Yelhcs Knah

2006-09-14T23:55:00.000-07:00

New Beanman stuff will now be show at
http://beanmanadventures.blogspot.com/
I have also put the old images, with higher
quality, up on there.

And unrelated here is a great "WTF!"
moment in comics. Spider-man gets
his eye plucked out.

2006-09-09T23:37:00.000-07:00

2006-09-01T23:56:00.000-07:00

2006-08-30T17:30:00.000-07:00

2006-08-29T16:28:00.000-07:00

2006-08-28T20:45:00.000-07:00

2006-08-28T12:50:00.000-07:00

2006-08-25T13:33:00.000-07:00

2006-08-24T11:07:00.000-07:00

2006-05-20T18:32:00.000-07:00

2006-05-15T20:04:00.000-07:00

2006-05-04T19:49:00.000-07:00

If you were wondering...

2006-05-03T01:47:00.000-07:00

If you were curious as from whence my inspiration for Beanman comes, here is a clue:

2006-05-02T22:00:00.000-07:00

2006-05-02T16:43:00.000-07:00

2006-05-02T05:36:00.000-07:00

2006-05-01T13:31:00.000-07:00

2006-04-29T19:17:00.000-07:00

2006-04-29T00:51:00.000-07:00

Beanman returns! Sorry for hiatus, combination of it being the end of the year and me feeling like shit, which are related in turn. So I'll try to post whenever I get a chance.

Um. Sorry again.

2006-04-12T22:25:00.000-07:00

Updates were suspended because of sickness, the writing of my freshman essay, and laziness. Don't know when updates will resume, since I'm busy with some other things. Like video games. And class. So, stay tuned for further updates in the story.

2006-03-29T21:39:00.000-08:00

Sorry for lack of posts lately. I've been sick. Um, yea sick. I didn't forget, no. I'd never do that. Heh. But I am really sick. But I might not have been sick in the past. Even though I was was sick in the past.

2006-03-29T21:24:00.000-08:00

2006-03-24T02:16:00.000-08:00

2006-03-23T19:37:00.000-08:00

2006-03-22T12:40:00.000-08:00

2006-03-21T22:12:00.000-08:00

2006-03-21T10:52:00.000-08:00

2006-03-20T12:29:00.000-08:00

2006-03-20T11:45:00.000-08:00

2006-03-18T22:59:00.000-08:00

2006-03-17T22:50:00.000-08:00

2006-03-17T14:01:00.000-08:00

2006-03-16T12:50:00.000-08:00

2006-03-15T22:56:00.000-08:00

2006-03-15T22:55:00.000-08:00

2006-03-14T12:20:00.000-08:00

2006-03-13T21:31:00.000-08:00

2006-03-13T16:14:00.000-08:00

2006-03-13T16:10:00.000-08:00

2006-03-11T20:27:00.000-08:00

2006-03-11T20:15:00.000-08:00

2006-03-08T23:58:00.000-08:00

2006-03-07T17:55:00.000-08:00

2006-03-05T20:53:00.000-08:00

2006-03-05T11:31:00.000-08:00

2006-03-04T23:01:00.000-08:00

2006-03-03T22:44:00.000-08:00

2006-03-03T14:26:00.000-08:00

2006-03-02T16:54:00.000-08:00

2006-02-28T23:52:00.000-08:00

2006-02-27T23:10:00.000-08:00

2006-02-27T10:42:00.000-08:00

2006-02-27T10:41:00.000-08:00

2006-02-27T10:40:00.000-08:00

2006-02-27T10:36:00.000-08:00

2006-02-26T20:13:00.000-08:00

Potato.

2006-01-23T21:41:00.000-08:00

Take a potato. Throw it against the wall. Run away. Walk around telling people that “The potato hates me” all day. If they ask why, kill them. Take the bodies to your pit and throw them in. When you have accumulated 100 bodies empty a gas canister onto them and light it. Bury the ashes. Take a shower. Cry in the corner for being a horrible person. A monster. No. That would insult monsters. Monsters can be nice and kind. Kind and nice monsters.
Can you do that? If not then you win the right to not be non-existent. Though if you exist then it’s same to assume that you exist. It isn’t but it’s easier to say that it is. Because it really is. Even if it isn’t.
Since you exist even if you don’t then you may continue to do what you do even if you do because don’ting isn’t a possibility. Or a word. I don’tingly think that don’ting isn’t a word.
Hey! Have you seen Bob. Of course you haven’t. I murdered him and burned his corpse. You can’t call me a murder! That is uncalled for. Just because I killed someone and burned the corpse doesn’t mean I’m a murderer. The reason why allows me to.
Do you feel that? It feels like the earth is being torn into a ball of yarn. Torn at the seems into a coke bottle. How the sorrow spreads. Like spider bags made of plastic metal. Just becuase my Imagery doesn’t makes sense you can go ahead and change it to something that is correct, but I know the correct answer so you loose because you are a looser who will always loose even when you always beat me.
Yawn. Yawn if despair. Yawn of joy. Despair with joy! And fires. Dam I hate it when they run out of fries. That’s my favorite part.

Well

2006-01-19T21:59:00.000-08:00

Can you do the thing that I can do? Probably. I’m not that great. Though I may be better at meth than you. I’m pretty good at that. Surprisingly. Spelling? Not so good. Neither of my parents are any good at math. They both went to art school. I do not have art skills. I’m bored with myself right now. I suck. I shall create a character that is not me but still is me because I am myself. Are you yourself? No. You’re lying! Unless you actually did say no. Then you win. But since I am reading this as I write it, because I don’t actually think this stuff through... I lost track of my sentence. O, well. Well, you vex me so. Don’t you just hate Well. O, and love him. That part is important too. But how can you not do that? You do that’s how! Ha I will not confuse you with my mastery of mystery hand gestures of DOOM! Exclamation mark error! Of doom? Can you shout for yourself when you do something cool like die? Of course dying is cool. O... e-except for that whole y’know... dying thing. Wait. Stop. Cease! Deceased! One of those things is not like the others! I think that “y’know” is kind of weird and ugly. Why did I use it you may ask, but I don’t care what you ask so I will not tell you. I keep typing “ou” when I mean to type “you”. It’s annoying! I’ve decided to try and stop cursing so much. Why? BECAUSETHEPEOPLEINMYHEADTELLMETO!
Ok?

Happy?

I know I am but that’s unrelated. I’m always happy. It’s kind of scary sometimes. Especially when I’m sad. I have this sense of joy in my sorrow. It is confusing. It makes sorrow hard to pinpoint until I no longer feel it. At least I’m always happy. Unhappy people make me sad. But not so much that I stop being happy. I am happy in my unhappiness. Ok that’s enough of that line of thought! Rats are big when they are gigantic. Don’t you know this is true or else I wouldn’t say it? Or would I? I have said untruths before. I will do so again. Unless I don’t. Which would make the sentence two sentences ago a lie. Making it an untruth. Making the sentence four sentences ago a truth. Wait. But then it is an untruth and a truth. Making it a many as opposed to a one. But if it’s true then it is a lie. And if it is a lie it’s a truth. So it oscillates between truth and untruth. So it is never a truth and an untruth at the.... time... Ok, you get it. If not... you write the rest. I have cooler things to talk about. Like... Socks! And... Pie! Socks have glory. OR at least mine do. I don’t know about your lame socks. They probably haven’t even fought on the battlefields of old. Mine haven’t either but still. They would have kicked ass if they had been there. Or at least nipples. Or at least in the general area of nipples. Such as the ass. That’s a pretty general area but whatever. You general area contains the people around you. So you can say you got stabbed in you general area when a guy two blocks away got stabbed. Wow, a lot of people have been stabbed in their general area. That’s awesome. Being stabbed hurts a lot less than I thought it would. So does getting shot.

O! Right! Pie! Pie sucks. Or more correctly it doesn’t. I just like saying that. But I don’t really ever say it. It’s just something to write. That being: “I don’t like Pie.” Which isn’t even true. I like Pumpkin pie. That sentence just hits me in the right place. Like your mom. Not “your mom” as in the person that birthed you. “Your mom” as in the general phrase that I have overused. Y’know your mom, like your face. Same thing.

Stupid face. Not to imply that your face is stupid than the rest of you. I think your but smells. Whiz is worse?

Slime is...

2006-01-17T22:28:00.000-08:00

Slime has this slick, slippery, I don’t know... slimy nature. Yea, that’s definitely right. Even if it says nothing. Can anything really be correct without being redundant? Just because something isn’t necessarily correct doesn’t mean that it can’t make sense. Just because something makes sense doesn’t mean it can’t be silly. You can make fun of anything you understand. But it’s important to try and get some sense of understanding before you try to make fun of something. The same is true for like versus dislike. Until you have made a serious attempt to understand something, and get at least some general idea of what the nature of the thing is, you haven’t earned the right to make fun of it. It’s important to not prejudge, and be open to everything. If you’re not going to go into something with an open mind, you might as well not go in at all. You can expectations, and ideas, but since these are not based on an exposure to something you must be completely willing to be disproved. A general desire to be surprised, but not expecting to be, can be helpful sometimes. Surprises don’t really work if they are expected. Accepting that some things just don’t make sense can be important, but it mustn’t become an overused excuse for not examining things clearly. Some things that do not make sense can still feel right. Paradoxes sometimes are much better at explaining the nature of the universe than sentences that are correct and make sense. Why should we assume that we could create a sentence to describe nature that works in the same way our brains normally do. Our brains can’t normally understand nature. Shouldn’t the best way to gain knowledge be to look at the world in a new way? But we shouldn’t overdo it. Just as we can’t always rely on our normal way of thinking, nor can we completely ignore that way of thinking. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Balance is the key. Balance; not equilibrium. If you say equilibrium I will stab you. Equilibrium has to do with rest. The last thing we need is to keep our minds at rest. Sometimes following one way of thinking to its end can be very helpful, but only if you can abandon it when the time comes. Too often we caught up with our own ideas, and approaches that we become stagnant. This argument could become the exact thing it is warning against very easily. Following any kind of doctrine or ideology will inevitably leave you trapped (but possibly not [but most likely yes]) .

Dammit. I kind of want to continue but I’ve out thought myself. I realized that this argument has become exactly what it warns against. I find that ironic, funny, and makes me believe in it even more. But I can never follow something absolutely. Even if I do sometimes.

I think the world broke

2005-12-10T18:41:00.000-08:00

I think the world broke. It might be my fault. But I’m gonna blame you. Why? Because you’re there and it was easy. Huh? That was past tense you say? O, so it was. I guess I already framed you. Sorry I couldn’t inform you in advance. But then you could have done something about it. Now it’s too late. And you can’t fix it. Because the world is broken. You might have had a chance to prove yourself innocent if the world worked. But it doesn’t. Though I’m not so sure it ever did work right.
I see you’ve been shot in the chest. Sucks to be you. Well I’m off.
4 hours is a long time to wait in a bus station. This is my punishment for sleeping. Serves me right. Who in their right mind would try to sleep? Everyone! O... that’s not what I meant. Even though it’s true! No! I didn’t mean that either. What is wrong with me? Why do I keep telling the truth? I must be defective. I need to rectify this situation. How can I enlighten the people if I can’t lie?
Through song and dance! Or not!
I choose or not. I don’t dance, or sing, much less both and the same time. I would need to hire people to sing and dance for me, but I just don’t have the funds. Even if I did have the funds I wouldn’t do it anyway. I would hire people, but not to sing and dance. I would hire them as my personal army of justice. Tacking justice onto the end there will keep people from looking into what my army would actually do. Such as rape everything in a 10 mile radius. Not just people either. Not just living creatures either. Not just dead creatures either. Inanimate objects. Such as duffle bags. The atrocities my army of justice would commit if they existed make my soul cry. ‘Cause it would be raped if the army of justice existed. Well.. Then my soul would also have to exit. Which it doesn’t. Kind of puts a hamper on my statement trying to express remorse at something I never actually created.
Ah, remorse... Such a... um... remorseful feeling. Yea, that works. Or does it? No not really. That sentence makes me so angrily angry. In response I shall creately create a newly new sentencely sentence that shall be sensibly sensible: I don’t like pie.

I can talk.

2005-11-04T23:14:00.000-08:00

I can talk. Can’t you? I doubt it. If you could then your lungs would have to work. But they don’t. I know. Don’t you worry about how I know. I am all knowing. You can’t know more than me. Even if you were all knowing I would know it plus one. So you see I’m cooler than you could ever possibly be. I am the definition of cool. Any other definition of cool sucks. I hate being cool. It sucks. Such a worthless thing to be. I like being myself. So I am not cool. But I am the definition of cool. Therefore coolness doesn’t exist. If it did your face would explode in a gewy mess. Yuck. That would be messy. And sticky. I don’t like messy sticky things. They taste bad. You know bad. That which is not me. I am not sticky or gewy. Therefore I rock. Rocking rocks so rockingly hard. Don’t you rockingly think so too? I know I do. ‘Cause it is true. I only speak truth. What emanates from my mouth is truth. You’ve been searching for it I assume. Well no you’ve found it. Now you can go kill yourself. Please go and do your business elsewhere. I don’t want feces on my cool shoes. Only cool shoes are cool. Unlike your face. Your face is not a pair of cool shoes. Maybe I should combine them. Awesomeness and fugliness. Combined they unmake reality. Wouldn’t that be sweet. Or not. Prolly not. But it could be a neat idea if I never thought about it. Or before I thought about it. It’s too late now. I thought about it. Dammit! That sucks. That idea rocked before I had it. Now it’s just stupid. Like pineapple. Why would anyone want pines on their apple. I prefer my apples pine free. Pines hurt when they prick your mouth. And then you start to bleed. And then you keep pricking yourself. You know, to make sure it wasn’t a freak accident. And then more and more freak holes keep opening on your face. Until you pass out from blood loss. Then it stops. ‘Cause everything is always good as new after a little rest.
Then you wake up and start floating. Floating towards the bright light. Soaring. Soaring high! Higher than you every got on acid. You know that time you poured Hydrofluoric acid down your shirt. That was a good idea. But someone pulled you away from the light and you woke up with heavy scarring on your chest. In the hospital. Chained to the bed. That hurt. Why did that jerk pull me back? And why did he try to tear out everything in my chest cavity. He must have been greedy. Greedy for extra organs. He already has 3 hearts 5 Livers and 80 kidneys. Why does he need more? He doesn’t. He’s just a jerk. You hear that jerk? That jerk is such a jerk.
Back to soaring. Soaring on high. Then high’s mother calls him to dinner and you have to stop soaring. Then you feel unloved and alone. And you climb under a car and start crying.
The sharp pain in your arm wakes you up from your nap. I hate being waken up with a sharp pain in my arm. Like when it falls off from lack of circulation. Or when a car severs it from your body. That hurts a lot more actually. A lot more. Ow. Wow. That was really painful. At least that can’t happen again. Now that I have no arms. Ah, life is so sweet to me.
Back to the light. Walk into the light. That leads to a burning feeling. The light is kind of hot. Kind of really hot. Really, really hot. This isn’t fun anymore. This is un-fun. Having your blood boiled out of you is just... ow. I can’t describe how mad this makes me. Who would go to the trouble to burn the blood out of my body. O, right jerks. I hate them so much. Them and you. I hate you. You suck. And blow. Like a crappy vacuum cleaner.
I’m dead now. This is boring. Kind of like not being alive. Pretty lame. Yea. Lame. That’s enough of that.
I decided that being dead was boring so I’m gonna stop now.

The pumpkin.

2005-11-03T09:25:00.000-08:00

There is a pumpkin. He is a happy pumpkin. Won’t you shake his hand? He won’t bite. He’s orange, how could something orange be evil? It couldn’t that’s how. Pumpkins are a peaceful race of peace loving pacifists. They would never hurt you. Ever. Not they wouldn’t enjoy it. I’m sure anyone would enjoy killing you. I know I would. Except pumpkins. Pumpkins wouldn’t enjoy killing you, despite my previous claim to the contrary.
Did I mention that I recently came into a large sum of money? No it had nothing to do with pumpkins. What are you talking about? That’s ludicrous. Why would I take money from pumpkins? Just because I love money? Just because money is the only way for me to get an erection? Just because money gives false happiness to my sad bleak life? Well that’s not it. I found this money underneath the stairs. No, it wasn’t someone else’s. How do I know? Because it’s mine. Any looser who claims otherwise is a filthy liar. And a rapist. How do I know about the recent sting of rapes that haven’t been reported? Because I’m l33t. Don’t you wish you were?
There seems to be a dead body in my house. I wonder how that got there. Maybe you should dispose of this. What? No, I don’t know how it got here. No, I didn’t kill her. You did. That’s right you filthy murderer. That’s right, feel sorry for yourself bitch. Now clean up this mess before I kill you too.
No, that wasn’t a threat. No, that isn’t a knife in your skull. No, everything does not smell like urine. O, wait yes, yes it does. You lost control of your bladder. Yes, it is embarrassing. You should clean that up. Please don’t take a dump in your pants. I would have to burn this building to the ground if you do.
What officer? No, I don’t live here. Why would I live here? No, I haven’t seen anyone around in a while. Those are all my cars. No, it’s not weird around here. I’m crazy in case you haven’t noticed.
Racing lunatic sounds cool. Maybe I’ll be one of those. But I’m lazy, so I won’t. What would you do if you were god-like? Fight with other god-like beings. Good answer. I would hope so. Why? Well since you are writing this you’d think that you’d at least stay ‘til the end. What you’re not writing this? That’s weird. So then who are you. I am like you. You rape goats, fish, small children and snow. Poor snow. I feel bad sometimes. You know, for eating and defecting on it. But, O well. Those who were to fooling.
I think your doe died.

What could be more fun?

2005-10-25T10:25:00.000-07:00

What could be more fun than being stabbed in the chest?
Not being stabbed in the chest.
But how could you be defined as living without dying?
The fact that I am clearly alive.
Are you sure you’re alive?
Yes.
Not anymore!

The fire sprinkled death over the marsh. Maniacal laughter could be heard in the distance. The water evaporated in the wake of the fire. Smoke filled the air. My carcass was charred. It was more like an unintelligible pile of charcoal. I think some starving artist stole most of my remains. That was a bad day.

“Mmm, splattered guts! Food always tastes better when you’ve run it over yourself.” He licked the last of the skunk off the pavement. Though half of it was on his face and shirt. He smacked his lips and walked over to the nearby car. He opened the rear door of the police car. The naked cop was shaking on the far side. He grabbed the cop, pulled him out, then threw him off the bridge. The body sailed through the air. The cop landed softly on a field of down comforters. Or so he hoped. Instead he tore through the air at a supernatural speed. The air also tore some slits in him. The ground impaled him through his belly button. He was quite embarrassed. With his act as a living being, he took a nice satisfying dump. It was quite a relief.

The flow of the red river tickled the psychotic. He was giggling uncontrollably. Tears welled up in his eyes. He was so happy. This was going to be the happiest day of his life.

There you are psycho!
Giggling on ground.
Hey jerk, I’m talking to you.
Bust of laughter.
This is it buddy. You final punishment. You dare confront a... Where do you think you’re going?

He looked absolutely giddy. He had gotten up, and was walking away from me. He stopped in the middle of the bridge. He turned and grinning shouted “cozy” in a very high pitched squeak. I reeled from the noise. When I looked up, he was gone.

After vomiting in the bushes. I left that scene. The expression on his face had violated my mind. I felt soiled. Not existing seemed like a positive alternative for the first time. I couldn’t even take revenge.

Beneath the bridge the psycho stared up. With his unnatural grin, it was clear he had enjoyed himself. One would think that being impaled by a large rock wouldn’t be fun. Never before had someone killed themselves for a lark.

Crushing Thomas in Magic

2005-06-27T19:09:00.001-07:00

The dark-haired boy stared at the cards in his hand. He held them with both hands, but they were not organized. Some cards were upside down. It was a ramble of Magic The Gathering cards. His deck was a hodge-podge of cards that were loosely connected, if at all. His deck a couple good cards, and one cool combo. It seemed impossible that he would ever get all four cards he needed out of his 60 cards deck, but he often got lucky.
He looked at his side of the table. There sat three of the 4 cards he needed to complete his combo. The dark-haired boy’s opponent was playing a combo deck of his own, so the dark haired boy had had more time than he should have. The dark-haired boy was too caught up in his own strategy to concern himself with what his opponent was doing. If he could draw the card he needed on this turn, he would be able to pull of the combo that had never failed him.
The dark-haired boy drew his card. Across the top of it read: Energy Chamber. He paused to listen to the taunting of his opponent, which he had drowned out.
“Hurry up, it’s not like your gonna draw another energy chamber.”
The dark-haired boy placed his right hand in two of the many cards before him. One was blue, the other red. The blue one read Seat of the Synod. The red one read Great Furnace. They both read, “Land” across the center. By “taping” them, he had invoked their abilities. Each gave him one mana. He needed this mana to play his Energy Chamber.
The dark-haired boy placed his third Energy Chamber on the table with a smirk. His fair-haired opponent gawked in astonishment. He could not believe that the dark-haired boy had drawn all three of his Energy Chambers and his sole Magistrate’s Scepter.
With the power of the three Energy Chambers behind it, the Magistrate Scepter allowed the dark-haired boy to take an infinite number of turns, one after another.
“Wow, that’s luck,” said the fair-haired opponent.
The dark-haired boy started taking turns and drawing cards. He failed to notice the giggling coming from the other side of the table. Eventually he played one of his strongest creatures. When he was ready to attack, he finally looked at what his opponent had of the table. His opponent had no creatures out. In fact, the fair-haired teen had no creatures in his deck whatsoever. He didn’t need them.
The dark-haired boy declared his attack. His opponent burst into laughter. The dark-haired boy was stunned and confused. He was sure he had won. The fair-haired teen pointed to a card on his side of the table. The dark-haired boy let out a groan. His combo had failed him for the first time. One card had thwarted him.
Across the top of the gray card read the words: Glacial Chasm. Under the picture read the word: “Land“. Usually lands only produced mana. This land was not ordinary. This land did not produce mana. The rules text was where the true power of the card lived. The first line read: “Cumulative upkeep—Pay 2 life“. At the beginning of the turns; succeeding the turn it comes into play; the controller of the card must pay 2, then 4, then 6 life, and so on, to keep the card in play. Considering that a player starts with 20 life, Glacial Chasm becomes very dangerous to the controller after only a few turns. The next line read: “If Glacial Chasm would come into play, sacrifice a land instead. If you do, put Glacial Chasm into play. If you don’t, put it into its owner’s graveyard.” Lands are a valuable resource to any player. Without them you can do nothing. A player can only play one land per turn, and only on their turn. Sacrificing a land to play another land can set you back two turns. The third line read: Skip your combat phase. The combat phase is when your creatures attack. This was why the fair-haired teen had no creatures in his deck. The final line of rules text was the only reason to play Glacial Chasm. It read: “Prevent all damage that would be dealt to you.” Creatures and damage spells can’t touch you, with Glacial Chasm on the board. There are cards that can get around this restriction, but the dark-haired boy had none of those cards in his deck.
Without a way to win, the dark-haired boy stopped taking extra turns, before he lost for running out of cards to draw from his deck. The fair-haired boy was giddy. He had put Glacial Chasm in his deck with this specific situation in mind. He loved the idea of someone loosing despite having infinite turns. On his first turn after thwarting the infinite turns combo, the fair-haired teen pulled off his combo. He blasted his pale-faced opponent into oblivion.
“I can’t believe you couldn’t win with infinite turns,” the taunting continued.
The dark-haired boy sat at the table sullen and beaten. He was used to loosing; he did so regularly. But this loss was different. He had had every card in his entire deck at his disposal. A wide array of powerful creatures, finishing spells and all the mana he could hope for. But still he had come up short. One card had stopped him.
He sat there stunned while, “he lost with infinite turns,” emanated from the mouth of his opponent. They did not understand Magic, but they could comprehend the concept of loosing despite having every possible resource available.
The dark-haired boy stuffed his cards into his bag and rose from the green table.

The Pigeon

2005-06-27T19:09:00.000-07:00

He hovered in midair. The air current held up his portly body and, if only for a moment, he was suspended, exerting no force to keep himself in place. The sun beamed in his face and he closed his eyes, enjoying the moment. He was a strange figure, hovering in the air against the blue backdrop of the cloudless sky. Had any person looked at him, they would have been surprised to see a pigeon hovering so elegantly. Alas no one did see him, for he was hovering next to the Pulaski skyway. There were no slow moving pedestrians to turn their heads and enjoy his magnificence. There were only commuters, barreling past the speed limit without regard for human life, much less natural beauty.
He wished he could stay there forever, but the current was not strong enough and he was too fat for it to last. He fluttered down to the black railing of the bridge. Cars continued to whiz by. He looked out over the river and drowned out the pummeling sound of rolling rubber. He hated the cars, but he loved the bridge. It allowed him to see for miles, and gave him easy access to the best air stream he had ever found. It also gave him a chance to be alone.
None of the other pigeons ever came out on the bridge. They never found any food up there, so they didn’t bother with it. They couldn’t understand why he always went up there, but they figured that he must have discovered a secret food source that he wanted to keep to himself. They resented him for this and gave him smaller shares of food. It hadn’t hurt his figure. He was still plump and round, but he was malnourished.
The last couple days had been especially hard, and he hadn’t been out to the bridge in a week. Thinking that his secret food stash might have run out, the other pigeons had given him normal servings of food for the last two days. The moment he felt his strength return he had hurried out to the bridge. Being away from it for so long had sent him into depression and returning had filed him with ecstasy.
He had been so excited that he had over exerted himself, and was breathing heavily. While he tried to collect himself he looked out down the river at another bridge. The Pulaski skyway was very high and stretched far in both directions away from the river. The other bridge was only to cross the river, and the middle of it could rise to let the big tanker ships through. The Pulaski skyway was high enough that all the ships could fit under it, without it moving.
At this moment, the middle of the draw bridge was raised. The ship was not yet visible. A line of cars stretched far on both sides of the bridge, waiting, without a choice, for the coming ship.
The pigeon looked to his left and glanced at the park where he lived. He hated living there. The constant death sapped his spirit. Everyday at least one pigeon would get careless and get decimated by a car. The pigeon swore that a car would never crush him.
The pigeon looked at the area of the river between himself and the drawbridge. Two-dozen pleasure crafts lay in the water, evenly spaced, on the right side of the river. They were part of the Passaic River Yacht Club, located along the Hackensack River.
The pigeon had gone there the other day looking for food. When he got there he didn’t find any food, only angry seagulls. They didn’t appreciate his situation. The pigeon looked at his scars and shivered.
Despite his experience with the seagulls, the pigeon decided that he could never go back to the park. He had to find a new home. He puffed out his chest and ruffled his feathers, getting himself pumped up for his adventure.
The pigeon spread his wings and was smacked in the face with a rush of cold air. He was tossed through the air. He flapped his wings, unable to control his movement. Up, down, left and right all blurred together to form a limbo of nausea. Sound faded away. Time was funneled out; the blurry haze engulfed him for eternity.
The concrete divider was a breath of reality. Time came roaring back. The pigeon whacked into the divider and bounced over it, onto the other side of the skyway. Dazed, all he could taste was blood.
The world was red. The pigeon’s eyes were filled with blood and he could barely make out shapes. He gasped for breath, choking on the blood in his throat. His sides ached; his wings were twisted and broken. His legs worked hard, trying to bring him to his feet, but his head continued to lie on the warm asphalt.
To keep himself from panicking, the pigeon tried to focus on an object. It seemed to be steadily increasing in size. It seemed to be rectangular in shape. It seemed to be an 18-wheeler heading straight for his face.
The black tire cruised along the black asphalt. It was quite content doing what it was made for. It had fun spinning around and around, perfectly repeating the motion. It was quite annoyed when it found a tiny soft object in its path.
The tiny object went squish under the power of the tire. It put up very little fight. Its skeleton shattered into a fine powder. All the fluids and mush inside burst out of the tiny objects sides and back. The tire was now soaked in a sticky red fluid.
“Red? What the hell?” thought the tire.
The red tire cruised across the black asphalt and was depressed.
The road kill analyzed the situation. After much deliberation it decided that death was not that bad and gracefully accepted to never think again.
When Copernicus’s parents named him, they had high hopes for his future. These hopes went up in flames when Copernicus’s uncle, Chester, burned Copernicus’s parents to death with a flamethrower. Chester had also been Copernicus’s parent’s lawyer and had secretly changed their wills so that all of their possessions were left to Chester’s horse; who was also named Copernicus.
Chester was not convicted of murder because the evidence had mysteriously burned up. Being his nearest relative, Chester was given custody of Copernicus, the child. Copernicus, the child spent the first five years of his life in a cage in Chester’s basement. There he was fed a healthy diet of rat feces and vitamin pills.
Copernicus, the child was released when Chester was arrested for killing Copernicus, the horse, who had just been elected senator in Mississippi.
Chester was shouting, “You’re a sellout! A sellout!” when the police arrested him.
Chester was sentenced to hanging and Copernicus, the child was sent to live with his grandfather’s illegitimate son and daughter, who had married and had five retarded children. They raised Copernicus, the teen to become a truck driver, but he was a rebel and swore that he would never become a truck driver.
Copernicus, the man drove his truck along the Pulaski Skyway. He was in his forties, and weighed about 350 pounds. He had been driving trucks for so long that his legs were only good for pushing; they were no good for standing. He smelled like a man who hadn’t bathed in ten years, but really it had only been five. Empty McDonald’s packaging was strewn about his truck; it was all he ate. His beard was long, greasy, and full of crumbs; he had found an entire sandwich in there once. The top of his head was shiny and without a trace of hair.
“Big Smelly” was written in faded green ink across his forehead. His nephew had written that there seven years ago. Copernicus had then tied a cinder block to his nephew’s leg and thrown him off a bridge to drown. The child’s parents had thanked him for relieving them of a burden. He had never gone to a family reunion again. He had been too lazy to clean the ink off his forehead.
Copernicus had failed to hear the squish when his truck had crushed the pigeon. He was busy trying to teach himself to steer with his fat. He had taken a layer of flab and pulled it over the bottom of the steering wheel. The flab looked like an alien organism coming out from underneath his red plaid shirt. It was covered in hair and was bubbling. Copernicus had become quite skilled at manipulating his blubber over the years. He sent ripples through his fat from left to right. This caused more flab to cross over the left side of the bottom of the steering wheel. The added weight caused the wheel to turn to the left to equalize the total weight on both sides.
Pleased with his accomplishment, Copernicus, the man tilted his head back in triumph. This was all he could do, because there was too much fat on his shoulders for him to lift his arms. Copernicus, the man shed a tear. It trickled down his greasy face and paused at the edge of his beard. It was now 10% water 90% grease.
The teardrop was now yellow, and was disgusted with its existence. The water quickly evaporated from Copernicus’s burning face. The grease seeped into his already ripe beard.
Copernicus had never been so happy. The ability to steer with his fat had consumed him for the last 20 years. Now he could let his arms become withered and useless like his legs. He was one step closer to becoming a blob creature with no extremities whatsoever.
The red truck glistened in the morning light. It soared along the skyway, hauling gasoline. The silver tanker gracefully gleamed shimmering silver. Cars roared past, each one indistinguishable from the next. They all cruised past the truck, disregarding the speed limit, which Copernicus always followed exactly.
A red Jaguar weaved its way through the pack. Despite the handicap of an intoxicated driver, the car was handling well. Its speed was increasing with disregard to safety. Five… seven… thirty… it passed cars with ease. It hunted the future. Eager to reach the end.
The driver was temporarily stunned by a flash of light. The car drifted into the center of the road. The Jaguar tapped a car in the outer lane from behind. The driver quickly slammed back into the center lane. The car scraped against the divider; sparks and paint chips were strewn about.
The driver’s eyes adjusted to the light. He clearly saw the glimmering back of Copernicus’s truck an inch in front of his car.
Copernicus felt a jolt from behind. A shockwave went through his belly. The shockwave curled up the edges of his fat, relieving the steering wheel. Copernicus grunted. The truck was no longer under his control. He halfheartedly tried to lift his arms, but to no avail.
Copernicus’s truck was finally free. It was no longer constricted by the greasy flesh-bag. It sighed a breath of relief. The engine quieted to a soft purr. The busted headlight turned on. The truck was filled with new spirit and vitality.
The first decision the truck made with its new found freedom was to free itself from another constriction. The truck was fed up with the road, and decided to leave it. The truck sailed across the outer lane and plowed through the wall of the bridge, taking the Jaguar, lodged under its tail, with it.
Metal crumpled and gave way to the force of the truck. Nothing could stop its march to freedom.
The truck hovered in midair. If only for a moment, it was suspended, exerting no force to keep itself in place.
Splinters of black metal and concrete spun through the air. The truck plowed upward off the bridge, giving the illusion of freedom. Then the truck was lassoed by gravity, which pulled hard and slammed the truck into the street below.
The red truck crumpled against the black pavement. The truck balanced vertically. The Jaguar slipped out, and crashed to the ground. Its windshield was smattered red on the inside. Gravity finally got its fingers around the tanker, slamming it down upon the Jaguar.
Air contracted. Heat expanded. Copernicus felt his fat boiled away. The grease on his skin and beard sizzled.
“Finally.” Copernicus was blown off the planet.
The remains of the Jaguar driver were blasted into oblivion. No one liked him anyway.
The pigeon’s blood was singed of the truck tire, which promptly flew a hundred feet away, clean, undamaged and happy.
“Hello and welcome!”
“O… yeah… Hello.”
“Some day right?”
“Um, yeah. What do you mean by that?”
“Don‘t you know?”
“Know what?”
“A gas truck and another car fell off the Pulaski skyway.”
“What?”
“Yeah. They said that the truck got hit from behind by the car and the truck driver lost control.”
“Did they live?”
“I don’t think so; the truck exploded. It’s a real shame. They haven’t been able to identify the drivers yet, since their bodies were so badly burned.”
“Can I get a carton of cigarettes?”
“O sure… The car was really nice to. A Jaguar I think it was.”
“I just bought my son a Jaguar.”
“O, well I’m sure it wasn’t him.”
“Who said it could be?”
“O, well I um… It might not have even been a Jaguar. I can’t remember.”
“How much do I owe?”
“O, um… Twenty-seven dollars and eighty-one cents.”
“Here.”
“Thank you! Have a nice day!”
The pale-faced teen stared at the man walking out the door. The man wore a scarf around his entire neck, despite the warm weather. The sun reflected off his bald spot and the teen chuckled. The man climbed into his black hummer and drive off. The teen returned to staring at the mesmeric green tile of the gas station convenience store.
“Nice fellow,” the teen joked to himself. He started to laugh uncontrollably.
Copernicus’s uncle Chester had been hanged, but not to death. Chester had escaped the noose, by untying his hands and setting fire to the noose. Chester remembered the ring of fire around his neck. He remembered that the rope had been stronger than he had expected and he had almost suffocated. The incident had left the skin around his neck permanently charred.
Chester drove his Hummer knowing that his son was dead. He gave a sigh of contentment. Looking in his mirror he saw a pillar of smoke emerging from the gas station. His face turned red from laughing so hard. The thought of the pale-faced teen being burned alive just tickled his funny bone.

This story was rejected by my teacher for being vulgar

2005-06-27T19:06:00.000-07:00

The trickle of water disturbed his slumber. He slowly opened his eyes to see a dog peeing below his face. The white dog grinded at him, finished up, and skipped away. The man turned over, ignoring the smell. He reached under his blanket, pulled up his shirt and scratched his belly. He smacked his lips; incidentally his beard got in the way. It tasted bitter.
His hip was sore from lying on the wooden bench for so long. He wiggled, trying to get the blood flowing. The sun emerged from behind a cloud. A beam of light hit the man in the face. He squirmed, trying to block the sun with his hands. The hot sun burned against his face. He promptly sat straight up, panting a little. He blinked hard, his eyes readjusting. He had to strain to keep his eyes open.
The park was filled with lush green trees, and grass. The trees more so than the grass. The grass was damaged from the excessive amount of dog urine applied to it every day. There may be a law that people have to pick up their dog’s poop, but the is no such law for dog urine. It soaks into the ground and stays there, collecting.
The man threw up onto the sidewalk. Standing up was not agreeing with him. He went over to lean on the fence that enclosed the grass area. He looked up. Near the entrance to the grass area stood another man, the owner of the dog. The dog owner was starring at him. His face was scrunched up, as if he were constipated.
The dog owner realized that the homeless man was now looking at him. He quickly averted his eyes and pretended to be focusing intently on the poop coming out of his dog’s butt.
The man sighed. He dug his hand into his but, scratching it hard. He pulled out his hand and held it out in front of his face. He caught the dog owner staring at him again.
“Nice day,” the man shouted. The dog owner was silent for a moment.
“O,” said the dog owner, making sure no one else was around. “You are speaking to me?”
“No one else around.”
“Um, yes I see.”
“Your dog seems happy.”
“Wha… O, yes Scruffy. Yes, he does look happy doesn’t he.”
“Indeed.”
“Well, um… Nice talking to you, but um… we have to go… now. So… goodbye.” The dog owner walked over to the pooping dog and fastened the purple leash in his hand to its collar. The dog’s master rose and started to leave. The dog pushed its legs out in front of it, bracing itself against the tug of the leash. The master yanked hard, pulling the dog forward. The dog yelped in pain, the collar was tight against its neck. The last drop of poop fell from its butt.
The man leaned on the fence to watch the entertainment in front of him. He felt a raindrop fall on the back of his hand and started to chuckle.
The lanky master continued to struggle with the stout dog. Neither noticed that it was beginning to rain. Their tug of war seemed endless to the man, neither party seemed to have an edge over the other. In the battle of strength they were equal.
The rain stopped changed from drizzling to pouring. The lanky struggler, realizing that he was soaked, stopped pulling to exclaim in disgust at the indignity of being wet. The stout competitor had no such apprehensions. He continued to pull. Caught off guard the lanky loser was hauled to the ground by the dog. He slammed into the mud. He lifted up his face and tried to take a breath, but found no fresh air.
The rain had released all of the dog urine stored within the ground. Now the scent was filling the air, overwhelming the senses. Even the homeless man, usually unmoved by smells, had to take a step back.
The lanky loser lost it. He started to scream and cry. He threw himself out of the mud and slammed into the fence. The winner was barking at him, however not understanding the loser’s noises, the dog stopped barking and looked up lovingly to his master. He hoped for a reward for winning the battle. The maddened master slid down the fence and sunk back into the mud. His left eye began to twitch. His clothes were soaked through with water, mud, and dog urine. In front of him his dog wagged its tail in eager expectancy for a present it was not going to get.
The witness pulled the hood of his jacket over his long tangled hair. He hadn’t been this amused in a while. He walked off, chuckling all the way.

Letter to Calculus Class

2005-06-27T19:05:00.000-07:00

Welcome. Here you are. Ready to embark on another year of math? No? Well to bad. You should have thought of that before you decided to take AP calculus. What? You decided to take it last year, when the warm weather had clouded your judgment? You didn’t anticipate how crippling senioritis would be? Well you’re going to have to deal with it. Having a summer assignment is just the beginning of your calculus experience. Calculus can be a fun class, or your worst nightmare come to life to eat you while you dream after falling asleep in class. It is what you make of it (It is a lot easier for calculus to be a fun class if you enjoy doing math. If you don’t enjoy doing math and you still enjoy the class, then I salute you from a safe distance of 1,000 kilometers, because you are crazy.). Personally I enjoyed and was good at calculus, so I had no problem. It was a welcome refresher to the monotony, and boredom of pre-cal. The material is more engaging, and is overall more interesting than pre-cal. So you have that to look forward to. Or to dread, depending on your perspective. If you enjoy a challenge, this class will either be just up your ally, or merely wet your appetite. If you don’t enjoy a challenge, then you probably have a low definition of challenge, and this class will plague you. As far as the AP exam goes, there are two options you have before you: Study, or know calculus. If you don’t know all of calculus, then you will probably have to study, unless you are godlike at guessing, which I know is not true, or else you would have won the lottery and wouldn’t be here. How you perform in class should be a good way to gauge how well your attempts at knowing calculus are coming, but its never a bad idea to do a little extra studying once and a while. Unless you are failing, then a little studying isn’t going to help, it’s going to take a lot.

Bus Stop

2005-06-27T19:04:00.000-07:00

Howard sat on the bench waiting for his Bus. He felt comfortable with the soft wood below him. He had a soft grip on the iron handlebar, and his other arm was wrapped around his bag. He tilted his head upward to feel the sun on his face. It was warm. The air was fluid, and fresh. Howard sniffed the air. He could smell the glorious scent of grease from the hotdog cart down the street.
Hunger was now making Howard anxious, and he started tapping his foot against the concrete sidewalk. At first his tapping was light and inconsistent. He blocked out the whiz of the cars. He failed to notice that the sunlight was waning. Time wore on and his tapping turned into rhythmic pounding. Eventually he was lifting his leg as high as he could, and bringing it down with the force of his entire body. He became so immersed in his exercise that he started yelping each time he brought his foot down. His hunger evaporated. He was now gripping the iron handlebar tightly. His other arm was still wrapped around his bag, but that hand was now squeezing his thigh.
“What is that nut doing?” someone whispered.
“I have no clue,” said a similar voice.
Howard had been so preoccupied with his pounding that he had failed to recognize that several people had come out of the office building across the street, and were waiting at the bus stop with him. Howard stopped immediately, though he continued to tap his toes inside his shoe.
Howard regretted stopping. He had been coming to this bus stop for several years now, and he knew that the only other people that used it worked in the office building across the street. He didn’t mind if they thought he was crazy because they would think he was crazy no matter what he did.
“People that get a job in a place like that think everyone else is crazy,” Howard thought to himself.
Still, he was embarrassed. He thought about explaining himself to them, but decided that it was futile. At least they were quiet now. Normally, Howard would embrace conversation of any kind, but the young energetic jerks that worked in that office building were all so similar, that he had given up talking to them after about 3 months.
The bus was late. Howard knew what was coming, but he dreaded it. He felt the darkness crawling over his legs, and gave a low exasperating groan. Because of the placement of the office building, the sun was now disappearing behind it. This was why Howard made a deal with his boss, that he would start work two hours early, so he could leave one hour early. This was why Howard hated the office building so much. Late in the afternoon, it would completely block out the sun over the bus station across the street.
The bench Howard was sitting on was now hard and uncomfortable. The iron handlebar became too cold to hold onto. Howard clutched his bag closely. The air became cold and lifeless. Howard was shivering, but he could have lived with this, if not for the other change. The workers from the office building, as if invigorated by their dark master, began to talk, and talk loud. They were on the verge of shouting. Everything they said was unintelligible. They seemed to be infused with energy so great, that they couldn’t control it.
Howard crammed himself as far into his corner of the bench as he could. The ice-cold iron handlebar was heavenly compared to the terrible screeches of the office drones.
The longer Howard sat there, the harder it was to tell the direction the noise was coming from. The drones’ cackling blocked out all other sound, and without sound, Howard was without direction. He couldn’t take it. He was spinning out of control. Tears dribbled from his eyes and pooled on the bottom rim of his sunglasses.
“Shut up!” He yelled into the darkness with all his strength. It worked; the drones had ceased their jovial ranting. Howard’s stomach growled.
All Howard heard in the next couple minutes was the screech of tires. The screeching stopped, and was replaced with the scuttling of feet. The bus had arrived. Howard took out his retractable cane, and deployed it with a flick of the wrist. He tapped his way onto the bus.
The drones sat on the bench, their thoughts intertwining, “I’m not getting on the bus with that maniac.”

Feet are important

2005-06-27T19:02:00.000-07:00

Your feet are your foundation. The wobbly building that is you, can barely stay up as it is. Without your feet, your body would topple, crash, and burn. If your feet magically disappeared, it would be impossible for you to run, skip, hop, jump, or stand. You would be forced to crawl on the ground like the mangy footless beast you would become. People would point and laugh at you, because people are insensitive jerks. Your own mother would giggle when you would try to balance on your two stubs. You are a hideous freak of nature. Without your feet, you would be a hideous freak of nature, with no feet.
Your body is your temple. Imagine your body is a beautiful temple made of gold. Your feet are the steps. Without the steps no one would be able to get inside. Thus no one would be able to get inside to make use of the temple. Eventually the temple would be abandoned (No family, no friends, just you, lying in the gutter). With no one to take care of it, the temple would start to become overgrown, and decrepit (Your hygiene would be terrible, and you would get gang green). Eventually the land would be bought by a billionaire who would demolish the temple and sell the gold (You will die and someone will harvest your organs for themselves).
If you can somehow keep your feet connected to your body, you must take care of them. If you do not take care of your feet, you will have poor circulation and you will die. Or, your feet my just stink (Like my Dad‘s feet). Imagine yourself as a temple again. If you leave the steps of your temple unguarded, hobos will start sleeping on there (There will be Bacterial growth). These hobos will feed off the leftovers from the temple feasts, and will defecate on the steps (The Bacteria feast on your sweat and defecate on your feet). Excrement tends to smell terrible (Excrement always smells terrible).
Your feet are not only the steps to your temple; they are also the foundation and plumbing. Besides the obvious fact that without your feet you would fall over, that would be funny though, your feet are an important part of your blood circulation. When you don’t take care of your feet your circulation can become out of whack, and make you ache. Without blood flow your body would slowly rot, and you would need to have limbs and extremities amputated. Not taking care of your feet could result in the loss of your hand, or foot, or legs, or life, or pinky toe, or nothing.
“Your feet are the most important and living parts of your body.” (http://www.socks-i.com/Ilovemyfeet.htm) Your feet are alive, unlike the rest of your body. To mistreat them is cruelty to animals (Technically it is cruelty to feet). It is illegal to mistreat your feet (Not really, but it should be (No, it shouldn‘t be illegal)). Without your feet you would die (You will die with or without your feet). The only thing worse than mistreating your feet is overusing parentheses merely to drive the reader insane (It is fun though). Your feet are important so you should take care of them.

Light Rail

2005-03-07T19:40:00.000-08:00

The air was frosty. The pigeons that would gather there in warmer weather were nowhere to be found. The remains of the last snowstorm were now blackened by the pollution of the city. My dad, my mom, a family friend, and I were on our way home from a day trip to Philadelphia. The journey had been more important than the destination. We emerged from the Camden subway station and walked over to the light rail that would take us to Trenton. When we entered the train we basked in the sterile light.
We whizzed through the black night of southern New Jersey. The huge windows of the light rail made it easy to out into the distance. My dad looked through the boat magazine that someone had left there. It seemed to have been waiting for him. We sat there, on the purple seats, discussing the day, relaxed and content. The conversation slowed and ended. My dad started to read his book. Stops passed and conductors changed. The light rail continued to charge on through the, now pitch black, night.
Boom! The train jerked upward. Stunned, we wondered what happened. The light rail stopped and the conductor emerged, said, “We hit a deer,” and stepped out to look around. We laughed remembering the story we had been told earlier this morning about a deer getting hit when this light rail line first opened. The conductor came back in saying that there was no damage, and we were on our way again. My dad joked, “I wonder what a human would have sounded like.” We agreed that it would sound about the same.
This trip had not been about getting anywhere; it had been about the journey. When we had missed our train in Newark, it was not terrible, it was just another adventure. We had no aim, and we were in no rush. If the destination had been important, my dad would have driven us to Philadelphia, but he was more interested in taking a train ride. We met some interesting people, took several modes of transportation, walked around Philadelphia, had lunch, and hit a deer on the light rail. It was a complete, fun day.
We got off of the light rail in Trenton. Another leg of our journey was complete, but we were not home yet.

Update

2005-02-27T18:41:00.000-08:00

Put up some old writing because I felt like it.

My mind

2005-02-27T18:40:00.001-08:00

When I look around my room I feel as if I am looking into my mind. My computer desk is full of empty boxes and other garbage that I should throw out but can’t bring myself too. Computer games and other treasures are intertwined with garbage so that if I actually started to thrown anything out, I would find something worth finding, and put the garbage back with the jewel now on top. Useful hardware is behind these piles, including my scanner and one of my speakers. The edge of my desk is littered with sticky notes containing ideas that I was about to dispose of, but because of the nature of sticky notes, left them there for later. I have 3 screw drivers on my desk because one is too small, one is broken, and at one point the other had disappeared behind my ever growing piles that represent a genetic problem that will plague me my whole life. For me to be able to express my ideas in writing I have to sort through the junk to find the good stuff. I will rarely dispose of anything, but I will push it off to the side and create working space around it. Then maybe others will be able to see and judge my ideas, and sanity.

Starting a War

2005-02-27T18:40:00.000-08:00

No one likes you. You know it. There is nothing you can do about it. You just have to accept it and try to find a dark corner to live out your miserable life in. Unless you find a group of people who are also loathed and come together to solve all your problems. Nothing brushes problems under the sofa like a nice long war. Try it, there is no doubt that it may make your problems go away temporarily. Its not like the people that die like you. Nobody likes you, not now, not later, not ever. The only hope you have is to distract them from you. War is a great distraction, whether it be grief or fear, no one can ignore a big long war. As long as you a megalomaniac, or insurmountably greedy, then war is the answer for you. All you need to do is follow the methods that have started countless wars.
If inciting a war is in your future, then you must have a group of associates that share your dream. They must be as despicable as you. You must hate them as much as they hate you. They must be as greedy and self centered as you. Only your shared dream of war and chaos can bring you together. If Samuel Adams, John Hancock, and Paul Revere had not all wanted trade without taxation. If they had not all wanted war wholeheartedly, then the American Revolution would never have taken place. No other reason would bring these smugglers together to bring Briton’s colonists into civil war. You must find people whose greed is on par, or even greater than that of these men.
You need an argument to give your war some reason, no matter what it is. It could be a lie, a skewed truth, or even a real problem that is plaguing the people. It doesn’t matter. The argument must be one that the mob will be receptive to. This part can be difficult, or it can be simple. It depends on the aura of the people. If they are disgruntled or scared, then it becomes easier to convince them. If they are mostly content, you must change that. Skew an action of the target for war. Turn one death into a massacre. Turn one isolated event into a repeating pattern. If nothing is available to skew, or you are to lazy to look. Then coming up with a complete lie is always viable.
Just because most wars have been started by megalomaniac dictators doesn’t mean that your average person can’t start a war. Although being incredibly rich and insane is required. Once your war is under way you could even become dictator. Then you could start your next war with very little trouble. You could keep starting wars until there is no one left to fight. Which means only you are left alive. All your problems would then be solved.

Riddle

2005-02-27T18:34:00.000-08:00

Long line that sprouts off,
Filled fat with bursting bites;
Knowledge flows into corners of chaos.
Gawkers gather, gabbing in groups.
The Sweating swaggarts reek of rot.
They traverse terrain in closed caskets.
Never near the transcendent treasure
That lies submerged, beneath the stream.

Daydreaming at midnight

2005-02-27T18:32:00.000-08:00

Tired.
Mind drifting.
Thoughts of nothing.
Almost like dreaming but not nearly as interesting.
No adventure, no amazing place that was always there but never noticed.
One thought lingers as the minuets roll bye.
Time passes like nothing.
Five, ten, thirty.
Just sitting.
Drifting.

Communicable diseases

2005-02-27T18:30:00.000-08:00

Communicable diseases are ravaging the globe. They claim about 6 million lives a year, 1/3 of all deaths. Diseases such as AIDS, tuberculosis, and malaria ravage poor countries. This is a result of lack of and medicine, doctors, and education. These countries do not have the resources available to help prevent preventable diseases. To make the world fairer, anyone who gets a communicable disease should die.
If you can’t fend off a disease with your own immune system, then you are weak and unfit to live. Your body should be able to fight off all invading germs, and prevent you from ever getting symptoms. If you do get symptoms, then obviously your body is weak, and you were going to die anyway. Getting a communicable disease is your body telling you that it can no longer function in society, and it must be put out of its misery.
Communicable diseases kill poor children. Do you think you’re better than poor children just because you have money? If so then you deserve to die of pride. If not then you should be willing to suffer the same consequence as them for having a communicable disease, death. It is only fair that everyone who gets a communicable disease should either all die or all live. As long as 1 person could possibly die of a communicable disease, then all people with communicable diseases must die.
If you live with a communicable disease you are a murderer, because you will transmit the disease, and then the people who get it from you will all die. Could you live with that on your conscience? I you can than you are amoral and need to die. If you get a communicable disease it is your responsibility to kill yourself immediately. Depending on the disease, you have to travel deep into the woods first, only if your dead carcass would be contagious.
If everyone who got a communicable disease was killed immediately not only would it make life a lot more fair, but it would also prevent the spread of communicable diseases. No longer would huddled masses of people huddle together and create a breeding ground for germs. In its place would be a smaller mass of healthy people flushing their system with tears for their inferior, dead friends and relatives.

As

2005-02-03T19:01:00.000-08:00

As the it as it went go. The it it was the went. Went the as. As the went. As went the. The went as. The as went. Went went went the went. Went. As. The said saying says as;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;¿ I like think that me likes thinking much do as. I think that the as went go: go: go. I think Hùgo is my friend. Do not you think so too? ¿As?: Like the it; The shiny shimmering silvery shining shine bucket of shinetastic shiny shine. Shine. Will you as with me¿ Please like to think me like I~~~~~~~~~~> As: Like I think it might be superfluous as the; +ugo needs like the as: as the as go asing down the like thing there it; I think. ¿What* You think you as crazy like crazy insane psychos’ -- Like the as, man_Go now

FLY like the it that went as. I will like tell you when it as. Look at the flying float bubble that is flying like something that can but as: The I think is bad. I think you’re a jerk. Shut up! @$$ :) :) :) :) :) :( :) :) :) :) :) :) :) AS= like the the that is the as. :”>?”<“.’..’;’,’;,’,’;,’/.;,.’;,’;, lol lol lol lol lol like like the as man the as man. Iwentdowntotheriverandspatinthepoolandtheycameandarrestedmemanthatsuckedihatelifeespeciallyjailjailsucksassfuckyouassholeowhoamikiddingiloveyoumanletsneverfightagain !WOW CRAZY LIKE CRAZYCANDY LOLIPOP as. The as is bad: as is best ever. as the as like like the like as when the as loves the think as think as like think like as think as gleaming glowering foreboding happy shiny cuddly dank dark putrid shiny lovable disgusting as. The as like think I went to it then thing shined in shiny dark hole of despair and bliss. When the as is like. I think. As. As think like deep. It’s like I like know like how to like think now, or like something. OMG it’s like so like cool as; When I punch you in the face do you bleed? ¿um like I think maybe I might like could bleed/ouch. Shut up. Your existence is an example as to why nothing should exist. ¿Like I like almost like as understand like the as… as… like as?
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Anger cleanses the as.

Cold

2005-02-01T14:16:00.000-08:00

Cold. Very cold. Very, very cold. Colder than cold. Even colder than that. Cold! If it were any colder I would kill myself out of principle. If nature is going to be such a jerk, then I have no interest in living. Especially without snow. Cold without snow is torture. Maybe not so much torture as it is inconvenience. It is inconvenient torture. Nothing could be so cold and annoying. And cold. Did I mention that it is cold? My hands ache. My toes burn. Maybe I’m dying. That would be sweet. My foot just fell of. It seems to be solid ice.
I am vomiting from my eyes with rage. Rage of fire. Fiery rage. Fiery rage of fury. There is no right for existence to be this cold. Unless there is 8 feet of snow. It can only be cold when it snows. School must always close for snow, whether it snows or not. That this is not occurring is an insult to existence. Cold spits on existence and laughs in its face. Ha, Ha. It spits on me. It spits in my face. Every hair on my body is now a razor sharp toothpick of death. Were I to move I would be cut 100,000,000,000 times. I am scared. The blood would then flow out about one inch. It would then freeze solid and cut off my circulation.
My vomit has frozen. My eyes have become rocks of pelting pain. I must tear them out. Ouch. That hurt. Luckily the gaping holes I left there have frozen to prevent massive blood loss. I would be quivering if I could move. But I cannot. It was difficult to tear out my eyes without moving, but with a little madness and a rabid polar bear to help me it was simple. However, my skull seems to have been torn open. And my right arm eaten. That wasn’t part of the deal. Rabid polar bears are jerks. Especially Steve. Now I’m glad I had sex with his wife. Maybe that’s why he carved all those racial slurs on my back.
Death is not as fun as I thought it would be. Lying here, mutilated by cold and Steve, the green grass, sunny sky and llamas taunting me. Covered in feces. Not just llama feces either. Steve stuffed fecal matter up my nose. Jokes on him, I can no longer breath. That might be a problem. Apparently breathing is important for some reason. Maybe that’s why I have this painful feeling in my chest. You know the feeling you get when someone stabs you in the chest repeatedly with the Empire State Building. That’s how I feel. This is almost as bad as when the llama bit my frozen penis off. It was more embarrassing then painful.
The internal warmth of my body is gone. The permeating warmth that radiates from the bladder is gone. Which make sense since my bladder is a solid block of ice. My entire body is a solid block of ice. Technically its two blocks. A llama stepped on me; its hoof cracked right through my frozen ribcage and split my body right below my nipples. What do I need nipples for? At least the llama then tripped and broke its spine. Wait, I might be dead now. Crossing my imaginary fingers since the real ones were eaten, by me. Maybe. No. Yes. I’m dead. Wow. Being dead is much like being alive except I can’t do anything. Like think. Or write an essay. Or say this exact sentence at this moment. Nope. Can’t do that.

happiness

2004-12-16T20:29:00.000-08:00

Throughout modern human history people have desired purpose in their lives. They have struggled to find meaning in a world that they do not understand. Knowledge is not the driving force behind this chase. Happiness is the ultimate goal. Once they have purpose, they believe that they can achieve happiness. Many religions preach that happiness will be achieved in death. But how can we know when we attain happiness, if we do not know what happiness is.
In 1830 happiness was defined as: the state in which the desires are satisfied. That definition has now dropped to the number two slot. Happiness is now most commonly used to mean good luck. The event that people now most often relate with happiness is winning the lottery. Happiness is no longer a state of existence. It has been taken down to a chance, fleeting occurrence. The change in the definition of happiness is a reflection of our society; we are no longer concerned with long-term plans or goals. We need everything now. If we can’t have it right away, it is not worth having.
When asked what makes them happy most people say money. However in countries where per capita income is higher, happiness does not tend to be greater. The people have more electronic devices and cars, but they are no happier than before. As long as people are not in abject poverty, money seems to have little to do with absolute happiness. Robert H. Frank, the H.J.Louis Professor of Management at Cornell's Johnson Graduate School of Management and the Goldwin Smith Professor of Economics, Ethics, and Public Policy in the College of Arts and Sciences, believes that “…if we use an increase in our incomes, as many of us do, simply to buy bigger houses and more expensive cars, then we do not end up any happier than before. But if we use an increase in our incomes to buy more of certain inconspicuous goods–such as freedom from a long commute or a stressful job–then the evidence paints a very different picture.” Income can be used to increase happiness, but only if it is used to improve quality of living without buying shiny objects. Day to day situations affect our happiness much more than possessions or big events.
Humans adapt very easily. We live on almost every continent, and can survive in any conditions. While many people say they would rather die than become paralyzed for life, paraplegics tend to get over the immediate depression, and are about as happy as everyone else. No handicapped group tends to be particularly unhappy. Conversely, people who win the lottery tend to get over the immediate euphoria and sometimes become less happy than they were before. Human beings can find happiness in almost any situation, but happiness is dependant on fulfilling desires.
Happiness is about being satisfied. There is a limit to what a person needs, and anything beyond that will not increase happiness. While the rich of one country might be relatively happy compared to the rest of the country, this is only because of how it changes their daily routine, and frees them from many of the stresses of work and commuting. Possessions do not make people happier, as much as commercials make us believe they do. If people wish to be happy they must free themselves from the desire for shiny objects, and use their money to improve the quality of their lives

My Lie

2004-12-01T20:36:00.000-08:00

America is a strong nation of patriots and freedom. We are the leader of the world. And it is our job to make sure that everyone has our freedom. America is a symbol of hope and freedom in the world. We patriots must remain hard fast in our resolve. We must defend freedom from all who would seek to destroy it. Only until we find all these terrorist killers, will freedom be safe.
On September the eleventh freedom was attacked. The patriots of America were called upon to defend freedom from all terrorist organizations, and nations who harbored terrorists. Saddam Hussein was a frequent supporter of terrorist organizations, like Al-Qaeda, and had the means and will to create weapons of mass destruction. Thanks to America and her allies, Saddam Hussein has been removed from power.
We are winning the war on terror, because freedom cannot be stopped. All people wish to be free, so we must bring them freedom. Freedom is on the march. Afghanistan has held free elections, and soon Iraq will have held free elections. We are spreading freedom, and it is bringing the world together. But freedom will not be safe until all the terrorists who oppose freedom are stopped. Our victory is inevitable.
It is the job of us patriots to defend freedom from all who would oppose her. These terrorist killers hate us for our freedom, and wish to destroy it. It is our duty to defend the sanctity of freedom. The world wants freedom. Only these terrorist killers wish to destroy freedom.
We, the patriots of America, must come together with all who share our goals, to root out and kill terrorists. We must stop all nations who support terrorists, harbor terrorists, or deal with terrorists. We live in a society of freedom, and it is our duty as patriots to defend that freedom. Only then will we be safe from these terrorist killers.

Speech 1st draft

2004-11-14T20:00:00.000-08:00

All humans strive to attain happiness. What makes people happy differs, but once they discover what it is, no one wants to let that feeling go. Civilization is a way to bring people together to preserve happiness. But happiness is fragile and must be defended. The only way to sustain happiness is through fear and hate. Fear of anything that may threaten happiness, and hate for all that interferes with happiness. Change is the biggest threat to happiness, because change threatens to destroy the delicate equilibrium of control, that happy environments run on. Knowledge must be kept to a minimum, and highly controlled. Science must be constantly attacked because it breeds new ides that could awaken the sleeping child that is bliss. Only through ignorance of the truth can people retain the beliefs they had when they became happy.
Minorities are only a threat because they have different background cultures, and languages. Any awkward situation that could arise in casual conversation would annihilate joy, and destroy the moral fiber of civilization. Minorities may be allowed to be happy only if they reject all of their cultural upbringing and heritage. Then they can become free from sadness.
Religion can only be included in happiness, when it itself is controlled and censored. It cannot be used to breed free thought or to bring people together. It must be used to separate the happy form the unhappy, and to keep fear and hate alive and strong, so as to preserve this separation. The happy must not have any desire to experience the world of the unhappy, else they become infected, and mutate into some informed intelligent monster.
For the happy to remain thusly, they must try to bring happiness to the unhappy savages. To do this without directly interacting with them can be tricky though. While religion is an option, it tends to demand verbal interaction. The best way is through military action and government. Those that are unhappy obviously wish to be happy, but are so unhappy that they think it impossible. Thus, happiness must be brought to them. All that they believe in must be destroyed, their spirits crushed, they will then be blobs of clay ready to be molded. If they still reject happiness, then we must keep destroying them until they accept that happiness is what they want.

Poem, final attempt at reworking it

2004-11-07T17:00:00.000-08:00

People must be bees.
Given a role, they follow it without thinking.
Ask them to think and they get angry,
sometimes violent.
Their refusal to think fills me with rage.
Faced with poverty,
having their jobs exported,
and yet,
they support the one that did this to them;
like a battered wife who takes back the man that beat her,
wanting to believe that the impossible has happened,
that he has changed.
It always turns out the same.
Change is not part of the vocabulary.
Change is not in the plan.
This time change isn’t even in the campaign.
I can write about how stupid these people are,
I can say what they should have done,
but that would be pointless.
I must not hate what I do not understand.
I wish I could talk to them,
to try and understand their viewpoint.
If I could reach them, I have no idea if they would listen to me.
I just have to hope that they will realize what they have done,
before its too late.

poem 2nd draft

2004-11-07T13:19:00.000-08:00

People must be bees. Given a role, and they follow it without thinking. Ask them to think they get angry, maybe even violent. While at the same time their refusal to think fills me with rage. Faced with poverty, having their job exported, and yet, they support the one that did this to them, like a battered wife who takes back the man that beat her, wanting to believe that the impossible has happened, that he has changed. It always turns out the same. Change is not part of the vocabulary. Change is not in the plan. This time change isn’t even in the campaign. I can’t tell them what to do, or yell at them for being so stupid. I can only let them make the mistake until they learn. I must not hate them, for I do not understand them. To hate them for that would to become them. Foreigners say they hate what America is doing, not Americans. Because they can’t understand why we do what we do. I wish I could go talk to these people, to try and understand why they do this. I can write about how stupid these people are, I can say why they should have done, but my cries cannot reach very far. And even if they could would it matter. Would people even listen. Since I don’t understand them, I have no idea. I just have to hope that they’ll start to think and what they have done, before its too late.

poem 1st draft

2004-11-04T18:19:00.000-08:00

Fuck
Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck.
People are idiots. I can’t comprehend. Why? Why, Why the fuck, why? Maybe they’re bees. Given a role, and they follow it without thinking. Ask them to think they get angry, maybe even violent. While at the same time their refusal to think fills me with rage. But they live so far away. Who are these creatures. Faced with extreme poverty, having their job exported, and yet, they support the one that did this to them, like a battered wife who takes back the man that beat her, wanting to believe that the impossible has happened, that he has changed. It always turns out the same. Change is not part of the vocabulary. Change is not in the plan. This time change isn’t even in the campaign. You can’t tell them what to do, or yell at them for being so stupid. You can only let them make the mistake until they learn. For the sake of humanity I hope they learn. Who are these people. They are not like me, maybe not even human. How do they see the world, how is it that they go through life. How can they hate what they can’t even see. How can they fear what affects me but not them. I must be careful in my rage. I must be better than they are. I must not hate them, for I do not understand them. To hate them for that would to become them. I understand the foreign view on Americans more now. They say they hate what America is doing, not Americans. Because they can’t understand why we do what we do. I wish I could go to a red state, and talk to people there, to try and understand why they voted for Bush. This is where my frustration begins. I can write about how stupid these people are, I can say why they should have voted him out, but my cries cannot reach very far. And even if they could would it matter. Can I even communicate with them. Would they even listen. Since I don’t understand them, I have no idea. I just have to hope that they’ll start to think and realize what he has done, and what they have done, before its too late.

Hello

2004-11-04T11:42:00.000-08:00

Hello, what an age we live in. The American people have finnaly showed the world who they truly are, moronic dipshits. They have decided to keep Bush as their president. For years now I have heard foreigners say that they don't hate the American people, only what America is doing. Well the American people have now given the rest of the world a reason to hate them. No longer will Americans be separated from their government. From now on The American people will be hated and despised, and anyone that though we were decent human beings, now hangs their head in shame. Not only did the American people reinstate Bush, they made him more powerful, and destroyed the whole idea of the checks and balances system. Democracy can only work if the people are well informed. In an age where information is everywhere, the American people of today seem less informed than ever. The outcome of this election rests solely on the shoulders of the American people. I am sickened to be an American today. America's greatness rests only in its potential, and to see that potential thrown out the window, is an insult to the entire human race.