Alpha Flight makes my pants tight

You see these mofos right there? They are Team Alpha Flight. The original A-Team. You CANNOT fuck with these guys. Their shit is so sick that people’s pants instantly drop on sight. They are so cool that whenever John Woo sees them on t.v. he gets inspired to write homoerotic fan fiction about them. This one dude tried making them look stupid at a party and before he knew it he found himself face-down in a grimy alley with his butt stuffed full of Mexican jumping beans. In order to comprehend just how sweet these homies are you’d have to get in a knife fight with a coked up gorilla. Rather than suffer a narcotic fueled simian stabbing I’m gonna lay down a story on your candy asses.

Wolverine used to be a scared little woodsman who roamed Canadian truck stops looking for discarded footwear catalogs. He was so wacked out he thought it was cool to regularly cover his entire body in pickle juice. One day he tried hitting up on a chick that he was all hard up for. Sure enough, he got shot down harder than a Somalian spy plane, so he turned to drowning his sorrows in Nyquil and huffing computer cleaner. One day he ran out of Nyquil so he walked to the store and came across Team Alpha Flight chilling in the parking lot. He couldn’t pry his eyes off them cause they were so cool. When he gets excited he just loses it and starts to nuzzle up to people and make creepy goat noises. Guardian was in a bad mood that day and was gonna make Wolverine pay for creeping the shit out of him. But Puck, the illest badass in all of Team Alpha Flight, gave him a look that stopped him right in his tracks. Guardian knew that he must let Puck handle this, so he stepped aside. Puck then flew right at Wolverine into a ball and hit him so hard that it literally knocked some sense into him.

It was in that moment that Wolverine got in touch with his cool side. You see, Puck has the innate ability to sense when people are cool or not. Despite Wolverine acting like a complete dufus Puck saw that deep down Wolverine is reaching out for acceptance. He only wants people to accept the dope ass crazy fucka inside him and understand that he just wants to cut peoples shit all day. After receiving that moment of clarity Wolverine went on a rampage and started cutting up everything. He cut phone lines, cars, cheese, that shit out, budgets, you from the football team, umbilical cords, you name it. Apparently, all those years of covering himself in pickle juice gave him the ability to preserve his cellular state and regenerate himself. From there on out, he rolled with Team Alpha Flight, cutting punk bitches and playing Heroclix afterwards.   

So there you have it. Now you know just how utterly sick Alpha Flight is and exactly how Wolverine got his healing factor. Shaman couldn't make it today cause he's out healing peoples roids and dandruff.

A Cruel Muse Inspires Gloomy Musings

Our minds are fickle things that choose to give us insight at the most inopportune times. As of late my bottled up existential thoughts have been pleading for the release of a despondent outpouring. I think it is because each day I am becoming more aware of just how utterly impotent and powerless I am. This frustration traps me in a fugue state where everything around me is truly incomprehensible and my very capacity for thought, focus, and communication escape me. This lack of clarity creates more failures which prolong my fugue state. A truly self sustaining vicious cycle. Then I find myself treating each day like a crumpled up rough draft thrown into a waste basket.

This is a little something that I had set aside for a time when I felt more inspired. It would seem that my muse goes by the name of regret. You will find that this is far less off-putting than me venting my petty grievances. The miserable little tirade from before is but a precursor for the innocuous inoculation of the human condition that I will now administer with the deftness of a quack. 

It is during these moments of reflection that we are forced to make peace with what we are, what we are not, what could have been, and what we will never be. The totality of thought that forms our very being is purely ephemeral. As such, it lacks any definite shape and character. It may be nothing more than just the remnants of a repeated firing of neurons, like spent mortar shells.

Many have proffered their own recipe for success and happiness. Snake oil vendors and prophets alike have tried to give a name or symbol, turn into a consumable, or write a manifesto for that very thing that keeps us going in the face of incessant futility and frivolity. When in fact it has no form. It could very well be just nothing more than an ideal arrangement of neural pathways and a perfect balance of neurotransmitters and hormones. If this is true then the search for either contentment or enlightenment are nothing more than just a wild goose chase.

Daoism had the foresight and wisdom to call this amorphous thing The Way.

Ravioli and ham sandwiches fuel apoplectic fits of egomania

Oh God. There are times when I scare myself with what I write. After having a thirty minute meditation session with my brainwave entrainment music I fell into a state of half-sleep for about another twenty to thirty minutes.  After eating some ravioli, ramen, and a ham sandwich I felt reinvigorated. I turned to my usual source of inspiration, focus, and energy. Really haunting and vampiric organ music. Something about the organ speaks to me. I am sure it has everything to do with what I have grown up seeing what this type of music is associated with. A cultured, frighteningly intelligent noble (preferably a vampire) who lords over a vast castle on a precipice surrounded by the verdant expanse of an ancient forest. These sort of meanderings are just flights of fancy. I am sure we would be surprised or even horrified if we shared the sort of sentiments and thoughts that form the dilapidated foundation of our frail and mortal egos.

I highly suggest you check out the Vampire Knight series. It is deliciously tragic; made even more delectable with a soundtrack that adds a devastating impact which rattles your very bones. It blindsides you repeatedly and tosses you into the icy desolate wasteland of humanity. After listening to this particular performance the words and thoughts just poured freely out of me. Even as I am typing my music continues to push me forward. The apoplectic fit of egomania which was ignited by my music led to me writing this little reflective piece. I can only hope to carry the momentum of this fit all the way to the gym later tonight.

A simple flourish at the end adds a little more depth to a performance. Even if it is a disjointed one that becomes completely lost to a sudden collision with the madness of the self and the uncompromising reality of this world.  As I grope feverishly through this fog I occasionally catch glimpses of times that never were and could have been. After so many years all one can do is laugh and thrash with reckless abandon. At least with what little strength our aging bodies still have. As gravity matches its force with our burdens it continues to submerge us into the earth. Even after we have entered the abyss. In such unforgiving depths we are loathe to experience it alone. So we call upon those nearby to join us. So I say “Which of you have the sand to plunge into the very depths of your own self?”

The Dark Summoning of Wilford Brimley

The series for round 2 of the playoffs is currently tied at 3-3 between the Ducks and the Kings. Such a crucial point in the Duck’s ascension has forced my hand. It is with nerve racking trepidation that I unearth a tome that was sealed away in a long forgotten crypt.  A crypt that is far removed from the reaches of man, nature, and reality. Venturing into it would be tantamount to heresy of the most treacherous kind. I was already damned the very moment I decided to set this plan into motion so I had no choice but to carry it out. After perusing my vast library of manuscripts I found an old copy of the Weekly World News. It had an article which disclosed the location of the cave in which they found the Bat Boy in. I immediately crammed all the sandwiches and Gatorade I could into my backpack and headed there via train. Why I chose such an outdated mode of transport is beyond me. Subsisting on nothing but ham sandwiches, Gatorade, and granola bars for two months straight makes a man do strange things.

When I arrived I found much to my surprise that the Bat Boy was really in his cave. Apparently he gets homesick every now and then so he occasionally drops by his old stomping grounds. After shaking his webbed hand and discussing the NHL playoffs over roasted rat he pointed me to where in the depths of the cave I must go to find the horrid book that is bound in the flesh of apostates and reality show producers. After venturing through the labyrinthine twists and turns of the cavern with nothing but a Lite-Brite picture of Popeye lighting the way, I finally found the crypt. It was festooned with all manner of arcane sigils and pictograms.  Against every fiber of my being I forced myself into the mausoleum. I finally entered the chambers in which the remains of a fallen eldritch horror was buried. It’s crushing will still lingered in there and made every attempt to push me out but I repelled its influence by repeatedly yelling “CHA-LA-HEAD—CHA-LA” from the original Dragon Ball Z opening song. After finally snatching away the tome I ran out of there as fast as my legs could carry me. I made my way to the exit of the cave and headed back home.

At my ceremonial chambers I hurriedly took the book out of my bag so that I may get this wretched thing over with as soon as I can. I could feel the caustic maledictions locked in there burning my fingertips, eager to find their way out so they can wreak havoc on this dimension. The ritual for this summon demanded that I drink an elixir made of liquefied sour patch kids and habanero peppers. Upon doing so I left my body and traveled to the abyssal plane, where eldritch cosmic abominations dwelled. Their fiendishly warped gibbering bespoke of the time they traversed their plane and the mind shattering logic they have developed from seeing the many deaths and births of civilizations, stars, and galaxies. My spirit was hurled into a state of nothingness. No black, white, gray, just nothing. I felt every single microscopic shred of me being broken down and reformed. After crossing a gooey membrane I found myself standing in a room made out of some sort of pulsating alien flesh. The eldritch abomination housed therein had a grudging respect for meager humans who are able to traverse the abyssal plane. So he chose to speak to me in a form that he assumed whenever he was on Earth. The form of Wilford Brimley.

“What brings you here, ape of Earth?”

“I need the Ducks to win tonight’s game. Preferably all the way to the Stanley Cup as well as the Stanley Cup itself. A curse must be placed upon all who oppose the Ducks.”

“Your short sightedness prevents you from understanding just how many curses are placed on the Ducks by Kings fans. I must exhaust a great deal of strength and influence in order to form an imprecation of such magnitude that it supersedes the mass of curses that are placed on the Ducks. It can be done, but only for this game. The best I can do is raise their blood sugar to the point that it weakens them.”

“Very well then, I am in your debt great and Ageless One.”

I was very much in debt to him indeed. In order to compensate the abomination for its efforts I entered into a covenant with him. Not only must I receive diabetic testing supplies from Liberty Medical I must also assist in helping the Ageless One expand or regain his influence. Even if it meant doing so by going door to door and promoting Liberty Medical’s services.

Honors classes, tug boat money, and booze

This morning woke up after having some beers and chowing down at Taco Cabana the night before. They had $1.25 Tecate beer at my usual watering hole. Getting food later is my usual routine. I practiced some restraint and stuck with the $5.40 steak Cabana bowl. It's a great deal and fights off the alcohol in your system. I recommend spending a bit on grub so you can regain the mental clarity you need to avoid the city divesting you of your hard earned shekels. As well as throwing you in a cell with a bunch of drunks who would love nothing better than to use your chest as a toilet.

Being older and a bit more experienced means I know my limits. These days I play it safe. If I wanna be a biomedical engineer I'm gonna have to make some sacrifices. Especially now that I am enrolled in the honors program at my community college. Gonna start the summer mini semester with honors precal II.  Even with my newfound restraint I'd rather not leave anything to chance so I turn to food to ensure that I return unscathed and with my honor

preserved.

Well, this afternoon I was at the local workforce solutions office in hopes that I can restore my unemployment benefits that were terminated due to a communication error. Turns out the unemployment division is completely separate and I'm gonna have to hound them to get some of my tug boat money. I'm somewhat of a moderate conservative, so I absolutely do not intend to play the system. All the assignments and finals that started piling up at the end of my semester kept me a bit outta the loop, otherwise I would have been more focused on gitting dat money. I'm gonna start crossing old bridges in order to get some work. I left Circle K on good terms so I'm gonna reapply with them. I'm not picky with jobs. As long as it ain't back breaking and isn't fast food I'll do it cause I'm a fucking hitokiri like that. Like my homie Genjuro.

I'm just another asshole trying to find his way in this swirling mass of incomprehensible circumstance. I try not to pretend that I am any better than some other fuckup. Hell,  even now with my friends at the bar, rather than shooting the shit with my fellow man I'm blogging on this new blogger app I got on the android marketplace. To be fair, I just downloaded this thing and was hard up for trying it out. Despite this excuse,  it still says a lot about my antisocial nature. Maybe it is a testament to just how far removed I am from everyone else around me. Well, gonna try to mix it up and try not to talk too much about philosophy, the Bilderberg Group, anime, and biomedical engineering. Which leaves me with nothing lol.

I pity the foo who plays against the Mighty Ducks

This is my ritual for tonight's game. I got the idea when I was driving on my way to my friend's house so we can head to the gym. Gonna watch the game tonight while drinking with a bro.

A victory in tonight’s game will ensure that the Mighty Ducks advance to the next round of the playoffs. So it is essential that I call upon a formidable being to assist in their ascension. After listening to the horrible cries of the netherworld to see which demonic force has gained prominence in the constant war for supremacy, I became possessed by the spirit of Amy Winehouse. I snorted enough coke to kill a rhino and shot up enough H to put down an entire slum of junkies. I surely would have died had I not intoned the rite of detox by visiting Charlie Sheen through astral projection. All was not lost. For in my narcotic induced delirium Amy Winehouse spoke to me of an astral gate that ancient shamans visited when they needed the inner and brute strength to crush their enemies.

When I opened the gate I wandered into a keep built for a future king. I found many gold chains. As I was instructed I then attempted to place one around my neck. An extremely powerful hand emerged from the gold chain. It seized me by the throat and nearly crushed my windpipe. “What you doing in my house foo!?” As I regained my vision and replayed his question in my mind I saw the body of none other than Mr. T materialize to accompany the arm that was floating in the air just a moment before. “I seek your help. I need you to give the Mighty Ducks the strength to overcome the Los Angeles Kings tonight.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out a gold ingot as tribute to the Mohawked Mountain of Muscle. “Well, alright. Just next time knock or I’m gonna replace your head with yo ass.”

He then threw me into a portal that he punched into the air and I emerged back to my ceremonial chambers. In my hand was a note from Mr. T instructing me on what ritual I must complete in order to lend the Ducks his might. I purchased a Flavor Wave Turbo oven, cooked a burger and steak, and then fed it to some “poor foo living in the ghetto” as it said on the note. At the witching hour I felt my body convulsing, my eyes rolling back into my head, and my muscles rippling and ready to burst through my clothes like the Hulk.  With the voice of Mr. T I yelled “Mighty Ducks, I will lend you my strength tonight. I will weigh down the Kings with all of the gold chains I have. I pity the foo who has to play against you.” When I awoke from the possession I found a message written on my bathroom mirror in black marker “Your punk ass better stay in school and away from drugs.”    

 

The Dark Summoning of Ronald McDonald

Here is the second ritual that I originally posted on Facebook on May 12, 2012. I don't remember what led me to choose gluttony as source of help. Enjoy everybody. I know plenty of my Facebook friends got a great kick out of it. This picture was one I found when I googled Ronald Mc Donald summon. Here is another pic that I thought was pretty cool. http://i.imgur.com/xopaUIc.jpg?1

"This time the foul winds speak the name of Beelzebub, lord of gluttony. So it is to him and his agents of debauch that I will address my entreaties to. I prepare for this ritual by donning the ceremonial mumu and by imbibing the concoction of blended big macs, cookie dough, and KFC Baconators. Spending the rest of my life getting winded just from having to take a piss is a small price to pay to ensure that the Mighty Ducks of Anaheim emerge victorious tonight. I focus all of the energy stored in my fat tissue and shout with a mouth stuffed with chicken nuggets “Oh Ronald Mc Donald, purveyor of grease and he who revels in childhood obesity! Turn your baleful eye on the Los Angeles Kings and fill their stomachs with obscene amounts of grease. May they regard the prospect of having to get out of their chair as being no different than scaling a mountain. Turn their hockey sticks to those reaching claw grabber thingies. Make the blubber hang from their arms so much that it makes swinging their stick impossible. I ask that you Leave their goalie be. Otherwise he would be able to block all the shots by just sitting there.”

I conclude the ritual by making one last offering to the Mighty McDonald by force feeding a quarter-pounder with bacon to the Olsen Twins. Then I snuff out the candles with syrup while singing the Oscar Mayer Weiner song. I also kneel before a sacred effigy of Gabourey Sidibe that I made out of Klondike bars and make the sign of the Golden Arches.