Overthunk

Firstly, if you like robot/love related webcomics, go here: http://dieselsweeties.com/ A caveat tho: Prepare to burn up a whole bunch of life-hours. There are hundreds of strips, and WAY cool shirts too. Oh yeah, the 12 minutes! The guy who makes diesel sweeties is rstevens . He has a livejournal . On November 4, he put a link to this 12 minute brain fuddling song?, called Intro-Introspection. If you want it, find it here . It's 12 minutes of song intros, mashed up together. It might make you insane. I'm on the 2nd listen and I can't decide if I want to hear it again or throw up. It's unnatural. It's kissing Pitt, Affleck, Ford, Damon, Clooney, Kravitz, Mortensen, McGregor, Ledger, Banderas, Bloom, and Wilson, and then walking away. I could go on, but that would just delay you a little more from indulging your morbid curiosity, like I did. If it gets too intense, just plug your ears and after 12 minutes, it will go away.

Isn't the finest art scrawled on a found index card in a frustrated moment of clothing failure?

The other day in math class, my cadre of padawans and I had a problem in which we had to figure out how many minutes old we were. They, being 8 or 9 years old, fell somewhere between 4 and 4.7 million minutes and change. I, however, have racked up 18,396,000 or so. 6,132,000 have been spent asleep (give or take). I've spent 12,264,000 or more listening to music. In the past decade and a half, I've probably spent 2 million or so online. I've probably spent at least 873,000 in a directly foul or negative mood, sometimes related to whatever happened online. A year is 525,600 minutes. In another 18 million minutes, give or take, this mounting pile of papery slices of time is going to go up in one big bonfire. Chris Martin tells me "everything's not lost" though. ------------------------------------------ "Can't stop the spirits when they need you / This life is more than just a read-through" -- Flea, Kiedis and Co.

is that while you're laboring over Crunchy Sweet Mixed Nuts, you tend to want to taste test them. A LOT. Non-Food Ingredients for Christmas baking: Rockin' CD (and player, as you can see) One? glass egg nog (only 420 calories each!) Hardcore self-discipline A large-print sign taped in a highly visible place that reads: IF YOU EAT ALL THE GIFTS, YOU'LL HAVE TO SHOP AGAIN. If you're feeling classy, a chilled glass of pinot grigio. If it's further from payday, maybe a shot or 3 of the pumpkin schnapps left over from Halloween last year. Hope all y'all's gifting is going merrily!

I have invented a new marketing tool for cellphones. Observe: Living with a roommate/s? Do you have sexual relations? Do they? Then you need SPS: the Sexual Positioning System! Use this state of art device to alert your housing compadre to your or his/her sexual needs for the space ASAP! Never listen to your roommate's partner's dirty "skank calls" again! Order SPS now and be assured of a disturbance-free New Year's eve ass-gittin'! SPS: Position yourself to score!

To begin with, I deftly rent the body in half, slicing through its soft skin, the ruby contents spilling onto the floor. I chose one tool, then another, with which to do my dismembering. I thought it best to cut each of its parts loose with a sharp knife. Its lifeblood flowed into a bowl I had placed below the body for the purpose of catching the nutrient-rich fluids that, until recently, had sustained it. Each of the sections was then devoured. Not yet satisfied, I squeezed the innards mercilessly, greedily drinking the dripping blood one spoonful at a time. Finished, I cast the empty husk into the garbage bin and went to wash my hands of the sticky evidence.

A few posts back, I mentioned The Lady Who's Not Into Dogs. She has repeated her dramatics to the extent that now, she is my nemesis. If I were just a shade more evil, I could secretly snap her picture and post it here on the Internet for all to see, for she traverses the very ground outside my domicile right now as I type. Thankfully, a sliver of my honor remains, and I have suffered her to power walk another day, my friends. But that doesn't mean I have ceased to loathe her. For she hath, in the parlance of modern-day kitchen warriors, "kicked it up a notch." Now she walks not alone, but with a young man, some son or perhaps grandson of her lineage (I cannot logic why else a man of that age should accompany her on Sunday strolls at 8 am, although I shudder at my imagination's gibberings). As they walk, the man carries a staff of some kind of shiny metal with purple plastic rings at intervals. Though its appearance is silly, it is about 3 feet long and and at lea

If you are reading this, then I am thankful for you, for you are assisting in this carnival of self-aggrandizing that we call a blog. Have a relatively safe, drunken-argument free holiday, all of you. And try not to hate your family on the drive home. I'll do the same. But no promises.

This is a Birth Control Pill Case, with alarm. The red script on the packaging says, "When Timing is Everything." Now, what I'm wondering is, just who was the target demographic for this item? Because what this item says to me is: "Don't forget again, you previously errant uterus." Of course, this particular dollar store stocks only the finest deeply offensive products. ------------------------------------- "You put yourself in stupid places / Yes I think you know it’s true / Situations where it’s easy to look down on you" -- A. Alexakis

This is my kind of joke. It's got a third grade sensibility. And it has nothing to do with any fermented grape juice I may or may not have ingested. ------------------------------------ The garbage man came early today. I heard his truck from inside the house so I threw on my robe and ran outside to catch him. He was pulling away from the neighbors curb when he saw me running waiving my arms. "Hey! Wait!" I said catching up to him. "Am I too late for the garbage?" He looked me up and down and said, "No, jump in."

Booze and drugs!!! That's what I hit the Super Wal-Mart today for!! Alright, fine, it was Primatene and pinot grigio.

I'm sick. Of work, and all its accompanying flamjamzytram, so I took today off. On the constitutional with Le Puggin this morning, I passed a woman walking with her shiny silver weights. As the puggin and I got within, oh, fifty paces or so, she began to froth at the mouth in this manner: " notintadogs I'mnotintadogs PLEASE I'mnotintadogs! " Now understand that this darling canine creature stands about 12 inches high at the very pinnacle of his velvet triangle ears. While he does rail against and steer the end of the retractable leash with all his might like some snuffling, furry kite, all his might ain't that much. He was nowhere near her, and I was already reeling him in. I said nothing, but every time I passed her on the circle track after that, I contemplated "accidentally" dropping the leash, loosing a slavering, gregarious toy hound upon her. (On the upside, now when Le Puggin annoys me, I can threaten to send him to the house of t

Is to get this in response to your teeny-tiny-little-speck-of-hope-ass email: "I found someone. I'm in a relationship now for about 3 months. It's going pretty well. What have you been up to?" What's the moral of this sad, sad thing, kids? Avoid hope like the plague. Don't listen to Jesse Jackson. Kill hope like it was a rat-sized fire ant that burned a flag on your front lawn on the Fourth of July.

Is to somehow be present for a whole string of songs that are amazing, one of which was "Where Is My Mind?" by the folks above. (Which brings up the fact that another way to be badass is to start a song's vocals with "woooooooo oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!") This morning, I had a better idea for what this post would be about, but it slipped from my consciousness with the day's labors. Another way to be badass is to own, and wear, a pair of smart black boots. {One way to not be badass is to send an email to a man you haven't spoken to in some time, and feel bold and daring up until the instant you pull that "send" button trigger and it flies off into cyberspace, into that swamp of love, and you just hope your little crawdad trap of 25 words or less will pull in something nourishing.} ---------------------------------------- It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are. e. e. cummings

The other day on my way home, my friend and I were driving behind this guy. Hay-toting trucks are a fairly common sight in our neck of the prairie, and everytime we see one, we shout, "HEY! HAY!" Getting closer, though, we realized: "Hey! That hay is just about to fall off that there truck!" Although we spent a couple seconds giggling at how "funnier n' crap" it would be to see someone crashing into hay and said hay exploding all over the road like some kinda dead grass blizzard, we soon thought, "Hey, that could be us behind that hay..." and "Hey, someone else would rear end us. Hey, that's not funny." So we pulled up next to the truck and my friend waved at the cowboy driver, who, from beneath his hat of straw, smiled, and said, "Hey." "HEY! You don't understand! HAY! Check yer HAY!" we hollered. But it wasn't any use. He kept tooling that duallie on down the road, and a couple blocks later he turn

For some reason, Thor's Day has become a drinking day. A mini celebration of/by your fucking self day. And I don't know why. And if you've got a reason, post it here. But right now, my only reason is ritual. So cheers. :)

' ' ' ' ' pillar of the earth unbeknowst to me I was farming you and dozens of your squishy brethren amongst the lurid proliferation of morning glories and moonflowers that I thought would be pretty in front of the house. Though for weeks I saw, indirectly, you, in senseless, bloated gluttony, making the obscenely verdant, lustily growing heart-shaped leaves holy, I did not ken to the fact that middle-finger sized brownish larvae were living in harmony (sin?) with pencil-thick creepers of fluorescent green, One of whom yesterday clung squirmily to my shirt as I passed Nearly causing a freakout and/or vomiting. O ' ' ' ' ' pillar when the blustering wind knocked the trellis free from the wall the roots of vines held on You must have slammed in soft, wormy brainlessness to the ground And perhaps, in momentary, dull wonder that you did not get impaled that time Found squashing mortality the next moment beneath my sandal And I, lifting the trellis ag

Yesterday I had to videotape myself for a school assignment. Rather than the intended purpose of causing me to reflect upon my professional skills, it rather drove me into a blizzard of self-deprecation regarding my physical appearance, demeanor, and romantic prospects. Conclusions: 1) I exude no sex appeal whatever, in the absence of cantilevered* physical attributes. 2) I'm not that hot a dresser, most days. 3) I should really not push my hair behind my ears like that. 4) The thought, "Oh. Wow. Who would want to mate with that ?" So, legions of manhood who are neither elbowing nor jousting one another in a frenzied rush for my attentions, I forgive you. Now I understand. * - "cantilevered" used courtesy of Margaret Atwood, The Edible Woman

Cowboys Dance Hall -- Arlington, Texas Dwight Yoakam Saturday, October 8, 2005 TICKETS ONLY $12!!! ------------------- Turns out they don't ask if you're a country music poseur, they just take your $12.oo and don't worry about how many Judas Priest concerts you've been to. I'll let y'all know if I get arrested for Attempting to Touch the Boots of Dwight Yoakam or anything (although I'm in the cheap seats so that's not likely).

My drive to work through the ghettos and the grottoes of this fair city washes up oh, so many lovely specimens of our species to my consciousness. This a.m. I'm hurtling between the speed and school zones when a light stops me. While sitting there waiting, I spot a black-clad cowboy, wearing flip flops and a black Stetson with a fancy silver-concho band about the crown. He's sucking on a stub of a cigarette as if it contained the breath of life and bopping along the sidewalk, jamming out to something on his headphones. Coming up beside him on the left is a gang-emblazoned "no parking" sign. He keeps bopping, but as he approaches the sign, he eyes it suspiciously. Apparently that sign must've whispered somethin' impertinent to that lone ranger, 'cause he wheeled on it and slammed it an audible right hook on its back side, leaving me to finish the drive to work stunned at the insanity lurking everywhere.

This weekend there's a rock show going down at a festival that's being held in Corpus Christi. And just because it's an eight hour drive, or a $275.00 plane ticket and a hurricane passed through there a few days ago, none of my friends want to go. It's clear that no one loves rock 'n' roll like I do. Perhaps, despite my absence at their bacchanalia, I will appease the gods of rock with the fervor of my pouting.

Lately I've been taken with the notion of writing songs. I don't know why. I love songs. I write poems. But I really never considered combining the two until recently. So the other day I was sitting in yet another boring work training trying to pen some boss-hatin' song lyrics while appearing to be diligently taking notes, when I realized that Fred Durst had already expressed my feelings far more eloquently than I could. While I was penning weakass stuff, Limp Bizkit had already captured my emotional state in the classic "Break Stuff": Its just one of those days When you don't wanna wake up Everything is fucked, Everybody sux You don't really know why But you wanna justify Rippin' someone's head off No human contact And if you interact Your life is on contract Your best bet is to stay away motherfucker It's just one of those days!! Its all about the he says she says bullshit I think you better quit Lettin' shit slip Or you'll be lea

or just a Note To Self: Don't shoot tequila while doing this. Just don't, alright?

Four years ago at this time, I was riding shotgun in a speeding truck with a chica of mine. She's from Texas too, but was living in DC then. I was jobless and there for a visit. When I'd bought the return ticket, I had a choice of a 10 am or 5 pm flight out on September 11. I didn't feel like I'd want to get up that early, so I picked the evening flight. That morning, another chica of ours had called us up, telling us to turn on the news. The phone call woke us up and we were sure it was a joke. The first thing I saw when I woke up that morning was the smoking Pentagon. The next thing I did after picking my jaw up off the floor was start packing. She did too. There was no discussion or planning. We knew what we had to do: get back to Texas. We didn't know what was going to happen, we didn't know if there were ground troops, we didn't know if there would be roadblocks, but we did know that we were going to make it back to where that Lone Star was flying or di

so maybe that's why I had a weirdass dream in which I was doing like a one woman improvisational show. In my dream, I was creating an impromptu sketch, and I was Eve (of the "Adam and" variety) and I was playing the part like Eve was a dippy broad and the apple was some kind of unmissable shoe sale type deal that had to be seen and done (eaten). And I kept having Adam dudes come up and try to have their way while I was doing the sketch. And the end of the sketch, I took the apple and took a huge bite, and it went "CRUNCH!" and the audience (who seemed to be mostly older women) gasped audibly. And then both the dream and the show ended simultaneously. So it was kind of brilliant, if I had a script. Perhaps I should write one. Oh yeah, LVLH comes in because in it, there's a guy with Adam and Eve entertwined in a tattoo on his arm. And it's a nifty book from which a movie is being made. And, not being a current events commentator, I have nothing of value to

Nothing in my power can stop the high school boys in my neighborhood from hooting at me out the windows of their cars. I am fat and slightly old. They are young and stupid. So they hoot. It is what they have done since time immemorial. I imagine that Ice Age adolescents, hitching foolish rides on wayward mammoths, leered and grunted insultingly at the dumpy women of their tribes as these same women stooped and grasped for berries. Well, it wasn't berries I was stooping for the other day as I stood on the corner while walking the pup. See, Pip had done his secondary business a bit too near to someone's yard, so at the very moment I heard the hooting, I was using a stick to flick poop into the gutter in the interest of being a marginally good neighbor (i.e. at least it's not on your grass). So it's good that I am a whisper above the dirty apes. Because it did occur to me that some hurled dogshit smacking against the windshield, or with any luck flying into the open passen

So I had to take Le Puggin in for his yearly heartworm test (which he passed, and is worm free, thank Christ). He's a year and five months old, and I just never have gotten around to getting him snipped. I've told myself all this time that it's because of time constraints and just not having the extra cash free to do it, but in reality, I'm in denial (as usual). It's not about the time or the money. It's about guilt. I've gotten used to him as is, and the thought of sending him away and getting him back a little lighter than before just kinda feels wrong to me. I'm not sure why this is a sudden issue. I've had cats, and neutered them. But I guess with dogs (and male dogs in particular) it would be more obvious and guilt inducing. "You really wanna get this done as soon as possible," the vet advised me as he poked and prodded. "They develop habits from carrying these things around." This just spawned a host of defensive thoughts in

Today as I was driving along in Funkytown (aka ghetto Dallas, aka the Stone Cold 'Hood) (ok none of that made sense to me either, but I am delirious with fatigue, cut me a break here, it was the first effin' day of skizzy today) I saw a trash receptacle similar to the one pictured at left. A plasti-receptacle which is dumped by a large truck, spilling its discarded and/or decaying contents upon a mountain of like refuse, which is then carted away to dump parts unknown. At the bottom of this receptacle or any one like it there ferments a stinky soup of pulpy tomatoes, poopy diapers, used cat litter, rotting vegetable peels, rusting cans, clipped toenails, toilet paper people have wiped their asses/noses on and possibly even worn out marital aids. Still, some hardcore gangsta wanted in on the smelly, sticky ground floor of this virgin turf, yo. Hence, I saw this: Yep. This trashcan is MINE. Don't even try any weakass shit talkin' 'bout stealin' this Oscar the Grou

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ DISCLAIMER The following post is recommended for mature viewers. Graphic images of naked hair, Rubenesque women, and household products follow. Consider yourself warned. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ As some of you may recall from previous posts, I've already turned my hair green once this summer, wrangling a box of Ash Blonde. Well, I've done it again. In a completely new way, even. Hence, in celebration of this odd trend of verdant tresses, I've dubbed this the Summer of Hair that's Accidentally Green, or SHAG. It all began with a pleasant evening of night swimming at my friend Jean-Luc Picard's* apartment pool. Wanting to live in a trendy (read: gay) part of town, he pays far too much rent, enabling near, dear friends like me to make use of his, um, amenities. So I enjoy the pool, relax in the hot tub bubbles, steam in the sauna, oblivious to the danger a cheveux swirling around me in insidious, deceptive wave

Just been busy makin' A's at grad school. :) New posts to come soon, I promise! With (possibly nude) pictures!

A Pirate Raider You scored 6 Honor, 3 Justice, 7 Adventure, and 8 Individuality! More than just the usual swabbie, you demand not only the life at sea, free from landlubbers and their rules, but also you require adventure and excitement. You're happiest when the guns are blazing, the risk high, the outcome uncertain, but the chance for reward substantial. Your kind are welcomed as allies and feared as enemies. Put on your wooden leg and hook. You'll do just fine! Link: The Cowboy-Ninja-Pirate-Knight Test written by fluffy71 on Ok Cupid

If my street is any indication, it's Carnivale for gnats. In a ten-minute walk down the street behind my house, I must've run into 17 clouds of the flyin', fornicatin' little fuckers. And who can say how many I inhaled. Ick. Why? Find out the Straight Dope.

This, mi compadres, is John Stuart Mill, whom, I would argue, would have been a staunch supporter of blogging, had it only existed in his time. Check out his take on freedom of opinion: "First, if any opinion is compelled to silence, that opinion may, for ought we can certainly know, be true. To deny this is to assume our own infallibility. Second, though the silenced opinion may be an error, it may, and very often does, contain a portion of the truth... it is only by the collision of adverse opinions that the remainder of the truth has any chance of being supplied." He goes on of course, but suffice it to say, be proud of yourself for upholding the central pillars of the pursuit of truth: free speech, open criticism and public debate. Happy Independence, Freedom, and Thank God and Thomas Jefferson for Free Speech Day and B L O G O N !! Portions of this post were blatantly ripped from The Ethics of Teaching , 4th ed. by Kenneth Strike and Jonas F. Soltis. This message j

Wait, not that Petty. Forget that unattainable red herring, world peace, and that impossible mackerel, harmony amongst the peoples. Gimme seven petty wishes instead. 1. That I'd never spill red salsa or spaghetti sauce on a white shirt again. 2. That I'd never break off the cork in the wine. 3. That I'd never see someone I either a) already know, or b) would like to get to know ;) whilst dressed in a slobtastic fashion, i.e. during a "fertilizer 'n' Roundup run" to Home Depot in the middle of yardwork. 4. That I'd never have to go potty in the middle of a movie again. 5. That all my garments would be forever wrinkle-free, sans ironing. 6. That I'd never get home with a corn dog and no mustard in the frickin' bag. 7. That my lawn would stay magically hydrated, in accord with local rainfall, and in compliance with city water-saving ordinances. What're y'all's petty wishes? Tell 1, tell 7 or tell 70. I promise to read them all. (Do you

You're The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe ! by C.S. Lewis You were just looking for some decent clothes when everything changed quite dramatically. For the better or for the worse, it is still hard to tell. Now it seems like winter will never end and you feel cursed. Soon there will be an epic struggle between two forces in your life and you are very concerned about a betrayal that could turn the balance. If this makes it sound like you're re-enacting Christian theological events, that may or may not be coincidence. When in doubt, put your trust in zoo animals. Take the Book Quiz at the Blue Pyramid . (stolen from Julie Patchouli, btw)

please do yourself a favor and read The Anti-Flag Burning Amendment -or- My Pantaloons Have Been Disgraced over at Wigwam Jones' place: http://www.growlery.com/wigwam/2005/06/anti-flag-burning-amendment.html#comments It says everything I wanna say about flag burning, at least 29 times better.

This just in from some random chat guy on Yahoo: "just like an angel you are, i see the eyes of GOD all over you, his blessings all around you and is favour just in every step you take. i see the Holy one of israel in your front leading you, and the KING of KINGs right behind you guiding you. He wil be there when you want him and right there when you need Him cos he made you for a purpose and this purpose you will live to acomplish and attain, Just because he lives." Well, dude, one can only hope. p.s. That art is a painting by a Danish artist called Asbjorn Lonvig. Which is certainly a cool name. Scope www.lonvig.dk to see more.

Well, Manion's got a point. I suppose this is dragging on a bit. Here's the day's new mont. 84. Out of curiosity, I did a websearch for Arisnow. On Yahoo Messenger and a few other places, I use the screen name Arisnow8. Well, it turns out that Arisnow (without the 8) is some submissive slave chick into bdsm. I reckon I'm unique, just like everyone else. And apparently may get a whippin' from my master if I get too uppity. Even scarier? She fuckin' quoted Meat Loaf on her webpage. 85. My Texas accent isn't too bad, but it gets worse in proportion to who I'm around, how much country music I've listened to recently, and whether or not I'm riled up. 86. The 2 jobs I kick myself for not having are * TV and/or movie writer and * rock star. 87. I don't claim to make any sense, as it's not a requirement. 88. I will cry faster at kindness than disparagement. 89. Once, when I was 15, I flew out of the back of a van which rolled off the side of a cl

:: Approaching the mike, I pause for applause. As the waves of accolades roll in, I smile and raise my hands... :: "Please, please... I know you are all ready for the next installment of this popular feature, so without further ado, I give you... THING 62!!!" :: And the crowd goes wild. :: 62. I have a vivid imagination, such that I can't watch many scary movies or read horrible news stories, because I will be recreating horrifying scenes later when I am home alone in the dark. For example, this movie scared me. For days. Aliens behind corners. And it was pretty lame. 63. I am spatially challenged. My former roommates used to laugh at me because from their room they would periodically hear, !!WUMP!! "Fuck!" in the middle of the night. That was the sound of me running into the wall or the bathroom door. But I also whack my little toe or arm on the doorknob when I'm not half asleep. And I always leave a love dent on every car I own. 64. I listen to new CDs or

About me because I am drunk. Yes, right now I am. Do you think I'm NOT? Well, I am. I guess that counts as thing # 61. Would you feel cheated if I used that as a post? I repetitively repeat bullshit when I drink. Did you know? Well now you do. "Just one more vodka cranberry," I was thinking. I did not cotton to the near room-spinningness I would be courting when I had that 4th vodka cranberry beverage. Would it help to know that my people hail from the Emerald Isle? Would that excuse Tuesday Drunkenness? Have a happy sleep time (or day time?), my much loved readers. More coherent blogposts to come. ------------- "Spin around and fall down / do it again." -- Everclear

60. As of today, I got accepted to grad school here: Books, papers and beer bongs ahead! (Ok, maybe not so much this time around.)

36. I don't smoke, but I will keep a pack of cigarettes around the house on occasion, to just spark one up when the urge strikes (once every few months). 37. I sometimes like a puff of a cigar too... just enjoy the smell and taste of the smoke. Maybe I'm part hobbit. 38. I do the above thing partly because I love the smell of a cigarette being lit. 39. Both my parents and two of my grandparents smoked, so maybe that's why. 40. My other grandmother dipped snuff. Yep, powdery brown stuff between the cheek and gum, necessitating intermittent spitting into the sink, a cup carried around, or the nearest corner spittoon. 41. In fact, I often say that if I hadn't been dating a hardcore against smoking person in my formative years, I would be a smoker today. On the upside of that, I won't get emphysema like my mom has. On the downside, I probably would be thinner. 42. I enjoy creme brulee, but not flan. 43. I HATE getting in trouble. 44. I understand that if I do not comple