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Dylan’s Corner

Nobody cares about Paris Hilton.

July 9th, 2007

The news is abuzz about Paris Hilton, especially since she went to jail for five minutes for drunk driving. Even so, she still got more jail time than Scooter Libby. But that’s for another post. Oh look, a suicide bomb killed a bunch of people. Who cares, Martha Stewart went to jail. Let’s jerk off about that for an hour, and leave the suicide bomb thing for a 30 second sound bite. A zombie plague in Ukraine? Where the hell is that? We’ve got a much more important crisis on our hands: Britney Spears shaved her head! Move move move! Huh, they found a cure to AIDS with no side effects, but Congress outlawed it for some reason. Well, we could run that, but the public would start hyperventilating if they didn’t hear what Paris Hilton is up to!

This all reminds me of the O.J. Simpson trial, which seemed to take five years. Endless coverage on every channel, and even the commercials didn’t give you an escape: “O.J. Simpson trial giving you a headache? Try Advil!” It was as if all the events of the world came to a halt, and every human being on Earth held their breath until the final verdict. Of course, lots of other stuff happened during that decade-spanning trial, but we never heard about it, because of the crippling, all-consuming shadow cast by this endless media circus.

The Paris Hilton stuff is more annoying, though, because the O.J. Simpson trial was about murder, which is really serious, whereas the Paris Hilton crapola was just some rich Barbie doll get away with drunk driving, which can potentially kill people, with a slap on the wrist. I say lock her up. It would do the pampered brat a world of good, and build character. Take her out of her pink plastic bubble and into the gritty, smelly, concrete floor real world. But what do I care about Paris Hilton? Nobody cares about her, except maybe journalists. If you’re reading this right now and you’re about to say that you do care about her, hold your tongue, because my adage still holds true. Nobody cares about Paris Hilton. Therefore, if you do care about Paris Hilton, you’re nobody.

Where’d all this comment spam come from?

June 19th, 2007

I don’t know what loathsome, sociopathic excuse for an organic life form tried to spam my blog, but I won’t be hearing from him again, because now anybody who wants to post comments will have to register. I won’t be having eight petabytes of viagra and xanax and anal sex bullshit dumped all over my blog. What do you think this is, some 14 year old dweeb’s Myspace account? No, this blog has serious journalistic integrity. A true journalist wouldn’t put up with forty gallons of links for Viagra and Xanax and junk like that.

Fortunately, you didn’t see any of that in my precious blog, because I’m not dumb enough to let any prick, robot or otherwise, post whatever comments they want without my permission. I set it to send me confirmation e-mails whenever somebody wanted to post a comment. Of course, this meant tons of confirmation e-mails to deal with. I’ll have none of it. Spammers, take my advice. Please, do the world a favor and die, and have your body cremated, but do it in a hermetically sealed room so you don’t pollute the atmosphere with your toxic fumes. Then have your remains launched into deep space. I don’t see how all this spam can make any money anyway. I mean, I know everyone’s obsessed with sex and all, but only a truly loathsome, vomit inspiring wretch whose very existence can only bring crippling ruin upon humanity would ever buy anything from a spammer. OK, when I put it that way, these spammers must be making a mint.

Evolution vs. ID: There is no vs.

June 2nd, 2007

Let me make one thing clear: I’m not here to call Crea– er, Intelligent Design wrong or stupid. I’m not saying one is right and the other is wrong. I’m just saying that one is science and the other is not. That’s right, news flash, ID is not science.

I know what you’ll say next, you’ll say that evolution isn’t science either, because there’s no way to prove or disprove it with experiments. Evolution is, after all, just a theory. Well my friend, allow me to explain what a theory is. Not a random stab in the dark. Theory has several definitions, the first of which is:

A set of statements or principles devised to explain a group of facts or phenomena, especially one that has been repeatedly tested or is widely accepted and can be used to make predictions about natural phenomena. [Stolen from Dictionary.com]

In other words, a theory is a concept supported by a boatload of evidence, which is more than I can say for Intelligent Design. Oh wait, the Grand Canyon was carved by the Great Flood, since the Earth is 6000 years old. Oh, and those stars in the sky aren’t enormous balls of plasma light years away, they’re just God’s dandruff. That stuff is just fine for church, maybe even private school, but not public school, which is state, and thus should be separated from church. Otherwise we’d have more witch burnings, and that would suck. Witches are cool.

And where did this whole science versus religion thing come from, anyways? Science and religion have nothing to do with each other. Science is based on hard facts, and religion is based on faith. It’s apples and oranges. Actually, it’s more like apples and pipe wrenches, because apples and oranges are too similar. I won’t say which is which, because you’ll think I was calling one fruity. What’s wrong with being fruity, anyway? It’s sweet and juicy and delicious. I’d rather bite into an apple than a pipe wrench.

Shovel your sidewalk or I’ll kill you in your sleep.

March 11th, 2007

I try to walk my dog every day. As an Australian shepherd, she needs a lot of exercise. Spring has officially arrived, and since we got a whole lot of snow this season (enough to close Saint Paul Public Schools, which is really saying something!), that meant tons of backbreaking labor making a path for other people to walk on. Unless, of course, you’re too lazy to do it. Then the snow gets trampled by passerby, and then it freezes and makes a treacherous icy path of doom.

It’s not that hard, people! Just shovel your walk! Or at least use a snowblower, if you’re a lazy coward. If you can’t handle the responsibility of living in a snowy place like Minnesota, move to one of those sissy cowardly warm states and let a responsible homeowner move in. Now that it’s warm, and the snow and ice is all soft and loose, it’s even easier to shovel your walk. So pry yourself away from your monitor long enough to chisel the solid dihydrogen oxide off your sidewalk.

Speaking of lazy, it’s the middle of March and I still see Christmas decorations on a few people’s lawns. The snow is melting, for God’s sake! I’m starting to see grass. What is wrong with you people? Not shoveling your walk is bad enough, but you still have plastic reindeer in your yard. If those reindeer were real, they would have started their migration by now. Your tin soldiers need to go home to their wives and families; the war on Christmas is over. At least pumpkins have the decency to decompose into a flattened ruin when you’re too headless to throw them away. But Christmas decorations, being plastic, take thousands of years to rot. In the meantime they’re still sitting there, pissing me off. I understand that you’ve already got your hands full with the arduous task of not shoveling your walk, but please: undeck the halls.

God+Fate=Freedom!

December 19th, 2006

Let’s say your religion/belief system states that when God created the universe He also decided on all the events that would ever occur from beginning to end. That means that, in all His infinite wisdom and glory, God knows everything that shall ever happen, i.e. fate. So if you do something sinful, like have sex with a goose, or go on a killing spree, or listen to rock music, or vote Democrat, God will get all vengeful on your ass, right? Wrong! If God knew you were going to commit unspeakable acts, He would obviously see it coming, and therefore shouldn’t get angry and vengeful. It’s like you make a movie, and the good guy dies at the end. You don’t go, “Aw man, how come he had to die? It’s not fair! Stupid bad guy! He’s such a jerk!” because you made the movie and have no right to complain about what happens. Same thing here. If you go, “Hey God, sorry I burned down that orphanage,” God will reply, “Hey, it’s cool. I wrote the script, remember?”

In short, do whatever you want, because you’re fated to do it anyway! Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go put on a Pink Floyd record and have sex with this goose.

Rewriting Weird Story

November 13th, 2006

I like my story. I really do. It’s just got a few wrinkles I need to iron out. What really grates my cheese though, is the beginning. You know, the part where the FBI/CIA/Mafia/Men in Black/Matrix agents come knocking at Lance’s door. I’ve already counted five things they could possibly be, which really demonstrates the cliché factor in this scene. I tried to make Lance come semi-voluntarily, perhaps to alleviate Cliché Syndrome, and make him chicken out like a little girl, instead of bravely but futilely fighting or running from his strange visitors. That’s why it comes off as unrealistic and awkward and crappy. But I couldn’t think of a way to make the fight-or-flight thing work, without parroting the opening of The Matrix. I had this elaborate action sequence mapped out in which Lance says “fat chance!” or something to that effect, and slams the door in their faces and runs to the garage, hops in the car, and as he’s waiting anxiously for the door to open, he notices his suit-wearing friends sitting in the back seat, looking as not-amused as ever. I thought this was cool at first (Wow! They just appeared in his car! They must be aliens!), but then I started counting off the reasons it’s illogical and stupid and the reader wouldn’t buy it. First, no self respecting suit-wearing goon from space would let him get even that far. All the way to his car? Yeah, right! Second, Lance isn’t dumb enough to try a stunt like that, not with suit-wearing goons at his door.

Which is why I’m scrapping the whole tired formula and starting clean. Fear not, my friends, I’ll still keep the plot, more or less. I’m just changing the first part. Instead of the predictable “aliens dragged me into this mess” routine, it’s the “I dragged myself into this mess” shtick. You see, Lance is looking at the employment section of the paper one morning because he recently got the short end of the Enron (company went belly up, everybody but the execs got shafted), when one ad catches his eye. He calls the number and goes to the address for an interview. It seems mundane at first, but he doesn’t realize until it’s too late what he really got himself into… Dun dun dun, indeed. I’ll work out the details as soon as I don’t have Calculus (You can do calculus? Can you do my taxes and calculate my gas mileage too? No.), a photography project, and a paper about Hubert Humphrey breathing down my neck. Good night.

Some thoughts about that story…

September 19th, 2006

After talking to my cousin about the scifi story I just posted, I’ve revealed some ugly logic holes, messy prose, unrealistic human behavior, and other unsightly mistakes that I wouldn’t have been able to find on my own. Sometimes the best way to clean up your writing is to show it to someone else. After all, I am my own worst critic.

To begin with, Lance doesn’t react nearly strongly enough to weirdos showing up at his door in the middle of the night. If guys wearing suits showed up at my door wanting me to come with them, I’d immediately assume it’s the FBI or something. He wouldn’t wuss out and give up at some Jedi tricks. He’d freak out and run, with an exciting but futile chase that ends with his inevitable capture. There is no way he’s going to come willingly. He’s certainly not going to say blindlingly obvious things like, “Okay, obviously you guys have superpowers or something.” I just cringe when I read that crap. It’s obvious enough to give a rhino an ulcer.

Then there’s his wife. Where does she fit into the equation? I have no idea. Maybe she doesn’t do anything. Just what I need, a throwaway character. Major characters that do nothing equals bad writing. In fact, let’s just get rid of the wife entirely. Sorry honey, but this marriage is ruining my story. It just wouldn’t work out between us.

In fact, I’m going to just start over completely with a blank page. I’ll keep the first draft for reference if I need it, and rewrite the whole darn thing. Not right now, mind you. Right now I’m going to bed. Good night.

Sci-fi story. It will be good this time.

September 12th, 2006

Okay, the office story didn’t turn out as good as I’d hoped. I was trying to make it “edgy” and “experimental” and have “attitude” and I succeeded. Unfortunately, I didn’t put as much effort into making it “make sense” and have a “point” and be “logical.” But, writing embarrassing garbage is part of the writing process. I’ll make up for it by posting part of the story I’m working on now. I promise it won’t suck. As much. Now, don’t write it off as cliché after reading the first paragraph. Read the whole story first. Then write it off as cliché.

Also, never mind the [describe the lobby] part. I decided that getting hung up on trivial descriptions was stupid and just wanted to write the damn story. I’ll come up with a description later.
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I want a purse, but society won’t let me!

July 17th, 2006

It just occurred to me today that it isn’t fair that it’s socially acceptable for women to carry purses, but not for men. Sure, I could carry a purse, but then people would call me gay and beat me up. That’s how our society works. But then they’d get arrested for hate crimes, but only if I was gay, which I’m not, so they’d just be charged with assault and battery, but the judge would also think I was gay for carrying a purse, so maybe it would be hate crimes after all.

My point is that women can get away with carrying purses. I suppose you may be wondering why I want a purse so badly. Well, think about it. You can put all kind of stuff in a purse: spare change, receipts, a checkbook, wallet, cell phone, keys, mints, cigarettes, handguns, whatever. If you’re a man, you don’t get to carry a purse, so you have to cram all that stuff into your pockets. You can’t fit as much stuff in your pockets as you can a purse, plus at the end of the day when you dig out your cell phone to recharge it, a bunch of receipts and coins fall out, and you have to bend over and pick them up! How inconvenient is that! But with a purse, this problem is eliminated, and you hardly need pockets at all! Instead of rummaging around in a tiny pocket, you open up your purse, and there it is!

The only solution to this problem is to be openly gay. Being gay has many benefits, not the least of which is freedom from uptight gender roles. That’s because you don’t have to worry about people thinking you’re gay. This lets you do all kinds of crazy stuff that would be considered unmanly, like carry a purse, wear makeup, wear bright and colorful clothes, own a tiny dog, sing show tunes in public, call people “honey” and “girlfriend,” show emotions other than anger, be caring and sensitive, allow people to know that you don’t like sports (unless you do, but you’re allowed to be open about it if you don’t), and other stereotypical stuff.

So gay men, flaunt your freedom from the chains of gender, and go get a purse, if you haven’t already. I’ll be in Hooters talking about football (even though I don’t like football) if you need me. Got to maintain my image of heterosexuality, after all.

Office Story 2

June 9th, 2006

Here is a revision of the previously posted story. I changed a bit at the end, and also added a bunch of stuff. If you’re wondering about the weird ending, I don’t get it either. It just came out that way. That’s the thing about writing, you just keep going without thinking and anything can happen.

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