Vanderbilt Classic(aka blog stolen from my myspace page)

All in all, the best way to shorten the grass on your lawn is with a "lawn mower." I know what you're thinking: "mow"? What kind of word is that? Quite strange, indeed. If my memory serves correct, "mow" is a shortening of the title of the famous boardgame, "Mownopoly." When you mow your lawn, you are cutting the grass short and flat, like a Mownopoly board.

We've all had fun on our front lawns, whether it was dancing around the sprinkler when we were kids, or rolling around on it last week before we drove over to our ex's house so the clippings would camoflouge us as we hid on her front lawn all night watching her bedroom to make sure no one was with her. But there were bad times, too. One time, and I'm sure you can relate to this, when I was 10, I was innocently playing in my front yard, kicking a ball about as the kids at the time liked to do, when a bat flew out of a tree, smack into the side of my head. I was stunned, scared, a little wet by now too. I couldn't move, I was mesmorized by this horribly ugly creature flailing about in front of me. It ended up on my lap, and thats when I became stunned, scared, wet and stinky. Then it bit me. Fortunately, the bat wasn't rabid, and things actually turned out pretty good, because it told me where the invisible treasure was. I wrote out everything it told me onto my shirt with my blood. I have to say, I was pretty resourceful at 10. I still have all the directions. I just need a few more items for the broth I have to make, but I'm running out of time. Only 12 more years until it's visible again!

In conclusion, lawns are made of grass, and dogs generally poop on them. Thank you for reading my graduate school thesis.

My Name is Paul Kersey(if shitface wrote it)

yo, I'm Paul Kersey yo

Some bro-has raped and killed my wife and daughter. man i want to kill them for that. i got hella madd gunz yo . you should meet my friend wildey he has real stopping power. so what if i killed the Giggler? i'll put nails in boards until
all them scums got holes in their heads. thats for killing all my furney. and the dude from the matrix raped my daughter while he was wearing lavar burton goggles. that shit was ass.

i always get 5 minutes though. five minutes to run and be an architect somewhere else and get a girlfriend somewhere else and then they will die and i will have to kill more creeps. hey, that's my car.

i owe you one, dude.

My Name is Paul Kersey

I keep a photograph of my daughter
in a silver frame, on my bedside
table, next to the ceramic
painted pony I bought her the day
she was raped again, the day
that turned into the night
she died. She jumped out a warehouse
window, landed on a metal fence,
and I wonder if her too-long mute
throat made any noise at all.
I wish I could have heard her say
my name just once more.
She's made me fill these wrinkled hands
with steel, and my mind
with wishes of a different kind.

When I hear a speechless creep gasp
and watch his eyes solicit reprieve,
I know that every empty chamber
leaves room for air; every pull
of the trigger's a separate prayer.

Weekend Requests

If my hands become soiled,
as they tend to do in
crowded spaces, please
point me towards a sink and soap.
And don't wait outside the door.
I'll be a while.

If my eyes become wicked, if a storm
takes shape, please
don't back away. That would only
kill the hope that sleeps behind
my lightning irises.

If my jacket gets caught,
on a doorknob, a wayward chair,
a toothy grin, please don't wander
far. A standard indent will keep
me comforted. A paragraph or more
and I'm lost for good.

And whatever words my tongue writes,
please white them out.

The Party

The party began with a whimper,
but soon enough I couldn't move,
trapped in a corner by a blimp, or
should I say man, with a beer in his hand.
I had to crawl away, on my hands and knees
at a sub-party level, foam and spittle
rapping my skull like a snare drum.

When I emerged in a clearing, when I
stood back on my feet, my knees were damp
stains, my hands covered in lovers' muck.
I turned around and saw two tongues touching,
four hands holding, five golden earrings,
and a familiar face in unfamiliar fingers.
I wished I had stayed with the blimp. Maybe
he could have floated me over this to a safer
place. I turned for the door, homeward
to dry my slacks and drink to forgetting, for
I knew this party would end
with a different whimper.

Need Answer. Please!

This question has been bothering me, and I can't find the answer on IMDB: On Saved by the Bell, who played Jessie's step-brother, Eric? In my mind, I keep seeing BJ Novak, the intern from The Office, but it's not listed in his profile, nor is the character listed in the SBTB information. God, it's lunchtime already, but I don't know if I'll ever be able to eat again until I know the answer. Help...me....

half man half machine

Im robocop yo
you can't stop me yo, I got a gat that fires three shots at a time. Honestly man, I got a targeting system that will straight fuck you up. I once took on a whole narcotics factory by myself. I threw the dad from that 70's show through mad walls. I also am pretty slow. I take an approach similar to the juggernaut. You can't stop me. They chopped me up into pieces one time. Shit was ass. Also, motherfuckas reprogrammed my memory unsecessfully. I was supposed to be a machine, but I remembered my family. I ate apple sauce one time to. It wasn't that good.

OCP owns me though, I hate those motherfuckers. Everytime I think about sex thay make me watch reruns of punky brewster.

SERVE THE PUBLIC TRUST
PROTECT THE INNOCENT
UPHOLD THE LAW

Morality?

I posit a question? What is morality? Not so much what is it, but what makes one morally just or evil? Hitler was evil, right? That point can belabored forever, however when we talk about figures in history, or in the media, we are quick to judge them by our own moral standards. To describe these persons some use phrases such as 'that man or woman has small character'. I use the word scumbag. Scumbag has become a positive way to describe myself, however. Am I proud of being a scumbag? On my birthday I got a call from a colleague. He wished a happy birthday to me and chose to celebrate the twenty third anniversary of the biggest scumbag alive being born. I took this as a compliment.

Does this morality prevent us from doing what really feels good. Morality is a spatial-temporal phenomenon. It is specific to the space that is created. In the end it seems as if old testament morality has spread to most of the human species. Moral constraint is a fine word in my opinion. Persons such as myself gain great pleasure in loosening or in some cases breaking these constraints. Though most of society ultimately looks down on these actions, on a personal level they are most enjoyable.

I struggle with this question as a result of recent events that have even plagued the immortal Shitface McStevens. If something feels so right, if it makes so much sense, why deny it? Is it enough to deny yourself happiness, just because it's wrong by other peoples standards, and society as a whole? The circles you run in dictate your concepts of loyalty and friendship.

I am not a rule breaker. I don't like asking people for directions, nor do I purposely disrespect people most of time. If I don't know you, I'll probably listen to you for a while even if I hate you. For years I have done what teachers, professors, colleagues, and others have told me. Though I may feel anguish about it, I'll carry on and do it. When it comes to situations in which there seems to be no real consequences for my actions, let's say in the domain of Binghamton, or shitting on my friend Brian and his girlfriend, I can transform into this rule breaker who intends on doing things that would make the biggest scumbags cringe.

The scary situation is the one in which you do not consciously break the rule, but in a way you confidently saunter through it like you are a ghost caring little for who you hurt. Love or a perceived sense of worth or happiness can lead us in some strange directions. In a matter of hours, days, or weeks, priorities can change. The multiple identities we all have are constantly in conflict. The most clever have either learned to balance them with cunning (gizer), or chose to completely ignore them. Unfortunately, some situations even unnerve the most relaxed among us. I want to be here. I was for a while, but like most strong feelings that I have had, I eventually master and conquer them. War metaphors and emotions usually don't mix well, but my case they have to.

(poem i wrote for class but won't submit)

You remind me of a blade of grass
In a field,
Growing tall and green
Amidst your sisters,
Swaying like you got religion,
Shaking like you’ve been saved.

I wish I could say I was the sun
You reach for, or the soil
Beneath you, feeding you,
but I am just the child
Who runs through you,
Whose foot hides the light
From you, whose weight arches you
Groundward. I could stand there for days,
I could water you to drowning,
In miniscule rivers,
But still you’d stand up,
If a little bent, if a little
Curved; but still you’d play in the wind
And sleep beneath the snow.

The Death of a Clown

I recently attended services for a clown, and let me tell you, a clown's funeral is no laughing matter. Death is a sobering experience, especially for those whose profession is to be light-hearted; there is no humor. Except at the wake, when colleague after colleague sprayed the deceased's cold face with water from the fake flowers on their lapels. And when the procession arrived, the party of 80 all travelling in the one hearse. How do they do that? And when, after the eulogy, a clown shook the priest's hand, giving him a shocking thanks. That was all kind of funny. But when they lowered poor Rizzo into the earth, the only thing you could see was streaked makeup, the only thing you could hear were tears for a clown. And some sporadic fart noises. That was pretty funny too.

My First Cigarette

There was a butcher at the grocery store
when I was sixteen
who would tell me about his
carnal relations with a canary,
and the culminating
snapping of its neck.
He had needlemarks on his arms,
in between a tiger's claw
and oxidized barb wire.
I noticed this as he handed me
my first cigarette,
a cigarette I requested,
and I saw his wide shoulders
on his squat frame,
his greying beard,
his decayed teeth in a friendly smile,
and the anonymous blood
on his company apron.
His nails were long as talons.
Sometimes, now, when I light
up a Marlboro,
I can't help wondering
if birds have vaginas.

The Game of Life

So the other night I was staring intently into my closet. I wasn't in search of what shirt and tie I would wear tomorrow but instead I was looking at my bored games.

Please note that I refer to them as "bored" not "board" for reasons that:

1. Most of them do not consist of a few plastic pieces and a board anymore, rather an elaborate construction of plastic and diecast metal characters that when putting back into the "easy storage box" would make a professional map folder suicidal.
2. The only reason you are playing these games is because your Playstation or Gamecube isn’t working.

I digress.

I gazed from spine to spine evaluating the probability that if I even voice my opinion to my would be adversary would it be a waste of breath. I quickly dismissed “The Simpsons Jeopardy”, a thoughtful Christmas gift from my parents that I had received a year previous. In fact I have never played this game because the only person I could think of that I could actually play it with and have a worthy opponent would be Madison Sinclair, and that would only be if prohibition was resurrected and our speakeasy got busted up. So by default “The Simpsons Clue” and “The Simpsons Chess” were eliminated as well.

Once again, I digress.

Finally I saw it, Milton Bradley’s “The Game of Life” (unfortunately I do not own The Simpsons version). I reflected back on all the good times I had playing this game and the better times I had playing it on my computer (less setup time and funny cartoons result in an increase of enjoyability). This reflection spurred an inner dialogue between my current self and a past self.
When I was younger this game of ups and downs gave such an optimistic look at life. Think about it, in about 2 spins you have received all of your education and you are making a decent paycheck (although I do think the game which was created in 1860, needs to be adjusted for inflation every 5 years). In almost 3 more spins you are married to some woman named “Peg” (that’s game piece humor) and you have a house.

It happens that quick. We’re not even 30 spaces into our “Life” and the most important part of real life is done and over with, and there is still another 3/4 of the game to go. Personally, I’m not even past the education part but I have a career, a child, and I’ll be getting married (not to Peg) in less than a year. To push the point even more, I will not be climbing Mount Everest, flying a plane, or curing some rare disease and even if I did cure some rare disease I would certainly be paid more than $2000.

I concluded that this game is not even a close representation of “Life”, and I began my search for a game that more closely resembles it. I left my closet space and ventured to my son’s closet.
Try as I might but I could not draw any parallels involving “Hungry, Hungry Hippos”, “Trouble”, “Sorry”, or even “Star Wars Monopoly” (I really tried on this one). Then it hit me, really it hit me, I was pushing boxes to the side and then it slid off the shelf and whacked me in the head; “Chutes and Ladders”. Whether you are playing with chutes or snakes, this game is truly “The Game of Life”.

There are no ridiculous spaces claiming that your house has burned down, or that you have won some “contest”. Instead you trudge through the 100 grid squares moving, at most, 6 spaces at a time. If you are lucky you might land on a ladder and you move ahead quickly. But just as I have experienced, for as quick as you move through your life you can always hit those damn chutes and it brings you down and you have to start moving up either by ladders or space by space.

Nobody is certain what life holds, it’s about as predictable as a 20-sided die. All you can be sure of is that there will be ladders to climb, slides to go down and someone will always make it to 100 then the game of “life” is over and you only made it to 73.

Newsflash: You Will Never Be Happy

In case you haven't heard yet, let me let you in on the big news: Happiness is a myth. It's true. Recently, a group of scientists at the University of France stumbled upon this truth* while working on HIV medication. I don't know much science talk, but supposedly the proof was in the protease.

This news has shed some light on many things concerning happiness. For one, it turns out love is also a lie, perpetuated by knotty old men in cloaks and hoods wearing heart-shaped pendants, with last names like Hallmark, Spielberg, and Hitler. That feeling of affection you get when you think about that "someone special?" It's bullshit, don't trust it. It's just a mix of lust and starches. I had a feeling this was the case, as many of my previous experiences had hinted at the fallacy of love(I'm looking at you, Carl Weathers), but I still held out some hope. This only crushed my hope and confirmed my fears. Thank you, scientists, you heartless bastards.

Also, the ramifications of this breakthrough extend to the work place. Using a solar-powered calculator and a tricked-out Gameboy Color, it can now be proven without a doubt that you will never find the perfect job. Been wanting to be a pediatrician all your life? You'll hate it. Think you'd be happier if you just got that promotion? Nope, you'll still be miserable. "Why work, then?" you may ask. Well, it turns out the equation also proves that you will be equally unhappy without a job, with your stress(variable s) being replaced with a feeling of uselessness(variable nes). Now, whenever someone tells you that he/she "loves" his/her job, you can say without hesitation, "You are a lying bitch."(In an unrelated experiment, Swedish scientists have concluded that 'bitch' can be effectively used on either gender)

Am I happy about this news? Of course not. But I suppose knowing the truth is better than living a lie, right? Actually, no, it's not. I think I'll start doing drugs.


*Other minor findings: your childhood pet was not sent to a farm, your parents resent you for ruining their sex-lives, you will never be the best at anything, and your girlfriend is still attracted to other men.

50th Post!

This is BfN's 50th post. Woo-hoo! I would like to celebrate this milestone by thanking a few people. First, I'd like to thank the team members: Madison, for his expert comments; Pinche, for coming back and then turning our little blog bi-lingual(now we're bored in two languages!); Shitface, for being generally retarded; and R-to-the-P, for his words of wisdom. I'd also like to thank myself: Thanks Vanderbilt, you are truly an awesome and cool dude.

Secondly, a big 'thank you' has to go to God. I think it's in the Blogger user agreement. This 'thank you' is about 10 feet wide and is made of pure steel, just like my biceps. Hopefully Your angels can carry it up to You. And don't worry, it's supposed to make that ticking sound.

Anyways, it looks like we might be building up some momentum, so let's keep the posts coming. A special thanks to that person who reads this on his/her computer. You know who you are. I, however, don't.

Next meaningless milestone, here we come!

Crisis de Identidad

Siempre he tenido el mismo crisis, en respecto a mi indentidad. Soy muy guera para ser Mexicana. El acento de mi lengua me traiciona. El tinto de mi pelo me disfrasa. El estilo de mi vestuario es moderno. Soy muy Latina para ser Americana. Mi corazon canta en Espanol. Mis ojos miran los colores vibrantes de mis paisanos. Mi ser busca mi cultura. Mi boca busca lo picante.

No soy ni de aqui, ni del otro lado. Estoy en un limbo. Esperando que me den la mano y salir del abysmo. Pero para cual lado me salvo? Las oportunidades que se me ofrecen por el color de mi piel son muchas. Y son muchas las que dejo perder. El calor de mis raices son aun muchas mas. Y es mucho el calor que dejo perder.

La vida sabrosa y con fuego se vive mejor. Porque es vida. Esa si es vida. Y en el fondo de mi corazon es lo que mas me hace falta. Y yo lo se. Yo lo he sabido toda mi vida. Y es apenas que lo voy aceptando.

Parece que la mano que me salvara sera la mia misma. Adelante. Con fuerzas saldre del abysmo para superarme y al mismo tiempo superar toda la raza. Recuerden mi nombre, y recuerden mis suenos.

Would you watch this show?

Patrick is a college graduate and an atheist who can't find a job. He sees a job advertisement in his local Mid-west newspaper looking for door-to-door bible salesmen. After acing the interview, he learns that his boss is in fact God, and also meets his wacky co-workers: Paul, an elderly zealot with a foul vocabulary; Jeremiah, a repressed homosexual; Tim and Kim, fraternal twins who constantly finish each other's sentences and meals; Francine, God's Jewish secretary; and Matthew, who is black, just to name a few. There is also a fellow named Samuel, who is pretty normal, and who Patrick befriends. In addition to earning a paycheck, they are all competing each month to sell the most bibles, with the winner having a wish granted by their boss. The job is full of trials for Patrick, most of them coming from Satan, who takes the form of lusty housewives, angry dogs, FBI agents, and pieces of gum that get stuck to Patrick's shoes. Will Patrick ever sell enough bibles to be granted a wish? What would his wish be? If you work for God, is every girl you meet the boss' daughter? What's it like having sex with Satan? Will these experiences help Patrick change his heathen ideas? Will I ever get around to writing the pilot? These are just some of the thought-provoking questions surrounding Bible Salesman of the Month.

Praise the Lord

Are religious nuts oblivious to their freakiness? If said nuts, feel the presence of the lord come over them and begin to fall to their knees, raise their hands towards the heavens, vociferously praising the lord (at Toys R Us, mind you) - is it freaky? Or am I overreacting? I'm not judging, except to say that I think it's freaky. As the saying goes, "to each their own," right? Wrong! I have a real problem with these people. Then, as the judgement cloak feels heavier and heavier, I try to accept these people, as they are, and I simply can't. I can't see myself having a conversation with them over a cup of tea. Does this make me hateful and elitist?

you forgot what?

Shit! Fuck! Crap! Nards! Smithsonianizer! I can't believe I forgot. The most important moment in my life and I forgot! Only if I had remembered, would have things changed? Fuck this Shizer! Am I real? Are you real? Are we real? Only if I had not done what I did to that silly sandwich. The future could have changed, and the rightful owners of that 86' blue Tornado, could be petting cats and shit. Sigh, the only things that keeps me going anymore is holding in bowel movements, and then releasing them, ever so slowly.

Did I mention I simply detest bread that's toasted. Why would you? I mean, what's the point of heating bread, its already hot enough already. And toast? That's an original name. Let's name a food after the action that forms it. Shit is annoying.

I was at the corner store, and some guy asked me, "Excuse me sir, do you know the time" I laughed in that faggots face. AHAHAHAHAHAHAH. Only gays don't know the time, its against their religion.

I walk everywhere. Once, I walked to the park. I had a good time. It was nice. I walked home.

Public Toilets

As who ever is reading this well knows, Shitface McStevens is a sick bastard. I actually enjoy doin the do(#2) in public toilets. Some say that everytime you shit where someone else does, you take a piece of them with you. In essence, you borrow their strength. I don't really buy it, but there is something comforting about farting into a small bowl filled with water that many people have before you. Also its like adventure every time. They can smell bad, or in even more peculiar situations, actually smell good. If you're like me you get freaked out when the toilet is clean and smells good. You're like, what happened here? Did someone actually aim when they were taking a piss, or did someone take a clean shit? Impossible.

Being the scumbag I am, when I drink the 'cohol' (worst nickname ever) I enjoy pissing on everything in the bathroom! and I mean everything! All over the toilet, the toilet handle, up the paper tower dispenser, on the button the hands dryer, all over the sink, and the mirror if they have one. The great thing is, no one will ever know its you, but you can be sure that someone will accidently touch your piss. They might not even know it! The real dick thing is to piss on the door handle. That way it is inevitable that someone will touch your piss, and eventually put their hands to their mouth...

Finally, dropping creamy nuggets into public toilet soup can be point of pride. I have taken shits in diverse places such as pizza hut buffet bathrooms, amusement park speazies, and club johns. About the latter... Wow that shit was grimy. Had free flow too, shit tumbled down like a million dollar house in Malibu after a downpour following a drought. I spent close to a half hour in there. It was a unisex bathroom, which are the best to blow up by the way. So I had mad peeps yell at me. Fortunately, I have little shame so it didn't bother me to much. When I left, the attendant knew what I had done and said, "mother fucka, you gots to give me a tip for that shit" We both laughed, but out hands together (unwashed), and said, "ONE, TWO, THREE GIRLS," and proceeded to jump up and slap hands like the saved by the bell episode where they find oil at Bayside. I wanted to shit on it, but yes... There is actually oil in California. That shit could've happened, however the earthquake episode lacks legibility. GOD! Real earthquakes don't last that long!

My Return

I sat at a window table, alone, playing with my food. I was struggling to use my chopsticks. I've never been good with chopsticks, but I refuse to eat Chinese food without them. "It's part of the dining experience," I recall a friend telling me. Little Ollies was alive with noises, conversations, and the sound of clanking china. The floor to ceiling windows gave a Panoramic view to the intersection of Clayton and First, the corner that my favorite Chinese restaurant sat on. I noticed that the windows were fogging slightly around the edges, indicative of the dropping temperatures outside. It always gets so cold after the sun goes down. I found my gaze lost in the gently falling snow flakes that were visible as they floated into the light of the street lamp. A lass in a black skirt and black thigh high boots caught my attention as she walked the sidewalk adjacent to the restaurant's window towards the intersection with a hurried pace. We were only separated by the window's glass as she walked by. She carried a worn, overstuffed canvas bag with the letters, 'NPR' printed on the side, slung over her right shoulder. Under her left arm was a book that was pressed tightly between her body and her arm. She was struggling while putting on her red gloves. Her mind must have been concentrating on the gloves and not her path. She slipped on a patch of ice and fell to the ground. She used her hands to catch herself, simultaneously sending her book and bag flying in the air. To no avail, she landed on her butt, with her legs stretched out in front of her and her toes pointed in towards each other. Her shoulders were slumped forward with resignation. I could see her profile, but not her facial expression. She sat there, tragically beautiful, illuminated by the street lamp. The snow landed gently on her jet black hair. After what seemed like a minute, she looked in my direction and instantly locked my gaze. I deliberately mouthed, "Do you need help," giving her an awkward wave. She smiled slightly with kindness and embarrassment, shook her head no, picked up her sprawled belongings and got up. She wiped the moisture from the book cover with her red-gloved hands. She stood up straight and proud. Studied the ground and took her first, careful step. She crossed the street with a confident jog and continued on her hurried way.

You know what's weird?

Public toilets. They are just weird. Sitting in a little stall; doing your business next to some other dude doing his business; the mingling of odors; when the guy in the stall next to you is a grunter. That's the worst. It was cute to make noises while you shat when you were a few months old, but NOT WHEN YOU ARE 56! Totally destroys any hope of a boner. Or when the grunter spends as much time wiping as he did pooping. I HATE THAT. It just makes me clench longer.

People. Weird with a capital 'W' and lowercase '-eird.' I mean, you never know what they're thinking, unless they say it out loud, and 99% of that is lies anyway. This is one of the main reasons that I speak as few words as possible, and those words are lies, each and every one of them. Example: People say "How is your day going, Vanderbilt?" I say, "Fine." I'm not going to let people pull one over on me.

Madison Sinclair. Seems he's given up posting and has become a professional commenter. Nothing wrong with that, but you might want to change your name to ROGER EBERT. THE FILM CRITIC. BECAUSE HE COMMENTS ON THINGS FOR A LIVING.

Returning

When she came to the door of her apartment, when she turned the lock with her key, she noticed that it was already unlocked. Entering the front hall, the living room light was unexpectedly on. "Hello?" she yelled, repeated. Grabbing the umbrella in the entrance tightly with both hands, she tiptoed her way towards the light.

The first thing she noticed was the sound, a familiar crunching. She saw nothing in the room that would make such a sound, no broken radiator or faulty VCR, but still it persisted, and still she couldn't place how she knew it. She followed its source, across the room, past the glass table, near the couch, and that's when she saw the shoes, toes pointed towards the ceiling.

He had left 9 months earlier, his departure abrupt and unexplained. And now he was lying behind her couch, sprawled out with his arms and legs opened wide, his body like a fallen star. His teeth were grinding, hard and rough like rusty gears, and she could smell the alcohol on him without having to crouch. His jacket was stained(soil? blood?), as were the knees of his jeans, and she nudged his hand with the toe of her boot. He did not move, just kept grinding. Suddenly, she found her foot was in the air behind her, building up momentum for a strike to his stomach, but she stopped it mid-swing. Her boot hit the floor, grounding her anger for the moment.

She wished he was gone, and she wished he was awake, sober. There were too many questions, all starting with 'why.' But there would be no answers tonight. Tossing the umbrella onto the couch, she stepped over him on her way to her bedroom, locking the door behind her. In bed with her eyes shut, she wondered if this time she'd be able to hear the fading footsteps. She could still hear his violent teeth.