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10 August 2007
Fall For It Again

10 Aug 2007

Fall For It Again
Current mood: I am Jack’s High Definition Cynicism
Category: I am Jack’s High Definition Cynicism Web, HTML, Tech

Okay, if your smart you already realize that after a few years of not being cool and exciting anymore, technology drops in price. That is why you can now buy DVD's for a buck and the players are only about twenty.

So if you're that smart, don't be a moron and DON'T buy a Blu-Ray player or any similiar knockoffs. Here's why.

Since DVD's are cheap to produce now, the market is slowly becoming tighter. Simply put, the movie companies can't expect to make as much money off you unless. . . they make a brand new technology and force you to rebuy all your movies AGAIN.

There is nothing special about Blu-Ray except that it is expensive. It is just a marketing scheme to take more of your money. I heard a rumor that soon Blockbuster will only provide Blu-Ray in the future. No more DVD's for them. But it's not because of how great this new tech is, it's because it is MARKETABLE.

It doesn't matter how great it looks on a plasma widescreen TV. It doesn't matter how many gigs and technobabble fits on a single disc. It doesn't matter if it's "the way of the future". Stop being sold! By someone who can't even spell "blue" no less!

Please tell me you are not stupid enough to fall for this corporate shit. Wait for this upgrade to pass by resisting it. You can live. It will be a few months before any new movies are exclusively Blu-Ray Disc or HD DVD, so in the meantime, you can passively learn to be satisfied with what you have.

At any rate, in five years  or so the technology will change again. I predict that soon all movies will be available on the internet, with the same crystal clarity of HDTV. Want to rebuy all your movies and music videos a third or fourth time? Be my guest.

You can join the bandwagon, keep up with the Joneses, grow your debt like a weed, just don't say I didn't warn you.

11:12 - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove


Scribbled by Mene Tekel at 10:34 AM PDT
Updated: 10 August 2007 4:52 PM PDT
15 July 2007
Update

Scribbled by Mene Tekel at 12:04 AM PDT
Updated: 15 July 2007 12:07 AM PDT
30 June 2007
Everyone is Special and Dandy
Topic: Writing



     A dear friend of mine named Jimmy Kane told me that my writing is very bitter, dark, depressing, and morbid. Why not write something pleasant? Like a motivational story?
     So I decided I would. This is a motivational story, of sorts. It's happy, and bright, and optimistic.
    
     In third grade, there was a school play in our class. The play was some kind of Indian thing, with 3rd grade mysticism, 3rd grade economics, and a 3rd grade understanding of culture. I thought Indians were really boring and stupid, so I had a bad 3rd grade attitude towards the play. When there were auditions, everyone wanted to be the gigantic, flapping happy birds. Someone was the Indian chief, and a few people were trees and animals and such. I didn't audition for anything. I was that angry in my 3rd grade little mind.
     I didn't want to be in the play at all, but my teacher forced me. I argued and whined and even cried. She made me be a drummer. I would sit on the edge of the stage hitting a dollar store, rubber drum. Thump, thump, thump. I didn't have rhythm or a desire to do it, so I just kind of sat there, pouting, barely hitting the drum. On the premiere of the play, I sat there thump, thump, thump. Plotting my revenge.
    A couple months later, there was another school play. It was called Slappy Hooper, about some painter who painted things so well it made them come to life. It also had even more outlandish religious themes than the Indian play.
    I was disappointed in myself. The last play I was nothing, so this time, I tried out for the lead role, without even thinking of it, and got the part. I was so excited. I wore a girls overalls and acted as best I could. The premiere was a great success, even though the play was smaller. For years afterward, people would joke with me about how good a job as Slappy Hooper, and in retrospect, that annoyed the hell out of me.
    
     There you have it. A nice, happy motivational story. The moral is, "be yourself". Or "you can do anything if you set your mind to it". Or "just believe". I hope your all happy and motivated. Especially you, Jimmy Kane. Now eat shit and die, you assholes.

Scribbled by Mene Tekel at 8:48 PM PDT
Flunitrazepam
Okay. I'm going to say it.
Who the fuck is so stupid that they put roofies in someone's drink and then rape them?
If you want sex so bad you have to use low levels of consciousness, why not do the polar opposite?
Put HORNY GOAT WEED in their drink. Instead of making them incapacitated, it will make them as horny as, well. . . a goat, I guess. That's gotta be the best way to get sex with little effort.

Jeeez.

Well, that's my attempt at a romantic blog.


Goodnigth.

Scribbled by Mene Tekel at 2:21 AM PDT
19 May 2007
Project Toenail

31 May 2007

Some Worthwhile Advice - Project Toenail / X-13D

A dear friend of mine believes that Jones soda has eerie, almost true to life advice and fortunes on their caps. I bought three today, and the first one said, "Many people are seeking you for worthwhile advice." Cool. Here it is.

I also bought a new marketing scheme by Frito-Lay called X-13D. It is a new flavor of Doritos that YOU get to name. Buy the chips, go to the website, and name it. Well, these chips taste like toenails, so I went on the website and called it Extreme Toenail Flavor. That's seriously what they taste like. Like stale, cheesy toe fungus chips. Here is your advice.

Fight back against stupid marketing schemes and name this product Extreme Toenail Flavor. It will take you five whole minutes. You go on the website and enter in the name, create a username, and some boring personal information. If you think that is too much to ask, just use my information. Make stuff up. No one cares.

Let me give you three reasons why:
1. I am your friend, and this is cool.
2. You will be making history, but you have to spread the word.
3. They really do taste like toenails.

In the end, we, together, will create a grand scale scheme against this stupid, stupid ploy to buy processed tortilla chips. Tell all your friends about it, spread the word, and help create Project Toenail.

It will take five minutes. The website is here:
 
http://x13d.doritos.com/

Good luck. As a final note the second  Jones I bought said, "your mind, being creative and original will make you famous."

GO PROJECT TOENAIL.


Scribbled by Mene Tekel at 4:10 AM PDT
Updated: 19 May 2007 4:14 AM PDT
12 May 2007
Blood and Grass
Topic: Everyday Chaos

12 May 2007

Blood and Grass
Current mood: I am Jack's Evil Engineering

Today, I went golfing. I liked driving the carts like a mad man at full speed, nearly killed a few ducks. I ran over a dead frog and caused blood to spurt from it's mouth like a fountain. I found a fake coyote that was pretending to be a bench (what?) and investigated a toilet where I took a $123.58 dollar dump. Some kid fell off a cart and cut his face up, his lips swelled and lipsticked with blood. I crashed a cart into a tree and broke the roof, but straightened it back out, so no one would notice.

Fun, tiring day.


Scribbled by Mene Tekel at 8:45 PM PDT
Updated: 12 May 2007 8:46 PM PDT
10 May 2007
caffeine

caffeine
Current mood: I am Jack's Addiction

I start to get a headache.
I take some pillx. Magick pillx make my hedache go away.
The hedache beginx to get worxe.

my naxal paxxage. . . going up my face beginx to throb.
itx thix deep paine that i can barely feel. nervex i never new exixted are on phire.
it growx. it goex deeper up my hed until i feel lik my skull ix craking.
my hed feels like it ix being pulled apart lik sumone would peel an orange.
xuch deep excruciating paine.
my vixion blurx.
my hearing xhutx off.
i'm a lone in thix cell in my mind. the wallx rippin a part l i k e t h i x.

until i xwallow caffeine. . .

And everything feels normal again.


Scribbled by Mene Tekel at 11:02 PM PDT
26 March 2007
Keith

Keith

I'm not ashamed to admit that when I was a child I lived in a trailer park. It was a very nice place, across the street from my church; it is where almost all my childhood memories took place, and although it was a low standard of living for most people, it was perfect for me. When I got older, I moved to an actual house exactly one mile south of Turf Mobile Manor. I went from being trailer trash to just regular white trash. I loved the social mobility; having a pool that was always open; having walls that were actually insulated; having my own private bathroom; having space to breathe.
I'll never forget that in the trailer park, I had a neighbor who was certifiably crazy. His name was Keith, and my parents told me to stay away from him. He lived three trailers down, near a wall. He had extra parking, and no car, but he put up barricades in case someone tried to steal his parking.
Keith would always walk around the neighborhood with a plastic bag and pick up trash. My mom said he was a little mentally retarded, and felt it was his job to clean up the entire world. He was also a very paranoid person who didn't trust anyone. He had made homicidal threats on my family, but we were okay.
He was middle aged, with grey hair, and had this creepy stare. I never talked to him, I was always afraid of him.
After I moved, I didn't have to be paranoid of this paranoid man, but he would still wander around for miles and miles cleaning up trash. So I occasionally saw him, because I still lived within a mile of my old house.
One day, I was in the grocery store and he was there as well, buying weird granola shit for constipation. I recognized him immediately, and for some reason, said to him, "Hey Keith."
He stopped in the middle of the cereal aisle, and gave me this look of extreme confused paranoia. His eyes moved behind his thick glasses like a combination of an owl and a chameleon. He was watching every inch of me with fear and loathing, and it got under my skin. I was getting uneasy, so I dashed off in the opposite direction, and huddled behind the toilet paper aisle, trying to act casual. I watched him leave, and then burst out laughing. He obviously didn't recognize me. It had been months since I had lived in the park anyway. I knew how paranoid he was, and realized he was probably really freaked out about me.
The next couple of weeks, every time I saw him, I would say, "Hey Keith." before quickly walking off, before he would recognize me. Each time, he got more and more neurotic. I would always laugh afterward, like some horrible child who amused himself destroying an anthill. When I drove by Keith waiting at the bus stop, I leaned out the window, "Heeeeeeeeeeeeey Keeeeeeeeeeeeeith!" He jumped up and frantically watched me drive off, leaving him in a dangerous confusion. Other people at the bus stop were not amused either, and they looked after me with perplexed horror. Not that they knew the details, and they certainly didn't want to.
One fateful day, I actually had to wait for the bus with Keith. I was nervous, afraid that if he distinguished me as the person tormenting him vicariously he may hurt me. So I sat quietly at the bus stop, absolutely speechless, and pretended to read a book. He was standing behind me, carrying his bag of trash, and muttering to himself. I couldn't make out much of what he said, but it was something along the lines of, " . . .he knows me . . . how can he know me? . . . what should I do? . . ."
His muttering and nervous tugging at his sack of trash made me deathly afraid of even breathing. My heart was beating like a jackhammer against my ribcage, trying to commit suicide which had to be better than whatever torture he might have in store for me. I was afraid of even appearing nervous, but no one else at the bus stop seemed to notice. Just a creepy old man and a shaky kid reading a book upside down. They would never have guessed the identity showdown going on between us. When the bus impatiently pulled up, late, I scrambled on, and sat in the back of the bus. Keith sat in the very front, looking back every few seconds, staring at me, and I staring into my book. The words were jumping off the page, words like DEATH and FEAR and BLOOD.
Finally, Keith got off the bus, and the carriage trudged forward. I watched until he was out of sight, and then burst into manic laughs of relief. I couldn't stop. Everyone on the bus began to stare at me, looking back every few seconds, just as paranoid as Keith was. No one likes a raving laughing person on a public service vehicle. When I got off, everyone seemed much happier.
For some reason, a few weeks later, I started a hobby of taking pictures of strangers. I stopped it when I realized the pictures weren't very good. I didn't do it to be creepy, though it was, I just liked knowing that there were other people in the world who existed. I was taking some pictures of strangers on the bus, with the flash off, sitting in the back, trying to be subtle, when Keith gets on the bus, and sits just in range of my camera lens. I began to take pictures of him, and he noticed. I snapped one after another and each time the shutter batted an eyelash, Keith looked more and more paranoid, until it came to his stop and he ran off the bus, scared as hell. I was laughing madly in my seat.
Then one day, I stumbled across a website called a reverse address search. You type in an address, and you can obtain the phone number for whoever lives there. It's free, and since I used to be neighbors with Keith, I knew his address was only three numbers off from my own. I entered his residence, and got his phone number. I spent the next week chuckling under my breath with anticipation. What would I do with this number?
Eventually, I grew the courage to call it from a public pay phone. I tossed in two quarters and dialed. My heart was beating crazily again, but this time for no reason. I got his answering machine and left a message: "Keeeeeeeeeeith." I whispered it, snakelike and eerie. The next day, I called again from a different pay phone, and got his machine again. I left another creepy message, and the same the next night. Finally, one night, at around midnight I called again.
He answered. His voice was berserk and vicious. "Who is this? Who the FUCK is this? I'll fucking kill you! I'll sick the pigs on you!"
With manic laughter that I could not suppress, I hung up the receiver.
I stopped calling after that. It was a waste of quarters. After that, I stopped seeing Keith going around cleaning up the world. I began to wonder what happened to him. About 2 years passed, then I saw him today on the bus. I was sitting in the back, thinking about some deep stuff, until he popped onto the bus, and sat down by the front. As soon as I saw him, I could not stop laughing, manic bursts of an insane inside joke in my head. He looked up at me in confusion, and I could not stop laughing, unashamed.

Scribbled by Mene Tekel at 11:15 PM PDT
20 March 2007
Smirk
My friend, maybe he did it for the attention, but he shaved off his eyebrows.
He said, it's capitalist.
He said, he was stopping the brows from merging and fighting.
He gave a lot of bullshit answers. No one really understood why he did such an impulsive thing; me least of all.
Everyone laughed. They painted on his face with paint, to make him look like he had eyebrows again and they all laughed. Then they painted a Hitler mustache and all laughed. He wiped off all their makeup and everyone laughed.
I didn't; just not my humor.
After school, we went shopping in Target for a half hour. Just meandering around, just losing ourselves in the aisles of consumerism, mostly empty, slow. Everyone we passed gave my eyebrowless friend a raised eyebrow, a glare, or a confused stare. He laughed, getting the kick he wanted out of it. I laughed too. It was some enormous inside joke, but hung outside like a fat neon marquee.
It was disturbing to look at him, to think about looking at him. It was because his every expression that day was eager, gleeful, happy and he didn't have little lines of hair to compliment him. He was this completely open person with his grinning, stupid laughing. His eyes weren't darkened or as covered anymore, and seeing his eyes so broad and piercing was unsettling. He didn't have a forehead, it was more like he had a fivehead.
It's weird, but I admire him for it. It took courage, on some level. It's a big fuck you to society, in one way or another.
He looks like a doll or a puppet, but not quite, because even those have more facial features than he does. He looks surreal, like something in a dream, or something a coked out artist would sketch.
We went to a Starbucks and stared out the window at some birds, people staring back in. It felt like we were in a zoo, caged in as a living display case for gawking idiots; but I felt alive and free, careless and eager; who had the freedom, society, or us?
I demanded my friend go and buy me a soda. I gave him a container of pure pennies. He spent a full ten minutes at the counter buying me my drink, as the cashier slowly got over my friend's appearance; then as he counted the pennies, then she nervously recounted them. He couldn't stop laughing when he came back to my table.
On the second day with his new style, we went bowling. Some cute female employees were flirting with me until they noticed him. Then they straightened up, shut their mouths in confusion, they gave us our shoes and didn't talk to us again. I didn't mind, it was worth the laugh.
By the end of the week, I was somewhat used to it. Not enough though, and watching him trying to express anything, anger, humor, even depression was like watching a pathetic rag doll try and imitate life. It was hard to even pity him, let alone sympathize, but I managed it. His emotions reminded me of a movie I once saw about a robot who wanted to be human. It was like this, except in reverse. I think he wanted to be a robot. Schizophrenic. Dead.
I always like it when my life becomes a little more surreal. I wish more things like this happened to me. Often life seems to bland, uninteresting. . . . hairy.
My friend wants me to shave off my eyebrows too.
The funniest thing is, I actually considered it.

Scribbled by Mene Tekel at 11:25 PM PDT
25 February 2007
Work was insane again
Some guy had (maybe) a heartattack, so I was pressured into covering his shift (an extra hour.)

Someone knocked over a pump at the gas station across from CVS. The fire dept. was called. If there was a gasleak, I could have died.

Thomas, the crazy man came in and bought all the valentines day stuff. He made crude sexual jokes that I couldn't understand (because they were way too subtle and he spoke really fast. He told me he bought 90 dollars of milk three different times and then told me he was part cow. I hope his girlfriend likes the fifty boxes of conversation hearts he bought her.


And, oh.
Someone in the women's bathroom decided to shit in the trashcan.

Scribbled by Mene Tekel at 10:52 PM PST

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