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Local Blogger Presses “Publish,” Sits Back To Await Praise And Accolades
THE INTERNET—A local blogger recently published its latest article, sat back, and vibrated in excited delight.
“Yes. This will be the one,” it says, grinning at its own genius. “People magazine, here I come.”
The post is currently wafting aimlessly through the internet, where it is completely available for the top editors at every major periodical in the world to stumble across and hire the blogger once they recognize the raw talent and “outside of the box” recklessness that comes from the “writer’s” complete absence of any formal journalistic training.
Whether it was being one of the first few thousand pundits to make the astute observation that the only people who like Justin Bieber are generally preteen girls, to coining the phrase I’m more confused than Bruce or Caitlyn Jenner’s genitals!, or just having an all-around knack for “sticking it” to pop culture figures who “have it coming,” this blogger has got the stuff.
After pressing the “Publish” button, the blogger spent half an hour sorting through old Facebook photos, trying to decide which one would look good as a profile pic for the weekly column it will soon be writing for the local newspaper, which will then lead to a nationally syndicated gig.
Shallow Thoughts
American ‘cheese’ is to the coagulated milk world as hot dogs are to the meat world. But what the hell do I know, I’m just a guy that wipes too hard.
Grooooooooooooss. Image taken from shittyfood.net
Plasmapheresis—The Silent Savior
Image from http://www.inc.com
I just went through plasmapheresis. Somebody owes me big time. I technically own another human’s life force now. Big responsibility there. The only trouble is, with all the bureaucratic buffoonery and red tape down at the donation center, they won’t even let you behind the counter to see where something that used to be in your body is going to be shipped, let alone who they’re going to put it into.
Is anybody reading this a detective? I want to hunt down whoever has my plasma. But not in a mean way. All I want is a sincere thanks, and for them to buy me a sandwich every week for the rest of their life. Pretty reasonable, because I know I could demand much more than that.
I could have people, pumped up to their eyelids with my plasma, washing my car, fetching my groceries, naming their children after me. Children that have a piece of me in their veins. But I don’t think of stuff like that.
I am however, in the preliminary stages of having my testicles, kidneys, liver, and even unused parts of my brain tested. In the world of medicine, sick people are so grateful to receive these body parts that donating them guarantees you a rent free existence on Easy Street at least until you are old, and then I think the government pays for you to stay alive after that.
Here’s What I Learned From My Centaur Research
I was watching Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix this past weekend. As a herd of centaurs galloped across the screen, my gaze wandered down. The junction of horse and human occurs just above where the groin of the man would be and fuses into the area near the horse-half’s front shoulders.
I got confused. Where are the genitals on these things? Roving scientific interest—my desktop wallpaper is definitely not a picture of a centaur—anymore—filled a time slot I had open on Saturday afternoon. Do the mythical beast’s reproductive organs rest where they would on the anatomy of the human, or near the back, like a horse?
I had to take into account that the film is PG-13, so there was a chance that if any private areas were in fact located near the front, the filmmakers might have opted not to bump up to an R, or even NC-17 rating by having the turgid penis of a made-up animal flopping around on the big screen, thereby outlawing a sizeable chunk of the ticket-buying demographic from gaining access to theaters.
I took it to Googolplex. This website, authored by a German doctor, is the centaur equivalent of Gray’s Anatomy, and even brought up another interesting point—how does the spinal system work, being that the bodily fusion creates a 90-degree angle? I couldn’t be bothered with that, though—it wasn’t what I came for, and I feared I would be sucked further into an already dubious rabbit hole.
Then this came up:
Not only did I find the genitals, it looks as though we’ve been using the wrong phrase all this time—horses are hung like centaurs. This interpretation may prove unreliable, though. The issue of the spinal cord, for instance—it appears to curve into the lung cavity, and disappear, which would render the entire back half of this man-horse paralyzed. There may be better drawings out there, but please understand that while I do have the time to find a better one, I don’t want to. Googling centaur penis has more than likely already landed me on a ‘person of interest’ list somewhere, and next time I move I’m going to have to go around and tell all my new neighbors ‘hey, could you sign this thing saying that I told you I’m a pervert, blah blah blah, it’s just a formality, yada yada, I’ve changed my ways, bing bang boom.’
So I’ll just believe what this drawing says.
What If The Beatles Weren’t The Beatles?
Free will vs. destiny. Nature vs. nurture. Anarchy vs. order. Is the ‘real’ world actually a dream, and the dream world ‘real’ life? Could an all-powerful deity create a rock too heavy for itself to lift? If Joseph Swan had not invented the modern incandescent light bulb, would someone else have figured it out, or would you be reading this blog by candlelight, or whatever illuminating device had been invented (or not) in lieu of the candle? Would you rather be beaten to dead, bloody shards in front of everyone you know by a pansexual street tough named Rocco in the alley behind a skin bar, or be eaten and digested by a wildebeest horde in deepest Africa, while your fate forever remains a mystery to your loved ones?
Volumes have been written by history’s most probing thinkers on these subjects. And now, another great question to heap up onto the proverbial philosophical pile (an interesting side note regarding piles: when does a pile cease to become a pile? If you remove one thing from it, is it still a pile? How about two things? At what point does ‘some stuff gathered together’ transform into what we know as a pile?) that will leave you awake at 3am, wondering why you have to be out of bed in three hours to go to a job (which, unless you produce sustenance, is virtually pointless), to earn money (which, as a manmade creation, makes it no more meaningful than say, a high score in Tetris), so you can buy food (which, if you are resourceful, is available for free in nature):
This is what the ‘White Album’ could have looked like.
Here goes. Imagine The Beatles, widely regarded as one of, if not the, greatest and most influential rock bands of all time, had not been known as The Beatles.
Envision this: everything about them stays the same—the look, the musical evolution, the album titles (excluding 1968’s The Beatles), song names, etc.—only at their outset they chose an incredibly immature or offensive name, like ‘The Fart Men,’ or even better, ‘F(censored)k.’
Would music scholars and fans and snobs and critics openly argue that The Fart Men are the greatest thing ever to happen in modern music?
‘The Fart Men are waaay better than the Rolling Stones!’ Would you say that to someone?
Would they have gotten radio play? Radio DJ: ‘It’s 3 degrees here in the Twin Cities, let’s heat things up with a little ‘Norwegian Wood’ by F(censored)k!’
Would George Martin have relished being known as the ‘fifth Fart Man?’
Would millions of screaming girls have bought into ‘Fart Men Mania’ in the ’60s?
There’s no way we’ll ever know.
A Few Random Things
—this happened one time in a restaurant:
servant: “would you like soup or salad with that?”
me: “a super salad, eh? yes, yes that sounds good. i’ll have that.”
servant: “well, which one?”
me: “there’s more than one super salad?!”
it was kind of like one of those ‘who’s on first’ things
—every time one of my friends starts dating a new person, my first question for that friend is always, “what, is she blind and deaf?”
—why does the orkin man wear a helmet? they’re bugs.
—that’s all i’ve got.
—no it isn’t. i have a coworker with the last name Jass (i really do). not once have I asked if he has a relative with the name hugh. am i losing my wit, or finally showing signs of maturity?
Of Course The Baby Looks Like Its Parents
“OMG, he looks just like you!”
“She’s got your eyes!”
Just a couple typical Facebook baby picture/video comments there.
From a biology standpoint, it’s pretty common for offspring to look like their parents.
We all really need to start leaving comments if the baby doesn’t look like the mother or father. It could be a great help to some couples, because I don’t want to see the wrong person duped into paying for a kid that they think they made.
“You know, he kind of has the same nose as that personal trainer that was at your Memorial Day party last year. Do you still go to that gym?”
“It’s good that Stephan has learned to walk. I noticed he’s got the same awkward waddle as your milk man, isn’t that weird?”
A lot of strife could be avoided this way.
The Philosophunculist 
