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Well, well. Escaped this far without catching a bug, but it looks like it finally got me.

Yeah, it was a big ugly fuckin' thing that bit me on the ass. Seven phone calls, one irate conversation and ten bucks later, I got the privelidge of seein' a nurse over at my doc's, who couldn't see me, but the nurses aren't allowed to do a swab, but hey I need one done, my esophageal/tracheal passage is killing me, pretty please I'll even throw money on it? Hadda deep throat a giant Q-Tip and never even got paid either.

Z sick and tired. Aus.
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That's all I can think to say.

See, I just finished a little game called F.E.A.R.

And honestly, nobody should play that game unless they're well fucking prepared to be emotionally and mentally abused.

Fuck me, I'm sleeping with the goddam lights on.

Fuck off.

Z out.

Fuck.
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So what makes a good story anyway? I don't usually find myself contemplating such things in my spare time, as more pressing issues about baked confections usually take precedence. As I have a class to this effect (writing, not pastries), I did ask myself this question in some kind of official context. This is what I came up with: I can't really say what makes a good read, but I certainly can rant about bad ones.

For example, I think a really bad story is like an accidental drunken sexual encounter. You're left hungover, unsatisfied, and can't remember any names.

I have a bad fucking headache. To quote my favorite author, it feels as if someone has hammered long cold nails into my temple in an intruiging pattern.

Ow.

Z out.
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All right, ladies. Alright is technically incorrect, meaning that Microsoft Word will attempt to correct it. This means that it'll make that squiggly red line under it in an attempt to call your attention to the fact that you have misspelled a word, and with thusly change it. Of course, incorrect 'alright' may be, it has also become accepted slang. Our pal here to demonstrate.

"All right! My double-barreled shotty is back from refurb! It's so shiny!" He says as he lovingly polishes the smooth metal. His pal, the one who shot him before, says, "That's great. Now go get me a doughnut." To which our dejected guy says, "Alright," putting down his beloved duck-gun and slinking off to the door. See, the difference is this: All right, the correct term, means that something is, well, all right, as in okay, unharmed, only mildly harmed, etc. Alright is an obvious contraction, which, though originally a misspelling of the two-word phrase meaning the same thing, has evolved to mean a couple things: an exclamation, as in "Yeah! Cool! Alright!" Especially due to the fact that "Alright!" sounds more emphatic than "All Right!" which has a pause in it, thusly detracting from the enthusiasm factor. At the same time, alright can be an acknowledgement, as in yes, sure, okay. Which, then again, means the same thing.

And let us not forget "Aight," which means...I don't know what the fuck that means.

Pick your own poison.

Nuclear vs Nuclear

Sigh. It's NOO-KLEER. Two syllables. Just look at it. Nu-clear. Not, for the love of anything holy, NOO-KEE-LUHR, for fuck's sake. Jesus.

And finally alot versus a lot. A lot of idiots will type and write alot a lot. This is wrong. There is no such animal as alot. That is a gross misspelling and I do not take "My spacebar is broken" as an excuse. I've had a spacebar break alot on me lately.

Z out.
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Yeah, yeah, I got a blog. That ain't correct english. And the blog is in its infancy. Don't start sentences with prepositions. I have no idea if 'and' is a preposition, but I know you ain't supposed to start a sentence with it.

The basis of the blog is gonna be less personal stuff (i.e. no ranting about donuts). Fer example, my first actual post of any consequence is going to be involving a review/first impression of the single-player demo of the game F.E.A.R., which looks pretty damn scary if I say so myself, or in spite of myself, being a hard core DooMer. So, for those of you interested in hearing me talk about games, movies, comic books and such, the blog is where you'll find it. Go git it.

Also, for those of you who don't think old-school DooM is scary, a) you've never played, or b) you're lying.

Z out.

Z in. In terms of hard core vs. hardcore, well, there is a distinction. Both forms are entirely correct. One could speak of the hard core of a section of rock, taking the literal meaning, or hard core rock, as in music. Hardcore is, well, a contraction, meaning one of two things: either it's referring to somebody who thinks that they or something is hardcore, or porn. Example: "Dude, I am so gonna own with my double-barreled shotgun. Hardcore." Our familiar pal could be commenting on himself, the weapon, or both. As for the illicit film industry: "Hey, you gotta check out the new hardcore stuff I got. Beats the shit outta that soft crap." Or something. Ew, soft crap. Of course, I used hard core, intending to mean that I am solid about the core regions in terms of my DooM habit and the magnitude of my fan-ness. Were I to say hardcore, I would intend that I was one to play DooM at all hours of the night, especially the wee ones, until I began to see things at the corners of my vision and wake late at night in cold sweats because I heard something breathing in the hallway.

Wait. I am a hardcore DooMer.

Z out.

Again.

Shit. Z in. Forgot to mention something entirely irrelevant: I shall never, ever say things like 'teh' and 'pwnage.' I think that celebrating a typo is asinine. Teh end. Pwnage, 1337 nerds.

Z out, damn it.
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Ever pulled a muscle? It's an odd, unique kind of pain, not quite sharp, not quite an ache, but somewhere sadistically in between that manages to perfectly capture the essence of both...An ever-present soreness that doesn't just fade into the background when you're distracted.

I've pulled my share, everything from tiny muscles in my hand to triceps, groin, legs, back, glutes...Don't laugh at the glute thing. Yes, that's the ass muscle, but boy oh boy do those hurt. They're huge fuckin' things, and you use them all the time, especially to sit on. I know those of you who've pulled 'em ain't laughin'.

But today I did a new one. I pulled some lower abs.

Lemme tell you, I'd much rather have pulled both ass muscles. I could deal with crawling around by hand. This shit hurts. Laying still hurts, standing still hurts. Sitting hurts. Breathing hurts. Don't ever pull a stomach muscle.

I certainly am grateful I don't have broken ribs or a gunshot wound or anything, but still.

Ow.

In addition, the Doom movie site is up, doommovie.com. And a couple corrections regarding the oft-misinformed Doom movie. The Doomguy's name ain't Grimm, it's some other dude. And there is gonna be a wheelchair-bound guy, but no confirmations on whether or not they're gonna commit a cardinal sin and call him pinky. I know I didn't use the word misinformed correctly. Bite me.

Karl Urban, the dude playin' Doomguy, is 'Reaper.'

And I thought Grimm was subtle.

Z ouch.
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Part I: The Meaning of The Universe

Every now and then, when one has time to think, one can find oneself wondering about the workings of the universe, and take part in important ponderings about their very lives. Often, they hold counsel with themselves, asking these heavy questions.

What is a doughnut?

Really. Here you have this little round thing, perhaps classified under the heading 'pastry' (not like that tells us anything--I mean, Danish are pastries, aren't they? But what are they really?) and they supposedly contain dough, hence doughnut...but it's the nut part that confuses me.

Nuts are organic. They grow, be it off trees, like pecans, or underground, like peanuts...at least I think that's where peanuts come from. And almonds grow...uh...hell, I don't know where almonds grow. And what the shit is up with walnuts? I hypothesize that they are a relative of the barnacle, and are found on the hulls of stationary boats and pillars off docks and piers.

But what kind of tree or boat does a doughnut come from?

I've eaten a few before (doughnuts, not trees or boats), and they certainly don't seem nutty. But to clarify, before I get too complicated: I'm speaking of the kind with holes in them. I know that doughnuts and their relatives come in all sorts of cool variations, but there are names for those: twists, eclairs, longjohns, etcetera. Hell, there are even little balls called doughnut holes. It has to mean something. I think they're related to the hush puppy.

Okay. We have two parts. Dough, and nut, though in some places this has been condensed to donut, but I won't get into that, nor will I go further with why the hell they call those things hush puppies. So the dough is...well, dough. But the nut, damn it. Where the hell does the nut fit in?

Perhaps it once resided in the hole, and is now missing. Though I've never seen a nut in a doughnut hole.

I realized that something must be actively done to investigate this, lest the world never know the origin of the doughnut and thusly the answer to this particular ponderance of universal significance. I made up that word. You know which one. Moving on. Thus I found myself in front of a place that billed itself as a location in which doughnuts were dunked. Whatever that meant.

Inside, I beheld a shiny glass counter, a menu full of an impossibly huge array of pastrified selections, and an impatient...bakery clerk? Doughnut monger? Pastrywoman?

I could see several of the items displayed in all their glorious diversity and degrees of stickyness in a glass cabinet beneath me. I could smell the smell of baking, hot, buttery and sickly sweet. I leaned to the side and peered over the shoulder of the pastrywoman in order to fully examine the visual evidence presented in front of me. Behind her was an opening in which I could see metal sheets of weird flat round things with holes in them on metal tables, presumably waiting to go into hot ovens.

I wondered what all that was about.

Eventually I pointed to a doughnut I understood to be chocolate, and the pastrywoman, not breaking her gaze with me, reached below her and grabbed the very doughnut I was pointing at. I was taken aback, as I was certain these plasticky looking things were but display models, and certainly weren't edible. Nevertheless, it was some kind of progress. I went through the barter/exchange ritual, handing her a piece of stinky paper for this...thing. I walked out, glancing over my shoulder at the suspicous pastrywoman, who still burned two holes in my back. I continued into the parking lot, and as I regarded the world through a plastic doughnut hole, I had the distinct impression that I'd missed something.

Thus doughnuts remain a half-pastry, half-nut thing, shrouded in mystery until I uncover the true meaning of the formula dough + nut = donut.

...Or they could just be some kind of baked confection, a sweeter relative of the pretzel minus the salt...But I think that would be really stretching it.

Part II: For Losers Only

This is for you dual duelers. It is impossible to 'loose' something. Loose is not a verb. And a bolt cannot be 'lose.' When you lose something, it leaves your posession. You loosen something, such as a nut or bolt. Or your head from your shoulders. In which case, if your head is too loose, you lose it. I imagine you lost it. A long time ago.

Also. To vs too vs two. Yes, I have seen "I went two the boat to get my walnuts." I must admit, I did used to pronouce David Twohy's name 'Twah-hee.' How the hell was I supposed to know he pronounced it 2-y?

So. To is used before a verb. As in, "I am going to eat said walnut, which I just retrieved from beneath the salty brine." Too is used thus: "But this walnut is too salty. Ew." An adjective follows too, as in salty. I like the word thus. "I spit this salty walnut thus." [spit]

And for Christ's sake, if you can't properly use two, bugger off.

Z out.

Those too donuts are mine. They are to chocolatey. But I am going two eat them. So there.

Holy Shit

Jul. 26th, 2005 09:06 pm
icesamzero: (Default)
Holy shit holy shit holy shit holy shit holy divine from the heavens SHIT!
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Do note that I said "Da Doom Movie," not 'Da DooM Movie.' This is important. See, because of all the speculation and 'facts' regarding the film, it has not garnered the official DooMness and shall not be considered until further review (i.e. until I and ryuko go see it. Uh, am I supposed to capitalize that JB?) However, a recent article seems to have given a teensy bit of hope to the DooM community.

For those of you living in a cave (or, heh, not part of the DooM community), the controversy over the upcoming film has been a friggin flakstorm. DooM (the original) is set on Phobos, one of Mars' two moons, the other being Deimos (which DooM takes place on as well, but I'm getting ahead of myself). In Roman tounge (would that be latin?) phobos and deimos mean fear and terror, respectively. I think that Mars (god of war) and two moons named Fear and Terror makes for a kickass horror movie setting, don't you? Now Doom3, which the movie is supposedly based on, is on Mars itself. In the expansion pack you eventually travel to Phobos Labs, which are still on the Red Planet (go figure), but it's a cool little tribute to the orig anyway.

Now the Doom movie was initially reported to take place on some backwater Ougulth or Ooglehak or Oppenheimer or something, nowhere near Mars or its moons. And the idea was that an interstellar SWAT team (yeah, SWAT, not space marines) was called over to this little science outpost because of some distress signal or other, and as it turns out, the monsters which eventually populate the base aren't demons, oh no; they're people, scientists, horribly mutated by a computer virus.

...

Think about this.

A computer virus. Mutating human beings.

I've never seen nor played Resident Evil, but come on, man. A friggin' computer virus?? WTF x 10,000,000. And perhaps the cruelest joke to pull on the faithful DooMers was that a scientist (pre-mutie) who is cybernetically wheelchair-bound is affectionately called 'Pinky' by his co-sciheads.

That's just fuckin' insulting.

A movie about DooM should go like this: Set on Phobos (or Mars), containing space marines (one in particular, a nameless guy who kicks ass--affectionately known as the Doomguy in the community, or he could of course be THE space marine Fly Taggart), and demons from Hell. Demons, as in Lucifer-spawn, from the Infernal Regions.

But back to the article which you haven't read yet, ya lazy bastard. Apparently the id Software team sat in on an unfinished teaser trailer and were excited by it, saying that it looked 'just like the game' and that the first-person sequences kicked ass. Also, they now say that the movie, to be released 21 October, is in fact on Mars, and that it seems more and more faithful to the game as time passes...

I'm still skeptical, but I may end up changing my mind when ryuko and I see it...Mind you, were a couple of the biggest and oldest friggin' DooMers you're gonna find without going to a comic con or E3.

The review shall be posted upon seeing the film. We shall see how it holds up.

Z out.
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Weihenstephaner. That's the name of the beer I'm drinking. Don't ask me to pronounce it...something like "Vie-en-schtefaner." Apparently Weihenstephan is a place in Freising, Germany. This particular libation is a dunkle, Korbinian to be specific, which basically means dark...as in foamy and heavy and solid. And oddly sweet. So here I am drinking a pint (which is how all good beer oughta come, but more on that later) and I'm getting buzzed. Granted, I'm on an empty stomach, and the room is hardly moving, but this is barely half of the pint bottle...then I see that it's no less than 7.4% alcohol by volume. Sure, you say, that ain't much! But for you piss beer drinkers, thats nearly double what a Bud has. Michelob, MGD, Corona...they all have around 4% or so. Of course, my favorite drink, vodka, is 40%...80 proof. Woo. Hoo.

Anyway, moving on. Ever used those #@$%ing self-checkouts in the store? You look at the long lines of people with loaded carts waiting to be waited on, and then you glance over at the nearly deserted 'self-serve' cashiers, then down at your small handbasket with milk, beer and bread. What the hell, you think. Give it a shot. So you saunter on over to these mini-checkouts and set your basket down in a recessed area that looks about perfect for putting your groceries pending unloading.
"REMOVE item from loading area. Unexpected item in loading area."
What the fuck? you think, looking around rapidly for the person who just very loudly addressed you.
"Please REMOVE item from loading area."
Jesus?
Then you happen to look at this dinky little computer screen down at the end of this contraption, which has a picture of a person taking something off of a...what the hell is that? Oh, its one of these things! Hastily, you remove the handbasket, at which point the picture stays onscreen for what seems like an eternity before resetting to a friendly "Welcome to [Store Name Here]" screen. Sheepishly, you glance about again to see if anyone heard, then you press the helpful 'Press Here To Start' button.
"HELLO. Thank you for choosing [again, Store Name Here]. Please place items in loading area."
Very gently, you place your basket in said loading area, treating it like an armed explosive device.
"THANK YOU. Begin by scanning your first item."
You dart your hand into the basket and snatch the bread, then wave it over what you assume is the scanner. After a beep, the machine announces to all present at what seems an asinine volume that you have just purchased Aunt Hattie's 12-Grain Whole Wheat Bread which just happens to be on special for $2.99. Now everybody can know you ain't watchin' those carbs.
As you stand there guiltily, you pass the beer over the scanner, only to hear "PLEASE place previous item in bagging area."
Christ but this thing is loud, you think. You snatch the bread from next to the scanner and fumble about with a bag until you get in in one. Then you re-scan the damn beer.
"PLEASE wait for cashier. PLEASE ready your identification for cashier."
Do I fuckin' look under twenty-one?? The friendly little cashboy, who looks about twelve and covered in zits, comically asks you please-can-I-see-your-drivers-license-sir in a voice straight outta the Simpsons...the nerdy pimply dude. You offer it over, he looks at it for an eternity, maybe running the math in his head, then he hands it back without a word. He ambles over to his kiosk and hits some keys, and then your pal the electronic Satan says, "THANK YOU. Please proceed."
You remember to first PLEASE place the beer in the bag. Then you scan the milk, put that in, and then sit trying to figure out what to press next. You find the 'Finish and Pay' button and stab that, making the weird laptop-like screen ripple.
"DO YOU HAVE ANY COUPONS?" This time it's a chick's voice, even louder than ever.
"No," you say aloud as you pinion the corresponding button.

Heh. Pinion sounds like onion. But only if it was inyun.
Anyway.

There is a moment before you are prompted, thankfully without voice, to place your cash in the cash thingy, and then as you grab your bags..."PLEASE remember your change." Snarling, you reach one-handed and grab up all the money you see and almost forget the reciept, but as it's about a mile long you snag it as you go.

Actually, pinion isn't good word choice...since to pinion is to stab then pin something...

You leave through the automatic doors to the chorus of "THANK YOU, and have a nice day!" Something else about how cool it was you chose that particular store follows you to your car, where you dump your crap and drive the hell home.
...Where you see this mile long piece of paper on the counter. Bored, you read it, only to discover that the fucking machine charged you twice for the bread.

Whoa. This Korbinian is really sweet. This is odd.

So speaking of pints. When you go to a bar, and ask fer, say, a Bud longneck, you typically get the bottle, and maybe a glass or frosted mug on request (unless it's a good bar, in which case you get the frosty bottle next to a frosty mug so you can choose). Now when you order a Guiness, you get a pint glass hand-poured by the barkeep just so, with a big foamy head (again, if it's a good bar) which is how all beer oughta come. Of course, they make Guiness bottles tiny too, but god damn it, a pint is a pint, and that is what beer should be served in.

That is all.

PS: For those of you who drink 40s in a can, you dithguth'd me.

PPS: Gehen Deutsche Bier!

Z out.
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Excuse me while I let out a big ol' sigh: I have finally 'acquired' the taste for beer. God help me now.

Actually, I discovered Guiness Extra Stout, which puts the regular Guiness Ass Cream Draught to shame. I still hate all piss beers.

Sadly, something else on my beautiful truck broke; the latch on the driver's side door. I popped the panel and some little yellow clippy thing was broken and heat warped (I assume it had partially melted at some point, since the car is usually in a [slightly] cooler garage rather than full all-day sun). I called my mechanic and he said to bring her on over. In about five minutes he re-popped the panel, on went the new clip, and that was that. I've known this guy for years, and he's helped me and my baby through thick, thin, and thicker. All he asked for in payment was a hug. Aw, talk about a warm fuzzy. He's a real ol' softie, been workin on my car since I learned to drive. I guess he's a bit of a father figure at this point, seeing as how he's been the one to fix the car every time I bust her up. ;)

On another note, I went over to the local community college today, where I've been working on my Gen Eds for the Universtity. I'm sitting here with the counselor when she looks from my transcript to me, back to the paper, then back to me, and very puzzled says, "You know you coulda graduated back in May, right?"

My response: "...?"

Turns out all those creds I was amassing towards GenEd done and got me an Associates Degree. So I attended a two-year college fer three and some just to snag some credits and ended up with a degree, totally unintentionally.

It's been a purdy cool day.

I'm gonna go have a Guiness now.

Oh and P.S. to the Jball:
GLAD YER FEELIN' BETTER MAN!!!!
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I'm not much of a beer drinker. I think light beers are diluted piss and ales and lagers are undiluted piss. 'Dark' beers such as Bass and Fosters are a joke.

I don't especially care for liquers like Kaluha or Amaretto. I don't like Jack, I hate cognac, and I won't touch wine. Show me a Budweiser and I'll piss in a cup and drink that instead. Tequila shrivels my worm, and rum is sickly sweet.

The only thing thus far that I have tried, and enjoyed, is vodka. Room temperature, please--chilled vodka has no bite whatsoever, no burn--I may as well drink water. Give me a bottle of Stoli at seventy (wait, seventy is chilly, make it about seventy-four) degrees and I'm good to go. Gordon's is all right, if you're tight for cash, but then again so is rubbing alcohol. Smirnoff is good for those silly twist drinks they make--like good flavored soda plus alcohol, but as a straight vodka, it is found wanting. Stoli, however, is smooth but bites like a bitch, and burns wonderfully long. I can see Russians drinking this stuff bottle after bottle just to keep toasty.

Now Grey Goose is a vodka I'm dying to try, but unless I want to drink even more of my money, it's good ol' Stoli.

The only beer I can stomach would be Guiness, and I do have to allow that it has an absolutely great head, even if it tastes like ass cream. I don't think they come much darker than this, and the foamy head is simply wonderful.

Guiness still isn't dark enough.
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So ryuko_endo passed this survey thing on ta me. I believe them to be a waste of time, pointless, boring, and useless to all...Though back in the day I used to like doing them.

...It's good to know I haven't changed.


1. Total volume of game files on my computer:
'Scuse me while I bring up JDiskReport...Lessee, I gots me 80Gs to play around in,
of which around half that space (80/2=40) is taken up by games and programs.

2. Game playing right now:
Half Life: Source, which for those of you in a cave is the original Half-Life game
on the Source engine, which, sadly, means that there aren't many improvements,
the high-def models are gone, and it now sports pretty water.

3. The last video game I bought:
Grand Theft Auto San Andreas.

4. Video games I play a lot, or that mean a lot to me:
First, foremost and always: DooM. No, I don't mean Doom3. I mean DooM, as in the
grandfather of FPS games today. Secondly, Doom3. Then the Splinter Cell series.
Then Serious Sam. Unreal Tournament, as in UT 1999. Halo. Half-Life series.
GTA series. Riddick.

5. Five people to whom I'm passing the baton:
I do not pass batons. I'm antisocial.

Now if you'll excuse me, Barney owes me a beer.
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All right you ladies and gents. Let's get one thing straight. Dual means two simultaneously, whereas duel means a fight of some kind, high noon sun optional. Fer example: "Hey dude, check out my dual-barreled shotty!" Note how our enthusiastic individual explicates to his 'dude' that the pellet-firing weapon he holds in his hands has two side-by-side barrels. Here is his buddy's probable reply: "Dude, you're an idiot. It's a DOUBLE-barreled shotty. Dumbass."

Now for duel. Our little shining example of humanity again demonstrates: "Dude, I challenge you to a duel in which I will use my dua--ahem, double-barreled shotgun and smear your punkass all over that western facade!" His pal, being a western movie connoisseur, agrees, and as the hot noonday sun beats remorselessly down on their backs, they slowly step away from each other, fifty paces. They turn and regard each other, once friends, now bitter enemies. Sweat beads and rolls down gritty brows, wrinkled in deep hatred at a friendship gone so foul...And then our little guy draws his massive weapon and lets go with both barrels, the humongous BOOM shaking every saguaro to its very foundation for miles.

His pal, unscathed, sighs, draws his pistol, and pops him one in the head. Our little eediot falls to the ground, a smoking hole between his eyes, and his pal shakes his head ruefully. He walks up to the body, kneels, and gently places his hat over his dead friend's face.

"Idiot," he mutters. "Everyone knows that a shotgun's range goes to shit at thirty-two paces. Dumbass."

So if I happen to catch anyone doing something like this idiot 'pengwyn' from the Red vs Blue forums...

[ "They will all taste oblivion!... Which tastes just like Red Bull...Which is disgusting!" The Doc duel personality is brilliant, sheerly brilliant! ]

...I shall fall upon thee with my double-barrel shotty in your face and let go with both barrels. Clear?

Then again, that is strangely fitting...
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