Friday, May 22, 2009
I had a friend who worked with me in concert to find these obtuse chatrooms that would tickle our retard bone. Initially we excavated the futureproof fantasies and behaviors that have made their way to the courthouse and to MSNBC, “why don’t you have a seat over there?” There were thousands of rooms to choose from, all of which could bring some sort of weirdness to furor. We would go to the Jesus chat and talk about being gay, or go to the bi-fem-sex channel and talk about being straight. Really, from a young age, I couldn’t help myself but to instigate conflict for fun and profit.
But, alas, it gets boring. The giggles dissipated and the weirdness stopped being so weird. The jaded personality started to set in, but no! I must charge onward into the abyss of the internet. I needed the bowels to be disem’d and the conniving to be nived. After shaking hands with destiny I discovered the more mundane fantastical existences to be the most interesting and full of stupid.
Disassociated Identities: Chapter 1: Megatron: Litebrite
Robots. Yeah, Robots. Some people think they are a robot. I don’t mean that in how I got all hopped up on racism when I got home from seeing Terminator 2—Now I’m a robot sent to destroy! No. It’s people who have a deep seeded lust for robots and perceive themselves as robots.
Some people may scoff at this. I do. I did when I was 13 and I will till I’m 48, wherein which I will have come full circle to accept the robot ideology. But, at the moment, it seems rational to say that idiots are idiots and some people grab a hold of a childhood memory, clutching their Iron Giant stuffed animal, and wish it would never end.
The physics are mindboggling. You can say that about any fetish really. But how does this materialize in the physical world? Do you put on a makeshift stormtrooper outfit, retrofit it with a power glove and some PCB’s? What is the correct nomenclature for a Robot Enthusiast? These are all questions that everyone has all the time about robots, so I decided to do some digging.
When I stumbled on the Robot Sex Chat on Dalnet, instinctively, my friend and I acted as if we were actively involved in the subculture. At one point people in the chatroom sent me their pictures and explained why this person, who resembled The Silver Surfer wearing Power Ranger gear, looked as if an explosion was coming from its crotch. He/She said it’s the main source of its energy and the focal point of arousal. Penis.
I delved into the inner workings of these circuitboard masturbators, pretending to be a tad bit ignorant to all the rules and idioms that these technosexuals follow. For one, they hate being confused with Agalmatophiliacs--people who get hot and bothered by statues and mannequins. They also are a tortured fetish that likely will never materialize in the way that they envision. I know that doesn’t make sense. Just think about it; the same way that we don’t have reese’s pieces the size of school buses readily available, although feasible, we don’t have robots that we can just order on amazon.com and molest furiously. Well we do, but they cost a lot and they don’t exactly play twister with you.
This leads me to their last order of business of how they came to be; built or transformed. You can build a robot partner or perceive yourself as being built. You can find other likeminded people that can be transformed into a full time mech-sex machine. It’s basically like being gay. You can either be born gay, or you can have a hard night of drinking, snorting ecstasy and your roommate convinces you to should start showering with him to save on the water bill. Taint.
Furries are a new breed of whoopass sent to earth to wreak havoc on the normalcy pedo, foot, hair, and scat fetishes have all enjoyed for years and years. It just comes bundled in the form of stuffed animal idiocy. Again, I think it has a lot to do with childhood and wanting to hold on to Tigger forever. Forever? Foreverever?
A furry is a person who likes to dress up like an anthropomorphic animal. Some are more far gone than others. Some of them actually think they are said animal and cannot disassociate themselves from that animal. Even though I have a deep seeded idea that I am a reactable, I still have to put on pants and go to work everyday. I wonder if these people can’t function in normal society to the point that they can file for disability.
Otherkin, Were, or Therian: Pick your stupid and run with it.
These are some of the spiritual beliefs of furries. All of which describe a connection that a spirit in a person has with, zOMG, an animal. Only difference between them being is that Were is exclusively a belief in transformation furry-itis; ie. A person puts on a furry costume to become the animal versus, a person being an animal and having to compensate for lack of physical appearance as a meerkat with flexing some latch hook nuts.
It’s like having a pair of underwear that gives you herpes every time you put them on.
The great thing about being a furry is that you can be any animal you want. As long as it’s a tiger, a fox, a wolf, a night fox, a bobcat, a snow fox, a cheetah, or a fox, you’re good. There are the occasional guys who want to go against the grain and be zebras and hippos, but just like the people who come to a costume party dressed up like an orange or a potato, they're fat. For over-generalization purposes all furries are foxes. I have received information from top intelligence that Barack Obama is a Furry, and, yes indeed, he’s a night fox.
Furries all have a Fursona. This is their representative form that they would show to other people in the same way someone may give you a business card or a resume. Just like GIJoe’s of yesteryear, a lot of them have facebook profilesque features to their Fursona. They explain their likes, dislikes, favorite hobbies, (most make you want to vomit like, “I like to lap warm milk out of a dish.” Oh goody you’re a kitty meow meow) and their ideal yiffing partner.
Just as the robotjox from above don’t like being confused with statue humpers, Furries don’t like to be confused with Plushies—which are their own brand of misanthrope. Furries also like to categorize themselves into intensity groupings. There’s the group that thinks they are an animal with or without the suit, the ones who think they’re the animal only with the suit on, the wanna be’s, cartoon fursona enthusiasts, and just crazy mofos that wear their fursuits all the time.
Yiffing is amazing. It’s derived from the sound a fox makes when it mates. I think you can see where I’m going with this. Or do you? Well, Furries yiffing in the real world means that they act like animals, sniff each other, and eventually start to dry hump. It can lead to actual sex, but sometimes not. To me, if I were involved in yiffing, I’d at least want to alleviate some of the lameness and get laid at whatever the cost. I mean for fucks sake, you’re dressed up like a pink fox in a Las Vegas hotel and this convention only comes around once a year. Come on man. Get out there and be somebody! It’s not like the odds are in your favor of finding a yiffing companion at the meat counter in your local supermarket. This is Indiana.
These two groups are often ridiculed for their life decisions as they should be. Don’t get me started on the LARP argument or that fantasy role playing has its place in a healthy imagination. I appreciate that it’s healthy for people to detach from reality and assume a different persona for fun. I have no problem with that. These people, though, live their lives believing they’re the bjork robots or nympho-foxes for real real, not for play play. That’s called insanity and is no different than the guy who thinks the government is out to get him. He’s just homeless in a park and his fursona is a dude with a shopping cart, tin foil hat, covered in newspapers. Not too sexy.:(
Monday, May 11, 2009
I need to be in the bacon of the month club.
I want to just touch on the few notable baconesque items that have appropriately, made me take a double take, followed by an intense desire to buy these items. Don’t Judge. I know that you were expecting me to hate this bacon phenomenon, but I think it’s amazing and should never stop. I want to see bacon houses, bacon gatorade, and cars that run on bacon. My kids are going to grow up on bacon ball and read literary masterpieces like “War and Bacon Pieces” and “Bacon in the Rye.” They (Bacon Teasers) almost made me crap myself when I saw this.
There have been a few inventions that have propagated the expansion of bacon, both in its accessibility and its poise to become the cornerstone of everything that we know and love.
There’s the Baconwave.
This is significant because it’s the first time I see someone changing the face of bacon. Now you don’t even need a hot surface to sizzle some bacon up. All you need is a microwave that came with your crappy apartment and you’re set. Just put the bacon into the microwave in its specially designed slots to keep the bacon in an upright, awesome position. The bacon comes out tasting how you might imagine. It tastes in the same way French fries taste out of the microwave. I don’t care if you put it in a crisping container, it’s still mushy potato sticks and you are an asshole for trying to get me to believe in you.
Why isn’t this more popular today? Good question, with an appropriate answer. The bacon didn’t taste very good and you still had to cook it. Why not just have a box of bacon that’s already cooked and doesn’t need refrigeration? Lucky for us there’s fully cooked bacon in a box and in a can.
This is the point I’d like to remind you that there are a hundred other blogs that report on bacon on a weekly basis, so I’m going to skip a lot of steps in the bureaucratic structured concept of “bacon blog.” I know I’m supposed to purchase these products and test them out. Let’s just agree that all the bacon sucks unless it’s thick cut, fried up or smoked and that’s that.
The bacon that comes out of a can looks like it came out of my roommate. The bacon that comes out of the box, looks like a long piece of prechewed bubbleyum and they both taste accordingly. These are not nearly as bad as bacon mints, or bacon gumballs. Side Note: Bacon Mints can be used in place of ipecac.
I actually had a bacon air freshener in my car for a while. It didn’t smell really like bacon, but it did look the part. Come to think of it, it kindof smelled like burning dreams and cilantro.
I’ve always found bacon tee shirts amusing. I also enjoy the many iterations of apparel associated with the bacon shape and look. If only they made scratch and sniff bacon apparel. So you can look like bacon, smell like bacon and robots will think you taste like bacon.
Bacon as a food, who’dathunk?
My favorite bacon tidbit is the revival of bacon in foods. People are combining bacon with just about everything now for shits and giggles. There are people who are making bacon a posh item in restaurants, people making candy with it, condiments, seasonings, liquor with bacon infused, and the bacon overloaded recipes.
Bacon Explosion: I'm going to do this on special occasions, like Thursdays and Mondays. Bacon, Sausage, Bacon, BBQ, Bacon and Sausage. The Bacon Explosion is the missing ingredient in the long list of things that you could use to kill yourself. This would be the tastiest method. Although it does give me shivers seeing that people post on the comments that they've made this with a pound of cheddar cheese in the middle. I personally want to put jalapenos in it.
Chocolate Covered Bacon: It looks like poop shards, but it really tastes amazing. Try explaining that to anyone and you'll most likely get karate chopped in the neck. It is funny to see the insane chocolate lovers of the world, who took it as validation of their hunger for the coco bean from Oprah when she said, "it was good for you to eat a piece of dark chocolate a day," turn their noses up at chocolate covered bacon.
Baconburger: This sounds amazing, and I'm going to try it as soon as I find someone with a meatgrinder to borrow. I saw another guy do it on another blog and did it with a food processor. It didn't come out right.
Bacon is proof of a higher power. Just like Funyuns (<--this is a lie) it could not be made by some mere mortal. The only way you're doing a disservice is by being tempted by its imitators. It's like buying god damn turkey or tofu bacon! IT'S NOT BACON. DON'T EAT IT. (sorry m&n. I know you're the only people who read this blog. I will have a vegan/veg pov on my attack on Furries. Bacon was a tough order and near and dear to my heart.)
MOARNEWSRRRRRRRR: Naked edition
This is how I would like to be accosted on my way to work every morning. I know she wouldn't enjoy anything, at least.
This guy looks like he's about to morph into an animal. He may very well be the second coming of furry jesus.
All it takes in india to be popular is to not bathe for 35 years. I thought it would have to do with bollywood or something relating to curry. Racism.
I don't like being pigeonholed, but I got a gallon of wine with my name on it and it aint goin to drink itself and pass out naked in the kitchen.
I like Science. I enjoy tatoos. So this gets my interest for a hot minute.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
So, I’ve been hung up on the couch with a neck injury for the past week. I took some time to gather my thoughts and I thought, “How could you fail at that?” Well, apparently you can. I let TV rot my brain and nursed my internal wounds with grilled cheese and granola bars and the occasional gallon of malt liquor.
I was practicing my b-boy breakdancing technique to a John Mayer album, when I found myself spinning on my head like an upside-down ice skater. I then spoke to myself, “Where’s the music at? Where’s the rhythm at? Holy fuck, I’m listening to John Mayer again!” That’s when I heard a snap and collapsed on the floor. When my roommate found me, I had a lot of explaining to do. Why are you naked? What’s with the tarp and the tub of mayo? Why in God’s name are you listening to John Mayer?!
I tried to explain, but it all came out like mashed potatoes out of a sock. So on to the couch I went, Icy hot from head to toe just in case I missed some area of the pain that has wrecked my proverbial shit. There I stayed for a week. I’m feeling a lot better now, but I’m due for a relapse at any moment. John Mayer could come out of nowhere and I may have sympathy pains once again.
When I woke up this morning and could move for the first time in a while without intense red hot poker pain in my neck, I realized I hadn’t been bowling in over two weeks.
This is no good. No good at all.
I plan on remedying this situation post haste, but in the meantime, I thought I might touch base with you about bowling.
I always have equated bowling with life and decision making. It’s the perfect analogy. When you get up to bowl, you posture yourself for the best roll for your situation. You take aim and take all the precautions necessary to achieve your goal. Stay out of the gutter, put so much English on it, put so much stank on it, and prepare your victory celebration. But, just like in real life, you can posture yourself perfectly, put yourself in the right situation, make the right decision and execute it flawlessly, but the lane is fucked up and someone oiled the lanes too much, so you go careening out of control to an unknown conclusion. There’s always another way to bowl too; don’t give a crap, throw it down the lane and hope for the best. Sometimes it’s more satisfying to do it that way.
Environmentals are a variable in every sport; even in a sport inside where drinking beer and eating chili cheese fries is normal to accompany your athleticism. I happen to think that one to two beers a game will drastically increase your performance and consistency within the pocket. But what the hell do I know? I have my grandfather’s bowling ball and a Bengals bowling bag. I am made out of fail, but bowling is my friend.
It’s the Wal-Mart sport. You can go to a bowling alley and find the same people. It’s the perfect cross section of a population. Everyone can play. They even have the bumpers and the rails for aiming. Go to a bowling alley on a Saturday afternoon; get a pitcher of beer, a pack of lucky strikes and people watch like they do in Paris. This is more prevalent if you have Wal-Marts in your area. If you live in a big city of some sort, or don’t allow smoking inside your establishments, you’re SOL. You’re doomed to not understand that side of the country. If you grew up hanging out at gas stations and there was only a Wal-Mart and a Food4Less in your town, you know what I’m talking about. I heard a while back that a fourth of all people who live in New York City have never seen a cow.
Nevertheless, bowling is a great sport, and Tim Russert obsessed about how that golf is the only sport that you can play your entire lifetime? I think that bowling needs to have a word with him, so hard in his face. (I know he’s dead)
and as always...
MOaR News: Canned Meat Edition
This is hilarious. I know, I know. What if it were me on the receiving end of this joke? Well I'd have a sense of humor about it.
Something on ohio.com that has to do with school buses and porn? Get out of town!
Oh GOD MAKE IT STOP
Tomorrow I'll be talking to you about Furries and Bacon.