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Huh?
Friday, May 10, 2013

I am in the habit of writing things down. This will come as no shock to those of you who know me and have realized that my brain is basically a sieve. A razor-sharp, oft-delusional, steel sieve, but a sieve none the less.

Hence I am prone to writing notes.

However, here's the problem: I tend to write notes on any old piece of paper or chupacabra that happen to be around, so I have a large stack of papers on my desk that my brain-sieve has categorized as 'necessary' or 'important.' It is worth noting that the chupacabra didn't stack nearly as well and is currently missing. I hope whatever I wrote on it wasn't terribly important.

NOTE: MS Word does not recognize 'chupacabra.' I find this deficiency appalling. And yes, I can add it to my personal dictionary, I just haven't yet.

Putting aside the missing chupacabra, there is a second problem with my note taking: when I get around to looking at the notes, I generally have no idea what they mean or what they're for.

Here is an honest-to-god example of things I have written down on one sheet:

Two columns of numbers, each totaled, with the difference beneath circled.

Str, Dex, Will, Magic, Cunning, Cons, with tallies.
Wash at Motel 6.
A sketch of a tower with an arrow pointing at it. 'Need spears!' is next to the arrow.
Diablo III, crossed out.
'White to t3. Green to t6'
'Tifany' with one 'f'.
Armorer, Bladesmith, Florist
Several doodles, which may or may not be of me punching a ninja

So, I have no idea why I felt the need to write any of these things down. I'm sure that I felt they were important at the time, perhaps even crucial, but unless I figure out how to decipher them, they're basically worthless.

It could be like that movie The Saint with Val Kilmer. The impossibly hot scientist lady kept her notes for her world-shattering discovery on a series of small pieces of paper that had to be rearranged correctly and for some reason she was the only one who knew the right order. This is disregarding the fact that there were a finite number of pieces of paper (like seven) and I'm pretty sure you could have just brute-forced your way through all the possible combinations and come up with the answer. Anyway, that was an overly long explanation for the fact that I have lots of notes and no comprehension of what they mean.

In all likelihood, it's probably not anything earthshaking like a cure for cancer or how to get Olivia Wilde to deliver a pizza to my apartment.

Hmmmm . . . pizza.

Cheers,

-Jason

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Round One: Squabble!
Friday, April 26, 2013

My upstairs neighbors had a fight the other night. She went stomping up the stairs and flung the door open. I couldn't quite hear what was going on, but she was pissed at the guy for some reason and yelled for about ten minutes. She then stomped back out and drove off. I continued watching cartoons.

She came back about twenty minutes later and stomped back up the stairs. This time there was more prolonged shouting and some jumping up and/or down, as they made the ceiling shake. After about ten minutes of this, she left again, leaving the guy sobbing.

I happened to use the bathroom at that point and discovered a fun fact: you can hear what's going on upstairs really, really well in the bathroom. He was sobbing and kept repeating 'What am I going to do?' I'm not sure if he was talking to someone or just in hysterics, but I made a mental note to not say anything incriminating loudly in the bathroom, just in case they could hear me as well as I could hear them.

And that was it. Maybe twenty minutes total arguing with another ten or so of sobbing.

In all honesty, the level of fighting that has been going on at this apartment complex has been really, really bad. I would give the one the other night a 4 out of 10 at best, just because she stomped really well.

As a long-time apartment dweller, I have come to recognize the artistry involved in a really good fight. There's a certain commitment needed to truly scream that someone is a 'filthy whore' at 3 in the morning. Even the relatively simple act of slamming an apartment door has its intricacies. Do you go for the big wham or the more subtle 'shut the door softly, but in a way that makes the whole building shake?'

Seriously, these people need some lessons or something. Back at my old complex this wouldn't have even registered over the screaming and sirens. Where was the crashing of lamps? The breaking of furniture? The anguished wails? The intricate melody of two people screaming at each other in a language I don't understand?

I guess my point is that if you're going to disturb your neighbors with a fight at least make it interesting. Scream, holler, break stuff. And when you run screaming into the night, do it in your underwear. Basically, give me something to tell the guys at work about or just don't bother.

As a rule of thumb: if the SWAT team shows up, you're doing it right.

Cheers,

-Jason

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All Alone
Friday, April 19, 2013

So, I haven't updated in a couple weeks and I apologize for that. It's just that I've had a major upheaval in my personal life and I had to spend some time dealing with it. After many years, I've suddenly found myself alone.

I mean, I thought things were going great. Sure, it wasn't perfect, but I thought it was good. I was always there. At least, I thought I was. I always made time. Perhaps, in hindsight, not enough. I admit that I took it for granted, that I thought it would last forever.

Forever did not turn out quite as long as I thought.

So here I am, sitting alone in my apartment, drinking a coke. There are cobwebs on the swords. My mace is dusty. The cobra's getting fat, the traps are rusty, and I'm listening to Johnny Cash because that's what you do, isn't it?

I guess I just have to face it.

The ninjas are gone.

They left a note, a very nice note, explaining that though it had been fun, the contract was over and they were moving on. Something about a guy in Chicago and a bonus for making it look like an accident. And they were very sorry, so very sorry, to leave like this. If, by some chance, they found themselves in my neck of the woods, they'd swing by and attempt a disemboweling, just for old time's sake. And they wished me the best, the very best, and hoped that the next time I chased someone across a rooftop with a guan-dao while wearing monkey slippers and leiderhosen, I'd think of them.

It's been hard, I admit. As often as I cursed them, made snide remarks and blogs about them, I do miss them. They were a constant, y'know? A dangerous, often venomous, constant. Sure there were swords involved. Sure they once tried to strangle me when I was on the potty. It was all part and parcel.

Yet, in a strange way, they cared. They thought about me a lot. They knew my habits, my likes and dislikes. What I ate in the morning, when I went to sleep, and where I hid my brass knuckles. It was a violent, bloody caring, but in lieu of anything else, it was something.

And now they're gone.

Oh, I've tried to cope, but the mundane world offers little when you're typical Tuesday consisted of fighting eleven armed men with a rubber chicken filled with buckshot while simultaneously keeping an eye on your chicken in the microwave.

So, yeah. I miss them. They were a danger that became a nuisance that became a habit. It was its own special specialness.

And, in all honesty, I just bought 100-gallons of napalm and I have no idea what to do with it now.

Oh well, summer's coming up. Maybe I can figure out a way to bbq with it.

Cheers,

-Jason

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Super Science Kung-Fu
Wednesday, March 27, 2013

So, there was an Ant-Man trailer that was up showing Ant-Man beating up a bunch of thugs using his size shifting power. However, it has been removed so there will be no visual aid for today's blog.

Anyway, for the uninitiated (aka, those who had lives in high school), Ant-Man is one of the original Avengers. He invented a substance that allowed him to change his size and in keeping with his theme, a helmet that allowed him to control ants. Which begs the question: did he go for the whole 'ant' thing in the beginning or was he just banging around in the lab one day and accidentally figured out how to control ants? I dunno.

Now, in the trailer that is no longer viewable, Ant-Man sneaks into a base using his size-altering powers and then beats the tar out of two guards, going so far as to shrink down and then leap into one of the guard's mouths to render a very up close and personal pummeling. Essentially, punching the guy out from the inside, as it were.

He successfully takes out the two guards and looks pretty cool doing it. Score one (or two) for Ant-Man. This beat-down, however, raises a question for me: when did he learn to fight? I mean, he's not just punching guys, he's leaping about and dropping some serious kung-fu.

NOTE: I'm not questioning how he manages to alter his size. It's his punching people that gives me a problem. Yes, my priorities are kinda weird.

Seriously, when did he learn to fight? I'm gonna guess that being a super-scientist takes up a lot of your time, so at what point did he learn how to kick ass on a professional MMA level? Was this a requirement at Super Science school? What did the curriculum look like?

Super Biology 203: Put the 'M' in Mutant

Super Chemistry 703: Explosions are your Friend

Super Physics A12: LASERS!

Kung-Fu 101: Punching People: A Primer

It's just one of those things that bug (pun intended) me about super hero movies. Hitting people is not effortless and easy. In fact, if you do it wrong, you can break your hand. So where do they all learn this? Spider-Man gets a pass, as he's really tough. Black Widow, Hawkeye, Thor, and Captain America all had training. The Hulk is, well, the Hulk. I did like that in Iron Man 2 they show Tony training.

Anyway, I'm as excited as the next nerd to see Ant-Man. And the Guardians of the Galaxy. And Avengers 3. Frankly Marvel, just make more movies.

Cheers,

-Jason

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Prostate Avenger
Friday, March 8, 2013

Yes, you read the title right. Don't worry. It'll all make sense soon. Or it may not, I dunno. Maybe.

Anyway, my week has particularly hectic, what with all the phone calls and such. People keep calling me. My brother, my sister, my psychiatrist, my psychiatrist's psychiatrist (apparently, I've given my psychiatrist some issues he needs to work through), my mom, the usual random death threats and heavy breathing, etc. So, that's why this blog is so late in the week.

I was just going to post it next week, but then I realized I couldn't let all three of my readers down like that, so I soldier on.

Anyway, back to the title.

I happen to be watching television the other evening while eating dinner. No, I don't have a table where I eat at. I don't, in fact, have a kitchen table at all. I had one once, but it broke when I threw a guy onto it.

Seriously. It was just one of those things you do when you're twenty-two and someone asks 'Hey, what would happen if Kurt got thrown onto the table?'

Answer: Table breaks. Kurt is fine.

So, there I was, eating my chicken and watching TV when a commercial for a new prostate medicine came on. It featured the usual graying, handsome man with a gorgeous wife who was leading an active, productive life, save for his prostate troubles. Now, being none of the things, I mostly just tuned out until they announced the name of the new prostate drug. No, I don't remember what it was, but that's the point. All these drugs have very . . . well, druggy names like Xanabol or Prosticate or Darminalisin-something or other. Names I'm not going to remember.

And then it occurred to me: Why not name these drugs something people will not only remember, but will make them actively seek it out? Hence: Prostate Avenger! It seeks out evil and destroys it! In your prostate!

I would totally buy that product. I don't even need it and I would buy it, just so I could have tiny, prostate avenging drugs in my system.

NOTE: In my mind, the little drug molecules would be wearing capes. This only makes it better.

Just think of the drugs we could be taking, instead of Dull-atin or Boring-vita, we could have Captain Colon. Forget Viagra, let's call it Boner Fuel. High blood pressure? Take The Eliminator.

Basically, if it would work for a pro-wrestler, it would work for drugs.

Now, if you will excuse me, I need to go take my Melatonin, or rather, Knock You the F**K Out!

Cheers,

-Jason

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