Your first child is going to be born next week. It’s going to be a magical experience, so if you don’t want any spoilers you should skip today’s post. But because of your various social disorders you’re going to want all the information available to you so you can choose appropriate wallpaper and snacks and horrifying masks for your future spawn.
So we know you’re reading this, and we’ll get the big one out of the way right off the bat: its going to be a girl. We know it’s not what you wanted, but these things happen. Keep at it. It’s a fifty-fifty shot each time, although we can tell you right now you’re going to fail the first seven. After that, it’s anyone’s guess.
So you, having read this, will have acquired hot pink wallpaper and tampons for your soon to be newborn daughter. Your wife will be puzzled, and will tell you that even if you do have a girl you won’t need tampons for at least a decade, probably more, but you won’t listen.
You’ll just mumble something about hormones and go back to trying to assemble your new crib while she cries and considers divorcing you. She’ll have been weeping for fifteen minutes a few feet away from you before you decide she isn’t just looking for attention and give her a hug, telling her that, according to a website you read recently this whole nightmare will be over soon.
She’ll look at you like you’re insane, but decide that she can probably change you if she loves you hard enough. As we know, she’ll be wrong.
Your marriage will actually strengthen, incredibly enough, in the wake of these events. She’ll be attentive to your needs and you’ll be completely fixated on her well being, so the two of you will get along swimmingly. She’ll even be happy that you opt to film your daughter’s birth personally.
When the labor pains come you’ll have her to the hospital in record time. Your questionable mental health translates to you being incredibly reliable when your genetic material is involved. She’ll be comfortable, checked in, and you’ll be watching that doctor like a hawk to make sure that bitch doesn’t swap your baby for one of those inferior pricks or worse, a non-white child.
When the “process,” as you’ve been thinking of it, begins you’ll begin filming in earnest, your eye to the viewfinder. You’ll be using the camera your dad gave you when you graduate from high school, since digital tape is cheap and, in your mind, will never go out of style.
You’ll be so excited when you finally see your daughter’s head emerging from your wife for one moment you’ll see something as more important than yourself. It’ll be kind of scary, but when it leaves you you’ll feel kind of sad. You’ll have felt whole for a single, beautiful moment.
You’ll dance around feeling high the whole time your wife is in the hospital, the whole ride home. The feeling won’t leave you until you arrive at your ranch style home and open the camera to find that you forgot to place a cassette in there.
We know you’ll try to change this, that you’ll do all you can to prevent this from happening. But these attempts are simply hubris, and you’re totally screwed. This will be the moment when your wife realizes that she can’t change you, and that your marriage is doomed. All this from the mix of your ego and your terrible taste in recording devices.
Congratulations Francis Ford Fucking Coppola.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Monday, April 6, 2009
Congratulations Debate Team Member!
Today you and several other members of your high school debate team will find yourselves standing in the Hall of Mirrors in the house of The Lady of Blades, the City at the Center of the Universe, Sigil. You’ll be debating with a group of impish creatures and one larger creature composed entirely of antimatter about the nature of existence.
The tale of how you arrived here is long and horrible. It involves a time warp “catching” your bus, a lengthy journey across the Gray Plains, where nearly half of your team was murdered, and a brief and perilous chase through the Wards of Sigil as your strong views and inability to process anyone else’s opinions managed to place you at odds with the vast majority of the factions in this strange city.
But now it’s all come to a head. You’ll be making points by quoting various philosophers, hoping to impress the unseen judge you expect is scoring you even as you speak. The fiends and the black guy will take a different approach, walking you step by step through the various tenants that you believe in and proving them moot through independent thought and freedom from preconceptions.
After a while their arguments will start to make sense. Your compatriots will be exhausted, and two of them will be on the verge of tears when their repeated rhetoric remains unmet by any sort of judge. But you’ll have caught on. You’ll gather up your strength and debate your little heart out.
You’ll abandon everything you’ve ever learned about debating (since you’re part of a debate team this is an excellent idea; this means you will be able to make cogent points and consider an argument intelligently) and you’ll lay it down for those fiendish creatures how you must, by a certain line of logic, be the most powerful creature in the universe. In addition, you’ll inform them that the giant black creature made of antimatter cannot, in fact, exist.
When you finish your argument the creature will sit there pensive for a moment before his eyes go wide and he’ll flare out of existence. Several of your teammates will do the same, since they’re not very smart and thought that following his example would make them seem a little cooler. Luckily a few will still be alive, including Kelly, the hot one who you’ve been trying to get into the pants of for the last few weeks.
This means you’ll still have some people you can trust around when the imps surround you and start bowing and scraping, calling you their new master. This is the first step on the road to you becoming an inter-dimensional pirate.
Enjoy the ride, and congratulations debate team member.
Oh, and just FYI? Turns out Kelly is not in to you. Sleep with the lady imp instead, she’s a freak in the sack. Meee-ow.
The tale of how you arrived here is long and horrible. It involves a time warp “catching” your bus, a lengthy journey across the Gray Plains, where nearly half of your team was murdered, and a brief and perilous chase through the Wards of Sigil as your strong views and inability to process anyone else’s opinions managed to place you at odds with the vast majority of the factions in this strange city.
But now it’s all come to a head. You’ll be making points by quoting various philosophers, hoping to impress the unseen judge you expect is scoring you even as you speak. The fiends and the black guy will take a different approach, walking you step by step through the various tenants that you believe in and proving them moot through independent thought and freedom from preconceptions.
After a while their arguments will start to make sense. Your compatriots will be exhausted, and two of them will be on the verge of tears when their repeated rhetoric remains unmet by any sort of judge. But you’ll have caught on. You’ll gather up your strength and debate your little heart out.
You’ll abandon everything you’ve ever learned about debating (since you’re part of a debate team this is an excellent idea; this means you will be able to make cogent points and consider an argument intelligently) and you’ll lay it down for those fiendish creatures how you must, by a certain line of logic, be the most powerful creature in the universe. In addition, you’ll inform them that the giant black creature made of antimatter cannot, in fact, exist.
When you finish your argument the creature will sit there pensive for a moment before his eyes go wide and he’ll flare out of existence. Several of your teammates will do the same, since they’re not very smart and thought that following his example would make them seem a little cooler. Luckily a few will still be alive, including Kelly, the hot one who you’ve been trying to get into the pants of for the last few weeks.
This means you’ll still have some people you can trust around when the imps surround you and start bowing and scraping, calling you their new master. This is the first step on the road to you becoming an inter-dimensional pirate.
Enjoy the ride, and congratulations debate team member.
Oh, and just FYI? Turns out Kelly is not in to you. Sleep with the lady imp instead, she’s a freak in the sack. Meee-ow.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Super Nerd Sundays Presents: Sunrise, Gunfight, Sunset.
I’m driving towards my friend from Oklahoma to help him with his train job. I don’t particularly like him, but I have to take help where I can get it. That’s just how it is in this little corner of Africa; I’ve got to do some things I’m not proud of and spend time with people I’m not fond of if I want to survive. But as I’m speeding over sand dunes, keeping an eye on the railroad tracks as they race by to my left, the glare of the fading sun catches my eye and I suddenly look at, really look at, the sunset in front of me.
I brake hard and turn off my truck’s engine before getting out. The silence of the desert settles around me, the sounds of the racing wind and the chirp of crickets offering meager interruption as I sit down and watch the sun set, smiling. It is beautiful and, for a moment, I am at peace in this war torn place. After a few minutes I draw my dart rifle, glance at the sunset through its scope, then get back in my truck and gun the engine, racing towards Warren and his latest scheme to get a rep.
This is the moment that changed Far Cry 2 from a good game into a great one for me.
Not all games aspire to immersion. Indeed, many of them move as far as possible away from it. Think of any real-time strategy came, spare arguably the MechCommander series, and you’ll have shining examples of great games which hate immersion with a passion.
But Far Cry 2 wants us to be immersed in its world. It wants us to imagine that we are Frank or Warren or Marty or whoever. It wants us to pretend that we’re a very bad man doing very bad things to very bad people.
This end is a little bit unusual for the positive associations we usually find ourselves making in video games. Even GTA IV, the latest stepchild in the series which is supposed to showcase moral ambiguity, features a main character who is constantly portrayed as sympathetic.
And Far Cry 2 has moments in its play where you can be a sympathetic person. You occasionally help people, by necessity or choice. You can help your friends and spend time in a bar with them. But at the end of the day you kill people for money. That’s just who you are. The whole reason you came to this country is to murder a man, after all.
But this amorality, as we said, isn’t new. In fact the games industry is lousy with characters who are supposed to be inherently “evil.” But this isn’t a game about being evil. Or about being good. Far Cry’s strength is in its amorality. A lesser game would try to make the character feel one way or another, but Far Cry 2 simply is content to be.
It never forces us to do anything terrible. In fact, it only occasionally forces us to do anything at all. Its about being in a place more than being in a story, and that’s where it shines.
Most games, and indeed most works of fiction, have trouble making their locations real. Think about the way A Handmaid’s Tale made you feel before Atwood revealed the changes that made her horrific world possible and the way you felt afterwards. Certainly, some people find those resolutions sufficient, but for me it ruined her construction. The ideas she had couldn’t fit in the world she’d tried to engineer. The same could be argued of many great narratives, both within and without the video game world. Bioshock and the original Half-Life, for example, both create fictions which don’t hold up to close inspections very well.
But think about Half-Life 2, and its sequels, or, for those of a more literary inclination, Gibson’s sprawl. These were worlds, stripped down and reduced to their most human elements, that worked on a fundamental level. That they had excellent stories told within them helped, certainly, but Half-Life 2’s ravaged earth and Gibson’s dystopic America both felt like places true to the nature of humanity. They both felt like places you could be unfortunate enough to end up if the world went a certain way.
Far Cry 2 manages this, and it does so in a wholly original way. Most games try to draw you in with elements of story and characters, to make their worlds feel real through the people who inhabit them. And indeed, Far Cry 2’s characters do feel real, like real people who have made terrible choices, but they do almost nothing to draw the character in.
With exception to Michelle and Nasreen, distinguished solely by their vaginas, none of the characters in Far Cry 2 stand out very well. Honestly, I didn’t catch on that the mercenaries who accompanied faction leaders during briefings were actual characters and not just random guards until around six or seven missions in. Sure, they all feel like real people, and that helps, but they might as well be furniture in the context of the game: they’re there, sometimes they’re used, but even when they’re not they’re still there, waiting and ready.
Far Cry 2’s story is similarly weak. While it has a few nice hooks, such as having a main character who is perennially on the brink of death, it is a flimsy premise at best. You’re drawn into a war-torn country and you stick around to kill the man who keeps helping you. Its beyond weak, its insipid. It wants us to follow its directives blindly, in order to get more bling. It’s lean and functional, and it fits the world, but it has almost nothing to do with what makes Far Cry 2 great.
No, what makes it great is the setting.
So much effort has gone into placing every stone and shack in Far Cry’s little war torn stretch of Africa, and so much effort has gone into making it flow together. There are occasional hiccoughs, but for the most part every bit of Far Cry 2 feels like belongs there.
And what’s more, its gorgeous and horrible. For every serene tree there is a burned out humvee on the side of the road, for every sunset a bullet riddled corpse. For every man you kill there is a water buffalo running free, blissfully unaware that someone like you exists. And in this dichotomy, Far Cry 2 shines.
It builds up a place, a reality unto itself. And the fact is that it is both deeply unsettling (watching your character snap his arm back into place should make anyone wince) and deeply uplifting (its rare I find myself staring at sunsets under any circumstances, and doing so in a videogame was an almost religious experience).
Far Cry 2’s Africa isn’t Africa, but it is a real place in its own way. Its less a game I play to be entertained and more a place I go to unwind. And, like any beautiful place, it is possessed of a profound ugliness. But just as in any real location it is ours to make of what we will.
And sometimes the best you can make of a place is a few minutes of peace, watching a moment of spontaneous beauty both internal and external that you couldn’t re-create if you tried. Maybe that’s the definition of art, regardless of its medium. Who knows. That’s a whole other discussion.
I brake hard and turn off my truck’s engine before getting out. The silence of the desert settles around me, the sounds of the racing wind and the chirp of crickets offering meager interruption as I sit down and watch the sun set, smiling. It is beautiful and, for a moment, I am at peace in this war torn place. After a few minutes I draw my dart rifle, glance at the sunset through its scope, then get back in my truck and gun the engine, racing towards Warren and his latest scheme to get a rep.
This is the moment that changed Far Cry 2 from a good game into a great one for me.
Not all games aspire to immersion. Indeed, many of them move as far as possible away from it. Think of any real-time strategy came, spare arguably the MechCommander series, and you’ll have shining examples of great games which hate immersion with a passion.
But Far Cry 2 wants us to be immersed in its world. It wants us to imagine that we are Frank or Warren or Marty or whoever. It wants us to pretend that we’re a very bad man doing very bad things to very bad people.
This end is a little bit unusual for the positive associations we usually find ourselves making in video games. Even GTA IV, the latest stepchild in the series which is supposed to showcase moral ambiguity, features a main character who is constantly portrayed as sympathetic.
And Far Cry 2 has moments in its play where you can be a sympathetic person. You occasionally help people, by necessity or choice. You can help your friends and spend time in a bar with them. But at the end of the day you kill people for money. That’s just who you are. The whole reason you came to this country is to murder a man, after all.
But this amorality, as we said, isn’t new. In fact the games industry is lousy with characters who are supposed to be inherently “evil.” But this isn’t a game about being evil. Or about being good. Far Cry’s strength is in its amorality. A lesser game would try to make the character feel one way or another, but Far Cry 2 simply is content to be.
It never forces us to do anything terrible. In fact, it only occasionally forces us to do anything at all. Its about being in a place more than being in a story, and that’s where it shines.
Most games, and indeed most works of fiction, have trouble making their locations real. Think about the way A Handmaid’s Tale made you feel before Atwood revealed the changes that made her horrific world possible and the way you felt afterwards. Certainly, some people find those resolutions sufficient, but for me it ruined her construction. The ideas she had couldn’t fit in the world she’d tried to engineer. The same could be argued of many great narratives, both within and without the video game world. Bioshock and the original Half-Life, for example, both create fictions which don’t hold up to close inspections very well.
But think about Half-Life 2, and its sequels, or, for those of a more literary inclination, Gibson’s sprawl. These were worlds, stripped down and reduced to their most human elements, that worked on a fundamental level. That they had excellent stories told within them helped, certainly, but Half-Life 2’s ravaged earth and Gibson’s dystopic America both felt like places true to the nature of humanity. They both felt like places you could be unfortunate enough to end up if the world went a certain way.
Far Cry 2 manages this, and it does so in a wholly original way. Most games try to draw you in with elements of story and characters, to make their worlds feel real through the people who inhabit them. And indeed, Far Cry 2’s characters do feel real, like real people who have made terrible choices, but they do almost nothing to draw the character in.
With exception to Michelle and Nasreen, distinguished solely by their vaginas, none of the characters in Far Cry 2 stand out very well. Honestly, I didn’t catch on that the mercenaries who accompanied faction leaders during briefings were actual characters and not just random guards until around six or seven missions in. Sure, they all feel like real people, and that helps, but they might as well be furniture in the context of the game: they’re there, sometimes they’re used, but even when they’re not they’re still there, waiting and ready.
Far Cry 2’s story is similarly weak. While it has a few nice hooks, such as having a main character who is perennially on the brink of death, it is a flimsy premise at best. You’re drawn into a war-torn country and you stick around to kill the man who keeps helping you. Its beyond weak, its insipid. It wants us to follow its directives blindly, in order to get more bling. It’s lean and functional, and it fits the world, but it has almost nothing to do with what makes Far Cry 2 great.
No, what makes it great is the setting.
So much effort has gone into placing every stone and shack in Far Cry’s little war torn stretch of Africa, and so much effort has gone into making it flow together. There are occasional hiccoughs, but for the most part every bit of Far Cry 2 feels like belongs there.
And what’s more, its gorgeous and horrible. For every serene tree there is a burned out humvee on the side of the road, for every sunset a bullet riddled corpse. For every man you kill there is a water buffalo running free, blissfully unaware that someone like you exists. And in this dichotomy, Far Cry 2 shines.
It builds up a place, a reality unto itself. And the fact is that it is both deeply unsettling (watching your character snap his arm back into place should make anyone wince) and deeply uplifting (its rare I find myself staring at sunsets under any circumstances, and doing so in a videogame was an almost religious experience).
Far Cry 2’s Africa isn’t Africa, but it is a real place in its own way. Its less a game I play to be entertained and more a place I go to unwind. And, like any beautiful place, it is possessed of a profound ugliness. But just as in any real location it is ours to make of what we will.
And sometimes the best you can make of a place is a few minutes of peace, watching a moment of spontaneous beauty both internal and external that you couldn’t re-create if you tried. Maybe that’s the definition of art, regardless of its medium. Who knows. That’s a whole other discussion.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Congratulations on Awaking in a Tub Full of Ice!
We’d like to say that this is a one in a million thing. We’d really like to. But this is the fifth time this has happened in the last year. Its happened six times over the course of your life in the state of Nevada alone. So, of course, your recent vacation to Alberta is going to involve you blacking out.
With your addiction to prostitutes and your prediliction for blacking out, its no surprise that this happens so often. But you’d think you’d wise up. You know, take them back to your hotel room, inform security that you’d like them to check in with you at some point in the next three hours and make sure you’re alive.
But no, you’ll just waltz on by and call the one with spiky hair a fag, increasing his already prevalent desire for you to die. Then the two prostitutes (one of whom obviousl has a dick) will accompany you into the elevator, and your memory will end there.
Security footage and our uncanny visions have allowed us to piece together most of these events, however.
You will exit the elevator and enter your room, where the prostitutes will proceed to perform oral sex on one another while making you do body shots until you lose consciousness. Then they’ll dress themselves in robes and drag you to a tub that they’ll rapidly fill with ice in order to keep you subdued.
The one with a dick will chant, reading from a book for around 45 minutes while the other one lights some candles and sprinkles flower petals and hemlock root on your unconscious body.
Eventually, they’ll join in song. This is what will rouse you from your slumber. By this time the one with a dick will be up next to you, chanting and moaning directly above you. S/he’ll almost be screaming in exstacy, holding a knife just a few inches from your chest.
Then she’ll kiss you on the mouth, violently and passionately. It will be the single most forceful kiss you’ve ever experienced. Before s/he finishes the kiss, however, she’ll plunge her knife deep into your chest and darkness will take your eyes.
But before you pass you’re going to see some sweet titties.
Congratulations on awaking in a tub full of ice. Hooray titties!
With your addiction to prostitutes and your prediliction for blacking out, its no surprise that this happens so often. But you’d think you’d wise up. You know, take them back to your hotel room, inform security that you’d like them to check in with you at some point in the next three hours and make sure you’re alive.
But no, you’ll just waltz on by and call the one with spiky hair a fag, increasing his already prevalent desire for you to die. Then the two prostitutes (one of whom obviousl has a dick) will accompany you into the elevator, and your memory will end there.
Security footage and our uncanny visions have allowed us to piece together most of these events, however.
You will exit the elevator and enter your room, where the prostitutes will proceed to perform oral sex on one another while making you do body shots until you lose consciousness. Then they’ll dress themselves in robes and drag you to a tub that they’ll rapidly fill with ice in order to keep you subdued.
The one with a dick will chant, reading from a book for around 45 minutes while the other one lights some candles and sprinkles flower petals and hemlock root on your unconscious body.
Eventually, they’ll join in song. This is what will rouse you from your slumber. By this time the one with a dick will be up next to you, chanting and moaning directly above you. S/he’ll almost be screaming in exstacy, holding a knife just a few inches from your chest.
Then she’ll kiss you on the mouth, violently and passionately. It will be the single most forceful kiss you’ve ever experienced. Before s/he finishes the kiss, however, she’ll plunge her knife deep into your chest and darkness will take your eyes.
But before you pass you’re going to see some sweet titties.
Congratulations on awaking in a tub full of ice. Hooray titties!
Friday, April 3, 2009
Congratulations Disabled Citizen!
Three hundred sixty four days out of the year your club foot and near blindness make you little more than a peril and a chore for everyone around you. Your close family believes that you’re little more than a burden with access to sweet parking spots and other drivers on the road perceive you as the single biggest threat to their safety since crystal meth.
But today when you pull in to your local 7-11’s parking lot to buy cigarettes from the girl you like, Celine, a man from inside the store is going to come rushing out at you. Since you also have anxiety issues this is going to trigger a panic attack and you’re going to lose control of your vehicle, crashing into the window of the 7-11 and pinning the fleeing young man between your car and the building.
You’ll stare at him in horror for a second, until you realize he’s holding a gun; he must’ve been robbing the 7-11 and sweet, sweet Celine along with it. You’ll feel a momentary swelling of pride with the knowledge that you’ve helped to both protect her and restore her honor.
This pride, however, will immediately turn to fear when you see that he is still holding a gun in his hand and that it is pointing in your general direction.
When he realizes what has happened he will shoot blindly will his last breath, almost hitting you with one of the three bullets he manages to put through your front windshield before he loses consciousness.
Celine, bless her heart, will run out of the store to see what’s happened. She’ll see the bullet holes and the corpse and she’ll be struck by a mixture of horror and gratitude. She’ll open up the door to see if you’re alright, and you’ll be so taken by her presence that you’ll be speechless. Eventually you’ll be able to communicate that you’re okay with a nod and, stuttering, ask if he hurt her at all.
She’ll smile and shake her head and wait by your side the whole time until the police and paramedics show up. If you keep playing it this smooth, buddy, she’ll be back at your place making your life a lot less miserable tonight.
Good luck and congratulations disabled citizen.
But today when you pull in to your local 7-11’s parking lot to buy cigarettes from the girl you like, Celine, a man from inside the store is going to come rushing out at you. Since you also have anxiety issues this is going to trigger a panic attack and you’re going to lose control of your vehicle, crashing into the window of the 7-11 and pinning the fleeing young man between your car and the building.
You’ll stare at him in horror for a second, until you realize he’s holding a gun; he must’ve been robbing the 7-11 and sweet, sweet Celine along with it. You’ll feel a momentary swelling of pride with the knowledge that you’ve helped to both protect her and restore her honor.
This pride, however, will immediately turn to fear when you see that he is still holding a gun in his hand and that it is pointing in your general direction.
When he realizes what has happened he will shoot blindly will his last breath, almost hitting you with one of the three bullets he manages to put through your front windshield before he loses consciousness.
Celine, bless her heart, will run out of the store to see what’s happened. She’ll see the bullet holes and the corpse and she’ll be struck by a mixture of horror and gratitude. She’ll open up the door to see if you’re alright, and you’ll be so taken by her presence that you’ll be speechless. Eventually you’ll be able to communicate that you’re okay with a nod and, stuttering, ask if he hurt her at all.
She’ll smile and shake her head and wait by your side the whole time until the police and paramedics show up. If you keep playing it this smooth, buddy, she’ll be back at your place making your life a lot less miserable tonight.
Good luck and congratulations disabled citizen.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Congratulations to the Children of Broken Hearts!
This one goes out to a lot of people. Some of them are even here in our own office. We’re talking to you, Jessica, Tamira, Mike and Black Chris. There are probably a few we missed, but those are the big ones, and the collective authors of today’s prediction.
Because today a pheonix is going to be born. It’ll be born in northern Alberta, so the only life that will witness its birth, aside from its mommy pheonix (daddy didn’t feel like he was ready, and mommy agreed so they’re taking a break for a spell) will be a small herd of caribou and a lone wolf shadowing them.
They’ll be so taken by its beauty that they’ll cease their endless natural struggle between predator and prey and share a moment of oneness, where they understand that they are merely separate spokes on the same wheel.
In this same instant a backlash will ripple out across large portions of the world, but North America will be most profoundly affected. Everyone who’s ever had their heart pulled out, stepped on and stamped worthless by a lady or fella will up and feel a moment of oneness that they thought they’d never experience again. Pairs in close proximity to one another may end up making out, and let us tell you it’ll be tops.
People around the world will be stricken with an inexplicably peaceful feeling of joy and wonder, but those most profoundly affected will be those whose lives have been forever reshaped by pain they’ve felt when love left their lives.
This feeling will last for, at most, an hour as the pheonix comes to understand its place in the world and learns to control this feeling of oneness. Because while a taste is good every once in a while, its something we’ve got to earn. Or re-earn, as the case may be.
So today we’ve got a very special congratulations for the children of broken hearts. Today you’re the lucky ones.
Because today a pheonix is going to be born. It’ll be born in northern Alberta, so the only life that will witness its birth, aside from its mommy pheonix (daddy didn’t feel like he was ready, and mommy agreed so they’re taking a break for a spell) will be a small herd of caribou and a lone wolf shadowing them.
They’ll be so taken by its beauty that they’ll cease their endless natural struggle between predator and prey and share a moment of oneness, where they understand that they are merely separate spokes on the same wheel.
In this same instant a backlash will ripple out across large portions of the world, but North America will be most profoundly affected. Everyone who’s ever had their heart pulled out, stepped on and stamped worthless by a lady or fella will up and feel a moment of oneness that they thought they’d never experience again. Pairs in close proximity to one another may end up making out, and let us tell you it’ll be tops.
People around the world will be stricken with an inexplicably peaceful feeling of joy and wonder, but those most profoundly affected will be those whose lives have been forever reshaped by pain they’ve felt when love left their lives.
This feeling will last for, at most, an hour as the pheonix comes to understand its place in the world and learns to control this feeling of oneness. Because while a taste is good every once in a while, its something we’ve got to earn. Or re-earn, as the case may be.
So today we’ve got a very special congratulations for the children of broken hearts. Today you’re the lucky ones.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Congratulations on Winning A Game of Solitaire!
You’ve been home alone for weeks, skulking and crying your nights away. You’ve watched a lot of Netflix and smoked a lot of cigarettes down to their lonesome little filters. You’ve engaged in these two self-indulgent activities so much, in fact, that they’ve begun to stop giving you even a small respite from the pain of him leaving.
So today you’ll sit in your bed with a laptop with an open bottle of orange vodka and your laptop and play solitaire. You’ll fitter about with the program for a few hours, failing to win a single game. After almost throwing the laptop across the room in frustration you’ll simply gently close it and debate watching Evil Dead for the fifth time so you can force a few laughs out of your collapsing lungs.
But instead you’ll do the unthinkable. You’ll get out of your bed with your bottle of orange vodka and stumble to your den, where you’ll dig through boxes of shit from your childhood that your parents sent you when they decided to sell their house and move to Maine.
You’ll be pretty wasted by then, so it’ll take almost an hour and the place will be a total fucking mess by the time you’re done looking but at long last you’ll dig out a deck of real live cards from the vestiges of your childhood memories. Then you’ll sit down in your living from and lay them out in tiny piles on your coffee table, hunching there for almost two hours trying to win a game of solitaire.
Time and time again you’ll fail. Solitaire is just largely a game of chance, and your luck has been terrible of late. And the drinking won’t help, either. After the first hour and a half you’ll start cheating on solitaire subtly, flipping over cards one by one until you can look through the whole deck, the way you wish you’d been able to luck through his heart to see what you wanted.
This is how you’ll win, the only way you’ll wine tonight, sifting through a deck of cards breaking the rules you’d agreed to, alone in your apartment too drunk to cry.
Congratulations on winning a game of solitaire!
So today you’ll sit in your bed with a laptop with an open bottle of orange vodka and your laptop and play solitaire. You’ll fitter about with the program for a few hours, failing to win a single game. After almost throwing the laptop across the room in frustration you’ll simply gently close it and debate watching Evil Dead for the fifth time so you can force a few laughs out of your collapsing lungs.
But instead you’ll do the unthinkable. You’ll get out of your bed with your bottle of orange vodka and stumble to your den, where you’ll dig through boxes of shit from your childhood that your parents sent you when they decided to sell their house and move to Maine.
You’ll be pretty wasted by then, so it’ll take almost an hour and the place will be a total fucking mess by the time you’re done looking but at long last you’ll dig out a deck of real live cards from the vestiges of your childhood memories. Then you’ll sit down in your living from and lay them out in tiny piles on your coffee table, hunching there for almost two hours trying to win a game of solitaire.
Time and time again you’ll fail. Solitaire is just largely a game of chance, and your luck has been terrible of late. And the drinking won’t help, either. After the first hour and a half you’ll start cheating on solitaire subtly, flipping over cards one by one until you can look through the whole deck, the way you wish you’d been able to luck through his heart to see what you wanted.
This is how you’ll win, the only way you’ll wine tonight, sifting through a deck of cards breaking the rules you’d agreed to, alone in your apartment too drunk to cry.
Congratulations on winning a game of solitaire!
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