How to raise a devious individual, volume I

Step #1: Have hardwood floors.

Hardwood floors are an excellent deterrent towards casual deviousness. But the extraordinarily devious will view it as a challenge, a foe to be bested. All floors have foundations, do they not? It follows, logically then, that this point is less likely to creak.

Step #2: Set ridiculously early bedtimes.

Ahh, it all comes together. When I lived under their roof, they went to bed at 10 o’clock, and so did everyone else who lived within. It was not long before this became intolerable. All the good TV was on after ten, I had this from a source whose credentials were unimpeachable.

I had a problem however. My sister was merely casually devious. She would just jump out of bed and tromp over to the TV, and her friends would call her on the houses phone line (pre-cellular age). Seldom did her outings succeed.
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So, often I would have to wait about a half an hour for my sister to try to sneak out and get caught. Once that had occurred, I was good to go. Unlike my sister, I realized that the art of sneaking out was a dance.

I had done research. I had performed thorough investigations. I wonder what my parents thought I was doing as I walked around the hallways with a note pad. “Honey, don’t walk up and down the stairs while trying to write something down in the notebook, it’s dangerous. And stop calling Rommel a magnificent bastard. Whose book did you read?”

I had a way to roll out of bed without making the mattress springs creak. Wearing socks, I could walk silently on the hardwood, provided I hit my marks.

Once I got to the kitchen, I was golden. Turn the TV on and lower the brightness, volume at a minimum. You won’t be caught for hours.

I have a map of the hard wood floor, and its pressure points emblazoned on my mind still. When I visit my folks, every once in a while I walk the path again, just to see if I still got it.

Stop saying things all the time.

I’m not really a grammar/spelling Nazi on-line. I try to speak well on line, but if you don’t, I guess that’s cool. But I am one of those people, who is compelled, indeed must pounce when the word Irony, or Ironic is used online or in a dying newsprint format incorrectly. Ever since that damnable song by Alanis Morrisette, few people use the word correctly.


I try not to use the word, in an effort to play it down a little. Maybe if people don’t hear it as much, they won’t misuse it as much.

There was an example just today. So you don’t have to read the story, the executive summary: Two sets of kids were driving like assholes in two Mercedes benzes, one T-bones a cab, killing the cabbie, and the other drives away. On the seat of the crashed mercedes: a game called Need for Speed.

Choice Quote:"You have this game that's all about fast cars and racing through city streets. It's actually really ironic," he said.

You fool! Irony would be the dudes having a copy of “Drive safely, drive slowly” on the seat. Why must you anger me! Quotes like this are like a knife of tragedy to me. The only balm I draw from the statement above is Irony gets the last laugh.

Using the word Ironic to describe a scenario which is in fact, entirely fitting, is the ultimate irony.

Oh, and I guess the thing about the cabbie was tragic too.

I have seen the future of warfare, and it is in my age bracket

The future of the United states military is sitting in a chair right now, eating cheetos and playing on the computer. I've known this to be true for about 5 years now. The Army and the Air-force know it too.

The most recent attack on an al-queda base, which killed 4 of their top commanders, was carried out by an unmanned aerial vehicle. The United States Army, has released a FPS, creatively named "Americas army", as a recruitment device, to the general public.

"Americas Army" is no mere recruitment tool however. It, and games like it, have taught gamers to think tactically, to lay down suppresing fire before advancing, to always check doors when moving down hallways, to recognize good/bad/blown cover, to aim for the center of mass, etc.

Pssh. Sync, it can't possibly be that good a trainer. After all, they don't have backpacks on, and there is a huge difference between clicking a 1 button mouse which rests on a table, in an air conditioned room, and firing something which you must support, and which recoils, in 90 degree temperatures. I accept all these points as True (although recoil is factored into most games as far as the target sight moving upward). But it is a method of training for the real deal, which scares the shit out of various anti-videogame groups.

My first day at work for EA tech support was illustrative of what I'm talking about. Lunchtime comes, and I start in on my sammich. I was in the minority, most people were starting up counterstrike. My que was playing a match against another que, and other groups were paired off as well. I watched the precision at which my que laid down support fire as they advanced on an objective (defusing a bomb). They were good at this shit. And they got owned by the other team, which must have been playing that much better. They understood tactics to a level that most civilians in history have never known. And, should the shit hit the fan in a conscription level way, they will need less time training for tactics, and less time learning how to operate the modern gizmos of battle. Probably a good bit more time in physical training though.

As for myself, I have always been a fan of combat flight simulators. Hand me the keys to a virtual f-22, f-15, an a10, or even the Myrmidon space superiority fighter, and I'm good to go. I have read probably about 300 pages worth of flight manuals in my life, and while I know I would black out like a little school girl taking 3g turns in meatspace, in front of a computer, with a joystick, and a keyboard, I'm well in my element. Most flight simulators are not what you would think of as a video "game" either. I wasn't lying about the giant manuals, and to properly play the more realistic ones, you need all the buttons on your joystick, as well as all 101 keys on your keyboard. I know how to pull an Immelman, and I know how to take angles in a dogfight. The fact that I know this without ever actually having flown a plane illustrates, again, that there is a large segment of American society that, if given a terminal, a joystick, an instrument panel or keyboard, and an UAV to control via some form of Satellite data transfer, would be well suited to the task at hand.

Now, I will leave it up to others to ring hands over how this will sanitize warfare (which it will), making it so we never see the bloody effects of our actions. I don't think it matters though, because in all of history, that hasn't bothered many politicians.

On making sausage, and writing laws.

As I’ve said, comedy is hard to write. I’ve developed a technique to come up with ideas for sketch comedy at least.

First you need a topic, and a method for delivering the funny So think about random sentences/things that evoke a chuckle, by themselves. Lets give it a go.

*Pudding just can’t satisfy me like it used to.
*Damn Child (silent d)! It's a sports show son!
*Happytown is 79% less happy after being pillaged by Angerville.

Let’s go with Happytown. I like how they’ve pegged this happy percentage, and bad things happening to happy people is morbidly funny.

What’s the delivery method? Just reading the sentence, it could be a newspaper article, a report being given to the governor of either Happytown, or Angerville, or something else. Government sounds funnier than a bunch of journos talking shop, so gov it is.

Let’s start with Angerville.
Ground rules: The residents of Angerville have Brooklyn accents.
Angerville is not allowed to say the word good, happy, or any synonyms derived there from.

Secretary of war: Hello governor. I wish to report the ongoing demoralization project towards our neighbors.
Governor: Just read the damn report jackass! (this is Angrytown after all)
Secretary of war: Aye aye Cap’n fuckstick! (I want the guy to snap a salute, but that seems out of character for Angerville. Grab his jock perhaps? The double deuce?) The citizens of Happytown are 79 percent less joyful then the month preceding our whooping their asses.
Governor: I swear, that last 21% is always a bitch. West Chuckles held on for years. There’s always some kid whistling, or father trying to shield their child from the horrors of war.
Secretary of war: You ain’t fuckin kidding. There is further humiliation in store however. We have been building a device designed to (insert humiliating affect here. I had a few in mind, but this bit has enough gratuitous vulgarity as is.)

Meanwhile, in Happytown. (This strikes me is a good point to check in with Happytown)

Secretary of things are looking up: I conclude my report on the brightside…
Governor: You always do Gladwell.
Secretary of things are looking up: You know me too well Governor X(what’s a good name for the governor of happytown?)
Background: *Chuckles*
Secretary of things are looking up: As I was saying, at least they haven’t built a device designed to (insert the thing that Angerville just built [Originally, I was going to put this as soon as the cut to Happytown happened, but It’s funnier this way.])
Governor: Gladice, please brief me on the status of the department of birthday parties.
Gladice: I am sad to report…
Background: GASP!
Gladice: Unfortunatley…
Background: GASP!
Gladice, irritated: In less then Super terrific
Background: Sigh of relief
Gladice: news, people are now having to make due with not 2 clowns, but one clown.
Governor: That’s a 50% decrease in employment to the Clown union! They’re my base Gladice! This is intolerable! Jones! I’m disbanding the “Department of rolling over and letting the tanks run over us, slowly crushing our spirits! I’m calling in the big guns”.
All in room: GASP!
One lone voice: Can we trust him?
Governor: He’s our only hope people.

Cut to a Pattonesque figure taking the stage in front of a ridiculously huge Happytown flag. All chatter cuts at the sound of a trumpet playing Baby Elephant Walk.

Patton: I want you all to remember, no one has ever won a war by telling a knock-knock joke. You win, by making some other poor dumb bastard die laughing! Now. An army is a comedy troupe. It juggles, jokes, pranks, and cavorts, as a troupe. This standup comedy stuff is a bunch of crap. The bastards writing about that for the Smile-time Gazette wouldn’t know anymore about REAL comedy, than they do about the ol’ Sugar-me-doo.
Now. We have the finest cake, and seltzer bottles, the best Spirit and the grooviest cats this side of new Bongsworth. By Cosby, I actually pity those bastards we’re going up against, by Cosby, I do! We’re not just going to kill the bastards!
Backgrond: What’s left to do?
Patton: We’re going to cut out their guts, and use them to grease the axles of our VW busses!
Background: But why?
Patton, unphased: We’re going to murder those irate bastards, and keep on moving!
Background: Without a burial??
Patton: Now some of you might be worried you’ll chicken out in battle. Well, turn that frown upside down. When you put your hand into a bunch of goo, that used to be your best friends face, and at least he went out with Boston playing on his Ipod, god rest his soul...
Background: Not Jonesie!
Patton: You’ll know what to do… Dismissed.
As Patton walks off stage, you hear him mutter: This was always so much easier in Angryville.

And that’s it. I don’t even want to get back to angryville. I don’t care about the war. As far as I’m concerned, this whole bit turned into a set up for the Patton joke.

Note. This bit is not finished. It needs polish, punching up and specifics. What does Angryville’s weapon do? What’s the Mayors name? Also, Patton is jarring in this scene. Maybe the fact that he used to give pep speeches in Angryville should go before the speech, rather than at the end.

Is “Such, such were the joys” copy written?

I decided to stop going to school in the Eighth grade. My decision was overridden by my parents, any number of state and federal laws and regulations, as well as the local constabulary. Dutifully, I showed up, but I don't remember doing much studying during school hours.

In high school, where I was introduced to modern art, non structured poetry, and "new American classic" literature, I knew I had made the correct decision, regardless of the lack of support from leading authority figures. Once I turned 18, and discovered that I could sign myself out of school, well, let’s just say I graduated with a surprised look on my face.

That said, I like to think that I turned out all right. Okay, I won't be winning any trigonometry-offs any time in the near future, but I'm cool with that.

The ladies are all about the Grammar rodeo anyways. Yee haw!

School simply doesn't teach you what you need to know, other than how to put up with severe amounts of bullshit. Granted, this is a valuable skill set to possess, yet I learned far more when cutting class than I would have in class. Then again, I'm a nerd, so while people were learning about puddings of the world, I was reading political treatises. I was at the beach doing it too. Dig the healthy tan on that well-read truant!

Incompetent teachers were the deal breaker. I had had a few in the past, but one in particular took the cake. I once had a mandated course, Business 110 or some such, during what would be my last semester in Community college. Upon arrival, I realized the teacher was a freaking psych case. Naturally, I go to transfer, only to find that he teaches every single one of the Business 110 classes.

One last time, I relent, and I spent this last semester, 65 dollars in units, and associated costs of books/registration, listening to him jabber about how when you try to cross your arms differently then normal, it's totally hard, and oh, sweet cats, isn't that CRAZY??!?

It has come to my attention you are currently trying to cross your arms differently then normal. That’s cool. I’ll wait.

6 years of pent up rage almost blew up when he suggested that “words did not have meanings”. This is logically false. I demonstrated this to him. All I got back was “jibber jabber different things to different people”. I wish I had said “Fuck you!”, and when questioned about it, just told him I was admiring his healthy tan. Instead, I vowed that this would be it for me and “higher education”.

So why does western society insist college is necessary, frowning upon those who got GEDs to escape high school? Doesn’t a GED show initiative, and the ability to accomplish tasks better than slouching through four years of sex ed and diversity training? I will leave this exercise up to you.

A trend amongst most I know is, the ones who possess the most amount of college units are also the most foolish (Note, this is not one hundred percent true. Lets call it 75%). At a certain point on a bell curve, additional units not only push one past the point of diminished returns, but in fact, actively bind one closer to the X Axis. I envision it similar to the following data points:



I’ve since talked with my father at length about higher education, and he’s come around to my point of view. It’s simply not about learning anymore. It is about keeping the young off of the streets, keeping otherwise unemployable but “skilled” people employed, and indoctrinating the young. It is possible to get a good education today, but brotha’, you will be paying it off until retirement.

I have this rule, you see.

This rule is that 10% of people in any given population of people are complete assholes. The lowest 1% don’t even rate that good. Now, I don’t mean they are spiteful, just that they are completely incapable of performing any task. This rule does not discriminate by education, occupation, or IQ. This is why you should always get a second opinion when a doctor recommends some procedure involving slicing things open.

Likewise, 10% of any population run house. The top tier 1% make sure things progress, rather than devolve. Society would crumble without these individuals. They are the counterbalance to numb-nuts. The Churchill to another’s Chaberlain. The Lincoln to another’s Buchanan.

And hey, I’m open to the possibility that in some populations, depending on the task, I might be part of the 10% asshole population. But I try to avoid situations that might place me in such a predicament.

Unlike some people, who work in a certain banking institution that I also work in. This institution shall remain nameless, lest our customers read this and start a run on the bank.

If you were applying for a job at a bank, certain skills would be beneficial correct? I speak primarily of the ability to manipulate numbers. Nothing serious either! Things like division, multiplication, the ability to comprehend an algebraic formula, and plug in the appropriate values, which the computer kindly tells you, for instance. (But that's another issue entirely). You would think this would be fundamental to employment. But that brings us back to the 10% rule.

My employment in this institution has turned what was once a theory, into an absolute, Gods honest proof. 10%, right on the head. Of course, it goes without saying, that in my organization, I’m part of the top 10% that handles business, for were I not, I wouldn’t be able to perceive this universal constant.

It’s not even necessary to post a very severe anecdote which occurred today. The interesting thing is that we have about 16 branches, one severe problem branch, and one somewhat dubious branch. Of 180ish employees, give or take, there are about 18 numb-nuts. Note the ratio.

The point to this rant? Check your statements. And when you go to a doctor, and he tells you you need a severe surgery to cure your case of the shizzlebangs, get a second opinion. Or ask him to tell you what the shinbone is connected to. You can never be too sure.

Comedy is not for the weak of heart

Have you ever watched the Simpsons, and said to yourself "Hey! I can do that!"? If so, then you would be terribly, terribly wrong. Comedy is a harsh mistress. There is nothing worse than writing a complete comedy bit, which seems like it is hilarious, only to realize upon reading it back, it is either not funny, or someone has done it better. It can destroy your soul.

To illustrate this point, I give you some random bit I worked on once.

Breaking up 101 (conflict resolution): It's not you, it's me
Breaking up 102 (Philosophy): I feel like our lives are guiding us towards different objectives.
Breaking up 103 (Statistics): There are plenty of other fish in the sea.
Breaking up 104 (Statistics): (pre-req: breaking up 103)We've grown apart. You were on your way up, while I was on the down and outs. We are still roughly parallel, but the ever so slight tangent is carrying me irrevocably towards an asymptotic relationship with the "x axis" I guess I'll see you at the bottom of the bell curve.
Breaking up 105: (oceanography):Not necessary to complete if breaking up 103 has been completed.
Breaking up 106: (poly sci):You're the devil.

Now, it passes the funny test in my opinion. Not hilarious, but chuckle worthy. I especially like the last comedy beat. The problem is that Every fucking college student since 1981 has had a similar, if not exact replica of this bit hanging on their wall, in poster form. I wish I could tell you that this was immediately apparent, but that would be a lie. So caught up was I, in the process of funny production, I didn't realize that I was raping a dead horse. In my defense, this is easily the most hackish bit I have ever written. Yet I keep it around as a reminder.

Once more to the Grindstone, dear hacks!

So I have a blog now. That's new. Speaking as someone who has always despised the word blog, indeed, the very sound of the word, I did not envision myself ever joining blogspot. But then I remembered goal 1a, subclause 5:

In order to conquer the world, one must first have a thronging mass, eager to devour every syllable one utters.

So I decided to start uttering things, hence this entry. I plan to start somewhat unintelligibly, fumbling for an audience, not unlike a teenager eager to share his protuberance with a woman, if only he could find one, and unclasp that damn bra clasp! Curse you Bra clasp!

Anyhoo, the prime purpose of this blog is to get my writing chops up, so as to facilitate any number of my side-endeavors. Comedy is hard work, and I'm currently not scheduled for promotion. I wish to change this status. If you are reading this, eager to learn my innermost thoughts and secrets, which desperate housewife I identify with/would most like to bang, prepare for disappointment. Because I don't watch that show.

But I can say, without question, that the answer is Terri Hatcher.

If you are reading this, with the intention of reading some funny screeds, or links to some crazy, or dare I suggest, funny shit, then you very well might be in luck.