Need Journalistic Integrity? I'm On The Case!

As all two of my readers know, the first year of college tends to be incredibly demanding. With introductory course, parties, and an endless amount of horny women, freshman year is quite a challenge. I, however, have transcended such petty obstacles and accomplished a task few have ever dare to try.
You see, many students fearfully steer clear of participating in the student newspaper, for fear that their incompetent writing skills will lead to embarrassment. And those that do scribe for student papers usually head straight to the editorials under the delusion that their opinions, well, matter. I, on the other hand, am completely different (Surely my opinions matter.) But when I signed up with the Old Gold and Black, I went straight for the jugular, where journalistic integrity really matters. I went for the sports.
Now, my overwhelming aptitude dictates that I should write for the biggest sports on campus, like rugby, cricket, and beer pong. However, our senior editor assigned me to report on the most menial of sports, like tennis. Not one to hold a grudge or act immaturely, I bit my lip and wrote the articles that my dickhole editor assigned. But one day (and the following events are completely true), instead of assign articles by e-mail as he usually does, he called me into his office. He told me to sit down and said in his commanding, 22-year-old voice, "Hey, fish. Your work's gettin' sloppy. I should ride your ass out of here on a pike, you sonuvagun. But I'm giving you one more chance. I'm givin' you the keys to a gold mine, so don't screw it up!" He handed me the assignment that is every journalist's wet dream. I was to report on my school's track meet; the Open Classic.
However, I could not foul this one up. As always, I had to remain at the top of my game. Therefore, I buttoned up my shirt, tied my shoes, and did all my research from my laptop (as all responsible journalists do) instead of walking across the street to where the meet was being held. However, the only difficulty greater than downloading PDF files was encapsulating an entire weekend of action on the track into 800 words. And to make matters worse, my 8:00 PM deadline was slowly approaching. But with integrity flowing through my journalist veins, I sent in the article only 14 hours late.
Still, my senior editor must have wet his pants when he finally read my masterpiece. How else can you explain his choice make it the lead article in the sports section that week. Of course, the title needed a change and 100 words needed to be loped off, but sacrifices must be made (like sacrificing a good lead article on a small event for a crappy lead article on a big event.)
Now, I'm not one to immediately accept fame (though you can find my amazing article and full name here), but my lead story as a freshman has earned me some notoreity. No more than two people came up to me and inquired about me writing for the newspaper. Even though the article was never mentioned, I assume they couldn't recall it out of jealousy.
I can also assume that this particular lead article will lead to even bigger and better assignments. As an important journalist, I will report, expose, and postulate on stories that will give me so much selfless glory that it would make Mother Theresa seem self-centered. In fact, just to fill you with anticipation, my next article will detail illegal immigration on the border between the United States and Canada. I will examine how the higher exchange rate for Canada causes them to come to our country and steal our jobs. But I will also expose inconsistent politicians that only support a wall between the United States and Mexico. If we must construct a wall between our land and Mexico, we must do the same for Canada. There are no differences between our neighbors, or their job-stealing citizens (except skin color).
So, if my dear readers ever need journalistic credibility, I'll be on the case. Give me an assignment, set a deadline, and I'll be sure to give you a half-assed written story that's at least four hours late. But at least it's right in my mind.

Oscars-Winning Films and Dow: What They Have in Common

As is my annual custom, I tuned into the Academy Awards last night because I want to be part of the self-congratulatory reach-around that Hollywood puts on every year. After ten years of watching the program, I now have a pretty objective view of show's quality. So for those of you who did not watch the ceremony last night, I will tell you how it went down. About fifteen minutes in, I called my brother (who was also watching) and simply told him "If Ellen DeGeneres doesn't get off the stage, I am going to stab myself."
However, my faith in life was restored when William Monahan and Michael Arndt won the only writing awards presented in the evening. As someone from Boston (like Monahan) who writes screenplays with uninspired premises (like Arndt), it gave hope that too may one day win a golden idol to worship.
But that was not the highlight of the evening. You see, the Oscars are like a second Super Bowl when it comes to commercials. These advertisements are enormous in scale and irrelevant to whatever they are selling. They're like mystery stories. For instance, three rabbits sit on a log. One of them goes home and hangs himself. Buy a bike!
One commercial, however, touched me in a way I have never been touched before (get your head out of the gutter). Suddenly, squeezed in between an insipid ad for Budweiser and a banal Coke spot, sweeping landscapes and beautiful images flew by as the bittersweet "New Harmony Waltz" played in the background. And then, an appeal to humanity, and a mention how we as humans illuminate this wonderful planet. At this point, I don't know what the hell this company is selling, and I don't care! Finally, after a good mind-numbing minute of visual and musical beauty, we finally learn who is responsible for the sweeping epic of a commercial; Dow.
That's it. Dow. After coming back to my senses, I decided to find out what exactly it is that this Dow does. After a quick trip to Wikipedia, I found out the truth. Apparently, Dow does human catastrophe.
The first half of the Wikipedia article was chalk full of happy news. You see, Dow is currently the second largest chemical producer on the planet Earth, and its stock has been hot enough for 100 years to have the American Industrial Stock exchange to be named after it. Chemicals, capitalism, America, it's all good. Then we hit the second half, and things turned sour. Apparently, Dow was the top provider of napalm and Agent Orange to the United States military during the Vietnam War. And the adverse results of those two chemicals weapons still affect Vietnam today. Then they owned a Union-Carbine plant in India that, in 1984, let off toxic gases into heavily populated city of Bhopal. And the effects of those poisonous gases still harm the people of India today. Then they...well, let's just say that Dow doesn't exactly have a pleasant history.
But ironically enough, all this talk of Dow violating human rights led me back to one place. Yes, that beautiful commercial, which can be seen here on YouTube. Clearly, Dow is attempting to cover up its troubled past with inspirationally shallow advertising. However, what director would lower himself to actually concealing corporate greed with such a cheesy commercial? And what's even worse, what director would do it so flawlessly?
But then I returned to the Oscars, where the nominees aren't exactly beacons of light. For instance, the ending to the Best Picture winner is basically a poor man's Hamlet. The front-runner prior the ceremony showed an American tourist getting shot, a Mexican immigrant and children almost dying in the desert, that same Mexican immigrant being unfairly returned to Mexico, and a deaf, Japanese girl (sans panties) basically offering herself up to anything that moves. And the sentimental favorite coming in to this year's Oscars featured a foul-mouthed Grandfather, a gay Proust scholar, a boy's dream being crushed, and that same Grandpa being squeezed into the back of the van. Oh, if you don't want to hear spoilers, don't read the previous sentence.
After a lot of thought, I came to one conclusion; film needs evil. How else will movies generate conflict? All conflict revolves around a battle between good and evil. And despite their unflattering subject matters, The Departed, Babel, and Little Miss Sunshine are all fine films that greatly enhance the medium. And if Dow didn't commit these terrible atrocities, then that beautiful commercial would have no need to exist. Actually, scratch that. Dow is just evil incarnate in corporation form that should be taken down in every way possible. However, the "New Harmony Waltz" and the director of that commercial can stay.

The Second Annual Tellie Awards

Sadly, I'm not looking forward to handing out my Tellie Awards this year. Every year, I attempt to highlight incredible films that the critics love, audiences ignore, and I wet my pants over. However, the nominees this year may resemble the possible winners for another overly self-congratulatory, figurative reach-around of an award show (hint: look up the Oscar nominees). But whereas the winners of those awards are already forgone conclusions, you may be surprised by this year's Tellie Award recepients. So get your hopes up. Way up. Because they are going to fall faster than Britney Spears' sanity:
Best Documentary of 2006:
Block Party
Jesus Camp

And the winner is...Block Party! Even though the message board for Jesus Camp on the Internet Movie Database gives me plenty of opportunities to disprove cowardly atheists, Block Party was the most fun I've had in a movie theater all year. However, it's a documentary, and it probably wouldn't win Best Picture. But I just had to give it something.

Worst Excuse for a Documentary of the Year Nominees:
The Root of All Evil?

And the winner is...I mean, the loss goes to "The Root of All Evil?", a weak attempt at showing how religion has caused every violent conflict on Earth. Yes, every single one. They couldn't even get it into theaters, it's so bad. And you don't have to see it to detest the documentary as much as I do. All you have to know is that prominently features Richard Dawkins, whose smug existence is reason enough to dislike anything.

Most Disappointing Waste of $10 This Summer:
The DaVinci Code
Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest
Poseidon
Superman Returns
X-Men III: The Last Stand

And the loser is...Poseidon. Devoid of all emotion, spark, or even imagination, this waste of $16 (yes, my brothers just had to see it in IMAX) had me sticking a spoon up my ass, just so I could feel something (or to distract myself from the pain.) I think I had a harder time sitting through this piece of garbage than the "characters" had getting through that ship.

Now, you're probably not asking yourselves, "What will this year's two losers receive now that you've designed such an immaculate trophy for these awards?" Well, the trophy does feature a bucket (very clever, I know), and for the winners, it will be filled with chocolate. And for the losers, it will be filled with another brown, gooey substance, only less delicious.

Sickest Screenplay of the Year Nominees:
Michael Arndt (Little Miss Sunshine)
Todd Field and Tom Perotta (Little Children)
Zach Helm (Stranger than Fiction)
William Monahan (The Departed)
Jason Reitman (Thank You for Smoking)

And the winner is...Jason Reitman, Thank You for Smoking! Even though Michael Arndt probably deserves the award just as much it since took five years to make Little Miss Sunshine, it took Reitman ten to make Thank You for Smoking. And he directed too. Sorry, Mikey.

Super-rific Supporting Actress of the Year Nominees:
Amy Adams (Talledaga Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby)
Adriana Barraza (Babel)
Maria Bello (Thank You for Smoking)
Abigail Breslin (Little Miss Sunshine)
Jodie Foster (Inside Man)

And the winner is...Abigail Breslin, Little Miss Sunshine! In this movie, Breslin has to be precocious, subtle, confused, teary, and elated all at the same time. And she does it all. Superbly.

Super-rific Supporting Actor of the Year Nominees:
Alan Arkin (Little Miss Sunshine)
Steve Carell (Little Miss Sunshine)
Kazunari Ninomiya (Letters from Iwo Jima)
Michael Sheen (The Queen)
Mark Wahlberg (The Departed)

And the winner is...Michael Sheen, The Queen! It's hard enough to portray a historical figure (let alone a living one), but Sheen does an excellent job of portraying and looking like Tony Blair. He also has the memorable moment in cinema this year (and no, Pathé Pictures did not tell me to say that, but I am expecting a check).

Lucious Leading Lady of the Year Nominees:
Debbie Doebereiner (Bubble)
Maggie Gyllenhaal (Stranger than Fiction)
Helen Mirren (The Queen)
Amy Sedaris (Strangers With Candy)
Kate Winslet (Little Children)

And the winner is...Debbie Doebereiner, Bubble! Even though it's out of the tradition of the title "lucious", Debbie gives the most heartbreaking performence this year. And Helen Mirren has enough awards in her arms. It's tough not to give it to her, but I remind myself that she was in Teaching Ms. Tingle and Shadowboxer and Raising Helen and...

Pimpin' Male Performance of the Year Nominees:
Sacha Baron Cohen (Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan)
Aaron Eckhart (Thank You for Smoking)
Ken Watanabe (Letters from Iwo Jima)
Forest Whitaker (The Last King of Scotland)
Patrick Wilson (Little Children)

And the winner is...Forest Whitaker, The Last King of Scotland! Okay, his performance is really worthy of all the awards. He didn't have crazy Southerns to feed off of. Sorry, Sacha (jeez, I'm giving out more apologies than awards).

Best Director of the Year Nominees:
Jonathan Dayton & Valerie Faris (Little Miss Sunshine)
Kevin MacDonald (The Last King of Scotland)
Jason Reitman (Thank You for Smoking)
Martin Scorsese (The Departed)
Steven Soderbergh (Bubble)

And the winner is...Steven Soderbergh, Bubble! He made that movie feel more like real life than real life itself. That's how good this guy is.

Are you disappointed yet? Good, because here comes the...
Best Picture of 2006 Nominees:
Bubble
The Departed
Letters from Iwo Jima
Little Miss Sunshine
Thank You for Smoking

And the winner is...Thank You for Smoking! Interesting, another overlooked and underrated gem that people passed on has won the Tellie Award for Best Picture. I'm beginning to sense a pattern. This solid, politically incorrect slice of satire just beat out Little Miss Sunshine and Bubble, but I implore you to see all three films. I dub them the "Trilogy of 2006", and I will release a special edition pack of all three DVDs (because I need some dough). Go check them out. They're cool.

My Orange Bowl Experience

Since my little website has deteriorated into me detailing every little meaningless minutia of my day, I've decided to describe my experience at the 2007 FedEx Orange Bowl in Miami, Florida. And yes, it is absolutely necessary that I label every corporate sponsor I ran into during the night (seriously, would it feel like college football without the sponsorships.) First, let me start by getting your hopes up to astronomical heights. This particular post is slated to be my most ambitious (and best) yet. It will be an unholy amagamation on word, image, and yes, video.
Are you beyond excited at this point? Good. You now feel the same hopeless excitement and anticipation that I felt coming into my wet dream; rooting for my team in a big-time, college football bowl game.
Now that I got your hopes up, I must warn you; this is close to the best it's going to get. Even though this post brings words, pictures, and videos to the table, my inability to form a proper sentence will probably dampen this experience. I felt the same sinking feeling as I entered Miami on that fateful January day. Even though I was beyond frenzied to see Wake make as far as the Orange Bowl, I knew they had a virgin's chance in Vegas to pull this one out. Still, a very same part of me held out hope that miraculously find a way to the be victors, as they had done all year.
The evening started out crappily enough as a torrential downpour struck Florida just as we were leaving for Dolphins Stadium (which amazingly doesn't have any kind of naming rights..yet.) But my small accomplishments during the commute gave me a sense of hope that good things were to come on this particular evening. Not only had I maneuvered the car from the passenger's seat while my father ate his Chilupa (available nationwide at all Taco Bell locations), but I had also successfully navigated us to the stadium by way of the Florida Turnpike. This was quite an accomplishment of the directionally challenged like myself.
However, once we parked in the Toyoto Parking Zone and got out of the car, my father, two brothers, and I were completely flabbergasted. Whatever impressions they had of me being a big college football fan went out the window, as every tailgating fan we encountered was screaming his or her head off and blowing at least a .1 on the breathalizer. Unfortunately for us, most of these fans were wearing red, spoke like true backwater, imbred hicks, and struggled to spell "C-A-R-D-S" correctly. Not only do Louisville fans have the worst cheer in all of college football, but they display the worst tact of any fans as well. They not only chanted "beat Wake Forest high school" ad nauseum, but they also made (and in another sign of brilliance, bought) shirts stating "Beat Wake". They might as well said "We're Goliath, Beat David" on them. At this point, even though I knew that the Deacons were going to get their heads beaten in, nothing would make me happier than to see my team down these clowns.
My contempt for Louisville fans disappeared when we entered the stadium, and my eyes fell upon one of the most beautiful sights that they have ever seen:

We took our seats up in the nosebleeds, and then experienced the most terrifying jet flyover in the history of aviation. After those F-18s put on the afterburners about 15 feet above the stadium, the pants of every fan in the stadium became wet (and it wasn't from the rain).
In retrospect, the first half was somewhat of a snooze. After a scoreless first quarter, sophomore kicker/Heisman candidate Sam Swank notched a field goal to give Wake the early lead. But late in the first half, following a Louisville field goal, the Cards scored on some kind of illegal play where wide receiver Patrick Carter (trick plays are reserved for the underdogs!) to give Louisville a 10-3 lead going into halftime.
My happiness soon turned to sorrow when the halftime "entertainment" was provided by none other than Taylor Hicks. It's not a good sign for the "talent" on American Idol when I can sing better than last season's winner (my demo tape's coming out soon). Then Patty Labelle came on, which would be more exciting if I was thirty years older and could name one of her songs, but her presence upgraded the halftime show's status to tragedy.
But my sadness after the concert only made the second half that much more enjoyable. The Deacons came out of the locker room with their guns drawn as they pounded the Louisville offense on their first two offensive drives:

Then, at the eleven-minute mark of the third quarter, Wake's freshman quarterback and resident god Riley Skinner hit senior wide receiver Nate Morton on a 30-yard touchdown strike to tie the game up at 10-10. At this point, I was screaming as loud as the tailgaters we saw earlier (and I was sober). So you can imagine my excitement when Swank knocked home this field goal to give Wake Forest a fourth quarter lead:

I've never felt so overjoyed and flabbergasted at the same time. Many college football analysts didn't think that Wake would compete, much less take a lead into the fourth quarter. They might pull this off
But from this point, the game turned so sour it should've been called the Lemon Bowl. As all the great teams do, Louisville turned it on when they needed to and drove down the field with robotic precision, scoring on a one-yard run to take the 17-14 lead. After another Demon Deacon punt, the Cards again moved down the field methodically for another touchdown, giving them a 11-point lead with only five minutes to play.
Despite these two deflating drives, I still held out hope. Heck, everyone saw what Boise State did the night before. Why couldn't Wake Forest work the magic that they had all season long? But on the first play of the drive, Skinner was sacked back at the 13-yard-line. While others headed for the exits, I stood cheering. Then Skinner completed a pass of eight yards. Then 26 yards. Then 17. Then four. They were going to do it! For a briefest of moments, it seemed that the Deacons were on the comeback train. But then, this happened:
The William Gay interception sealed up two things; a victory for Louisville, and my heart from ever loving anything again.
On the long walk back to the car, I slowly began to collect myself. The loss had unleashed something that I hadn't felt in a long time; sentimentality. It didn't matter than the refs blew two fumble calls that went against Wake. It didn't matter than God should've sided with my Deacons. They showed up, tried their best, and lost. But you know what, real losers are so afraid of not winning that they don't even try. The Demon Deacons weren't supposed to win this season. But they tried anyway, and as it turned out, they ended up winners. I'd like to think I did the same thing when I tried to encapsulate my entire Orange Bowl experience for you in this post. I might have failed, but hell, at least I tried.

On Being Named Time's Person of the Year

All I can say is; it's about damn time.
Time Magazine's annual Person of the Year Award is usually given to the person, group, or thing that has defined the greatest number of lives throughout the year (how else do you explain George W. Bush winning this award three times). So imagine the agony Time must of felt when their candidates for this year's award included only members of the two stupidest groups of people on planet Earth; celebrities (who had either given birth or adopted a baby) and politicians (who were probably exposed for their perverted practices).
Fortunately for Time, I was there to warrant major consideration for this award, not because I graduated high school, passed my first semester of college, and wrote a feature-length screenplay all in the last twelve months, but because my website has contributed to the growth and perpetuation of the Information Age.
Now, I know what all five of you readers are thinking. How could the commentary on my simple little website define 2006? Well, allow me to refresh your memory.
Firstly, the world wide web enabled me to affect and change many of the people and events that defined 2006. For instance, who was able to set more trends than MTV this year? And after I ripped that bitch, Ann Coulter, a new one, guess who's book fell from #1 on the New York Times Best Sellers List? And guess which university's football team lost three straight games following my denouncement of Liberty University? And how has the state of Kansas been able to legislate the teaching of intelligent design even into the year 2007? As usual, you may not have noticed my greatness or how my website has affected these events throughout 2006, but thankfully, Time Magazine has.
Even though I would normally take the all the credit for this award, I credit the readers for helping me win. Without them, I would have to rely on my narcissism to keep this site going. Thank you, everyone. All five of you are the real winners this year. Although I've already posted Time's official Person of the Year cover, I created a cover especially for you. You deserve it, maybe not as much as I do, but still, enjoy it while I allow you to.

It's A Celebration!

It's snowing in Winston-Salem and it smells like oranges. It must be Christmas.
*Note: we were celebrating Wake Forest winning the ACC football championship and advancing to the Orange Bowl. If you couldn't tell from this picture, it was kind of unexpected.

MySeLf aNd My ArTwOrK: VisuAl GenIus aNd importAnt coMmENtary

Fourteen weeks ago, I was simple-minded fool (like yourselves) just out of high school, low on college credits, and high on stress. In my seemingly futile attempt to pick classes, I stumbled upon a course entitled Digital Art 114. I reminded my self-serving self that I would have to eventually take an art class anyway (because of this supposed "liberal arts" curriculum) and it did fulfill a film studies minor requirement (as if it could bring credit to my already incredible films), so I decided to take it. After fourteen weeks, I discovered that I am the greatest artist who ever lived.
Go ahead. Click on my profile, enter the exhibition, and gaze at the truly amazing work that I've brought to life. You may notice the brilliant title of the show, "Art-tastic". If you need any more proof that I'm a magnificent word-smith, you'll notice that I removed the "fan" out of "fantastic" because my collection will already make enough fans out of the people who see it. I thought it was redundant to have another "fan". But you could've figured that out on your own, right? Didn't think so.
You'll also notice that I didn't write out explanations for the brilliant commentary that each piece provides. I will eventually since most of my readers are too eternally clueless to understand the inner workings of an artist's mind, but for now, my teacher has to grade and be astounded by my awesome work. Therefore, the site for my exhibition must remain simple and banal. An "A" still wouldn't do me justice.
The composition of each piece is so striking that you'll be bashing your heads against the wall wondering what medium I used. Oil-based? Water colors? Crayons? Wrong again. Of course, I used Adobe Photoshop and Adobe Illustrator to give life to every one of my babies. Now, you'd assume that using a computer program would make creating an image easier. But once again, you'd be wrong. You think you can click "new layer" and start over? You think you can just open up the edit file and click "undo?" You think you can just press "p" for "picture" and come up with a masterpiece? Don't make me giggle.
So if you'd like to be blown any, just visit the "Art-tastic" exhibition in my profile. But if your mind is too weak to handle my genius (which is probably the case), then go back to your finger-painting and soup cans and leave us real artists to wallow in their own vaginas. Thank you.

Good Times and Math? Only at College

I usually don't write on a whim, so please excuse the poor quality of this post.

My website targets an audience of 18-22 year olds in college Coincidentally enough, both of my readers fall into that demographic.
Since I'm fortunate enough to get so much feedback from them, I often hear how great a time that they have had in their nine-week-old college experience. They even have the gall to say that no one could be having a better time than them. Well, I'm here to say that they are liars.
I have statistically proven that my brief college experience has been the greatest college experience had by any student at any institute of higher education ever (whew). Just think of the over 15,000 students who graduated from a Ohio State University last year. I have had a better time in college than all of them combined. Just image the the thousands of graduates that attended Harvard in its 370-year-old history. My great experience would put theirs to Ted Haggert shame (You didn't even need scientific proof to know that).
But since we are now a society based on concrete evidence (now that the Democrats have the House and Senate) I have conceived a simple mathematically formula that will definitely prove that my good times in college have far exceeded that of any else (ever). Granted, I haven't even taken a math class in six months, so you may call this math fuzzy, but I prefer to call it cute. Now, everyone, direct your attention to the board and be quiet!

Lim x = [(G+N) + S - (Tp - H)]x

First, don't even attempt to write a proof for this equations. Proofs suck. We begin to conceptualize this formula as a limit to 100, and the closer that limit is to 100, the better college experience you have. Second, we add the your current grade point average with the number of impossibly awesome teachers that you have. These variables are labeled "G" and "N". Next, we add the current number of credits that you have for second semester. This variable is labeled "S". We then subtract the number of financial holds that one may have during their four years in college by the number of times that one toilet papers the campus. We label these variables "H" and "Tp" respectively. Finally, this formula is then grouped into an orientation that conveniences me the most.
Now that I have but you to sleep, it's time to apply my own variables to this formula. Since my GPA is a remarkably low 3.1, and my number of great teachers is a remarkably high 6, this first group adds up to 9.1.
Now, other students may have not registered for second semester class, but they should be grateful. Since the first three classes I registered for miraculously conflicted with every, and I mean every, other class scheduled for the second half of the year, I have only 7 hours of credit. But to counteract the my impossibly remarkable inability to register for classes, I have been fortunate enough to TP the campus four times and to face only one financial hold.
But wait, I forgot the all important variable "x". Now, for me, it could be infinity, or the number of hours I have spent in the computer lab doing art. But instead, the variable "x" is the ultimate definition of how great one's college experience can be: the number of wins your college's football team currently has. For me, this equals an unexpected NINE.
So, let's compile these numbers and see how great my college experience has been so far:

Lim x-->9 [(3.1+6) + 7 - (4-1)] 9. Lim = 99.9

My nine week college experience is one-tenth away from being perfect. I suppose that could small number could be added with my completion of Digital Art I. So remember, proofs suck, and if you come across anyone who is bold enough to claim that they had the best time in college, you get in their face and them a bald-faced liar. They haven't mathematically proven that how good their times were, like I have. Man I'm great.

George W. Bush is the greatest president who ever lived. Ever.

I'm serious. Few appreciate how great a president George Walker Bush is. And even more amazing is the manner in which he has established his greatness as the leader of the free world; starting and failing to end an impossible-to-win war, increasing the national deficit, mutilating the English language every time he opens his mouth. Sure, some presidents take the easy way out in becoming great leaders by doing what what's logical and what everybody wants. But like a person into leather, chains, and gag balls, G.W.B likes things the hard way.
Now, I must admit, I make these claims with a tiny shred of bias. But before Democrats can say "he's a hick, let's smoke some pot", or even Republicans can say "then he's a hippy, to the big business-mobile", my favoritism for Dubbya falls far beyond the normal headache-inducing, ED-causing political rhetoric. No, my bias for Bush begins with my love for defending the defenseless and giving a voice to those who either can't speak English or can't speak it that well, like the sweat shop owner, or the baby seal clubber, or good ol' Dubbya himself. Of course, if you could say that if I truly wanted to help the disenfranchised, I would defend the various peoples being suppressed by greedy corporations or oppressive governments. Unfortunately, I can't, since I don't have a documentary film crew following me at all times...yet.
I also connect to Bush on a human level. At times, it doesn't feel as though George is president of the United States. Instead, he's like the president of the AV club, or the chess team, or any other position of leadership that is just asking for scrutiny and insults. I've calculated that in six years, Dubbya has taken more flack than Hitler, Stalin, and Castro combined. I came to this conclusion after realizing that although all three of those men are more despicable than Bush, none of them were as stupid. Therefore, Bush not only takes criticism for historians and everyday people, but he also takes shit from the scum of the Earth; wannabe stand-up comedians who can't find good material even if it bit them in the ass.
But all biases aside, I believe George W. Bush is the greatest president ever because has passed the most important piece of legislation in the history of United States. It's called Murphy's Law.
As you already know, Murphy's Law states that anything that possibly can go wrong, will. For a self-proclaimed Christian, I can't conceive how God could have screwed Bush more. In one and a half terms, his administration has faced the worse tragedy in our nation's history, one of the most complicated and difficult wars we've fought in our nation's history, and one of the most destructive hurricanes to cross the continent in our nation's history. I don't care if you have one or more brain cells or gubernatorial brothers that got you into the White House, no one deserves to be held responsible for that many unforeseeable disasters.
However, if you do hold Bush accountable for all those misfortunes, then look no further than the second interpretation of Murphy's Law, which states that things will go wrong if you let them. Now, if you look past the bad intelligence that got us into an unnecessary war, or the failed attempts to prevent environmental harm that could've caused a stronger hurricane season, or the unnecessary tax cuts that ran up the nation's deficit and prevented the funding of our troops overseas and the reconstruction effort in New Orleans, then these catastrophes aren't exactly Bush's fault. But since people can't look beyond these menial oversights, the president must be held accountable. But I'm glad that so many do hold Bush responsible for these disasters because it sets a precedent for future presidents to never fuck up. For if even the slightest thing goes wrong and "The Daily Show" picks up on it, then the American people will blame the president whether it's his fault or not (notice how I didn't include the word "her" beside "him").
Therefore, I predict that when my children sit in their history classes, reading over their text book material on their Blackberries, and look back on George W. Bush's presidency, they won't see the negativity swirling around 9/11, the war in Iraq, and Hurricane Katrina. Instead, they will see the positive outcomes that emerged from Bush's passing of Murphy's Law. And if my kids do see that negativity in their textbooks, then it's home school for them (Stupid biased, revisionist historians. I hate those bastards so much).

Irony U.

Now, I'm not going to publicly announce where I attend college over a webpage for all the world to see (instead I just reveal my hometown back in Massachusetts so if others look for me, they'll pester my parents instead). However, I will offer readers one gargantuan hint; my school just defeated Liberty University, otherwise known as Jerry Falwell U., in football, 34-14. Although a lot of overly optimistic and probably pre-menstrual people will say that notching a 20-point victory over any adversary is reason to celebrate, in my five weeks here, I've never been more embarassed for my school. Any victory over Falwell U. by a margin less than 50 points should be considered a disappointment. Our football team has a tendency to play down to its opponent (observe the 14-13 win over Duke in which we needed to block a last-second field goal for proof), and winning by 20 is about as far down to this opponent as our team could play. Simply put, Liberty University football is just like a high school football, except worse.
That's why accepting a 20-point victory feels so dissatisfying. It's not just the football team that our school should defeat, but the entire university in principle. For upon founding his school on Christian ideals in 1971, Jerry Falwell named it after a cornerstone characteristic of our great nation;" liberty". With a name like "Liberty", the school should not be located in Lynchburg, Virginia, but right in the middle of Irony, USA. Here is a list of the restrictions at a university named after freedom:

• Single students who are under the age of 21 are required to live in residence halls.
• Student participation in on-campus demonstrations, petitions, or picketing is prohibited unless approved by Liberty University administration.
• Distribution of literature in residence halls requires written approval from the Residence Life office.
• Penalty for the viewing of movies rated "R", "NC-17", or "X" are a reprimandable offense.
• The playing of video games that are rated “A” and “RP” (Note: "RP" means "rating pending", or not yet rated) is not permitted and a reprimandable offense. Any “M” -rated games with descriptors indicating any sexual content, alcohol/drug content, or strong language are not permitted.
• Music that is offensive (i.e., lewd lyrics, anti-Christian messages, etc.) to Liberty's Christian stand is not permitted.
• Students should not sled on University property.
• The University institutes an on-going program of mandatory random drug testing for students.

• The railroad tracks adjacent to the campus must be crossed only during designated times and at the designated crossing.
• If a student finds him/herself or another student in crisis and/or experiencing suicidal thoughts and desire immediate counseling, I should contact my Resident Assistant (RA), Resident Director (RD), Dean (Dean of Women/Men) or Liberty University Police Department (LUPD) personally or by phone.

Okay, I included the last two restrictions just for fun. I mean, where else would you find an administration ignorant enough to include rules on crossing railroad tracks in the code of conduct for college students? And I am pleased to see that they included some regulations on suicide prevention. After reading these rules, what student wouldn't want to kill him/herself?
Now, by no means do I want to sound like I endorse playing "M"-rated video games, listening to offensive music, or doing other debaucherous activities when I point out the absurdity of these restrictions. However, the strict regulations at this Christian-based university violates a fundimental pillar of Christianity; free will. That's why the all powerful God doesn't force us to love Him. He would rather have people who love Him under their own volition and sinners in the world than be worshiped by a bunch of zombies. Therefore, rules that follow Christian ideals should be encouraged, not enforced. Free will guarantees that people follow God's ways under their own personal accord and not under the influence of contradictory douche bags.
Congratulations, Mr. Falwell. You and your university are a discredit to Christianity.

Stuck in the Hot Hot Heat Vol. 3: There's a reason it ends in "double hockey sticks"

If you need any indication of how boring the second half of my summer was, I would refer you to C-SPAN. However, since I would never subject anyone to that kind of pain, I will describe the summer dullness in one, singular action: I decided to sacrifice a week of my freedom to be a counselor at a Christian Hockey Camp. Now on paper, this week was shaping up to be seven days of heaven. You've got Christianity (good), Hockey (great), and camp (awesome). However, it just didn't add up. What was heaven for the kids ended up being hell for me. Or as the nine-year-olds said, "h-e-double hockey sticks".
Every boy and girl attending the camp that week was randomly assigned to a group of six or seven, led by a single counselor. Members of the staff saw the random groupings as an appointment from God. Apparently, I had a lot of sins to pay for (and still do). Six eleven-year-olds were placed in my possesion for an entire week. I know what you're thinking, and I too thought to myself, "how can anything go wrong?" But as I quickly discovered, there is only so much you can expect from a group of pre-teens. Did I expect them to always listen? No. But when they are put in a situation where they are forced to be in constant contact with one another, can't they just be nice to one another? Is that too much to ask?
Needless to say, members of my group got along like Israelites and Hezbullah, or Scots and everyone else. My group was divided between four little punks and two little nerds. Still, the four young hellions touched my heart. They were the kind of adorable little misfits that you wanted to pat on the head and kick in the ass every now and again. Either way, these boys were four red-blooded, All-American kids, even the one from Ontario. On the opposite end of the coolness spectrum was Kevin and Cody. God bless them. The moment I saw them unpack their Pokemon cards and Yu-Gi-Oh pillows (five words I never thought I would have to use on this site), I knew these boys were in trouble. And the icing on this anthrax-laced cake, this week was the first time they were ever away from home. Perfect.
In retrospect, Cody wasn't that bad. The worse he could ever do was stare at me with his soulless eyes in a futile attempt to get a rise out of me. But then, there was Kevin. Now I now I am going to sound harsh in my description of this child of God, but believe, he (and his parents) have it coming. He was six going on eleven. He seemed so sheltered that I think Jake Gyllenhaal in Bubble Boy had it better. To insult this kid wasn't like hitting the broad side of a barn. It was like hitting the broad side of the Pentagon, or Great Wall of China. So this group of four, like a pack of wild dogs, pounched on Kevin every chance that they could. And to make matters worse, Kevin would try to defend himself after every jab, making him even more sceptable to put-downs. However, some funny moments did arise when Kevin had his mental lapses. For instance, when Kevin would break a rule, like wander away from the group, I would say would always say in my incredulous tone of voice, "Kevin, you're wandering away from the group". And without fail, Kevin would respond with an annoyed "I know". He just couldn't make that cognitive leap into realizing that he was doing something wrong. But as much as Kevin unintentionally induced headaches, he did tug at my heart-strings. As I stated earlier, this week represented the first time he was ever away from home, so obviously, he would fall apart and act like he watching the end of "Patch Adams" every time he thought of his family. Now of course, I fell to pieces whenever he cried. Anyone would. But even you sympathized with him the most, he opened himself to even more insults. Whenever he cried, he would stick out his tongue like he had tabasco sauce on it. Every night, I prayed that Kevin would one day survive high school.
From what I've said of Kevin and Cody, imagine what eleven-year-olds would do to them? Now, try eleven-year-old hockey players. I know that kids will poke and jab at one another from time to time, but there came a point in the week where I had to separate Kevin and Cody from the rest of the group. Seeing them being taunted just became harder for me than it did for them. But, surprisingly enough, everyone seemed happier because of it, proving that segregation (whether it be in the United States or South Africa) wasn't just enforced by the ignorant, but by pussies like me who just want to avoid conflict.
However, on Thursday night, those four little hoodlums realized that I had less to punish them with, now that week was almost over. Therefore, they tested their luck against me. They started throwing things at Kevin and Cody, and the insults only worsened. At that time, there was only one way I could lay the hammer down on them, and that was taking away their snack bar privileges. When it came time for the four boys to drown in a sea of artificial sugar, I pulled a Lee Corso and said "not so fast my friends". The boys squirmed and pleaded with me to give them go to the snack bar (it was two-for-one day, and they were treating pushpops like crack at this point in the week). I wasn't going to budge, but then, a miraculous thing happened. And if you ever needed proof that God exists, here it is. A little voice cried out "C'mon, Greg. Let them go." It was Kevin. For all the crap he took from these guys earlier in the week, he was still willing to stick you for them. My heart just melted. I let the boys go to the snack bar, and in gratitude for Kevin's courtesy, the boys gave Kevin some of their candy. Perfect.
Now, this would be a fitting end to any story. But no. In a Spielbergian twist (that's movie-geek lingo for not knowing how to end a story. See AI and Munich for proof) , Kevin's father visited Thursday night. Yes, Kevin's homesickness became so bad that he invited his father down from New Hampshire to attend a Chapel service. Interestingly enough, his father was more than willing to comply. I started to smell fish (which, along with the pungent scent of hockey equipement, isn't too good for the nose). And since it was Thursday night, Kevin's father witnessed some of the razing his son had suffered. On Friday, when parents had to choose whether or not to pick up their degenerate kids, he became so outraged by this taunting, he went straight to the camp director and called this a case of "bullying". Now, I know I've made this situation seem bad, but I'm guessing that this week was worse for me than it was for Kevin. Still, the father demanded that the boys apologize to his son and that their parents know that their children were "bullies". "Hmm," I said to myself "let's analyze the situation.":

A sheltered child being picked on by kids who don't know any better / A parent overstating the severity of a situation.

Unlike Kevin, it didn't take me long to put two and two together. As it turns out, the camp director and I agreed that the father was exaggerating the situation just a tad, and every boy in my group said they had a wonderful week. In fact, one of the boys ended up apologizing to Kevin anyway. So, each one of my boys left camp with smiles on their faces and God in their hearts.
But that was far from the best part of the week. Did you forget this was a Christian Hockey Camp? I was blessed enough to be an on-ice instructor during this week, and after every ice session, my fellow counselors and I would play around after all the kids left the ice. At one point, while I was dicking around the puck, I went one on one with the goalie coach. Now, he had full padding on and was a little rickety in the joints, but he could still get around to stop a puck or two. So, while I was contemplating what to do on this breakaway, I put my faith in God's miraculous ways. As I came in on net, I shifted to my back hand, then twisted. When the puck was on my stick and completly behind my back, I flicked my wrists. The goalie went down for the save. The puck came in, deflected off of the inside of his pad, through the five-hole, and into the net. In a display of skill that I usually don't, or in some cases, never have, I shot the puck from behind my back to score a goal. For me, it was further confirmation that God exists, and He is good.

Here's to one year...

On August 9th, 2005, a completely insignificant event on this planet Earth brought a tiny sense purpose to one young man. My website (again, I will not use that other, uglier word) has been rolling along for exactly one year now. Reading over some of my older articles, I was surprised that I actually made myself laugh, so you dickholes should be thankful that I provided you with a year's worth of entertainment. I don't quite know how to celebrate, so I'll down a six-pack of Heineken in reverence. And yes, I prefer to drink an imported beer, and admitting it already makes me more of a man than most people. And now, as I raise another bottle, now that I am completely sauced, I can say, "Here's to another year, you...eh, I got nothing. Thanks for reading."

Stuck in the Hot Hot Heat Vol. 2: Surviving Gay Day

The Irish have March 17th, trees have April 27th, and now gay people have June 26th. It may not be official, but to me, the last Monday of every June will forever be known as Gay Day. Now, as a teenage male, I usually get bombarded with homosexuality on a daily basis, but on this day, it seemed particularly unbearable. The progressive half of my mind took a beating for twelve hours. And if you don't believe the sudden barrage of gayness against heterosexuals, just look at the alleged cases of heterophobia in Provincetown, Massachusetts. The overwhelming gay population taunts the town's straight citizens as "breeders" and attacked the people who signed a petition in favor of banning gay marriage. Now, it's not as if I'm in favor of constitutionally prohibiting civil liberties, but publishing the names on a petition that you oppose is probably a little bit lower than where gay activists intend to aim.
Anyway, the assault began when I boarded the subway for Boston and picked up a copy of the world's biggest piece of gay propaganda in circulation: the Metro. This miniature version of the Boston Globe usually has some kind of gay news to report just to catch the reader's eye. I took the bait when I spotted an article about the gay pride parade that took place in San Francisco on the previous day. Like most news stories, I dismissed it and continued reading. However, when I reached the Arts section, things started to get a little weird, or in this case, queer. Half of the section (which usually occupies a quarter of the entire paper) was devoted to gay literature, including reviews and (brace yourselves) pictures. Now I typically don't judge a book by its cover, but some of these novels bordered on pornographic and just begged for an obscenity charge. Like the idiot that I am, I proceeded to read some of the reviews. Although only one book was pictured, its title and synopsis have since been seared into my brain forever. Surf 'N Turf was the name, and the plot went a little something like this:

The story is basically the movie Mean Girls transported to a beach-side community, where two rival gay factions, the "queenies" and the "meanies", do battle.

Yes, I too fell out of my chair doubled over in laughter when I read that, even on the disgusting, subway car floor.
When I got off the train, the first vehicle that passed on the street was from the Duck Tours, which are a common site on Boston streets. I have no idea how to classify their amphibious vehicles, so I just call them "automo-boats". Again, seeing these automo-boats is an ordinary occurence, but this particular one had a great big rainbow pattern on its side. Now, my mind doesn't usually rush to certain conclusions, but today just had to be special.
At this point, you may be asking why this gayness has surrounded on me on this particular day. You may also be asking why I was on the subway. I'll respond to both of those questions with a single answer: I went into town for a book signing of The Alphabet of Manliness, authored by none other than the great Maddox. For those of you who do not know Maddox, do us all a favor and punch yourself in the nuts (or ovaries as the case may be). He is an incredibly talented (and vulgar) satirical writer, the creator of The Best Page in the Universe, and one of my biggest influences. Internet goers have visited his site over 150 million times. The Alphabet of Manliness is his first venture into the publishing world, and it is so manly, even the sentences don't have periods. Because of the overwhelming masculinity that surrounds this book, the gay powers that be needed to compensate, lest I become too manly. However, a closer examination of the book's cover may suggest a different interpretation of manliness, maybe one closer to the themes I had seen all day, but that's for you to decide.
Since Maddox is such a huge celebrity (very famous), a large crowd gathered to meet the legend at his book signing. This resulted in a large line that twisted and turned its way throughout the Borders Book Store. Unfortunately, the line, coincidentally enough, found itself in the gay and lesbian literature section, where none other than Surf 'N Turf was waiting to be purchased. However, my favorite title was the Lesbian Vampire Chronicles which, interestingly enough, was classified as African-American literature.
Now, having a book signed by their idol is satifactory for most people. I, however, took the opportunity to display my comedic prowess to one of the funniest men alive. On his site, Maddox stated that he would be doing a free breast signing at the Borders Book Store in Boston, and anyone without breasts should bring a copy and a signed apology for not having tits. I took things a step further. Rather than an apology, I spent several hours on a rendering of myself with boobs for Maddox to sign. It looked a little something like this:

I am now acquinted with two celebrities, Maddox, and actor Bob Saenz, who is currently helping me develop my screenwriting ability via message board.
Afterwards, I ate a big ol' burger at Burger King and returned home with my heterosexuality in tact. I proved it to myself by getting roaring chubby after watching a straight porn between a man and a woman, the way God intended porn to be viewed.

*Note: I do not actually watch pornography. It is a dangerously addictive activity and can potentially lead to ED, so don't do it. Your dick will thank me.

Stuck in the Hot Hot Heat Vol. 1: His Reputation Precedes Him

Now, this story may not be written with the best of intentions. But remember, I'm violating intellectual property laws just to bring you this bundle of laughs. This story does belong to my twin brother, Jon, but don't worry, I'm sure he won't sue for that much.
Our tale begins with Jon eagerly anticipating his first day of work. A big grin covers his face as he thinks about working full time for the entire summer. He arrives at Day, Berry, Howard & Associates in Boston ready to start his day.
Jon's official job title is "office filler". He basically performs all the duties of a regular employee while he/she is out on summer vacation. But if a part-time filler (especially one as competant as Jon) can easily replace a full-time employee, I wonder how valuable that employee is the company.
Anyway, as Jon works, another filler introduces himself. His name is Matt and he is far from being a model employee. His hair is disheveled and he struggles to keep his mind on his work. Matt does, however, have a perfectly good reason for his less-than-stellar behavior. The Saturday prior, Matt had attended a bachelor party for one of his closest friends. At this party, he and his friends engaged in several debaucherous activities ranging from the consumption of alcohol to ogling young ladies to smoking illicit substances. And this is the kind of person who can replace you at the office while you are on vacation.
But soon, Matt had had enough of himself. He wanted to hear more about Jon. He mentioned all the exciting things that were going on in his life, including his recent graduation from St. John's Preparatory School. Then, the conversation came to a screeching halt.
"Wait," said Matt, "you went to St. John's Prep?"
"Yes." answered Jon.
"Do you know any of the chemistry teachers there?" Matt inquired.
"Why sure!" Jon said, "I know Mr. Boyle and Mr. Ford-"
Matt burst into hysterics. Jon was puzzled, why is he laughing, the weed should have worn off by now. His answer; he wasn't used to hearing his friend being call "mister".
My jaw hit the floor when Jon got to this point in the story. It was true, my chemistry teacher and Jon's good acquaintance was actually friends with this little degenerate. For those of you who don't know Mr. Ford, I pity you. His reputation and shear awesomeness precede him. He is probably one of the sharpest, coolest, and best teachers on the planet. Everyone in my chemistry class would agree. But his best quality remains his straightforwardness. He's a straight shooter, better than Annie Oakley. Calling him as straight as an arrow is not a fair comparison. Honestly, an arrow simply cannot stack up against Mr. Ford.
His supreme, cool nature is what made this next revelation even more shocking. Not only had Mr. Ford befriended this hoodlum, but he too was at that same bachelor party. Matt, however, can testify that all of Mr. Ford's activities were quite legal, unless you count silently sitting in the corner with a bottle of tequila in your hand unlawful.
Now, on one level, I tell this tale to enhance Mr. Ford's already glowing reputation. If he can maintain a level of popularity on simply being a chemistry teacher, imagine how admired he would be as a raucous partygoer (okay, maybe not raucous). But on several different levels, I tell this tale to demean my poor teacher. My reasoning is two-fold:
1) Why is he hanging out with these little punks who can barely hold the same job as my twin brother?
2) Pot smoking, I can forgive. But failing to invite me to this bachelor party? No. For shame, Mr. Ford. Hopefully, bringing your activities to everyone's attention will make you remember to invite me. For shame.

"Stuck in the Hot Hot Heat": Strange Stories from a Strange Man

As many of you probably don't know, I will be leaving for university this coming fall. Therefore, I have put forth my best effort to make this last summer of dependence on my parents as memorable as possible. After two months, this summer has been memorable to say the least. But enjoyable? Well, I'll let you decide.
Over the next couple of posts, I will describe (in pain-staking detail) the events over last sixty days that have finally made me a man. These stories will include bachelor parties, A-list celebrities, hockey, pranking, and 11-year-old boys, all in that order. So sit back, relax, and set your brains to "dumb" because it's going to be one ugly ride.

Who is Ann Coulter?

Seriously, who is she? I have absolutely no clue. I am without a clue on the subject. People describe her as bitch, but I view every woman outside of my mom, my aunts, and my future wife as somewhat of a bitch. So, I did all my research (by research, I mean I looked it up on Wikipedia) and discovered that calling her a bitch is far too deep in litotes to even be called an understatement. Satan could not have done any better with the anti-Christ.
Again, my entire arguement is predicated on this Wikipedia article, which can be found here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ann_Coulter. In a way, this article comes as a welcome relief to me. For too long have I tried solving figurative Rubix cubes in defending intelligent design and justifying my fanataicism for the Milwaukee Brewers. Now, it's my turn to point the gun at the broad side of the barn and fire (except the gun is a crappy-ass website and the broad side of the barn induces headaches across the United States.) Anyway, let's read the article, shall we.
The first thing that struck me was the front cover of her book entitled Slander. Sure, it's a good way to invoke ire, but the word "slander" is printed on a newspaper. Therefore, it would be called libel and not slander. And this is coming from a woman who graduated from Cornell University no less. The second thing that struck me was the fact that she called the "Church of Liberalism" "godless". I, for one, didn't know liberalism was a church, much less that it's godless. In fact, calling a church "godless" doesn't make it much a church now does it. I'm beginning to see why Ms. Coulter opposes women's suffrage.
Coulter has also been described as a "liberal's worse nightmare" and a "conservative darling". Who the hell would make this bitch their darling? I'm sure conservatives would love to portray a woman who supports apartheid as their "darling". Hell, even her parents can't possibly love her. I bet we don't hear much from them because they probably commited suicide once Ann hit television. If only they had taken her with them.
Now, a close examination of the facts will reveal that she is both a woman and certifiably nuts. Therefore, we can conclude that she believes in such evils because she wants attention. Let's face it, deep down inside, that's what all women want, isn't it? So just buy the bitch a damn mirror. She can give herself all the attention she wants without bothering the rest of us.
But as long as people keep being stupid...wait, scratch that. As long as people keep being people, Coulter will be writing books and appearing on television. I, however, will take action. I will stop the madness. How, you ask? My plan is to get her the sack and proceed to bang the brains out of her (assuming she has brains or even a vagina). I will get her in bed and take her around the freaking world. It seems like all of her extreme political views stem from a lack of attention and a need for some sweet lovin'. After all, we all know that women need stimulation. How do you explain high school girls going out with the most dispictable guys? Girls in high school will bang anything that moves, that's how badly they need lovin'. Clearly, Ms. Coulter has ignored her snooge and has taken her sexual frustration out on the world.
So, I will sacrifice all my masculine greatness to Ann, so that she may realize she belongs in one place...bed, and maybe the kitchen. But then again, giving my virginity to Ann my not be all that bad. I mean, who wouldn't want to have sex with a praying mantis? Ha ha, your move, Ann!

Thus Ends the Worst Week of My Life

Now please, I know this clever and very original post describing my week is going to sound like one big complaint. However, I, as you already know, am much better than that. Over the past nine months, I’ve gotten countless laughs at other people’s expense. Well, now it’s time for a taste of my own medicine. So please, get a cheap laugh or two at my misery, and I hope you find it more amusing than I did (which is entirely probable).
Firstly, a lot of small things conspired to make my week bad (I had to go into work. I didn’t win the lottery). However, some extraordinary events cause what is probably, and I do not exaggerate, the worst week in human history. Take these examples.
Late Saturday night and early Sunday morning, my week started as no one else’s should; paying $10 to see “X-Men: The Last Stand”. It’s not that the movie was bad; it’s just that it wasn’t good either. It wasn’t poor enough that I had weeks of A-material afterwards, but it wasn’t good enough to recommend it to all my friends at the cocktail parties. The following morning, I vomited five times in the most unpleasant Sunday morning I’ve ever had (and after thirteen years of going to church, that’s saying something). This is the third time I’ve had this stomach bug, and none of them occurred after a night a night of getting sauced. So in my experience with this illness, I’m usually fine by noon. However, this week just had to be different.
I didn’t get better till Friday. During the week, I could’ve been diagnosed with the following illnesses: influenza, the measles, whooping cough, dysentery, and polio. Multiple things disappointed me about my prolonged sickness.

1) In four years of high school, I have missed two days of school. So next time, I expect better out of my suddenly chicken shit immune system.
2) I didn’t set the record for the most illnesses in 168-hour period. Setting a world record in even under the most incredibly grueling circumstances makes even the most unpleasant experience seem worth it.
3) I was disappointed by my recovery because because it ruled out the possibility of me having AIDs. At that point, I kind of felt like having a terminal illness.

But AIDs didn’t light a candle to the coup de grace of this week…conjunctivitis. That’s right, the illness that only five to twelve-year-olds suffer from, somehow infected me.
In times of hardship, men usually turn to sports for solace and the feeling that they have achieved some kind of victory, even though they didn’t do anything except cheer on a team. However, sports only confirmed that this was the worst week of my life. The Brewers went a miraculous 0-7. Not only that, they were outscored 56-17. On top of that, they lost twice on Thursday. That’s right, in the bottom of the ninth, Jose Castillo hit a supposed walk-off home run and the Pirates proceeded to celebrate one of very few victories that they will have this season. However, the umpires ruled the home run a double, giving the Brewers another chance to blow it. As un-luck would have it, Ryan Doumit hit a single to right, scoring Castillo, and effectively forcing me to drink antifreeze in sorrow. And in a dowsing of poison onto this Caesar salad of badness, my team lost once again in the ninth against the Nationals on Saturday night. I later stuck a kitchen knife from Vector Services up my ass to distract myself from the pain.
To make matters worse, the Buffalo Sabres lost Game 7 of the Eastern Conference Finals to the Carolina Hurricanes. Now I know I don’t make as a big a deal of my fanaticism for the Sabres as I do for the Brewers, but that’s only because my father grew up a Bruins a fan (yes, even in New Jersey) and he just would not have it if I rooted for a divisional opponent (he’d kick my ass). Also, how can your root against Buffalo? You’d be forced to cheer for hockey team from North Carolina, which is obviously against God’s will. That poor community in upstate New York deserves a championship above all others (aside from Milwaukee of course).
Now I know you’re probably holding your sides and doubled over in laughter, but please, I advise you to be weary. I’m attending a lot a graduation parties this week and…well, let me put it this way. Have you seen the movie “Just My Luck”?

Intelligent Design kicks ass!

Okay, the theory of evolution is probably the most reputable explanation for the current state of mankind. Wait, what am I saying “probably”? However, some people out there still believe that humans just plopped down onto Earth by the will of some superior intelligent being. Why would people believe such an ignorant, unfounded, and overall ridiculous theory, you ask? Simple, because it kicks ass.
After a long period of consideration, I have created a master thesis: intelligent design officially rocks the socks off of evolution. Unfortunately, evolution is simply too scientific and definite. Unlike intelligent design, it doesn’t allow your imagination to run wild. Just imagine how awesome it would be have some superior being launching fire and brimstone from the skies just to create various species. I can picture it right now, God chilling at the end of the universe and making dinosaurs appear at the snap of all twelve of his fingers. Then, he sends a figurative middle finger to those stupid lizards in the form of an asteroid. Oh man, I bet your ass is hurting right now from being kicked so hard.
Plus, the first few chapters of the Book of Genesis gives people another opportunity of blame themselves for something, which seems to be the hot trend today. You find it all over the news: “Oh, it’s our fault global warming exists, it’s our fault terrorism still exists.” Even the theory of the giant spaghetti monster has enough power to rock crotches across America.
Now, let’s examine the theory of evolution for a moment. I won’t write out the exact definition because I’ll probably fall asleep half way through. So I’ll just draw a diagram to illustrate my point:

*YAWN* Let’s face it, evolution is b-o-r-i-n-g dull. No wonder state legislatures are permitting the teaching intelligent design in public schools. School is boring enough as it is. Hell, church is boring enough, so you can’t blame religious leaders for attempting to inject some excitement into it. So, if anything, we can all agree that although people who believe in intelligent design may be stupid, they, at the very least, keep things interesting. Give them credit for that.

I am Overly-Amazing and Underly-Appreciated

And don't even question the grammatical correctness of my title. Its honesty far surpasses anything English class could ever teach you. However, even a truthful title needs a little explanation. I make such an outrageous assertion because my awesomeness is greatly unrecognized. Granted, that awesomeness serves no actual purpose. I haven't cured cancer or won the Nobel Peace Prize...yet. My greatness lies only from my incredible and unsee trend-setting power.
Few know how amazingly I set trends. What Bill Gates has done for computers, I have done for trends. Of course, all of you with your simple, conformist and, let's face it, vastly inferior minds will say, "But Greg, I blindly follow every trend I see other teenagers doing. If you set a trend, I would know about it." a) You have some nerve coming off to me that way and b) of course you don't see my awesome power. If you did, I wouldn't be bringing it to your attention. But without much further ado, allow me to enlighten you on the great number of trends I have set.
I'd say the earliest trend that I've set began back in 2001, that magical year when I first became a Brewers fan. After five years of facing one-word questions beginning with "why", weird looks, and snide remarks, people seemed to finally accept the fact that I like a team for no reason. However, I didn't expect people to completely turn the corner. Literally, they always turn the corner asking me "how da Brewahs doin'?". I didn't think I could find a question more annoying than "why do you like the Brewers?" I was wrong.
None of the other trends I've set piss me off quite like this one. The Brewers are my cross to bear. I claimed them. I found them first. Finders keepers, losers weepers. Now enjoy the Red Sox success while you can. Don't waste your time following the Brewers. That's my job.
I gave birth to another trend in September of 2004. Now, if you're guessing that I'm going to talk about free-writes, congratulations, you are wrong. I didn't start free-writing's popularity, but I did outside of school. Technically, I wasn't the first to post stupid crap on a website (I refuse to call it a "blog" on the basis that the word sucks), but nobody cares about Gori. If it wasn't for this website, free-writes would just be a pleasant memory of junior year. If it wasn't for this website, you would see Alex start two different blogs or see Ashish start one of his own about berating Republicans (it didn't last, thank God). But to be fair, Alex's site has gotten quite the readership in its short existence. But he'll never match my twelve, count 'em, twelve consistant readers.
And finally, if it wasn't for my website, no one would be musing about Quiznos. Sure, my friend Ashish may have loved the sub shop before I posted my article, but I don't remember him mentioning it EVERY SINGLE DAY before I posted it. In fact, because he clamors about going there everyday, so does Alex. And because Alex clamors about going there everyday, so does Sanchez. And because Sanchez clamors about going there everyday, so does the rest of my chemistry class. And because the rest of my chem class clamors about going there everyday, I want to put a bullet in my skull. Now whenever you just mention the word "Quiznos", my whole chemistry class orgasms in delight. Hell, even following the question "do we have a quiz?" with the word "no" could make my chem class aroused.
Now, I didn't intend for this post to be one big nag. Just remember, while you're checking the Brewers' score while updating your blog on how awesome Quiznos subs are, that Greg started it all. But I know you won't. So...I'll just...cry myself to sleep. Oh boo hoo hoo hoo hooooooo.

Awake from the Mundane Falacity

my god, bush is annihilating the most significantly important values upon the america is based. it only makes sense, since america is such a baren wasteland of money grubbing bureaucrats that wish only to get wealth and money and power. all those fatcats what is oil from the middle eats. that why we went to war with the poor iraqie ppl who only wanted peace. i'm the only who sees that. instead america just brought war and violence to that peaceful land. it's all bush's fault. all he wants is money and violenec. I think we should hang him in front the capital building and set his corpse ablaze. thatll show america how bad violence is. he's such a nazi. a nihlistic anarachist that wants to spread his fascist and sadist agenda all over everyone. bush is so evil.
I can't believe how many people buy int oto the deception and lies. why can't ppl be as smart as me and see thru the garbage and lies. the lies are what piss me off the most. they lied about the weapsons of mass "deception" (oh snappp! i'm sooo cleaver) and they lie about how the corporations are out only to get money and oli. i wish everyone was as smart as me. i would move to san franscico (that would be awesome)and liek, help the other ppl with important issues. i would like set a utopia where like a guy would make bread and give to ppl for free and like a guy would protect ppl from violence and lies. that would be perfect. the war and fighting owuld sease and we would live in a perfect world. no fighting and no religion. yeah, i hate those rednecks and fox newz trying to force their beliefs down my throat. it's so stupid to believe in something that bigger or more important than yourself. Nobody show tell me how to live. ill do whatever i want play by nobodys rulse. and they should legalize wheed. oh that would be sweetttt. im gonna go light up right now.







Note for the slow: My post is short and it is not insightful. I've taken an extreme political stance. There are a multitude of spelling errors and annoying hyperlinks. I've broken away from every one of my tendencies, and the article is posted on APRIL FUCKING FOOLS' DAY! So we can only reach one logical conclusion: I have smoked massive amounts of marijuana.