PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> A Blindfolded Chimp With a Pencil in His Teeth: September 2004

Wednesday, September 29, 2004

How's that working out for you...being clever?

A Posting in response to Marissa's question in her comment on my last blog: No I do not love the show smallville. I have never seen it. My cousin Stephen (www.theatremarine.blogspot.com) worships the show, however, and gives me a bunch of bunk about how it is great and how I suck for having not seen it yet. He then (apparently while on acid or some other hallucinagen) suggested on his blog that smallville had inspired him to understand that superman was cooler than Spider Man. Apparently the amazing, gigantic nerd inside me I try to keep hidden deep within the walls of my uber-James-Dean-ness still controls my most basic urges (despite the leaps and bounds I've made since middle school) and so I found myself, through no will of my own, furiously leaping to Spider Man's defense (like he needs help. ha!) on Stephen's blog while at the same time lambasting superman for his inherent lameness (see my comment on his blog. it's fun if you're a geek).
For good measure I placed the last post on this blog just for him, to let him know that even if I did watch smallville one day, a then even if I not just liked, but LOVED it, I would never ever EVER admit as much. This is just to piss him off. I like pissing people off sometimes.



...sometimes by doing subtle stuff like refusing to capitalize the names of their favorite things.

Thursday, September 23, 2004

Luke, I am your father.


Smallville sucks. No I have never seen Smallville. If I watched it I might like it. Heck, I might even love it. I might watch it all by myself in my room late at night with the door locked and the lights off. But I will still say it sucks. You wil never convince me otherwise, ever. Even if we watch an episode together and I laugh out loud six times, cover my mouth and gasp in shock once, cry twice, and sit on the edge of the seat and stare so hard my contacts dry up and pop out when I blink, when I stand up after its over I will say "what a sucky show."
I may own the whole DVD collection one day and have posters up all over my room and talk about it on my blog all the time, and even start a fansite about it, but I will always, always, always say it sucks.
I may do all of these things one day...but probably not because that show sucks.




Smallville sucks.

MOOoooox, ah've known you mah hole liiiife.

Happy Birthday Ben.

Hello readers. Welcome to David Sloan's school of driving. This is where I will give you advice on how now to be an astounding moron when behind the wheel of your car. I will type till I'm tired and update this periodically. It will no doubt become a 600 page tome by the time I'm done.

Brakelights, Signals, Signaling, Lane Changes, Turning, and Being a Moron.

If you don't have working brake lights on your vehicle, don't get on the road. Stay home, go in the bathroom and give yourself a swirlie.

Use a turn signal. If you're going to change lanes, use a turn signal. If you're going to make a right turn, use a turn signal. If you're going to make a left turn, use a turn signal. It's right there. By your hand.
I don't understand you people. You can always be counted on, no matter what, to use your signal when you're trying to claim that parking spot at the mall. You'll throw that blinker as soon as you turn on a row and try to roar over to the spot before someone else can do the same thing. Now we've got two cars at a head on, blinker-to-blinker stand off. This is how I know all of you have turn signals that work and furthermore that you are capable of functioning them properly. I know this because I am always behind you while you clog traffic from both directions in the parking lot. All this goes to show what greedy self centered pieces of turd you all are. When it comes to saving yourself from actually having to walk a hundred yards instead fifty, you'll do everything you can and slow down as many people as it takes to get to that space and get your blinker on. (I especially like it when you pull too close to the spot so the guy trying to leave can't back out. Then you honk your horn at me behind you trying to get me to back up, so you can back up, and get your precious space. But guess what someone is behind me, and someone else is behind them, and so on, and this is all your fault because you wanted to stop and put your effing blinker on while waiting for some geriatric to get in their car and adjust their seats and mirrors and now theirs a line behind you all the way down the row.) But when we're on a highway doing seventy five miles an our between concrete barricades, no, you can't be bothered with a flick of your wrist. You suck.

More on turn signals. This is how it works:
  1. As you approach your turn, you engage your signal.
  2. THEN you begin slowing down
  3. When you reach your turn, you take it at a reasonable speed.

It's really easy. Don't slow down inexplicably for a half mile (you make me want to ram you) and then turn with no blinker or, in my opinion even worse, turn on the blinker as you make your turn. The guy who uses his blinker as he turns mights as well be shooting me in the groin with a bb gun it makes me so mad. If you turn without a blinker, I can assume one or more of three things:

1. You are so remarkably dumb that you still have not put together that slowing down, signaling, and turning are linked. Don't tell me you just forogt. That's not gonna fly. Did you forget to press the brake and turn the wheel? No. Why? Because you are TURNING. Signal just goes in the middle of the process. If this is you, good. Just take your turn and get off my stretch of road because you are so dumb that you will probably drift into oncoming traffic sometime soon.

2. You are just that inconsiderate. You're just driving along thinking of nothing but you and your car and your ugly girlfriend, and you just turn when its stikes you to turn. If that's you then hey, that's you. I can't do much about it. But rest assured that God will punish you mightily, and that your girlfriend is still ugly.

3. You are in a different tax bracket than me. Apparently people with really crappy cars (marked by dented fenders from being rear-ended) are exempt from signaling. Interestingly enough, so are people in really nice cars like BMWs and Lexii. I can only assume that this has something to do with income law.

I hate you for this, but I can't really do anything about it but keep hating. But the guy that goes ahead and slows down, starts turning, and then flips his signal as he's ending the turn makes me want to drag him from his car and hold him down while I puke up Doritos and mustard on his face. That's like running over somebody's dog or hitting their car in a parking lot, and then leaving a note that says "Sorry about that." You may think that at least they took the time to write the note. Oh good. That makes everything better. I'll just rub the note on my car and that dent should go away. Either make a police report and get my junk fixed or just run away and let me be pissed by myself, without the mocking company of your useless note. The note just tells me you took the time to get out, look at what you did, write a pathetic note, and then leave. You are a horrible human being, and you shouldn't have wasted your time writing little notes when you could be on the road getting into a wreck somewhere. It's the same thing with the late signal. It shows me that you know where your signal is, you know your signal works, you know you should signal, you know how to signal, you just didn't signal. Then as a pathetic little mocking useless gesture you signal just to make me really pissed off.

On the opposite end of the spectrum. Do not slow down to a crawl a quarter of a mile before your turn, and please don't slow to 0-3 mph before you make your turn. Unless your car is taller than it is wide, you will not flip or slide if you take the turn at fifteen miles an hour. I want to kill you.

Finally, if you are one of the people on the highway who speeds up when someone in front of you signals so that they can't get over, there is a special place in hell just for you.

Friday, September 17, 2004

Movie Quote.

Okay this isn't a real post. I just wanted to share a cool ghost story I read on the internet just now, and the guys says you can post it as long as you give him credit. I'm in my freaking office right now and this story (or the AC vent) gave me chills. If you find it lame, I'm gonna put my toenail clippings in your cereal.

As so many things do, it all started out innocently.
My Internet Service Provider used to have offices in a shopping center before they moved to their (comparatively) lush accommodations elsewhere. There was a drop box at that original location. The monthly bill was due, and thus, there but for the Grace of the Net I went.
It was about 9:30 p.m. when I left. From my relatively isolated apartments, it's about 10-15 minutes or so to downtown (Abilene has a population of about 110,000).
Right next to Camalott Communications' old location is a $1.50 movie theater. At the time, the place was featuring that masterwork of modern film, Mortal Kombat. I drove by the theater on the way into the center proper and pulled into an empty parking space.
Using the glow of the marquee to write out my check, I was startled to hear a knock on the driver's-side window of my car.
I looked over and saw two children staring at me from street. I need to describe them, with the one feature (you can guess what it was) that I didn't realize until about half-way through the conversation cleverly omitted.
Both appeared to be in that semi-mystical stage of life children get into where you can't exactly tell their age. Both were boys, and my initial impression is that they were somewhere between 10-14.
Boy No. 1 was the spokesman. Boy No. 2 didn't speak during the entire conversation -- at least not in words.
Boy No. 1 was slightly taller than his companion, wearing a pull-over, hooded shirt with a sort of gray checked pattern and jeans. I couldn't see his shoes. His skin was olive-colored and had curly, medium-length brown hair. He exuded an air of quiet confidence.
Boy No. 2 had pale skin with a trace of freckles. His primary characteristic seemed to be looking around nervously. He was dressed in a similar manner to his companion, but his pull-over was a light green color. His hair was a sort of pale orange.
They didn't appear to be related, at least directly.
"Oh, great," I thought. "They're gonna hit me up for money." And then the air changed.
I've explained this before, but for the benefit of any new lurkers out there, right before I experience something strange, there's a change in perception that comes about which I describe in the above manner. It's basically enough time to know it's too late. ;)
So, there I was, filling out a check in my car (which was still running) and in a sudden panic over the appearance of two little boys. I was confused, but an overwhelming sense of fear and unearthliness rushed in nonetheless.
The spokesman smiled, and the sight for some inexplicable reason chilled my blood. I could feel fight-or-flight responses kicking in. Something, I knew instinctually, was not right, but I didn't know what it could possibly be.
I rolled down the window very, very slightly and asked "Yes?"
The spokesman smiled again, broader this time. His teeth were very, very white.
"Hey, mister, what's up? We have a problem," he said. His voice was that of a young man, but his diction, quiet calm and ... something I still couldn't put my finger on ... made my desire to flee even greater. "You see, my friend and I want to see the films, but we forgot our money," he continued. "We need to go to our house to get it. Want to help us out?"
Okay. Journalists are required to talk to lots of people, and that includes children. I've seen and spoken to lots of them. Here's how that usually goes:
"Uh ... M ... M ... Mister? Can I see that camera? I ... I won't break it or anything. I promise. My dad has a camera, and he lets me hold it sometimes, I guess, and I took a picture of my dog -- it wasn's very good, 'cause I got my finger in the way and ..."
Add in some feet shuffling and/or body swaying and you've got a typical kid talking to a stranger.
In short, they're usually apologetic. People generally teach children that when they talk to adults, they're usually bothering them for one reason or another and they should at least be polite.
This kid was in no way fitting the mold. His command of language was incredible and he showed no signs of fear. He spoke as if my help was a foregone conclusion. When he grinned, it was as if he was trying to say, "I know something ... and you're NOT gonna like it. But the only way you're going to find out what it is will be to do what I say ..."
"Uh, well ..." was the best reply I could offer.
Now here's where it starts to get strange.
The quiet companion looked at the spokesman with a mixture of confusion and guilt on his face. He seemed in some ways shocked, not with his friend's brusque manner but that I didn't just immediately open the door.
He eyed me nervously.
The spokesman seemed a bit perturbed, too. I still was registering something wrong with both.
"C'mon, mister," the spokesman said again, smooth as silk. Car salesmen could learn something from this kid. "Now, we just want to go to our house. And we're just two little boys."
That really scared me. Something in the tone and diction again sent off alarm bells. My mind was frantically trying to process what it was perceiving about the two figures that was "wrong."
"Eh. Um ...." was all I could manage. I felt myself digging my fingernails into the steering wheel.
"What movie were you going to see?" I asked finally.
"Mortal Kombat, of course," the spokesman said. The silent one nodded in affirmation, standing a few paces behind.
"Oh," I said. I stole a quick glance at the marquee and at the clock in my car. Mortal Kombat had been playing for an hour, the last showing of the evening.
The silent one looked increasingly nervous. I think he saw my glances and suspected that I might be detecting something was not above-board.
"C'mon, mister. Let us in. We can't get in your car until you do, you know," the spokesman said soothingly. "Just let us in, and we'll be gone before you know it. We'll go to our mother's house."
We locked eyes.
To my horror, I realized my hand had strayed toward the door lock (which was engaged) and was in the process of opening it. I pulled it away, probably a bit too violently. But it did force me to look away from the children.
I turned back. "Er ... Um ...," I offered weakly and then my mind snapped into sharp focus.
For the first time, I noticed their eyes.
They were coal black. No pupil. No iris. Just two staring orbs reflecting the red and white light of the marquee.
At that point, I know my expression betrayed me. The silent one had a look of horror on his face in a combination that seemed to indicate: A) The impossible had just happened and B) "We've been found out!"
The spokesman, on the other hand, wore a mask of anger. His eyes glittered brightly in the half-light.
"Cmon, mister," he said. "We won't hurt you. You have to LET US IN. We don't have a gun ..."
That last statement scared the living hell out of me, because at that point by his tone he was plainly saying, "We don't NEED a gun."
He noticed my hand shooting down toward the gear shift. The spokesman's final words contained an anger that was complete and whole, and yet contained in some respects a tone of panic:
"WE CAN'T COME IN UNLESS YOU TELL US IT'S OKAY. LET ... US .... IN!"
I ripped the car into reverse (thank goodness no one was coming up behind me) and tore out of the parking lot. I noticed the boys in my peripheral vision, and I stole a quick glance back.
They were gone. The sidewalk by the theater was deserted.
I drove home in a heightened state of panic. Had anyone attempted to stop me, I would have run on through and faced the consequences later.
I bolted into my house, scanning all around -- including the sky.
What did I see? Maybe nothing more than some kids looking for a ride.
And some really funky contacts. Yeah, right.
A friend suggested they were vampires, what with the old "let us in" bit and my compelled response to open the door. That and the "we'll go see our mother" thing.
I'm still not sure what they were, but here's an epilogue I find chilling:
I talk about Chad a lot. He's still my best friend, my best ghost-hunting companion and an all-around cool guy. He recently moved to Amarillo, but at the time this happened was still living in San Angelo of Ram Page fame.
I called him and talked to him briefly. He had two female friends with him at the time, both professing some type of psychic ability.
I started telling him the story, leaving out the part about the black eyes for the kicker. One of the women (we were on a speakerphone) stopped me.
"These children had black eyes, right?" she asked. "I mean, all-black eyes?"
"Er ... Yes." I said. I was a bit taken aback.
"Hmmm," she said. "One night last week, I had a dream about children with black eyes. They were outside my house, wanting to be let in, but there was something wrong with them. It took me a while to realize it was the eyes."
I hadn't even gotten as far as them wanting to come in.
"What did you do?" I asked.
"I kept the doors and windows locked," she said. "I knew if they came in, they would kill me."
She paused.
"And they would have killed you, too, if you had let them into your car."
So, from this extra-long post, we have three unanswered questions:
A) What did I see?
B) What would have happened if I opened my car door?
C) Why does Chad always get the cool psychic chicks? ;)
++++
Well, there you have it. I'll write some more later. But for now, your comments are welcomed as always.
Brianbrianbet@camalott.comhttp://www.camalott.com/~brianbet/ghosts.html
Check out the Black eyed kids FAQ that Brian has written answering many of the common questions he gets about this story.




Okay that was his story. Mwah ha haaa.
Later.

Friday, September 10, 2004

Pedro offers you his protection.

Let me ask you guys a question:

Do you think that it is fair that I spend my amazingly, remarkably, incredibly valuable time writing these blogs for not only your enjoyment, but for your education, and yet you can't take the time to post a measley little comment when you read? "Hey Dave, cool blog." "Hey Dave, you've changed my life." "Hey Dave I am rendered speechless by depths of your stupidity." That's all I ask. Anything would be better than to check my posts and see a big "0 comments" at the bottom of each and every one.

Start commenting or I will place you on the Axis of Evil.

After all, who can argue the fact that my blog embiggens* the soul? My words are buttery goodness and my ideas are profound. Just ask me. I know. I'll tell you. Thanks, and go take a nap if you are from State and your head hurts from all the wordses you've had to read. I apologize. I'm still working on getting this converted to binary code.

011001010001101100101!!



*embiggens is a perfectly cromulent word.

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