A Blindfolded Chimp With a Pencil in His Teeth: August 2004

Tuesday, August 24, 2004

It's not that hard: Nayee-Nanajar. Nayeenanajar.

Just a quick post today children. This is in response to a response to an earlier post. At the beginning of my angry rant against obnoxious yankees, I wrote..."Hmm, what a lucky coincidence for all my dear reader:" Someone pointed out their disappointment in my grammatical error here. It should have read "...all my dear readerS:"

Far be it from me to suggest that I am above grammatical errors. There was always a brief moment of terror when my English papers were handed back to me. It appeared that my instructors had, in utter despair in seeing my total lack of writing ability, slit their wrists over my compositions. Fortunately it always turned out to be copious amount of the red correction ink. Except once.

Anyway I just wanted to point out that this particular grammatical error was completely intentional. I find it ironic (or at least found it funny at the point that I posted the entry in question) that I spend time writing in this blog speaking to an audience that doesn't exist. I am aware that my readership is abyssmally low, and that I am in effect talking to myself. Fine. At the point in question, to my knowledge, Evan Sitton was the only person reading this blog. He enjoyed it and insisted that I write more. I was flattered and so I felt obliged to do so. "All my dear reader" is Evan.

So to my little grammaticists* out there: Up your donkey with glass.

THANK you very much.

It's grammarians. I know. Don't email me.

Man I can't write a short post to save my life.
"I apologize for the length of this letter, but I didn't have time to make it shorter."
--Mark Twain

Friday, August 20, 2004

Takin' it off here boss....

Well ladies and gentlemen I must say I have gotten a mixed bag of responses to this here blog. First of all, I didn't think anyone would actually read the snappin' thing, but those who have found the link on my IM have generally liked it I guess. I imagine I may have lost a few yankee friends if they have taken a look at the last entry. I was playing poker with a few State boys the other night and they suggested none to subtly that my having a blog was lame. They love to use the word lame. Everything is lame to them. It's kind of cool I guess. Somebody does something lame, "that's lame." Your car won't start, "this is so lame." Your officially licensed NC State blow-up doll springs a leak, "totally lame." I guess it works.

Anyway back to my point, I was kind of taken aback by the verocity of the assertions of lameness directed towards me for having this blog. So today I took a look around the web and found a few blogs. Up to this point, I was only officially aware that myself and one other person actually had blogs. Now I see the source of my agriculturally-inclined acquaitences' vehemency: Blogs are lame. I mean they are totally lame.

Just about every one I found was authored on at least a daily basis by some bleeding heart middle-upper-class high school white girl who divided her time between whining about how much the world was against her or a boy (inevitably named something surfy-sounding) wasn't paying her enough attention and talking about the literally hundreds of emo shows she and her like-minded whiners attend a year. They seem to be little more than forums for high school shout-outs and social circle name dropping.

I am mortified to be included in such a circle. I had no idea. What's a boy to do? I mean now, if I heard someone say they were updating their blog last night and blah blah blah, I might be overcome with an impulse to whip them about the head and ears with a wooden ruler. This must be the kind of impulse that the State boys were resisting the other night. I must thank them for their restraint. Except Johnny. I wish that little ho would bring it on. He'd get a pimp-slappin' to end all pimp-slaps. Yeah you heard me.

The irony of this situation is not lost on me. I am updating this blog with a lambasting of blogs in general. I suppose I should give a disclaimer of sorts. This blog will never contain: Uninteresting accounts of the night before, shameless name-listing, music show reviews, anything about the boys I am currently crushing on (that's private), annoying abbreviations (lol, sux, etc.), or whining.

This blog will contain: Angry rants, inside jokes, endless sarcasm, idle threats, creative vulgarity, arbitrary insults, and anything I think is funny at the moment.

Also, I will soon be posting a spreadsheet of all yo mommas' phone numbers.

P.S. You may have noticed my use of the word "snappin'" in the first paragraph. Do you like it? I just made it up. I think it's snappin' awesome. It a curse-word substitute, like "freakin'" which in my opinion is totally overused and "lame." Im'll get it started and before you know it you'll hear it on the new Ludacris single.

And one more thing: black-eyed-peas suck. The band not the legume. I dig the chick's skirt and all, but my urge to kill rises every time I hear "Let's get it started." That song is so snappin' lame.

Friday, August 13, 2004

I love...lamp.

Let's see, what to talk about today... I have several things on my rant list at the moment and its tough to choose what most deserves a verbal beating.

Oh, before i begin: If anyone has been with me since the inception of this blog you might recall that i at one point was planning to run a marathon in July. Just so you know this did not happen. Three weeks or so from the event i tore a tendon in my knee. Not one of the important kind of tears that requires surgury but rather a small tear that doesn't cause much discomfort unless you run on it, and even then nothing too bad until around mile six or seven at which point the knee actually lets out an audible scream and bursts into orange flames of searing pain. Mile six of a twelve mile run means you are actually as far as you can possibly be from starting point, also known as your car. As I patted the flames out on my knee I realized that I was effectively stranded six miles from my car. I further realized that I was standing under a bridge in downtown Durham...

Hmm, what a lucky coincidence for all my dear reader: this actually reminds me of an old rant originating from around this time period. See, I told this story to one of my yankee friends, and expressed that I was a just the tiniest bit concerned for my safety at this point. He scoffed at the idea. He actually scoffed at me. At me! After all this is the south, right? Listen, my situation may not sound scary to you if you are some sort of hard core yankee who looks down your nose at the south and our feeble little cities and acts like we don't have any clue what we are talking about when we suggest that crime in any form could take place south of the Mason-Dixon and North of Atlanta. "Youse guys don't know what crime is like, back home youse'd catch a wicked beatin fa givin' a guy a sideways look." Well good for you. We can only hope that one day we can aspire to such lofty heights of crapdom. Let me be the first to invite you to hop in your "cah" and head back north on the same road that brought you down here and prove your point by getting shot in your dirty cesspool of an overcrowded-crimefest city. Munch my butt you condescending twit. I didn't say I was scared to walk through Durham. I said I was concerned about limping through known gang turf with a bum knee wearing nothing but soccer shorts, shoes and $200 dollar mp3 player. What a tool.

And another thing...next time I have a dirty yankee correct me on my pronunciation of the word "pen" I am going to give them a backflip-kick straight to the scrotum. I may pronounce it like "pin" but so do most other people from NORTH CAROLINA, THE STATE YOU ARE CURRENTLY RESIDING IN. It's called an accent. You have one too. Act like you have more than a ball of pubes for a brain. Regardless of my pronunciation let me assure you I can discern between the thing I write with, the sharp thing you stick in a pincushion, and the thing they keep your mother in at the zoo. If I go to New York or Chicago or Bahstan, then yes, compared to you I will sound strange. But down here you sound like the box of douche, not me.

A Blindfolded Chimp With a Pencil in His Teeth

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