wassupppppp: fireflies

Interspersed Aspect Ratio: Dreams of Terror

Dream Sequence
Tuesday, January 27th, 2009, 3:37a.m.
So, tonight I had a dream that was very similar to a dream that I had late in the fall semester of 2008 here at American University. The dream’s location was an eerie dream version of Washington, D.C. The odd quality about this Dream DC, per say, was that it was never daytime at any point. In Dream DC I live in a building, at least on the interior that is similar to Hughes Hall here at American University. The interestingly enough, no schoolwork is attached to living in this local. Also AU itself is never the subject of existence. I do live with at the very least Antonio Forte, Daniella Napolitano, Eric Till and Max O’Hern. Other minor characters appear throughout Dream DC that don’t really match up well. In this installment of the dream I, in a first person perspective somehow leave Dream Hughes and have access to the exterior catwalks and roofs to escape something of a bad nature. Before leaving Hughes I was previously in a bathroom, similar to the bathrooms here where I encountered Eric. I was also in Mike’s room, Billy’s roommate where who I believe Daniella, Max and perhaps someone else where just there.
Then I was elsewhere looking at art in a gallery with perhaps someone that was near in character to someone that I cannot quite remember as distinction was indiscernible at this point but I was very sad at that point in time, I was apparently visibly upset by something as someone in the gallery asked me why I was crying.
After the gallery scene, things shifted to another local, outside, near an intersection with two bus stops and a swing set. Daniella, Max and myself were there looking at the other bus stop. Mind yourself, I was on top of our bus stop and Daniella and Max were hanging off the sides. We watched as two smokers went to the other bus stop near us. We were then at the swing set where Max proceeded to hang from it via his lumberjack hat and swung joyfully about. Laughing followed but then we all wished that we would live in the grand building across the street from the bus stops. At this point I seem to remember the song “Movin’ on Up.” After this event I feel as if we were on a bus or getting on the bus that I needed to be at the train station to go home at around 4:30 in the morning and it was already like 3:00 in the dream. Eerily enough, Dream DC almost match real DC time wise.
After this event I found out that CVS was potentially going to be absorbed by some bigger company that made me feel that it had no business in buying the pharmacy chain. The mystery chain was going to rebrand CVS to WWVW, I believe. And as I recall this company, WWVW had a yellow and blue sign with blue arms supporting blue lowercase “wwvw” on a yellow background. That is where the dream just about ended. I think I can explain most of it away but I woke up and thought it needed to be recorded.
After a quick Google search, the initials “WWVW” yielded a company named Washington Wilbert Vault Works, Inc. which is a funerary service company in Laurel, MD. Such a business would have no business buying CVS. Though the idea of the logo is interesting, the blue hands were in fact the only things there supporting the WWVW . Why interesting, the thing that drive the real WWVW Company is dead people while the logo of Dream WWVW shows blue, or potentially dead, hands holding up the name WWVW. When but on a yellow background the symbolisms of the yellow could easily be the sun and life, and such that CVS is a pharmacy, a repository of health and goods, yellow seems like a fitting counter color to the death blue of WWVW zombies.

LOST CAT.

Of Cats & Curiosity

Two things I often like to compare are cats and government. I mean, think about it: they both give off an air of intelligence, but are actually quite incompetent; they both like to sit around all day doing absolutely nothing to contribute to society; and, most importantly, they both get cranky when their minions... er... masters don't feed them. So you can imagine my delight when I came across this article from some random blog that my male parental unit enjoys reading. Have you read it? No? Good, it's a waste of time. Lemme summarize it for you.

Apparently, the ever secretive Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (or NAMBLA, for short) has decided that it is not content with computers that simply solve equations for you; they want computers that can interpret them for you as well. Calculus for the lazy, essentially. They've already built a "supercomputer" based off of the mind of a mouse, back in 2007, but that project was abandoned when researchers realized that mice are incapable of thoughts more complex than "CHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEZE!!!!!1!" So what did the government scientists decide to do? Build a computer based on the brain of a cat, which, I suppose, is technically slightly farther up the evolutionary chain than a mouse is. Of course, a cat's thought process, while more complicated than a mouse's, is not more adept to solving mathematical equations. Take my cat, for instance. She is clinically insane. She feels the need to touch her nose to everything in sight, in the process crossing her eyes every time to see just what exactly it is that she is olfactorily investigating. Not only this, but anything that remotely resembles a small animal (i.e. FOOD!), green plants that might house such food, objects that she could generally either get her claws stuck in or tear up, or preferebly to her, some horrible combination of all three, is of far more interest to her than solving math problems. While I'm sure that she is capable of staring into my eyes and seeing through my soul, as well as contemplating the meaning of life during her frequent power napping sessions, I doubt that the brain of a cat is what one should base a computer off of; they are much too interested in other things, and have attention spans equvilent to those of goldfish. Besides, hairballs and computer hardware do not mix.

Reviews of American Movie Classics: The Terminator

Excitement! Emotion! Energy! The Terminator is yet another action-packed and adrenaline-fueled adventure from Arnold Schwarzenegger. The film is one of the most thoroughly original and distinct action, science-fiction, comedy, and family films made in the 90s, and with good reason.

The film starts out with our protagonists going about their business, hardly suspecting that someone--or something--is out to kill them. As the bodies start piling up, our two main characters--a man and a woman--must flee the killing-machine hunting them down.

Soon, our female hero, Anna, discovers that the monster is actually a predator of legend in an unnamed South American region, an alien that hunts humans for sport and skins them. As Arnold attempts to protect Anna and bring them to safety, he must also find a way to overcome their extra-terrestrial enemy. Eventually, it's just Arnold, face to face with the creature, with nothing but his fists and his cunning to defeat his opponent. The gory deaths, the gigantic explosions, and close escapes along the way ensure that this is one heart-pounding action flick that you won't soon forget.

The Terminator also has a highly cerebral and challenging plot that questions the direction of modern society and its implications in the future. Near the beginning of the film, Arnold meets his twin (played by Danny DeVito) for the first time in his life. Although polar opposites, the two find a way to get along. Arnold then learns, however, that DeVito is actually a clone of himself, even though human cloning is illegal in the future. It ends up that the cloning company Double-X Charter accidentally cloned Schwarzenegger's character, getting him caught up in a complex and deadly conspiracy on the highest level of the corporation. In order to get revenge for the unauthorized cloning, Arnold goes on the game show The Running Man, a program in which the contestants must kill each other for the amusement of the viewer until only one man remains. These scenes challenge the viewer to examine their lives in a plethora of ways: Does the unstoppable and constant evolution of technology pose a major risk to society? Do we rely on technology too much for our needs? Could our obsession with game shows and sadism possibly develop into the disgusting culture presented in this film?

Arnold Schwarzenegger (left) and Danny DeVito (right) in The Terminator

Don't let these deep and depressing questions fool you, though. The Terminator is just as much of a family film as a challenging intellectual piece or an action romp. Schwarzenegger, playing a cop hot on a lead, goes undercover as an kindergarten teacher. In one of the great screwball skits in the film, Arnold asks one of the kids what he wants for Christmas. "A Turbo Man!" the child emphatically replies. Schwarzenegger promises his young student the action figure, but puts off buying one until Christmas Eve. Unfortunately for Arnold, every kid in the nation wants a Turbo Man for Christmas, and he must fight deranged parents all over the city in his quest to find the desired toy. In one of the film's wackiest scenes, Arnold battles for a Turbo Man in an iced-over store against dozens of other parents, including Batman, Robin, and several ice-skating, imp-like creatures. The light-hearted and humorous nature of these passages of the film add a welcoming dimension that would have otherwise been absent.

Arnold competes against Batman and Robin for the last Turbo Man

Unable to obtain a Turbo Man, Arnold's character presents his student with a magical ticket to a movie featuring himself! When the student goes to the movie, he is warped into the screen and goes on action adventures alongside Arnie, beating up the bad guys and ensuring that the forces of good always prevail. Unfortunately, the main villain in the film cannot be overcome. Played by F. Murray Abraham, Johnny Practice vows to destroy Schwarzenegger because of a long-held grudge. You see, both Abraham and Schwarzenegger were composers in eighteenth century Vienna. Abraham, jealous of Arnold for his superior talent, slowly tears Schwarzenegger down over the course of the film. This leads to the tragic end of the film: Arnold dies unexpectedly, and, with no money to his name, is thrown in an unmarked mass grave.

F. Murray Abraham contemplates the murder of Arnold Schwarzenegger

The combination of romance and action, horror and comedy, complex plot lines and simple, universal themes makes The Terminator an American classic. Schwarzenegger never starred in anything quite so original or different in the course of his career. It's certainly a breath of fresh air from the crap he usually churns out.

I give The Terminator 2 stars out of 4.

North Dakota?

My roommate is one paranoid fellow. He is so paranoid, in fact, that he insisted I used a pseudonym in this article. For the duration of this article, he will be referred to as "Paul." As I was saying, "Paul" is the most paranoid college student in the history higher education. So when he started up on one of his paranoid rants recently, I ignored him, just as I had ignored him when he started talking about the secret cameras in our socks, the underpants gnomes, and how his Comparative Government teacher was actually Lee Atwater. But as it happens, as "Paul" continued to ramble on, I started to listen to what he said. And then, my fellow Americans, I determined something:

North Dakota does not exist.

There, I said it. Now before you laugh, let me assure you that I may this claim with the utmost seriousness. Oh, I wish I could just laugh off "Paul"'s ramblings, just as I laughed off his claim that he is allergic to peanut products. Upon hearing the facts, laughter will be the furthest thing from your lips. What will likely come out of your lips is a sort of short burst of moans punctuated by long screams. But that is neither here nor there. Just think about this. Who do you know from North Dakota? Have you ever even met anyone who claims to be from North Dakota? What famous landmarks are in North Dakota? Have you ever purchased a North Dakota hat or some famed North Dakota potatoes? No, you haven't. Because the bloody state doesn't even exist! Do you need further proof? North Dakota is supposedly one of the most Republican of states, yet its Congressional delegation is made up entirely of Democrats. Wikipedia's list of famous North Dakotans contains entries like Theodore Roosevelt (Governor of NEW YORK) and Dick Army (TEXAS Congressman). There do appear to be several individuals who are alleged to really be from North Dakota, such as Carl Ben Eielson, who was apparently a pilot of some sort. Of course, he met with an untimely demise in a "plane crash."
The most shocking aspect to all of this is that somehow the powers that be have concocted this fabrication with such flimsy pretenses. Well, I for one am tired of the lies. Now go! Call your Congressman! Go on see Mount Rushmore in the one, true Dakota. Protest in front of the offices of the Association of American Cartographers! Our numbers my be few, but our voice is strong.

Crowded Exile: Monk-y Business

I've oft considered consecrating my life to the work of a monk, as a means of escapism. After all, I'm certainly qualified for the job - I fear bright colors, loathe people in general, smell like lettuce stew, and am vaguely aware of what a Jesus is. Oh, and I can operate Microsoft Word. Hope y'all like my resumé*, Order of the Franciscan Jibblers!

Yes indeed, I think I'd do well as a monk. Transcribing documents painstakingly and inefficiently pretty much sums up what I've been doing since I entered the American education system. And Vespers sermons aren't really enticing unless you have a good two or three years under your belt as a low-stakes, all-or-something bureaucrat. Believe me, I've heard.

Above all, it would give me a chance to wear one of those kick-ass robes. Sordid, billowy, and crumb-strewn, these vestments would look rather dapper on this here son-of-the-soybean. I mean, my clothes pretty much are already like that, and almost all of them already have that grand brown tinge, due to my fondness of hiding in mole burrows!

I've been tossing around the idea for a monk name for myself. Everyone's gotta have one; it's the sacrosanct marker of every successful graduate of monk school. Mine would be Brother Metrigon. It's got that vintage 1160s-era feel to it.

Any ol' brotherhood will do. Even the Order of the Suspendered Codswallop will do, though I hear their fondue isn't exactly up-to-snuff. When you think about it, a monastery is like a fraternity, except that it actually contributes something to society, and advances the cause of academia instead of drowning it in a bathtub of Marlon Brando.

I'm still waiting for a response to my 3rd request to the Swiss Brotherhood of Stein-Makers. Until then, I'll have to continue transcribing 2nd century Greek recipes in my own Crowded Exile.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*

From the stained desk of

JOSEPH PULITZER JIBBLETON, III, ESQ

LORD OF ALL BEFORE THINE COUCH, EVEN THOSE NASTY POTATO CHIPS

THAT FRANK HASN’T EVEN TOUCHED SINCE LAST WEEK.

123 Fake St. - Tabriz, Iran

A Resumé

Of Jibblical Proportions

EDUCATION:

What?

VAGRANT GRUNTING:

Liberty University ---------------------------------------------Lynchburg, VA

Bachelor of Monogamy, Spice Cataloguing Dept., Jun. 1980

LEGAL EXPERIENCE:

Nikshaw County Petty Claims Court --------------------------Simpleton, KY

Lead Witness for the Defense, Prosecution, and the Heart.

Time Employed: 1970-85 (that trial was fuckin’ loooong)

Hobo Court of Appeals, 5^th Circuit ---------------------------Rigobert City, Hohoq

Rocket-Related Trial Lawyer

Time Employed: May, 1923-October, 1925

Ted’s Apartment ----------------------------------------------Hoboken, NJ

Chief Prosecutor of Fart Jokes

Time Employed: Last Friday to this Wednesday

BUSINESS EXPERIENCE:

Jibbles n’ Shit Weblog ----------------------------------------Washington, DC

Publisher

Time Employed: [CLASSIFIED]

Jibbles WebMedia --------------------------------------------My Mom’s Basement

CEO, COO, Janitor

Time Employed: Wouldn’t you like to know?

HUNTING EXPERIENCE:

This one time, I found a twig under the back seat of my Golden-Brown Chevy Durango X20, with 4-wheel suspension. It was on the way to one of my seasonal bro-bonding gatherings at the forest clearing upstate. We was gonna hunt some chipmunks, but they got skeered and rundoff. So I waited until all my bros was sufficiently inebriated, and then stuck the twig into my jimberjam, pretending it to be some kind of superskunk. They soiled themselves to my lasting amusement. Then I just had to go ahead and tell them my brilliance. One of ‘em asked if he had heard me say ‘weeaboo’. The others chorused in an’ assured ‘im that yes, indeed, I had said just that. My ass still smarts from the beating that ensued.

SKILLS AND CERTIFICATION:

• Fluent in English, Spanish, Mexican, Pig Latin, Corduroy
• I can do this thing with my left jowel. It’s probably best if you never know exactly what, unless it becomes absolutely necessary. If you really want to know, come to dumpster behind Radio Shack after 5:38 pm. Bring carpet cleanser, lubricant, and a whole slew of corn meal.
• Certified by the State of Vermont as an ordained hippie.
• I can also read minds. Yeah, don’t worry. I won’t tell the public about your son.

Help Me Create Demon Spawn - m4w

Hello. I am looking for a woman to fulfill my fantasies.

I am a seventeen-year-old man seeking a high-energy woman between the ages of seventeen and twenty to be the warm milk to my breakfast bread.

I love music, especially playing it from my pants, and love vulgarity - especially the words "douche" and "fucking" but all will do.

I am handsome and multi-lingual and foreign - ooh. I am also good at fixing computers. I live in a bachelor pad with my roommate. I am a gentleman and will treat you like the lady you are.

Enough about me, time for you!

You MUST be attractive.
Asian is a plus.
Must be extremely talkative.
Opinionated.
Mizundahstood.
Preferably wears the color green.
Parlez vous francais?
Hopefully thinks she's the epicenter of the universe.
From the countryside.
Slender and fond of makeup.

Hit me up if you sound like the woman from my dreams!

Death Metal Grunge Apocalypse - Baby Polar Bears

The band Cryptopsy that told us to prey "I am filth, Born of shit, And I am beloved of flies."  However, if we looked a little bit like the fellow on the left, they might reconsider that statement.  The Polar Bear, or Ursus maritimus, is a bear native to the Arctic Ocean and other surrounding seas.  The polar bear also just happens to be the largest predator on land.  While normally one would never hope to encounter this terrifying killing machine (unless hoping to meet their certain doom), one cannot help but feel the sudden urge to hug a baby polar bear.  Between November and February, polar bear cubs are born blind, weighing less than two pounds.  On average, each litter has two cubs.  "Well... I play around with my mommy... and my sister... and we like... uh... play in the snow and stuff... and we eat..."  Said one polar bear cub when asked about family life.  His sister was heard in the background complaining to "mommy" about how Teddy pushed her down a snow bank.  Sadly, snow banks and teasing brothers aren't all these tiny, cute animals have to worry about.  Cubs may fall prey to wolves, to adult male polar bears, or to starvation.  Global warming is also posing a great threat to polar bears.  The key danger is malnutrition or starvation due to habitat loss.  Rising temperatures cause the sea ice to melt earlier in the year, driving the bears to shore before they have built sufficient fat reserves to survive the period of scarce food in late summer and early fall.  On a positive note, baby polar bears are so adorable they are gaining celebrity in the human world.  One of the rising stars of baby polar bear-dom is Knut.  Knut is a polar bear born in captivitiy at the Zoologischer Garten Berlin.  He was rejected by his mother at birth and was raised by zookeepers.  He was the first baby polar bear to survive past infancy at the Berlin Zoo in more than thirty years.  Hooray!  He even has his own theme song (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iNWrFmCCfXw).   Even though I am not fluent in German, It is clear to tell that these lyrics are  happier than those of "Orgiastic Disembowelment."  Remember kids,  only you can prevent forest fires?  

Accented Assassinations

Accents are the cornerstone of identification for many strangers. In ancient Israel one tribe would identify a foreigner by asking them to say specific words that were pronounced incorrectly if one did not hail from a certain area. Today, possibly the most ridiculous accent comes from eastern Massachusetts. Examples of this would be Tom Hank’s portrayal of a Bostonian FBI agent in the film Catch Me If You Can. Hanks touts his attempted accent in a seemingly ridiculous way. That is, until you take a look at a true Bostonian, namely Congressman Barney Frank. This flamboyant Congressman’s tirades are filled with outrageous nonsense which is only topped by the gavel he slams in protest against those who ask him to speak in English.

The crazy lengthening of syllables found in Boston accents is well depicted in these examples:
Normal = How are you? / Boston = How ahw yah?
Normal = Barney Frank / Boston = Bwawney Fwank

Just look up any YouTube video and you will be instantly perplexed and entertained by the ridiculous sounds you hear from this Daffy-Duck Congressman. Even our 35th President, Jackie, hailed from Massachusetts and his speeches were muddled with Bostonian flavor that led to his eventual assassination in 1963. This horrific event that devastated the nation was due to a simple accentual misunderstanding that bothered a man so much that he was driven to insanity and eventually committed a heinous crime against America.

Time-Traveling Adventures: Trouble on the Trail of Tears!

Clay Matthews is a "retired" elementary school history teacher. Although he may no longer be in the classroom, Clay continues to explore his love for history and teaching through the internet, where unlimited, unregulated, and unsupervised access to curious and eager young minds is easier than ever before. Clay believes in taking a fun approach to history and his brand of teaching is the purest form of "edutainment" or "entercation." With his interactive and imaginative time-travel method of instructing history, Mr. Matthews never fails to expand the minds of his entranced students.

Why hello there, fellow time travelers! You'll never guess where my history-jumping adventures took me this week! Why, just yesterday morning I jumped into my magical history pod, ready for yet another informative escapade... but little could I tell that I was in for my most exciting journey yet! I set my history clock for 1831--the great year that William Lloyd Garrison began The Liberator newspaper, Victor Hugo published The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and Charles Darwin began his world-changing voyage on the HMS Beagle--unaware of what to expect! After a tumultuous trip through the annals of the past, I climbed out of my history pod and found myself... in Indian Territory, or what is present day Oklahoma!

In my discombobulated state of bewilderment, I overheard the faint noise of wailing. Sharpening my gaze to the horizon, I could see clearly approaching a large band of figures--thousands upon thousands upon thousands of red men! Surrounding them and swarming upon them were hundreds of soldiers and other white men, driving them on, keeping them moving. The Injuns were weeping from the onslaught, but more than that, from their lost land, their lost people, their lost culture, their lost dignity. Without a doubt, I had stumbled upon one of the most interesting events in our nation's history: The Trail of Tears!

I ran out to the crowd, screaming at the white men to stop their horrific acts. They turned to me, initially confused by my strange garb of the future, and started to scream back. "You have no idea what's going on!" they yelled. "We're doing this for their own good, as well as the good of the nation." "Why, how horribly racist!" I retorted. However, kids, I couldn't keep my curiosity subdued. I always explore every opportunity to learn more about history, as you all know! Unable to help myself, I asked, "What could they have possibly done? How could this act possibly be for the purpose of good?"

I tell you, kids, I could never have anticipated his response. There are some things that the history books tell you, and there are some things that you just have to experience for yourself. Suffice to say, young minds, I learned the truth that day. The white man stared back at me and said, "Why, we're not punishing them at all! We're actually all helping them! We're all just having a bit of fun!" he said. I jumped back, shocked out of my socks! I pressed him to continue. "You know why they really call this the trail of tears?" he asked. I started to say "Yes," but immediately stopped, and slowly hung my head and shook it from side to side. "Indians just love jokes. They tell them all the time! One day, a few months ago back in their homeland in Florida, the chief of the tribe told a joke so funny that everyone who heard it immediately burst out in a fit of uncontrollable laughter! People were laughing so hard that tears were streaming out down their faces like waterfalls! They ran off to tell all their friends the joke, and pretty soon, the entire tribe was laughing hysterically! By the evening, the whole tribe was ankle deep in their own tears! 'What should we do now?' they asked. The answer was simple: Water sliding! Everyone started sliding on their bellies for hours and hours and hours, barely noticing that they were moving further and further away from home! Before they knew it, they were in Alabama, and then Missouri, and then Arkansas, water sliding all the way! And here we are now--they've made it all the way here! You see those Indians laying down there? They're not dead, they're just water sliding! You see those people weeping? They're still laughing hysterically from the chief's joke! So, you see, everything can be explained after all!"

I thought long and hard about what he said. Then I queried, "Well, that's all fine, but why are you beating them?" He let loose a hearty chuckle and responded, "My friend, don't you know, all Indians are masochists! Nothing gets them off more than being beaten and humiliated. They ran across us about a state back and asked kindly if we could possibly do them the favor of beating the shit out of them. I gotta tell you, I've never been known to turn down a request."

So that there is the real truth, children. We've never done anything but assist the plight of the Indian, no matter what the "history" books may say. But we're not done yet--there's still quite a lot left to my adventure! No sooner had the white man finished talking than Air Force One flew down from the horizon and out stepped no other than Grover Cleveland, our first dog President! "Your dedication to our great nation has been commendable," he told me. "From the shores of Vietnam to the deep jungles of Japan, your military service has been truly indispensable. And that's why I need you to kill the Terminator." I wasn't about to be taken in by Grover's lies, though! I knew what he was trying to do. I took a revolver from my side, placed it on his forehead, and pulled the trigger. Brains exploded everywhere--on the ground, on the white men, even on the Indians!

It was about that time that I woke up naked in a cold sweat on my apartment floor with my head in a puddle of dried vomit. Whew, what an adventure! Who knows where my next opium binge will take me! Well kids, see you next week, and remember: If you come to my house while your parents aren't looking, you can always come into my pod and time-travel with me!

Reviews of American Movie Classics: Mary Poppins Is a Thinly-Veiled and Startling Endorsement of Abortion

Very few things in our world of increasing sin and wickedness can be considered true evil. No matter how immoral, most people, acts, and ideas have at least a trace of the Lord's good spirit and classic American values. However, true evil does exist. Mary Poppins, a shockingly sinful, soul-destroying tale that fiendishly revels in its love of abortion, is true evil.

The film opens with the miserable Banks family. The parents are overworked, the children are unmanageable menaces, and the family nanny quits under all of the stress. Mr. and Mrs. Banks are faced with a dilemma: With all of their time and energy already completely saturated, what are they to do about their riotous, impossible, inconvenient children?

The answer flies down magically from a cloud. The perfect, though unimaginable solution. Mary Poppins. Mary Poppins arrives to take care of the children. Mary Poppins takes them out for the time of their lives to places so wonderful and unfathomable that it's almost like heaven.

Mary Poppins is no less than a metaphor for abortion. Nothing has ever been so obvious or so repulsive in the history of film. Her name might as well be Mary Popthefetusoutofmyuterusanddestroyit. Her umbrella might as well be a clothes hanger with dead fetuses shish kabobed down its entire length. The film and its pinko Hollywood creators convey Poppins, and, therefore, abortion, in the most appealing and positive light in their demonic quest to further their leftist, satanic agenda. But the film's raging endorsement of abortion does not end with Poppins. The very idea of abortion is omnipresent through the course of the film.

Film abortion Mary Poppins

Take, for example, the lovable Bert. Affable, laughable Bert makes everyone chuckle with his goofy mannerisms and his boyish playfulness. But observe, if you will, Bert's profession. He's a chimney sweeper. He's paid to clean out people's chimneys when they're clogged up with something unwanted so that the people can continue to keep their fires burning.

Bert is a clinical abortionist. Once again, the liberals try to conquer our souls by painting Bert as a warm and kindhearted character. Little do we realize, however, that Bert subliminally represents everything that God hates: a fetus-crushing abortionist. In the film, the children absolutely adore Bert; they cherish and fully enjoy the time that he spends genially entertaining them. In real life, Bert the Abortor would not hesitate to pounce on the children like a cougar and rip their bodies to shreds, just like an actual abortionist. But what else could you expect from the British?

Bert and his gang coming to abort all of our fetuses

The support for abortion is nowhere more abundant or disgusting than in the film's musical numbers. The songs are chanted like a witch's spell to charm the viewer into its pro-abortionist views. I shudder to remember them all, so I will only explore one of them. At a point in the film, the children are resistant to the thought of doing chores. Poppins encourages the children to do what must be done by singing a little song. "A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down," she claims. Good Lord. Could the creators be any more obvious in their demonic promotion of killing little unborn Christians? The song may as well be "A uterus full of acid helps the fetus dissolve."

The Lord is vengeful, and every baby that Mary Poppins kills only adds exponentially to his holy wrath. Every creature that had anything to do with the creation, distribution, or exhibition of this film to children must repent or look to the horizon with a wary eye, for when the four horsemen come riding down from the heavens, justice will be done upon them.

I give Mary Poppins three stars out of four.

Is Your Dorm Spiritually Secure? A Chilling Expose of Supernatural Going-Ons at American University

Which Could Potentially Signal An Even Larger and More Disturbing Conspiracy

This article is not intended for pregnant women or those with heart conditions, for it may induce heart attacks in the former and miscarriages in the latter. I know, right? CRAZY.

Like the other schools in the District, American University purports to go to great lengths to protect its students and safety on campus. The use of picture IDs throughout the year, as well as the recent precautions during hectic Inauguration Week would suggest that the school is doing everything in its ability to ensure its students can learn, live, laugh and love in a most secure environment, but this fishbowl facade is, well, a facade.
Another safety precaution taken is room checks, and during this checks, the Resident Assistants in each dorm check the rooms for potential hazards like fishtanks filled with turtles, excessive lamps and piles of clothes in front of exits. But what they most disturbingly do not check for are ghosts.

That's right, ghosts. At least two independent hauntings have been reported in Hughes Hall. One resident reported hearing ominous music over his iHome. Homie was just trying to listen to some Danish pop music when this DJ comes on with jazz music and shit. What the fuck?
another incident was reported, in which a student heard a disembodied voice emanating from a closet. From that same dorm room, flickering lights and mysterious phone calls have also been documented. WHOOOOAA!!!

The University simply has no choice but to respond to this... infestation. School officials have no choice but to ascertain the origin of these spirits from beyond, and determine the circumstances under which they died as well as their intentions. Playful child ghosts are one thing; malevolent hobo ghosts or a whole 'nother falafel. This will also determine how to go about eradicating these ghosts; will a simple seance do, or must we hire the Ghostbusters? One thing is for sure, this is not simply the case of a school official calling four stoned teens and their dog to fight a monster that turns out to be that same personal who called in the first place in a mask. What a dumbfuck. And who keeps referring people to these kids? All of their clients end up in jail. A business model like that is doomed to fail, and the fact that it hasn't suggests that something sinister is afoot.

Harro From Japan - Retaking back our Empire!

Ok so umm WTF. Where the fuck did our empire go. Excuse me… Japan does not surrender. You have three very simple options. 1. You die in battle. 2. You shove your katana in your stomach. 3. You mother fucking kill the American bastards. I don’t care if they have more ships, better guns, or taller soldiers. We are SMARTER than them. So what if we can’t see out of our eye slits. That doesn’t matter. Where there is a will there is a way. We are going to take back all the land that is rightfully Japanese; AKA the entire world and all of the pathetic vermin that live in it. That’s right all of you non-Japanese now belong to the Japanese Emperor. Get used to it. Bow down to you lord and savior, Emperor, Pikachu. Sack up Japan and warm up the engines. Its conquering time; first stop KOREA.

Women be talkin’, women be talkin’

Have you ever been tryin’ to watch the game or get down with a good Tom Clancy novel and you hear a screeching and constant noise? Chances are, it was a woman talking about some non-sense and she wanted you to listen. I mean Jesus, do they ever stop? It seems to me like they just got problems up to here. Whether it’s man problems where some guy is fucking some brawd and she wishes she were her or whether it’s female probs like this bitch has the same tooth brush as me and I’m embarrassed to brush my teef, it seems like anythin’ can turn into a meltdown. But that ain’t the worse part, cuz we all got probs, it’s when they crawl over to you. It seems to me that my problems are my problems but women don’t get that. If I stank, you should tell me and I will get some non-stank spray. I will not go tell my aunt and ask her what to do about it because I already know the answer- go to the rite-aid and get some non-stank.
Another problem I got is the way these women act on a date. I go over this one girls house for dinner and she’s cooked dinner for me, some kind of compilation of cheese and chicken with artichokes or some other “bree” whatever kind of grass stuff that is, and she’s got it all laid out with a candle and the lights dimmed, and “I say to her, why the hell is it so dark in here? Turn on a goddamn light.” Al’s first rule of dating- ya gotta have hand.
But the worst is in movies because women are always crowding me when it comes to a good action flick. I mean when Nicholas Cage is blowin’ the shit out of John Travolta in “Face Off,” the greatest movie of all time, I don’t wanna hear- “why are they shooting each other? Who’s he? I thought he was a good guy.” Point is, the plot and intricacies of movies like Die Hard, Scar Face, Rocky 2 through 4, Mad Max and Enter the Dragon are complicated, grotesque yet deeply psychologically moving, and are difficult for people with smaller brains to understand, hence they shouldn’t be allowed to watch.
Final note, - the super bowl is coming up in two weeks (my pick is Steelers over Cardinals 17-10) and my ass will be promptly planted on my sofa cushion while any women around me will be securely in the kitchen. I don’t want to here, “what’s a punt?”
Thoughtfully always,
Al “haven’t had a woman in 7 years” Caplowski

And scene

News Stampede - Robot Sightings?

Ever since our recent editorial column on lethargic perambulators, we've received a wave of interest in the Mysterious Robot, lightly mentioned and cryptically photographed therein.

Many readers and subscribers have called in asking about the particulars of this peculiar being. Where did he come from? How many has he killed? What are his demands? Does he no any good places to chill?

Others have called in to tell their own stories. Sightings of the being have been reported from all over the nation, ranging from Norther Maryland to... Southern Maryland. Though many of these reports are unconfirmed, the story has swept up the masses, and we here at JNS feel it our moral obligation to investigate to fullest extent.

Joe "Jibbler" Johnson, 58, of Montgomery County told our staff that while hunting for stumps, he "stumbled on into yon clearing to see a big ol' whalloper, half a story high, an' fifty fathoms deep. 'E 'ad a big ol' timber hat, and sung an ode to the baked stars".

Stimy Stetson, a local vagrant, claimed to have slept with the robot on a variety of trips to the sporting goods stores. "He, uh... [incomprehensible drunken gurgling] and did some kind of superbowl dance".

In the meanwhiletimes, photographic evidence has been harder to come by, yet some questionable photographs have already surfaced. Seen below is a collection of materials supplied by multiple purported viewers - a word of caution; some of these images may be disturbing:

If you have any information on any robotic sighting of late, or would like to report a sighting yourself, e-mail us at bestsodaever@gmail.com
Photographic evidence preferred; please know, copies of "Paradise Lost" sent to us will be returned. So stop sending them. Cool, thanks.

My Tricked Out Internet

Folks, let's face it: the internet isn't what it used to be. Back in the day, a man could get himself a deliciously wide variety of contraband goods off of the internet. Everything from a simple Cuban cigar to a mail-order bride from a failed state in Eastern Europe was yours to be had... for a price. Sadly, these freewheeling days of anarchical pleasures on the electronic frontier are fast drawing to a close. Several months ago my cousin tried to perform a very simple task: download a episode of HBO's True Blood off of BitTorrent. Well, shortly after this innocuous activity, he received a cease and desist order from HBO. As Abraham Lincoln might say, what the fuck?
Now, one may argue that HBO was only justly defending its property rights, or that Abraham Lincoln is dead so his thoughts on the matter are neither here nor there. The essential fact remains though: HBO somehow cared enough and was diligent enough to detect a tiny infringement of their property rights by one internet user among billions. And True Blood, form what I hear, isn't even one of their better shows. Imagine the shitstorm if he had tried to download The Sopranos. Now, this is a scary thought. How are god-fearing online entrepreneurs supposed to conduct their business in this climate of fear? Well, in case nobody realized, that was a rhetorical question. The answer is that they can't. In the new world of the internet, nobody is free. Every action of our online ads is scrutinized under a microscope. Even our Google searches, for some absurd reason, are recorded and saved by Google.
People, we don't have to take this treatment lying down. I realized this the other day when I was busy trickin' out my Firefox browse. In addition to random stuff like an RSS feed and Cooliris (which is definitely worth checking out) I found an ingenious app called TrackMeNot. TrackMeNot deals with the Google problem in a most effective manner. It conceals your real searches in a cloud of misinformation. In other words, the program generates massive amounts of random search queries that swamp your actual volume of searches. Thus, anyone looking at your search history should be unable to distinguish any sort of real pattern whatsoever. Fight the power.

wassssupppppp: slow walkers and chairs

Hello loyal jibblers,

My column, "wassssupppp" will focus on precisely what is up , whether it be music, everyday annoyances, everyday awesomness, television, fashion and other random jibble. I will semi-occasionally treat you to a series of retro (euphemism for crappy) photos taken with disposable cameras and developed at none other the infamous Tenleytown CVS.  Polaroids will make rare appearances as well. 

What's up with slow walkers? I hate them. So much. Especially that robot at TDR today. He didn't even eat, he just walked slow and blocked the lines for everything. I wouldn't have a problem with slow walkers if they didn't keep me from getting places. They tend to take up an entire sidewalk. My roommate and fellow Jibbles n' Shits contributor, The King, agreed, "it's like, pick a side douchebags!"

In other news, the chairs in Kogod are the shit. They're comfy, bouncy, spinny and awesome. Isn't it nice to know our tuition money is going towards such necessities? As much as I enjoy the chairs, I feel AU finances could be better spent. Actual food in TDR perhaps? But then, alas, Shadow Chef would have nothing to blog about.

That's all I got. Peace out.

Riddle Me This, Wonder Woman

Feasts on the burning,

Stands in the sullied,

The living keep it,

And the dead feed it.

Crowded Exile - The Cold

Friday morning, dry and desperate. I shuffle across the frozen tundra that in happier times would have been called a campus. My wherewithal not entirely substantive at the moment, I try to recall where I am heading. Not a clue in the whole damn world. No frostbitten clue.

Oh, how ignoble of me. After all my scorn and ignominy toward the shivering masses, I myself have forgotten my own wretched loathing for the icy depths of mid-January. In spring, at least, there's moisture in the air in which to lose oneself. No such luck these days. Nothing but flat, dry, uncompromising exposure.

A stiff breeze stabs at my right hand, dangling beside me, like some forgotten appendage. And, similarly forgotten, yet still held in that hand's grip, resides my viola. Oh right, I was heading off to go practice. Fuck, it's too damn cold to remember where I'm going even when my goddamn destination is thirty freaking feet in front of me!

It's at this point of the year that most people seem to withdraw into themselves. Maybe for warmth. Huddling seems to be in these days, too. But I can't freaking do that. Then your forced to smell other people's breath. Which is why I'll shortly be sitting on a bench outdoors, bracing the cold on my own while surveying the landscape and people... unless I decide to go duck feeding; God, it's been far too long.

Thus the days go by darkly, and I'm overcome with a strange anxiety, as if there's ever so much that has yet to be done, and some unfulfilled desire left unattended. I'll laugh at this wanting as heedless desire by April, but perhaps the cold brings out my only brief period of clarity. I used to think this anxiety had something to do with the lack of sun.

But that shit ain't true. I can't stand the sun.

Evenings are horrifying. I often have something to do, someplace to be, but the outdoors are just too foreboding. I wouldn't venture out there if Rod Serling came back from Jesusville to show me the way. But my conscience will likely prevail, and the anxiety will be ever-so-slightly satiated.

My one solace would be snow, but that's a folly. Though it brought on holiday cheer back home, where it had long been missed, it's naught but a furtive dream here, or so the voices tell me. As Stephen Colbert put it, "There can never be snow [here] - only that endless grey deathscape...".

So I'll be on extra alert for ice. Ah, how I would spend the days at home biking to the frozen river. I'd stare at it for hours, talking to it, for no other apparent reason than it's really fucking fun to talk to shiny shit. And you gotta admit, ice is pretty damn cool. Unless it's cold. That was the downside - the bike ride back was always a bitch.

It seems I always seem to be finding ice around here when I'm accompanied by our fashion reporter, Clive Dangerously. There was a frozen wishing well in Clarendon (pictured below), a frozen fire hydrant in Bethesda, and his icy, icy heart.

So it stands to reason that our dear Clive is an ice god. I shall therefore attempt to appease him as follows:

Here's to hoping this satisfies your vengeful, vengeful wrath, Clive!

Until such time, I will have to wander on in my Crowded Exile.

An Ode to Chuck E. Cheese

As I stand doing my job,
My job of the checking of kids
At the cheese belonging to a rat named Chuck
Associated with invisible ink stamps and headaches,
I watch Jumbo Safari, TM.

GO!
ROPE THAT RHINOCEROS!
STOP THAT STAG!
INCAPACITATE THAT IGUANA!

Oh you thirty year old man who does not act his age,
Please stop abusing the basketball game.
Oh! So close for that "100" ski-ball obsessed kid.
Keep trying-- after all, it's just one token!
And how the line grows for the Star Wars Arcade game.
This is what happens when you build a multi-billion dollar franchise.
Thanks, George Lucas, Thanks.
THREE birthday parties at one time? This is what I imagine Hell looks like.
See all the people flock to the showroom?
Making final preparations for the best birthday bash, EVER?

The Kids Bop version of Kelly Clarkson's "Since you've been gone" plays loudly through the speakers for yet another time.
YES. Saved by the Birthday song.
I wonder what this place's electricity bill is....

God, how those sky tubes call to me.
One day, I'm going in....ON SHIFT.

Just another day at Chuck E. Cheese

A Great Legacy of Inappropriate and Badass Behavior: A Presidential History

As we enter a new chapter in American history with the impending inauguration of Barack Obama people are filled with anticipation as they look to the future. With the recent and ongoing conflict in Gaza, an economy in crisis, environmental problems, and a litany of other woes, people are on edge about the future. There is great merit in devoting time and effort to these concerns and problems, yet it ignores a great chapter in American history to which Barack Obama will also have to live up. That is, the obscene, badass, and inappropriate behavior of America's Presidents.

Though this running article will not run in chronological order, we can logically begin this history with, of course, George Washington. While everyone knows that Washington was the man who led America to independence, few know or remember that our first President was also the first and only sitting President to maintain a marijuana crop on his farm. Now historians will tell you that it was purely for industrial reasons and that men of his day would have not smoked the crop. That has not dashed rumors that Washington avoided an open war with France by getting Genot high as fucking balls. Aside from his proliferation of the Ganja in America, Washington was a notorious drunk. Here is an actual quote relating to the subject:

"if allowed four dollars at Christmas, with which to be drunk four days and four nights; two dollars at Easter, to effect the same purpose; two dollars at Whitsuntide, to be drunk for two days, a dram in the morning, and a drink of grog at dinner and at noon."

The immense amount of liquor that Washington imbibed perhaps explains the nightly drubbing he would inflict upon Martha. However Washington was not simply a drunk, he was an enabler of drunks. He owned his own private distillery making a healthy profit as a whiskey distributor. Indeed Washington is considered by many historians to be influential in driving up the popularity of porter in America:

“Porter was imported into America, though not in impressive quantities, during the latter half of the [eighteenth] century, but it was not widely manufactured until after the revolution. Certain individuals were partial to this type of beer. George Washington, for example, was one. Through the distribution of porter to the homeless and poor of Philadelphia the liquor gained popularity in taverns throughout the city.”

Washington also subsidized porter distilleries with his own fortune, and issued laws during the Revolutionary War condemning the importation of foreign liquors at his local tavern, probably while piss shit drunk. One might think he might have more important matters to attend to with a war being on and all, but he loved his fucking beer.



By elevating Washington to the White House, America was lifting one of the greatest champions of American drinking to the highest of prominence. Through his actions Washington became firmly established as Founding Father of American Sports.

Before we depart from Washington I will leave you with George Washington's personal beer recipe. This is real:

Take a large siffer full of bran hops to your taste-boil these 3 hours. Then strain our 30 gall[o]n into a cooler put in 3 gall[o]n molasses while the beer is scalding hot or rather draw the molasses into the cooler. Strain the beer on it while boiling hot, let this stand till it is little more than blood warm. Then put in a quart of ye[a]st if the weather is very cold cover it over with a blank[et] let it work in the cask-Leave the bung open till it is almost done working-Bottle it that day week it was brewed.”

I hope you have enjoyed this preview, join me next time when we examine the mind bogglingly lewd behavior of Lyndon Johnson. By the way in line with our next topic, yes that is a picture of Lyndon Johnson inextricably fondling his own nipple.

Get Like Me

Chatting Bitches Up

Okay so let’s face it you'll never get like me, but that doesn't mean you have to give up. Today I'll be teaching you the fine etiquette of how to chat bitches up. I know your pimple marked face can’t comprehend even approaching a woman, but let’s assume for minute you get close enough for her to smell your Doritos stained breath. At this point one of two things will happen, the bitch will see you for what you are and promptly leave, or she’ll be nice enough to tolerate your neckbeard for a few seconds. If the second case should happen you only have a few moments to convince her to stay longer and for that you’ll need to know how to chat that bitch up. The following is a novice’s guide to chatting a bitch up, more advanced techniques are most assuredly out of your skill level.

Step One: Don’t Talk About Your Anime Collection.

I know it’ll be hard for you weeaboos to understand, but normal people don’t care about Japanese animation. In fact it will probably be a big turn off. In fact avoid anything relating to Japanese culture.

Step Two: Compliment Her Looks

Girls are insecure creatures constantly believing they’re ugly. And while you will probably have to start talking to the uggos (the only ones lonely enough to tolerate you) you’ll still have to tell them they look good. After all chances are she’s a FUF (fat ugly friend) which means if you’re mean to her, you’ll never make it with her better looking friends. Important notes: its easy to come off as a creep in this step, avoid overtly sniffing her and commenting on her smell, don’t think by talking to her she’s giving you the okay to feel her up, and avoid approaching her in nothing but a robe. To simplify this step just make the following statement and let step three take over: “I really like that outfit.”

Step Three: Let Her Do the Talking

Women really enjoy talking. Even I can’t get my bitches to shut up once they start going. As such it should be no problem to talk to girls since they’ll do all the talking for the two of you. A simple “mmhmm” and “yea” will fool her for a while, but make sure you throw in a couple “I know!” and “I can’t believe that” before she gets suspicious. By the end she’ll think you’re a good listener and want to chat to you more often.

Step Four: Get an Internet Contact

Lets face it, you’re not prepared for more face-to-face interaction. Simply put you’re an uninteresting person. The longer you stay the more she’ll believe that horrific smell is indeed emanating from your body. As such be quick in your work to try and find an alternate means of communication. Considering you spend most of your life on the internet, get a way to contact her there. Here she won’t have to see or smell you and you’ll have plenty of time to respond to wall posts. And remember to send smiley faces, bitches love smiley faces.

Following these simple steps you’ll soon be able to tell people that you “chatted that bitch up.”

Riddle Me This, Iron Man

Love in the East,

Lives in the West,

The creation of grain,

To it is the best.

Curious Epicurean

Freegan--someone who only eats free food, more commonly know as a dumpster-diver.

When you become a college student, you give up many things like free laundry and dignity, but you also become many things, independent, scholarly and to some degree a freegan.  I myself have witnessed, and participated in, many instances of freeganism, two of which I will share now.

Last night a girl came into our lounge and threw out a bunch of food in the garbage saying,"All these people gave me food I don't like so now I have to throw it all away."  With that she threw away what was almost a ton of food in the garbage.  The food was perfectly good and there is a community table where you put the food you don't like.  But she decided to just throw it all away.  But this didn't stop us, after she left someone took the food out of the trash and we all pounced on it.  Literally punching and biting and kicking each other out of the way to get to the food.  I distinctly remember a Jimmy Jones being certainly ravenous and making it so I could only get my hands on strawberry poptarts and I am allergic to strawberries.  

The other day there was some sort of event in the Hughes formal lounge, and as per any event at American University, there was free food.  So a few of us observed that after the meeting, there was no one in the lounge and there was a table full of food.  We all ran, literally ran downstairs and into the lounge, found the food unguarded and pillaged.  We returned victorious with many cans of soda, sandwiches and heaps of hours devours.  After gloating to everyone about the food we had purloined, we sat in our own lounge, belly's full and contented.  This was until Max ran into the room, as he is awesomely prone to do, and told us that he had overheard a conversation between some of the staff, regarding the food in the formal lounge, along the lines of, "That's what happens when you don't guard the food!"  Is this what the world has come to, yes.

Some people think that freeganism is a choice but for most college students it is a unavoidable way of life.

Riddle Me This, Superman

It blinds the blue,

Blocks the gold,

Keeps the dripping,

And pains the old.

Riddle Me This, Spiderman

It leads the way,

An enemy it slays,

String propels it,

And travelers follow it.

I Will Always Love You

I have decided to call my column "I Will Always Love You" after one of the greatest pop songs of the nineties. This column, as indicated, will cover the best forgotten songs of the nineties that was all subconsciously know the lyrics to and singers of.

Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You" reached #1 on the charts in over sixteen countries after its release in 1992 and has by current count gone four times platinum. The song was originally recorded in the 1970s by Dolly Parton, but at that time did not achieve nearly as much success.

I would highly suggest watching the video due to its extreme representation of the nineties. What more can one ask for than womens' suits with shoulderpads and interracial dancing?

Unfortunately, Whitney Houston went down the tubes after this, resorting to crack instead of singing these beautiful wonders that I still take pride in belting out in the shower or in my room where Eric is held captive... by the sounds of the nineties. Whitney Houston, why did you need to resort to crack? After this hit she was unable to produce anything much better and has since vanished from our minds. Whitney, don't you know that crack is whack?


Exactly this time ten years ago in 1999 if you turned on the radio you would have heard the box office hits of the week, which were:

• Brandy's : Have You Ever
• Britney's : ...One More Time
• Jewel's : Hands
• Goo Goo Dolls' : Slide
• R. Kelly's : I'm Your Angel

Until next time, just remember that the best things were born in the nineties.