Hey I'm Back

I don't feel compelled to apologize for my absurdly long hiatus. The fact is, I am (at the time of this writing) a 17 year old male who's ridiculously prone to ignoring things like his blog. Let's talk about nipple piercings instead.

And the winner of the "Weirdest Segue of the Year" award goes to...

A while back I was at the gym, working out with a friend of mine. While my core audience is comprised of incredibly photogenic sex symbols who simply can't be bothered with petty trifles like weight lifting, I myself exist at the opposite end of the spectrum, right next to the guy who has sweat stains on the back of his shirt. Actually, I'm lying. I am that guy. 

My shirts aren't the only things that get moist when I touch them. 

Anywho, I was at the gym, pumping about as much iron as a perpetually sedentary internet-dweller can be expected to pump. All of a suddenly, a guy and a girl whom I can only assume occupied the unfortunate station of his girlfriend came in. The man looked to be in his early twenties, muscular in some weird places and...just pretty oddly shaped in general, really. After entering the gym, the man proceeded to flit about from one machine to the next, spending about 5 minutes on each one and doing nothing in terms of productivity and not-being-a-dickheadedness. His girlfriend just kind of sat on a bench and played quiet music from a portable speaker she had procured from her Cars backpack. Kind of a weird couple. Upon reflection, the guy looked like a misshapen potato. 

Women. The other things were women.

The weird couple eventually established a pattern where they would hang around the gym for 15 minutes or so, leave for a bit, then come back and do the exact same thing as before. I was too preoccupied with lamenting the abysmal state of my muscles to really pay attention to them. Then something terrible happened.

The guy took off his shirt, which was problem number one. People get sweaty when they work out, and nobody takes off their shirt in the gym because they get sweat all over everything, and that's gross.

Problem number two arose when the guy turned around and provided me with a very clear view of his nipple piercings.

...

Ew.

I wish I had something witty to say to this, I really do. Unfortunately, I don't. I don't care if you saved a limbless orphan baby from a freak electrical fire while being chased by a cruise missile and a lion. I don't even care if you did it with a broken leg and a severe case of asthma. If you're a male and you have nipple piercings, I hope you died in the aforementioned electrical fire. Male nipple piercings are for the emotionally malformed and the intellectually challenged. 

I'm sorry, I just can't do this. This story doesn't get any resolution, I'm upset and I have to stop writing.

Ugh.

Uuuuuuuuugh.

Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuugh.

The Great Gatsby Induces Stupidity

Right. I don't post a whole lot. I get that. That's mostly because I try not to make a habit of posting unless I have something worth talking about, and that hasn't been the case lately. I would apologize, if I was sorry. But frankly, the last thing I'm gonna do is bore my irresistibly charming and unquestionably intelligent readers with something that I don't feel is worth discussing, so I stand my ground. That being said, I'm writing this post because something has managed to wake me from my deep authorial slumber. This something is a book; a great literary classic that has withstood the test of time, and is now championed amongst literary circles as a veritable avatar of masterful story telling and use of symbolism. As a matter of fact, at the time of this writing, we are currently studying it in my American Literature class.

That something is The Great Gatsby, and I'd like to tell you a little bit more about it. Specifically, we're going to look at the mind-numbingly retarded behavioral patterns that this book has elicited from my classmates.

In my class, a common method that we utilize in discussing books is something called a fish bowl. I won't bother to explain in-depth what a fish bowl is, partially because fuck fish bowls and also I hate them. For those of you too debonair and suave to be bothered with clicking on that little link, all you need to know is that a fish bowl is a form of dialogue that allows large groups of people to discuss a topic. It's a dreary event, marked by awkward pauses and some terrifically inaccurate insight that always leaves me baffled and fascinated.

Imagine those fish as awkward teenagers who spend 45 minutes rephrasing the same thing.

Class started, we rearranged the desks to accommodate the seating patterns mandated by the fish bowl, and we began our discussion. It started innocuously enough, with the discussion leaders presenting their questions while discussers (of which I was one) bantered and said nothing of interest.

Now in my American Lit class, there's this guy. And try as I might, over the course of the school year I've come to despise every facet of his being. I could spend much longer than could be considered healthy elaborating on his big stupid face and how big and stupid his face is. Because seriously, this guy's face is infuriating. This guy (we'll call him Hotdog) prides himself on his (entirely fictional) level of intelligence; listening to him talk, you can practically see the condescension and subtle allusions to his 'superiority' dripping from his big stupid face like liquid butter. He may not necessarily think others are beneath him, but it's entirely obvious that he considers himself to be magnitudes of intelligence higher than his peers. To him, his opinion isn't just worth hearing; it's the only correct one. Other students need his guidance and gentle spirit to guide them through the complexities of literary analysis, and while their feeble attempts are cute, they'll never quite reach his level (and he's also an annoying asshole). While it may be entirely possible that I'm exaggerating most/all of his bad qualities, it's also entirely possible that he's a big stupid jerk.

Look at that face. That stupid face.

Hotdog was a discussion leader in this particular fish bowl, and he was ready for some hardcore analyzing. Specifically, Hotdog felt the need to whore out vague symbolism to every Goddamn thing in the book. Everything came under his scrutiny, from the color of the window of a building that was only mentioned once to a character trait that was mentioned two chapters ago and hasn't been mentioned or displayed since. Now I understand that, when it comes to The Great Gatsby, acknowledgement and understanding of the symbolism plays a huge role in one's understanding of the book as a whole. However, by its very nature, something can only be a symbol if it's a recurring thing that makes repeated appearances throughout the book.

You know where we are in the book right now? Chapter 2.

You know when it's borderline impossible to deduce what will and won't be a recurring thing, and therefore possibly symbolic, in a book? When you're only in the second chapter.

You know where Hotdog saw symbolism? Fuggin' everywhere. 

You shut your whore mouth; I can TOTALLY argue for a concrete answer to an inherently subjective and easily misinterpreted literary device!

Eventually, the whole class began to follow Hotdog's example, abusing the concept of symbolism until it was left a whimpering, bloodied mess in the corner of the room. After listening to the never ending stream of garbage, my passive-aggressive side spoke up.

"Hey guys, I know this book is supposed to have a lot of symbolism, but we're in the second chapter. We have no way of determining the symbolism of anything yet, so can we please quit acting like everything has to have a deeper meaning?"

The whole class stopped and looked at me like I had just suggested mass suicide as a fun after-school activity. After returning their collective look of incredulity, I started to feel a little afraid. Without missing a beat, Goddamn Hotdog decided to voice the class's opinion.

"Look Johann, the teacher even said that there's a lot of symbolism in this book; obviously we're gonna look for it."

This rock symbolizes Fitzgerald's regret over being an alcoholic, because shut the hell up. 

I got a bit defensive. "Well I'm not saying that, I'm saying that we've spent the past 5 minutes discussing the color of the windows of a building that was only mentioned once. Can we move onto something...you know, relevant?"

It was a fruitless endeavor. So now, I refuse to talk during fish bowls, opting instead to doodle into a notebook and count the minutes until the whole sordid ordeal is over.

Johann: Vending Machine Master

Recently, I've become something of a theater kid. I'm not as eerily flamboyant as a conventional theater kid, but since my casting in the last play I've been much more involved with the Theater department. On this particular day, I was slumming around the theater after school, when I overheard a conversation. Some girl was really hungry, but couldn't really leave rehearsal lest she risk the wrath of the Theater director. Now, it's a common practice for theater kids to take someone's money and buy their food for them, because students are frequently unable to leave the theater and rehearsals can drag on for hours. I offered to get her food and she handed me a dollar. When I asked her what she wanted, she vaguely replied "I dunno, something that will keep me awake. Skittles or chocolate or something."

Upon arriving at the vending machine, I inserted the girl's dollar and typed in the button code for a package of Skittles. The machine started to dispense the Skittles...then it gave up. The candy just sat there, staring me down and saying "Hahahahaha fuck you."

Oh, you paid for me? That's cute.

I stared at the machine in disbelief. I couldn't exactly return empty-handed; the girl expected her candy, and I was determined to see it through. I left my bounty, silently muttering "This isn't over...candy." I tracked down a janitor and asked if he was capable of opening the vending machines. In a voice slightly tinged with a Mexican accent, he replied "No, but you could probably try the front office." When I went to the front office, a woman with an absurd hairdo sat at the front desk. With a shrieking shout-like noise where her voice used to be, she yelped "Hi! How can I help you?" She drew out her 'hi' for a good 3 seconds. Wincing from the pain of hearing her talk, I said "Yeah, I paid for something from the vending machine, but it's not working. Is there any way to get it open?"

"Well, what you have to do is go to the Guidance center, talk to Ms. Lou, reserve an appointment with Mr. Brass and wait until he gets back from coaching soccer practice. He should be done sometime within the hour."

"...It's a bag of Skittles."

She heaved an exasperated sigh and said "Well, I actually do have some money here. How much do you need?"

"Eighty-five cents."

She opened a drawer and pulled out a roll of quarters. I watched uncomfortably as she struggled to open the roll. Finally, she got pissed and smashed the whole thing on the desk. Quarters flew everywhere, much to the surprise of her and absolutely nobody else. After retrieving my money, I left her to her quarter-grabbing and returned to the vending machine. I figured that, if I re-bought the bag of Skittles, then I could probably get another bag for free. I inserted the coins, entered the code...and watched one lonely bag of Skittles drop from its shelf.

"No!" I thought to myself. "I want those Skittles, damnit!"

After casting a furtive glance to make sure nobody important was watching, I chose what I believed to be the best course of action and tackled the vending machine (side note: apparently a lot of people are crushed to death by vending machines. Who knew?). Much to my dismay, the Skittles stayed firmly in place. However, a completely different bag of Mini Ritz crackers was dislodged and fell down instead.

Whaddup.

Satisfied with my display of dominance, I retrieved the spoils of my brief war with the now-defeated vending machine and walked away. I spent the rest of the day basking in the kind of glory that one can only get from tackling an inanimate object that is fully capable of crushing the life out of you at a moment's notice.

Crosswalk Buttons

So I went out to lunch with a friend of mine during school today. We were waiting at a crosswalk, making idle small talk, when suddenly, I encountered what must have been the most retarded girl in recently recorded history. Before I go into the grisly details, I'd like to preface the whole terrible story by explaining how crosswalk buttons work.

That was sort of a lie, because most crosswalk buttons don't technically 'work.' Sure, at some intersections, they'll activate that little white guy which signifies that you're safe to cross. But for the most part, crosswalk buttons are installed simply for the sake of giving the impatient and the idiotic something to mash while they wait for a light that couldn't really care less whether or not they're pressing it. By and large, crosswalk buttons do nothing to affect the speed at which a light turns from red to green. It's also important to point out that crosswalk buttons generally come with a huge sign or sticker that enlightens the reader as to what direction the button corresponds to. This is an important detail, so remember it.

Idiot-proof instructions. Except not at all.

When the aforementioned girl came within the vicinity of the crosswalk (which had not one, but two buttons), a look of apprehension and terror crossed her face for a brief moment. She appeared to be in the midst of some intense decision making, and I was very curious as to what she was so confused about. My unspoken inquiry was answered rather quickly when she started mercilessly smashing both buttons while screaming to her friends "OH MY GOD, I NEVER know which button to press! It's sooo confusing trying to remember which button goes which direction!"

Her friends apparently shared her hardship. "Oh God, I know just how you feel. I just let somebody else press it for me."

I tried to watch the entire exchange, but after a few seconds my brain cells began committing mass suicide due to the sheer stupidity of it all, so I opted instead to look onward and did my best to begin repressing yet another memory. 

Don't ever let somebody tell you you're stupid, because with a minimum of effort, I guarantee you can find somebody who doesn't know how to operate a goddamn button.

Mike the Headless Chicken

Sometime in September 1945, there was a little chicken named Mike who lived on a farm in Fruita, Colorado. One day, Mike was strutting nonchalantly when, much to his dismay, his master grabbed him and promptly removed his head via an axe. Shortly thereafter, Mike regained his wits and went about his day, sans head. This isn't uncommon, as poultry are known to continue kicking around for a while after their heads have been removed. Mike's owner apparently didn't think too much of this and left him alone. The next day, the farmer found Mike, and I quote, "sleeping with his head under his wing." The farmer decided that, since the chicken had apparently forgotten how to die, he would do his best to keep the thing alive. The farmer proceeded to use an eyedropper to drip feed milk, water and bits of corn into the tattered end of Mike's esophagus.

"Gurgle glub glub splutter." - Whatever was left of Mike's larynx.

Mike slowly became accustomed to life without a brain. There was a bit of a grace period, during which his movements were rather clumsy and awkward (on account of not having a goddamn head), but eventually he was strutting about like normal again. Unfortunately (and again I quote), "His crowing, though, was less impressive and consisted of a gurgling sound made in his throat, leaving him unable to crow at dawn." Mike's owner apparently looked at this pathetic neck-stump chicken zombie and decided that he could probably make some money off it. A week after Mike's beheading, the farmer packed his gurgling ass up and took him to the University of either Utah or Colorado (different sources cite different universities.). There, it was determined that the axe used to behead him had somehow missed his jugular. A clot had prevented him from bleeding to death, and he even had most of his brain stem and an ear left over from the ordeal. 

The farmer would tape the chicken's head on and pretend to be mortified every time it fell off. He was an asshole.

Mike's fame was eventually established and he found himself living the kind of life that most chickens can only dream of (Mike's own dreaming was somewhat hindered by the absence of his goddamn head). Mike was both valued at, and insured for $10,000, which in today's currency is a hell of a lot more than a gurgling stump chicken should ever be worth. Mike soon got a manager and embarked on a nationwide tour that saw him in almost every major city in America. Inspired by his fame, other farmers throughout the country decided to get a piece of the headless chicken fame pie, and proceeded to do so by beheading a shitload of chickens. Unfortunately, none of the chickens survived for more than a couple days. 

At some point in his nationwide tour, Mike and his crew stopped at a motel in the Arizona desert. In the middle of the night, Mike began choking. Unable to find his feeding and cleaning syringes, the farmer and his wife could only look on in horror as the life slowly drained out of their gurgling little money maker. Mike lived an astonishing 18 months without a head, and managed to gain around 4 and a half pounds in the process, which is absolutely hilarious in a deeply disturbing kind of way. 

Every single detail of this story is both incredibly wrong and incredibly funny.

Sources: 

http://www.miketheheadlesschicken.org/story.php

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mike_the_Headless_Chicken

http://farm-animals.factoidz.com/mike-the-headless-chicken/

Where I Used to Think Babies Came From

Like most people, when I was little I had no idea where babies came from. The question never concerned me much because, as an only child, I didn't come into contact with a whole lot of babies. My mom decided that churning out one crying meat lump was more than enough for her and never had a kid afterwards, so I didn't have any siblings whose origins I could ponder. That being said, I did devote some time to considering one of life's baser questions, and the theories I came up with were pretty solid (at least until they tried educating my 5th grade class about sex, and shattered my sanity by explaining, in gruesomely intimate detail, where babies actually come from). The theory had two slight variations.

Theory 1: Baby Trees

I was thoroughly convinced that babies grew on trees. Generally, babies only have hair on the top of their heads, and I reasoned that it was because this was the remains of their stems, which was very similar in construction to an apple stem. Somewhere in the middle of nowhere, I thought there was a baby farm. Little baby buds sprouted on tree stems, slowly growing until the baby became too fat and it fell to the ground. Migrant workers would presumably pick the babies before they fell, gathering them in bushels and sending them to be cleaned and sanitized before they were shipped out to the masses via delivery trucks. I think at this age, I was confusing babies with human trafficking. 

There also could have been baby vineyards. I liked to keep it open to interpretation.

Theory 2: Potato Babies

Very similar to the first theory, except that babies grew out of the ground instead of from a tree. Much like the leafy bits on a carrot, the babies' hair grew out for...well, I never really figured that out. Come to think of it, I still don't know why carrots have leafy tops. 

?

Anyway. Much like carrots, the farm hands would grip the babies' hair and use it to yank them out of the dirt, once again gathering them in bushels or baskets and sending them off for cleaning. 

The end.

Aww, he's got his mother's malformed noodle arms!

Videogames Make Me Violent

If asked, most of my really close friends could easily identify the quintessential videogame that practically defined their childhood. One guy may have fond memories of Super Mario 64, while another may experience waves of nostalgia at seeing old screenshots of Diddy Kong Racing. They could easily recount every shortcut, every glitch and all  the little tricks that permeated their respective game because, due to the amount of time they devoted to playing it during their younger years, it's practically become embedded in their DNA. I myself am no exception. When choosing the videogame that defined my childhood, I'm conflicted between Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time and Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past. In my opinion, they're both unforgettable and timeless classics that I would absolutely love to play through again. So imagine my surprise this past weekend when, through a series of unusual circumstances that I won't bother to regale you with, I ended up with my very own Nintendo 64 and a copy of Ocarina of Time.

Clear the way; shit's about to get real.

When I acquired the game, I was in the company of my friend Javier. As Javier was the only one out of the two of us who owned an N64, we quickly made our way to his house to play it. Bursting with excitement, I eagerly inserted the game and started the console. The N64 logo flashed for a second, then faded into the beloved Hyrulian landscape that I knew so well. The opening musical notes were concentrated beauty, burning through my thick layers of sarcasm and cynicism and reminding me of a time when the entire world was a brighter place.

SO MUCH CHILDHOOD

A bit of background information: Javier has 2 younger sisters, one of whom is 6 years old. The other sister's age is of no real significance because she's in middle school and, as we all know, every middle schooler's status as a real human being is temporarily revoked on the grounds that they've been scientifically proven to be the worst things in recently recorded history.

Don't look into its eyes, that's how they eat your soul.

Anyway. Javier and I had a nice set-up in his basement, in which the N64 was hooked up to a massive flat screen TV and I was comfortably situated in a nice little rocking chair. It was surreal because the TV's high-quality features only served to amplify the ugliness with which the game has aged. Javier's 6 year old sister (who, for no discernible reason, will be referred to as Doorknob for the rest of the article) had been throwing a fit and, at some point, ended up crossing in front of me. Unfortunately, Doorknob's foot got snagged on the wire of my controller. Suddenly, the Nintendo console came crashing to the ground. The AV cables became disconnected and, for a brief moment, I thought that Doorknob's carelessness had just wiped away the last hour of my gameplay. After recovering from my shell shock, I turned my gaze to the little girl who had come so close to destroying my game progress. Still pouting, she said "Johann should watch where he puts his wires."

Whether she was trying to be funny or not is irrelevant. The fact is, I have never been so close to hitting a 6 year old in my entire life. 

She interrupted my childhood. I ended hers.

At the time, the console had been sitting in a rather precarious position on the rocking foot rest when it was knocked down. With all the delicacy of handling a newborn, Javier and I gingerly moved it to the top of a much more secure table and resumed our gaming. The console came crashing to the floor again half an hour later when Javier's dad came in to vacuum the floor and carelessly knocked it off the table. By this point, I was absolutely paranoid and ready to eviscerate anybody who came within spitting distance of me and my game.

The next day, I took the N64 (Javier had given it to me) and my copy of Ocarina of Time and brought it all back to my house. They now both reside in my room as a monument to all the hours I sunk into it. It's been over 10 years since the last time I owned a Nintendo 64 and, despite all the time I spent playing it, I've never actually beaten Ocarina of Time. It is now my life goal to remedy that.

Basically, the first 7 years of my life can be summed up by an aging fantasy adventure game that I nearly killed a 6 year old over. Life well spent.