The Realm of Mang

42

2006-12-14T09:34:00.000-08:00

5

2006-06-23T06:20:00.000-07:00

...

2006-06-18T08:30:00.000-07:00

go here

2006-02-09T18:07:00.000-08:00

i changed over since i don't have control of settings
perhaps ill post some of the stuff i liked from here there too

go here
http://molloyboy.livejournal.com/

-until next
John Molloy

ok one more

2006-01-28T06:40:00.000-08:00

You fit in with:
Humanism

Your ideals mostly resemble that of a Humanist. Although you do not have a lot of faith, you are devoted to making this world better, in the short time that you have to live. Humanists do not generally believe in an afterlife, and therefore, are committed to making the world a better place for themselves and future generations.

0% scientific.
80% reason-oriented.

Take this quiz at QuizGalaxy.com

ok story is in the works take this in time

2006-01-27T19:05:00.000-08:00

Your walk is:
Possibly Influenced by Narcotics

Take this quiz at QuizGalaxy.com

whoops

2006-01-17T04:24:00.000-08:00

sorry for not posting or anything, I'm saving my stuff for the writer's craft exam

expect something(big) on wednesday

50th post!

2005-12-17T08:14:00.000-08:00

couldnt resist

You scored as Neutral Evil. A neutral evil person does whatever they can get away with. They shed no tears for those they have hurt, and only care about themselves. These people do not necessarily love conflict and chaos, however- they truly care only for themselves. Ignoring laws or using them to their advantage, these people do whatever they can get away with.

Neutral Evil

75%

Lawful Evil

75%

Chaotic Good

70%

Chaotic Neutral

65%

True Neutral

65%

Chaotic Evil

60%

Neutral Good

30%

Lawful Good

20%

Lawful Neutral

15%

What is your Alignment?
created with QuizFarm.com

no snow day?

2005-12-16T18:20:00.000-08:00

So here are some none-to-random etchings made on cardboard. Variations on a theme.
You can make these things bigger by clicking them.

Maybe I'll stop being lazy and actually write something for the next post.

Until next....

-John Molloy

a long time, AGO

2005-12-11T17:08:00.000-08:00

So today at the AGO I saw the special exhibit and I've put down some ground rules at my house.
And I really like the opening sequence to 4400. I don't like the show but the song and images to introduce it are the coolest things I've ever experienced.

A wikipedia adeventure

2005-12-09T07:08:00.000-08:00

English John Prostitute euphemism wolf molars concentration grams metric system french revolution Bourgeoisie merchants common law negligence damages saxons paul the deacon april 13 taiwan han khan Khan Noonien Singh augments embryos botany algae flowers hermaphrodite intersexuality histology dyes berries gooseberry acid hydrogen lifting atom democritus void vacuum genisis anthropomorphic religon God Greek dialect accent phonology vowel Estonian essive case Latin declension genitive case suffixaufnahme caucasian Georgia 18th century John Law pnuemonia health nursing UK Northern Ireland 1983 John Paul II cloning immunosuppressant other drugs AND THE LINK DIDN'T WORK!

So I broke wikipedia...
Until next...

-John Molloy

my new HP!

2005-12-06T04:31:00.000-08:00

So heres a story by Lovecraft I really liked. It's like door in the wall but way better, and actually made me sad when I read it.

The Quest of Iranon
H. P. Lovecraft

Into the granite city of Teloth wandered the youth, vine-crowned, his yellow hair glistening with myrrh and his purple robe torn with briers of the mountain Sidrak that lies across the antique bridge of stone. The men of Teloth are dark and stern, and dwell in square houses, and with frowns they asked the stranger whence he had come and what were his name and fortune. So the youth answered:
"I am Iranon, and come from Aira, a far city that I recall only dimly but seek to find again. I am a singer of songs that I learned in the far city, and my calling is to make beauty with the things remembered of childhood. My wealth is in little memories and dreams, and in hopes that I sing in gardens when the moon is tender and the west wind stirs the lotus-buds."
When the men of Teloth heard these things they whispered to one another; for though in the granite city there is no laughter or song, the stern men sometimes look to the Karthian hills in the spring and think of the lutes of distant Oonai whereof travellers have told. And thinking thus, they bade the stranger stay and sing in the square before the Tower of Mlin, though they liked not the colour of his tattered robe, nor the myrrh in his hair, nor his chaplet of vine-leaves, nor the youth in his golden voice. At evening Iranon sang, and while he sang an old man prayed and a blind man said he saw a nimbus over the singer's head. But most of the men of Teloth yawned, and some laughed and some went to sleep; for Iranon told nothing useful, singing only his memories, his dreams, and his hopes.
"I remember the twilight, the moon, and soft songs, and the window where I was rocked to sleep. And through the window was the street where the golden lights came, and where the shadows danced on houses of marble. I remember the square of moonlight on the floor, that was not like any other light, and the visions that danced on the moonbeams when my mother sang to me. And too, I remember the sun of morning bright above the many-coloured hills in summer, and the sweetness of flowers borne on the south wind that made the trees sing.
"Oh Aira, city of marble and beryl, how many are thy beauties! How I loved the warm and fragrant groves across the hyline Nithra, and the falls of the tiny Kra that flowed though the verdant valley! In those groves and in the vale the children wove wreathes for one another, and at dusk I dreamed strange dreams under the yath-trees on the mountain as I saw below me the lights of the city, and the curving Nithra reflecting a ribbon of stars.
"And in the city were the palaces of veined and tinted marble, with golden domes and painted walls, and green gardens with cerulean pools and crystal fountains. Often I played in the gardens and waded in the pools, and lay and dreamed among the pale flowers under the trees. And sometimes at sunset i would climb the long hilly street to the citadel and the open place, and look down upon Aira, the magic city of marble and beryl, splendid in a robe of golden flame.
"Long have I missed thee, Aira, for i was but young when we went into exile; but my father was thy King and I shall come again to thee, for it is so decreed of Fate. All through seven lands have I sought thee, and some day shall I reign over thy groves and gardens, thy streets and palaces, and sing to men who shall know whereof I sing, and laugh not nor turn away. For I am Iranon, who was a Prince in Aira."
That night the men of Teloth lodged the stranger in a stable, and in the morning an archon came to him and told him to go to the shop of Athok the cobbler, and be apprenticed to him.
"But I am Iranon, a singer of songs, " he said, "and have no heart for the cobbler's trade."
"All in Teloth must toil," replied the archon, "for that is the law." Then said Iranon:
"Wherefore do ye toil; is it not that ye may live and be happy? And if ye toil only that ye may toil more, when shall happiness find you? Ye toil to live, but is not life made of beauty and song? And if ye suffer no singers among you, where shall be the fruits of your toil? Toil without song is like a weary journey without an end. Were not death more pleasing?" But the archon was sullen and did not understand, and rebuked the stranger.
"Thou art a strange youth, and I like not thy face or thy voice. The words thou speakest are blasphemy, for the gods of Teloth have said that toil is good. Our gods have promised us a haven of light beyond death, where shall be rest without end, and crystal coldness amidst which none shall vex his mind with thought or his eyes with beauty. Go thou then to Athok the cobbler or be gone out of the city by sunset. All here must serve, and song is folly."
So Iranon went out of the stable and walked over the narrow stone streets between the gloomy square house of granite, seeking something green, for all was of stone. On the faces of men were frowns, but by the stone embankment along the sluggish river Zuro sat a young boy with sad eyes gazing into the waters to spy green budding branches washed down from the hills by the freshets. And the boy said to him:
"Art thou not indeed he of whom the archons tell, who seekest a far city in a fair land? I am Romnod, and borne of the blood of Teloth, but am not olf in the ways of the granite city, and yearn daily for the warm groves and the distant lands of beauty and song. Beyond the Karthian hills lieth Oonai, the city of lutes and dancing, which men whisper of and say is both lovely and terrible.Thither would I go were I old enough to find the way, and thither shouldst thou go and thou wouldst sing and have men listen to thee. Let us leave the city of Teloth and fare together among the hills of spring. Thou shalt shew me the ways of travel and I will attend thy songs at evening when the stars one by one bring dreams to the minds of dreamers. And peradventure it may be that Oonai the city of lutes and dancing is even the fair Aira thou seekest, for it is told that thou hast not known Aira since the old days, and a name often changeth. Let us go to Oonai, O Iranon of the golden head, where men shall know our longings and welcome us as brothers, nor even laugh or frown at what we say." And Iranon answered:
"Be it so, small one; if any in this stone place yearn for beauty he must seek the mountains and beyond, and I would not leave thee to pine by the sluggish Zuro. But think not that delight and understanding dwell just across the Karthian hills, or in any spot thou canst find in a day's, or a year's, or a lustrum's journey. Behold, when I was small like thee I dwelt in the valley of Narthos by the frigid Xari, where none would listen to my dreams; and I told myself that when older i would go to Sinara on the southern slope, and sing to smiling dromedary-men in the marketplace. But when I went to Sinara i found the dromedary-men all drunken and ribald, and saw that their songs were not as mine, so I travelled in a barge down the Xari to onyx-walled Jaren. And the soldiers at Jaren laughed at me and drave me out, so that I wandered to many cities. I have seen Stethelos that is below the great cataract, and have gazed on the marsh where Sarnath once stood. I have been to thraa, Ilarnek, and Kadatheron on the winding river Ai, and have dwelt long in Olathoe in the land of Lomar. But though i have had listeners sometimes, they have ever been few. and I know that welcome shall wait me only in Aira, the city of marble and beryl where my father once ruled as King. So for Aira shall we seek, though it were well to visit distant and lute-blessed oonai across the Karthianhills, which may indeed be Aira, though i think not. Aira's beauty is past imagining, and none can tell of it without rapture, whilist of Oonai the camel-drivers whisper leeringly."
At the sunset Iranon and small Romnod went forth from Teloth, and for long wandered amidst the green hills and cool forests. The way was rough and obscure, and never did they seem nearer to oonai the city of lutes and dancing; but in the dusk as the stars came out Iranon would sing of Aira and its beauties and Romnod would listen, so that they were both happy after a fashion. They ate plentifully of fruit and red berries, and marked not the passing of time, but many years must have slipped away. Small Romnod was now not so small, and spoke deeply instead of shrilly, though Iranon was always the same, and decked his golden hair with vines and fragrant resins found in the woods. So it came to pass that Romnod seemed older than Iranon, though he had been very small when Iranon had found him watching for green budding branches in Teloth beside the sluggish stone-banked Zuro.
Then one night when the moon was full the travellers came to a mountain crest and looked down upon the myriad light of Oonai. Peasants had told them they were near, and Iranon knew that this was not his native city of Aira. The lights of Oonai were not like those of Aira; for they were harsh and glaring, while the lights of Aira shine as softly and magically as shone the moonlight on the floor by the window where Iranon's mother once rocked him to sleep with song. But Oonai was a city of lutes and dancing, so Iranon and Romnod went down the steep slope that they might find men to whom sings and dreams would bring pleasure. And when they were come into the town they found rose-wreathed revellers bound from house to house and leaning from windows and balconies, who listened to the songs of Iranon and tossed him flowers and applauded when he was done. Then for a moment did Iranon believe he had found those who thought and felt even as he, though the town was not a hundredth as fair as Aira.
When dawn came Iranon looked about with dismay, for the domes of Oonai were not golden in the sun, but grey and dismal. And the men of Oonai were pale with revelling, and dull with wine, and unlike the radient men of Aira. But because the people had thrown him blossoms and acclaimed his sings Iranon stayed on, and with him Romnod, who liked the revelry of the town and wore in his dark hair roses and myrtle. Often at night Iranon sang to the revellers, but he was always as before, crowned only in the vine of the mountains and remembering the marble streets of Aira and the hyaline Nithra. In the frescoed halls of the Monarch did he sing, upon a crystal dais raised over a floor that was a mirror, and as he sang, he brought pictures to his hearers till the floor seemed to reflect old, beautiful, and half-remembered things instead of the wine-reddened feasters who pelted him with roses. And the King bade him put away his tattered purple, and clothed him in satin and cloth-of-gold, with rings of green jade and bracelets of tinted ivory, and lodged him in a gilded and tapestried chamber on a bed of sweet carven wood with canopies and coverlets of flower-embroidered silk. Thus dwelt Iranon in Oonai, the city of lutes and dancing.
It is not known how long Iranon tarried in Oonai, but one day the King brought to the palace some wild whirling dancers from the Liranian desert, and dusky flute-players from Drinen in the East, and after that the revellers threw their roses not so much at Iranon as at the dancers and flute-players. And day by day that Romnod who had been a small boy in granite Teloth grew coarser and redder with wine, till he dreamed less and less, amd listened with less delight to the songs of Iranon. But though Iranon was sad he ceased not to sing, and at evening told again of his dreams of Aira, the city of marble and beryl. Then one night the reddened and fattened Romnod snorted heavily amidst the poppied silks of his banquet-couch and died writhing, whilst Iranon, pale and slender, sang to himself in a far corner. And when Iranon had wept over the grave of Romnod and strewn it with green branches, such as Romnod used to love, he put aside his silks and gauds and went forgotten out of Oonai the city of lutes and dancing clad only in the ragged purple in which he had come, and garlanded with fresh vines from the mountains.
Into the sunset wandered Iranon, seeking still for his native land and for men who would understand his songs and dreams. In all the cities of Cydathria and in the lands beyond the Bnazie desert gay-faced children laughed at his olden songs and tattered robe of purple; but Iranon stayed ever young, and wore wreathes upon his golden head whilst he sang of Aira, delight of the past and hope of the future.
So came he one night to the squallid cot of an antique shepherd, bent and dirty, who kept flocks on a stony slope above a quicksand marsh. To this man Iranon spoke, as to so many others:
"Canst thou tell me where I may find Aira, the city of marble and beryl, where flows the hyaline nithra and where the falls of the tiny Kra sing to the verdant valleys and hills forested with yath trees?" and the shepherd, hearing, looked long and strangely at Iranon, as if recalling something very far away in time, and noted each line of the stranger's face, and his golden hair, and his crown of vine-leaves. But he was old, and shook his head as he replied:
"O stranger, i have indeed heard the name of Aira, and the other names thou hast spoken, but they come to me from afar down the waste of long years.I heard them in my youth from the lips of a playmate, a beggar's boy given to strange dreams, who would weave long tales about the moon and the flowers and the west wind. We used to laugh at him, for we knew him from his birth though he thought himself a King's son. He was comely, even as thou, but full of folly and strangeness; and he ranaway when small to find those who would listen gladly to his songs and dreams. How often hath he sung to me of lands that never were, and things that never can be! Of Aira did he speak much; of Aira and the river Nithra, and the falls of the tiny Kra. There would he ever say he once dwelt as a Prince, though here we knew him from his birth.Nor was there ever a marble city of Aira, or those who could delight in strange songs, save in the dreams of mine old playmate Iranon who is gone."
And in the twilight, as the stars came out one by one and the moon cast on the marsh a radiance like that which a child sees quivering on the floor as he is rocked to sleep at evening, there walked into the lethal quicksands a very old man in tattered purple, crowned with whithered vine-leaves and gazing ahead as if upon the golden domes of a fair city where dreams are understood. That night something of youth and beauty died in the elder world.

I now I liked it...
Until next....

-John Molloy

Jolification?

2005-11-30T16:44:00.000-08:00

What is identity? What is it that defines me? Is it my boots? Of course not, my boots show nothing of who I really am. Or do they? Now, here's the rub. If I did not wear boots at all, I might be defined a one who did not give in to materialsm. Perhaps one who decided to brave the world out-of-doors as his forebears had done as they descended from the trees, boot free as a cow. Ironically enough, my boots are made of cow. Perhaps one who does not wear boots in this weather is insane. Would I like to be defined as insane? Certainly not, insanity lowers one's credibility significantly. So I wear boots. Everyone wears boots at this time of year, except those decadent fools who do NOT have to bear the persecutions of frozen earth and wet slush. So perhaps my boots do say something about me, that I take my feet where I bade them go, not where a motorized vehicle ponders off to. But do people also wear boots because they like the style? Certaintly. So what can we conclude? Footwear is not a very good way to determine one's personality.
So is personality identity? So saying identity is personal. But oh no, everyday we are barraged with quite the opposite idea. Identity is a summation, it is a generilization. Case and point, 'the black man's identity', 'the Canadian identity', 'the couple's identity'. When we talk about an individual's identity, we talk only of appearance or name. John Doe, identity unkown.
So can it be said that my identity is my history? My parents dictate my identity by naming me? My shedding genetic material? My forebears may know my identity, my appearance? It seems so.
All of this is quite silly. Now on a comment last year in english I saw something about reading wide varieties of material. Now this I didn't really take to heart at the time, thinking it a trifle(my reading list was mostly sci-fi fantasy however). I worked very hard this year to keep things fresh and different; with fiction, horror, short stories, poems, one romance(its all I could take). The comment appeared again this year in writer's craft. I'm now convinced Mrs. Tunnicliff is full of feces.

Until next....
-John Molloy

Not a big time blues fan.

2005-11-25T12:38:00.000-08:00

Today I noticed I have sense of morality!

Gourds can't drop bombs

2005-11-16T13:24:00.000-08:00

Something has been troubling me of late, namely nothing. Nothing has been troubling me so much, only because there's nothing else to occupy my time. So I've begun to think, think without anything to really think about. Some of the inane things I've been contemplating are such trivialities as religion, creation, etc. But one thing has stayed with me for some time. That is, when those people who had gone to Africa came back, preached to us about how we can make a difference. Why can we make a difference? "Because we are youth, we can do anything." So when I first dismissed this statement, for at once seeming false and self-appreciating, I failed to see the larger picture. I had come under the impression that this period of my life was full of things that required my attention, mainly: school, homework, social life, extracurriculars, job. It seemed going into adult-hood would eliminate much of the stress of my everyday life, it would actually free up my time. You see a job only on the weekdays is far more preferable to school everyday followed by work and homework or extracurriculars, and homework and work to eat away at my weekend. Social life must be balanced into that somehow. I've since come to the opinion that is wasn't for lack of things to do that makes youth exceptional for this task, but the mentality.
What I'm getting at is this, youth are distrusting of reality. The rules that govern the world are challenged, are bent, are broken. New thoughts emerge only because there were none there before. Ourselves, youth, have experienced this in the past. As a toddler we were so sure of our realities that the slightest shake would enfuriate us. The idea that Santa Claus did not exist would confuse us, the idea that superman was in fact just a man would anger us, the very thought that our dreams were not realites was frightening. I see much of this coming in the future. It seems people become so secure in their definitions of self-hood, there is no further room for various eccentricities. The idea that people have aids in Afirca may frighten an adult, being so far removed from their present reality. Inaction would follow based mainly on that fear. A youth's reality is so liquid, so maleable, that anything is possible. Where an adult, when confronted with aids might say "That's terrible."; a youth, confronted with the same thing might say "How can I fix it?".
What transpires to make a radical thinker, an inventor, a dictator? I think one who never accepts the world for what they see it can do whatever they want, but one who sees the world for exactly what it is may be infulential as well. The latter type of person would bend present rules to fit them, gliding perfectly into postions of power based upion their knowledge of the present world. An inventor could never be born of this, the idea of creative construction must come from a free-thinking person willing to change reality. I've come to the conclusion that by rejecting reality we may find ourselves great, or by accepting reality we may find ourselves great. One cannot accept certain parts and reject other parts to find themselves at the extreme of any spectrum.
I've you've become confused as to what I'm talking about, it is our definition of reality. Not reality itself. For instance; a long time ago 1+1 might have equaled 4, a free thinker might have noticed the indesrection in this rule and changed the rules that governed reality to suit. I am not talking about anything like the matrix, personally I find that idea very very silly. I'll rant about it later perhaps.

Until next...
-John Molloy

Shoopo?

2005-11-03T06:02:00.000-08:00

Necrotic Bliss

Once more into the breach, dear friends!
Is it the last time? That depends.
Are we the worse off as before,
to justify our want for more?
We write ourselves the silent score,
that makes us us, defines our core.
And still our souls society rends,
like a puppet, my body bends.

But myself, I'm only mortal,
can not myself, see the portal.
Escape is not an option here,
reciprocity I don't fear,
but if I were to break a gear,
I'd no longer be living here.
Often it does make me chortle,
to sac life makes me immortal.

Sacrifice?
All my vice?
That'd be nice...

Somehow it's always comforting,
to be something confrontating.
Without the wheel that is our life,
would I have ever met my wife?
Is it, our race, defined by strife?
To run, to fall, that is my life.
And though all success is fleeting,
there's someone I must be beating.

And of this portal I have spake,
deserving of a second take,
it must be the way out of this,
the absurdity, necrosis,
to this portal I shake my fist,
this marathon, it is my bliss.
Every fall leaves get a rake,
nature itself wheels for our sake.

It's absurd?
Not a word,
aid the herd.

Give and take, of course making sure,
these portals you will all abjure.

That Really Schmecks

2005-10-28T19:06:00.000-07:00

It's my writers craft story!
Rotten Fruit Fallout
John Molloy

The sun broke through the open window with such glaring intensity that if David had not been awake already he would be now. He surmised that since the apartment’s window looked out into an alley, it must be very near ten o’clock. As he worked this grim calculus in his mind, he started to become aware of his immediate surroundings. Most notable of which was the young lady snoring lightly in the bed beside him. He judged that if he was now to go to the bathroom, he would find he had slept with that woman last night. David stood, letting his toes luxuriate in the softness of the carpet for a moment.
“Your apartment’s a piece of shit,” David said matter-of-factly. The recipient of his scorn nudged a little in her sleep, making David wince and tighten, but she returned to her soft snoring immediately after. He looked around the piece of shit, “Who has a two room apartment anyway?” It was kind of refreshing in a way, he didn’t have to look far for his pants. “Pants in the kitchen?” He said aloud, “I must have been stoned-silly.” He felt nice in his jeans, as if now he had protection from whatever else was hidden in this very specific corner of hell. Of course, it was a small corner. The main room had been assembled into one quarter kitchen, one quarter bedroom, and the rest was cordoned off with couches around the TV. The door to the bathroom lay beside the fridge in the kitchen. “Where’s the door out?” David managed with only a little bit of tension evident. He really didn’t want to be here when Mary woke up. Nevertheless, he continued his quest for clothes.
“What the hell was I doing with you?” David mumbled to himself as he surveyed the floor, zoning in on a sock. “A,” “dog,” “could,” “get,” “in,” “your,” “pants,” he spits out as he jumped up and down trying desperately to get his sock on. “I bet that was better than sex with you!” David chuckled in triumph with one socked foot.
“I deserve better than some cheap whore…” he trailed off when his eyes met the sleeve of his t-shirt hanging down in front of the refrigerator door. “Ah-hah!” he exclaimed bounding his way over. With a quick decisive movement David snatched the shirt from it’s roost. Passing it though his arms and onto his body, David felt a sense of calm wash over him. As if the troubles of the night were covered from prying eyes. His boots sat neatly at the door, which he know noticed to the right of the television. Collecting them, the dangled idly at his side as he made his way to the bed. Sitting on the edge David began anew his monologue.
“I know what you are, Mary,” David said, quietly tying his shoes, “And I know it’s all my fault. How could I have let myself get sucked into this shit-hole? You’re not Janice, you’ll never be like Janice. Just being here tarnishes her memory. I didn’t have to leave, where the hell was I going? Don’t tell me here, bitch, as soon as I get my shoes on I’m out the door,” David grunted with the completion of his second shoe’s bow. Somehow it seemed he hadn’t convinced her, and besides, he was fully armoured now. “If my dad saw me here he’d shoot the moon,” he seemed to ponder what he had just said, and the corners of his mouth completed a frown as if he had just tasted something awful.
David stood up from the bed, his tongue moving around in his mouth as if searching for the offender in his mind. Finally he let his focus fall in front of him so he could better manoeuvre himself to the door. He saw a face. He felt pain. A scorching burning sensation accompanied by an explosive sound. He backed into the wall instinctively.
“How can you say those things?” Mary said, still naked from the waist down. “After all we’ve had?” David felt darkness had engulfed the room, the only square of light pouring from the window. He edged along the wall cautiously as Mary continued to whine and complain, loudly. She actually began to cry, sobbing in amidst her yells. David let his jeans touch the windowsill, and light flood over him. He sighed.
“You think you’re better than me you rat bastard!” Mary wailed, “You want to leave me? Here’s a shortcut!” David felt her hands on his chest, and let himself give under her push. He began to fall outward into the alley, realizing his plight he started to wheel his arms madly. Fully out of the window, upside-down, his head cracked against the brick of the apartment building. David moved his hands up to cradle his head, now flipped right side up. And as suddenly as his fall started, it ends, as David crashes into a dumpster. Garbage sprays upward, but is slapped forcibly back into the bin, as the lid slams down. David fells a ringing in his ears as everything runs to black around him.
Mary throws a black leather jacket out of the window, and it moves quickly down to meet the dumpster. She waits patiently at window, something in her wants to make sure he leaves safely. It would be hell to pay if anything should have her back in prison again.

***

The smells was awful. It was like that smell you get when you combine rotten eggs and bananas past their prime. Yet, in the midst of this smell, sits a very angry looking young man. His sweaty arms glisten as he exerts himself. His t-shirt is already stained with who-knows-what, and he hasn’t been in here five minutes. In this dumpster that is. David wrinkles his brow as he pushes his arms up with all his might, and the lid still refuses to give. He must have screwed up his legs, he can’t stand. His greasy jeans are bent along and through each leg in a pretzel, crossed under him in a knot.
“Just give it one more try, you can do it!” encourages a voice somewhere in front of David. It’s still too dark to see, his eyes haven’t quite adjusted yet.
“Don’t give up! I know it’s in you!” intones the voice from the far end of the dumpster. The young man lets his eyes adjust to see the dumpster is full of trash. Nothing that could have conceivably made such an encouragement not even that…
“It’s almost open, I can feel it!” said the hamburger, the sesames on the upper part of its bun reconfiguring into a mouth to speak. The young man blinked, moved his hands to rub his eyes, then thought better of it. Too greasy. He found himself waiting for the hamburger to continue. “Taking a break? That’s good too.” continued the burger.
“Wait…” blurted the young man. “Who in their right mind throws away a whole hamburger?” The hamburger paused, it seemed, to ponder this. It’s sesames returned to their original half-hazard placing semi-randomly around the bun.
“Why, ” came a voice from his left, “Do you think of such trifles when your life is filled with troubles? What good is all your thought, what you need is action.” It took some time for David to realize the voice had come from a fish head laying nearby.
“He really is brain food!” joked the hamburger. The young man started to look at the beefy sandwich with something like contempt.
“Shut up!” screeched a red-eyed mouse, pulling itself atop the hamburger. The sesames became disjointed, some even falling from the bun onto the garbage below. The hamburger made muffled noises as the mouse giggled joyfully.
“David,” said the fish head, “You need to concentrate on what you have, the world is not all sex and lollygagging.”
“You’re a goddamn fish head!” yelled David, this whole scene was getting to be too much for him.
“Fish heads can’t talk David.”
“I know.”
“You need to phone dad.”
“I know.”
“You need to get back with Janice, she really loved you.”
“So did Mary!”
“She pushed you out the window remember? You fell in this dumpster.”
“I walked out that window.”
The mouse starts to laugh, it dismounts the hamburger and walks towards David. It’s red eyes burn into him with feral intensity it stole from some cat.
“One more one night stand,” says the mouse, its tail swishing hypnotically in the trash.
“Who’s it gonna hurt?” David manages with a grin.
“You,” the fish head reminds him.
“Do a little more experimenting with those drugs,” chatters the mouse.
David frowns “That’s not a time I like to remember.”
“Get back on your feet, this is your life.” notes the fish head.
The mouse moves his red gaze to the fish head, with rodent speed he pounces on its blue flesh. The head sits waiting, not in the least fearful, he knows David will be rational in all this. And he is. The young man stands, his legs a little numb, his arms a little dirty. He bends as not to hit his head and picks the mouse up off of the fish, flicks it to the other side of the dumpster. With both arms up he pushes with all his strength and light from outside pours in.
“Have a nice day!” he hears the hamburger say as he hops up and out of the bin.
David looks up to see Mary looking nonchalantly down at him, her face dour and expressionless. She smiles as she sees him, that kind of smile a bully gives a kid who doesn’t tattle. He shakes his head as he makes to leave. As he turns a sound comes from the dumpster, and he laughs heartily.
“Almost forgot this!” he says reaching into the bin and pulling out his jacket.
“Pppht.” snorts Mary looking down at him.
David flips her the bird as he leaves, but he isn’t the least bit unhappy. He was going to talk to Dad for the first time in a long time, and maybe he’d have something good to say. He put an arm neatly into his jacket and when it came out he was holding a hamburger. He smiled, maybe not something good he thinks to himself as he hurries on his way home.

***

The apartment smells of aftershave and body wash. David has rid himself of the grime of the night and the morning, and he’s almost ready for what he thinks should be the highlight of his day. Presently he’s phoning in sick for work, some things are more important than money. His boss has decided, this time, to give him what for.
“Sick AGAIN?” blurts the receiver.
“I can’t control this kind of thing,” says David levelly, managing a short wheeze between each word.
“Maybe next time you’ll have no job to come back to eh?” snorts the receiver.
“I’ll try my best sir,” replies David, knowing that he really will.
“You better!” bellows the receiver.
The receiver is dropped, it clinks mechanically into place. David looks out his window to see the world at noon, all is quite and set. The office buildings all around his apartment are uniformly grey, the sidewalks and roads perfectly acceptable in their perfect usefulness. An empty bus moves down through the light traffic on it’s endless circuit. He looks down from the window and catches a blur of movement, he follows it to the door. A white mouse stares at him with red eyes. David sneers, and picks up the phone to dial his father. The mouse scurries away.
David can remember a time when all was well. When him and his dad would pick apples in the orchard, when they would do puzzles in the den. When dad showed him how to drive, when dad showed him life was worth living. Mom was never there, she left when David was two. Dad poured all himself into hid son, David was all he had. And what did he do with it? David cursed, he had been stupid. So stupid. He can still remember the day he ran away, didn’t leave a number, didn’t give a reason. He remembers being bored with the country, he hadn’t known the happiness he had.
The receiver lets loose a ring. “Please,” David pleads, “Please.” The receiver rings again. Time stops, and for a moment David looks out the window to see two buses frozen in their impact. In the middle of the intersection down the street, flanked by drowsy skyscrapers, bus meets bus. Their circuits are interrupted for the day by a split second of catastrophe. The receiver rings again, “Please,” intones David.
“Hello this is Stukov,” says a drowsy voice on the other end, with a light Russian accent.
“Dad!” says David, excitement in his voice.
“I think you have the wrong number,” Stukov ventures.
“No Dad, it’s me David!” David replies, obviously confused.
“Now this is a puzzle, a pancake can not be a penguin for a pancake lacks the capacity for original thought. You can no more be my son than a waffle-iron can a tennis racket. You see my son is dead,” continues Stukov.
“I’m not dead!”
“Then logically you are not my son.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I killed my son, and I am repenting for the murder I have committed. You must understand how the system of laws work.”
“Dad stop joking around, I’m going to come see you.”
“Indeed? Then I should call the police, or better yet, a voodoo priestess, the dead will not visit my house.”
“OK OK, I’m not your son, I was joking, I’m a canoe.”
“Then come right over! I have use for a canoe! You can be my new best friend! The chair was getting quite tired of my company.”
“Alright, expect Mr. Canoe tomorrow.”
“WOOOOOHOOOOOO!” screamed Stukov, and David could here footfalls as if his father was prancing around the room.
David hung up the phone and prepared for the trip out into the country.

***

David loved his car. He wouldn’t be able to tell you what year it was, what model it was, or even what make it was. It was his green car and he loved it. When David drove his green car it was like nothing in the world could touch him, not even himself. But today he was focused on the strange conversation he had had with his father, on what lay before him. There was one place he could go to think, the Fish Head Bar. It was halfway to Dad’s, in a fishing town by the sea. He could stay the night there.
As David pulled into the lot he noticed the old things, the old gnarled oak reaching up to the sky, the sound of distant waves, the neon in the window. He noticed some new things as well, the grey exterior, the tinted glass. A tour bus was parked in the lot near him, but it was shadowed by the usual RVs and motorcycles. David smiled as he walked in.
The place was packed, full of Hawaiian shirt wearing tourists, bike gangs, and the rest of them. Everyone was laughing and clinking glasses, not a sad face in the place. The young man sauntered up through the crowd and took a seat at the bar.
“I’ll have a beer,” said David smiling as he surveyed the room.
“Nope,” said the bartender.
“What?” replied David, turning to see the woman. “Janice!” he said.
“I thought you’d never come back!” she said.
“So did I.”
“You know you’re always welcome.”
David smiled, “Will you still be here tomorrow?”
“No doubt.”
He took a dreg of his beer and let the world become one with him again.

***

He wasn’t supposed to be here. That was the first thought that came to him as he looked up the path that led to the house. The old pathway of strewn rocks had overgrown with weeds, it’s once welcoming ideal of the last steps to home now lost in unkempt rubble. The house itself looked like it was about to swallowed whole by the earth, entangled by vines blossoming at some points to great yellow flowers. The greenery of the surrounding forest was a strange mix of decaying wood, and overgrown ranches. David focused on the door, it stood before him, beckoning, red as blood. David made his way up the path, pulling weeds as he went. As he reached the door he tossed them on the lawn.
David knocked on the door once, and before his fist could fall a second time the door opened. His father gazed at him, tore him apart with his eyes. The young man faltered, his fist still hanging in the air.
“You are not a canoe,” said Stukov.
“You are my father,” replied David.
Stukov seemed to ponder this, and waved David into the house. As he entered he realized everything was as it was. A puzzle was left half-finished in the den, the TV was set to news, and a bushel of apples sat in the kitchen. Stukov himself stood unshaven, his huge beard making its way well past his sternum. He wore what he had always worn in the best of times, his flannel vest, his khakis pants. He stood in the entry hall, looking away from David.
“Are you my son?” said Stukov.
“Yes,” responded David.
“Why have you hurt me so? Why have you stayed away for so long?” Tears welled up in the old mans eyes, and David was reminded of how strong his father had been. He remembered that time by the lake, when Stukov had broken his leg when it fell into a rabbit hole. He had walked with David back home, and never shown anything to the effect that he was even hurt.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” pleaded David.
“You did,” muttered Stukov gravely, tears flowing down his cheeks.
“Dad I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”
“I don’t need an you apologies.”
“I need your forgiveness.”
“You’re here for yourself?”
“You know that’s not true,” David was starting to cry himself, tears of real sadness running down his face.
“I kept something for you.” Stukov moved to the kitchen, he rummaged for awhile and came back with something in a box. He gave it to David, still waiting in the entrance hall. David opened it cautiously, no, reverently. Under the lid he found an apple. It was old and rotten, it was mostly liquid. “It’s from the day you left,” Stukov nodded at the apple, “It fell off far from the tree.” David stood and stared at the apple, so black and horrible.
“I’m back Dad. I’m sorry,” repeated David. Stukov smiled, as if understanding. From his pocket he procured a second apple, a new apple, which he handed to David. They both smiled, and embraced, for the first time in a very long time. For a moment, their tears touched on their cheeks.
David spent the night at his father’s house, and in the morning helped him with the garden. Before he left, he gave his father his phone number. They both together did something special before David left for home, they preserved the apple that had been given. They promised that never again should the apple be allowed to rot.

***

On his way home David again stopped at the Fish Head Bar. He waited patiently for Janice’s shift to end, but really it wasn’t that boring a wait. He learned the finer points of leech catching, a sport he had not known existed, from a happy wanderer. And after Janice was finished her shift, she and David took a walk down to the beach. They lay on the sand, hand in hand, and watched the yellow moon move across the sky.
“You can stay you know, you can help me run the bar,” she said.
“You’re just saying that,” shot David.
“No, really!”
David pondered for a moment. He looked at Janice’s face, her perfect face. He looked out to sea and felt the cool evening breeze across his face. He looked at the huge yellow moon in the sky. At last he turned and say the grey swell of the city, blazing bright but at once dull and stale.
“OK,” he said.
“I knew you would! You were always the best!”
And in the sand they let their lips touch, and the night covered them in soothing blackness. David smiled with Janice as he found meaning once again. A mouse with gleaming red eyes moved out from the bar and down to the beach, and as if disgusted by the sight of the two, turned back and went back into the bar.

***

On his way home David did not have time for the bar. He had to get to work tomorrow. So he went home and slept, and in the morning got into the office. He sat at his computer and typed and typed and typed. Occasionally he would look up over his cubicle wall to see buses moving in endless circuits in the city below, and this would comfort him in his work. Sometime before lunchtime his boss came in and lectured him, and David was for a moment sad. But life was normal again as he continued to type. Near the end of the day his friend sauntered into his cubicle.
“I got some real good stuff,” the friend said.
“I dunno man,” cautioned David.
“What, afraid of a little fun?” The friends eyes twinkled red.
“No way! OK, tonight is party night!”
Oddly enough the party that ensued the day’s work had David making up with Mary. He decided to take it slow this time however. He was so buzzed up on some crazy stuff he took the bus home, he missed his stop a couple times but he made it. He liked busses now. The busses were grey, but somehow he liked them a little more than his green car.

Fecundatious

2005-10-22T10:52:00.000-07:00

The more I think about thinking, the more I become sick of it. I mean, I can never come to an accurate reason for creation. Nothing that I can think of will be without flaw, is uncounterable. Thus I have come to the conclusion the galaxy had no begining, and will have no end. Our idea of life is somewhat limited in this regard, we must see things as they are. A person may be cremated after they die regardless of how many worms that leaves hungry, a person may be born only to be given up. I look at some of the theories of Einstein, the big-bang theory in particular, and wonder how much energy was consumed, and created, in that explosion. I've come to the conclusion that you can not beleive in the big bang without beleiving in a supreme diety, what could possibly(and logically) store energy for so long, and store so much, as to create a galaxy. Nothing of course, nothing in this case being the bridge from science into religion. Nothing, is god. I dislike the idea of god, because it doesn't explain what there was in the begining. What was there in the begining? 'Well god of course John'. What created God? It's a paradox, a conundrum. Religion nicely explains the apocalypse for us as well, a begining and an end tied up so nicely. Can the universe truly end? Science tells us no, energy can not be gained or lost, only transfered. Therefore there was no begining to the universe, because it always was. Now we get back to the top, why do humans require a begining and end in their ideology? Because everything in our world, that we can see and feel, has both a begining and an end. A man will be born and consequently die, the sun will rise and set, but there are examples of timelessness in our world as well. Most potent of these is the circle of life, and the see-saw effect. These simple cause-and-effect scenarios give us a glimpse into the workings of the galaxy.
I have come to beleive the galaxy, like the circle of life, does not begin or end. It has a pattern similar to that of our own planets ecosystems, especially that of the see-saw theory. For example when a forest has many deer the population of wolves will go up because there is food enough for many wolves. These many wolves will then cause the population of deer to go down by over-hunting, which will cause the population of wolves to go down by starvation. The deer population will then go up, and the process begins again. I beleive the energies in our galaxy have the same sorts of wax and wane, but the relationship is still unclear to me. Perhaps one of the forces is gravitational pull, and levity. The others would include planetary masses, hydrogens, etcetera. As masses grow to large, they may escape gravity's pull. As hydrogen stars grow unstable, they may go supernova and distrupt the galaxies levity(how the galaxy stays together). This may cause gravitational or levity surges to pull things back together, perhaps using the energy from hydrogen displacement. This would pull everything back together and causing and explosion of sorts. This theory builds on that of Einstein, but conjectures multiple bangs. This means all energy and matter in the galaxy is constant, and has always existed. It also builds slightly on the theory of Eric Idle, joking about how levity is the God of the galaxy.
I'd really like the chance to argue this point with someone in person, there is much room to build on my theories. You may have allready heard of my true nihilism, which I have discarded for it still required a deity of sorts. Deities don't fit well into logic, it's like the easy way out. And after all this thought I have for you a poem. Here goes...
Toady Wisdom
Oh,
ancient oak, standing patiently.
Lo!
Bishop Oak, kneeling revrently.
So,
hearty croak, toading pleasantly.

The oak enthralls me daily,
up the branches that I clamber,
I wish I could laugh gaily,
but I'm stuck here in it's amber.

The bishop eyes me as I pass,
but I can't help but chortle,
he sits sillily at mass,
the likeness of a turtle.

I stop to speak to the wise,
in a swamp beside the road,
and in the croaks reprise,
I set croaks back at the toad.

Oh,
ancient oak, standing patiently.
Lo!
Bishop Oak, kneeling revrently.
So,
hearty croak, toading pleasantly.

That's all for now, and my fingers hurt from all the typing.
Until next....
-John Molloy

sti'll k'op

2005-10-11T08:03:00.000-07:00

Of Garbage Thoughts
John Molloy
The smell was awful. It was like that smell you get when you combine rotten eggs and bananas past their prime. Yet, in the midst of this smell, sits a very angry looking young man. He’s taken off his jacket, and his sweaty arms glisten as he exerts himself. His t-shirt is already stained with who-knows-what, and he hasn’t been in here five minutes. In this dumpster that is. The man wrinkles his brow as he pushes his arms up with all his might, and the lid still refuses to give. He must have screwed up his legs, he cant stand. His greasy jeans are bent along and through each leg in a pretzel, crossed under him in a knot.
“Just give it one more try, you can do it!” encourages a voice somewhere in front of the man. It’s still to dark to see, his eyes haven’t quite adjusted yet.
“Don’t give up! I know it’s in you!” intones the voice from the far end of the dumpster. The young man lets his eyes adjust fully to see the dumpster is full of trash. Nothing that could have conceivably made such an encouragement not even that…
“It’s almost open, I can feel it!” said the hamburger, the sesames on the upper part of its bun reconfiguring into a mouth to speak. The young man blinked, moved his hands to rub his eyes, then thought better of it. Too greasy. He found himself waiting for the hamburger to continue. “Taking a break? That’s good too.” continued the burger.
“Wait…” blurted the young man. “Who in their right mind throws away a whole hamburger?” The hamburger paused, it seemed, to ponder this. It’s sesames returned to their original half-hazard placing semi-randomly around the bun.
“Why, ” came a voice from his left, “Do you think of such trifles when your life is filled with troubles? What good is all your thought, what you need is action.” It took some time for the young man to realize the voice had come from a fish head laying nearby.
“He really is brain food!” joked the hamburger. The young man started to look at the beefy sandwich with something like contempt.
“Shut up!” screeched a red-eyed mouse, pulling itself atop the hamburger. The sesames became disjointed, some even falling from the bun onto the garbage below. The hamburger made muffled noises as the mouse giggled joyfully.
“David,” said the fish head, “You need to concentrate on what you have, the world is not all sex and lollygagging.”
“You’re a goddamn fish head!” yelled David, this whole scene was getting to be too much for him.
“Fish heads can’t talk David.”
“I know.”
“You need to phone dad.”
“I know.”
“You need to get back with Janice, she really loved you.”
“So did Mary!”
“She pushed you out the window remember? You fell in this dumpster.”
“I walked out that window.”
The mouse starts to laugh, it dismounts the hamburger and walks towards David. It’s red eyes burn into him with feral intensity it stole from some cat.
“One more one night stand.” says the mouse, its tail swishing hypnotically in the trash.
“Who’s it gonna hurt?” David manages with a grin.
“You.” the fish head reminds him.
“Do a little more experimenting with those drugs.” chatters the mouse.
David frowns “That’s not a time I like to remember.”
“Get back on your feet, this is your life.” notes the fish head.
The mouse moves his red gaze to the fish head, with rodent speed he pounces on its blue flesh. The head sits waiting, not in the least fearful, he knows David will be rational in all this. And he is. The young man stands, his legs a little numb, his arms a little dirty. He bows as not to hit his head and picks the mouse up off of the fish, flicks it to the other side of the dumpster. With both arms up he pushes with all his strength and light from outside pours in.
“Have a nice day!” he hears the hamburger say as he hops up and out of the bin.
David looks up to see his girl-friend looking nonchalantly down at him, her face dour and expressionless. She smiles as she sees him, that kind of smile a bully gives a kid who doesn’t tattle. He shakes his head as he makes to leave. As he turns a sound comes from the dumpster, and he laughs heartily.
“Almost forgot this!” he says reaching into the bin and pulling out his jacket.
“Pppht.” snorts Mary looking down at him.
David flips her the bird as he leaves, but he isn’t the least bit unhappy. He was going to talk to Dad for the first time in a long time, and maybe he’d have something good to say. He put an arm neatly into his jacket and when it came out he was holding a hamburger. He smiled, maybe not something good he thinks to himself as he hurries on his way home.

I am a ninja.

2005-10-10T11:38:00.000-07:00

Deadly Ninja John Molloy

Sneakiness:	5
Pajamas:	11
Pointy Things:	15
Weapons:	Shuriken, Thousand Blossom Finger
TOTAL:	33

http://www.majcher.com/pvn/

Is an ocelot a lynx??

2005-09-26T13:09:00.000-07:00

Heres something from writer's craft.
Image Writing - Unexplained Desert
John Molloy

The lump shivers. An odd thing for a lump to do, have an involuntary muscle spasm that is. It’s quite out of place this lump, so placed in the middle of this dark field. It moans, a sound so haunting in a landscape where nothing is heard but the occasional whistle of the wind. The lump stops shivering as light pours onto its body, revealing the broken plain of dry dirt it inhabits. It stirs, and stretches. Veritably it is no lump, it is a man. He remembers little of the day before, his mind clouded with the tribulations of the frosty night. He tries to stand, but his muscles are stiff from his hours of huddling, his shivering darkness. He tries again. And again. Eventually he is on his feet, dismayed to realize he has remembered where he is, how he had gotten here. The man’s skin is as red as blood, and it shows, his only adornment knee long cargo pants. Stained as these pants are with sand and salt from the previous day’s journey. He groans as he takes his first step, the feet that had so happily bore his weight in times long gone have all but betrayed him. There is pain. He recalls his goal and continues towards it.
The sun rises on the cracked earth ahead, revealing in its pink glow the little lichen plants that grew in the night. The cracked dry earth is still, but shadows dance playfully from the touch of some ominous obstruction. Deep below the ground is not still however, the massive tectonic plates under the layers of sand and dirt ponder on, like the marathon of a slug. They push, and even now the evidence is clear of races won, a huge plate-like mountain cuts the sunrise. It is rock as sharp as steak knives, as it slices up through, slowly, ponderously, the cracky landscape.
The red man ignores the lichen, he does no thirst. He has forgotten thirst. He knows only of the road he walks, a road he cannot see, a road no man has built. It is not only he who that travels this road, but only he here in this place. It is the road. He does not know how he found this road again, but he knows how it ends. He’s seen the end of the road. He begins to cry as the great megolith of the approaching mountain covers his body in shade again. A tear is catapulted from his face as a red foot finds itself in a sandy crack. His chapped lips utter a curse that he doesn’t understand himself. The giant shape of the mountain fills his vision as he touches it’s base with his eyes. He then touches it with his hand, reaching down reverently, solemnly, tearfully. He sits on the base of the mountain that is a knife. He can see its sharp peak as he looks up, as he looks left and right.
The eyes in his sockets are not red. They are blue. His brother’s eyes were brown. Maybe he’d see him at the end of the road. Pain laces up his back, zips up his chest, and wraps up his frame as his sunburn cooks his flesh. His name is Patrick. His parents said he could be anything. He was about to be dead. The burn wrinkles his face, but even then he doesn’t look past his twenty-seven. He pulls a cigarette from his right pocket, a lighter from his left.
“Grmmph kammph mrmph.” He mumbles to himself followed by a strange hacking cough that punctuates his sentence. He sees blood in his lap. One hell of a last word, he thinks to himself as he waits for death in the comfortable shade of the knife-mountain. At least he has a cigarette.

In thunder, lightning, or in rain?

2005-09-10T10:51:00.000-07:00

So it looks like I've settled into my courses and am in for a good year. Most of the courses seem to involve a lot of reading, but I'm up to the task what with all the content. Literature promises some notable titles, as does english, with novels both of my parents(with widely different tastes) have given to me with relish. No not the condiment. Mustard goes best with books. A lot of writing should ensue as well, what with writers craft and drama, and I guess I'll post some of the work here. I have to go now, I'll post more later sometime.
Until next...
-John Molloy

Catastrophy of Catastrophic Proportions

2005-09-05T16:50:00.000-07:00

So I haven't been posting recently because I got a new computer!!! It's like that crazy thing that happens that you don't expect, and is totally good! Like the opposite of rogue teste-kicks. So I've spent the last few days loading stuff, not fun stuff, necessesary stuff. I just started playing warcraft, because I bought frozen thone. Add molloy_boy if you want to DotA. So I've got nothing interesting to talk about, except I'm really curious to see who exactly is in my first period philosophy. It should be like total bird course, with lots of druggies. At least I think so... HAHA my computer might be better than yours! It feels so... strange. Strange but good. Like... I don't think we'll go there. Until next...
-John molloy

On meddling monkey, or on busy ape.

2005-08-30T18:47:00.000-07:00

So the timetable is thus;
1. Philosophy /w D. Perry
2. Writers Craft /w A. Tunnicliff
3. Dramatic Arts /w J Duncan
4. LUNCH
5 English /w K Corry
6 SPARE
7 SPARE
8 LUNCH
9 Study Liter(lol) P Evans
10 Classical Civ D McLaren
Looks like I got mega-shafted from lvl. 3 latin and the school didn't want to give me an alternate...

And just to be certain you all know, today was awfull. I spent the morning being bored in a waiting room, then went to lunch with my grandma, and then went to registration where no one wanted to talk to me. I then went home to an electrician who made me pick dog poo off his extension chord. I went then to work until 9:20 because Tony hates everyone who isn't himself. OK enough complaining, hopefully tommorow will be better.
And by better I mean uneventfull, so I'll probobly have time to make a lengthy post about something interesting. Yeah...
Until next...

-John Molloy

Worm nor snail do no offence.

2005-08-27T18:13:00.000-07:00

So I took this quiz and was satisfied with the result, not as satisfied at that time not to long ago when I broke the fast, but satisfied none the less. Now I know I'm pretty.

You can take this quiz here.

So today at the ex I bought this book called "Great Lines from Shakespeare", I like to call it "A years worth of MSN screen names" or "A better way to win the title war". Because you know, it's Shakespeare, and all you english majors can interpret the following blog entry by the title(or vice-versa). I'll write about something interesting tommorow, I've got decorating to do!

Stop Fraternizing with the Sorority

2005-08-26T17:56:00.000-07:00

Dennis and I found a glitch on Super-Smash Bros Melee.
I won a game of monopoly, got owned in risk.
Played lots of DOTA, and watched Star Wars IV.
Bought Jason's gift.
So all that happened at Zaheers house last night, some other things also happened but you'll get pissy if you read about all the fun I had. And no, not naked fun. Good clean fun. But I didn't sleep, and even after the nap and the biking today I'm feeling kind of grumpy. All those guys who can stay up all night with three hours of sleep? I'm not one of them. If I don't get my sleep someones gonna get grumpy, and its me. Good thing it doesn't happen until the afternoon, so I didn't rain on everyones parade.
Whats that, you say you've seen me in the mornings and I never look grumpy from lack of sleep? Thats because I burn out. Those scant hours that were tied together for sleep will keep me going for some time before exaustion catches up with me. It normally happens mid-afternoon, at which time I'll usually try to nap for an hour or less to make it to the night.
Research tells me I need six hours of sleep to succesfully complete a twenty-four hour day. And not scientific research, trial and error research. Six hours is usually easy to get, I only really miss it when I pull all nighters. Speaking of all nighters I really need to get good and drunk. I've never really gotten plastered, only tipsy from less than excessive amounts. My parents are starting to view me as some kind of sqaure I think, as they ask if I want beer with every meal, and to try pot at home if I want to. I missed my rebel years man. AND I'M REALLY CURIOUS. God-damn I got bored of experimenting with my body so long ago and excersise is really boring. All I do these days is excersise. People say I've lost weight, and that makes me fool good. but... It's so much work. I want an unnatural high damnit...
In closing I'm going to regret pressing the publish post button at the bottom but I'm going to do it anyway.
Until next...
-John Molloy

Trials and Titilations

2005-08-24T09:34:00.000-07:00

I'm kind of confused... On what subject? Well I'll tell you...
I think some one royally screwed with all these age limits we have up here, such as;
A: Driving Age
B: Drinking Age
C: Voting Age
D: University Age
I mean, it's kind of ridiculous. When I'm sixteen, I can drive a car. I have two tons+ of raw power, not only a danger to myself but to others as well. I can just fail to brake and slaughter unwitting pedestrians. I can not, however, enjoy a contolled substance. A substance that in excess only causes me to pass out, or lose some dexterity. Europe had it all right, with no drinking age you never see teenagers hanging out in parks getting stone drunk. Why? Because their parents drink, they drink, they've been drinking since they were born. It's not some ritualistic affront against your parents or society, it's part of everyday life. The combination of these two things, a low driving age and a high drinking age, causes many teenage drunk drivers(and deaths). So heres the plan, europe's right, do what they do. Not only will kids become tolerant of alcohol at home, they will develop a tolerance. This means that a teenager who has been drinking for years will not be able to get drunk until lots of expensive liquor has been imbibed. This will cause, if the teenager still needs to get drunk, them to get a part time job to support their drunken stupors. Now with no drinking age, push the driving age up to eighteen. There are so many stupid adolescent drivers on the road who can't grasp what it is they are trying to do. That is, get safely from one point to another. SAFELY. I see so many kids cutting up the road, braking late, making bad turns, because for some reason they either want to be flashy or are in some big hurry. No, no, no, no. Let those kids get two more years of wisdom under their belts before letting them put other peoples lives in their hands. It's such an easy thing to mitigate as well, a policeman only requires to see a person who is under age and driving to pull them over and charge them. It's not like a doing narcotic substance that's hard to catch someone in the act of. I know a lot of people will not agree with this point, but its true that most young drivers are morons.
And next, I must be really smart. My decision making must be amazing. I can choose the career path I will follow for the rest of my life at seventeen. I've lived out 1/6 of my life and already I know exactly what I want to do with my life. I will spend loads of cash on the education for the decision that I will make on how to live the rest of my life. I just spent the last four years choosing the path that would guide me to this ultimate decision. And even with this ultimate wisdom and clarity, I can't vote. It's true. I've planned for the next fifty or more years, with nothing but raw wisdom and smarts, throwing away more money for school than I've thrown cans in the blue bin. For some reason, I can't elect a councilor who speaks for me. God damn you government, first you make me pay to work for you, giving more taxes than cares, and now you won't pay for the learning that goes into the job? AND YOU WON'T LET ME SHOW MY VIEWS? This is some kind of screwed up democracy were so many mouths are kept silent.
Oh yeah I got my basement electricianized, so its less like a dungeon and more finished.
Until next...
-John Molloy

A Story

2005-08-20T13:45:00.000-07:00

The man flinched, his surroundings suddenly surprising, the light suddenly blinding. He had forgotten everything, well not everything. He still had a grasp and understanding of the things around him, a hold on the english language, but he had forgotten who he was. The only thing that he could could grasp at(and he did) was his gentalia dangling under his clothing that reminded him of his masculinity. His loose fitting denim pants soon aggravated his fingers and he ws forced to stop grasping, and the resultant dirty feeling in his hands caused him to wipe his hands on his bright orange shirt. The cotton wasn't smooth enough for his fingers however, and he searched the surrounding on the pavement nearest his blue converse shoes for something smoother. That's when he came across the purple cape lightly caressing the ground. He followed the cape up past his thighs, over his buttocks, and prophetically over his back only to find it was clasped to his own neck! He looked back down the cape to find embroidered into the purple polyester the initials PNG. At the sight of these three letters all his thoughts poured back into his mind, his memories coalesced.
"I AM PRETTY NORMAL GUY!" the man said triumphantly toward a dark figure standing across the parking lot. There was no reason the man should have been in shadow, what with the blazing hot sun and all, but Pretty Normal Guy knew why he could not be seen adequately. He could not be seen adequately because he was none other than his evil nemesis, Man Who Wears Dark Clothing To Often Man!
"Blast!" Quipped Man Who Wears Dark Clothing To Often Man, "The minor inconvenience ray has worn out, its time for something more substantial!" At that from the recesses of his dark clothing Man Who Wears Dark Clothing To Often Man pulled a sinister looking ray gun. Similar to the minor inconvinince ray in his right hand, this ray gun was a dark, pistol looking object that looked like you should have been able to buy it at Bag of Bargains. Only this ray gun was in his left hand! The only car in the parking lot, a Winnebago, shuddered in fear.
"This will make you less than normal Pretty Normal Guy, this ray gun will make you OBVIOUSLY LOUSY!" Man Who Wears Dark Clothing To Often Man laughed loudly as he patted his black cape. His leather pants were begining to jiggle from his raucous laughter.
"The only thing here thats about to get obviously lousy here Man Who Wears Dark Clothing To Often Man is your face!" Pretty Normal Guy said as he amassed within him his pretty normal powers.
"We'll just see about that shall we, this ray gun, the ray gun of immininent danger, will put you in imminent danger, of doom!" said Man Who Wears Dark Clothing To Often Man as he pulled the trigger of the black ray gun in his left hand. You could almost see the scintillating pleasure moving up his black hoodie covered arm. Expolding from the gun a red glowing object erupted. It moved slowly, slowly towards Pretty Normal Guy who's eyes saw the imminent danger he was in. As the tortoise bullet continued on its way Pretty Normal Guy looked within himself to his standard pretty normal powers, and with considerable effort, stepped out of the way of the red comet. Man Who Wears Dark Clothing To Often Man moaned in despair as he threw away his two ray guns so as to better cradle his face in shame.
"Is that all you've got? It must be pretty hot in those threads, maybe your brain's got a sunburn!" said Pretty Normal Guy as he did the normal dance of averting a crisis to oneself. Meanwhile the slow moving red ball of imminent danger struck an old lady, and for a few moments, she saw the imminent danger of walking down the sidewalk. She then proceded to walk into the middle of the road, where she was struck by a bus and killed instantly. Pretty Normal Guy, who's hearing was just OK noticed none of this.
"I have one last chance to ruin your day, Pretty Normal Guy, with this!" so saying Man Who Wears Dark Clothing To Often Man pulled a pistol looking akin to the first two from the folds of his black cape. For a moment the embroidered letters MWWDCTOM were visible from the way the light hit them, but at once they were again black and unoticable from the rest of the cape. "This," he carried on, "is the Walther PPK of proboble death!"
"Do your worst you tinted glass window using black jetta driving fashion reject ninja!" taunted Pretty Normal Guy.
"I'll make you eat the grease of your ear fattening words, slime of normalcy!" incited Man Who Wears Dark Clothing To Often Man. He pulled the trigger of the gun, it's luxuriant smoothness causing his fingers comfort in this time of annoyance. The bullet however, caught in the machinery of this ancient pistol, not manufactured since 1967. The gun exploded in his hands, causing great pain, and, his clothes to egnite in flames. Man Who Wears Dark Clothing To Often Man fled from the parking lot as his black clothing was burned to ash.
"I guess he should be called Man Who Is Naked Man instead, eh winnebago?" asked Pretty Normal Guy to the car, who dutifully whinnied an affirmative. "Know its time to do what I came here to do." he finished with a sort of finality that comes only with great normalcy. The purple caped hero walked purposefully out of the parking lot, and onto the curb to which the parking lot was attached, the curb of Wendy's.
As the door swung back Pretty Normal Guy was heard to mutter, "Why is that jerk always trying to ruin my day anyway?"
And the moral of the story is, with great capes come great appetites and hunger.

Until Next...
-John Molloy

Decidedly Gourdly

2005-08-17T18:22:00.000-07:00

So I've gotten into the habit of making interesting titles that have nothing to do with what I'm planing to write about. I will in no way change this because it adds flavour to the sidebar at the right of the page. so nah...
On to the topic. Well to be honest I don't really have anything to talk about. Well maybe that's interesting. You see I can only really wright about things when I'm feeling kinda argumentative. I don't really know why, but it seems I like to get out my frustration on myself. I guess that's why some of these posts have been really weak. When I'm feeling really happy I usually like to go to sleep and dream about wondeful fairy-lands full of wonder fairy-things. I'm feeling pretty happy now, but tommorow promises some hardcore boredom. So I went online to drown my worries. Maybe tommorow I'll go hang-out in my backyard... And stop begining sentences with I... Maybe I'll talk about you...
You just wasted your time reading what John wrote about nothing.
Until next...
-John Molloy

Pushing the Envelope

2005-08-16T19:08:00.000-07:00

So here I am about to attemp some on the spot poetry, I'm going to time myself and do it all in under 10 minutes. Here we go, I'll add the title after I'm done. Ok never mind I just scrolled up after I finished..

Concatenation
In the muck,
I am stuck,
out of luck,
what the fuck.
I'm not supposed to be here,
but no one can even hear,
the cries that I am making,
ears simply aren't taking.
Time to run,
past the sun,
no more fun,
til' I'm done.
Post reason pre-cognation,
there's some place I have to be,
not knowing is damnation,
there's something I have to see.
What is it?
In my writ,
only wit.
Still I sit.
There's something I have to do,
what it is I can't construe,
so at last I turn to you,
but you know nothing too.
My mind reels,
mental eels,
it congeals,
never seals.
It just sits there in my head,
it's the part of me that's dead,
it's a darkness I can't light,
it's a blackness I can't fight.
That is mine,
that, my mind,
like fine wine,
it does dine.
I will not lose this battle,
that I push upon myself,
my mind will not be cattle,
to my lesser other self.
Not insane,
just my brain,
is two lane,
double reign.
I'm not supposed to be here,
because there's someone to fear.

Ok eight minutes and fourty-five seconds is the time to beat.
Until next...
-John Molloy

Real Life Glitch

2005-08-15T16:49:00.000-07:00

So here it is, life has a glitch. It's true, and you can abuse this glitch. Just like all those nameless company owners who make tons of money and never seem to be at their desks. They arrive every once and a while to check up on things, especially where their check is, and to observe everyone else working very hard. I can tell you how to abuse this glitch. Now before you read on, this is what it is going to do. Now this glitch taps into the fabric of space-time itself to push you into a postion of importance and power, making money for doing nothing. It will make you a retired music artist, living of royalties. Everyone will think you are dead, making your records sell even more, and you will make loads of spending cash. Now this is how it works, in every human being is the inate subroutine that surfaces at romantic thoughts of death. Most people invision dying young in a blaze of glory, not keeping alive to die in some distant hospital bed. One can abuse this subroutine in such a way as to become a martyr to all romantics, i.e. most people (minus synics). So what you do is get a friend in the record business, not at all hard to do with a little leverage(marijuana for instance). Now when he's good and stoned you talk to him about how you dabble in music, and he goes all bonkers about how you should record an album. So you get together a band and you sing a lot of whatever you want, well not anything. You need a kind of music that caters to the romantic, so classical's out. So after the third album you do some minor shows until you cover for some big band and everyone is convinced you suck. At this point you move to Australia for seven years and live in a shed or something, learn to surf maybe. Tell people a false name, and voila, your legally dead. You return in triumph as the remaining members of the band dish out 50% of thei royalties each as outlined, you quietly return to legally alive and reap the rewards of the dead musician. The part that follows requires some tact and control, changing your name. You've probobly thought about changing your name to something better, but actually doing it can be very scary. People calling you some name you've only ever heard referenced will be very disheartening for the first few months. You also need a new house in some town you've never lived. If your lucky enough to live in a big city you can move undetected into suburbia. If you lived in suburbia the big city won't be a place for you, popularity will follow. The tan you got surfing should shrowd you and add legitmacy to the claim of not being you. Some lines when being questioned; "Hey are you ______?" can go like this;
"I wish..."
"You really think so?"
"Does that turn you on?" etc.
Wear clothing not peculiar to the genre of music you chose, and remember to walk in a different way than before(your surfing should help with that).
Now if it doesn't work the first time you can try again, but only while you are young and attractive. Good luck glitching!
Until Next...
-John Molloy

Hard Work Pays Off

2005-08-13T17:57:00.000-07:00

So I'm getting used to the bakery, apparently it gets less boring when someone isn't constantly showing me what to do. So after my spirits were up I picked up my first cheque after the promotion. I was all like "I'll be making 8$ an hour! W00T!", but I looked at the print and was surprised to find 7.60$ posted in the margin. So after a promotion all I get is an extra 10 cents an hour? Well maybe I should explain... Rocco approached me one day(he's the main manager at GB) and said "Hey John I want to pay you more but I can't until you accept a promotion. So how 'bout you go to meat after your vacation?" and I said something like "Meat sounds cool.". But look what I got! BAKERY??!?!? So I was expecting a big fat raise. But no, apparantly Rocco really wanted me to make an extra 10 cents an hour. Ah well I can spend that extra ten cents on my feet, and hopefully by the time summer's over I'll have an axtra toe. A toe MADE OF CHEESE. That's what ten cents pays for, toes made of cheese. And not asiago either, goddamn cheddar. Aw man what I really need is a toe made of beef... Yeah sorry for the lack of anything to say, maybe tommorow I'll be awake.

Until next...
-John Molloy

a pig

2005-08-11T17:40:00.000-07:00

I whored out and took that draw a pig personality test, I think the personality definitions conflict.
Well find out here.
Until next...
-John Molloy

Parallel Development?

2005-08-11T15:28:00.000-07:00

It's been said that somewhere in the galaxy(or everywhere by some) is a planet, that by parallel development has come to the same evolutionary level as our Earth. Now I'm finding this hard to believe, especially since part of this theory(outlined by Asimov) states english always becomes the dominant language. Now I'll get back to this later, but first I have something larger to discuss. Now we all know of the comet that ended the reign of the dinosaur, more specifically the Pliocene era. It caused a blackout that would destroy the lizards, allowing mammals to flourish. Now, why? The advantage of cold blood is in small activities. A large carnivorous lizard would stalk it's prey, using short bursts of energy to cause crippling blows before becoming winded and allow its prey to die. The quick, VERY quick bursts are a totally different style of mammalian hunting. Take for example the primate, enduring days of harrowing search for roots, nuts, insects, etc. At the time of the dinosaur quickness beat out endurance. What changed? The sun left. It up and went. Huge clouds blocked the light, and mammals through sheer endurance survived into the ice age. What would happen without the comet? Now here we get back to the language of english. The animal closest to that of the primate, even showing a brain almost that the size of a gorillas in the Mesozoic era(newer specimins have not been found), was a lanky lizard clever enough to steal eggs and the like. It evolved from that vulturism practiced in the Jurassic to hunter gatherer who traveled in pairs. They evolved long forfingers akin to those of the Gigogantosaurus and Alosaur, some scientist think capable of rudimentary tools. How does this apply to language? Well a lizard hunts by stalking, waiting out its prey. The communication between two of these Ornitholestes(the scientific name) must have been quiet, clicks and squeeks as to not alert the prey. English is not at all quiet enough as to avoid detection, with hard K, T, and B sounds. So if humans ever come into contact with a reptilian race evolved enough for space travel, they will look somewhat like humans(a little lighter, hollow bones as a bird and dense muscualture, and a beak), if they are similar to the aformentioned beast. They will also NOT speak english, they will instead speak a more quiet, smooth language better suited for their surroundings. In case you were wondering, I saw rudimentary language of neandertals and homosapiens on discovery. If it is to be trusted, the early human languages were grunting gutteral languages best suited for pack hunting, a loud raucious affair. And to rap up, without a comet to interfere with development, this early lizard would be almost 100 million years ahead of us on the evolutionary scale. So I guess my point is, Star Trek shouldn't have so many mammals, and the Parallel Development theory is a load of baloney.

In case you were wondering, information from the Discovery Channel and online sources on Evolution. Enough are similar to compile them in this manner. Yeah and that dinosaur book I got from the library some time last year. I can't beleive I still remember some of that stuff.

Until next...
-John Molloy

A fanciful fancy of a fantasy

2005-08-10T17:44:00.000-07:00

Yes well here follows the amazing story of that time I found Jelena on my doorstep. I don't think it actually happened but I've heard rumours of my present state of mind that would make a nun wink. So here we go.

Some time ago I wasn't thirty five at home with my beutiful husband Frank when a ring happened to emminate from my door. I don't know exactly how it happened because we didn't have a doorbell at the time(really its a long story involving a stray cat[ZAP]). But I went and opened the door anyway and what did I see? Oh man it was a little boy, with a sign on his little wicker basket that said 'Jelena'. He was wearing one of those little loin cloth deals over his, well, loins. How wonderful it was that Frank and I could have a child without all that uneccesary paperwork. I brought him in to show my Frankie and he was overjoyed, but sadened by the smell. So we removed the loincloth to find that it was not a boy but in fact a girl. A seventeen year old girl. Wow we thought as we changed her, and gave her some proper clothes. She looked kind of uncomfortable, but she was obviously drugged and wasn't very aware. After she had slept for a time she accepted the present arrangement of the double fathership. She even called the two of us dad, even though Frank so wanted to be Mom. We took her everywhere, the zoo, the circus, the gay bar. She liked the atmosphere but not the decor. Eventually her studies brought her to Univesity where she learned the basics of Pshychohistory, oddly enough my very own field. So after she graduated I gave her a spot in my office, which of course I owned and operated. She warmed to my workers as she sifted through time in the search of the future. At age 50 Frank and I wanted to travel so I took an early retirement, my wealth promised me that, and I left my business to Jelena. She was immensly gratefull for the education and money I bestowed upon her, and asked for one final token. I obliged her, and before I left Frank and I attended her marriage to Jane, her long time friend and confidant.

Yeah none of that really happened... Jelena tells me its important that all of you know this, I don't know why. It seems perfectly outrageous.
Until next...
- John Molloy

John Koziar's blog

2005-08-08T17:50:00.000-07:00

http://kozijohn.blogspot.com/
Since I don't have control of the settings go here for John K's blog.

How to notice things

2005-08-08T14:08:00.000-07:00

Have you ever been talking to someone, innocently making your views heard, when suddenly someone notices something? Have you ever wished that could be you? I know the feeling of missing out on some oddity, it's not comforting at all to hear "Ah man, it was so cool!". So follows are the instructions on how to notice things. They are most simple instructions , but some could prove difficult. Remember to practice these first few scenarios.
1. When in a moving vehicle, begin to tone out the playing radio and look out the window. Be unresponsive to idle travel conversation. This exercise is paramount to the first rule of noticing things; Don't look at things everyone else is looking at. You won't be the first to notice something uninteresting, or if you are you'll be met with unresponsiveness. Akin to; "Wow I just saw a Kit-Kat sign!""Wow.""Yeah.""STFU N00B!!!""*shrinks". If you notice something in a field people will respond with "WHERE WHERE? OMG AN ANTELOPE!!!", even if they don't see what you saw there's potential for respect and admiration.
2. When walking on a street don't keep you're eyes level in front of you, look at curbs and walls. This is how I personally find money. 5$+ a month in fact. This is a practice sort of thing, because you always have to be looking otherwise you'll miss something. Don't complain that you're not finding anything, it's all in the mindset. Don't look when you think about it, ALWAYS be looking. This corresponds with the second rule of noticing things; Always be alert. You won't notice things with your eyes on someone's ample bosom or behind. So instead of wasting time on slaps in the face and dirty stares, spend time looking for money.
3. When talking to someone in an unknown environment, retain eye contact only half the time. Spend the rest of the time paying attention, but surrupticiously keeping roaming eyes. Do not however, say anything about the things you notice until you can work them into the conversation. This can be the hardest element to master, keeping the conversation partner interested and unoffended, while also enriching the conversation with observations about the surroundings. This corresponds with the third rule; Always be noticing things, but never to the point that offense occurs. When this exercise does need a lot of practice, in the beginning it can be difficult to stay in the conversation and notice interesting enough things to add to the conversation. Sometimes in can be helpful to, in the inevitable silences, take quick sweeps of the space.

So after all of this the rules are as follows;
1. Don't look at things everyone else is looking at. Always notice new and interesting things.
2. Always be alert. It's easy to miss the most precious of things.
3. Always be noticing things, but never to the point that offense occurs. Observations fitted into conversation can be very enriching.
Not discussed
4. Notice deviations in speech, do not however bring them to attention. Helps in memorizing lyrics and speeches.
5. Notice small deviations about people, do not however bring them to attention. Helps in characterization and knowing someone's mood.

Now in closing a very simple game I play to help me in my noticing is this, have you and one friend tread water in a pool. With one hand play a game of catch with a small ball(like road hockey sized) upon each catch say something about something in the room that has not been previously said. This game helps to stay alert at all times, and is pretty good exercise regardless.

Until next...
-John Molloy

Art?

2005-08-07T13:44:00.000-07:00

So today I traversed with my family to the Guild Inn, supposedly started as an artist's guild. Now on the grounds an art sale was under way. It was at this time I noticed I have an art preference. I know, its amazing! I was looking at all this realist and traditional art and noticed I wouldn't consider buying any of it. I mean, impressionist's where its at. When I look at a painting and know everyhing about it, why would I look at it again? Wow it's a hockey player. Yeah. Wanna see it every day in our house for 75$? Definitely, maybe I'll notice another mole on his chin. Really? NO GOD DAMN IT THAT WAS SARCASM. Oh. I want to hang something on my wall that changes everytime I look at it, alternates with my mood. If not that I want to hang something that reminds me of something else, I guess that rationalizes pictures of trips, family members, cottages, etc. But some guy I don't know, or some landscape I've never seen? Here's the point, I'm not paying hundreds maybe thousands of dollars for something I'll be bored of in a week.
Ok and as a reward for listening(or not) to me ramble, here some poetry I wrote. If the response is good maybe I'll post some more. Well here we go;

Litany Against Computers
I am wasting precious air,
my soul rots here in this chair.
Do I care?
Is it fair?
Musics on a constant blare,
I begin to lose my hair.
People stare,
when I'm there,
but it's not often that I'm there,
leaving home is almost rare.
I prepare,
to prepare.
With a body like a pear,
I'm mistaken for a bear.
There's a tear,
that's not there,
wouldn't fix it wouldn't dare!
It's too comfy in my chair.

Talk to me and tell me if I should post more.
Until next...
-John Molloy

Stupid Store

2005-08-06T18:32:00.000-07:00

So I just got promoted to Bakery, as in as soon as I got back from China soon. And it kinda sucks. Yeah. Well. Why does it suck? Well it's for a great many things. First of all why does everything have to be frozen? Everything! Before things are baked(a small percentage) the dough is frozen. Everything! I mean being in a fridge is awesome, the cold is sooooooo cool ah yes double entendre. But dropping stuff on your foot sucks! I mean bruised by food, thats gotta be the worst. The other thing is remembering all those god gamn codes. Pricing all that bakery stuff with stickers requires an in depth knowledge of hundreds of these stupid codes, like 6014(something to do with pies).

Enough of that, its time for something more interesting. Have you ever wondered what it would be like stuck in a walk-in fridge? I haven't. Nope, not once. How you ask? It's riduclous they all have handles on both sides of the door. You know what would be scary? Being stuck in a walk in oven. I pondered this idea after my family ate two whole chickens after stuffing their behinds with whatever was on hand. I want my behind stuffed, but not with whatever was on hand, and not to improve my taste and softness. I guess the walk-in oven is the only way a whole human being could be cooked effectively, with even searing. Otherwise you'd have to cook like the torso first and people would throw away the arms and legs and head. The head I guess could be used for soup and the limbs would become something like giant chicken wings. Wow this is pretty screwed up... I'm going to stop before things get crazy.
Until next...
-John Molloy

Reading writings meant for song...

2005-08-04T15:19:00.000-07:00

I've begun toying with the idea of sending a message back in time. I know it's completely stupid and impossible but as I have said repeatedly, too much Outer Limits. Now although the original idea was romantic in nature it became clear that just an idea isn't enough girding. Imagining an email that says something like "Do something stupid" wouldn't be met with action. Instead, the message would have to be something more subversive, more seasoning. That's when I hefted this fragger, "Experiment with drugs" gets me thinking of how much money I'd waste. Ultimately however I'd walk away with more friends than I probobly have now. Not that I'm complaining, its just that quality doesn't always beat out quantity. Not always anyhow. I'd rather have one blood brother than one thousand drinking buddies. The message has to be direct and prodding, passionate but cold. Something like "Slack off and I'll kill you", would hard work change my present position? In a way I'm not sure I'd like to recognise myself without present personality. So here it is "Go join the circus", awesome. I've always wanted to join the circus. I could be the bearded lady after some 'modifications' and do nothing all day, save eat peanuts. I could talk to whack-jobs and pretend to be important in the inner-workings of society. Until one day that I was promoted to elephant. Oh those would be the days, using my mighty trunk I'd save the world from the attack of martian invaders. They would of course be angry that the present prime-minister of Britain was a hermaphrodite from Wallach IX who had plans of peopling the Canadian province of Alberta with his brood. The martains of course would not be expecting that one of the puny humans was in fact an elephant, and would come inspect it only to be crushed by its trunk. All four million of them. Such a show would allow me to buy a small island off the coast of Italy, Sicily of course, and rent out villas to gay couples on their honeymoons. The profits of course would be comparible to those of Mac after 2010 when they introduce the 100$ computer program for all people with two legs. I'll be the most famous elephant in the world, and will end my seventy year career with me blasting off into space to spend the rest of my years on the moon. Which won't be very long since oxygen would run out after some two weeks. Ah well it's so romantic.

Morning Musings

2005-08-03T06:13:00.000-07:00

Hey you know what I hate? Would you like to know? Probobly, because you read past the first sentence after all. Well I hate reading through web logs about someones day. I really don't want to see an itinerary, I want to read about your thoughts. So you bought Harry Potter today, big deal. So did countless other softcore fantasy fans worldwide, even city wide. I want to hear about why you bought this book, how you felt as you bought it, how hot the cashier was. I really don't need to now how much it was. How heavy it was sounds interesting... You can forgoe all this however if you had a damn interesting day, with some itinerary like;
Chased by monkey
Run over by truck
Sued for billions
Blew it all on male strippers
Contrasted to;
Bought Harry Potter for 34.50$
Ok fine I'll stop complaining but only because you asked. And only because I like you. And tomatoes. I like tomatoes. So red and plump and juicy. Biting into a tomatoe is like biting into a sphere of infinite pleasure, a shpere so pleasurable it's banned in thirteen countries. Yes one of them is Canada, why else would you have not heard about it? You savant of pleasurable items you... Whoa where am I going with this? Oh yeah, always include interesting segways or else I'm going to get bored. And if your post isn't even 250 words thats got to be embarassing. Not that I'm the king of consice, but jeez if you don't have time to read me a story I don't want to hear the credits. That's fair isn't it? Probobly not, I'm not easily pleased.

Thanks for letting me waste your time...
Until next...
-John Molloy

Too much free time.

2005-08-02T15:04:00.000-07:00

Ok I'm really bored so I'm going to keep typing as to give myself the impression I'm talking to YOU and not ME. The only thing I have to do know to complete my master plan is find some topic to go off on. If you could see me I'm perusing over my basement, trying my best not to look at what video game my brother is playing and desperately trying to think of a topic that doesn't have to do with the ground. Its not my fault half my vision is filled with the ground... I think I need a new chair... not good enough. Ah whatever I'm just going to talk about me some more, maybe because I'm so cool... shutup. Fine I'll write about something more interesting, like erasers.

So I'm sitting at my computer desk, writing away with my pencil, when I misspell a word. Not just any word either, its plate. On the paper staring up at me is pleight. Now I start looking for an eraser when I realize that there's an eraser on the end of the pencil! Extraordinary! It's like that old Chinese proverb, don't drink a goats milk when you're riding it, or something like that. Now I get the pencil turned around when I stare again at the page and the magnificence of the mistake. Its as much a part of the character of the page as the word directly before it, paper. So I look at my eraser and I snarl. I've gotten into the habit of snarling, it makes me look intimidating. What a nice segway... Anyway now I have on the paper in front of me three items of a use I'm not exactly sure of. I kind of wrote them when I got back from biking and was really sweaty and tired. Now the three things as follows are;
Water
Paper Pleight
Grand Piano
And as I stare at this list I feel a strange feeling that I had forgotten what I was doing. What possible correlation could these three objects have? I think for an insignificant amount of time my body was controlled by alien invaders who wish to be made a device to signal the fleet, a beacon to rally their forces of death to descend upon the unwitting human population. Hey maybe I could write an Outer Limits episode. Yeah. This guy named Jack played by Leonard Nimoy plays a grand piano while underwater wearing nothing but a paper pleight. Aliens come down and kill everything, leaving Leonard Nimoy the last man on Earth.
Where'd I start? Oh yeah erasers. Erasers are pretty awesome as long as you're actually making something someone is going to read. Yeah thats a pretty bad point. If you feel like reading some more look down cause this isn't the first one today, and the first one was by far the lesser waste of time.

Of note: One letter seperates named and naked.
Until next...
-John Molloy

A POST!!! OMG!!!

2005-08-02T12:12:00.000-07:00

So it would seem I just returned from China... Expecting information? GUFFAW! You won't get any(unless you finish my rant)! Instead you will read on about something completely different! That is, the story of how I'm going to ween myself of video games.
Ok I'm not really a prime physical specimin, maybe not fat, but definetly overweight. So here's my plan, cut out the video games! That's right! Over the course of the past trip I actually lost weight due to excersise and felt far more spry and stong than I think I have ever felt. This feeling is far superior to that of being dissed up by six year olds on Halo. Here's what I'm getting at, why do I play a game that isn't fun? Losing feels awful, and winning causes gloating and insults that likewise make you feel awful. So for the past three days I have gone outside and done something for most of the video game urges, I say most, because I have a sense of nostalgia and history with these games. When I quit masturbation, I didn't have these feelings, only that bored kind of lustfull feeling that only a good long argument with yourself can fix. There is nothing inherently wrong with video games, but even after a short reprise I find myself growing more eloquent and sociable. But here's the rub... I don't have many friends. I find it impossible to get together with other people without indulging ourselves in the activity of video gaming. I don't mean to sound pitifull but its true, I'm not always an easy person to get along with and value my personal space above many other things. I've begun talking to other people and realized that they do not talk to themselves half as much as I do, maybe its not an asset but a problem. I think it's time I got a hobby that didn't consume so much of my time and money. Not that many people will actually read this, but I'm open to suggestions.

Now on to the China part, but alas, I'm not really going to talk about China. The people in China were far more interesting. For once in a long time I felt a sense of impending normalcy as the personalites of those around me really began to shine through. Most of what happened I didn't have the pleasure(?) to sit through and observe, but I hear tell some of the events were quite interesting. If you are reading this you probobly already know of the turbulent romance of Jelena and Chris, an American with divulgent personalities. The mixed feelings coming from Jelena apparently were met with anger from Pui-Yan. Something not witnessed first hand but apparently this anger in and of itself is something very scary indeed. Jason also showed some change, most notably a smug superiority in being the conduit through all of us the last three days had to communicate. I had heard it had developed earlier but I didn't really notice it until those last days. The conversations developed by Derrick, Daryn and Daniel were also quite eccentric, ranging from topics on foot fetishes to the fable "How often do you masturbate?" talk. It seemed like all of the younger children (12/13) had severe ADD and very shrill voices, especially David with the neverending forray of questioning like some mythical typeset child character. All of this was mixed with the impatience and stubborness of the local Chinese to become quite the drama. I feel I have witnessed some end of season special on the soaps.

You now know my thoughts, and in closing I'd like to say; CANADIAN KEYBOARDS KICK ASS.
Until next...
-John Molloy

touche

2005-04-07T21:58:00.000-07:00

ok here we go, the premice of quite possibly the best story ever to be written.
It goes something like this;
A ninja master named Jelly reaches such a high state of clarity he turns himself into a jar of grape jelly so as to only teach students the way of the ninja. One such boy, the last student to be taight be jelly before his retirement(being eaten by the sternal dragon[perhaps on toast made seared the dragons own gutteral flame]), was wittness to jelly's assisination. The pizza man, enraged at the lack of tip from jelly who spent his life's savings on the pizza for the boys graduation party, runs him over in his car. His car is actually a winebago with no engine, just a wheel gear operated by a running Andy Bary host of CBC radio mornings. After the pizza man drives away, the boy vows revenge, not only for jelly's death but for the anchovies on the pizza. So after earning enough money using his ninja skills massaging the feet of rich old people, he buys the sword of fruit transmogification(turns into random fruits when the time serves). He uses this to combat a host of foes in a line, including the Gary Coleman trainers who want to become masters of the midget league, an alchohilic cowboy bum, the men who weren't, and Andy Barry. Eventually the boy confronts the pizza delivery man and defeats him in some entertaining way(im thinking pineapple up the bum). Sounds like fun. I'm going to finish writing it soon.

Flunking the Flunk Test

2004-10-24T17:58:00.000-07:00

Heres a Short Quiz for Y'all. Enjoy to the utmost you can enjoy quizes.

All questions are answered Yes, No, or MANG

1. Have you ever failed an english test or quiz?

2. Have you ever refered to a language not by its name but by its country?

3. Have you ever touched the negative of a picture depicting a monkey?

4. Have you ever tried on clothing that are specific of your opposite gender?

5. Have you ever hit an inanimate object that has corners?

6. Have you ever plucked/cut your nose hairs?

7. Have you ever refered to someone as ape or monkey?

8. Have you ever worn pants that are not owned by you?

9. Have you ever worn any clothing(hats are clothing) found(not refound) on the ground?

10. Have you ever played any video/computer game for longer than eigth hours in one sitting?

11. Have you ever forgotten to flush the toilet after the age of eight?

12. Have you ever mismatched your mismatched socks so that they become matched?

13. Have you ever had a family trip to a basement?

14. Has your favorite Olsen twin ever come up in conversation?

15. Mang?

16. Have you ever answered Your Welcome with Your Welcome?

17. Is an Orangutan your best friend?

18. Yes or No?

19. Have you ever eaten 1/16 your body weight in one sitting?

20. Has the thought of consuming your one foot ever crossed your mind?

O.K. thats it. Heres the scoring board.

IF you scored 15+ Yes, talk to John Molloy and he will give you a shiny nickel.
IF you scored 15+ No, talk to John Molloy and he will give you a possibly shiny penny.
IF you scored 15+ MANG, talk to John Molloy and he will give you a dime or more!
IF you scored none of the above, you obviously are a lunatic and will be sponsord much money by the goverment.

I bid you adieu. Ciao

-JOHN MOLLOY-

Appreciating Grocery

2004-10-16T18:19:00.000-07:00

The magic of fruit is insurpassable. Its divine influence escapes not even the darkest corners of the ape. Of course not often do people understand just how magnificent is the magnousity of the fresh produce aligned to the fruity manurisms of fruit, they do not see how magical the fruits can be.

I'll leave you with this. Remember to watch an object of fresh produce(especially fruit[vegetables are significantly less magical]) for at least ten minutes. This will give it a boost of self confidence and allow it to do magical things.

That is all. -JOHN MOLLOY-

Nobody knows the trouble frogs see.

2004-10-10T14:52:00.000-07:00

Thats odd isnt it. That is odd to think that frogs see. Its odd to think that I see, but thats mainly for the reason that what I think I see usually isn't there by the time I think to look. Take a look see? Why not take a see? Or a look?
That begs the question; If you see by looking and look to see, why can't you look what you see, or see what you look? Is look a verb? Why did that sentance come off so grammitically incorrect? Why am I saying this out loud? Why is my dog looking at me strangely?
I need a fix. So did Jason. Thats why I'm thinking out loud. So to keep myself quiet, heres the dealio. I am going to tell you a story. Sit down comfortably with a warm mug of something bubbly(if you need to grab one go ahead, I'll wait), while I weave you a tale of terror and laughter, of grassy knoles and snowy mountain-tops, of man and his desire to become a frog. Here goes something(mainly my time).

A Man Named Thomas

Very few ever knew of Thomas, he was always the one walked right by as a child. No one really noticed him for what he was, even though he was in fact one of everyone else. Perhaps that was the problem with Thomas, he was far to normal for his own good. His parents even expressed this to him on many an occasion. Though being the adolescent he was, he would never listen. The only thing Thomas wanted was to meet his real parents one day.

You see Thomas was abondoned as a child, his baby body was left swathed in a cloth at a pond not far from the town his parents must have conceived him at. Thomas was fine with being left at the pond, he was the kind of child who was completely indifferent to anything. This attitude was what gave him the innate ability to speak with frogs. As his baby gurglings of indifference wafted over the pond, a pair of frogs heard them and hurried over to him.

These two frogs named Ann and Prinklendarglashfarlendhuse where looking for their lost tadpool, who in fact had wondered away and been eaten by Thomas. Seeing Thomas they noticed their mistake, but their pide would not let them go without raising the tadman to froghood. None in the frog pond noticed the switch, their complete indifference carried on(as did their indifferent frog language). So as Thomas was raised to manhood, he would be fed flies, small rodents, and mud. Sometimes he would sneak tadpols from pond for a tasty midnight snack. During the day he would splash around the pond with the other frogs and be quiety ignored by dog-walkers passing by(exempting the occasional "Git sum clothes on you twit"), and listen to the wizzing sounds of cars on the nearby highway. All of this contented Thomas until the day his frogly foster parents told him he was not a frog. Thomas was from that point unable to speak frogish again, his indifference gone. Shortly after this point he decided to make the harrowing journey back to his birthplace.

Stepping out of the pond for the first time Thomas smiled back at the faces of his frog parents, Ann and Prinklendarglashfarlendhuse, and took the second step into the human world. Here he was the immediate victim of a speeding truck, the driver apparently was awkwardly distracted by Thomas' nakedness.

The moral of our story is this; People can't play frogger, frogs got to much style biznatch.

Wow that was....fun?

2004-07-16T17:39:00.000-07:00

HIDE!!!

QUICKLY!!!

Good. Now that you are all gone, I can speak candidly about many things while you(the avid reader) practice your art.

Do any of you know what a hill looks like? Don't laugh. What DOES a hill look like? Are hills those things that pickle sized fairys live in? NO! Pickle sized fairies live in coffins beside crucified cockroaches and water smoothed pebbles. They also inhabit space(which coincedentally has no hills). Do you know where to find hills? No, not in space. Weren't you listening? In Italy! Yes, that is where hills are found. Do you know why? Of course you don't, you think pickle sized fairies live in them. Well I'll tell you.... Some time later, I'm jet lagging.

FIRST! I hope you didn't do anything to that cow. No, thats second, first things first. Cheese comes from the nipples of large overfed mammals. This is both gross AND disgusting, especially when coupled with aged warm feet squished grapes. This is why I ate Lebanese in Paris. Where is Leban you might ask. I did. I didn't get an answer. SO! A contest! The first one to tell me where Leban is gets 0.05 euros. Free. I hope you didn...oops already said that.

so

CONTEST!!! TELL JOHN MOLLOY WHERE LEBAN IS AND GET 0.05 EUROES!!!!

You can stop hiding now, I couldn't find you. Get some clothes on too, reading nude in the dark is bad for digestion.

Bye Bye Ciao Ciao

From Italy(rome)

2004-07-07T09:33:00.000-07:00

Heres how it stands, slightly crooked. Actually a lot of things are slightly crooked. This is mainly because of the audacity of the ground, and the wooden spikes stuck in it. Hey, thats how things work in Italy. If it cant be built by sticking wooden spikes in the ground, and putting huge masses of marble on them, its not worth doing. Take Venice for example, nice dont you think? Not so nice however when you realize the whole city is being held up by small wooden spikes in the soggy swamp ground. Niiiiice, now everybody knows how things collapse. Speaking of collapsing, the colloseum has. You know why? Some genius started with wood. Now all we have is half a colloseum. Its true. Ever seen two halves of the colloseum? If you have, you know one of them is only half of a wall. You know Pisa? I don't think I need to explain that one, or alternatively look slowly back down the page(a process called reading) and understand why. Wood. Not only the buildings are crooked, so are the shady street vendors selling "follexes" and bags by "Guchi". Would any of you like to know why I sound bitter? Because I've been happy since I got on the plane, I need some time to figure myslef out before the smile Im wearing engulfs my body. Alternatively its because im drinking gasy water(thats is awefull) and lusting after eurpean buties(men+women) oops... smile getting bigger... must get angry... cant contain all happiness. O well, being Canadian in Europe is like being Pee-Wee Herman at the movies. We(my fam) get the absolute best deal on everything.

Aw well, here is the Schedule thus far,
Been to Venice(Three Nights)
Been to Florence(Three Nights)
Currently in Rome(The Second of Five Nights)
Next Sorento(near Pompei/Herculaneum)(Four Nights)
After That Paris(Three Nights)
Hmm, might have miscounted(a couple nights lost in transit maybe?)

Hmmph, be back on the seventeenth.

How NOT to be seen

2004-06-23T07:42:00.000-07:00

It is an art to hide. Do not ask how I know this, just accept it as a given variable. Consider the evidence; clothing is considered fashionable, and artsy. What are you doing by wearing clothing but hiding your beutifull body? It is NOT fashionable therefore to be naked, so, why is it clothing over the generations (especially for females) has become less and less evident. In fact evidence of clothing is extremely hard to find off of nudists or their beaches.
From this we(I) can derive nudists are never artists, and therefore artisic mediums should be witheld from them(a terrible waste of resources otherwise). I am deeply sorry for all nudists everywhere if I have offended you, but I beg you to proove me wrong nudists. Send me, John Molloy, all your best nudist art(I'm sure it will not be worthy of interpretation).
Where have I gone? Back to the topic. How NOT to be seen.

1. Use a bush to hide behind.
2. Use two bushes to hide behind.
3. Use three bushes to hide behind.
4. Do not use more than three bushes however, or nudism will ensue.
5. Use clothing(or scars).
6. Do not even consider other places to hide.

So there you(I) have it, the art of NOT being seen. Please partake all non-mudists, in this art, wherever or whenever you see fit.

PS. I'll be in Italy from July 28-June 17, don't expect anything from me within that time.

The Reality of the Influence

2004-06-21T17:57:00.000-07:00

Marijuana is a devious thing in that it is omnipotent in subcultures requiring a certain lack of regard for those beings incapable of thought that refers to substance abuse as a good thing. Whoops, here comes the train of thought, last stop is the smot pokers!
Among undescribable and obscene things today is the invisible presence of evidence of substance abuse in certain areas. It is clear that Ralph working at the record store is not puffing the magic dragon although the area has a distinct herbal scent. Could this have been caused by a bath soap? Methinks that a theory is in the works here.
Smoke drifts skyward. People toke in dark, low places. When ganja smoke particles gain more energy the smoke becomes less dense and drifts upward. Convection applies and gives the area smoke. Could the offshoot of ganja smoke become a liquid and saturate the air in a record store? Methinks yes.
This leads me to believe that numerous people die each year in Ontario as a result of drowning as a result of hotboxing too much and saturating the air with the burnings of substance abuse. In order for such drownings to occur, the air would have to be SUPER-SATURATED.
It is also my theory that Buffalo Springfield was a victim of the super-saturation of air as a result of massive substance abuse. There was a death caused once when a man stuck his head inside a functioning bong. Allegedly, the fumes burned his face off. It is my belief that the air inside the bong in question was super-saturated.
In conclusion, I would like to warn you that hotboxing crazy detergent marijuana may result in an undesirable pH level. In case you did not pay attention in grade 8 gym class, marijuana bought off the street contains high levels of cleaning products which are strong bases. Super-saturated air as a result of extremely basic pH errrrb smoke is hazsardous to your health in a similar way to drinking a bottle of Tide. So remember kids, stay away from drugs and wear a lifejacket when you hotbox.

Existence on my slip of paper.

2004-06-17T18:04:00.000-07:00

I am one. Hopefully, all of you are too. I have two arms, and two legs(possibly three), and two eyes. In fact most good things come in twos. How do I know this? THE PRACTICLE APPLICATION OF MATH!

On the piece of paper on which I exist(the planet Earth), the number of body parts I have are tallied neatly. 1 leg + 1 leg + 1 arm + 1 arm + 1 head + 1 body = John, 2 leg + 2 arm + 1 head + 1 body=John.
Wow look at that. John is algebra(push-up fungi[disregard this set of brackets]).

Now, for as long as I exist on paper, I will continue to eat trees to sustain myself. WHO ARE YOU TO INFRINGE ON MY ALTERNATIVE LIFESTYLE??? *froths at mouth*...*begins to rip pants then reconsiders and continues frothing instead*.

Trees are cut for a reason. That reason is math. Forget all that was said, math is evil. Math is depleting my stock of trees. Less trees=Less alternative lifestyle. Math is Anti-Gay! Math is Anti-Tree eating! As long as math survives the ways of the courageous tree eater will be lost forever forever in the sands of the nude beach.

For when there are no trees left, math will be dead, the tree eater will again have to eat giant insects, and nudists will rule the world. That is the plan of the Nudists, do math to destroy trees, to make the entire world a nude beach!

So remember all of you, continue to eat trees, do no math, and curse all nudists until they abandon their plans for world domination and become docile non-math doing tree eaters once again. Thank you and good-bye.

Exam

2004-06-17T17:38:00.000-07:00

Deep philosophical questions have been entering my brain concerning the topic of creation of human beings. The age old question is one that I choose to tackle before your very eyes. The meaning of life?! I sat there today as I wrote the science exam and I found myself thinking about a blog comment in particular made by the right honourable Christopher Martin. He mentioned something about math being something that doesn't apply to real life. Lisa Munro made a suggestion that math is 100% on paper and does not exist otherwise.
This brings me to ponder the point of our existence: Are we only existing on paper? I feel like there are two identities placed on a person. That person's physical entity is the first, but the second is much more intriguing - that person's existence in papers and on records. The world is built on a trust system. Are we put on this Earth to exist as members of society? This is what the papers that define us lead us to believe. There is the other point that we might be meant to be living. Sometimes it seems like the right thing to revert to a more natural lifestyle among trees - to abandon what modern society has become. It makes it seem so much simpler, so much more correct.
Any way you look at it, there is a real conflict of why we are here. Why are we living this? What would we be experiencing without life? Life is a miracle now? If there is an afterlife then what happens before life? These deep philosophical questions are probably what philosophy is based on.
For now, it is my belief that all people are born from the womb. We all started out as cells but did not have the capacity of thought. We do not remember the state of being a fetus just as we do not remember the day of our birth. This is an issue where various facts of science have won my beliefs. You were a sperm once. There was no drama at that point in your life. Yes, that was your life. We are put on this earth to reproduce. If there was one thing I learned in biology it was the significance of population potential, or some other similar term. It means the ability of a population to reproduce. If there is a scale that judges how well we would be able to reproduce, then is that our reason to be on Earth? Is it to carry on the species? Hormones ensure that we are able to do so, but how we go about doing so is not something biology can control. If we cannot do so, have we failed to do what we were put here to do?
You may ponder these points, but ponder also that we were all fetus at one point - probably at the same point. Whether or not we received enough milk was as important to us then as whether or not we succeed at being "good" teenagers now.
In conclusion, science seems to not have abandoned us as teenagers. There are a number of philosophies that revolve around our reason to exist, but we must let them be for now and remember that we are all transmutations of an all-inclusive cheese.

You are Vincent. Yes, You too.

2004-06-16T18:13:00.000-07:00

Who knows about the rest of you, but manly advances are both welcome and valid. Or in-invalid, if it suits you(you of course could be Vincent). In fact all of you could be Vincent. In fact we all are Vincent.

Item A; All passed gas is subservient to the gas that is its lord and
master(that of Vincent Chung), and all gas passed is but echoes and
offspring of its master. All gas therefore is directly related to Vinny.

Item B; All bastardizations of the English language are endearing and
therefore are emblazoned on our psyche. Who will forget the aforementioned
accidental witticisms, and fun sayings(I was saying them for months.

Item C; Vinny is thin and fit, but could be diseased(a bit to thin). Being
Vincent would make me personally much lighter.

Whatever you choose to beleive I'm beleiving me. You could be Vincent. Vincent..All Vincent. Thank you very much, and please stop insulting yourself, you could embarass yourself heavily by failing to beat yourself up.

You are not valid!

2004-06-16T14:13:00.001-07:00

I have come to you today to adress what is both a common threat and a common cause: the stupid kid we all love to hate, Vincent Chung.
Flashback to computer engineering class, late january. We were sitting there working on games. I had been working on one such game for about an hour, and I was proud of my Pui Yan date sim. Suddenly Vincent came up and started making manly advances on John Molloy. I did not think too much of this because it is something that happens all too often in computer engineering class. WHABAM! Vincent suddenly deletes my game. I realized that because I was a dolt I had forgotten to save it beforehand. It was at this point I swore I would kill Vincent Chung.
While we all hate him, Vincent Chung has become a legend of sorts not for his low IQ but for his carefree butchering of the English language. Allow me to touch on several recent butcheries of such a form.

" Yo guy, you are invalid!" - Vincent's point of view on the nuclear arms race.

" These terms are satisfactory." - Vincent's dramatic closure of a mythology play.

" Do you know where is Molloy?" - Vincent's desperate call for male bonding.

" Coopah is gay wif Maaaaahtinn" - Vincent's desperate comeback every time he gets zinged while I or Martin is anywhere withni earshot.

Such incidents are a disturbing dent on society as we know it being the gifties that we are. I would like to thank you, Vincent, for providing us with a model. A model of something we hope to never see again. An incarnation of what we hate about society. I would also like to say that those who are your friends do so because they do not know any better. Only a really socially insecure person would befriend a twat such as yourself. That is all.

No business Like Show Business

2004-06-16T12:38:00.000-07:00

And I just punched the clock.

I (John Molloy) would like to start off by saying I have already made an opening statement, and will not require another one for what idealy will be some time.

I will end my first post with what should be an insightfull quote for all of you.
"Go not where your feet take you, but where your pelvis thusts you."

Now on to the show(business).

Hello there.

2004-06-15T15:44:00.000-07:00

This is Chris Cooper. John Molloy and I decided to create the bastard child of giftie blogs today, and here is the result. Welcome to the Ream of Mang. This will not be any ordinary blog, mind you. This blog is for the spineless and hilarious bashing of those around us as we sit and wonder why one would suck so hard. Please enjoy as we sow our crops in the ashes of burnt-out dwellings situated in the shame of others.