College course evaluations are bullshit, just like college. Yes, these are my actual fucking answers. Thank god for being anonymous, right?


What aspects of this course detracted most from your learning? (Keyboarding.)
It's a keyboarding class. Clearly, by typing in this feedback box, I can already type quite efficiently without looking at the keyboard. Why do I need to take a class for it? This is 2010, most college students can type. This class was a gigantic waste of time, and even though I dropped it, I'm still wasting time by evaluating it.


What aspects of this course detracted most from your learning? (Keyboarding.)
It's incredibly, mind-numbingly boring, and every second I spent learning the home row keys was a second less that I had to live a productive and fulfilled life.
I feel that is nothing less than a completely honest and accurate evaluation of my time spent in KEYBOARDING


What aspects of this course detracted most from your learning? (Intro to computers.)
The fact that I built my own damn computer from parts I ordered, yet I still have to be "introduced" to them?
It was horrendously tedious and I haven't done work in the class in about a month and a half. It'll be the second time I've dropped "Intro to the 21st Century" because I just can't bring myself to care enough. 
Nevermind the fact that MS Office 2010 has been out for over a year now, yet I'm still forced to take (and later drop) a class about obsolete and inferior technology.
In addition- why Windows XP? I've had it since 6th grade, which, if I recall correctly, and I do, was 10 years ago. That's a freakin' decade. You don't even take drivers ed on cars that old, why learn about dead operating systems?


What aspects of this course detracted most from your learning? (Success and Study Skills.)
The fact that it's ACA? It's study skills. We learned CONTEXT CLUES.
I know how to read, thanks. It's how I graduated high school and managed to apply to college in the first place. Yes, I spent time in a college class learning to read. I know, it's fucking mind-boggling.




I fucking hate college. I'm going to turn my college evaluations into a kind of cynical thing and post it on my blog that no one reads and put it in my portfoilio that i've never shown anyone.
Because I'm a loser.
I'm a genius.
But still a loser.
I have no direction.
no goals.
no motivation.
And i'm too busy frying my brain with drugs to do anything worthwhile.
I contribute nothing to no-one.
And if i really think about it, suicide is probably my best option.
After all, it is the easy way out.
And i'm well known for choosing the path of least resistance.
But to be honest..


I'm too lazy even for that.


I gotta go turn in applications for dead-end mall jobs. Hi, I'm Spenser, and I've given up on my dreams. Why don't you go try on these jeans?

I met a mouse in a house.

I had a friend named Billy. His hair was kinda silly. One I went into his house; who should I meet but a mouse? Taking off his hat and coat, the mouse began to clear his throat. "At the carnival," is what he spoke, "you can meet some fascinating folk." "Good and bad and of all kinds, maybe you will meet a mime!" Tossing a paper into the air, the mouse did a spin and disappeared with a flair. I walked further into the house, I met Billy's mom- and his father, her spouse. "Billy's cleaning his room", she said with a grin, "would you mind taking the broom upstairs to him?" As I was knocking on his door, I saw something skitter across the floor. Currently distracted, I took flight. There was something strange in this house, on this night. Suddenly recalling the gift from the mouse- I handed Billy his broom and we ran from the house. Our destination, to be neat, was the carnival just up the street.

What I do in college.

Accounting class is so boring

I think that I might cry

Accounting class is so boring

I think that I might die

Accounting class is so boring

Why, oh why, god why?

“Because,” said the good witch, “in order to get a good job, you must make yourself miserable and learn a skill that you’re bad at, in order to go to a job you hate every day, just to make not-enough-money to buy things you don’t really need.”

“Oh,” said Dorothy, “does this mean that I’ll never make it to the top 1% income bracket, you know, the 1% of people that control 90% of the world’s wealth?”

“That’s exactly right, my dear. Toil all the while for nothing.”

Veronica.

On a cool fall day, a little girl named Veronica went for a walk. Living in a suburban development with remnants from the Cold War (small, bright houses; many with bomb shelters in the back); she put on her jacket and headed out to the cracked sidewalk, turning left in the direction of her neighborhood park. As she walked along, Veronica, a girl of no more than eight, pulled out her Android and stuck a pair of headphones into her ears, so that she could watch Justin Bieber videos on Youtube. What the fuck kind of eight year old owns a droid, you may ask yourself? Well, the answer to that is a very spoiled one with little to no common sense and a nasty habit of abusing technology.

Soon, the little girl arrives at her destination. Being delighted with herself for managing to walk all this way alone, Veronica hurries over to the abandoned merry-go-round. She kicks herself off and begins spinning wildly, giggling and having a great time. Hurtling faster and faster in a circle, she is soon spinning so fast that everything around her is a great blur and she is forced to hold on tightly as the cylindrical force pulls her to the outer edges of the toy. Veronica begins to feel quite scared. She struggles to drag her feet along the ground and bring herself to a stop, before she just gets far too dizzy.  Her struggles are to no avail. She is trapped in a veritable tornado of rapidly spinning twisted metal left over from the Cold War. The playground was a product of urban deterioration, creaky and rusting, and Veronica was utterly alone.  

Abruptly, and with a screech, the merry-go-round comes to an abrupt halt. Bewildered and staggering like a newborn wildebeest (also known as a Gnu), Veronica attempts to take a few steps forward. She wobbles forward and attempts to steady herself against a swing-set. Underestimating her distance from the objective, she falls forward and obtains a rather nasty blow to the temple. Crying for a moment, she wipes the dirt from her hands and turns to go home, muttering the eight year old version of “Fuck this park!,” which, when roughly translated, means “Big meanie swing-set!” As she toddles off home, her mind is not on the severe blow to the head she has just obtained, but rather, of Justin Bieber. Her headphones are in her ears once more, and before she knows it, she’s back at the house to eat some chicken nuggets and watch iCarly.

                Later that week, Veronica heads to school. A few hours into class, after morning snack time, Veronica sits in her little red chair and is coloring a picture of a boat, when a drop of blood drips from her ear and onto the paper. She blinks twice and falls over dead, without even time to alert her teacher. Believing her to be unconscious, Ms. Ankerson calls the school medic, who begins weeping as she discovers the awful truth. It was later learned that the reason for Veronica’s tragic and untimely death was nothing less than a massive blood clot in the brain; which was obtained during her fall at the park; burst and poor Veronica was killed instantly.
               

                Believing that Veronica was abused at home, Ms. Ankerson attempted to press charges on the parents, which were successful. They are now both in a state penitentiary, where they are serving lengthy prison sentences for Willful and Fatal Neglect of a Child. However, all this tragedy could have been prevented, if, instead of listening to shitty pop singers, Veronica had used her advanced cell phone to phone for help, maybe call 911, or an adult.

But, children are stupid and should always wear a helmet.

CDCC. Are you a classmate of mine at “Crushed Dreams Community College”?

So anyway, there I was, surrounded by all manner of awful things. Everything from boa constrictors to crocodiles, armadillos to angler fish. I knew that everything currently staring me down was also currently licking it’s lips, assuming, of course, that they had lips to lick. How the hell was I supposed to get out of here? I’d lost my machete a couple caves back, but I still had my torch. The only problem was, I didn’t have a way off the island. What would I do once I got back out in the sunlight? They’d still be chasing me, and I’d still have nowhere to go but the water, and if the things on land didn’t follow me in, the things in the water would be sure to finish me off. I don’t want to be eaten, damnit!

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Three gashes on the side of her leg. Those three angry red marks were all that remained from the attack. I can remember it like it was yesterday. Infact, it may have been. Everything started off normal, for the most part, or as normal as things ever got. Four friends heading down to the river- to walk on trails, swim in the cool water, maybe catch a fish or see some wildlife. It was a mostly sunny day, a few clouds marred the sky, but other than that, nothing too ominous seemed to be about. There was laughing and light hearted shit talking, and the phrase “giant poon” was tossed around to describe the various members of the quadrito of people.

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To new parents: if you need six silent fucking letters in the kid's name to make it "cute" and "unique" -DON'T GIVE THAT NAME TO A PERSON. Give it to a dog or a fish. What happened to just giving your kid an easily pronounceable and easily spelled name? Or instead of Qkulahaysha, why not just Captain Space Probe Attorney at Law, or something equally fucking stupid and ridiculous?

I'd shop here.

This really, actually, totally and completely happened and is true. Seriously.

Human beings will do anything for a rush. This can take the form of drugs, sex, fear and various thrill seeking activities. One such thrill seeking activity is the outdoor adventure sport of white-water rafting. Though it seems safer than some things, such as skydiving or shooting heroin, do not be fooled. White water rafting is a dangerous and foolhardy sport. However, while undertaking such a dangerous sport, steps can be taken to minimize risk of death by drowning. Always wear a helmet and life jacket, brace yourself into the raft, and don’t try to stand up in a moving current, should you be tossed unceremoniously from your craft. You can never be too cautious when faced with the raging beast that is a white-water river. While steps can be taken to minimize and prevent most horrific accidents, even the best preparations aren’t enough to prevent catastrophe.

Let’s take a look at a girl named Spenser. She went white water rafting, but, as an intelligent and gorgeous girl, she first took the time to research every possible aspect of her rafting trip. Spenser learned as much about rafting as she could- how to paddle properly, the different classes of rapids, the rafting company she was going with, even looked at images of the river. When she arrived at the rafting outpost, Spenser was prepared. She had a swim suit, shoes that would stay securely on her feet, her own safety helmet to prevent head lice and stranger dander, and a way to hold her car keys. Spenser was ready. After listening to a short safety seminar and riding a school bus to the raft drop off point, the rafting group pulled their inflatable blue boats into the water and began their journey. At first, the trip was peaceful as the large rafts floated down the gently meandering water. The sun was shining bright, the trees were green and the entire river was alive. It was a perfect day for enjoying water sports. As the boat approached the first rapid, Spenser’s river guide informed them that the name of this particular bit of white water was known as “Swimmer’s Rapid”—named so because it was gentle and lined with many smooth rocks, enabling swimmers in life jackets to float through unscathed. Spenser, being the beautiful and brave daredevil that she was, decided that she was going to jump off of the boat and into the water, to properly experience the river she’d been floating over. After holding her nose tightly to prevent fresh water amoebas from burrowing into her brain via the sinuses and killing her, Spenser tipped backwards and was submerged beneath the water. As she swam up, she began lightly paddling and floating down stream in a very leisurely manner.

Until her foot caught on a rock. Or, rather, what she thought was a rock. Spenser was suddenly and violently forced under the water- her life jacket and helmet being of no use to her. She flailed wildly and attempted to kick her legs and propel herself towards the surface, but alas, it was of no avail. Her feet were securely trapped beneath the murky brown waters of the river. Trying in vain to fight the current and keep her head above water for a few more seconds of precious air, Spenser saw a horrific sight- a giant fin. Where had this beast come from? Were there fresh-water sharks? Was this a long lost predator of the deep, landlocked since the last ice age? She could not be sure. What Spenser was sure of, however, was the fact that she had to act- and act fast. Remembering everything that she had learned watching this Discovery Channel, Spenser rightly presumed that this was a river monster.

Native to her area of Appalachia, flathead catfish have been known to reach lengths of more than five feet long and over 100 pounds; the majority of their bulk being lean, slender, powerful muscle. Spenser knew that she was no match for such a beast, should it come to an all-out catfish war.  Lacking brute strength and general physical prowess to rival the river monster, Spenser was armed with only two things, excluding her helmet: her Batman car keys clipped to her pink bra strap (which she was wearing because it made her boobies look perky in a bathing suit.) and her super-human intelligence. Remembering a book once read at the library, Spenser quickly began to un-hook her car keys from her bra. Taking one key from each ring and placing them in her hands, she held the miniature serrated daggers at her sides, and like a true warrior of the deep, regained her composer and allowed the mutated fish-beast to swallow her feet and legs.

Soon, when the jaws of the monster had reached the keys at her sides, it continued to swallow. As the razor sharp keys ripped the fleshy mouth and throat out of the fish, Spenser kicked her legs free, swimming to the surface in a wave of blood, guts, tears and triumph. She immediately turned and swam to the nearest shore, stomping angrily downstream for a few minutes, she encountered the rest of her rafting troop. After yelling and flagging down her river guide, Spenser hopped into the boat and began to inform everyone of what had happened to her. She was hailed as a hero for ridding the river of such a horrendous, flesh-hungry monster and surviving to tell the tale. 

Introducing Herman Hiengelfurker.

I used to want to be an astronaut. And I’m still pissed that I’m not, but i was never good enough at math.

Maybe if they need someone who knows way too much about the Middle Ages and moonlights as a magician

all while writing hate mail to people under the guise of a German orthodontist then maybe I’ll get to be an astronaut. But that hasn't happened yet.

My best bud made cat yarn. What is cat yarn, you ask? Cat yarn is when your cat sheds and you collect it, twist it together, and make weird fuzzy bits of limp string. You can make money off it. Everyone has cat-fur you say? Yes, that may be true. But not this much.

NEW CHARACTER IDEA: Herman Hiengelfurker. Every time I’m a dick in real life, I can write about it under the name of Herman Hiengelfurker, and it will be all anonymous and cool and no one will think I’m an asshole, they will just think I’m creative! YES!

William Herman Hiengelfurker is a dick. A real dick. He’s also an orthodontist, because nothing is to be valued more than straight teeth and a white smile.

Today, Herman Hiengelfurker went to Sonic. They were hosting a classic car rally in the parking lot of said establishment, and the rally was full to the brim with Herman’s number one enemy- the elderly. Herman was irritated that he couldn’t find a place to pull in and order because it was so packed. So, what did Herman do? He was in a convertible with the top down, so he began loudly proclaiming how much he hated old people and thinks that they’re a leech on society. Oh, Herm.

Today, as Herman was driving home, an old person in a Chevy HHR pulled up behind him and began to follow him too closely for Herman’s comfort. Since H. Hiengelfurker was in a convertible, he and his friend synchronized flashing their middle fingers at the old man behind them. Oh, Herm.

Today, Herman Hiengelfurker went to Target. As he was driving his car into the parking lot past the doors, there were two extremely morbidly obese women and their fat little toddler taking far too long to cross the street into the store. However, instead of being patient, Herman Hiengelfurker decided to honk his horn at the two fatties until they got across the road. His only regret is that he didn’t have a beeping device, and that they weren’t backing up. Oh, Herm.

There is this dude in my class that talks WAY TOO FUCKING MUCH. An average of 15 minutes per class, which is 45 minutes of my life per week spent listening to war stories that I could honestly give a shit about. Ok, this guy, right? I call him Operation Iraqi Freedom, right? NO MATTER WHAT THE TOPIC IN CLASS IS: somehow his war time relates to it. Oh, you had a frozen dinner once? WELL ON THE FRONT LINES OF COUNTRY SERVIN' DUTY, WE EAT FROZEN DINNERS AND BLOW THE HEADS OFF OUR ENEMIES WITH A BIG ASS GUN CAUSE ITS AMERICA AND WE FIGHT TERRORISM. And apparently, this douche is a disabled vet, because he backs his GIANT ASS GAS WASTING VEHICLE (If anything, shouldn't veterans be the people that MOST understand the need for a fuel efficient vehicle to help reduce dependence on foreign oil?) INTO THE FRONT ROW RIGHT BY THE SCHOOL, IN A CRIPPLE SPACE, no less. So, Asshole in BIG CAR parks in Crippy-Space. And then, AND THEN as if to prove just how disabled he isn't, Asshole War Veteran lifts a backpack easily large enough to carry me comfortably (an adult!) and then strides down the hall to class. He also wears cut off muscle t-shirts to show his disgusting old man biceps with saggy wrinkled war tattoos. I hate this man so much. 

A bowler hat?

In Australia, there was a young man named Pras. He was a tan guitarist type with luscious mutton-chop sideburns and an incredibly sexy Australian accent. He loved nothing more than ham sandwiches and naps in the Australian sun. Pras was in his prime of life; twenty two years old, and he loved to party.  Pras was always willing to try new things in order to reach new planes of consciousness. Knowing these things about Pras one must also know one critical thing about Australia: bongs are illegal to purchase and all of the wildlife is out to kill a person. Pras doesn’t like harsh smoke because it irks his lungs something chronic, but he also can’t buy a bong with which to cool the smoke. Thus, Pras can’t partake in the harmless smoking of marijuana in order to reach new levels.

A typical Friday night. Pras and his friends have just come in from a bonfire on the beach, playing guitar and singing in the glow of the flames. Beer is flowing, pot is being smoked, the good times are bountiful. Pras has had a few drinks and is really feeling good. He’s happy and laughing, and flirting with a cute American girl by playing Lady Gaga songs for her on his guitar.  The girl takes his hand and leads him away from the bulk of the party, to an area in the shade of a tree. She has a bottle of water in her hand and a small handbag. The American sits cross legged on the ground and pulls Pras down so he’s sitting beside her.  She tells him that her name is Wendy, and that she’s here to help expand his mind.

“I saw you coughing pretty hard back there. My name’s Wendy. I have something that will really fuck you up, if you want to try it.”

“Uh, sure. Glad you liked my guitar playing.”

“It was delightful, Pras. May I call you Pras?”

“Sure.”

“Alright, anyway. I led you out here for a reason.”  Wendy is whispering, now.

“Oh?”

“Yes. I want to take you to a higher plane, my good man. Expand your mind. Are you picking up what I’m putting down?”

“Yeah. I guess. What is it?”

Wendy reaches into her hand bag and pulls out a cornucopia of drugs: a few red pills, a few purple pills with little monkeys on them, and some muddy-looking liquid in a small bottle."

“What is that?”

“Ecstasy and shroom-juice.”

“Oh.”

“You’re in for a real treat.”

Wendy turns up the bottle of mud, chokes half of it down and chases it with water, grimacing. She hands the bottle to Pras and he mimics her action by finishing the bottle with a pained expression.

“That’s disgusting.”

“Yeah, well it’s worth it. Now, take a straw.”

Wendy divides the pills between them, each taking two of the red and one of the purple. She bends her straw in half and drops the pills inside. Pras does the same thing with his two capsules, and they begin biting the pills through the straws in order to crush them into a  powder. Wendy leans her head back, and in one elegant motion inhales all of the powder to the back of her nose and snorts.

“Does that burn?”

“Not really. Go on, give it a shot champ.”

Pras lines his straw up carefully so that he doesn’t spill any of the substance and sniffs it up his nose. He coughs and sputters for a moment, but then recovers.

“I lied. The first time does burn.”

“You’re a terrible person.”

“That’s fine. What do you say we take off on an adventure? You won’t want to be here in a little bit.”

“That’s a wonderful idea.”

Pras and Wendy run inside the house where he grabs his guitar and Wendy gets her bong, and they take off out of the yard and into the street, walking towards the full moon.

Walking beside each other in silence for about 15 minutes, Pras finally speaks up.

“I think I feel it.”

They stop moving at the same time, and once again Wendy sits on the ground, Pras beside her.

“Feel what?”

“Really, really good.”

“Good. That’s what I was hoping for.  Let me look at your eyes.”

Taking Pras’s chin in her hand, she looks into his eyes. His pupils are dilated and he can’t keep a straight face.

“Yeah, you’re fucked up. Let’s keep walking.”

Meandering along, the intoxicated duo reaches the edge of the sidewalk. Beyond them lies desert, with bits of short shrubs, assorted twisted trees and brown rocks. Everything is a shade of sand, shale, beige or brown, with very little green. Wendy grabs Pras’ hand as she begins dragging him with her into the outback of Australia, still going towards the glow of the moon.

“You know I’ve always wanted to see a platypus.”

“They’re near water, usually. What about a kangaroo?”

“That will work.”

“Why are you so interested in Australian wildlife?”

“Well, because it’s exotic. In America, we only have beavers and bears and squirrels. No kangaroos and ostriches and platypuses and giant earthworms. I like animals, you know.”

“I guess. I typically just try to avoid Australian wildlife, it scares the shit out of me.”

“I’m scared of it too, which is why we brought weapons. You know, a bong and a guitar. That, and soon we’ll be tripping balls and probably just try to ride around on a kangaroo.”

“I’ll sit in it’s pouch!”

“I’ll hold your guitar.”

“We don’t have ostriches here, by the way. Just emus. They’re better. Did you know that an emu can travel great distances while maintaining a brisk and economical trot?”

“I did not know that, but thank you for telling me.”

Pras pulls his guitar strap over his shoulder and begins playing an off-key song. The only lyric is “Emu, doo doo doo, eeeeemmmmuuuuuuuu.” This continues for several minutes until Wendy smacks him on the shoulder.

“Stop that. It’s a terrible song.”

“You don’t see them?”

“See what?”

“All the dancing birds! With the big feathers and the long legs. They’re blue and green and all around!”

Wendy used this as an opportunity to drop to her knees laughing as hard as she could. When she stood up, she was wheezing and clutching at her sides, with tears streaming down her cheeks.

“What’s so funny, mate?”

“You’re so far down the rabbit hole.”

“Isn’t that the idea?”

Pras and Wendy start walking forward again, swaying a little in their steps. They’re trying to be quiet, but keep shushing each other and giggling. Wendy pauses, with a strange look on her face.  Pras stops walking, and looks around.

“What is your problem?”

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“That chittering noise. It sounded like a chittering demon. What the fuck? Why did I let you talk me into coming out here? Oh god, I’m out in the desert with Crocodile hunter. That ended badly. DID YOU HEAR THAT NOISE, PRAS?”

“Oh, that chitchitchit?”

“Yes. The chittering demon.”

“You’re being silly. That’s just a Koala bear. Crikey! Little bugger sounds angry!”

“A KOALA BEAR? Awww. Can I meet him? Can we take him with us?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Awesome. Ok. Let’s get him. Lure him in with your guitar. Wait, did you just say “Crikey, the little bugger sounds angry?””

“Yes. Why? Was it too Australian?”

“Shut up and play a fucking koala song.”

“You know, you can’t rush genius.”

Pras once more lifts his guitar, and Wendy sits at his feet. He begins plinking one single string: plink, plink, plink. A rustling sound is heard, and soon, a pair of glowing eyes is seen in a tree. Predictably, both Pras and Wendy have a mild freakout, and Pras begins plinking his guitar string faster in terror. Plink, plink, plink.

“Is that the Koala?”

“I dunno, let’s go see.”

They lay their possessions on the ground: Wendy’s bong and small bag, and Pras’ guitar. Wendy stands behind Pras and steers him forward, hand on shoulder.

“You’re going first.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re the Australian and you have to talk to it and let it know we mean know harm.”

“It’s a bloody Koala, not an alien encounter.”

“Well then, it shouldn’t be hard for you to let it know we’re friendly. Can we overpower it if necessary? And why is it bloody?!”

“Bloody is an expression, we can overpower it, and heyyyyy little guy. Come on out. Come on. You’re a cute little Koala bear, aren’t you? Yes you are. Want some eucalyptus, little guy? Yes you do! You’re just a cutey wutey buggerbear aren’t you? Awwww.”

“Manly.”

“Shut up, you told me to do this.”

“I told you to make it think we’re friendly, not to flirt with it.”

The pair has gotten closer to the tree, and the Koala has remained motionless. Pras lifts his arm up to the bear and plucks it from the tree. The creature gives a soft mew.

“Here. You can have it.”

Pras hands the bear to Wendy, and she cuddles it immediately. The Koala seems to like her.

“Wow, no guy has ever given me a live Koala bear before. I’m impressed.”

“Well, I’ve never captured one before.”

“Can we name him? Or her? What is the gender of you, oh bear?”

“ I don’t think it’s going to answer you.”

What happened next astonished both Pras and Wendy. The Koala bear began to speak. The two humans learned that it’s name was Gordy, and that it is a He-Bear. Gordy had an Australian accent, and smelled vaguely like Vicks Vapor-rub.

“Hark! Ye Humans of olde! My name is Gordy, and I am Most Proud He-Bear of the Greater Australian Koala Alliance.”

“What?” Wendy and Pras spoke in unison.

“I’m Gordy and I’m a Koala. Why did you wake me up?”

“You were already awake.”

“No I wasn’t, you bloody stoner. You’ve had dozens of mushrooms. YOU ARE TALKING TO A KOALA.”

“A Koala named Gordy.”

“Exactly my point. Well, since you’ve got me, we might as well make the best of our time together. What do you think?”

“I think that’s a wonderful idea Gordy.”

Gordy climbs up to Wendy’s shoulder and wraps his koala-arms around her neck. Pras brings the bong, bag, and guitar over and puts his arm around Wendy’s waist.

“I can’t stand up.”

“Well then sit down.”

“But I want to go walking.”

“Then let’s go walking.”

“I prefer riding on shoulders to walking. Koala’s aren’t known for setting land speed records.”

“That’s ok Gordy. You’ll be our guide to the Australian Outback.”

“I thought that was my job.”

“No, you lost your privileges when you tried to be Steve Irwin.”

“Oh.”

Pras, Wendy and Gordy continue walking along. They kick brush and sticks out of their way as they giggle through the desert. Wendy really hopes to see more animals, and Pras just wants to sit down.

“Can we PLEASE stop walking? I’m having a really hard time right now.”

“Fine.”

So they sit. Wendy pulls out her bag and bong, and Pras begins playing a song again. Wendy packs a bowl and lights up, the gurglegurgle of her bong echoes in the quiet of the desert.

“It’s really dark out here.”

Wendy puts her hands behind her head and lays back on the hard ground. Gordy climbs down beside her and sits on his haunches as Pras continues playing.

“What’s that song?”

“Oh, it’s called “While You Wait for the Others”.”

“Others? What others?”

“The other Koalas, of course!”

“There are more of you?”

“Of course there are more of me! You think I’m the only Koala bear in existence?”

“No, just the only one nearby.”

“Well, there ARE others. We’re a typically nomadic breed of bear, if you call us bears at all, but we are not solitary. Will you blow some smoke in my face?”

“Of course I will, Gordy.”

Wendy turns to the side and leans close to Gordy. She tokes mightily on her bong, and then exhales the smoke into the nose of the Koala. He appears to enjoy himself.

“Duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuude.”

“Yeah.”

“Wendy, there are so many things wrong with getting a Koala high. They’re an endangered species, you know.”

“Well, just because they’re endangered doesn’t mean that they can’t have any fun.”

Pras lies back on the hard sand. He is staring up at the stars and really concentrating. Pras sees many things, the first being that the stars appear to be distorting. They’re bending and twisting around each other, leaving trails of light behind. They’re becoming everything constellations should be- ships with huge sails, great birds, and a beautiful city. He can hear the colors, smell the sounds, feel the tastes.

“Wendy, do you think we could make it to the stars?”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“Don’t you ever get bored being on Earth?”

“I do, but I know that the stars are too far away to make it to.”

“That’s a very negative way of looking at it.”

“I don’t think it’s negative. I think it’s realistic.”

“I could watch the stars forever.”

“Me too.”

“Well, I can’t watch the stars forever. I have places to be. I am a very busy Koala and you are impeding me from my duties.”

“What duties could you possibly have? You’re a cute grey bear, and it’s midnight.”

“Well, I have a meeting with a Kangaroo.”

“A KANGAROO?”

“Yes. A kangaroo. She should be here at any moment to deliver my bowler hat.”

Wendy stands up, places Gordy on the ground, and walks off alone. She thought she saw something and wanted to investigate it. Every step Wendy takes is difficult. She’s swaying with each step, and everything seems to be bending and twisting. It’s weird, isn’t it? Being in a dream like this. She can’t tell which end is up. The poor girl is confused.

This sucks.

I make all kinds of posts and try really hard to create nice bits of text for the internet, but without anyone commenting at all ever, it's slightly disheartening. It's really starting to bum me out, man.


Does anyone even read this?

I'm a thinker, not a doer.

My ice catcher is the reason I smoke so much pot. I’m sitting there stoned, right? And I look at my bong. And the bowl is cashed, but the ice hasn’t melted. So I’m like, ‘Fuck man, I should smoke some more ganj, the ice hasn’t even melted yet!’ So I do. And the only reason I don’t just let the ice melt without smoking more is because what if I get un-high from one bowl and then want to get re-high later? I’m gonna have to walk all the way out to the kitchen, get a cup, and put ice in it, then walk all the way back to my room and put the ice in the bong. It’s a pain in the ass, really. The easiest and most obvious solution is to just get twice as high now, therefore conserving ice and minimizing walking to the kitchen. So, maybe that’s why I’m out of weed.

To exert proper force on the fulcrum, both hands must be securely fastened.

I want to go white-water rafting tomorrow, but the only problem is, I'm pretty much a pussy. People die doing that shit. Can you bring your own helmet? What if there are rapids? Do I need to sign a waiver?   I feel most secure in my own helmet.   Also, I've only been dating the guy for two days. Isn't that a little soon to go rafting? If I have to depend on him for survival, do I have to blow him if he saves my life? What is the rafting etiquette for that? I don't know man, I don't know. I’m all pumped to go, right? Like, FUCK YEAH, I'M GONNA GET MY RAFT ON! But then I started reading. That’s always my downfall. I start spam researching everything I can find on something. Every single aspect of anything, I HAVE to know it. So, now I've spent the past three hours reading about rafting fatalities. And I'm stoned, and that leads to paranoia, so all signs are pointing to sitting my ass on dry land. I should never read. Life would be easier if I had never learned how. Then again, I'd also be a fucking retard, so, you never know. I am not breaking anything. If I break something, that means doctors. Do you know what doctors mean? Needles and pain and death. What if they need to take a blood sample to make sure that the splintered bone sticking out of my skin isn't infected with microbes in the water? Have you looked at what has been happening in fresh water lately? Amoebas in water, being forced up the nose and into the sinuses, i.e., drowning, have begun burrowing their way into the brains of a host, killing them. It’s fucking terrible. What makes you think I'd enjoy that? You sick fuck. All of that would suck. And that's not even going into what would happen to my corpse. I want to look pretty at my funeral, not bloated out. Presuming Bigfoot doesn't find me. Don't even get me started on Bigfoots. I am growing increasingly terrified by the second. I’m also a mad scientist, so I'm spending my Saturday night holed up in my room on the internet while I research the best way to tune in a homemade radio to hear natural electromagnetic frequencies generated by storms on the sun. Basically, I’m splicing a bunch of two way radios I got for cheap at the store, with some magnet wire blahblah blah, a few diodes and my trusty soldering iron. My goal? To make an amateur homebrew radio; not to communicate, oh no, but to use for amateur astronomy. You see, I also enjoy learning about time travel.  I do not have a caboose. Merely a time-train. I circle the earth at nearly the speed of light. Time slows down at such intense speeds, so that the superimposed universe speed limit (speed of light) can never be breached. Ergo, I am from the future. Hello. I have a helmet. Should I, you know, need it. And who says I'm human? I'm actually a cyborg. I am of highly advanced technology. I was sent to explore and rectify the mistakes of the past, so that a better future may be possible for all. I believe that poetry is a poor form of art for people who aren't smart enough to form logical, complete sentences. Unless it's good poetry, like Poe. But most of the time, poetry all sounds the same. "The black river dog, sunning in the moon, leaving his trails on the delight of thine rose lips." I stand by the fact that short stories and essays are superiour because they employ logic and order. Logic and order are clean and perfect and to be upheld. Science and straight lines man. I have a barren white bedroom. I wear dresses and shoes, never pants and shirts. They are sloppy. My key ring only has four keys.  I polish things that don't need polishing. My closet is perfectly organized by season and then color. Winter blacks, winter colors in ascending order from darkest to brightest. So on and so forth with subsequent seasons. I also have the shoes and sunglasses with them. The jewelry is much the same. Why would you want anything else than always knowing where everything is, what it does, how it works, and who put it there? My ultimate career goal is "question answerer." I really want to go out to my car and grab my notebook, for I have printed a new story and need to hole punch and insert it into the proper area of my notebook. However, the darkness outside is utterly horrifying. I loathe living in the woods. I know what lurks in the dark. Bats. Bigfoot. Wampus cat. Chittering demons. Hitler. Etc. 

To put it eloquently, why don't you just shut the fuck up?

I don't like children. I know, I know. It's some kind of huge fucking sin to not like babies. Whatever, I don't give a shit. I'm 20 years old, and apparently, that's when my age group hits the "breed sow" age. Bitches have been blowing up my phone at EIGHT IN THE FUCKING MORNING to ask me to buy shit for their unborn maggot. Great deduction, Sherlock, but I'm not going to be buying your kid a damn thing. Why? I don't like you, I don't like your kid, I don't like any kids, I don't like going to stupid little baby showers and I AM NOT GOING TO DO IT. I'm not a terrible horrible person because I don't like your child enough to buy it shit- truthfully, I don't even like it enough to bother learning its name and gender. I don't really like pregnant women either- all they do is bitchbitchbitch or think that they're some magical mystical life giving unicorn, or the first person to EVER be pregnant with a child, like that's so fucking miraculous. Getting pregnant isn't some kind of fucking miracle. Every single woman in the history of ever (barring some medical disorder) can get pregnant. It's easy. All you have to do is spread your legs and let a guy nut inside you, instead of on your tramp stamp like you're probably used to. The really difficult bit is getting un-pregnant. Shots of Jack and falling down stairs can only do so much, but that might fail and in addition to spawning a little maggot baby of your very own you'll have a wee little retarded maggot baby! AWESOME! It's like SHIT. Why is being pregnant such a goal for other girls my age? I can't say that I'm in any real hurry to destroy my body, go through 9 months of horrors, then either have my vagina ripped to shreds or be gutted like a catfish only to have parasite ripped from betwixt thine supple thighs. If anything, shouldn't people be adopting? I'd go to an adoption shower far quicker than I'd go to a baby shower, because, say it with me folks, I DON'T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT OTHER PEOPLES KIDS. Hell, I don't really give a shit about having kids of my own. I don't like them and don't want them! I'm not eager at fucking all to have a baby. I'd rather, you know, live out my life while I'm still young, you know? Go places without a stroller, eat at restaurants other than McDonalds. Go see an R-rated movie without a screaming brat, fly on a plane and be able to sleep quietly, sleep through the night in my own bed without interference, have shit where I want it to be in my house, without having to navigate a decapitated Barbie and GI Joe maze, and drive whatever the fuck kind of car I want to drive, without having to worry if it's safe enough for a fucking car seat. Oh, not to mention the fact that children cost an average of one million dollars before they even turn 18. Do you know what you can buy with a million dollars? A whole lot of stuff that would probably make me happier than a screaming slimy shit machine. ALSO- if you have a kid, and it dies of starvation or whatever, because you forgot to feed it, or it fries in an electrical outlet because it was playing with a fork, or the kid basically dies from anything but cancer- YOU CAN GO TO PRISON. Yes, you can go to jail if your baby dies. How un-fucking-fair is that? So lemme get this straight, if by some miracle I got pregnant, was unable to abort it, and then decided to keep it, and then it died, I'd go to jail? WELL WHY THE FUCK COULDN'T I KILL THE THING BEFORE IT WAS BORN, LIKE I FUCKING WANTED TO? Shit.




Long story short: shut the fuck up, I haven't seen you since highschool and I didn't really like you then, and I'm not coming to your fucking baby shower. I don't like children, and you can really stop blowing up my phone at 8am to ask me to buy you shit, because that's really all a baby shower is anyway.

Peculiar Sensations.

Do you ever hear people talk, and when they get done, you just start thinking “Please, never, ever, ever speak again. Seriously.”

“Well Spenser, what are you bringing to the class potluck?”

“Uh, I dunno. Toothpaste and a pack of ramen?”

“How about something green? We don’t have anything like that yet.”

“I could make brownies, but that’d be expensive.”

“Dude, hit that fucking turkey!”

“Nah, and give this car back with feathers all over it? What’s he gonna say? ‘Yo man, what’s all those feathers in the grill from?’”

“Yeah, that’s a fucking great idea.”

And I says to my doctor- you wanna know what I says to my doctor? I says to my doctor, I says, I don’t know where they came from or how they got there man, I just work up itchy and it started burning, ah I dunno man, I just don’t know, can’t you give me some cream or something for it? Ah, yeah. I swear man, this is the last time. Clear it up this one time and it’ll never happen again. Just give me some of those chalky pink pills and I swear it’ll be the last time I do a body shot out of a hookers pussy. And the doc says, ah, yeah.

I should start signing all my emails like this: $pen$er c; fuck bitche$, get money.

As you may or may not be aware, I have no piercings or tattoos. The reasons for this are many and varied; I feel it’s more unique to have no body modifications, because even infants get pierced ears, I find tattoos and piercings to typically be garish, and why would anyone in their right fucking mind willingly poke holes in their protective outer covering? I like being safe from microbes in the comfort of my skin. And how can you even tell where the needles have been? I don’t want AIDS man. Oh, and mostly I’m just a huge pussy who freaks out and cries at the very first sign of a needle. They just, you know, make me exceedingly uncomfortable and panicky. It’s something in the way they glint.

You know you’re a pothead when you drive though parking lots to get to the headshop from taco bell, and upon arriving at the headshop, you sit in your car for 15 minutes, staring into the windows, salivating over bongs while you clear out a triple layer nacho. You finish your meal and enter the store, where the clerks who know you by name then ask you if you enjoyed you taco bell. Do you remember that time? Or did I just tell a story?

If I didn’t think that naming bongs was stupid, I’d name my bong Cornelius Feldwick. He’d be a British scholar, and he’d be all like “You there, fill me with pot!” and I’d be like “No Cornelius, I have things to do today.”

You know that Oasis song? Champagne Supernova? You know where it’s all like “Slowly walking down the hall- faster than a cannon ball?” You know how high that motherfucker has to be? He’s SLOWLY WALKING down the hall- he’s not even running- and he’s STILL faster than a cannon ball. I can’t even. Wow.

(Also, this is my first blog from the bathroom! Woohoo!)

Why did the Cosmic Chicken cross the road? To create the universe!

Why did the Cosmic Chicken cross the road?

The universe is everything that ever is, was, or will be. It is infinitely vast, and mankind is infantile in his ignorance of it. In Stephen Hawking’s “Our Picture of the Universe,” he discusses the beginning of space, time, the universe, and existence. Hawking states that thousands of millions of years ago, the universe began to expand. This was, as he claims, the beginning of time and he implies that anything prior to this expanding simply doesn’t matter, because it can affect nothing afterwards (our Universe) and can be ignored. Contrary to this knowledge, is the belief in Creationism; the idea that a divine “super-being” created the universe. If the “big bang” is a cosmic egg expanding outward, where is the cosmic chicken? Creationists think that the chances of the universe randomly becoming so complexly structured without divine intervention and intelligent design is absolutely ludicrous. Jonathan Sarfati, in his essay titled “If God created the universe, then who created God?” gives his opinion on why he thinks God is the creator of the universe, asserting that God is the beginning of time, inhabiting eternity. Hawking states that the universe has a beginning expansion, anything before the beginning expansion does not matter, and that science and math can eventually give a complete description of the universe, while Sarfati is of the persuasion that God created the universe: God has and needs no cause or creator, and that man already has a complete picture of the universe’s beginnings as explained by scripture.

The very last line of “Our Picture of the Universe” is a perfect summarization of the goals of two groups: creationists and those believing in science. “And our goal is nothing less than a complete description of the universe we live in” (311). People that believe God created the universe and people that believe in the universe needing no creator are both racing towards the same finish line: to have a completely comprehensive picture of everything. Each group comes up with different ways to explain the origins of the universe and time. Describing quite literally every single thing that will ever be is a daunting task, and it seems most logical to start at the beginning; the beginning of time and the beginning of the universe. Was the universe always around, or does it have a definite beginning? Both authors agree that the universe definitely began. However, they disagree quite vehemently about how and why it began. Hawking states:

Hubble’s observations suggested that there was a time, called the big bang, when the universe was infinitesimally small and infinitely dense. Under such conditions all the laws of science, and therefore all ability to predict the future, would break down. If there were events earlier than this time, then they could not affect what happens at the present time. Their existence can be ignored because it would have no observational consequences. (307)

This is a statement that the universe needs no cause- it just is. In another interview, Hawking asserts that “Asking what came before the big bang is meaningless- it’s like asking what lies north of the North Pole.” Sarfati has an entirely different opinion on the subject- God did it. If the big bang was a cosmic egg exploding and expanding outward, surely there must be a cosmic chicken, and that cosmic chicken is God. Nothing can have a beginning without having a cause, and Sarfati thinks that:

‘If God doesn’t need a cause, why should the universe need a cause?’ In reply, Christians should use the following reasoning:

1.         Everything which has a beginning has a cause.

2.        The universe has a beginning.

3.        Therefore the universe has a cause. (1)

The two authors clearly have differing perceptions of the universe’s creation. Hawking knows that, if such a thing could even be defined, anything before the beginning of time could affect nothing after the beginning of time. Sarfati believes that since the universe began, it definitely has a cause, and that cause is Creation by God. “God, by definition, is the creator of the whole universe; he is the creator of time. Therefore He is not limited by the time dimension He created, so has no beginning in time—God is ‘the high and lofty One that inhabiteth eternity’ (Is. 57:15)” (1). This statement by Sarfati is in total contrast to Hawking’s view that nothing before the beginning of the universe matters because it can affect nothing.

                Another discrepancy between Hawking and Sarfati is the difference in what we do know about the universe. Hawking believes that science and humanity as a whole can and will eventually find out exactly how the universe began because it is our deepest desire as a species.

…A little old lady at the back of the room got up and said: “What you have told us is rubbish. The world is really a flat plate supported on the back of a giant tortoise.” The scientist gave a superior smile before replying, “What is the tortoise standing on?” “You’re very clever, young man, very clever,” said the old lady. “But its turtles all the way down!” Most people would find the picture of our universe as an infinite tower of tortoises rather ridiculous, but why do we think we know better? (301)

Hawking explains that humans are curious and want to know as much as they can about their origins, because, like the old lady says, who is to say that the universe isn’t supported by an infinite tower of tortoises? The Bible states “In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth” (Genesis 1:1). Sarfati feels that this is a complete picture of the origins of the universe- that God spoke the words, and the universe began. While Sarfati seems content to accept the Bible as primary source of information on the origins of the universe, Hawking wants to know more. He is working towards trying to figure out as much as he can about the origins of the universe, using math, physics and science. Trying to describe the entire universe in one fell swoop is exceedingly difficult.  “Instead, we break the problem up into bits and invent a number of partial theories. Each of these partial theories describes and predicts a limited class of observations” (309). Hawking is saying that right now, the science of humanity can’t quite comprehend the entire universe, but with each new discovery, it comes closer to finding out how the universe began. Sarfati thinks that all of the open ended theories to science all point to the same conclusion: God created the Universe.

…The first moment of time is the moment of God’s creative act and of creation’s simultaneous coming to be. … Some skeptics claim that all this analysis is tentative, because that is the nature of science. So this can’t be used to prove creation by God. Of course, skeptics can’t have it both ways: saying that the Bible is wrong because science has proved it so, but if science appears consistent with the Bible, then well, science is tentative anyway.” (2)

                It is important to note that Hawking doesn’t seem completely opposed to the idea of a deity creating the universe, saying:

One could still imagine that god created the universe at the instant of the big bang, or even afterwards in just such a way as to make it look as though it was created before the big bang. An expanding universe does not preclude a creator, but it does place limitations on when he might have carried out his job! (307)

Sarfati doesn’t seem as open-minded toward the opposing view as Hawking does. He seems to feel that there is one logical conclusion, and that science only helps to support the theory that God is the sole creator of the universe and the beginning of time.

Unfortunately they are too friendly towards the unscriptural ‘big bang’ theory with its billions of years of death, suffering and disease before Adam’s sin. But the above arguments are perfectly consistent with a recent creation in six consecutive normal days, as taught by Scripture. (2)

Both men can agree, however, that science can help to give a picture of the universe, but Sarfati believes absolutely that the origin of the universe is a supreme deity.

While the two authors disagree on most points, they both share a common theme: discussing the universe’s origins. While Sarfati thinks that God created the universe, as is evidenced by scripture and the empty spaces that science can’t quite seem to define; Hawking thinks that the universe needs no cause, because it is everything, and anything before everything is nothing of importance, but he doesn’t rule out the possibility of an intelligently designed universe. Both authors do an excellent job of elaborating on their points, while Hawking focuses more on examples and proven science, Sarfati chooses to use laymen’s metaphors to explain his claims. Hawking is perfectly content in not knowing what came before the existence of the universe, but Sarfati is convinced that the universe needs a cause, the only logical cause being God’s will. After all, a cosmic expanding egg must be laid by a cosmic chicken, but the logical answer is that a circle is infinite and needs no cause for beginning.

Works Cited

Sarfati, Jonathan. "If God created the universe, then who created God?". Creation Ministries International.  May 7 2010 .

Hawking, Stephen William. “Our Picture of the Universe.” Mercury Reader. Ed. Janice Neulib, Kathleen Shine Cain, Stephen Ruffus. Boston: Pearson Custom Publishing. 2008. 300- 311. Print.

The Bible. King James Version.

Hawking, Stephen. Interview. Richard and Judy. Channel 4, United Kingdom. October 2005.