Soy un Perdedor

I'm twenty-three. I'm a teacher. I drink. I smoke. I live in a convent. I play the guitar; everyone does. I'm the furthest thing from cool.

In that order.

Possibly more.

Ok, no more.

With the Memphis Blues Again

The semester's over now. I have things to do soon. I have to go back down to New Jersey to be near Rachel and to work in the deli. I have to search desperately for somebody with a kid that needs a tutor that needs money. I have to register for the second NYS teacher certification exam. I need to take the second teacher certification exam. I have to read a whole bunch of stuff about deception, written by a professor/psychologist that I'll be doing research with in the Fall. I have to continue my series of bitter e-mails to a retarded professor that likes to give unfair grades.

Boring. This is exactly why I don't post about these things. Not because it's boring to read, although it is. But because it's boring to write. This is supposed to be fun. I have a boring enough time actually living this stuff out (except for the being near Rachel part, that much I like), sitting down and writing about it only adds a dimension to the ennui.

Two more things. I saw an old friend today, one I haven't seen in about three years. He was ok. It's good to find out people are alive. It's even better to find out people are alive and well, but I won't push it.

I'm ecstatic about God responding to my invitation. I mean, it's God, c'mon. He's like ridiculously smart, so it's a bit intimidating, and there are probably a lot of topics I won't feel comfortable addressing with Him here. In blogging, and life, there are many things better left to Him. My favorite part of this arrangement is that (hopefully) He'll respond to stuff here too. Answer questions and things. I have plenty of thoughts on His material, much of which I've talked about (and will talk about) here. But how often do I get a chance to know His take on what I do?

YHWH

Hey everyone! I talk to Patrick sometimes. So apparently he thinks I like him or something, because yesterday he e-mailed Me with an invite to this blog. So what the heck, y'know? I'll have fun with this for a while. But only when I find time between rough-housing with Leviathan and studying the Torah.

Hm... I wonder why I would study something that I wrote. I'll leave you to think about that, while I go and think about some fun things I could post about here. Shalom, all!

Philopator

The Elephant:

Latin Name: Loxodonta africana
Height: 13 feet
Weight: 15,400 pounds
Diet: Peanuts
Lifespan: 70 years
Top Speed: 40 mph
IQ: 80

Strengths: In short, musth. This is the Hindi word for "madness," and is also known as "elephant rage." Musth is an unpredictable, week-long period during which male elephants' testosterone surges, they are plagued with excruciating pain, mysterious tar-like secretions from the head, and sexual insatiability. The musth-ing elephant will try almost anything to alleviate his torturous symptoms. Unfortunately for his fellow beasts, the best remedy is murder. With each life he takes, the elephant's suffering is lessened, as he appeases his testosterone-driven, musthy appetite. Then again, lucky are the dead. For all those whom are not prey to his lust for murder will fall victim to his episodic nymphomania. Coupled with a retromingence of incalculable force, which propels the pacaderm far beyond his normal maximum velocity, not even the quickest are spared from the elephant's wrath.

Weaknesses: Trying to find a weakness of the elephant is like trying to find proof of the afterlife. Just about nobody knows if there is any, and anybody that puts himself in a position to find out is dead. My years spent in the forest revealed to me only one thing that may loosely resemble a shortcoming: the elephant's deep spirituality and emotion. Maim or kill just one of their own (a task in itself!), and the rest of the herd will mourn for days. Of course, one must hope the grieving period lasts for a long enough time to kill all the remaining members, for it is promptly followed by what can only be described as "ultra-musth." Beyond the horror of the everyday variety of musth, this version is not limited to only one elephant, nor just the bulls. In especially malicious cases, it can last for several weeks, pan entire nations, result in hundreds of thousands of casualties, and climax with the summoning of Ganesha. One can easily see why this may not be much of a weakness after all.

Levee Camp Moan

Hey, I haven't blogged in like a Mercurian year. This doesn't mean I haven't been doing things, though. Hm... I don't blog about the things I do anyway, right? Should I?

Well, I will tell you that I found something that was lost, or I'd thought was lost. Is the object lost, or just the person? The object doesn't wonder where it is, or when it'll be found. It's the person that's confused about its whereabouts. Anyway, I didn't know where the thing was for a very long time, and now I do. My slide was on the floor next to my stereo. Not even under it, just lying on the floor, in a very visible place.

I also thought about if altruism exists. I thought probably not. Then someone might talk about the guy that jumps on the grenade or whatever. But that guy could just be helping to avoid the guilt he'd have to live with if he hadn't helped. Now I started thinking altruism isn't ruled out just because the helper feels good about helping. Rather its exclusion depends on two other things: 1. Did the person know he would feel good about himself afterward? and 2. Did the person help because he knew he would feel good about himself afterward? If the answer to either of these questions is no, then the action was altruistic.

Now the harder question is probably this one: 3. How do you know the answers to 1 and 2? Well, if the helper helped accidentally, then he definitely didn't know that what he was doing would make him feel good about himself, and since it was an accident, he didn't do it because he'd feel good. But if it wasn't intentional help, it still isn't really altruism.

So what I'm thinking right now is that the only altruism (if any exists) can only come from a very young child. And if I am right, then we have all been altruistic in one moment in our lives: the first time we did anything helpful. At this point we had no idea that it might make us proud of ourselves afterward, even if we did. 1 is satisfied. And certainly we could not have helped for a reward (pride) that we weren't aware would be given. 2 is satisfied.

Unfortunately, I doubt any of us even remembers that moment.

On God and piggy banks

I was reading some things, and I had some ideas. I asked my friend what he thought about miracles. Sometimes asking someone else's opinion helps to clarify your own. I said I wasn't so sure science could disprove the existence of miracles. I asked how he'd define a miracle. He said something like "divine intervention." So I asked "intervention of what?" He said they could be called God's intervention of reality. I didn't like this so much; it wasn't workable. After all, to say that God interrupts reality would be to say that he exists outside of reality. If He's not part of reality, then He isn't real, and that wouldn't help him to accomplish much of anything, even miracles. Following this logic, it's impossible to interrupt reality, since only something nonexistent could do so. And nonexistent things are lazy, they don't do anything. But who can blame them? They don't even exist! I decided that to define anything, you must assume it's actuality.

Define "unicorn." I'd call it a horse with a horn. To say that a unicorn is or has anything is to admit to its existence, if for nothing but the purpose of definition. Now, no part of me believes that unicorns are in any way real, but in order to give it meaning, I have to pretend. So if you don't believe in God, or miracles, suck it up while we play dictionary. Entertain the idea, and it will certainly return the favor.

Miracles, as I've come to conceive them, are God's intervention of nature. More than that though. I interrupt nature when I mow the lawn. That's no miracle. You might say of miracles that they are God's suspension of natural law. To be real, and for miracles to be real, and for this discussion to be real, God must exist within reality. Just as for me to be American, I must exist within America (this is just an example, I impose no spatiality or nationality on God, and of course, I can leave America and still be American). But for God to have created the universe, time, and nature, he must exist outside of it. Beyond nature, or in a word, supernatural. Easy example:  If I've built a house, I had to have lived outside of it during and prior to its construction.

Now, as I see it, humans exist within nature, within the universe, the house God built. Science studies this house. Science, all sciences really, aim to identify, define, and test natural law. That is, science can tell you that, according to the law of gravity, a ball thrown into the air will undoubtedly become a ball falling to the ground. Assuming no interference. Mind that statement.

Likewise, the laws of arithmetic will ensure you that if you drop five pennies into your piggy bank one day, and another five pennies the next day, there will be in your piggy bank ten pennies. Now what if I snuck in while you were at work earning more pennies, and I stole three of them (I'd never do this). When you came home, you'd count seven pennies. Would the laws of arithmetic tell you why there are only seven and not ten? Of course not. But all arithmetic could tell you is the amount you should find in your bank, assuming no interference. A miracle, being an interference of natural law, God's intervention of science, could not be explained by science or natural law anymore than math can tell you about criminology.

What I'm getting at is this: just because science shows no evidence of miracles, gives us no reason to believe in them, and in fact gives us every reason not to, this is not at all because they aren't real. It is because science studies nature, whereas God exists independently of it. Expecting to find evidence of miracles with science would be like asking the dentist for his professional opinion about your broken leg.  Having such an expectation would be unfair to yourself, to science, to miracles, and to unicorns.    

Dogma

I learned a lot today. A while ago, back in about December, there was something going on in a courthouse in Pennsylvania. Turns out some kids in a small town were being taught that evolution isn't the only possible explanation for how us apes got so damn clever. People didn't like this idea too much; they liked evolution. So this group of people did what any reasonable, upstanding group of people might do when they're unhappy about something. They sued. In the meantime, there was something like what you might call a democratic election in that same town. Eight guys on their school board lost and were replaced. There was one more guy who didn't lose any elections, but that's because it ended up being the end of his term. Now they have nine guys who like evolution. Sorry, ten. Ten guys: nine on the school board, and one more with a gavel. He said something about science in the science classroom. I think he's right. He had a lot to say, wrote something like a novel. Now everybody'd better like evolution.

After I finished talking about Pennsylvania, I went to hear another man, whose name was Mr. John Keber, talk about evolution. I liked him too. Then a man who once taught me (he was there to hear Mr. Keber talk too), he had some things to say about perspectives. He talked about paradigms, how they're a problem sometimes with religion, but science's got them too. When this man taught me, he taught me a lot. Seems he wasn't finished. I learned that the fundamental difference between biology and theology is the up front confession of science to it's own fallibility. This isn't necessarily so. Science might say that their theories and things can, theoretically, be proven false. But what about their logic, their rationale, their (scientific) method? These are untouchable, undeniable, infallible. The paradigm in which they are trapped, and so the fundamental hypocracy of all science. How can you prove the rightness of logic as a path to truth? Is it untestable? Then it isn't science. Now maybe you don't have to like evolution, and you don't have to like religion dressed in a lab coat, but everybody'd better like the art of reason, even in Pennsylvania.

Hard Rain

"Hard rain's gonna fall means something's gonna happen." - Bob Dylan

Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, where have you been, my darling young one?
I've stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains,
I've walked and I've crawled on six crooked highways,
I've stepped in the middle of seven sad forests,
I've been out in front of a dozen dead oceans,
I've been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

Oh, what did you see, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what did you see, my darling young one?
I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it
I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it,
I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin',
I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin',
I saw a white ladder all covered with water,
I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken,
I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?
I heard the sound of a thunder, it roared out a warnin',
Heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world,
Heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin',
Heard ten thousand whisperin' and nobody listenin',
Heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin',
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter,
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

Oh, who did you meet, my blue-eyed son?
Who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a young child beside a dead pony,
I met a white man who walked a black dog,
I met a young woman whose body was burning,
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow,
I met one man who was wounded in love,
I met another man who was wounded with hatred,
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

Oh, what'll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what'll you do now, my darling young one?
I'm a-goin' back out 'fore the rain starts a-fallin',
I'll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest,
Where the people are many and their hands are all empty,
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters,
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison,
Where the executioner's face is always well hidden,
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten,
Where black is the color, where none is the number,
And I'll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it,
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it,
Then I'll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin',
But I'll know my song well before I start singin',
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

untitled

Blogging is so stupid. It's stupid little teenager crap. You know who loves to blog? Little babies love to blog. Little babies like to blog about how they hate mommy and daddy, or teacher, or God. Blogs are stupid.

The guy sounds like Jack Bruce!

Anyone familiar with even a drop of water in the ocean of my being knows that I love the slide guitar, and I love the blues. It's not often I make any contemporary friends in the music industry, but a couple of guys have recently caught my attention. I don't resort much to begging, but if anybody (of the three people in the world who'll read this) could send me some mp3's off The Black Keys' first couple albums, I'd probably think that person was as awesome as Fonzie.


*Update*
The Black Keys - Heavy Soul.mp3

Reciprocity - Part II

The road to recovery was long and arduous, but rewarding. As is the nature of all true devotion, however, I lost myself in the process. I hadn't been paying attention to the steady increase of alcohol I began to consume. Harmless outings at the local watering hole began to mutate into hideous, all-night carousals. I heeded not the warning signs as the world around me faded into the background and took a seat behind my habitual revelry in the name of Dionysus.

Enter Johnny. On an unusually frigid St. Patrick's day, my vice finally got the best of me and I collapsed in the forest. Alone, unconscious, and hypothermic, my student, prodege, and friend came upon me lying in the dark, on my back, on the bare ground, full of cheap Canadian whisky and store brand antihistamines. As I vomited for what seemed like an eternity, John graciously tilted my head to the side, saving my life for what would not be the final time that night.

The rest I have only been able to piece together from the accounts of those whom bore witness.

After some struggling, John was able to hoist my arm over his shoulder, stand me up, and guide me out of the forest. Amazingly enough, when we came to a stream, I leapt across it as gracefully as a man with less than half my blood alcohol content. Unfortunately, that was all I had left in me. Once on the other side, I fell again, and assumed my previous position. Finally, John decided he had to call an ambulance, and not one day goes by that I am not grateful that he did. My memory of the following events comes to me in the form of small cross-sections of the entire ordeal. It is as if my consciousness was a faulty light bulb, flickering for brief, infrequent moments, never lasting before fading back into darkness. I remember men rolling me onto a stretcher, hoisting me up, me shouting "Beam me up, Scottie!" I remember asking no one in particular if Jesus would forgive me for all the trouble I'd brought. And I remember answering my own question, "Of course He will. He loves me! He loves eeeeeeverybody!" I am told that I serenaded the EMT's with that stupid wicked witch song. I'm sure it was stuck in their heads for weeks.

Anyway, next thing I knew, I was waking up in a hospital bed. I was clothed in nothing but a paper gown, with an I.V. in my arm, and this huge inflatable thing on top of me - some machine or something that was supposed to bring my body temperature back up to normal. I puked again. Some doctor told me that if my temperature had been one degree lower, I'd have had brain damage or been dead. I wanted to puke again. Some nurses thought it was cute or something and they gave me some stuffed animal. I puked again.

I got back home and went to sleep, still drunk. The best part was before I left, the doctor told me that the I.V. would replenish all my fluids and I probably wouldn't even have a hangover. He was right.

Reciprocity - Part I

Since I've revealed to you in great detail the occurrences leading to and maintaining my fraternity with Dean Simon, I feel it is all but necessary (and fair) to continue the tradition by moving on to the subject of another cousin of mine, John.

John began life, like Dean, in the wonderful province of New Jersey. As a child, John often dreamt of making it big on Broadway. The idea of himself concluding a showing of Cats, revealed by parting black velvet curtains to a grateful, adoring, lusting audience titillated and delighted John's confused, adolescent mind. Motivated by his love of the stage, yet troubled by the frustrations of his cloudy concept of his own sexuality, John fled to the calm of a small village in upstate New York. It would be here that he'd come to my aid while I lay near death in the depths of the forest. But I'll cross that bridge when I get to it.

When I met Johnny, he was so small, so fragile. The bond we forged was in many respects paternal in nature, for John had lost his true father to a horrifying combination of amphetamine abuse, alcoholism, and an all-to-frequent habit of verbally expressing a hatred of "the po-po." His father's death haunted Johnny endlessly. Numerous sleepless nights I spent consoling my new disciple. "John, it wasn't the booze that killed your father, it wasn't the speed, it wasn't the police. John... it was himself."


More on this later.

I dreamed I saw St. Anthony

Sometime a while ago, Rachel and I went to this place where they make peanut butter sandwiches. They made it really thin though, so I won't talk about that place. At the train station though, there was a man, and he was playing slide guitar. It might not have even been that time we went to the peanut butter place. But this guy was playing slide guitar, and now that reminds me that I lost my slide. I had a slide, and Rachel gave it to me, and I lost it. You know when you lose something and you don't even remember losing it? And it's not like "Oh man, I left it on that table at Six Flags." It just disappeared, you know? People talk about "Where's the last place you saw it?" and you can't even remember. And you think if you knew the answer to their question then your slide wouldn't be lost anyway.



We got stuck one time on this ride at Six Flags. The guy in the seat behind us was slapping the ride. We were stuck for a half hour. I thought it would have been better if the guy that played the slide guitar was stuck in the seat behind us. I gave him a dollar when I saw him. I should have given him a ticket to Six Flags.

Epilogue

My profiling of the beasts of the forest is finished. I'll probably take some time to decide which is the mightiest. All input is encouraged and welcome, as it will speed up the decision-making process. The cardinals keep saying how much they hate conclaves. Do it for them.

I know this guy, and he likes to be called Dean Simon. I think it's because his real name is Hebrew for "nifkin." I don't know Hebrew though, and nobody else really does, so I don't know why he keeps his real name a secret. But he gave me some much needed technical help when a couple of the beast profiles wouldn't publish on blogger. Much thanks, and "Shalom" to Dean.

The story of Dean Simon starts many years ago in New Jersey. Of course, he lived somewhere else before then too, but I did not know him, so he was essentially nonexistant. Anyway, my experiences with him begin around the year 1988 A.D. I met him in the front yard of his grandmother's house where he immediately accosted me due to my "Dukakis in '88" campaign button. It struck me quite peculiar that a Jew (who I took to be a yellow dog democrat) could vote republican, and so I asked him just who it was that he'd prefer. "Lloyd Benstein, man. Hopefully Dukakis'll win and die in office." he replied. "Dude, it's Bensten. No letter I." I said. Well you should have seen the crushed look on the guy's face. lol, poor fella thought a Jew had finally made it into the primaries. It made me a little more comfortable to know that he was indeed a democrat, though.

Anyway, we got to talking, and we both agreed that the Iran-Contra affair was blown waaaay out of proportion, and that Reaganomics was probably the best thing since Atari. The man transcended partisanism. Thus was the start of a life-long friendship between Dean and myself. Since then we have dipped our feet in the waters of many a political endeavor. Dean now co-hosts his own radio show with former Jewish mayor of New York City, Ed Koch, *Plug Alert* which airs weekdays from 4-5pm on 1050 WEVD AM - New York's top talk radio station.

Being a man of the true faith, the invitation to co-host was not extended to me. This came as a real smack in the face, Dean being my running-mate and all for so many years. Tune in if you want to listen to Dean blame me for every failure in our political history.

Meet me at Foxwoods!

The Injun:

Latin Name: Homo salvaticus
Height: 6 feet
Weight: 180 lbs
Diet: maize
Lifespan: 68 years
Top Speed: 18 mph
IQ: 100

Strengths: Although the glory days of the red man ended many moons ago, their mere mention still scares kids around camp fires to this very day. Set apart from the rest of the beasts, what makes the injun so mighty is neither his brute strength, lightning speed, nor cunning wit. It is his deadly accuracy with which he launches any projectile he finds suitable for use as a tool for murder. Tomahawks, spears, and arrows are preferred, but are only a few of a myriad of potential missiles. If, while traversing the forest, you have somehow managed your way past the grizzly, chimpanzee, Saturn, and narwhal, do your best to not cross paths with the injun. That is, of course, if you value your scalp.

Weaknesses: During the 17th and 18th centuries, man began to more thoroughly explore and settle the forest. It was during this time that his bumbling interactions with the injun exposed a critical weakness. The injun took to alcohol in such a fashion that would humble Winston Churchill. Its consumption spread through the injun population like wildfire. So much so, in fact, that it was aptly nicknamed "firewater." From this point on, the drunken injun was easily hunted to near extinction, and now remains only in captivity. Presently, thanks to various agencies and organizations advocating the preservation and propagation of all sorts of endangered species, the injun stands a sporting chance of one day leaving the reservation and returning to his home in the forest.

Phaedrus

The Narwhal:

Latin Name: Monodon monoceros
Height: 16 feet (length)
Weight: 3000 lbs
Diet: cod, squid
Lifespan: 50 years
Top Speed: 20 mph (water), 2 mph (land)
IQ: 80

Strengths: On the list of all the beasts you would not want to run into at night, while walking through the forest, the narwhal would definitely be somewhere near the top. The "corpse whale" (as it translates from Old Norse) is donned with a 10 foot tusk on the front of its head that could easily put out the eye of any foe. The dense calcium of which the tusk is composed is strong enough to tear through the hull of an ocean liner like a stick of butter. This, of course, works to the almost unlimited advantage of the narwhal. Scientists theorize that only a structure of solid diamond could keep a narwhal captive. Unfortunately this can never be tested, as it would take a vessel of similar constitution to arrest the beast in the first place. And as we learned in Titanic, diamond sinks.

Weaknesses: It has recently become known that the narwhal's tusk contains as many nerve-endings as its reproductive organs. It serves the narwhal not only in combat, but also as a means of homosexual intercourse. In a gay ritual termed "tusking," entire pods of male narwhals meet at a secret location to rub their tusks together and bask in the erotic glory of sodomitic lovemaking. But do not blame the narwhal. He was born this way, and did not choose his orientation. "I wish I could quit you!," they shout, mid-coitus.
This does not create a deficit of might, per se, but one of power and influence. As a result of their overwhelming homosexuality, narwhals are imprisoned beneath a glass ceiling. For example, a narwhal can never be a boy scout leader, or pope, or president.

Eucharista

I want to mention here that a man by the name of Mr. Pierce wants to tell you that the elephant is the mightiest. Originally, I supposed maybe my continuing search for an answer won't do much to turn up any new developments. Sometimes when people find themselves in situations much like this one, they say something about "Oz has spoken."

I want to thank Mr. Pierce for his careful contemplation of the inquiry which I set down before him. At the same time I'd like to remind you (as much as myself) that the forest is home to many, many beasts. The elephant is but a corner piece in this jigsaw puzzle. Knowing of its valour and might gives us an infinitely valuable focal point, around which to construct the remaining parts of the picture.

I am grateful not for a solution (as it may have been posed) to my question, but for the arrow that has been placed on my compass, pointing to the North and toward beasts of greater might.

A Modest Proposal

Saturn:

Latin Name: Saturnus
Height: 6'3''
Weight: 210 lbs
Diet: Babies
Lifespan: Eternity
Top Speed: 16 mph
IQ: 130

Strengths: Amongst the beasts of the forest, Saturn is the only one that is also a Roman god. As the god of the harvest, he carries with him at all times a sickle, which is far from limited to horticultural use. Saturn is pretty much the most ferocious of all the gods. He castrated his father (undoubtedly with his sickle) and threw his genitals into the ocean just cause he felt like it. After that, some fool told him that one of his own sons would overthrow him as chief titan. So what did Saturn do? He ate all his babies. Archaeologists later determined that Saturn didn't even do this in fear of patricide; he just happened to be feeling particularly badass.

Weaknesses: Unfortunately, Saturn's youngest son turned out to be Jupiter, who is very mighty himself. When Saturn tried to eat him, his mother replaced the baby Jupiter with a rock. Such was Saturn's demise. Saturn's vulnerabilities are few but fatal. These weaknesses include his foolish trust in women, his insatiable hunger for babies, and rocks.

He's president of the NRA for a reason

The Chimpanzee:

Latin Name: Pan troglodytes
Height: 4 feet
Weight: 150 lbs
Diet: Termites, Fruit, Other Monkeys
Lifespan: 50 years
Top Speed: 25 mph
IQ: 75

Strengths: The Chimpanzee shares about 98% of its DNA with humans. This gives it incredible mind powers and opposable thumbs. This deadly combination comes together to form the most lethal asset of the chimpanzee's arsenal: the ability to use tools (i.e. flamethrowers, grenades, laser guns). Chimpanzees often find themselves so bored in the forest that they must pass the time by planning and executing full scale battles against rival tribes. Not unlike their cousins, the Aztecs, they mercilessly bash the heads of their opponents with rocks and the losers are then eaten. If they are willing to do this to their own, what will they do... to you?
After thirty-eight years in the forest, amongst these beasts, Jane Goodall brings to humankind one indispensable piece of advice: do not fuck with the chimps.

Weaknesses: Unfortunately, the 98% of the DNA they share with us does not include the formation of a prefrontal cortex. Ala Phineas Gage, chimps are easily upset and are quite unable to focus their attention on any one thing for very long. This is when the remaining 2% regains the beast and they take to autoeroticism and fecal consumption. In battle, this distraction has proven quite the folly.

De Anima

Recently, I asked a man (who blogs much more than you or I ever have) a very pressing question. I wish to know which is the mightiest of all the beasts of the forest. As I have not yet received an answer from him, I will begin to address the issue myself.

The only fair way to go about this is to profile each one of the beasts, and to highlight each of their strengths, weaknesses, and any unique characteristics. I will begin with, what I personally feel is quite mighty, the grizzly!

The Grizzly:

Latin Name: Ursus arctos horribilis
Height: 8 feet
Weight: 1500 lbs
Diet: Moose, Salmon, Hikers
Life Span: 30 years
Top Speed: 35 mph
IQ: 23

Strengths: Ursus arctos horribilis is by no means a misnomer. Grizzlies have been known to destroy entire cities if sufficiently bothered, and let's just say it doesn't take much bothering to be considered sufficient. The male grizzly's urine is projected with enough velocity to impale an aspen or douglas fir with its stream. This, coincidentally, is their preferred method for hunting moose.

Weaknesses: Grizzlies absolutely hate forest fires. They do all they can to prevent them, but in the end it is not them who must do so. It is only you who can. Grizzlies are also extremely stupid. Each winter, entire families of grizzly bears gather together and hibernate in close proximity for warmth. Of course, they have filled their stomachs and bladders quite thoroughly before going to sleep. During the winter, one by one, grizzly bladders give way whilst the host bear is still asleep. Woe be to those bears unlucky enough to be sleeping next to a male, as the interior of the cave is promptly coated with their bowels.


Next up - The Chimpanzee

Ethan Hawke eats butt

I'm bored talking about this cartoon stuff. I don't want it to be in the news anymore. Better yet, I just won't talk about the news anymore.

It's snowing a lot. Snow always makes me think of the Uruguayan rugby team. I took a picture of the snow.

I'd horsewhip you if I had a horse.

So in this war of cartoons, the Danish have attacked the Islamic, thereby triggering an Islamic attack on Judaism (or Nazism?). I think Hitler would have been even more offended by the Anne Frank cartoon than the Jews might be. An enemy of an enemy is a friend right?

Anyway, I'm real glad that the Ishmaelites have passed the torch on to the Israelites rather than throwing it back at the Danish. We've already seen that the Danish just aren't good at being funny, although Hamlet made me laugh. Am I praising an assault on God's chosen people? Of course not. I'm just hoping that they've been pissed off enough to elicit another comedic counter-attack.

Hopefully Mel Brooks, Larry David, and Woody Allen are all deeply offended.

Addendum

The Islamic world has more than evened the score. Remember how they were going to draw another cartoon to get back at the western world for the Danish cartoon? Oh, they completely blew me out of the water. I wanted to win that damn contest, but now, in the presence of genius, I officially concede.

As I mentioned before, Holocaust-themed cartoons promised great comic originality. And so it has been shown. The retaliation was as a ripened fruit on the tree of comedy, waiting, ever so patiently, to be picked. The joke seems so obvious, so simple, yet untapped. But now we can all sink our teeth into this delicious piece of Muslim vengeance.

I cannot find a scan of the cartoon, but I have heard from multiple sources a nice description of that which is portrayed. The cartoon is a picture of Hitler and Anne Frank together in bed. Ok, don't lose me. At first it seems as nonsensical and unfunny as the Mohammed bomb-turbin. Here's where it gets good. Anne Frank and Hitler in bed, and underneath it says, "This is one for the diary!"

1 - 0, Islam.

Rockin' the Casbah

I heard about this Iranian newspaper today, and they're holding this contest for the best Holocaust cartoon. I was thinking this was pretty stupid because they only want to do it in retaliation for the Mohammed cartoon in the Danish newspaper. I don't know how many Danish Jews there are, or how many read the Iran Times. Then I also thought maybe I should subscribe to that newspaper because there haven't been many political cartoons about the Holocaust, and this contest is bound to turn up some original stuff. I like original stuff.

Y'know "Iran," in Persian, translates to "Land of the Aryans."

Making fun of the Holocaust is uncharted territory. Virgin soil. I guess that's because it would offend a bunch of people. And then I thought maybe Iran and Denmark are having all the fun, and it's time America stepped back into the game. Offending people is our thing. Where's the U.S. in all this? So then I figured out the best way to beat them both and maintain our position as the most offensive nation of all. An American should win their contest! Then I thought maybe I could be that American.

BUSTED!

Ankh if you're horny

Who was captaining that stupid Egyptian ferry anyway?

There haven't been that many Egyptians in the Red Sea since Moses!

Oh no! Olean!

I just ate a whole can of fat free pringles. Somebody call a little dutch boy.

Hwy 6:1

"What the hell is Punk'd?!"

Daughter of Levi

If pitbulls' nipples were any bigger, kids would bounce around on them at carnivals.

If I were abandoned as a baby and raised by wild dogs, I'd want my wet nurse to be a pitbull. Her giant nipples would keep me sheltered and warm and nourished. Of course, I'd be a wild, feral baby. Neither man nor beast would ever fully accept me. The dogs would always be jealous of my opposable thumbs and man-like intelligence, while the humans would covet my dog abilities like predicting earthquakes and talking to dogs. It's a good thing my wet nurse would eat me before any of that could happen.

Old MacDonald had a god...

They're saying you should look for Saturn this time of year. I found it.

Astronomy is dumb.

Only steers and queers come from Texas

I don't like blogging. I think it' stupid and vain. Not vain like make-up or sports cars, but vain like talk radio. Like I wanna hear what anyone else has to say about anything.
Like every other hobby I've ever had, blogging will inevitably become more of a chore than a pleasure, and so I will stop. I'm blogging anyway. I've done it before. And like nail-biting and forgetting to flush, it has found it's way back into my repertoire of bad habits.
I stand by my statement that blogging is, and will always be stupid. So if it's stupid and I don't enjoy it, why bother doing it at all? I'll take this one step at a time:
1. We all do stupid things even when we know they are stupid. Some people try cocaine, some people drag race, some people invade Iraq. This is my stupid thing.
2. I don't like it, but I do it anyway much the way an obese woman cries while plowing through a strawberry cheesecake. She knows it's bad for her, she wishes she could stop, and she knows she's an idiot for doing it. I cry while I blog.

I'm neither a Czech hockey player, nor a sailor.