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Text convos between me and K

(K is a female friend of mine)

K: detoxifying cotton to use as a protein food source. discuss.
J: go chew on your shirt then let me know how that turns out. Send pics of yourself post-shirt so science can better analyze socio-economic effects.
K: that's actually an interesting thought. Can one choke another on his clothes?
J: It's more satisfying to take off your shirt and wait for them to choke in shock imo
K:lots of experience with that, have you?
J:well in my case it's the HULK SMASH that immediately follows shirt removal that does the killing but the sequence is the same

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K: what are his politics then?
J: ... You know me. What do you think?
K: yay guns?
J: YES K**** NICE REDUCTION OF MY COMPLEX SOCIO-POLITICAL VIEWS. YAYGUNZ. AAAAAAHHHHH I WANT TO GET MY HANDS ON YOU
K: oh right, i forgot boo gays...
J: >CRACKS UP< laconic and incorrigible, I adore you so

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K: mccaffery? not anne mccaffery please ew
J: THE VERY SAME. And yes, it was some mix of retards and psionic dragons.
K: OH MY FUCKING HOLY HELL WHYYYYYYY

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J: hahaha I live for the elipse
K: :elipsis? you live for mispelling it. i don't think you genuinely love it.
J: no that's just three periods. I refer to the bewildered usage, which is spelled different. It's in the AP stylebook.
K: no fucking way
J: Look it up yourself. It's a very obscure rule.
K: WITH WHAT INTERNET, ASSHOLE
J: Guess you'll just have to take my word for it, then :D
K: >glares<
J: *victory dance*

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As you can see, she has the advantage more often then not.

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The '80s were fucking bogus

There's a movie on TV right now called "Solarbabies" which basically involves six teens/twentysomethings that go everywhere with roller skates and hockey and/or lacross sticks (and wage war with them,) and a magical sentient flying glowing sphere that has befriended them. They are waging battle against some dudes that drive armored cars and motorcycles who dress like Space Nazis and are torturing people with a holographic nightmare machine because they're looking for the Spear of Longinus.

This all takes place in an apparent post-apocalyptic wasteland.

They were smoking some STRONG SHIT in the '80s.
 Now the point of FM radio is for music; all the talk shows are on AM. And in the morning, you want to hear some good music to wake you up. And yet, if you twirl your frequency dial on the FM channels, you are guaranteed to hear a dozen snippets of stupid cunts laughing.

Stupid. Cunts. Laughing.

They all have "stupid bitch and F-list local celebrity" and taglines like 'STUPID BITCH AND F-LIST LOCAL CELEBRITY IN THE MORNING!" They play two songs in an hour, and then banter back and forth about absofuckinglutely nothing like the vapid shitsuckers they are, and then, finally, they laugh at their own diseased humor.

All. Fucking. Morning.

Dear Radio Stations: you only get away with this horseshit because people trapped in their cars on the way to work at 7AM are the last captive audience in the world. Someday there will be a reckoning with those bloodshot AM hordes. Until then, kindly disappear up your own assholes.


STOP TALKING AND PLAY SOME FUCKING MUSIC

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It added:"In the end it is just reduced to an anti imperialistic, anti militaristic parable which doesn't have the same cutting bite as other more committed films on the same theme."

FUCKING BRAVO.

This is an extremely concise summary of why Avatar failed to impress- it was such a shameless mish-mash of already used concepts that the value would have to have been entirely in the execution, and there it failed miserably.

Already used? Let us count the fucking ways:Collapse )

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One Minute Writer Promt- "Breakfast"

Much thanks to One Minute Writer for giving me something to do today. Prompt, "Breakfast." This was tremendously amusing to write.






My primary problem with mornings is that the sun is altogether too imposing, hovering right there on the horizon where the long rays can reach right through the windows to assault your sensitive eyes. By the time I’d found the table with my toes, I had recovered enough to squint angrily at the stove top, where there was a decided lack of coffee pots.

I was parched, so I cracked the frigidare for some milk, which yielded naught but a plate heaped with cold bacon, a dozen or so beers, and a lemon. I stole a beer and the plate of bacon.

Jason walked in at about that time to find me staring blearily at the table.

“Hey, Jason.” I pointed at the six foot long .50 caliber machine gun laying across the table, half disassembled. “One of these things doesn’t fucking belong.”

Jason threw his hands in the air. “Hey, I thought we were going to eat out this morning.”

I squinted at him. “And which one of you cheapskate bastards is going to pay for that?”

“Cheapskates! The hell you say.”

“Then perhaps you can explain this breakfast of champions shit,” I said, hoisting the plate of bacon and the beer and shaking it at him. He shrugged helplessly, and I fell into a chair and began grimly munching on my bacon.

Alex entered from the back hall, Mr. Morning Person, a big happy meet the day smile on his face. “Mornin, guys...” His expression became quizzical as he took in the scene in the kitchen.

I gestured at him with a bacon strip. “I got here first. You can have the lemon.”

Jason saw Alex’s expression and apparently decided to salvage the morning. “We are going into town to eat,” he said firmly. “I know a place.”

“Isn’t the jeep broken?” I queried around a mouthful of bacon.

Jason grinned wickedly. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to take... the Terminator!”

“The Terminator!” Alex said excitedly. “You got it working!?”

I raised my eyes in a silent plea to heaven as the two smacktards rushed outside to play with their new toy, a mummified armored personnel carrier we’d found abandoned by the runway when we’d moved in. Judging from its appearance, it had served valiantly in the Penolopesian wars. From outside, I heard its engine roar to unlife- a hostile, rattling racket. The hoots of exultation from Alex and Jason rose above the din as the damned revenant rattled up to the barracks to collect me.

The fantastic and glamorous existence of the private escort pilot was upon me. I resolved to weep, as soon as I had the energy.

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Stone: Unyielding, yet brittle.

The party was in full swing, full lilting jazzy swing as musicians staggered from bar to musical bar and keg to keg. An impromptu band had grown in one corner upon a drumset, like mold, and was busily leaping and jumping through winding undisciplined solos. A musicians party this was, all sound and fury signifying a damn great many things, most of them neurotic.

Through the wandering horde of drunken merrymakers I espied my friend, Alex, making way towards me in his usual boisterous fashion. Bottles of Sam Adams hoisted high, he weaved and ducked and outright barreled through the thong with the adroit arrogance of a true trumpet player.

“And why, pray tell,” he began, thrusting the cold bottle towards me with authority, “is my best broseph, my vocalist extraordinaire, lurking in the corner of the room?”

Deceit failed me. “That escapes me, my good man.”

Alex gestured towards the patio door with his beer. “Then away we go! Lead on, Sir Adams!” Bottle thrust forward like a rapier, Alex parted the crowd as we proceeded to the patio, where the party was rolling on as merrily as inside. The warm summer night air breathed life over the scene and lent me it’s animation.

My pocket buzzed, and I withdrew my cell phone, flicking it open with the deftness of a switchblade draw. I read the text missive thereupon and sniggered.

“Aha!” Alex declared with an air of discovery. “So this is what made into your pocket with such dispatch ‘pon my approach!” he accused, robbing Shakespere with the same casual ease he borrowed from Frankie Hubbard and Louis Armstrong. He pried the lid off his beer and proffered the bottle opener to me. I accepted.

He glanced at my phone.

“Cindy again, is it?”

“You know how it is,” I muttered. “Evil stepsisters make voice conversations troublesome.”

“My my,” Alex mused, “lurking in the corner of a truly horrorshow party and simply texting your time away.” He pondered this and worried his beer. I opened mine.

“I seem to recall,” Alex rejoined, “a certain somebody texting incessantly with a girl who was herself in the middle of a party, only last week.”

“Yes,” I said, heading him off, “I am vaguely aware of the irony-.”

“Aware!” Alex exclaimed. “Do you hear this people, he is aware!” He thrust his bottle at me accusingly. “Then I am to take it that your continued apathy is the result of blatant cowardice? What, pray tell, stays your hand?”

A sigh, as my eyes appealed my case to the heavens.

“My self-preservation instinct,” I replied. “Where to begin this sketch, Alex? She chases shooting stars, and here I am standing on Earth. She waits for Adonis to step down from his marble plinth, and yet if he did she’d throw him down the Parthenon steps, because she fears attraction. She reaches for stars but fears to gain them, for she is sure she’ll burn like the other sinners. Two forces creating a gravitational riptide and woe betide the man who falls into that event horizion!”

My gaze fell from the starry sky and back to earth.

"She tries to avoid it by taking her love and her lust in different places, pure sources, as if such vampirism is acceptable, or tolerable. She’s laid her rails in revolving obsessive circles and along them that engine roars wild; she strokes the fire with kerosene and I refuse to be aboard when it finally blows.”

Alex read the declaration etched in my stony countenance, the slashing signature of my mouth.

“You’re madly in love with her.”

I turned towards the yard and finished my beer.

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Lesbian Makeout Guy

So the crowd of teenage girls led by the loudmouthed sassy chick and her purported lesbian lover were back tonight, having wandered in from the club across the street (which is apparently called "Primo" and ONLY admits 14-19 year olds.) The obnoxious ringleader had some things to say, mostly along the lines of "gee did we get our hot lesbian discount yet." I was in a bit of a quiet spacey zen mood, and not wanting to disrupt it, answered with noncommittal, placid wit. Predictably they made a mess of the soda counter as they loitered, though less of one then usual. I cleaned it up right in front of them, as they loitered. At some point, Obnoxious Girl stated thus:

"I'm going to call you Lesbian Makeout Guy, is that okay?"

I paused a second.

"Lesbian makeout guy. Yes. Yes, the irony implicit in that statement is too precious to ignore."

Now, I've seen this type of person before- the dumbass nickname is just the start of the bullshit. But I wasn't expecting the hijinks to ensue that very night. The fun really started when she paid for her drink and tried to put $4.04 on a pump. I asked her what pump she was on, and she said pump four. I entered the pre-pay credit into the system. She hadn't actually driven up to the pump yet, but since it was a very slow night, it was unlikely to cause problems. Now, right after her, an older gentlemen of Japanese heritage approached to put ten dollars on pump four. He asked for it on pump four. I've seen him in there before, and he speaks English well, with only a slight accent, but from the ease with which he gets confused by even the simplest communique I must conclude that his grasp of the language is far from comprehensive.

Soon thereafter, I noticed the pump with Obnoxious Girl's $4.04 being drained on my monitor. Since she was still walking out to her car, I realized that both of my clients had managed to get confused. Now the elderly Japanese gentleman's case is forgivable, given the language barrier and the difficulty of seeing the pump signs through the front window glare at night. The girl, however, knew which pump she was on and managed to pull up to pump two, not three, despite the big red signs. Or perhaps the Japanese gentlemen had already stolen into their slot at pump three, but who cares.

Of course, I immediately called the gentlemen with the intercom system to ask him to wait a moment. I then called Obnoxious Girl's pump and told her that she'd driven up to the wrong pump. "It was pump three you wanted. You know, the one with the big red sign?" Then, and only then, did I $4.04 of credit on their pump. The Japanese gentlemen had re-entered the store to inquire into the difficulty. Now his slender grasp of English was made apparent, but by being friendly and apologetic, I indicated that he should drive around to pump two (right next to his,) where I'd put the rest of his six dollars of credit. I even walked to the door with him to point out where pump number one was, to make things easy for him.

Upon returning to my register, I saw that Obnoxious Girl, with her regular genius, had stopped pumping with fifteen cents of credit to go. I called her on the intercom to let her know, because when people drive off with credit remaining, it counts against my drawer balance. It also gave me an excuse to ask her if she needed help operating gas pumps. "You just hold the lever down until it stops, miss." Reluctantly, she started pumping again. The system, however, tracks that as a separate transaction (so somebody driving up afterward is handled separately, and doesn't get the prior customers credit.) So, I simply watched the pump like a hawk, and manually stopped it with my console- restarted it- stopped it- so she had pumped twelve cents worth. Technically I could have let her go a few cents over- store policy is to cover the difference for folks in case of pump hijinks- but somehow I knew she'd want her change. She did, and told me so via intercom.

I walked out to the front door, where she'd pulled up her tiny white Escort, window rolled down. I got the pennies out, and dropped them into her hand one-by-one as she said "Go slow, I need to count them since apparently you can't count."

"Well next time just remember that the pump is very simple," I said with a smile. "You know, that whole squeeze the lever thing."

I then turned and walked back into the store, to hoots from a few of her girlfriends about the merits of my ass.

She said I'd see her again next weekend. Oh, I do look forward to that.

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Work

As of approximately two weeks ago, I am gainfully employed with Speedway Super America, the legendary gas station chain that can trace it's linage back to to sixties or something.

Work was a lot of things I expected and a few I hadn't. Now that I've had a week or so of training on my belt, they've taken me up on my one marketable trait- insomnia- and put me on lots of nights. Now, nights at this store effectively mean "clean the entire store and wait on customers at the same time," which can be quite easy on weeknights and a nightmare during weekends (and of course I am scheduled all weekend.) I did my first night alone tonight, and it was a lot better then I expected. I've a few stories, but before that I'll hit the highlights of my new job:

1. My coworkers are awesome and kick impossible amounts of ass. That includes my boss (especially if you're reading this, Tina,) Angel, the working mother who kept me from going fucking insane those first few busy afternoons, and Shawn, the rather excellent fellow who trained me on nights and proved to be all-around cool. It's quite possible that there are some truly unpleasant assholes employed at this store, but if there are, I've yet to have a shift with them.

My best friend works there also, which is extra cool.

2. My customers are almost all excellent. I've read LJ communities like "customerssuck" so I was braced for the worst, but ninety percent of the clientele at our gas station are regulars, and most of them are incredibly pleasant, friendly people. The rest are simply polite. I've yet to have a difficult customer; I've only had a few folk that were a little short with me. Really, they are outweighed by far by the weird ones. More on that later.

3. Don't ever call it a fucking gas station. It's a miniature grocery store that just happens to sell gas. This particular speedway used to be a little cinderblock doohickey like most until a few years ago, when it was obliterated and the current hulking monstrosity of a convenience store was erected. We sell milk, bread, chapstick, oil, money orders, and an asston of other stuff you don't expect in a gas station. Hell, they carry lunch meat, so my three requirements of life: bread, milk, lunchmeat- are all available right there. I'm pretty sure that we carry souls in the back somewhere (right next to your life and your will to live, as Shawn so wryly put it.)

4. Keeping my register balanced is fucking horribad. Some days it'll ring in only a few bucks high or low, and other nights it will ring up something like fifty bucks off, like it did this morning. There's a ton of factors effecting this, including how much money I bought from the safe to put in my change machine, (which automatically kicks out coins, and needs about $118 before I end my shift.) Now my managers have been just fine about adjusting for all the crazy myrid shit that throws off that count, so it's not like it's a problem, but the strain of OCD I caught from my engineer father rails against it.

5. Speaking of that register, it can caress my scrotum with it's tongue. There's approximately eleventy billion functions packed into that fucking touchscreen monster, and it's quite annoying, all things told. As one of my co-workers put it, corporate figures the 30 seconds saved by the changer should allow us to triple the load put on the cashier.

6. Just why the hell do they need so many different kinds of cigarettes? A guy I know from school came in and asked for Basic menthol 100's in a Box, and I told him to get me a P-40C with War Emergency Power installed. He laughed his ass off, because he understood where I was coming from.

7. The intercom system with the pumps has made for some hilarity. When we activate a pump for somebody, we page them on the pump's intercom and ask "cash or credit?" which is some bullshit to let them know we're watching them without actually having to say that there's a man on the roof with a crossbow who will waste them if they try to drive off without paying. My best friend, who works at Wendy's and bounces at the local bar, has some fun with that. "Paper or plastic?" "Okay, drive around to the second window."

Now, STORYTIME: tales from SPEEDWAY! Tonight was my first night working alone, and some interesting lulz were to be had:

The first one has some interesting background, which takes the form of a late-night club across the street. This is remarkable because this club nicely complements the single bowling alley in town, which was previously the only source of entertainment in what has been called the "horse capital" of our state. So, this remarkable example of night life is directly across the street, and around 10 to 1 AM, I get a lot of teenagers in there from the club.

So yet another gaggle of incredibly noisy, laughing-at-nothing-what-so-fucking-ever girls wanders up to my register to pay. The second one, paying for her female friends slurpy as well as her own, tells me that they're dating.

"There should be a discount for that, right?"

"Yeah, I'll make a note for my manager," I say. "That's one-eighty-nine."

"There really should be a discount for that! In fact, I'm not moving till I get it!"

She was joking, of course, but when you give me an opening like that...

"Well, there's no dating discount, but I think there's a lesbian makeout discount..."

"TWO DOLLARS!" she exclaims, thrusting the cash at me. "TWO DOLLARS!" while her girlfriends go wild behind her.

Then there was the gas meter machine at the back of the store. Friday nights the guy from the gas company drops by to fill up the tanks, and he needs a printout of the storage tank levels before and after for his records. Well, no problem. I get back to the machine, hit "print" and notice that it's perilously low on paper. Well, I can fix that. I give the man his record, locate the proper paper spool from the storeroom, and go to replace the spool.

I open the lid and the motherfucking machine starts going BEEEEEEP BEEEEEEP BEEEEEEP BEEEEEEEP like no other machine in the store can manage, in a store full of sassy damn machines. So I fumble with the spool, get it threaded, and slam the lid shit.

No dice. It's still going BEEEEEP BEEEEP OH FUCK I'M OUT OF FUCKING PAPER RUN FOR IT BEEEEEEEEEP"

I spot a little roller at the bottom of the paper receptacle, so, thinking quickly, I thread the end of the paper under that and roll the little rubber roller. The beeping ceases.

All is good until the gentlemen finishes and requires another printout. I stroll back to the machine, hit "print-" and what is this? A no paper error!?

And then, the beeping renews.

THIS time, I notice the funky roller device at the top of the machine, and thread the paper over THAT and then under the little ROLLER thing and FINALLY the fucker prints, though the digital display is still crying a river about NO PAPER.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is work.

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Withdrawal

Something is wrong with me.

I am talking to people less and less these days. I was already an internet recluse, but now I can barely summon the energy to even post on forums, or carry on a conversation in IRC or IM. I'm not filling that time with games, or other entertainment. Mostly I just zone out, or I sleep.

All I seem to want is to be left alone.

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Oooh, you clever Russians you!

AP Wire story:

"MOSCOW - Russia said Saturday that U.S. military plans to shoot down a damaged spy satellite may be a veiled test of America's missile defense system."

Well, no shit, sherlock. I tell you, you just can't sneak anything past those canny Russkies, huh?