Fuck Yon Renaissance Faire: Part II

Welcome back. If you'll recall the end of last week's blog, I had just committed ritual sacrifice of whatever was left of my own dignity and agreed to join my family on a trip to the Renaissance Faire. Those of you who know me well are aware of the fact that I find the Renaissance Faire to be a little bit worse than driving a forklift straight into a crowded church. I had vowed all of my life that I wouldn't be caught alive, dead, or in some kind of inter-dimensional limbo in such a place, and yet here I was, strapped into the back of a sweltering SUV, headed straight into what I imagine hell must be like, if everyone in hell wore bustiers that made their breasts look like pale, veiny zeppelins, and every item available for purchase was priced five times more than it should be.

Upon arriving at the parking lot, it was made immediately apparent that we would have to scale a massive sloping wall made out of jagged rocks to reach the park site on the other side where the Renaissance Faire was located. It was that, or walk 127 miles around the rock wall only to double back and traverse the entire length of the park to reach our destination. Knowing that walking around the wall in the baking Los Angeles heat would weaken me to the point that I would be unable to lift up the knife that would slit my wrists once I was inside the Faire, I chose to risk splattering my brain matter all over Baldwin Park and proceeded to make the ascent.

After shredding our calf muscles into blood-soaked party confetti climbing up the slippery, uneven slope, we crested the top of the wall in triumph only to realize that we would have to risk atomizing every bone in our bodies all over again when we made our way down the other side of the wall. After what seemed like the equivalent amount of time to having to suffer through the 1980s twice, we finally reached level ground and proceeded to walk through the section of public park that separated us from the entrance to the Faire.

Unfortunately, no one told any of us that it was Easter, and that on Easter every Mexican in the Southern California region descended on said park to celebrate the religous holiday. Slowly, we made our way through a violent, perverted orgy of sweaty half-naked babies, barbecuing beef fat, neatly trimmed mustaches, and tuba-driven latino polka music that was so sonically excruciating it threatened to unravel the very fabric of the space-time continuum.

It was at this point that I realized that the Universe was doing everything in it's considerable power to stop me from reaching this wretched purgatory. Apparently, it had decided that it was not yet my time to die, and by doggedly pressing on towards the Faire's vile and unholy gates, I was flying in the face of what had been, up until that point, complete metaphysical certitude.

It was, however, the universe's loss this day, as well as my loss, and the entire human race's loss, and after navigating our way through the section of park where a seemingly alternate, bizzaro version of Mexico had spontaneously materialized out of the ether, we reached the outskirts of the Faire, and I braced myself for the inevitable life-long shame and guilt I would feel when my brother Weston died after I used him as a human shield to protect myself from the brainsick, chain-mailed masses that lay within.

The first thing that struck me as we waited in line was that the Faire was completely surrounded on all sides by a 12-foot-tall iron fence. I deduced immediately that this was not to keep ticketless mischief-makers out, but to keep screaming hordes of horrified patrons from stampeding violently back into the parking lot when they realized they were in a Renaissance Faire. We walked up to the turnstiles, and were greeted by a wrinkled, slovenly woman balancing on a stool tearing tickets. As she snatched mine out of my hand with her spotted, misshapen claw, a barely audible "Welcome to the Reniassance Faire. Enjoy thy day," came sputtering out her mouth, which managed to look remarkably like a dried-up anus. Realizing this was a portent of things to come, I mustered up what remained of my strength and resolve, and walked into the middle of the entry court.

....into some kind of warped and demented version of a shopping mall. I realized very quickly that almost every tent housed not some sad and desolate attempt to recreate a specific slice of Middle Ages life, but instead was no more than a venue for some kind of "Renaissance-inspired" merchandise available for purchase. As we walked past tent after tent, weaving between knights, sentries, maidens, and faeries, all with huge, swollen mongoloid breasts, it dawned on me that the people who had created and populated this Faire weren't trying to re-capture something that was lost, be it a simpler, forgotten time, a sense of innocence and childhood in their lives, or a memory that wasn't filled with haunting visions of being touched in the bathroom by "dad's friend Chuck, from work." No, these people were just fucking lazy.

Realizing early on in their lives that they lacked any kind of discernible talent whatsoever, these pathetic dregs of society threw away all illusions of a life of worth and accomplishment, excelling in their chosen field and making a difference to their fellow man. Their fate lay in assistant-manager positions at fast food restaurants, clerical jobs in large, featureless office buildings, and lonely Sunday afternoons watching reruns of "Everybody Loves Raymond."


Talent skipping a generation

In the end though, even that bottom-rung level of achievement was too much to contemplate for them, and so, in a last-ditch effort to coast through life with as little effort as humanly possible, they turned to hocking poorly-made 3rd grade reject art-project ass-crap to people who didn't know any better in a sort of twisted, bargain-basement antiques roadshow. There was acres of this stuff, all of it being advertised by Elizabethan-garbed greeters who would scream at you from one foot away, in an effort to wear down your own sense of free will by sheer bombardment, until you were too weak to resist and bought something just to shut them the hell up. These basement-dwellers had found their niche, their ticket to survival through what they hilariously called their "life", and they had fooled the entire population of the globe in doing so. There is an age-old adage that "the strong must bear the burdens of the weak", and this maxim is in no greater evidence than at the Renaissance Faire. Millions of hard-working people, pillars of society, had to succumb to madness so that these Faire-folk could survive. Billions of dollars of disposable income, money that could have kept Chrysler or GM afloat for at least the rest of the afternoon, was being pumped into these huckster's pockets, so that they could afford to pay for another corset made out of gorrilla bones, or more pornography from their local video store. Some of the unfathomably awful crap I saw that day included:

- $95 wooden beer mugs.

- Things made of pewter

- More things made of pewter

- Necklaces

- Swords

- Necklaces shaped like swords

- "Precious stones" made from asphalt

- Things made of leather

- Paintings of necklaces and swords

There was probably other stuff too, but at some point in the afternoon, I just started walking with my eyes set directly on the ground in a slip-shod effort to prevent any further rending asunder of my brain from looking at everything around me. Unfortunately, I failed to realize that I also have four other senses, and that they could be assailed just as badly, if not worse, than my sense of sight.

This fact was brought into harsh focus as soon as we took a break for lunch. Walking into the open area where all the eating establishments were located was like walking into a Lebanese marketplace after someone had blown it up. Faded, withering tents housed food offerings from most of the world's various cultures and emanated the types of smells you'd encounter if you played bobbing-for-apples in a septic tank. There was pizza, there were sandwiches, there was chow mein, and there was the ever-present "Renaissance Faire Turkey Leg" Though the turkey leg has long been considered to be a "don't-miss-it" attraction of the Renaissance Faire, after one look I decided to give it a pass. As near as I could tell it looked like an amorphous mass of bloody fat and gristle slathered over a greasy leg-bone. Though my parents made their first initial step into planning their early funeral by buying one, I decided to play it safe, and instead bought a steak sandwich from the deli tent.

Unfortunately, the deli tent either did or did not forget to mention that it was a steak and onion sandwich, and that in Renaissance times, a steak and onion sandwich was composed of 96% onions, and 4% steak. As we sat down to watch a performance of a comedy play that consisted entirely of filthy innuendo and fart jokes, I took a bite of my sandwich and my taste buds were immediately carpet-bombed by the onions, turning my mouth into the equivalent of Three-Mile-Island. By the time I had finished it, my tonsils had disintegrated and my teeth were turning into pools of liquified calcium. For their part, my parents had gotten through approximately 1/3 of their turkey legs before succumbing to fatigue and falling into a deep apathy about the idea of ever eating anything again.

Shortly after leaving the food court, we realized that, unless we wanted to spend the GNP of Somalia on wallets and candle-holders that would shatter immediately upon returning home, there really wasn't that much to see at the Faire, and we would have work to find what meager entertainment offerings there were. After walking for an hour, we discovered that these were:

- An ugly bald man who juggled fire and told embarassingly bad jokes that made the audience get up and leave

- Two overweight women swinging around a wooden pole on satin ropes, dressed in excessively revealing attire that made the audience get up and leave

- A live-action "Dungeons & Dragons" interactive adventure that included a poorly-painted paper-mache dragon and hay bales, that was so dull it made the audience get up and leave

- A Scottish man on stilts who yelled incessantly and called everyone "Laddie"

- A corral filled with horses who stood motionless and unblinking, and responded to your touch by either falling over, or falling over in a different direction

It was about the moment we walked away from the corral when we realized we had completely exhausted everything the Faire had to offer, and had been wholly and utterly duped. After successfully talking my mother out of going to the ticket booth and demanding a refund of our free admission, we decided it was time to make the best of a bad afternoon by leaving and never looking back. Weston and I were appointed to walk the leagues back to the car, as my step-father's feet had swollen to the size of crock pots, and so grudgingly, him and I set off on the long journey back to the parking lot.

The trek back was an arduous one, made even more so not only by the fact that we had to scale Mt. Killboulder all over again, but that we had to bear the substantial weight of all the unpleasant memories of the day that we were now carrying. Looking over at Weston, I couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for him as he shuffled along with his head down, muttering something about "broken childhood" and "lace petticoats." By the time we got into the car his face had become an emotionless blank, and he immediately curled into the fetal position in the backseat. Minutes later, as I pulled up to the edge of the park, my parents were a similar sight, my mother with downcast eyes, and my step-father with balled fists, shaking with barely controlled fury. Over the next few days, the intensity of our emotions subsided, though I still induged the urge to lash out in heretofore repressed anger by kicking my cat in the face every morning as he was taking a crap.

And so it was that we found our trip to the Renaissance Faire finally at an end. It had been one barely believable travesty after another, but we had made it out alive, and with our health, physically, if not mentally. If I took one thing away from the experience of being subjected to that heinously licentious death-circus, it was this: Always trust your instincts. Some things you just intrinsically know are wrong. Murder. Rape. Kidnapping. Maury Povich. Unless you are one of the Menendez brothers, you shy away from those things every day and condemn them without a moment's thought. Why, then, second-guess yourself about something that feels just as instinctively wrong? Why turn your back on everything that feels right and good and decent to you, and stubbornly and foolishly head in the other direction?

Trust your instincts. Don't go to the Renaissance Faire.

-Jake

Fuck Yon Renaissance Faire: Part I

Throughout my life, I have known instinctively that the time-honored proceeding known as the "Renaissance Faire" was in reality a pustulating abcess of despair, a debased haven for social outcasts and miscreants who failed so badly at living in the present-day world that they gave up trying altogether and decided to live delusionally in the time of Kings, Feudal lords, and the plague instead.

That so many seemingly normal people appeared to enjoy these Renaissance Faires was a complete bafflement to my generally charitable outlook on the human race. Surely if this percentage of the population could be okay with, nay, enjoy, these wastelands of good taste and acceptable social conduct, then we, as a race, as a global community, were veritably butt-fucked.

On several occasions throughout the years, the odd friend or acquaintance would walk up to me and say, "Hey Jake, the Renaissance Faire is in town this weekend, and they're a ton of fun, do you want to come with?" Which my temporal lobe would instantaneously translate into, "Hey Jake, I'm a grandma-fucking Nazi shit-trumpet who makes a sport out of giving people AIDS. Want to go to the Renaissance Faire?" Of course my immediate response would be to say, "Get the goddamn hell away from me", which would always be met with a startled and quizzical expression, their confused face beseeching me for an explanation as to why I'd turn down such a lovely invitation. Only wanting to alienate them to the point that they'd never again ask me to the Renaissance Faire, my face would soften and I would thoroughly explain my reticenct response to their offer.



You will die alone

"Listen man," I'd say, "it's not that I don't want to hang out with you, I totally do, I'd love to go mini-golfing with you, or check out a movie, or whatever. But I think the Renaissance Faire is for three-brain-celled Australopithecus people who are terrified by fire and still rape their woman with pine trees. I can't think of anything I'd rather do less than go to the Renaissance Faire. A bunch of sad-sack, poorly-groomed, Old English-butchering misanthropes dressed in clothing the Salvation Army wouldn't accept getting together and pitching poorly-constructed pointy tents in a condemned parking lot? Why would anyone with even the basest sense of what is right and wrong want to go see something like that?!?"

"Have you ever even been to the Renaissance Faire??" they'd ask.

To which I would reply, "No."

"Well then how can you make a judgement like that about something you've never even SEEN?!" They'd ask frustratedly.

"Because some things you just know. In the same way that I know that nobody at school likes the kid with lice, and that every man who has ever had sex with Whoopi Goldberg has ended his own life immediately afterward, I know that the Renaissance Faire is a terrible, awful place that promotes domestic violence and evolution back towards being a shit-flinging monkey."

At that point they would usually shake their head, turn their back to me and walk away.

As I said, some slight variation of the above conversation has taken place at least a few times in the past ten years of my life. And up until very recently, I had remained steadfast and resolute in my beliefs about the Renaissance Faire, and in my conviction that I would never, ever step one foot inside it's abominable and soul-reaving boundaries.

That all changed one week ago, when I committed an act of high treason against myself that would have made Benedict Arnold tear apart his man-corset and throw it at Ben Franklin's fat wife in disgust.

I was sitting in the living room at my parent's house eating a taco when my mother approached me and said, "Hey, we've got four tickets for the Renaissance Faire tomorrow, do you want to come?" In what can only be described as a complete and total catastrophic failure of all my regular brain functions, I looked up at her, and without processing the aggregate meaning of the individual words that came out of her mouth, I replied, "Yes. Yes I would."

"Great! It should be a lot of fun!" she said. Then she walked out of the room.

I stared after her for a moment. My mind, like Paris Hilton's vagina, nothing but a dark, gaping void. Then, slowly, I came back to a weak state of intellectual awareness and began an inner dialogue with myself.

"Mmmm. Should be a lot of fun. Renaissance Faire. Should be fun. Renaissance Faire.......fun.......Renaissance Faire........fun.........I'm going to the Renaissance Faire........... I am going to the Renaissance Faire.........................fuck.

Every man has a moment in his life when he realizes he's just made the biggest mistake he's ever going to make, the one miscalculation that will stay with him the rest of his life, and may come to define his legacy for all time. Mel Gibson experienced this when he exposed himself as a Jew-hating sociopath and drunkenly called an officer of the peace "Sugartits" on a warm summer night in Malibu. Edward John Smith, the captain of the Titanic, experienced this when he realized, as the freezing, black waters of the Atlantic started to engulf him, that while his giant fucking boat had been slowly sinking for the past two hours, he had just been standing there like a mentally retarded kid at recess who can't decide whether to play a solo game of tetherball or run around and dry-hump all the girls in the schoolyard until the teacher beats him off of them with a microscope. And now I, too, was experiencing that moment, an avalanche of horror, disbelief, shame, and hysteria sweeping towards me, and unlike Vin Diesel in XXX, I would not be able to strap on a "Michael Bay Breaks the Laws of Gravity, Physics, and Fucking Common Sense" snowboard and outrun it to the bottom of the mountain. It was engulfing me, and I was completely fucked.

Next week, in Part II of "Fuck Yon Renaissance Faire", I will describe what happened the following day, when, setting our sights on the Reniassance Faire, we hopped in my stepfather's SUV and drove straight into oblivion. If it's not posted by then, it means I am dead. Because I killed myself.

-Jake

Blowing Bubbles: The Diary of a Famous Chimp.

In July of this year, Michael Jackson will play 50 performances at London's famed 02 Arena. These will be his last public performances ever, after which he will retire from the spotlight so that he can dedicate more time to releasing albums that no one wants to hear and being a dirty sodomite.

In honor of this momentous occasion in the world of pop music, we here at The Flying Moreno Brothers will be doing a one-part series on the strange and horrifying world of Mr. Jackson, a fitting send-off to a man who once wondered aloud in a press conference how "wanting to take a magical journey to Neverland on a flying galleon made of boy-ass" could possibly make him a monster.

This first part in the series takes a closer look at one of Jackson's more "innocent" pastimes: His collecting and care of exotic animals. Specifically, his friendship with a male chimpanzee named "Bubbles" that he acquired in 1985 from a cancer research laboratory in Texas.

In a never-before-seen exclusive, we present excerpts from Bubbles' personal diary that span a three-month period in 1986, excerpts that give an unprecedented view into life on the Neverland Ranch, being in the spotlight, and living with music's most enigmatic and insatiably toddler-horny star.

August 3rd, 1986 - Curly-haired mangirl sit me on bed in guestroom and stare into my eyes long time. Stares and stares. I uncomfortable. Touches my head and starts to whimper and cry. I extremely disturbed, stare at wall and hope he go away. Finally he get up and do shuffle and robot-movements. Then he leave. I go to cage and take shower for rest of day.

August 27th, 1986 - Sitting in recording box while curly-haired mangirl scream into microphone. I bored. mangirl scream all day, sometime grab penis and make scary face. I take off weird sparkle-jacket he put on me and poop in corner. Mangirl giggle and hold his nose. I throw poop at his head. He leave room and yell.

September 12, 1986 - Curly-haired mangirl take me to "Grammee" show. We walk down blood-carpet to big dark room where they give him pieces of wood and metal. He cry and wave, then make me hold them all. They heavy. Big brown man with tube-hair and dark glasses hold me and smile big and laugh. I try to leave with him in long car. Everyone laugh, mangirl take me away and put me in seat. So close.

October 1st, 1986 - Men with cameras come to ranch for T.V. show. Curly-haired mangirl make me go on big spinning wheel and fast train with winding track. They make me dizzy and sick and angry, but mangirl have cookies in pocket, so I do what he say. Men with cameras film mangirl while he take me on walk of ranch. He walk with umbrella over head. It not rain.

October 15, 1986 - Curly-haired mangirl wrestle 5 boys with no clothes on. I not eat anymore. Death better than this.

November 2nd, 1986 - Patience run out. This place like hell, but with more costumes and giggling. I miss laboratory with needles and electricity shock. Curly-haired mangirl hold me tight in lap in living room, sing creepy song in ear. I punch him in face hard as I can. He scream, and nose fall off. I jump up and down and laugh. He run away, big men come and throw me in truck. I go to better place now.

We may never know the whole story behind the bizzare and confounding existence of Michael Jackson, but these brief glimpses into his world, told through the eyes of weary and tortured ape, give substantial insight into what made this self-proclaimed "King of Pop" tick. Come this summer, following his farewell performances, Jackson will retreat from public view and step back into the shadows, leaving behind only memories and his music to remember him by. This will make him harder to track and more of a threat than ever.

-Jake

Duraflame Log

Hello you. I Bill Schecsky, President of all Duraflame Log. I speak in you this holiday season to tell you of wonderful yuletide log of Duraflame as heat your home in the coldest of times.

Duraflame Log made excellent well, from the finest ingredients at USA. Bark, chemicals, ingredients, and bark. Only the quality kind in our hot wood.

In a time when economy scare is all people, and global warming and blacks kill the society to shame, making your home hot for enjoyment can take huge money dollars. That's why we from Duraflame Log wanted to give you the safe, longest-lasting, fiery wood to make your living place cozy with smiles and orange.

Duraflame log weighs less than the premature baby, and does minus ugly smells in the firething. Science proved that it burned longest past other fake wood in a Science building.






As well, this time in year is best for giving. That's why Duraflame Log of this season is giving back at people struck in the face by hard luck. When you buy the Duraflame Log from one store nearest you, we will give four percents of our profit to the ugly poor people. Because in the holidays, all the families deserve a smile, and to eat.

This winter, make your home burning in the best of ways. Buy the Duraflame Log. We'll keep your holidays merry with bright. I am Bill Schecsky.

Premi videos

So over thanksgiving break, Jake and I were up late one night doing a double dutch rudder, and we decided to take a break and get out the camera. We ejaculated some improv interviews into the camera, and after some shitty editing we ended up with these. Enjoy.

Fuck you, Nature.

Goddamit.

You know when you're out the door on your way to work, or a social gathering, or a lynching, and you get in your car, and you drive for about three minutes only to discover that you've left your phone or some other thing in the house? And all you want to do is swerve suddenly into the old couple on the sidewalk coming back from the video store because you're so frustrated?

That's what having a cold is. It's leaving your phone in the goddamn house. It's a minor inconvenience. It's a prison cell forged from moderate discomfort. It ravages your body just enough to make you lie down a lot and render you incapable of doing anything that isn't blowing the snot out of your face into fourteen rolls of toilet paper or coughing and spluttering like an Indian bread jitney.

I recently had a cold that lasted two weeks, which was long enough for me to completely give up all hope of anything ever, but not long enough for me to attempt suicide by walking into a full-to-capacity Nascar stadium and screaming "NASCAR IS THE WWE OF AUTO RACING." while masturbating with a sock and trying to get in the way of oncoming cars. In that time, I became emaciated to the point that I was mistaken for Nicole Richie on three separate occasions, communication was reduced to croaks, grunts, wild flailing hand gestures, and finally Morse code, and my testicles took on the shape and consistency of melting Raisinettes.


The common cold virus under magnification


To give you an idea of how utterly buttfucking inconvenient and wasteful being sick for that long is, I've compiled a list of all the great achievements of mankind throughout history that have been accomplished in two weeks.

Jake's Marshmallow Smore Blog-o-List© 2008: 2 -Week Triumphs Edition

1. The Eradication of the Dinosaurs

In 400 B.C., a group of paramilitary soldiers from Northern Ireland were dispatched by King George I to swiftly and systematically kill every dinosaur on the planet, thus ending their reign of terror and violence upon the peoples of the Earth. For 13 days, the soldiers carried on a military campaign unrivaled to this day in it's ruthlessness and potency, traversing all seven continents in tanks and bazookaing every dinosaur they encountered in the face. With minimal losses to their fighting force, they successfuly obliterated the entirety of the dinosaur menace and returned to their homeland as heroes, until King George declared Northern Ireland unholy and sank it with missiles into the Atlantic Ocean.

2. The Discovery of Hell

In 1968, a Scientist named Herschel Knudstein from Cambridge, Massachusetts, was engaged in a study of the original copy of The Bible, using all manner of scientific techniques and sorcery to learn more about it's origins, it's author, and the many places it had been since it had been written. While x-raying it with early infrared technology one day, he stumbled upon an inscription that had been made in watermark on the page of the 23rd psalm. Upon translation from Arabic, it was discovered that the inscription was a detailed map plotting out the exact pathway to Hell. Along with a team of cartographers and Navajo code-talkers, Herschel fleshed out the route described by the inscription in a matter of days, and soon after was preparing for an unprecedented solo journey to the gates of Hell itself. Five days after his initial discovery of the map, Herschel set out from Cambridge on a trek to be the first person to ever step foot in the fabled place of eternal damnation. After a week and a half of torturous and peril-laden travel, he arrived at his final destination. Informing the U.S. Government and the leadership of the Roman Catholic Church immediately, Herschel would describe in the letter addressed to them, "It is a loathsome and terrible place, just as very much a pit of anguish and despair as you would imagine it to be. Everywhere lost souls are to be seen, toiling in endless drudgery, their demon overlords giving them no quarter from the barbed whip. The landscape is bleak and filthy, and the screams of the damned and the deranged echo eternally from the farthest reaches of the horizon. Assuredly, it cannot be soon enough until I can leave this dreadful place." Upon returning to Cambridge, Herschel was celebrated as a national hero and pioneer, and basked in the admiration and reverence of the populace for several years, until he went mad and stabbed himself with a Tonka truck. The Department of Transportation would later rename Hell "Bakersfield, California" and build a major interstate freeway in it's immediate vicinity, giving millions of commuters every day a glimpse into the horror and unending sorrow that lay in store for them.

3. The Invention of Sex

In 1 A.D., it was decided by the world's leaders that after the birth of the baby Jesus, immaculate conception was no longer going to be a viable option for procreation. Declaring that change was necessary, the leaders convened in an unprecedented meeting of the minds, with the promise that they would not rest until a new solution had been discovered. Depriving themselves of basic human necessity, they toiled away in a noble's palace in Jerusalem, researching, debating, and testing new and various ways procreation might be achieved. Among the failed attempts were included such trials as throwing large stones at a woman's stomach, smashing two babies together in the hopes that a third would miraculously be produced from the impact, and baking pies made from human waste that were then sold to the townspeople. After 12 days, the leaders finally narrowed down the search to some form of physical contact with two bodies. Humans were paired with animals, men with men, men with women. Women and men were punched, kicked, headbutted, and indian burned. Men would swing women around by their hair, hippopotami would roll over monkeys. Every orifice was brought into play, with every body part imaginable being shoved into nostrils, anuses, and mouths. Finally, on the fourteenth day, one of the leaders suggested putting the penis of a man into the vagina of a woman. Two volunteers were chosen, and after 53 seconds, the first ejaculation of mankind took place. minutes later, a baby came tumbling forth from the woman's womb, and a riotous cheer erupted from all gathered. Word spread quickly around the globe that the leaders had succeeded, and soon people from all walks of life were having sexual intercourse, and continue to have it to this day, although it's getting a little weird, with the internet and the poop and everything.

4. The Building of the Moon

In 1862, Abraham Lincoln commissioned a team of masons and sculptors to build a massive, brilliant white spherical structure that would be capable of orbiting ceaselessly around the Earth for all eternity because, according to him "The wife says that the night sky is boring and dull and makes her want to kill slaves." Tasked with building the structure in two weeks due to a deadline imposed by Lincoln's wife, Mary (who stated she'd "go all apeshit crazy and fuck a bitch" if it wasn't completed in time), the artisans worked at a feverish pace, designing the plans, gathering the raw materials, and launching into space in a matter of days. For the next week and a half, they put in a colossal effort, assembling the giant sphere piece by piece in their primitive spacesuits and painting it one square yard at a time, until the moment came for them to gather together and give it one strong push, sending it on it's neverending course around the circumference of the Earth. Though the team lacked the rocket fuel and navigational skills to ever make it back home, and though Mary Lincoln was often heard to mutter "Where in the shit did that giant fucking ball come from?" "The Moon," as it came to be called, named after it's lead sculptor Nathaniel "The Chistlesmith" Moon, stands today as a testament to the ingenuity and limitless potential that mankind possesses.

So as you can see, even in a cosmically insignificant span of time such as two weeks, great things can be achieved. Unless you happen to be sick, like I was, in which case nothing at all can be achieved, except for wanton self-pity and pissing the color of Lemon-Lime Gatorade. I don't know who's responsible for this, but when I find them, I'm going to sodomize them with Poseidon's trident and make them watch Katie Couric's interview of SarahPalin on an endless loop until they go insane and twist off their own gonads.

For all my inconvenience, they deserve nothing less.

Potato Cannons and 60 ft. Cliff Jumps

Before I jump right into ranting about one of my all-consuming psychopathic hatreds, let me start by recapping my week.  

It's been a good week, so maybe talking about it first will help me let off a little steam before we get into the meaty goodness that this entry promises.  I went rock climbing a few times this week, first on Tuesday with my good friend Matt.  Matt showed me a boulder in the canyon about 60 feet high that hangs over a pool in between two waterfalls, which I revisited yesterday with two other friends to try out.  I also built a potato cannon out of some ABS pipe and a barbecue igniter, which looks pretty badass and I think I could use to convince Al-Qaeda to let me join if I was ever so inclined.

On another note, as a proud member of the facebook community, there is one aspect of the site....no, aspect of how people use the site that completely ruined my otherwise fun week.  Instead of enjoying the potato cannon for its intellectual benefits such as learning about propulsion and how to cave in a car door,  I found myself imagining shooting it into the face of every person who overuses the facebook "status" feature.  Instead of just enjoying the adrenaline rush of jumping off of a 60 foot cliff into a questionably safe landing pool, I found myself brainstorming about who I could there to push to their death.  Instead of just explaining what it is about the facebook status feature that upsets me so much, let me just drop a few REAL EXAMPLES of status' (stati?) from people who I have been kind enough to accept as friends.

 _________ is going to work.

_________ is home.

_________ is off work.

_________ is back from the gym.

_________ is tired.

_________ chillin'.

_________ it's friday bitch!!

First of all, these are all from different people, so it's not just one offender that is making me write this blog.  Not only that, but there are dozens more examples of these status' every day that make me think that a lobotomy might be preferable to having a facebook.  I'm going to delve a little deeper into some of the regular status' that really irk me in a section my brother so cleverly named "Hateorade".

_________ is home.

Really?  Because most people I know spend about 80% of there time there.  That is quite possibly the most uninteresting piece of information I could ever want to destroy one second of my life learning about.  I sleep about 10 hours a night, and guess where I do that 99% of the time?  AT HOME.  You know what though?  I don't broadcast to the world in a tragically feeble grasp for attention that "Marcus Moreno is sleeping."    because you know what my status would be at the exact same time the next night?   "Marcus Moreno is sleeping."  I don't find it interesting that I sleep, my parents don't find it interesting that I sleep, so why in God's name would I think anybody would care that I'm sleeping.  And honestly, it's even less interesting to know that you're "home."  At least sleeping is an action.  And last of all, if you're on facebook, chances are, you're home.

_________ is chillin'.

Right off the bat the grammar fills my body with a wonderfully psychotic, burning hatred that makes me want to put a knife between the eyes of every cuddly baby animal on the face of the earth.  It's chilling.  Chilling.  Right behind seeing the willful use of typing slang comes the realization that this person really thinks anybody is going to be interested in the fact that you are chilling.  I've never thought to myself, "I wonder if John is anxious or frustrated right now, or if he's just chilling."  Then I go online to facebook and see, YES, THANK GOD.  It's OK everybody, he's chilling.  Unless I'm hanging out with you, I could care less about how relaxed your mental state is.  Try posting something like:

"_______ is contemplating suicide."  I guarantee I'll find that one interesting.

________ it's Friday bitch!!

That is a very clear statement of fact.  Good job, it is friday.  And don't call me a bitch, I'm a grown man.

I need to stop talking about this because it's making me fussy and it's about time for my juicebox.  I'd just like to reiterate though, for all of you out there guilty of this heinous facebook offence, I'd love to try out my new potato cannon on your face.  Nothing personal, I would just like to push you off a cliff onto some rocks.  Please, for the love of God, reserve posting about your status for interesting things like jokes or "I just met Oprah."  That's awesome, who doesn't love Oprah?

-Marcus

p.s. I'm going to post some photos from my week to calm me down, and if this blog made you as angry to read it as it made me to write it, hopefully this will distract your hatred.

Just look at that body