I went to this here futbol game last night with bDr and the one that you know as the Hamster. It was quite odd, being outnumbered at the home ground by supporters of the other team (Steinberg suggests in the story above that it was 50-50, but it didn't feel that way--we were, of course, on a very black loud side, and quiet side and the end zone looked mighty red and white). The game itself was damnably strange, and very, very tense after beloved Terp phenom Marc Burch was (more or less justifiably) sent off just before half time. United had a lot of difficulty possessing the ball to any effect--indeed, even possessing the ball at all--and a lot of the game was played on defense.
But I leave it to bDr and these guys to report the facts. The item of interest, from a purely self-validating perspective (and what else matters here?), is that I was on the concourse, smoking a cigarette, wearing my DCU jersey with number 45 (my brand-new age when bDr gave me the jersey) and my nom de bloog sprayed across the back, and a guy walks up to me suggesting that Landru is an unusual name. I replied, as I usually do, that it's an old nickname, not going into the Trekkie-cereal killer-rhymes-with-orange spiel that you four faithful readers know so well. He smiled and allowed as how he knew a blogger by that name, and after I cautiously admitted that I might know of such a thing, he introduced himself as D. Joy and celebrity worship ensued. Me worshipping him, I mean--no one other than my cat could possibly think of me as an object of worship, and even he's a little sketchy on the concept when I'm not obeying orders from the Kitty Planet.
I can report that D is a fine human being and that I'd have had a hard time putting that persona with his blogging voice (what I'm saying is that in person, he effervesces, while I think his blogging voice is a lot more neutral and steady and objective). Nothing unusual about that.
Great to meet you, D. Let's do that again.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Monday, September 24, 2007
Existifascism
My buddy bDr was suffering some bit of existential angst yesterday as he blogged most abstractly about some bit of abstract existential angst related to news I didn't see, most probably (as far as I can tell) some insignificant and patently ridiculous admission by an editorially right-wing newspaper that its advertising department is a pack of pinkos. So the fuck what? Petraeus is a self-serving jackass. We're gonna whine because we called someone a traitor when the same someones have been far more calling us traitors and far worse over far less for six fucking years? Blow me.
In fact, put so starkly, it's incomprehensible that this is worth gnashing over. So I'm not. I've got the moral high ground regardless of what sort of idiocy the Times spews. And while I'm not a big lover of MoveOn, their rhetoric hits close to the moral high ground--a height with which the other side cannot be accused of familiarity.
And now that I deconstruct a little better, it's clear to me that this must be the topic at hand, because otherwise I'd be reading about something more significant at some right-wing fucktard site, or my homeboy would be a lot less abstract. And so I must conclude: get a fucking grip, dood. A firm one. Use lotion if you have to. Non-climactic masturbation is a fucking tragedy no matter who does it. One need only look as far as Saturday's presidential radio address, in which the President tells us that Democrats are "irresponsible" for wanting to expand the SCHIP (subsidized health care for children in low-income families, if you're not as acronym-happy as my ilk) program.
This shit writes itself. They hate children, until it's time to put them in uniform to die uselessly, and we gotta worry? Only if we apologize for calling a thing the thing that it is, and that's not acceptable. Let us sit back, tell truths, using jarring language if'n we ought, and wait 16 months. And we must assume that, at that point, They will transition power peacefully.
It's like I said last week; kittens are dying, and fast. Days crush us. Bam-Bam is whining on the couch because he doesn't really want to be up this early (even though he done it to himself), and he wants me to fix it by cuddling with him as he watches some dumbass, previously long-forgotten kidvid that Mommy was dumb enough to reintroduce yesterday. While I'd like to write a little about DC United, which should be happy to have escaped the hellfires of Toyota Park with a point yesterday, I'm gonna go do the things that have to be done, and some that should be done: cuddling with my kid while he unwittingly becomes a Disneytool; going to work supervising the drones and fellating the customer (and going far too soon, having spent most of the weekend fellating my in-laws in the interest of family harmony); and, if the stars align correctly--and they will--making my date two days hence, the prom of middle-aged smartasses, the Prince of Existential Angst and the Prince of Existifascism darting out of suburbia to stand amongst the demonstrably insane in support of something that doesn't matter, but has far more right to be done than anything involving Fucktardia.
Special short cryptic notes section: Get a fucking room, felon-lovers. I don't care what continent it's on.
In fact, put so starkly, it's incomprehensible that this is worth gnashing over. So I'm not. I've got the moral high ground regardless of what sort of idiocy the Times spews. And while I'm not a big lover of MoveOn, their rhetoric hits close to the moral high ground--a height with which the other side cannot be accused of familiarity.
And now that I deconstruct a little better, it's clear to me that this must be the topic at hand, because otherwise I'd be reading about something more significant at some right-wing fucktard site, or my homeboy would be a lot less abstract. And so I must conclude: get a fucking grip, dood. A firm one. Use lotion if you have to. Non-climactic masturbation is a fucking tragedy no matter who does it. One need only look as far as Saturday's presidential radio address, in which the President tells us that Democrats are "irresponsible" for wanting to expand the SCHIP (subsidized health care for children in low-income families, if you're not as acronym-happy as my ilk) program.
This shit writes itself. They hate children, until it's time to put them in uniform to die uselessly, and we gotta worry? Only if we apologize for calling a thing the thing that it is, and that's not acceptable. Let us sit back, tell truths, using jarring language if'n we ought, and wait 16 months. And we must assume that, at that point, They will transition power peacefully.
It's like I said last week; kittens are dying, and fast. Days crush us. Bam-Bam is whining on the couch because he doesn't really want to be up this early (even though he done it to himself), and he wants me to fix it by cuddling with him as he watches some dumbass, previously long-forgotten kidvid that Mommy was dumb enough to reintroduce yesterday. While I'd like to write a little about DC United, which should be happy to have escaped the hellfires of Toyota Park with a point yesterday, I'm gonna go do the things that have to be done, and some that should be done: cuddling with my kid while he unwittingly becomes a Disneytool; going to work supervising the drones and fellating the customer (and going far too soon, having spent most of the weekend fellating my in-laws in the interest of family harmony); and, if the stars align correctly--and they will--making my date two days hence, the prom of middle-aged smartasses, the Prince of Existential Angst and the Prince of Existifascism darting out of suburbia to stand amongst the demonstrably insane in support of something that doesn't matter, but has far more right to be done than anything involving Fucktardia.
Special short cryptic notes section: Get a fucking room, felon-lovers. I don't care what continent it's on.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Hallooooooo
Yeah, yeah. I don't blog, I don't phone, I don't email. The Earth's rotation appears to be unaffected. You still, in all likelihood, ate dinner last night. It's even possible that, since you last gazed upon these works and despaired, you got laid. Woot.
Bullets:
-bDr is mining old Star Trek pics and can't stop. An intervention is scheduled.
-The New England Patriots are cheater cheater fofeaters. NBC spent four fucking hours last night justifying Coach Hobo's decision to spectacularly and remorselessly cheat by showing carefully constructed footage of legal football espionage. Let me do the math for you, Whispers and Jolene: everything your little "football team" has ever "done" constituted the "fruits" of cheating. The two of you have personally made Jesus cry, a thing which both of you, for different reasons, do with stunning regularity (and come to think on it, it's past time I introduced you two crazy kids--Whispers, that's Jolene, she's a scorching hot Boston lawyer chick transplanted to a convertible in Southern Cali; Jolene, that's Whispers, a sexy math geek who speaks three languages and lives on two continents. Jolene's only flaw is that she's just too fucking brilliant. Whispers' only flaw is that he once failed to bet on the Patriots to win the Super Bowl at 150-1 even though he knew perfectly well that they were cheating. You both commit unnatural acts with Boston sports teams. Have at it.).
-In other sports news, the US Womens National Futbol Team is in China. They need your support, even though their overall hotness level dropped staggeringly when Mia Hamm allowed herself to be penetrated by Nomah Gahciapahhah. Get up on Tuesday in time to provide it as they play Nigeria in their last group stage game, having stomped a bunch of hot Swedish girls, some perfectly ordinary Swedish girls, and some downright mannish Swedish girls into the Chinese earth, and having shamed themselves by allowing dirty Red Commie Koreans to tie them. This is important. bDr agrees, although he's just in it because he wants to splash Abby Wambaugh's bones. To each his own.
-Have I mentioned that the Patriots cheated?
-My Terps suck. Look it up yourself. Factually incorrect Terp-bashing here, which is a shame, because the facts speak for themselves.
-The Patriots are cheaters.
-Shh. DC United has been playing well.
-Bill Belichick is an unindicted felon.
-Politics: Just shut up. You're making me very, very tired. Every word written about politics right now saps my will to live. Seriously. Every time someone writes about Petraeus or the Justice Department or the Small Business Administration or right-wing fucktards, God kills a kitten, and every time God kills a kitten, a little part of me dies inside.
-All Boston sports teams are blights upon decency and upon humanity itself. And their best defense is that they're not the Yankees. Fie on you, I say! Ka-plah!
-How am I? Tired. Really, really fucking tired. And put upon. And tired. Really, really fucking tired.
This has been another edition of Death by Free Association.
Bullets:
-bDr is mining old Star Trek pics and can't stop. An intervention is scheduled.
-The New England Patriots are cheater cheater fofeaters. NBC spent four fucking hours last night justifying Coach Hobo's decision to spectacularly and remorselessly cheat by showing carefully constructed footage of legal football espionage. Let me do the math for you, Whispers and Jolene: everything your little "football team" has ever "done" constituted the "fruits" of cheating. The two of you have personally made Jesus cry, a thing which both of you, for different reasons, do with stunning regularity (and come to think on it, it's past time I introduced you two crazy kids--Whispers, that's Jolene, she's a scorching hot Boston lawyer chick transplanted to a convertible in Southern Cali; Jolene, that's Whispers, a sexy math geek who speaks three languages and lives on two continents. Jolene's only flaw is that she's just too fucking brilliant. Whispers' only flaw is that he once failed to bet on the Patriots to win the Super Bowl at 150-1 even though he knew perfectly well that they were cheating. You both commit unnatural acts with Boston sports teams. Have at it.).
-In other sports news, the US Womens National Futbol Team is in China. They need your support, even though their overall hotness level dropped staggeringly when Mia Hamm allowed herself to be penetrated by Nomah Gahciapahhah. Get up on Tuesday in time to provide it as they play Nigeria in their last group stage game, having stomped a bunch of hot Swedish girls, some perfectly ordinary Swedish girls, and some downright mannish Swedish girls into the Chinese earth, and having shamed themselves by allowing dirty Red Commie Koreans to tie them. This is important. bDr agrees, although he's just in it because he wants to splash Abby Wambaugh's bones. To each his own.
-Have I mentioned that the Patriots cheated?
-My Terps suck. Look it up yourself. Factually incorrect Terp-bashing here, which is a shame, because the facts speak for themselves.
-The Patriots are cheaters.
-Shh. DC United has been playing well.
-Bill Belichick is an unindicted felon.
-Politics: Just shut up. You're making me very, very tired. Every word written about politics right now saps my will to live. Seriously. Every time someone writes about Petraeus or the Justice Department or the Small Business Administration or right-wing fucktards, God kills a kitten, and every time God kills a kitten, a little part of me dies inside.
-All Boston sports teams are blights upon decency and upon humanity itself. And their best defense is that they're not the Yankees. Fie on you, I say! Ka-plah!
-How am I? Tired. Really, really fucking tired. And put upon. And tired. Really, really fucking tired.
This has been another edition of Death by Free Association.
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