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Somebody Syndicated My Crappy Blog?

May. 24th, 2007 | 09:42 am

Those of you who still have this journal added...for whatever reason...should know that I don't post in it anymore.

But if you still insist on following up on my ramblings, then just add the livejournal feed of my new comiblog to your friends list. Sometimes I talk about interesting crap related to science, atheism, or what have you--but usually it's just me making bad fart jokes with crappy comics. So add at your own risk.

Here's the feed: Saint Gasoline

It'll show up in your friends page with a small excerpt of each post.

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Dec. 1st, 2006 | 01:35 am

I now have a real blog (and a webcomic), so this journal is strictly reserved for reading other people's entries and ranting in comments.

If you are interested in reading any of my recent thoughts, of course, feel free to visit my new awesome, totally fucking horribly drawn webcomic and poorly-written blog.

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Oct. 17th, 2006 | 07:06 pm

I like living with Lissa more than I thought I would. When I was living in the dorms at SMS, it never really felt like home to me. I wondered how long I would feel uncomfortable in my new apartment, but surprisingly I immediately felt comfortable here.

The only thing that I am not quite used to is Lissa herself. I am not used to seeing people (especially girlfriends) at all times of the day. I get to see Lissa when she is feeling sad, happy, depressed, and so on.

Sometimes I don't know what to think. She will sit next to me on the couch, and I can tell she is frustrated or angry or upset about something. I have no idea what to do to console her. She doesn't seem to want to talk to me at the times she is upset. It bothers me that she internalizes everything. I have no idea if she is upset about her job or if she is somehow upset with me.

Today seems to be one of those days. When she came home she didn't seem happy at all. She didn't really say much to me, but just said her workday had been annoying. Then when my friend called, I could see her get this displeased look on her face. (She dislikes my friend because I used to sort of "date" her.) She especially seemed upset when she asked me if I was going out and I said yes. We didn't end up going out, but she still seemed angry with me. I just wish I could do something to make her feel better, but I get the distinct impression that I am the reason she is upset. Soon after that she left the room for a while and then left to go to the store. I guess she is walking there.

I wonder at times like this if things are as good as they seem to be. Who knows what she is harboring inside her? I know she keeps a lot of emotions bottled up inside her. Maybe she hates me. Maybe she is sick of living with me. I really don't know. It bothers me, though. As much as this apartment feels like home to me, it sometimes feels like a house divided. There is a part of her that I can't seem to reach, and it sort of scares me.

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Poo Invisibility

Sep. 28th, 2006 | 06:06 pm

My girlfriend (known here as the illustrious mwissa or pushesbuttons) is no doubt going to write a lengthy post about how I girlishly stepped upon a piece of her dog's poo while gallavanting around the house in the nude. She will write, in excruciating detail, about how my miniscule schlong dangled ferociously as I danced around the room, in search of the poo that I had been informed lay encrusted on the floor. She will detail how I emitted a piercing, bat-like shriek that caused an uproarious howling from the neighborhood's collective dogs, and how I subsequently ran to the bathroom like a frightened gazelle with a wounded hoof, submerging my whole body into the bathtub and rolling around as if I were cleansing myself in some sort of ecstatic religious ritual.

All of this is a viscious lie perpetrated to ruin my good name. What actually happened is that I was walking, quite bow-legged and masculine I might add, around the house in a way that did not resemble prancing at all. I was not nude, as she will indicate, but instead wearing whatever it is that masculine men wear, which is probably some sort of combination of sleeveless flannel, a construction hat, and low-hanging jeans. And when I stepped in the poo, I did not squeal like a little girl, but rather growled angrily and smote the poo into dust as if I were some vengeful tribal deity.

Okay, okay. I'm lying. I'm a little girl around poo. And somehow, some way, my foot finds a way to immerse itself in dog shit whenver it can be found upon the ground. When Lissa had remarked that she had found this particular poo today, for instance, my first remark was a surprised, "I can't believe I didn't step in it first!" As I came out to pick it up, I spotted it near my dresser. As I crept towards it, I felt something awful squish beneath my feet. In my enthusiasm for finally picking up a piece of crap without having first stepped in it, I had failed to notice the turd-mine that Squirt had carefully hidden within the folds of the carpet. The bastard had foiled me. Some people are color blind. Me, I'm incapable of seeing poo. I live in a world of my own mental-construction, and it just so happens to be a world that does not contain any poo at all. Consequently, my foot lands in the poo every single time.

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Pee Pee Problems

Sep. 25th, 2006 | 09:26 pm

Don't read this if you don't want to hear about my pee pee problems, because they are no doubt gross and disgusting and will drive you to fling yourself from the nearest window. Do read, however, if you wish to mock someone with an embarrassing pee pee problem who will soon cry himself to an inadequate sleep in an inadequate bed with an inadequate cover covering his inadequate pee pee.

Earlier today, Lissa had said that she doesn't like her weiners hard in reference to hot dogs. Well, my cock was listening. Its cock ears perked up at the sound, and my balls said, "Hey boys, let's give her what she wants!" So tonight, as I was fondling her and pretending to be retarded while sexually invading her, I suddenly find that I cannot launch the missle. All systems are go, the fuel has been pumped, and the launchpad was splayed before me, and yet my missle just nose-dives into the ocean like some sort of defunct Korean warhead.

This has never happened to me before. Normally I can get aroused by just looking at toilet paper. Now, no amount of toilet paper can save me, no matter how soiled. All I can manage is a weak little shimmy of the weinus. It simply will not grow. Weeks from now, I will no doubt be drooling and forgetting my own name as the nurse drains my catheter bag. My penis will fall off with disuse as my girlfriend takes to making it with the leftover hot dogs in our fridge, because they are harder than me and they don't hide themselves in shame under the covers because of their softness, whining like baby rabbits.

But you see, I am not used to having no control of my pee pee. It is a sad, sad day. I don't know what to do. Not even the vast expanses of internet porn seem appealing to me now, for all I want to do is bury my head in the sand like some sort of ostrich with erectile dysfunction. Maybe I could star in one of those commercials, where I run along a beach and smile while my voice-over carries the mournful tale of how I can no longer maintain an erection, and then reveal to the hopeful consumers that the answer to my problems was Viagra. And then I can do all the silly commercials that no one wants to do. The people who make these commercials will see me in the erectile dysfunction one and go like, "Hey, this guy has no dignity or class! He'll probably star in our herpes commercial!" And I will. Soon people will recognize me on the street, saying, "Hey, it's the herpes/erectile dysfunction/horrible piercing infection/guy with terrible yeast infections man!" And then I will cry silently to myself under the warm covers in my warm shame as Lissa no doubt straddles our deli meat in the kitchen.

Woe is me.

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On Squirt

Sep. 25th, 2006 | 06:35 pm

Today, Lissa's dog, after voraciously humping me awake, was surprisingly docile. I suppose all the humping wore him out. Honestly, that dog is little more than a fuzzy, semen splaying alarm clock. The only downside is that there is no snooze button to stop his mad humping frenzy. Well, I suppose the crust of dog semen that I have to chisel from my hair in the mornings is a downside, as well, but I'd rather not speak about that. It brings back memories that are much too uncomfortable for me; memories involving...childhood dog semen encounters. We've all had our childhood run-ins with dog semen, and its best to just shove them out of our conciousness and to focus upon our present mental problems.

At any rate, after being humped awake I dutifully played with the little hairball. I forgot, of course, to do things like feed it and give it water. This is why I always failed my psychology tests on Maslow's hierarchy of needs. I always thought dog semen and playing were the most important needs, but for some reason this Maslow character thought that food, shelter, and other things necessary for survival were somehow more basic needs. He must have been a communist--always so obsessed with his food and shelter seeing as how he lacked my wasteful American opulence wherein food is an afterthought.

Anyway, seeing as how this entry is rapidly devolving into a description of my girlfriend's dog, I suppose I will just let the literary tide carry me away. It seems that Squirt (that's the little monster's name) hadn't been fed in a day or so. He had devoured all his food in a fit of gluttonous rage. (Well, actually the lack of food is probably more a result of our slothful disdain for leaving the house to buy pet food, but never mind that.)

Despite his hunger, I think that perhaps Squirt will grow to love the joys of starvation. You see, having no dog food to feed him, we were forced to feed him human food. (And we are using "human" in a very loose sense, owing to the fact that my diet consists mostly of corn dogs refried beans.) Squirt rejoiced in this, and he ate from his bowl as if it contained gold--not that you can eat gold or anything. That's right, it's a dog eat dog world out there, and Squirt was able to feed on my month-old hot dogs which were beginning to decompose in the fridge. Incidentally, Lissa is eating two of said hot dogs at this very moment as she sits next to me, and she is eating them without a bun, as if she is some sort of uncivilized beast frothing at the mouth and unaware that hot dogs are customarily eaten with, you know, buns.

At any rate, today was a good bonding experience with Squirt. When Lissa came home, and I found out she had a bad day, I promptly jumped up and smothered her with hugs, urging Squirt to do the same by saying, "Let's get her, Squirt! Hug time!" Squirt, however, opted out of hugging her and instead jumped against my leg while barking at me as if I were beating his owner. Oh well.

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(no subject)

Sep. 21st, 2006 | 06:06 pm

In a fit of quiet desperation, I have decided to come slowly sulking back to my online journal, having found myself quite incapable of writing a book or doing anything else similarly productive with my life. I decided to quit posting these mental ejaculations upon realizing that it was never going to cause me to skyrocket into fame and provide me mountains upon mountains of jewels, bars of gold, and such. I wanted to devote my time and energy to more worthwhile pursuits, and I set out hoping to write a book or a novel of some sort, or a reputable comic strip, or a screenplay, only to realize that I possess the attention-span of an autistic rhesus monkey who has been confronted with something shiny and which clangs seductively in the breeze. So I quit writing in my journal, in hopes of converting this energy into something far greater and much more important--something which wasn't a whiny rant about my penis size or how horrible my day was. But I soon found myself unable to write outside of the reassuring confines of my livejournal, where heaps of mindless commenting drones would assure me of my greatness while figuratively e-sucking me off. Writing nonfiction frightened me because of the necessary citations and research (which should be no problem given my proclivity for reading mass amounts of texts), and I was also frightened of publishing because countless pseudo-intellectuals on Amazon.com would no doubt trounce my book by giving it horrible one-star ratings and referring to it as a pile of dung. And the sad part would be that this would be the extent of its publicity, and professional reviewers would avoid it in favor of more stimulating and informative works, like Harry Potter and the Wizard's Underpants Part Four.

Needless to say, I didn't write much of anything. Instead, I became distracted by religious fundamentalists and evolution-deniers in forums I found while searching for porn. I typed and I typed and I typed--and all of it was for nought. All that effort could have been channeled into a ground-breaking book, but instead it was wasted upon ignorant retards who think that the fact that monkeys still exist disproves evolution. If only there could have been a drooling fundamentalist egging me on to write a book on the evils of religion, the necessity of atheism, or the flaws of the Bible! But now everyone is beating me to it. This Sam Harris character steals my idea and writes about the dangers of faith (and I still think I could have done it better than him), and now Dennett and Dawkins have books critiquing religion out on the shelves.

So now I'm back on livejournal, like some sort of bottom-feeding scumbag, and I'm here to stay. I shall waste away my writing skill here, in hopes of trying to regain "the touch" that seems to have deserted me after so prolonged an absence from any writing--that is, writing that doesn't involve telling a creationist to suck me.

I remember when I used to be witty and amusing, now I just sound like a bitter, crotchety jackass who has grown disillusioned with everything around him after spending too much time in the company of nitwits.

Try to avoid news forums, people. Only the lowest common denominators of human society congregate there. They are like a plague upon the internet. The horror. The horror!

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(no subject)

Jul. 16th, 2006 | 08:48 pm

Is flip-flopping a bad thing?

Ever since the last election, it seems to me that "flip-flopping" has become the act of a coward. It dawned on me that this fear of flip-flopping may also reflect upon America's dismal understanding of science.

Science, even more than Kerry, is the king of flip flops. Were it not for flip flops, science would never even get anywhere! Science once believed Newton, then it flip flopped and believed Einstein, and now further flip flops are being made about the specifics. The same can be said of virtually every other scientific achievement--it is built up from flip flops.

Is it really so terrible to flip flop? Let's say someone is told that his apartment building is on fire. However, the person who told him appeared to be joking. He decides to stay. A few minutes later, he notices smoke and people screaming. After this, he "flip-flops" and decides to get the heck out.

Clearly, the man flip flopped. Clearly, he didn't "stay the course". But, equally as clearly, it was a good thing he flip-flopped!

It is high time people realize that flip-flopping is not shameful, cowardly, or always a deliberate act of deception. It is better to be a flip flop than to be a fool who holds so dearly to his favored beliefs that he will let no amount of incoming evidence sway his decision.

With this anti-flip flopping mindset, people tend to go around trying to prove themselves right or everyone else wrong--but without bothering to look at the actual evidence. Everyone is simply afraid of being seen as an evil "flip flopper" who changed his mind--who was convinced by the arguments, the evidence, the observation.

The anti-flip flop mentality is one of the worst things about our country, and humanity in general. We need to do our best to fight it. If we were wrong, we were wrong, and we can thank whoever corrected us for putting us on the proper track. What this country needs is a good, flip-floppin' leader. The kind who won't stand resilently on the pan even while his underside burns black. We flip flop our pancakes, by golly, and we should flip flop our anti-flip flop attitude, too!

Who's with me?

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OKCupid Tests Destroy Me

May. 17th, 2006 | 03:10 pm

I made a quite crappy philosophy test, and you bitches should take it. Oh, and if you know anything about philosophy, suggestions for improvements or corrections are also welcomed.


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The Amusement Park of Sex

Mar. 28th, 2006 | 10:30 pm

Feel free to criticize or discuss this little hypothetical scenario I am offering that attempts to show why abortion is morally acceptable even if the fetus or embryo has moral rights.

There is a really fun amusement park that couples enjoy visiting called Sex Flags. The only downside of the amusement park, however, is that a deranged group of lung cancer patients have escaped a local hospital. They prowl the park and look for distracted females to attach themselves to so that they may use their healthy lungs. For a period of nine months, these lung cancer patients live off the women, until a lung transplant becomes available within the nine months. The couples know about these deranged lung cancer patients, but they often go to the amusement park anyway, because it is a very fun place to be, and there are several lung-cancer-patient preventative measures, anyway, such as putting yourself in a giant rubber tube to prevent the patients from attaching themselves to your body.

Let us say that a young couple goes the amusement park, and despite their attempts to avoid such a problem, a lung cancer patient attaches himself to the girl. Does it follow that the girl is obligated to support the patient for nine months of her life? Is she morally responsible for keeping this man alive when she did not assent to his use of her body? Try to put yourself in her shoes: a man just jumps on you and attaches himself to your lungs. Does it make sense to say that you are responsible for this man when you never assented to such a responsibility? Would it be wrong to disconnect yourself even if it meant killing the lung cancer patient?

I reason that most people would reason that it is totally acceptable to disconnect one's self from the cancer patients. The mere fact that the cancer patients cannot live without their hosts does not give them the right to live off their hosts without their assent. Nor does their hijacking of the host's body deprive the host of her right to do with her body as she will please.

Obviously, the situation mirrors the abortion scenario almost perfectly, and it reasonably shows that even if fetuses or embryos are like cancer patients in that they have moral rights--it does not follow that these moral rights obligate the mother to preserve their life at the risk of her own rights to do with her body as she pleases. As it is quite evident, a woman's freedom to do as she chooses with her own body takes precedence over any right to life--for what is a life without freedom to choose such things?

Comments? Criticisms? Assent or dissent?

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