they would promise to say on behalf of the dead relatives of the donors. At the time, it was believed that the dead remained in limbo for a time after death, and that prayer, even by strangers, could expedite a soul's passage to heaven.

More importantly, Halloween is yet another excuse for me to drink copious amounts of alcohol.

FRESH NEW STARTS FOR BROKEN HEARTS

It occurs to me that some of you may think that I am no better than you for starting this blog. Well, thats just not the case. See, every other blog I've seen on this site has been a cry for attention. It's all about getting sympathy from other users and posting useless crap about the opposite sex. I like to call these people attention whores, and I find it to be quite pretentious to think that random people around the world would give a shit about my personal exploits with the female gender, or how im doing in school for that matter. These are the kind of people that when youre talking to them in real life, you get one sentence out, and its "Ohh me too! Listen to what happened to me!" I never knew there were so many of you fuckers.

On that note, today I got a 101 on my test in my ethnomusicology course, and that girl who sits next to me in class brushed my hand with hers when I was reaching for my pen.

REPENT, AND YE SHALL BE SAVED

Today, as i was walking on campus, every street corner was littered with evangelists passing out free bibles. I noticed that the only people handing them out were men in suits that looked to be at least seventy years of age. I thought that perhaps organized religion is in a decline, This is evident in the decline in people entering the seminary in recent years, especially catholicism. Hell, thats a huge reason why they keep recycling the pedophiles they have installed in parishes right now. Theyre low on warm bodies. Perhaps there are no young people in the church, and the whole purpose of this venture was to breathe some new life into it. Then I thought that maybe the church used the older members because they look pathetic and sad and people would feel sorry for them and take a bible. I didnt really reach a conclusion. Every time one of the geriatric evangelists would offer me a bible, I would pat the pack of cigarettes in my pocket that was roughly the same shape as the mini bibles they were handing out, and tell them I already had one. Finally, I asked one of them what church they came from and he told me it was the second church of something or other. Then, he proceeded to tell me that I should visit, or if I was interested he could arrange for one of them to come to my house to try and save me from my transgressions. I thought about that for a second, exploring the possibilities of how I could have fun with that. One of said possibilities included inviting them in to my living room, and holding the conversation with shemale porn playing on the TV. I decided against it, because porn gags are played out. That, and i didnt want to be responsible for one of these people having a coronary.

I realize that this entry in my weblog does not contain the kind of humor that many of you are accustomed to. However, I find organized religion pretty humorous in itself, and well, its my blog, so deal with it.

MISSION STATEMENT

So I came across this site as I was perusing a coworkers blog, and I decided I would give it a shot. Now blogs are inherently retarded, but i decided to do it for two reasons.

1. I rock complete balls

2. Since I rock aforementioned balls, any inherently retarded activity that I partake in becomes socially acceptable. and sorry guys, im not into michael moore's politics. Hes still a fat pathetic sack of failure.

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IN LIGHT OF RECENT EVENTS

I hate indie rock kids. I went to the Eels show here in town, because i had a free ticket and nothing else to do on a thursday night. The place was filled with you fuckers. You know who you are. You are the douchebags that wear womens jeans because they feel oh so tight. You idolize Rivers Cuomo, and you wear the buddy holly glasses and dont wash your hair. You are the reason i cant get a cup of coffee because you're loafing around the coffee house bitching to your friends about how the new "my bloody valentine" album is too mainstream. Youre all fucking cookiecutter pieces of shit. You drink PBR and fat cat and your houses are wallpapered with the album covers of shitty indie rock bands.

Keep in mind, im generally a very tolerant person. i just have a problem with people who try to be nonconformists by dressing exactly like each other. If you fit my description of an indie rock kid, please proceed to punch yourself in the balls and never procreate.

now before i get a billion emails flooding my inbox saying "haha dork! the Eels arent indie rock!" i could care less. that doesnt stop the indie rock fucktards from coming out of the woodwork to congregate around shitty music.