Goddamn it, Hollywood. Why do you need to reboot the Spider-man franchise? Huh? Sure, 3 sucked, but I don't think that really calls for a reboot. Are you seriously telling me 441 issues of just Amazing Spider-man (not Spectacular Spider-man, or Peter Parker: Spider-man, or Amazing's reboot, and not counting Ultimate or any other universes, just original Amazing) can only supply you dickweeds with 3 movies worth of material before you have to start again? What ever happened to Venom? How about Carnage? Or Vulture? Or a (not shit) re-imagining of the Clone Saga? I mean Jake Gyllenhaal is right there. Or introducing the Lizard after two fuckin' movies with Doc. Connors?
(Now before we go any further, let me underline the tragedy of this decision by pointing out that I will be going to see Amazing Spider-man next year. Like, at least two times. Sony Pictures will be taking money away from me by producing this movie, even if I oppose the idea of a reboot, and that's just not fair.)
Let's try and get some sort of timeline going, see if we can figure out this stupid, stupid decision.
What was wrong with Spider-man 3? I think we can blame cocaine dealers for this one, as clearly some sort of Hollywood-wide discount was offered around the time screenplay ideas were getting tossed around for S3.
"Okay, origins and Goblin in 1, Doc Ock and a little identity crisis in 2, great, great... *snifffff* BRING BACK THE GOBLIN FOR 3! EXCELLENT! GET HARRY IN A GOBLIN SUIT! MAKE HIM LIKE... LIKE A NEW GOBLIN! ONE THAT LOOKS NOTHING LIKE A GOBLIN! FANTASTIC! *Sniffffff* FUCK THIS SHIT IS GOOD! AND VENOM! VENOM ALL OVER THIS BITCH! BLACK-SUIT SPIDEY! FUCK THAT'S EDGY! GET THEM ALL IN THERE! YES! FUCKING SANDMAN FOR SOME REASON!"
And so you made the most expensive turd 2007 could offer us. But despite one producers Columbian-snow fuelled attempt to cram 40 years of comics into one film, there is a hell of a lot of source material left over. At this point you're just rebooting for the sake of rebooting. 3 was bad, sure. But, Jesus, not Batman & Robin bad. A new director, maybe? Not cramming every bad guy you can think of into one sequel? Or I don't know less shitty ideas for movies?
What is the draw back of spreading out the 6ooo Spidey villains into maybe 2 movies? People will go see a movie with just Vulture in it. Shit throw Rhino in there and have some hilariously lame zoo puns headlining the Bugle. How about Clone Saga, with Jackal or Norman Osborn pulling the strings? (Gyllenhaal is right fucking there.)
But no, none of those things will happen. You're gonna reboot it. And we're gonna sit though another comic book origins movie, except we've seen it already. I don't really want to see Uncle Ben fucking die again, I don't know about you.
Okay, that's like 400 words without mentioning that in the last month 3 different people, separately, have arrived at the conclusion that I "look like Spider-man." That would be Tobey Maguire, Spider-man. Not this new kid, who's like fucking English or something. And a bunch of you Hollywood asshats are going to take that away from me because, shit, who doesn't love a reboot?
(Again, I will be seeing this movie like an absolute bare minimum of three to four times, since I'm a big ol' geek and it comes with the territory.)
But that does raise a valid point other than one of them was this cute girl what are you doing to me Hollywood? Which is: What about the cast? Sure, Franco is doing okay, after apparently turning to weed in order to cope and falling in with Seth Rogen's crowd. Dunst is perfectly suitable as any girl next door. But how about Tobey? What's poor Tobias up to these days? The Great Gatsby adaption? Oh Lord. I mean, these guys probably noticed that S3 was bad. During production, the second they read the screenplay, at some point they realized "Wow, the Sandman has no need whatsoever to appear in this film." Maybe they figured, hey, the next Spider-man movie we'll all be in won't be as bad.
But in the end you screwed them. You screwed Raimi too, even after a pretty okay job at directing Spider-man 3: Revenge of New Goblin Against Black Suit Spidey and Venom At The End Instead of Saving Him for S4 and Sandman For Reasons Unclear to Literally Everyone.
And speaking of screwing, you know who do statistically less of that? People who no longer look like Spider-man, you jerks.
The reboots have gone too far, Hollywood. One misstep doesn't mean a franchise should go directly to jail without passing Go. We don't need to start again because you did one little movie wrong. Spider-man 4 could be cool. Spider-man 5 could be cool. Maybe this new franchise can go the distance. Emma Stone's hot, so that's something. But I for one will always remember July 3, 2012 as the day I stopped looking "like Spider-man" (see, if it's in quotes I'm not an asshole). It will also be the day I spend all my disposable income on eight consecutive screenings of the same movie. This is the sort of power you have, Hollywood. And with great power, well...
Sincerely, Jacob Storm, who next year goes back to being a regular geek, instead of one that sort of, in the right light, if I got her drunk first, could be mistaken for Spider-man.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Why Nazi Zombies is Exactly Like Sex.
Okay, right out the gate, can I clarify that by "Nazi Zombies", I refer to the game mode from Call of Duty 5, and more recently CoD Black Ops, not just general flesh-eating resurrected Nazis. Good.
Hear me out.
Players
In Nazi Zombies, you can play with 1 to 4 players. I would submit that this also applies to sex, in that any more than 4 moves towards "orgy" territory.
More so, if you play with just one player, the whole experience feels jaded and ultimately less satisfying.
Foreplay
As the curtains open (or close), things are going to start off slowly. Zombies are sort of drip-fed into the area, which while exciting, is nothing you can't handle. This basically sets the mood for the game.
Things Heat Up
Now here's where it gets interesting. The zombies start to pile up on you, but you've explored the area a little, and found a nice niche to work with. You're starting to sweat a little, sure, but you've got a good rhythm sorted out. Although tiring, the overall experience is feeling pretty good at this moment.
Climax
Fatigue starts to set in. You slip a few times, you're hands are sweaty. You know you can't hold out much longer. You try your hardest, you do. You try to keep your rhythm going, but it's all too much. The zombies overwhelm you, and although later you'll feel nostalgic for the overall experience, all you feel now is shame and anger, wishing you could've held on just a little bit longer.
But hey, don't worry. It actually happens to a lot of guys.
Hear me out.
Players
In Nazi Zombies, you can play with 1 to 4 players. I would submit that this also applies to sex, in that any more than 4 moves towards "orgy" territory.
More so, if you play with just one player, the whole experience feels jaded and ultimately less satisfying.
Foreplay
As the curtains open (or close), things are going to start off slowly. Zombies are sort of drip-fed into the area, which while exciting, is nothing you can't handle. This basically sets the mood for the game.
Things Heat Up
Now here's where it gets interesting. The zombies start to pile up on you, but you've explored the area a little, and found a nice niche to work with. You're starting to sweat a little, sure, but you've got a good rhythm sorted out. Although tiring, the overall experience is feeling pretty good at this moment.
Climax
Fatigue starts to set in. You slip a few times, you're hands are sweaty. You know you can't hold out much longer. You try your hardest, you do. You try to keep your rhythm going, but it's all too much. The zombies overwhelm you, and although later you'll feel nostalgic for the overall experience, all you feel now is shame and anger, wishing you could've held on just a little bit longer.
But hey, don't worry. It actually happens to a lot of guys.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Twitter.
Firstly, in an attempt to really get my message of what I think Twitter boils down to, I have put no forethought into this blog, and I will not edit it at all. No backspaces or spellcheks==cks orn othing. Oh, hsit. FUKC! DIKASN~AKJD#AL!@!
Okay, I will allow backspaces.
Now, in case you're wondering, this is what my attempts at writing every week look like. One post every... Huh. One month exactly. Okay, it's a monthly blog then. Savor it. Although that aspect has failed, I do still hate the internet, so this week-- Er, month (See? a smooth transition), I hate on Twitter.
The concept of Twitter, based on 30 seconds on their homepage and 4 times the recommended dose of this energy drink (Which I consumed because either A) It's a clever metaphor on the ADD, low impulse-controlled teens who primarily use Twitter, or B) It was freeeeeee.) is to "discover what's happening right now, anywhere in the world." And before you ask, that is just their slogan copied and pasted here. Congratulations, detective.
Based on immediate observations, randomly clicking on a Twitter account should be boring as all hell, or just plain depressing. Let's see!
Contestant number one: Darealscarface.
Oh. Oh Dareal. You're all I need. Thank you so much.
"I'm gone but I leave u with this, everytime u fall get up but if u keep on fallin down look to see wut u standin on, might be ya foundation"
Okay, well, first, "I'm gone" would indicate you are leaving, i.e. are going to stop tweeting, despite the fact you returned an hour later with "ever buy the round of 40s and as u passin them out the last one is yours and you drop and break dat ho #S"
Now, I don't want to piss off a dude who recommends you "drop and break dat ho," because I'm fairly certain that I would be accepted into a ho fraternity long before I was accepted into a gangsta one (I have very soft skin), but I really want to spend some time trying to decipher... That.
I'm thinking "round of 40s" is a 40 ounce of... What is a 40 ounce? I'm going with beer. And then you "passin them out". Okay, cool. It's nice of you to share. The "last one is yours." Cool. And then, bam! Attack a passing prostitute! Now I'm wondering if a 40 ounce is like, straight bourbon or something. If that's the case, I think you need to find a better way to deal with your anger than drunkenly assaulting random street vixens, Darrel. We worry about you.
Getting back on topic, Mr. Scarface here is a prime example of why Twitter is a horrible idea. Encouraging people to post whatever they're thinking, all the time, is just an awful plan. I'm sure the police who arrested Darrel The Ripper were thankful he slipped up with his tweets, but do the goods this site might do outweigh the bads? I submit that they do not, if for no other reason than the little boxes with random tweeters in it are far too small, and when I clicked on what looked like the hottest chick there I got Queen Latifah, and the last hour I spent re-evaluating my sexual orientation were deeply confusing.
Oh, also, I lied to you. When I said there would be no planning. I actually kept a log of all my thoughts during this blogging, and kept them to a strict, 140-character, twittery limit. I did it to demonstrate exactly what the internet does not need 60 million examples of:
Alrighty, blog time. I think that's about the 17th time I've said that in the last month.
Okay, let's see. Why I hate Twitter. I sort of covered "no one cares what you think" in the Facebook blog. Oh! Character limit! I hate--
Holy CRAP using exactly 140 characters for that joke was hard. Character limit sucks balls, by the way.
Free energy drinks are fucking awesome.
A good synonym for prostitute? I'm tempted to use Whore-slut. That's a little harsh. Am I typing it anyway? How much caffeine have I had?
I tweet that I this just to ake sure everyone noticed I turned "da real" into "Darrel". I am a genius.
The start of that tweet made exactly no sense and my hands are now starting to type whatever they want. That's enough energy drinks.
'Spose I should look into the actual website a bit more. Shit these pictures are tiny. Oh, hey. She looks like a bit of alright.
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!! DRINK ALL THE CAFFEINE! MAYBE MY BRAIN WILL SHORT-CIRCUIT AND WE CAN PRETEND THIS NEVER HAPPENED!
Okay, so fuck Twitter.
What the fuck are you doing? That's not how you unlock the closet.
40 minutes wasted. If the cat can't work a simple closet-lock, how would he get into the vault? He's off the bank crew.
Man, this amount of stimulants make 140 the perfect amount of characters. I'm bored by 150. Bored or violently shaking.
Goddamn it! I had something really funny I was building up to. But my hands keep typing "need guarana". STAY THE COURSE, HANDS.
Tweeting from emergency room now. Went into some sort of diabetic coma.
Oh yeah, I have diabetes now. I developed it in 4 hours. Doctor says he's never seen it before.
I'm bored of waiting for my diabetes-trophy. I think constantly tweeting is affecting my attention-span.
Is it okay to tweet while pooping? I'm gonna go for it.
NEED GUARANA NEED GUARANA NEED GUARANA NEED GUARANA NEED GUARAN-- Hey, quit it!
BUY OFFICE MAX.
---
I could keep going. Do you want this? Now imagine 60 million of us. Imagine people just saying whatever pops into their heads, whenever. Real life Twitter would be fucking madness, so why does internet Twitter make any sense? It doesn't. Stop this. Please. Please stop the insanity. Do your part and steal a teenagers cell phone today.
Okay, I will allow backspaces.
Now, in case you're wondering, this is what my attempts at writing every week look like. One post every... Huh. One month exactly. Okay, it's a monthly blog then. Savor it. Although that aspect has failed, I do still hate the internet, so this week-- Er, month (See? a smooth transition), I hate on Twitter.
The concept of Twitter, based on 30 seconds on their homepage and 4 times the recommended dose of this energy drink (Which I consumed because either A) It's a clever metaphor on the ADD, low impulse-controlled teens who primarily use Twitter, or B) It was freeeeeee.) is to "discover what's happening right now, anywhere in the world." And before you ask, that is just their slogan copied and pasted here. Congratulations, detective.
Based on immediate observations, randomly clicking on a Twitter account should be boring as all hell, or just plain depressing. Let's see!
Contestant number one: Darealscarface.
Oh. Oh Dareal. You're all I need. Thank you so much.
"I'm gone but I leave u with this, everytime u fall get up but if u keep on fallin down look to see wut u standin on, might be ya foundation"
Okay, well, first, "I'm gone" would indicate you are leaving, i.e. are going to stop tweeting, despite the fact you returned an hour later with "ever buy the round of 40s and as u passin them out the last one is yours and you drop and break dat ho #S"
Now, I don't want to piss off a dude who recommends you "drop and break dat ho," because I'm fairly certain that I would be accepted into a ho fraternity long before I was accepted into a gangsta one (I have very soft skin), but I really want to spend some time trying to decipher... That.
I'm thinking "round of 40s" is a 40 ounce of... What is a 40 ounce? I'm going with beer. And then you "passin them out". Okay, cool. It's nice of you to share. The "last one is yours." Cool. And then, bam! Attack a passing prostitute! Now I'm wondering if a 40 ounce is like, straight bourbon or something. If that's the case, I think you need to find a better way to deal with your anger than drunkenly assaulting random street vixens, Darrel. We worry about you.
Getting back on topic, Mr. Scarface here is a prime example of why Twitter is a horrible idea. Encouraging people to post whatever they're thinking, all the time, is just an awful plan. I'm sure the police who arrested Darrel The Ripper were thankful he slipped up with his tweets, but do the goods this site might do outweigh the bads? I submit that they do not, if for no other reason than the little boxes with random tweeters in it are far too small, and when I clicked on what looked like the hottest chick there I got Queen Latifah, and the last hour I spent re-evaluating my sexual orientation were deeply confusing.
Oh, also, I lied to you. When I said there would be no planning. I actually kept a log of all my thoughts during this blogging, and kept them to a strict, 140-character, twittery limit. I did it to demonstrate exactly what the internet does not need 60 million examples of:
Alrighty, blog time. I think that's about the 17th time I've said that in the last month.
Okay, let's see. Why I hate Twitter. I sort of covered "no one cares what you think" in the Facebook blog. Oh! Character limit! I hate--
Holy CRAP using exactly 140 characters for that joke was hard. Character limit sucks balls, by the way.
Free energy drinks are fucking awesome.
A good synonym for prostitute? I'm tempted to use Whore-slut. That's a little harsh. Am I typing it anyway? How much caffeine have I had?
I tweet that I this just to ake sure everyone noticed I turned "da real" into "Darrel". I am a genius.
The start of that tweet made exactly no sense and my hands are now starting to type whatever they want. That's enough energy drinks.
'Spose I should look into the actual website a bit more. Shit these pictures are tiny. Oh, hey. She looks like a bit of alright.
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!! DRINK ALL THE CAFFEINE! MAYBE MY BRAIN WILL SHORT-CIRCUIT AND WE CAN PRETEND THIS NEVER HAPPENED!
Okay, so fuck Twitter.
What the fuck are you doing? That's not how you unlock the closet.
40 minutes wasted. If the cat can't work a simple closet-lock, how would he get into the vault? He's off the bank crew.
Man, this amount of stimulants make 140 the perfect amount of characters. I'm bored by 150. Bored or violently shaking.
Goddamn it! I had something really funny I was building up to. But my hands keep typing "need guarana". STAY THE COURSE, HANDS.
Tweeting from emergency room now. Went into some sort of diabetic coma.
Oh yeah, I have diabetes now. I developed it in 4 hours. Doctor says he's never seen it before.
I'm bored of waiting for my diabetes-trophy. I think constantly tweeting is affecting my attention-span.
Is it okay to tweet while pooping? I'm gonna go for it.
NEED GUARANA NEED GUARANA NEED GUARANA NEED GUARANA NEED GUARAN-- Hey, quit it!
BUY OFFICE MAX.
---
I could keep going. Do you want this? Now imagine 60 million of us. Imagine people just saying whatever pops into their heads, whenever. Real life Twitter would be fucking madness, so why does internet Twitter make any sense? It doesn't. Stop this. Please. Please stop the insanity. Do your part and steal a teenagers cell phone today.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Facebook.
I'm going to do my best to actually post some blogs from now on. I used to post like every week, back on Bebo (yes, that is spelled correctly. That's a thing), but I kind of got bored. The creation of my Blogger account was basically an attempt to revitalize my passion for blogging.
It failed miserably. Distraught and disillusioned, I read some of my earlier blogs, trying to recapture some of that lost passion (I'd like to take this moment to explicitly state that I am not, nor was I ever, sexually stimulated by the concept of blogging. That is for the record).
Do you know what I realized? I hate more or less everything. Especially the internet. I love to bitch about the internet. So that's what I'll do. Each week (or, y'know, whenever. Fuck it) I will pick a website that makes my heart skip a beat or two (with hate. Not. Sexually. Excited) and spew forth some distasteful comments here.
Now, plenty of you might point out that posting my hate of the internet, on the internet, is stupid. Well, to you sir, firstly, eat scrotum, and secondly, it's not stupid, it is ironic. All the cool kids know irony is where it's at. On to the main event!
So, fuck Facebook. It's stupid here. With your fucking walls and your status' and your pokes (is that you guys? Fuck it). I log on for the first time in, shit, a month, and you know what I get? "Ben and John commented on Huw's something something", and "Hannah's status is blah fucking blah". You know who that affects (effects?) Jon, Ben, Huw, and Hannah. You know who I am? None of those fucking people. I don't even see why we need these things. The majority of you people see each other every day.
Every. Day.
I have, from the very beginning, called this non-instant instant messaging out as stupid and nonsensical. You could text. You could MSN or Yahoo-chat or Grue-call or whatever-the-fuck-you-want these people, instantly. Instantaneously. God knows T.V and the internet has conditioned us all to need immediate gratification on virtually everything we do now days.
But I know why you're doing this facebook-wall-poking bullshit. And I know who to blame. Music Television. That degenerate excuse for a T.V channel where the only prerequisite to being famous is to have a cup size higher than you I.Q. (or, from a male perspective, a mouth large enough to talk all the smack that could also contain all the many, many dicks you would deserve to swallow for said smack talk).
I have some grave news for you people out there. You are not on MTV. The people who give a shit about what you have to say or poke or wall (tag?) are the following:
-You
-Your Mom (well, she has to pretend)
So stop filling the internet with your nonsense. You could call these people, you know. Talk to them that way. Or God forbid actually make human contact and talk to their face. But no, you want to be famous. You want to be special. So you set up a goddamn smoke signal to the person two doors down from you.
Well you know who lives between you and them? Me. I do. And my lungs hurt from all your status-smoke. Please fuck off.
If you want to be famous, you need to do one of the following:
-Ladies, get implants that you can't fit in one hand.
-Gents, you can start by practicing eating hot-dogs without chewing, and go from there.
It failed miserably. Distraught and disillusioned, I read some of my earlier blogs, trying to recapture some of that lost passion (I'd like to take this moment to explicitly state that I am not, nor was I ever, sexually stimulated by the concept of blogging. That is for the record).
Do you know what I realized? I hate more or less everything. Especially the internet. I love to bitch about the internet. So that's what I'll do. Each week (or, y'know, whenever. Fuck it) I will pick a website that makes my heart skip a beat or two (with hate. Not. Sexually. Excited) and spew forth some distasteful comments here.
Now, plenty of you might point out that posting my hate of the internet, on the internet, is stupid. Well, to you sir, firstly, eat scrotum, and secondly, it's not stupid, it is ironic. All the cool kids know irony is where it's at. On to the main event!
So, fuck Facebook. It's stupid here. With your fucking walls and your status' and your pokes (is that you guys? Fuck it). I log on for the first time in, shit, a month, and you know what I get? "Ben and John commented on Huw's something something", and "Hannah's status is blah fucking blah". You know who that affects (effects?) Jon, Ben, Huw, and Hannah. You know who I am? None of those fucking people. I don't even see why we need these things. The majority of you people see each other every day.
Every. Day.
I have, from the very beginning, called this non-instant instant messaging out as stupid and nonsensical. You could text. You could MSN or Yahoo-chat or Grue-call or whatever-the-fuck-you-want these people, instantly. Instantaneously. God knows T.V and the internet has conditioned us all to need immediate gratification on virtually everything we do now days.
But I know why you're doing this facebook-wall-poking bullshit. And I know who to blame. Music Television. That degenerate excuse for a T.V channel where the only prerequisite to being famous is to have a cup size higher than you I.Q. (or, from a male perspective, a mouth large enough to talk all the smack that could also contain all the many, many dicks you would deserve to swallow for said smack talk).
I have some grave news for you people out there. You are not on MTV. The people who give a shit about what you have to say or poke or wall (tag?) are the following:
-You
-Your Mom (well, she has to pretend)
So stop filling the internet with your nonsense. You could call these people, you know. Talk to them that way. Or God forbid actually make human contact and talk to their face. But no, you want to be famous. You want to be special. So you set up a goddamn smoke signal to the person two doors down from you.
Well you know who lives between you and them? Me. I do. And my lungs hurt from all your status-smoke. Please fuck off.
If you want to be famous, you need to do one of the following:
-Ladies, get implants that you can't fit in one hand.
-Gents, you can start by practicing eating hot-dogs without chewing, and go from there.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
This is Not Funny.
Don't you fuckers get smart with the title, okay? I meant this post only. The others are... Well, they're okay. I wouldn't brand them as "hilarious" or anything. "Slightly above average", maybe. Of course the average funny of the internet... Well, minus the porn... Huh.
That just leaves me. Well then I am average. Is that... Do I like that?
Not important. Anyway, the following is the story I am handing in for English. Well, it's the draft. Before my teacher crafts it into something (even more) unholy. This is your undiluted not-funny Jacob right here. Please post any thoughts or feelings, I promise to lie about reading them if you ask me.
---
"It's this one here." Lorrie pointed meekly. I pulled the car up at the end of the drive, so we could walk up to the house. I brushed Lorrie's brunette fringe out of her face. She looked at me with her shimmering blue eyes. "Jay, do you think..." Her voice trailed off with her gaze.
"He's fine." Her eyes snapped back on to mine "I promise you, he's fine." I smiled and kissed her softly. "We should get inside."
The rusted doors of the car creaked like they always do and a chill gust greeted us outside. With it a fistful of autumn leaves whipped past and down the street, past all the white-picket fences and manicured lawns. As the leaves fell out of view, I wished to all hell we could follow them.
I hugged Lorrie close as we walked through the gate (picket) and up the cobblestone steps to the house. I whispered in her ear "We'll get through this, okay?" and knocked on the door. Lorrie assembled herself a smile.
The door opened to reveal a man in his late forties. A green cardigan was stretched over his widening stomach. He grinned widely at us both.
“Lorren! It's good to see you dear,” Lorrie kissed her father on the cheek, “and you must be Jason?” I tried not to sweat too much on the hand I shook.
“Yes, sir. It's good to meet you, sir.”
“Relax my boy! ” He placed his hand on my back and led me into the house, “Any friend of Lorren's...”
Lorrie and I were herded into a small lounge. I spotted a sofa fit for two but Lorrie tugged my hand and instead we sat in separate armchairs. Her father sat opposite, a glass coffee table between us. “So, Jason. What are you studying?” I looked at him quizzically. “I'm sorry, I assumed you two met at University.”
“No, we met at the auto shop where I work, Lorrie brought her scooter in.” I thought back to where we really met, at the bar. When I served Lorrie her jello-shots.
“A mechanic, aye? It's always good to see a man who knows the value of labour.” I smiled at him and Lorrie reached over and took my hand. Her father spotted our hands and his top lip raised up in distaste. “I must say Jason, I'm impressed with your restraint. I'm sure there are a quite few girls your age who are more... Forthcoming. Who perhaps don't take The Lord's word as seriously as Lorren does.”
“I suppose that's true, but I love Lorrie-- Uh, Lorren, and accept that this is her decision, and I respect that.”
“I'm afraid you're mistaken.” Lorrie's squeezed my hand and I looked down to see my knuckles had gone white. I relaxed my grip as much as I could. “You see, this is not Lorren's decision, it is The Lord's. Lorren has no say in the matter.” My jaw went so tight my teeth damn-near shattered. Lorrie's father smiled pleasantly, rose from his chair, and excused himself to make some tea. On his way out he kissed Lorrie on the forehead and I watched her smile up at him as her eyes glistened. Once he left the room a single tear rolled down her cheek.
“It's okay.” I rushed to her side.
“It's not okay!” She sobbed at me. “What are we going to do? He's going to find out.” I held her tight as she whimpered. She felt so brittle in my arms. “What are we going to do?”
We sat together for a long while and I rocked her gently. Both our heads jolted up when we heard the kettle click off.
“He's coming back...” I didn't need to say much more. Lorrie wiped her eyes and straightened her hair. The lounge door started to open and Lorrie readied her smile. Her father set a tray on the table between us and we each took a cup and saucer. Lorrie showed me how to use mine and we engaged in idle chatter for a few hours.
I was thankful her father was not a more attentive man, or he may have noticed the half-dozen glances Lorrie and I shot each other, or how she couldn't stop fidgeting with the flowers engraved in her cup. I let out a few yawns a checked my watch.
“So now you make it obvious.” Lorrie's father smiled. “You've been checking your watch every five minutes for the last half hour.” I hadn't even realized. But he had. He noticed. What else did he notice? It doesn't matter, I tell myself. He doesn't know.
I look at Lorrie with certainty in my eyes.
He doesn't know.
“We really should get going.” I began to stand.
“Wait, before you go, I have a little gift for my daughter.”
“Daddy, you didn't need to do that.”
“You hush my dear. I hardly see you know that you're away at university, I'm allowed to get my little girl a gift.” He pulled a small jewelry box from his pocket and popped it open. “Allow me.” He latched it on behind her neck.
“Oh, I love it.” Lorrie hugged her father and even I couldn't see a trace of a tear in her eyes.
“You kids have a good drive back. Jason, it was a pleasure to meet you. God bless you both.”
The door shuts behind us and I wrapped my arm around Lorrie as we walked down the cobble steps. I felt her shaking and wished I could believe it was the wind that made her do it. At the end of her new necklace a glass cross sparkled in the sunlight.
Lorrie made sure we were well out of view of the house before discarding her facade. Tears streamed down her face. She grabbed my shoulder and buried herself in my chest. I pulled over and held her tight. She looked up at me with mascara-smudged eyes and her lip trembled.
“What are we going to do?”
“We'll think of something. We'll find a way.”
“How? I mean, what is there? What can we do?”
“I don't know,” I sighed, “But there has to be something.”
We didn't talk much the rest of the way home. Lorrie would sob quietly to herself or cry so hard she couldn't breath just right, and I would rub her back when she did, but we didn't talk much. We drove past the campus where Lorrie used to stay and I noticed her gaze linger a little too long. We were nearly home and Lorrie started to straighten herself up, put on a fresh layer of mascara. By the time I pulled into the parking garage she looked as though we'd come from a dinner party. She insisted we take the stairs to our floor so she could finish her make-up. I told her she couldn't get more beautiful and pressed the button on the elevator.
“Hey Mom.” I closed the door behind us and took Lorries coat.
“Hi you two!” Mom hugged Lorrie. “You don't worry about him, okay? This is your life, not his. You make your decisions and he can just deal with them.” Lorrie nodded and smiled. She did neither with terrible commitment. “Well, I should get home,” I handed Mom her coat, “I just put him to bed.”
I followed Lorrie into the small bedroom and put my arm on her shoulder. I smiled down into the crib. Wrapped in a tiny blanket, holding a tiny teddy bear, was a life. A life so huge it had shaken the foundations of those around it. I looked down at the life that had taken my job. The life that took Lorrie out of university. The life that made her fear her father. The life that gets me up at four A.M. every morning to go courier things I can't afford. I looked down at the life I love more than anything in the world. I looked down at my son.
“It's so worth it, you know.” I whispered in Lorrie's ear. “All the crap. All the change and all the things we've lost and all the shit we go through, it's worth it. He's worth it.”
Lorrie was quiet for a long while. Finally she smiled and whispered back at me.
“Yeah.”
I woke up. The moon spilled light along the bedroom. The last thing I could remember was Lorrie tossing and turning. I looked over at her. She wasn't there. Something felt... wrong. I got up and walked to the bathroom. No light leaked out from underneath the door. “Lorrie?” I whispered.
No reply.
I checked the kitchen. There was no one. “Lorrie?”
No reply.
I stood outside the small bedroom. My hand rested on the door handle. Something told me not to go in there. Something told me to go back to bed. Told me everything was fine. But I had to. “Lorrie?”
No reply.
I slowly pushed the door open. She wasn't in the room.
Nothing in the crib was moving.
There was a note on the side table. It started “I'm sorry...”
It was a small funeral service. Lorrie's father did not attend. The priest said some crap about God's will as they lowered the tiny casket and Mom burst into tears. I only had a priest in because I though Lorrie might want it that way. Mom held me and cried. The priest started walking towards us. Dad spotted him and helped pry Mom off me. The priest took me to one side. “Jason, I can't imagine what you're going through. How you must feel... But you must believe me, there is always a reason. Don't fall into your grief, my son. Let the Lord light your way. He'll keep you safe.” I took the priests hand off my shoulder.
“Don't. You're damn right you don't know how I feel, but know this: God ain't going to get me out of this. God is the reason my son is in that grave. Don't give me all this shit about God.”
“Jason...” The priest was mortified, “You can't believe that.”
“She left a note, you know. Before she left. Before she suffocated her own son.” I locked my eyes onto the priest's. “In it, she swore. She swore she heard the voice of Jesus,” He stared at me in horror. “telling her it was wrong to keep it.”
I trudged through the snow. Harsh winds chilled me to the bone. I walked out of the cemetery. I kept walking. I didn't know where I was going. I didn't much care.
---
A friend has pointed out all the typos in that thing. My blogs have the title up there for a reason, okay?
Also, so I don't get accused of plagiarism and have books thrown at me (or whatever the correct procedure for plagiarism punishment is), I did in fact get this idea from a song. It's one of my favorites, by the band Hurt. It's called "Rapture", and there is a direct quote in there if you know the song well enough. That's also why the main dude is named Jay and the gal Lorren, as the lead singer/violinist/composer of Hurt is named J. Loren Wince, and I want that to act as further evidence to the "homage" idea I'm going for here, rather than ripping the bastard off for four credits.
That just leaves me. Well then I am average. Is that... Do I like that?
Not important. Anyway, the following is the story I am handing in for English. Well, it's the draft. Before my teacher crafts it into something (even more) unholy. This is your undiluted not-funny Jacob right here. Please post any thoughts or feelings, I promise to lie about reading them if you ask me.
---
"It's this one here." Lorrie pointed meekly. I pulled the car up at the end of the drive, so we could walk up to the house. I brushed Lorrie's brunette fringe out of her face. She looked at me with her shimmering blue eyes. "Jay, do you think..." Her voice trailed off with her gaze.
"He's fine." Her eyes snapped back on to mine "I promise you, he's fine." I smiled and kissed her softly. "We should get inside."
The rusted doors of the car creaked like they always do and a chill gust greeted us outside. With it a fistful of autumn leaves whipped past and down the street, past all the white-picket fences and manicured lawns. As the leaves fell out of view, I wished to all hell we could follow them.
I hugged Lorrie close as we walked through the gate (picket) and up the cobblestone steps to the house. I whispered in her ear "We'll get through this, okay?" and knocked on the door. Lorrie assembled herself a smile.
The door opened to reveal a man in his late forties. A green cardigan was stretched over his widening stomach. He grinned widely at us both.
“Lorren! It's good to see you dear,” Lorrie kissed her father on the cheek, “and you must be Jason?” I tried not to sweat too much on the hand I shook.
“Yes, sir. It's good to meet you, sir.”
“Relax my boy! ” He placed his hand on my back and led me into the house, “Any friend of Lorren's...”
Lorrie and I were herded into a small lounge. I spotted a sofa fit for two but Lorrie tugged my hand and instead we sat in separate armchairs. Her father sat opposite, a glass coffee table between us. “So, Jason. What are you studying?” I looked at him quizzically. “I'm sorry, I assumed you two met at University.”
“No, we met at the auto shop where I work, Lorrie brought her scooter in.” I thought back to where we really met, at the bar. When I served Lorrie her jello-shots.
“A mechanic, aye? It's always good to see a man who knows the value of labour.” I smiled at him and Lorrie reached over and took my hand. Her father spotted our hands and his top lip raised up in distaste. “I must say Jason, I'm impressed with your restraint. I'm sure there are a quite few girls your age who are more... Forthcoming. Who perhaps don't take The Lord's word as seriously as Lorren does.”
“I suppose that's true, but I love Lorrie-- Uh, Lorren, and accept that this is her decision, and I respect that.”
“I'm afraid you're mistaken.” Lorrie's squeezed my hand and I looked down to see my knuckles had gone white. I relaxed my grip as much as I could. “You see, this is not Lorren's decision, it is The Lord's. Lorren has no say in the matter.” My jaw went so tight my teeth damn-near shattered. Lorrie's father smiled pleasantly, rose from his chair, and excused himself to make some tea. On his way out he kissed Lorrie on the forehead and I watched her smile up at him as her eyes glistened. Once he left the room a single tear rolled down her cheek.
“It's okay.” I rushed to her side.
“It's not okay!” She sobbed at me. “What are we going to do? He's going to find out.” I held her tight as she whimpered. She felt so brittle in my arms. “What are we going to do?”
We sat together for a long while and I rocked her gently. Both our heads jolted up when we heard the kettle click off.
“He's coming back...” I didn't need to say much more. Lorrie wiped her eyes and straightened her hair. The lounge door started to open and Lorrie readied her smile. Her father set a tray on the table between us and we each took a cup and saucer. Lorrie showed me how to use mine and we engaged in idle chatter for a few hours.
I was thankful her father was not a more attentive man, or he may have noticed the half-dozen glances Lorrie and I shot each other, or how she couldn't stop fidgeting with the flowers engraved in her cup. I let out a few yawns a checked my watch.
“So now you make it obvious.” Lorrie's father smiled. “You've been checking your watch every five minutes for the last half hour.” I hadn't even realized. But he had. He noticed. What else did he notice? It doesn't matter, I tell myself. He doesn't know.
I look at Lorrie with certainty in my eyes.
He doesn't know.
“We really should get going.” I began to stand.
“Wait, before you go, I have a little gift for my daughter.”
“Daddy, you didn't need to do that.”
“You hush my dear. I hardly see you know that you're away at university, I'm allowed to get my little girl a gift.” He pulled a small jewelry box from his pocket and popped it open. “Allow me.” He latched it on behind her neck.
“Oh, I love it.” Lorrie hugged her father and even I couldn't see a trace of a tear in her eyes.
“You kids have a good drive back. Jason, it was a pleasure to meet you. God bless you both.”
The door shuts behind us and I wrapped my arm around Lorrie as we walked down the cobble steps. I felt her shaking and wished I could believe it was the wind that made her do it. At the end of her new necklace a glass cross sparkled in the sunlight.
Lorrie made sure we were well out of view of the house before discarding her facade. Tears streamed down her face. She grabbed my shoulder and buried herself in my chest. I pulled over and held her tight. She looked up at me with mascara-smudged eyes and her lip trembled.
“What are we going to do?”
“We'll think of something. We'll find a way.”
“How? I mean, what is there? What can we do?”
“I don't know,” I sighed, “But there has to be something.”
We didn't talk much the rest of the way home. Lorrie would sob quietly to herself or cry so hard she couldn't breath just right, and I would rub her back when she did, but we didn't talk much. We drove past the campus where Lorrie used to stay and I noticed her gaze linger a little too long. We were nearly home and Lorrie started to straighten herself up, put on a fresh layer of mascara. By the time I pulled into the parking garage she looked as though we'd come from a dinner party. She insisted we take the stairs to our floor so she could finish her make-up. I told her she couldn't get more beautiful and pressed the button on the elevator.
“Hey Mom.” I closed the door behind us and took Lorries coat.
“Hi you two!” Mom hugged Lorrie. “You don't worry about him, okay? This is your life, not his. You make your decisions and he can just deal with them.” Lorrie nodded and smiled. She did neither with terrible commitment. “Well, I should get home,” I handed Mom her coat, “I just put him to bed.”
I followed Lorrie into the small bedroom and put my arm on her shoulder. I smiled down into the crib. Wrapped in a tiny blanket, holding a tiny teddy bear, was a life. A life so huge it had shaken the foundations of those around it. I looked down at the life that had taken my job. The life that took Lorrie out of university. The life that made her fear her father. The life that gets me up at four A.M. every morning to go courier things I can't afford. I looked down at the life I love more than anything in the world. I looked down at my son.
“It's so worth it, you know.” I whispered in Lorrie's ear. “All the crap. All the change and all the things we've lost and all the shit we go through, it's worth it. He's worth it.”
Lorrie was quiet for a long while. Finally she smiled and whispered back at me.
“Yeah.”
I woke up. The moon spilled light along the bedroom. The last thing I could remember was Lorrie tossing and turning. I looked over at her. She wasn't there. Something felt... wrong. I got up and walked to the bathroom. No light leaked out from underneath the door. “Lorrie?” I whispered.
No reply.
I checked the kitchen. There was no one. “Lorrie?”
No reply.
I stood outside the small bedroom. My hand rested on the door handle. Something told me not to go in there. Something told me to go back to bed. Told me everything was fine. But I had to. “Lorrie?”
No reply.
I slowly pushed the door open. She wasn't in the room.
Nothing in the crib was moving.
There was a note on the side table. It started “I'm sorry...”
It was a small funeral service. Lorrie's father did not attend. The priest said some crap about God's will as they lowered the tiny casket and Mom burst into tears. I only had a priest in because I though Lorrie might want it that way. Mom held me and cried. The priest started walking towards us. Dad spotted him and helped pry Mom off me. The priest took me to one side. “Jason, I can't imagine what you're going through. How you must feel... But you must believe me, there is always a reason. Don't fall into your grief, my son. Let the Lord light your way. He'll keep you safe.” I took the priests hand off my shoulder.
“Don't. You're damn right you don't know how I feel, but know this: God ain't going to get me out of this. God is the reason my son is in that grave. Don't give me all this shit about God.”
“Jason...” The priest was mortified, “You can't believe that.”
“She left a note, you know. Before she left. Before she suffocated her own son.” I locked my eyes onto the priest's. “In it, she swore. She swore she heard the voice of Jesus,” He stared at me in horror. “telling her it was wrong to keep it.”
I trudged through the snow. Harsh winds chilled me to the bone. I walked out of the cemetery. I kept walking. I didn't know where I was going. I didn't much care.
---
A friend has pointed out all the typos in that thing. My blogs have the title up there for a reason, okay?
Also, so I don't get accused of plagiarism and have books thrown at me (or whatever the correct procedure for plagiarism punishment is), I did in fact get this idea from a song. It's one of my favorites, by the band Hurt. It's called "Rapture", and there is a direct quote in there if you know the song well enough. That's also why the main dude is named Jay and the gal Lorren, as the lead singer/violinist/composer of Hurt is named J. Loren Wince, and I want that to act as further evidence to the "homage" idea I'm going for here, rather than ripping the bastard off for four credits.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
A Race Against Time (I've already lost)
I appreciate that there are a huge number of blogging sites out there (are there? I don't really know) and each offers similar services to blogspot here. So, you may be asking yourself (no one is asking themselves. I am aware of this), why did I pick this site?
The answer is quite simple. Daniel O'Brien uses this site. If you don't know who Daniel O'Brien is, then... What the fuck? Why are you reading my fucking blog? Get out of here.
Daniel O'Brien is, as far as I'm concerned, pretty much the Batman of blogging. Of internet comedy, really. I am totally serious. If I ever met the man I would offer to buy him a cape. This is of course only my opinion and if you think differently then before leaving a comment please note that I don't care what you think.
But, upon reading a few of his posts, purely because they are fucking hilarious, I realized something.
He is much, much, much funnier than me (don't laugh, he's funnier than you too). And upon creating a blogspot like him (we are, by the way, completely ignoring the fact that I stopped calling this site blogger), have placed myself in direct competition with that much, much, much funnier man.
You could reason that there are thousands of people on blogspot, and that the fact that I and The Dan are a small fraction of those people and are clearly in no way competing. You could reason. But in my delusional, learning-disabled and heavily medicated mind, we are. And direct_auxiliary's "sites I've joined" down there aren't fucking helping.
I spent a good few hours in the tub considering this (well, this and why all water I bathe in always does that) and have calmly and carefully decided what to do.
I am going to pretend to have never heard of Dan O'Brien. I will continue to read his articles on cracked.com, of course. He's fucking funny. But I'm not going to attribute all the articles to one Dark knight of Blogging. Instead I will pretend that they are a series of articles from completely different, equally hilarious people. This will allow me to delude myself into thinking that this is the average level of comedy on the Internet, and that I will be the person who will, one day, produce this kind of fantastic on a constant basis.
I suppose this means I'm the Batman in my metaphor. But in a very early stage of development. Like, innocent happy-go-lucky child Bruce Wayne. What I'm asking, I guess, is if someone out there would kindly kill my parents.
I'd greatly appreciate it. BUY OFFICE MAX.
The answer is quite simple. Daniel O'Brien uses this site. If you don't know who Daniel O'Brien is, then... What the fuck? Why are you reading my fucking blog? Get out of here.
Daniel O'Brien is, as far as I'm concerned, pretty much the Batman of blogging. Of internet comedy, really. I am totally serious. If I ever met the man I would offer to buy him a cape. This is of course only my opinion and if you think differently then before leaving a comment please note that I don't care what you think.
But, upon reading a few of his posts, purely because they are fucking hilarious, I realized something.
He is much, much, much funnier than me (don't laugh, he's funnier than you too). And upon creating a blogspot like him (we are, by the way, completely ignoring the fact that I stopped calling this site blogger), have placed myself in direct competition with that much, much, much funnier man.
You could reason that there are thousands of people on blogspot, and that the fact that I and The Dan are a small fraction of those people and are clearly in no way competing. You could reason. But in my delusional, learning-disabled and heavily medicated mind, we are. And direct_auxiliary's "sites I've joined" down there aren't fucking helping.
I spent a good few hours in the tub considering this (well, this and why all water I bathe in always does that) and have calmly and carefully decided what to do.
I am going to pretend to have never heard of Dan O'Brien. I will continue to read his articles on cracked.com, of course. He's fucking funny. But I'm not going to attribute all the articles to one Dark knight of Blogging. Instead I will pretend that they are a series of articles from completely different, equally hilarious people. This will allow me to delude myself into thinking that this is the average level of comedy on the Internet, and that I will be the person who will, one day, produce this kind of fantastic on a constant basis.
I suppose this means I'm the Batman in my metaphor. But in a very early stage of development. Like, innocent happy-go-lucky child Bruce Wayne. What I'm asking, I guess, is if someone out there would kindly kill my parents.
I'd greatly appreciate it. BUY OFFICE MAX.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
I'm new here, please don't take my lunch money.
Hi There. I'm Jacob. That is my real name. I didn't create an Internet alias or something. And if I did, why would I use "Jacob"? I'd use something cool. Like "Corporal John LadyFucker". Hey, I like that. Call me that. No, just call me Jacob. Unless of course I'm not Jacob. Maybe I created a series of increasingly unbelievably cool names so that no one could track me down. Then I'd be unstoppable.
But no I'm Jacob. That was me going of on a random tangent. That's going to happen a lot.
I'm not sure how to go about writing this, because I don't know who I'm writing it for. Maybe you're a fan trying to find some of my early work (Is that it? Am I famous? Finally). Or maybe you're a fellow blogger here on Blogger.com, and you're having a look around. I'm leaning towards that one.
Hi there fellow blogger. Nice to see you. Being self-conscious to a level that is just ridiculous (an attribute bound to serve me well on the Internet), I imagine you're currently judging every decision I've made thus far in creating my blog. So let's go through all the things I probably did wrong while I try to justify them.
1:Giving my real name. (That just has to bite me in the ass. Off to a great start of justifying!)
2:Naming my blog. (I thought it was pretty funny, okay? Not to mention accurate, seeing as I don't think I've managed to type "I" a single time in this post yet without having to go back and capitalize it later. I also realize it doesn't fit in most of the places my title will be displayed.)
3:Selecting this template. (Yes, I selected the very first template. I'm so original. And no, I didn't do it to be ironic and state that I don't care either, because I'm not clever enough for irony. If something is stupid, I'll say it's stupid. The templates thing is stupid.)
4:Not using AdSense. (I doubt you actually noticed there are no ads on this page, but this is the one little app I was genuinely interested in using, because if I can earn money while being an idiot and spend far less time in intensive care than the guys from Jackass, I'll do it. Unfortunately, you have to be eighteen to sign up, and I'm not. So until then, BUY OFFICE MAX, okay?)
Aaaaand here we are. The more I think about it, the more I wonder why I chose to write this as though you are a fellow blogger. I mean, I certainly have no intention of going and reading any of the other bloggers bloggers (I feel this site could be named better), so I don't know why you're reading mine. But fuck it, I don't care. I'm sure I've done all sorts of shit wrong, so go ahead Internet, destroy me.
Corporal John ladyFucker, signing off.
But no I'm Jacob. That was me going of on a random tangent. That's going to happen a lot.
I'm not sure how to go about writing this, because I don't know who I'm writing it for. Maybe you're a fan trying to find some of my early work (Is that it? Am I famous? Finally). Or maybe you're a fellow blogger here on Blogger.com, and you're having a look around. I'm leaning towards that one.
Hi there fellow blogger. Nice to see you. Being self-conscious to a level that is just ridiculous (an attribute bound to serve me well on the Internet), I imagine you're currently judging every decision I've made thus far in creating my blog. So let's go through all the things I probably did wrong while I try to justify them.
1:Giving my real name. (That just has to bite me in the ass. Off to a great start of justifying!)
2:Naming my blog. (I thought it was pretty funny, okay? Not to mention accurate, seeing as I don't think I've managed to type "I" a single time in this post yet without having to go back and capitalize it later. I also realize it doesn't fit in most of the places my title will be displayed.)
3:Selecting this template. (Yes, I selected the very first template. I'm so original. And no, I didn't do it to be ironic and state that I don't care either, because I'm not clever enough for irony. If something is stupid, I'll say it's stupid. The templates thing is stupid.)
4:Not using AdSense. (I doubt you actually noticed there are no ads on this page, but this is the one little app I was genuinely interested in using, because if I can earn money while being an idiot and spend far less time in intensive care than the guys from Jackass, I'll do it. Unfortunately, you have to be eighteen to sign up, and I'm not. So until then, BUY OFFICE MAX, okay?)
Aaaaand here we are. The more I think about it, the more I wonder why I chose to write this as though you are a fellow blogger. I mean, I certainly have no intention of going and reading any of the other bloggers bloggers (I feel this site could be named better), so I don't know why you're reading mine. But fuck it, I don't care. I'm sure I've done all sorts of shit wrong, so go ahead Internet, destroy me.
Corporal John ladyFucker, signing off.
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