Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Deadly Deadly Max Tyson Part 3
The past few days have been a whirlwind romance of travel and treats as I jetted across the USofA for various holiday reunions. I am currently engaged in my return trip to the fortress of solitude. Luckily for you America, I have an extended layover in the Portland airport and WiFi internet is readily available to steal so I've decided to catch you up with my recent going-ons. goings-on? going-ons. For continuity I begin where I left off, with the Elk hunt in New Mexico. For your enjoyment I will even give you two versions.
How it should have happened:
I awoke before sunrise, my cell phone alarm proving once again unnecessary as I returned to consciousness driven by a primal lusting for blood. Stripped naked I slid into the bathroom where I ritualistically smeared my face and chest with feces. I wanted the elk to know I was coming. I wanted them to fear me. Slipping out of the bunkhouse the cold night air eveloped me into its chilly blackness, embracing me as one of its own. With me I had a tempered steel bowie knife, its blade darkened in the blood of my enemies. At the edge of the forest I also obtained a skull sized rock with convenient grooves for my fingers to grip. I was still naked.
Good connecticut folk acquainted with the reclusive whitetail deer of our thickly forested home are often surprised to find that enormous elk herds still roam the ponderosa hills and open grasslands of middle America, ranging from Utah and Wyoming down through Colorado and New Mexico. The ones I encountered that day had grown fat and lazy in their bountiful wilderness. I was pleased. With the help of a pack of wolves I had earlier befriended I was able to drive a small herd inside a rocky box canyon. While the wolves harried and snapped, keeping the shaggy beasts bleating and indecisive I scaled the wall of the canyon, working my way around the rim until I reached striking distance. Like the dread crow god Morrigu sent to claim the souls of warriors fallen in battle I dropped from above, impacting with one of the 500 pound beasts. Stunning her with my rock, I swiftly claimed her with my knife. As I stood laughing, being showered by powerful arterial sprays from the fallen elk my wolves shepherded the rest out of the canyon. Then we feasted. At least that is how it should have happened.
How it actually happened:
I awoke before sunrise, my cell phone alarm proving once again unnessary as I returned to consciousness driven by a primal lusting for blood. After a delightful breakfast of sticky donuts and hot coffee I dressed warmly in layers (it was cold outside after all) and loaded my weapon. I was hunting with a winchester 7 mag shooting 7mm rounds, with the scope zeroed at 250 yards. By the time the sky had begun the slight graying of predawn I had departed with scotty and our guide in his 4 wheel drive pickup truck. My guides name was Steve Kunico, and if you ever find yourself scheduling a hunt through tri-M outfitters I highly recommend him. He had lived his entire life in the area, and knew the land like a gay man knows designer shoes. After a few hours of driving and walking we had seen a few groups of elk ranging in size from a half dozen cows to nearly 300 animals streaming across the horizon in a bawling rustling mass. We were in the process of tracking down a small herd I had located with my binoculars (I proved much better at this than the old men, remember that for later) when we drove around the base of a small hill and surprised a previously hidden group that had been grazing the long grass at the bottom. Elk are incredibly hard to sneak up on, they have excellent senses and a naturally skittish attitude. When surprised however, they are indecisive and easily confused. Therefore when this group was suddenly confronted by the strange looking pickup truck beast they stood staring in uffish thought, rather than fleeing over the ridge. Seizing my opportunity I jumped out of the truck and using my backpack to steady the rifle I drew a bead on a yummy looking female near the rear of the group. BAM. One shot, 300 yards or so and we had ourselves a dead elk. She was a big four year old and had already given birth a few times. Basically a choice cow. We gutted her and dragged her into the truck and then continued hunting for Scotty's animal.
Long story short, after an excellent hunt involving a great stalk using terrain and wind we got within 150 yards of a small group. Being so close I remained hidden behind a rock as he crawled out to line up his shot, so as to not alert the animals to our presence. I should have come with him. His haggard old man eyes couldnt tell the difference between a bull elk and a cow elk and he illegaly shot a young male. This resulted in his animal being confiscated bythe fish and game dept and him being assigned a court date. As far as I know he might be in a new mexico prison right now.
So. Our elk hunt culminated in everyone getting a beast eventually. In a group of 6 ex-military men including 2 generals and a colonel, I was the only one who needed to shoot only one bullet. I also shot the center out of a clay pigeon at 100 yards without shattering the pigeon. And I have some delicious elk meat to enjoy in my fortress of solitude. And I got to spend time with my father's old academy roomates. And I received 3 solid job offers which might eventually bring me back to the east coast. Deadly Deadly Max Tyson.
How it should have happened:
I awoke before sunrise, my cell phone alarm proving once again unnecessary as I returned to consciousness driven by a primal lusting for blood. Stripped naked I slid into the bathroom where I ritualistically smeared my face and chest with feces. I wanted the elk to know I was coming. I wanted them to fear me. Slipping out of the bunkhouse the cold night air eveloped me into its chilly blackness, embracing me as one of its own. With me I had a tempered steel bowie knife, its blade darkened in the blood of my enemies. At the edge of the forest I also obtained a skull sized rock with convenient grooves for my fingers to grip. I was still naked.
Good connecticut folk acquainted with the reclusive whitetail deer of our thickly forested home are often surprised to find that enormous elk herds still roam the ponderosa hills and open grasslands of middle America, ranging from Utah and Wyoming down through Colorado and New Mexico. The ones I encountered that day had grown fat and lazy in their bountiful wilderness. I was pleased. With the help of a pack of wolves I had earlier befriended I was able to drive a small herd inside a rocky box canyon. While the wolves harried and snapped, keeping the shaggy beasts bleating and indecisive I scaled the wall of the canyon, working my way around the rim until I reached striking distance. Like the dread crow god Morrigu sent to claim the souls of warriors fallen in battle I dropped from above, impacting with one of the 500 pound beasts. Stunning her with my rock, I swiftly claimed her with my knife. As I stood laughing, being showered by powerful arterial sprays from the fallen elk my wolves shepherded the rest out of the canyon. Then we feasted. At least that is how it should have happened.
How it actually happened:
I awoke before sunrise, my cell phone alarm proving once again unnessary as I returned to consciousness driven by a primal lusting for blood. After a delightful breakfast of sticky donuts and hot coffee I dressed warmly in layers (it was cold outside after all) and loaded my weapon. I was hunting with a winchester 7 mag shooting 7mm rounds, with the scope zeroed at 250 yards. By the time the sky had begun the slight graying of predawn I had departed with scotty and our guide in his 4 wheel drive pickup truck. My guides name was Steve Kunico, and if you ever find yourself scheduling a hunt through tri-M outfitters I highly recommend him. He had lived his entire life in the area, and knew the land like a gay man knows designer shoes. After a few hours of driving and walking we had seen a few groups of elk ranging in size from a half dozen cows to nearly 300 animals streaming across the horizon in a bawling rustling mass. We were in the process of tracking down a small herd I had located with my binoculars (I proved much better at this than the old men, remember that for later) when we drove around the base of a small hill and surprised a previously hidden group that had been grazing the long grass at the bottom. Elk are incredibly hard to sneak up on, they have excellent senses and a naturally skittish attitude. When surprised however, they are indecisive and easily confused. Therefore when this group was suddenly confronted by the strange looking pickup truck beast they stood staring in uffish thought, rather than fleeing over the ridge. Seizing my opportunity I jumped out of the truck and using my backpack to steady the rifle I drew a bead on a yummy looking female near the rear of the group. BAM. One shot, 300 yards or so and we had ourselves a dead elk. She was a big four year old and had already given birth a few times. Basically a choice cow. We gutted her and dragged her into the truck and then continued hunting for Scotty's animal.
Long story short, after an excellent hunt involving a great stalk using terrain and wind we got within 150 yards of a small group. Being so close I remained hidden behind a rock as he crawled out to line up his shot, so as to not alert the animals to our presence. I should have come with him. His haggard old man eyes couldnt tell the difference between a bull elk and a cow elk and he illegaly shot a young male. This resulted in his animal being confiscated bythe fish and game dept and him being assigned a court date. As far as I know he might be in a new mexico prison right now.
So. Our elk hunt culminated in everyone getting a beast eventually. In a group of 6 ex-military men including 2 generals and a colonel, I was the only one who needed to shoot only one bullet. I also shot the center out of a clay pigeon at 100 yards without shattering the pigeon. And I have some delicious elk meat to enjoy in my fortress of solitude. And I got to spend time with my father's old academy roomates. And I received 3 solid job offers which might eventually bring me back to the east coast. Deadly Deadly Max Tyson.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Deadly Deadly Max Tyson Part 2
Well. It is another day. I was about to tell you the story of my elk hunt weekend broventure. If you want to know more about the T.O. Ranch, look it up online or something. All you really need to know is that it is huge, and gorgeous, with rolling plains full of antelope and cattle, and mountains full of elk, bear, deer, and mountain lion. It is owned by a Mr. Malone, the 200th richest man in America. (alarming note: the Wal-Mart family have 5 of the top 9 spots, together they almost double what Mr. William Gates has accrued) Being a privately owned ranch, it is much easier for non-locals to get elk tags, but you pay a hefty price. This ranch's hunts are organized by an in-house outfitter, which supplies guides and a lavish bunk house with all the creature comforts of home including satellite Tv, wireless internet, and a full time cook to make us treats.
I'm going to have to put off telling you about the hunt again, we're heading out to the shooting range to play around a bit. Good day.
I'm going to have to put off telling you about the hunt again, we're heading out to the shooting range to play around a bit. Good day.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Deadly Deadly Max Tyson
Monday, Dec. 15th. It began as most things do, with a phone call. This particular phone call was Jami calling from the driveway to tell me she was ready to leave. I missed it. I was pooping. After successfully completing my bathroom transaction I grabbed my bag and headed down. The snow was still falling heavily, as it had been for the past three days. Luckily Jami Lee was giving me a ride to the Redmond airport, for my trip south to slightly more temperate climes.
My first flight was the regular hop to portland, and it was delayed significantly by the snow. It was neat though because it was in the OSU Beavers athletics plane. By the time I arrived in the terminal my next flight was already boarding. Luckily I pack like the manly man I am, and I had only a carry on so I was able to board without worrying about the fate of my luggage. This flight was from Portland to San Jose International in the great state of CA. It was not pleasant. Sitting right behind me was a fat white woman wearing muslim head scarves, which annoyed me to begin with. How dare she be fat. To add injury to insult, she had a fat LOUD son with her. He had never heard of indoor voices, and he liked to talk. Mostly asinine questions and imperious demands. I told the gentleman sitting next to me that it was going to be a long flight. He agreed wholeheartedly. I suppose the flight crew were of a like mind too, because they made the unprecedented move of offering complimentary beer and wine for the entire flight. When I arrived in CA my blinding rage was partially satiated, but I was also 3 sheets to the wind.
Uncle Rob picked me up at the airport and brought me to his ranch for the night. Let me tell you a bit about uncle Rob. He is my godfather, and was my dad's roomate in the airforce academy until he was kicked out. "Unadaptable to a military environment" I believe. He graduated from a civilian university and became an underwater engineer and diving surveyor. During his career he made his fortune and broke his neck. He dated many foxy ladies until his hair turned white and his belly grew large, and then he retired and settled down alone on his families ancient ranch. When I say ancient, I mean it was built before electricity. It still has no shower, just an old bathtub. While I was there not even that worked because his water main had exploded. What it does have his hundreds of acres of wilderness, and many many many dead stuffed animal heads and pelts. Bro-cave.
After sleeping in my alaska grade sleeping bag (no heat in ranch either) I woke up and we began our trip. Rob and my dad's old friend and academy classmate Scotty picked us up and we started driving south. We went through hills and valleys, through a town that smelled strongly of garlic and oil fields that smelled strongly of petroleum anus. Once we were far enough south we cut across the Mojave desert on the old rt 66, which we followed or paralleled across the colorado river into the mountains of arizona. Due to a nighttime snowstorm we got stuck in the mountains somewhere for the night. In the morning we cut through to new mexico and on to colorado Springs.
In C-springs I met 2 more of my dad's old academy classmates, and they treated us to drinks and dinner. The things they told me about my dad were a revelation. He was.....me. That is to say, he was an iconic pillar of garbage in his community and he loved adventures, women, and jokes. Im proud to say that the acorn did not fall far from the tree, and I had never even known he was such an esteemed gentleman. Thursday morning we got up and went to visit the air force academy, so they could reminisce about the terrible things they did and I could see a bit of history. Then Rob, Scotty and I bid fairwell to Colorado and went back to New Mexico.
We went to the T.O Ranch, a famous working cattle ranch that also provides guided hunts for various big game on its 300,000 plus acres. Already arrived were 4 other friends of Rob who would join us on our hunts, and the guides that would help us. Since I grow weary, I will tell you about our hunt another day. Goodnight.
My first flight was the regular hop to portland, and it was delayed significantly by the snow. It was neat though because it was in the OSU Beavers athletics plane. By the time I arrived in the terminal my next flight was already boarding. Luckily I pack like the manly man I am, and I had only a carry on so I was able to board without worrying about the fate of my luggage. This flight was from Portland to San Jose International in the great state of CA. It was not pleasant. Sitting right behind me was a fat white woman wearing muslim head scarves, which annoyed me to begin with. How dare she be fat. To add injury to insult, she had a fat LOUD son with her. He had never heard of indoor voices, and he liked to talk. Mostly asinine questions and imperious demands. I told the gentleman sitting next to me that it was going to be a long flight. He agreed wholeheartedly. I suppose the flight crew were of a like mind too, because they made the unprecedented move of offering complimentary beer and wine for the entire flight. When I arrived in CA my blinding rage was partially satiated, but I was also 3 sheets to the wind.
Uncle Rob picked me up at the airport and brought me to his ranch for the night. Let me tell you a bit about uncle Rob. He is my godfather, and was my dad's roomate in the airforce academy until he was kicked out. "Unadaptable to a military environment" I believe. He graduated from a civilian university and became an underwater engineer and diving surveyor. During his career he made his fortune and broke his neck. He dated many foxy ladies until his hair turned white and his belly grew large, and then he retired and settled down alone on his families ancient ranch. When I say ancient, I mean it was built before electricity. It still has no shower, just an old bathtub. While I was there not even that worked because his water main had exploded. What it does have his hundreds of acres of wilderness, and many many many dead stuffed animal heads and pelts. Bro-cave.
After sleeping in my alaska grade sleeping bag (no heat in ranch either) I woke up and we began our trip. Rob and my dad's old friend and academy classmate Scotty picked us up and we started driving south. We went through hills and valleys, through a town that smelled strongly of garlic and oil fields that smelled strongly of petroleum anus. Once we were far enough south we cut across the Mojave desert on the old rt 66, which we followed or paralleled across the colorado river into the mountains of arizona. Due to a nighttime snowstorm we got stuck in the mountains somewhere for the night. In the morning we cut through to new mexico and on to colorado Springs.
In C-springs I met 2 more of my dad's old academy classmates, and they treated us to drinks and dinner. The things they told me about my dad were a revelation. He was.....me. That is to say, he was an iconic pillar of garbage in his community and he loved adventures, women, and jokes. Im proud to say that the acorn did not fall far from the tree, and I had never even known he was such an esteemed gentleman. Thursday morning we got up and went to visit the air force academy, so they could reminisce about the terrible things they did and I could see a bit of history. Then Rob, Scotty and I bid fairwell to Colorado and went back to New Mexico.
We went to the T.O Ranch, a famous working cattle ranch that also provides guided hunts for various big game on its 300,000 plus acres. Already arrived were 4 other friends of Rob who would join us on our hunts, and the guides that would help us. Since I grow weary, I will tell you about our hunt another day. Goodnight.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Poopstain.
I feel compelled to explain something to you America, as I sit eating my meager bread-based suppertime treats. Allow me to put it into perspective first.
Central Oregon received its first noticable snowfall last night. Winter has finally come to Bend. Being a gainfully employed gentleman (barely) I had to rise from my nest early and drive across town. Oregonians have the strange habit of not plowing the roads. Not even main roads. If you're lucky you get a little bit of sand in the intersection, but more often than not its just fluffy powder or tightpacked ice sheet depending on how busy the roadway is. I guess they assume that people have 4 wheel drive, studded tires, and marginal winter driving ability. In practice this is most often not the case. Fortuitously I drive like a fox and was able to keep minitruck II dancing like a dervish in time to some throbbing bass lines on the Fm receiver.
Here is where my complaint comes in. The eclectic grooves of Earth Wind and Fire gave way and were replaced by the bane of all music lovers the world over. Christmas tunes.
Stay with me America. Let me explain. I love Santa Claws and the baby jesus just as much as the next guy. I long for the holidays, Christmas most of all. But the music, if it can really be called that is SO bad.
Lets break it down.
The lyrics: Outdated and overdone. There is only so much you can say about Santa and snowflakes and peace on earth America. What the fuck is a bough of holly? Who really cares about massacred pine trees dying a lingering death above some inadequate parents best attempt to buy the love of their snot nosed brat monsters?
The "artists": Just because Jessica Simpson decides to cover Jingle Bells doesn't mean that the song magically becomes cool. It just means that she somehow becomes even less so. Most legitimate artists understand this, which is why worthless no name artists proliferate in this ravenous QVC market. It seems like any person who's 4th grade music teacher said they really nailed that recorder concert way back in the day suddenly has delusions of talent, producing endless clone CDs of tone deaf caterwaulling. The sick part is that people buy them and radios play them. Why must we suddenly suspend all taste and good judgment as soon as something is labelled a "christmas song"? I've heard better noises listening in on unfriendly badgers screwing vigorously.
The music: I must have missed the memo the rest of you all seem to have received explaining that random bells and melodies a deaf inbred downs baby can write are actually enjoyable to listen to over and over and over and over and over and over and over.
12 days of christmas? No, there's one day. So shut up.
Little Drummer boy? Hes no John Bonham or Travis Barker, which means hes nobody at all.
Oh come let us adore him? Adore him silently before I karate chop you both in the throat bones.
Silent Night? Please yes.
Do you hear what I hear? Yeah. Shit.
Gloria in Excelsis Deo? Gloria can like my scrotum.
Nut Cracker, Nut March, Nut Overture, Nut Fair, Nut Trip, Nuts for you, Nuts, Nut Waltz, More Nuts, Chestnuts roast on an open fire? What the FUCK?
Here comes Santa Claus? Not if you don't can it and go to bed.
I'm dreaming of a white christmas? How about I'm dreaming about good music and its not this.
You get the picture. There are at least 30002 Christmas songs out there, and for some reason we are forced to listen to all of them every single year time and again. Personally I HATE it. And I hate you for allowing it to happen America.
Central Oregon received its first noticable snowfall last night. Winter has finally come to Bend. Being a gainfully employed gentleman (barely) I had to rise from my nest early and drive across town. Oregonians have the strange habit of not plowing the roads. Not even main roads. If you're lucky you get a little bit of sand in the intersection, but more often than not its just fluffy powder or tightpacked ice sheet depending on how busy the roadway is. I guess they assume that people have 4 wheel drive, studded tires, and marginal winter driving ability. In practice this is most often not the case. Fortuitously I drive like a fox and was able to keep minitruck II dancing like a dervish in time to some throbbing bass lines on the Fm receiver.
Here is where my complaint comes in. The eclectic grooves of Earth Wind and Fire gave way and were replaced by the bane of all music lovers the world over. Christmas tunes.
Stay with me America. Let me explain. I love Santa Claws and the baby jesus just as much as the next guy. I long for the holidays, Christmas most of all. But the music, if it can really be called that is SO bad.
Lets break it down.
The lyrics: Outdated and overdone. There is only so much you can say about Santa and snowflakes and peace on earth America. What the fuck is a bough of holly? Who really cares about massacred pine trees dying a lingering death above some inadequate parents best attempt to buy the love of their snot nosed brat monsters?
The "artists": Just because Jessica Simpson decides to cover Jingle Bells doesn't mean that the song magically becomes cool. It just means that she somehow becomes even less so. Most legitimate artists understand this, which is why worthless no name artists proliferate in this ravenous QVC market. It seems like any person who's 4th grade music teacher said they really nailed that recorder concert way back in the day suddenly has delusions of talent, producing endless clone CDs of tone deaf caterwaulling. The sick part is that people buy them and radios play them. Why must we suddenly suspend all taste and good judgment as soon as something is labelled a "christmas song"? I've heard better noises listening in on unfriendly badgers screwing vigorously.
The music: I must have missed the memo the rest of you all seem to have received explaining that random bells and melodies a deaf inbred downs baby can write are actually enjoyable to listen to over and over and over and over and over and over and over.
12 days of christmas? No, there's one day. So shut up.
Little Drummer boy? Hes no John Bonham or Travis Barker, which means hes nobody at all.
Oh come let us adore him? Adore him silently before I karate chop you both in the throat bones.
Silent Night? Please yes.
Do you hear what I hear? Yeah. Shit.
Gloria in Excelsis Deo? Gloria can like my scrotum.
Nut Cracker, Nut March, Nut Overture, Nut Fair, Nut Trip, Nuts for you, Nuts, Nut Waltz, More Nuts, Chestnuts roast on an open fire? What the FUCK?
Here comes Santa Claus? Not if you don't can it and go to bed.
I'm dreaming of a white christmas? How about I'm dreaming about good music and its not this.
You get the picture. There are at least 30002 Christmas songs out there, and for some reason we are forced to listen to all of them every single year time and again. Personally I HATE it. And I hate you for allowing it to happen America.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Yesterday I went shopping, and it has taken me this long to recover enough to share my experience with you. My journey began and ended at a little shop in town. I think it's one of those family run businesses, or maybe a smaller local chain. 'Twas called Walmart.
The store was underwhelming, I was just there to get some competetively priced work boots. But the PEOPLE. Ohh the people. I was grossly out of place. You could tell I wasn't a regular for a few reasons.
I was not morbidly obese.
(Or if not obese then auschwitz victim/meth addict thin)
I was not wearing sweatpants.
Or a camoflage jacket.
I did not have between 2 and 4 dozen children with me
I had all my teeth.
I did not have scraggly gross facial hair.
Neither did my knuckles drag on the ground nor did my forehead protrude dramatically nor did I become offended at geico commercials.
Surrounded on all sides by these slack-jawed cow-eyed yokels I thanked the gods profusely for having been given an fully functioning set of human DNA, an east coast education, and the fashion sense to wear clothing that neither proclaimed my nascar loyalties nor type of animal I enjoy slaughtering and eating.
Like zombies hungering for my vastly superior brain they shuffled toward me. I was only able to escape by outwitting them. By turning into the electronics aisle I lost them, knowing that their primitive culture shun such technology as sinful witchcraft. As they knelt screaming and tearing what little hairs they still had out of their skulls, or if they were female their chests I made my escape, my sexy new Brahma boots and dignity intact.
I am NOT doing any Christmas shopping. Maybe Online. Next year. After I recover some more.
The store was underwhelming, I was just there to get some competetively priced work boots. But the PEOPLE. Ohh the people. I was grossly out of place. You could tell I wasn't a regular for a few reasons.
I was not morbidly obese.
(Or if not obese then auschwitz victim/meth addict thin)
I was not wearing sweatpants.
Or a camoflage jacket.
I did not have between 2 and 4 dozen children with me
I had all my teeth.
I did not have scraggly gross facial hair.
Neither did my knuckles drag on the ground nor did my forehead protrude dramatically nor did I become offended at geico commercials.
Surrounded on all sides by these slack-jawed cow-eyed yokels I thanked the gods profusely for having been given an fully functioning set of human DNA, an east coast education, and the fashion sense to wear clothing that neither proclaimed my nascar loyalties nor type of animal I enjoy slaughtering and eating.
Like zombies hungering for my vastly superior brain they shuffled toward me. I was only able to escape by outwitting them. By turning into the electronics aisle I lost them, knowing that their primitive culture shun such technology as sinful witchcraft. As they knelt screaming and tearing what little hairs they still had out of their skulls, or if they were female their chests I made my escape, my sexy new Brahma boots and dignity intact.
I am NOT doing any Christmas shopping. Maybe Online. Next year. After I recover some more.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Just so you know.
Big things in the life of Max Tyson. Potentially.
- Nerd novel part 1 has been compiled. Part 2 claims it is better. Siblings.
- I got invited to meet with the president of TBD advertising again. My interview is next wednesday.
- For funny haha's I applied for an open news anchor position at the local fox affiliate a few days ago. Today I received an email from them asking for more information. I could be the man that is the person on the TV who is the one who tells the news to the people that watch.
- Completely depleting my bank account I bought tickets for plane flights that eventually lead me home to connecticut. I will be in the Bury Dec 22-28. Play with me.
- I'm fairly certain I'm moving out of the fortress of solitude into a house in town. Rent will be cheaper, I'll be living with friends, and I can act like a 23 year old, not an imprisoned desert hermit.
- I refuse to go grocery shopping again before my trip. I will surely starve.
That is all.
- Nerd novel part 1 has been compiled. Part 2 claims it is better. Siblings.
- I got invited to meet with the president of TBD advertising again. My interview is next wednesday.
- For funny haha's I applied for an open news anchor position at the local fox affiliate a few days ago. Today I received an email from them asking for more information. I could be the man that is the person on the TV who is the one who tells the news to the people that watch.
- Completely depleting my bank account I bought tickets for plane flights that eventually lead me home to connecticut. I will be in the Bury Dec 22-28. Play with me.
- I'm fairly certain I'm moving out of the fortress of solitude into a house in town. Rent will be cheaper, I'll be living with friends, and I can act like a 23 year old, not an imprisoned desert hermit.
- I refuse to go grocery shopping again before my trip. I will surely starve.
That is all.
Monday, December 1, 2008
The True Story of Christmas
As you know I recently returned from an archeological expedition to the egyptian desert. While there my crew found a previously unknown pyramid. Within the sarcophagus no body lay, just some stone tablets covered in a hitherto untranslated ancient language. Back in my lab I was able to obtain the little known twin to the rosetta stone, the evil rosetta stone. On it are inscribed the worlds most evil languages. Since two of those are southern redneck and latin, and one was the language of the pyramid stones translation became a relatively simple affair. The stones contain a fantasmagorical story of irrefutable truth. The actual story of Christmas.
The stones speak of an ancient alien culture that once existed here on earth, the lost civilization of Atlantis. The Atlanteans were an advanced people, yet they were prone to greedy squabbles. Chief among the Atlanteans was a great inventor by the name of Santa Claws. As one of the foremost minds of his time, Santa Claws warned his people to change their errant ways but he was ignored. Fearing the consequences of the activities of his proud race, Santa fled the island with his wife Misses Claws. It was lucky they did, for soon after their flight, Atlantis became embroiled in a brief but bitter civil war. The results of this conflict were many and varied. Atlantis was lost beneath the waves, along with their science and philosophy. Ohh and the dinosaurs died.
Now Santa and his wife were justifiably upset to be the last of their kind, doomed to live among the barbaric human race, but their grief was tempered by a small blessing. Misses Claws was pregnant. She soon gave birth to a beloved son, Jesus Claws. Due to translation issues over time his name has been bastardized to read as Jesus Christ.
Now as an advanced species, Santa and Misses soon became rulers of this world, maintaining many estates and residences across the continents. These are the worlds ancient pyramids. They remained benevolent yet aloof towards their human neighbors, who in their childish ingnorance had begun worshipping them as Gods. Jesus, being a rebellious youth, began consorting with humanity against his parents wishes. For a time all was well, as humanity enjoyed the use of his sorcerous teknologies and knowledge. Soon we became jealous of his gifts however, and after a night of heavy drinking and partying brutally murdered Jesus Claws/Christ.
Overwhelmed with grief and rage about his only son's death Santa Claws' mind was lost. Using his most arcane teknologies Santa forged an enormous space sleigh. Imbued with the chained essences of eight great horned demons the sleigh can travel the miasma of the warp between worlds, giving Santa power over both space and time. With his loyal wife and an army of genetically bred miniscule servants he left the world of man for the frozen wastes of the North pole. Here he remains to this day, planning and plotting his terrible vengeance on mankind. Once a year on the anniversary of his son's birth Santa releases his dreaded Grinch, and using the vile powers of his demon sleigh leaves his icy fortress to present the innocent children of man with diabolical gifts, in the hopes that they might choke on the small parts or become murderous with rage over ill-fitting and unattractive clothing.
So read the stones, and so it was. Now you know the actual story of Christmas.
The stones speak of an ancient alien culture that once existed here on earth, the lost civilization of Atlantis. The Atlanteans were an advanced people, yet they were prone to greedy squabbles. Chief among the Atlanteans was a great inventor by the name of Santa Claws. As one of the foremost minds of his time, Santa Claws warned his people to change their errant ways but he was ignored. Fearing the consequences of the activities of his proud race, Santa fled the island with his wife Misses Claws. It was lucky they did, for soon after their flight, Atlantis became embroiled in a brief but bitter civil war. The results of this conflict were many and varied. Atlantis was lost beneath the waves, along with their science and philosophy. Ohh and the dinosaurs died.
Now Santa and his wife were justifiably upset to be the last of their kind, doomed to live among the barbaric human race, but their grief was tempered by a small blessing. Misses Claws was pregnant. She soon gave birth to a beloved son, Jesus Claws. Due to translation issues over time his name has been bastardized to read as Jesus Christ.
Now as an advanced species, Santa and Misses soon became rulers of this world, maintaining many estates and residences across the continents. These are the worlds ancient pyramids. They remained benevolent yet aloof towards their human neighbors, who in their childish ingnorance had begun worshipping them as Gods. Jesus, being a rebellious youth, began consorting with humanity against his parents wishes. For a time all was well, as humanity enjoyed the use of his sorcerous teknologies and knowledge. Soon we became jealous of his gifts however, and after a night of heavy drinking and partying brutally murdered Jesus Claws/Christ.
Overwhelmed with grief and rage about his only son's death Santa Claws' mind was lost. Using his most arcane teknologies Santa forged an enormous space sleigh. Imbued with the chained essences of eight great horned demons the sleigh can travel the miasma of the warp between worlds, giving Santa power over both space and time. With his loyal wife and an army of genetically bred miniscule servants he left the world of man for the frozen wastes of the North pole. Here he remains to this day, planning and plotting his terrible vengeance on mankind. Once a year on the anniversary of his son's birth Santa releases his dreaded Grinch, and using the vile powers of his demon sleigh leaves his icy fortress to present the innocent children of man with diabolical gifts, in the hopes that they might choke on the small parts or become murderous with rage over ill-fitting and unattractive clothing.
So read the stones, and so it was. Now you know the actual story of Christmas.
Don't worry about it
I did the math, and it turns out I watched eleven hours of cartoons yesterday. I thought you should know.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
