Apparently, the best way for a writer to make a name for himself today is to do various writing jobs that doubles as an advertisement for his blog until he is ready to write a novel, which pays more than a job writing for a magazine. Sure, the writer could just skip a step and write the novel right away, but that shit is difficult, and without something resembling a cultivated audience, it would arrive in bookstores to general apathy. And that's even if it makes it into stores.
So, the writer of this now frequently updated blog is trying to stay in the swing of blogging. This requires putting up a post a day. Rather than write something off the top of his head, though, he is burning "back catalogue", or material he wrote for classes that would get underappreciated, because he is tired on this day. Below is...something. Enjoy.
"Quaaludes, Probably"
by John Downey
You don’t think that this creature is calling for attention, do you? Hey, let’s read its mind, see what we can dish up. There is no ‘animalistic fallacy’ here, you just can’t speak BIRD. She looks down—
What? You thought that it was a male bird? How silly of you—
To see the desert that separates herself from all that she holds dear in the world. Call me optimistic when I say that this hurts her, because that means that she’s capable of feeling happiness. Should she wait her for her friends to come? WILL her friends come? Should she stay on her perch and wait for her friends to come, hailing them when they approach her line of sight? Does she even want to see her old friends again? Maybe she should become friends with the earthworms and mice, making friends out of prey, always being able to hold something against them.
Maybe her friends are hiding from her in the trees. That’s what she’s scanning for. Some of her friends don’t have the backbone to tell her that she can be painful to be around, that she makes too much of a scene, that she’s been known to scream from rooftops when things don’t go her way. Standing on a perch hurts her, because that’s proving her ‘friends’ right. But maybe they aren’t in the trees, and that rustling is just a bear, or maybe it’s food that she could use right now. What if it’s not, though, and one of her loves flies by when she’s not looking? On that note, she stays where she is, and reconsiders all possibilities every 5 minutes, until her feet can’t take anymore and she has to leave her perch.
Drama queen.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Downey's "Classics" Presents: Various Orphaned Work From Senior Year Of High School
Apparently, the best way for a writer to make a name for himself today is to do various writing jobs that doubles as an advertisement for his blog until he is ready to write a novel, which pays more than a job writing for a magazine. Sure, the writer could just skip a step and write the novel right away, but that shit is difficult, and without something resembling a cultivated audience, it would arrive in bookstores to general apathy. And that's even if it makes it into stores.
So, the writer of this now frequently updated blog is trying to stay in the swing of blogging. This requires putting up a post a day. Rather than write something off the top of his head, though, he is burning "back catalogue", or material he wrote for classes that would get underappreciated, because he is tired on this day. Below is various orphaned work from Senior year of high school, way back in 2004/2005. Enjoy.
Seeing as how this is only the year 2419, and we monkeys are the dominant race in existence, it was quite a shock when one day I looked out my window and saw what had to have been a genuine member of the homo sapiens race, extinct since 2006, when George Dubya killed every human on Earth after he learned that he actually lost the 2004 election. I barely managed to say, "Holy man!" before fainting back into bed.
When I came to, the homo sapien, more commonly referred to as a 'human', was still picking grapefruits out of my backyard. I couldn't call the police—not since the Homegrown Botany Ban of 2405—and I couldn't harm him since my most effective weapon was a dull blade (due to my status as a mandrill—SUCH RACISM!!!). Instead, I decided to observe him.
He took one look at my broken bike seat that was specifically designed for my hindquarters, dropped trowl, and…
***
Despite its taste and arousing smell, most adults drink coffee to wake up in the morning. Usually, adults are willing to harm themselves to a 'greater benefit'; job they hate, children that whine, cars that suck, etc. So why drink good coffee? They could just as easily swallow coffee beans and hope to get the same effect. (It does. Tastes like Cocoa Crispies, too.) Or, even better, stick coffee grounds in their mouths, then some hot water, swish it around in your mouth, and then swallow. That is a surefire way to get somebody going in the morning! That, and an alarm clock equipped with tasers. Those would be cool, too. And if those tasers were programmed to be active when the snooze button is pressed.
***
Sandra's hands were clasped. I looked at them and considered my brother, his thoughts whirling with possibilities, moving deeper and deeper into the secret, and I knew that his heart was about to get crushed. "Um, I'm already going out with somebody," she finally said.
My brother sighed and said, "Oh, okay." (If only he had left it at that.) "Just out of curiosity, who is he?"
"Her name is Katie."
You should have seen his jaw drop. I mean, I could feel for him, but really, it was just too funny. Sandra apologized for having to tell him this way, but that really didn't do anything. He just stood there with his mouth wide open. I think a fly flew into that big, gaping hole.
After she left, he walked over to me and asked why I was laughing so hard. All I could spit out was, "So, is she into you, or…" That was all I got out. Really, seeing that kid get mentally floored was something I've waited 15 years to happen.
"You knew, didn't you?" he asked.
"T'YEAH!" was my answer.
***
The room smells like perfume. It is a lovely smell, and somewhat nauseating, too. Amanda dropped her perfume, and it spilled and broke on the floor. Better than Lysol? Perhaps. But its hard to put perfume in your brother's room. God, that smells bad. His room, I mean. It smells like big brother. Which is bad. I mean, even when he comes out of the shower, he smells like a big pile of elephant crap, if elephant crap were stuck to human armpits and attacked by an army of skunks. Apparently, the ladies love it, though, since he always has a girlfriend. At first, I was weary of my brother dating my classmates's sisters; then, after seeing the sort of specimen he really chases after, I started wishing he would go back to dating my classmates's sisters, because some of those chicks were nasty.
***
I believe this was commenting on a comment made by Henry David Thoreau, who liked to live a simple life. Of course, I (intentionally) miss the point that Thoreau was probably trying to make.
I think this dude is saying, "Getting money and a family is bad; telling the truth is good." I never understood this Jacque Thoreau guy. Wasn't his specialty about the living creatures in the sea? So, he should've stuck to talking about fish and left the 'meaning of life' stuff to the psychiatrists. I mean, let's say that you marry a rich woman, and have 5 children; by definition, you are evil!
***
HOW TO PICK UP A GIRL
Obviously, the joke here is that this is not how you pick up a girl.
1) Choose a girl to hit on. (ONE choice here; hitting on two at the same time usually results in both of them being turned off and three is only for professionals with at least 6 years of experience.)
2) Introduce yourself, THEN ask her name. Order of operations is crucial here.
3) Engage in stupid conversations about stuff—how she's doing, how her sister's operation went, how her parents disowned her, etc.
4) LOOK INTO HER EYES. This part is tricky, since you probably did not pick out your target on the basis of how pretty their eyes are. But maintain eye contact as much as possible; it will make you look like you give a crap.
5) Compliment her on her worst feature. Seriously. It makes them feel good.
6) Talk about your sister as if she's the best person in the world, then show her the picture that came with the wallet. I don't know why this works, but it does.
7) Ask if you want to continue this conversation elsewhere…
HOW TO MAke WORLD PEACE. Step #1: Make everyone stop fighting. Step #2: Make sure nobody ever fights again. EASY!
***
What happens when you realize that your stream of concensiousness (or however it is spelled) piece sucks ass while in the middle of it? See below for answer.
Have it, save me from the unwilling, white flag, lets have it now. Go quick now, run away, far away from here, so you shall never have to feel it again. Its stopped, how wonderful. The past is now here to bite us on the ass. Its come; we forgot it, that's why its here. Shredded paper does not shred memories, unfortunately. We win and lose at the same time. We're here, we're now, we matter in the moment, but not for long. We died, that's what happened to everyone who lived. He is up there, laughing at us. Is he up there going, "I wonder what would happen if a turkey becomes president?" Watch out for 2024; Gobble BeCaw is favored to win the election. He has no beard, wait, does he, or does he look like Jesus? Heck, is he a she? Ha ha, the Bible could be SO wrong. Peace and quiet. Aah. I am all alone in my gray room, no windows, just a light from the TV and some grub at my feet. I am content. Withdrawal could be a means to an end. I'm going crazy; is that a voice I hear? No, just a jackal, c'mon sox! I'm funny; yes I is. Who cares what everyone else thinks?
***
One night at the local pub, Robert and Ted were having beers when a nice-looking young woman walked in.
"Damn," said Robert, "I gotta get me some of that."
"Dude," said Ted, "that's the mayor's daughter."
"So?"
"You try to hit that, you're gonna get your thing chopped off."
"You're just a pussy, Ted."
"Hey, if you want to try, its your funeral."
"Thanks for your vote of confidence. And by the way, you don't need your dick in order to live, DUMBASS."
Rob walked over and told the bartender to put her drink on his tab.
"Um, thanks," she said.
"Yeah, well, I can't stand it when a lady has to pay for her own vodka," Rob said.
"This is water."
"Right! Vodka and water! The two things that women should never have to pay for."
"What about dinner, and limos, and wedding rings?"
"…My name is Robert."
"Tracey."
"So, are you enjoying your water?"
"Well, I haven't tasted it yet."
"Well, that looks like good water. MMM-hm!"
"Yes…water usually is."
"Isn't it?"
"Well, unless it breaks, like it did for my best friend."
"Oh my. How did that happen?"
"She didn't shoot the guy when she should have."
"Oh, what a pity. I do hope she's alright."
"She's doing well, except for that whole 'have-to-stay-at-home-all-the-time' thing."
"Well, I do hope she eventually grows out of it. She shouldn't stay inside just because of one embarrassing incident."
She stood up. "I have to go."
Rob got up. "May I have your number?"
"Sure." She gave him the number for the local poison control center. Then, she left.
Rob walked back over to Ted. 'So, am I good, or am I good?" he asked.
"Up is like down when it damn well feels like it!" said the professor.
"The solution was hydrochloric acid; the problem was, therefore, an ugly face!" yelled out a student.
***
Goodness gracious. MAN some videogames are stupid, and also very entertaining at the same time. In this case, I'm referring to Rumble Roses. It certainly has an awesome pedigree—the developer (Yuke's) has been making wrestling games for 5 years, and its publisher (Konami) has revolutionized the way videogames are made and played for the last 15 years or so. Still, the game is laughable, but at least intentionally so. You see, the only characters in the game are female. Oh yeah, and there are only two kinds of matches: 1-on-1 (no pun intended) and Mad Mud match. It plays well, but there is no way to wrestle a serious match. The second I get absorbed in it, someone sticks their ass in their opponents face, or some outrageously bad dialogue comes spewing out. And the jokes range from "Cowgirl has bigger teats than my sheep!" to "I'm ready to fight! Just one question, though: how'd you get such a big rack?" The game is fun to play, and I didn't waste any money in getting it. But I should mention that Konami's latest game for its flagship series, Metal Gear Solid 3, will be released on Friday. When I get that game, I imagine that I will forget about ladies throwing each other around in piles of mud.
***
Turtles actually have lots of fun. They run laps, sip water, and wiggle their little tails for their own enjoyment. Its kind of hard to tell when they are happy, but you can tell just by when the turtle looks you in the eyes, stares…and BLINKS. That's a dead giveaway right there. The thing is, turtles are incredibly stupid—the side effect of having a brain the size of one of my fingernails. Therefore, they are very easily entertained.
***
The FLOA (Flag Lovers Of America) were marching for their cause—racists on dialysis—when an apple clocked one of them upside the head.
"Who goes there?" said the Head Flagger.
"It is I, the King of the Mountain, Towylette Byrd!" responded the tall, apple-throwing man. When the Head Flagger started giggling, the big man yelled, "Its French and I was named after my father, STOP LAUGHING AT ME!!!"
"Um, King Toilet," said the HF, "Why are you throwing apples at my lot? We are mere protectors to a good cause."
"You do not have the proper permits to be on this land. Go away, fools."
"Ha! Like you possess our combined hypnotic powers!"
"Ha! You are a band of merry travelers waving around pieces of paper and think that counts as power?! Try me, weaklings!"
"Very well!" And the lot danced around and signed LEG US THROOG YOUR LAMP, POOL. (They needed some work.)
"Ha! I would just as soon kiss a Chihuahua and believe that I was suffering from a primal form of animalistic fallacy!" said Burd.
"Um, the animalistic fallacy is mistakingly believing that animals have human emotions," replied the HF.
Burd threw another apple at them.
So, the writer of this now frequently updated blog is trying to stay in the swing of blogging. This requires putting up a post a day. Rather than write something off the top of his head, though, he is burning "back catalogue", or material he wrote for classes that would get underappreciated, because he is tired on this day. Below is various orphaned work from Senior year of high school, way back in 2004/2005. Enjoy.
Seeing as how this is only the year 2419, and we monkeys are the dominant race in existence, it was quite a shock when one day I looked out my window and saw what had to have been a genuine member of the homo sapiens race, extinct since 2006, when George Dubya killed every human on Earth after he learned that he actually lost the 2004 election. I barely managed to say, "Holy man!" before fainting back into bed.
When I came to, the homo sapien, more commonly referred to as a 'human', was still picking grapefruits out of my backyard. I couldn't call the police—not since the Homegrown Botany Ban of 2405—and I couldn't harm him since my most effective weapon was a dull blade (due to my status as a mandrill—SUCH RACISM!!!). Instead, I decided to observe him.
He took one look at my broken bike seat that was specifically designed for my hindquarters, dropped trowl, and…
***
Despite its taste and arousing smell, most adults drink coffee to wake up in the morning. Usually, adults are willing to harm themselves to a 'greater benefit'; job they hate, children that whine, cars that suck, etc. So why drink good coffee? They could just as easily swallow coffee beans and hope to get the same effect. (It does. Tastes like Cocoa Crispies, too.) Or, even better, stick coffee grounds in their mouths, then some hot water, swish it around in your mouth, and then swallow. That is a surefire way to get somebody going in the morning! That, and an alarm clock equipped with tasers. Those would be cool, too. And if those tasers were programmed to be active when the snooze button is pressed.
***
Sandra's hands were clasped. I looked at them and considered my brother, his thoughts whirling with possibilities, moving deeper and deeper into the secret, and I knew that his heart was about to get crushed. "Um, I'm already going out with somebody," she finally said.
My brother sighed and said, "Oh, okay." (If only he had left it at that.) "Just out of curiosity, who is he?"
"Her name is Katie."
You should have seen his jaw drop. I mean, I could feel for him, but really, it was just too funny. Sandra apologized for having to tell him this way, but that really didn't do anything. He just stood there with his mouth wide open. I think a fly flew into that big, gaping hole.
After she left, he walked over to me and asked why I was laughing so hard. All I could spit out was, "So, is she into you, or…" That was all I got out. Really, seeing that kid get mentally floored was something I've waited 15 years to happen.
"You knew, didn't you?" he asked.
"T'YEAH!" was my answer.
***
The room smells like perfume. It is a lovely smell, and somewhat nauseating, too. Amanda dropped her perfume, and it spilled and broke on the floor. Better than Lysol? Perhaps. But its hard to put perfume in your brother's room. God, that smells bad. His room, I mean. It smells like big brother. Which is bad. I mean, even when he comes out of the shower, he smells like a big pile of elephant crap, if elephant crap were stuck to human armpits and attacked by an army of skunks. Apparently, the ladies love it, though, since he always has a girlfriend. At first, I was weary of my brother dating my classmates's sisters; then, after seeing the sort of specimen he really chases after, I started wishing he would go back to dating my classmates's sisters, because some of those chicks were nasty.
***
I believe this was commenting on a comment made by Henry David Thoreau, who liked to live a simple life. Of course, I (intentionally) miss the point that Thoreau was probably trying to make.
I think this dude is saying, "Getting money and a family is bad; telling the truth is good." I never understood this Jacque Thoreau guy. Wasn't his specialty about the living creatures in the sea? So, he should've stuck to talking about fish and left the 'meaning of life' stuff to the psychiatrists. I mean, let's say that you marry a rich woman, and have 5 children; by definition, you are evil!
***
HOW TO PICK UP A GIRL
Obviously, the joke here is that this is not how you pick up a girl.
1) Choose a girl to hit on. (ONE choice here; hitting on two at the same time usually results in both of them being turned off and three is only for professionals with at least 6 years of experience.)
2) Introduce yourself, THEN ask her name. Order of operations is crucial here.
3) Engage in stupid conversations about stuff—how she's doing, how her sister's operation went, how her parents disowned her, etc.
4) LOOK INTO HER EYES. This part is tricky, since you probably did not pick out your target on the basis of how pretty their eyes are. But maintain eye contact as much as possible; it will make you look like you give a crap.
5) Compliment her on her worst feature. Seriously. It makes them feel good.
6) Talk about your sister as if she's the best person in the world, then show her the picture that came with the wallet. I don't know why this works, but it does.
7) Ask if you want to continue this conversation elsewhere…
HOW TO MAke WORLD PEACE. Step #1: Make everyone stop fighting. Step #2: Make sure nobody ever fights again. EASY!
***
What happens when you realize that your stream of concensiousness (or however it is spelled) piece sucks ass while in the middle of it? See below for answer.
Have it, save me from the unwilling, white flag, lets have it now. Go quick now, run away, far away from here, so you shall never have to feel it again. Its stopped, how wonderful. The past is now here to bite us on the ass. Its come; we forgot it, that's why its here. Shredded paper does not shred memories, unfortunately. We win and lose at the same time. We're here, we're now, we matter in the moment, but not for long. We died, that's what happened to everyone who lived. He is up there, laughing at us. Is he up there going, "I wonder what would happen if a turkey becomes president?" Watch out for 2024; Gobble BeCaw is favored to win the election. He has no beard, wait, does he, or does he look like Jesus? Heck, is he a she? Ha ha, the Bible could be SO wrong. Peace and quiet. Aah. I am all alone in my gray room, no windows, just a light from the TV and some grub at my feet. I am content. Withdrawal could be a means to an end. I'm going crazy; is that a voice I hear? No, just a jackal, c'mon sox! I'm funny; yes I is. Who cares what everyone else thinks?
***
One night at the local pub, Robert and Ted were having beers when a nice-looking young woman walked in.
"Damn," said Robert, "I gotta get me some of that."
"Dude," said Ted, "that's the mayor's daughter."
"So?"
"You try to hit that, you're gonna get your thing chopped off."
"You're just a pussy, Ted."
"Hey, if you want to try, its your funeral."
"Thanks for your vote of confidence. And by the way, you don't need your dick in order to live, DUMBASS."
Rob walked over and told the bartender to put her drink on his tab.
"Um, thanks," she said.
"Yeah, well, I can't stand it when a lady has to pay for her own vodka," Rob said.
"This is water."
"Right! Vodka and water! The two things that women should never have to pay for."
"What about dinner, and limos, and wedding rings?"
"…My name is Robert."
"Tracey."
"So, are you enjoying your water?"
"Well, I haven't tasted it yet."
"Well, that looks like good water. MMM-hm!"
"Yes…water usually is."
"Isn't it?"
"Well, unless it breaks, like it did for my best friend."
"Oh my. How did that happen?"
"She didn't shoot the guy when she should have."
"Oh, what a pity. I do hope she's alright."
"She's doing well, except for that whole 'have-to-stay-at-home-all-the-time' thing."
"Well, I do hope she eventually grows out of it. She shouldn't stay inside just because of one embarrassing incident."
She stood up. "I have to go."
Rob got up. "May I have your number?"
"Sure." She gave him the number for the local poison control center. Then, she left.
Rob walked back over to Ted. 'So, am I good, or am I good?" he asked.
"Up is like down when it damn well feels like it!" said the professor.
"The solution was hydrochloric acid; the problem was, therefore, an ugly face!" yelled out a student.
***
Goodness gracious. MAN some videogames are stupid, and also very entertaining at the same time. In this case, I'm referring to Rumble Roses. It certainly has an awesome pedigree—the developer (Yuke's) has been making wrestling games for 5 years, and its publisher (Konami) has revolutionized the way videogames are made and played for the last 15 years or so. Still, the game is laughable, but at least intentionally so. You see, the only characters in the game are female. Oh yeah, and there are only two kinds of matches: 1-on-1 (no pun intended) and Mad Mud match. It plays well, but there is no way to wrestle a serious match. The second I get absorbed in it, someone sticks their ass in their opponents face, or some outrageously bad dialogue comes spewing out. And the jokes range from "Cowgirl has bigger teats than my sheep!" to "I'm ready to fight! Just one question, though: how'd you get such a big rack?" The game is fun to play, and I didn't waste any money in getting it. But I should mention that Konami's latest game for its flagship series, Metal Gear Solid 3, will be released on Friday. When I get that game, I imagine that I will forget about ladies throwing each other around in piles of mud.
***
Turtles actually have lots of fun. They run laps, sip water, and wiggle their little tails for their own enjoyment. Its kind of hard to tell when they are happy, but you can tell just by when the turtle looks you in the eyes, stares…and BLINKS. That's a dead giveaway right there. The thing is, turtles are incredibly stupid—the side effect of having a brain the size of one of my fingernails. Therefore, they are very easily entertained.
***
The FLOA (Flag Lovers Of America) were marching for their cause—racists on dialysis—when an apple clocked one of them upside the head.
"Who goes there?" said the Head Flagger.
"It is I, the King of the Mountain, Towylette Byrd!" responded the tall, apple-throwing man. When the Head Flagger started giggling, the big man yelled, "Its French and I was named after my father, STOP LAUGHING AT ME!!!"
"Um, King Toilet," said the HF, "Why are you throwing apples at my lot? We are mere protectors to a good cause."
"You do not have the proper permits to be on this land. Go away, fools."
"Ha! Like you possess our combined hypnotic powers!"
"Ha! You are a band of merry travelers waving around pieces of paper and think that counts as power?! Try me, weaklings!"
"Very well!" And the lot danced around and signed LEG US THROOG YOUR LAMP, POOL. (They needed some work.)
"Ha! I would just as soon kiss a Chihuahua and believe that I was suffering from a primal form of animalistic fallacy!" said Burd.
"Um, the animalistic fallacy is mistakingly believing that animals have human emotions," replied the HF.
Burd threw another apple at them.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Downey's "Classics" Presents: The Latest 3
Apparently, the best way for a writer to make a name for himself today is to do various writing jobs that doubles as an advertisement for his blog until he is ready to write a novel, which pays more than a job writing for a magazine. Sure, the writer could just skip a step and write the novel right away, but that shit is difficult, and without something resembling a cultivated audience, it would arrive in bookstores to general apathy. And that's even if it makes it into stores.
So, the writer of this now frequently updated blog is trying to stay in the swing of blogging. This requires putting up a post a day. Rather than write something off the top of his head, though, he is burning "back catalogue", or material he wrote for classes that would get underappreciated, because he is tired on this day. Below is...uh, who knows. Enjoy.
"The Latest 3"
by John Downey
Bells hit the ceiling, telling me the weather,
And that we need to get better insulation for the roof.
There's no chiming, just pitterpattering drums,
An indication of the pulse of the household.
In the kitchen, Richard's promoting violence as a way to peace,
And his son, Shannon, listens with eager ears.
There's a step-aerobics stepstool around here somewhere;
It's probably being used as a doorstop.
The lights work better after a swift knock.
The TV has a black bar on the left of the screen, but otherwise, it's fine.
The playroom lives up to its name.
The house is an unsightly bright red; Richard's going to paint it over the summer,
Or whenever it stops raining, whichever comes first.
The trip to Skate 3 is postponed for another day.
I climb back up into bed and stare at the ceiling,
Wondering how long this eden is going to last.
So, the writer of this now frequently updated blog is trying to stay in the swing of blogging. This requires putting up a post a day. Rather than write something off the top of his head, though, he is burning "back catalogue", or material he wrote for classes that would get underappreciated, because he is tired on this day. Below is...uh, who knows. Enjoy.
"The Latest 3"
by John Downey
Bells hit the ceiling, telling me the weather,
And that we need to get better insulation for the roof.
There's no chiming, just pitterpattering drums,
An indication of the pulse of the household.
In the kitchen, Richard's promoting violence as a way to peace,
And his son, Shannon, listens with eager ears.
There's a step-aerobics stepstool around here somewhere;
It's probably being used as a doorstop.
The lights work better after a swift knock.
The TV has a black bar on the left of the screen, but otherwise, it's fine.
The playroom lives up to its name.
The house is an unsightly bright red; Richard's going to paint it over the summer,
Or whenever it stops raining, whichever comes first.
The trip to Skate 3 is postponed for another day.
I climb back up into bed and stare at the ceiling,
Wondering how long this eden is going to last.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Downey's "Classics" Presents: INTENSELY PERSONAL BLOG!
Apparently, the best way for a writer to make a name for himself today is to do various writing jobs that doubles as an advertisement for his blog until he is ready to write a novel, which pays more than a job writing for a magazine. Sure, the writer could just skip a step and write the novel right away, but that shit is difficult, and without something resembling a cultivated audience, it would arrive in bookstores to general apathy. And that's even if it makes it into stores.
So, the writer of this now frequently updated blog is trying to stay in the swing of blogging. This requires putting up a post a day. Rather than write something off the top of his head, though, he is burning "back catalogue", or material he wrote for classes that would get underappreciated, because he is tired on this day. Below is the last blog post on his MySpace "blog", written over a year ago. Enjoy.
"...INTENSELY PERSONAL BLOG!"
by John Downey
Note: all details that could end up biting me on the ass have been removed. Names have been replaced with letters of the alphabet for clarity.
So I met a ____ named (A) at the _________ of the ______ ____, and I knew right away that I _____ ___. My thinking on these matters, though, is that they usually do not work out in my favor, so I tried to put it out of my mind. But (A) kept _______ __ all over the place! I did _____ and (A) was _____, I did _______ and (A) was ______, heck, I even did _____ and (A) was _____! And I never do _____, so that's pretty big for me. Anywho, (A) gets a ______ named (B), who was a mix between a _____ and a ______ (no, not the little dudes you stomp on in Mario games). Whatever. People make mistakes, right? (See plenty of my other blogs for examples.) Thing is, though, (B) ____ her _____ by ________ on ___, and then _______ ___, which is the shittiest fucking thing in the history of everything. Worse than dead puppies. This _______ (A) for a ____, but (A) seems more ___________ in what I ____ to ___. She even ______ to ______ ________. Thumbs up, right? Well, I _____ (A) to __ ____ me __ ___ _____ _______ ______, and she ____ _ ____ ______ ____ ____________ _____ __, which is more than she gave one dude, but a __ is still a __. But then I was ____ that ______ ___ ____ __ ___ _____, since ___ __ was _____ to __ _____! Which leaves me...where? I'm not in hell, but it's hell getting to heaven from this point.
So, yeah, what should I do?
So, the writer of this now frequently updated blog is trying to stay in the swing of blogging. This requires putting up a post a day. Rather than write something off the top of his head, though, he is burning "back catalogue", or material he wrote for classes that would get underappreciated, because he is tired on this day. Below is the last blog post on his MySpace "blog", written over a year ago. Enjoy.
"...INTENSELY PERSONAL BLOG!"
by John Downey
Note: all details that could end up biting me on the ass have been removed. Names have been replaced with letters of the alphabet for clarity.
So I met a ____ named (A) at the _________ of the ______ ____, and I knew right away that I _____ ___. My thinking on these matters, though, is that they usually do not work out in my favor, so I tried to put it out of my mind. But (A) kept _______ __ all over the place! I did _____ and (A) was _____, I did _______ and (A) was ______, heck, I even did _____ and (A) was _____! And I never do _____, so that's pretty big for me. Anywho, (A) gets a ______ named (B), who was a mix between a _____ and a ______ (no, not the little dudes you stomp on in Mario games). Whatever. People make mistakes, right? (See plenty of my other blogs for examples.) Thing is, though, (B) ____ her _____ by ________ on ___, and then _______ ___, which is the shittiest fucking thing in the history of everything. Worse than dead puppies. This _______ (A) for a ____, but (A) seems more ___________ in what I ____ to ___. She even ______ to ______ ________. Thumbs up, right? Well, I _____ (A) to __ ____ me __ ___ _____ _______ ______, and she ____ _ ____ ______ ____ ____________ _____ __, which is more than she gave one dude, but a __ is still a __. But then I was ____ that ______ ___ ____ __ ___ _____, since ___ __ was _____ to __ _____! Which leaves me...where? I'm not in hell, but it's hell getting to heaven from this point.
So, yeah, what should I do?
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Downey's "Classics" Presents: Dodging A Bullet
Apparently, the best way for a writer to make a name for himself today is to do various writing jobs that doubles as an advertisement for his blog until he is ready to write a novel, which pays more than a job writing for a magazine. Sure, the writer could just skip a step and write the novel right away, but that shit is difficult, and without something resembling a cultivated audience, it would arrive in bookstores to general apathy. And that's even if it makes it into stores.
So, the writer of this now frequently updated blog is trying to stay in the swing of blogging. This requires putting up a post a day. Rather than write something off the top of his head, though, he is burning "back catalogue", or material he wrote for classes that would get underappreciated, because he is tired on this day. Below is my reaction to...well, just read it. Enjoy.
"Dodging A Bullet"
by John Downey
I've discussed some of Facebook's applications in the past as part of my ever-increasing list of "Things That Piss Me Off", but one application that (a) works and (b) serves a useful purpose is the Honesty Box. Sure, it's kind of "sketchy" (ie, somewhat creepy), but it's a lot more useful than that LOLCats thingy. For those of you unfamiliar with Honesty Box, it lets you send people anonymous messages, as well as receive them. It's a good way to tell someone why you hate them, while also getting constructive criticism yourself, without having to worry about the consequences. Or you could just send someone 900 messages saying that they suck, which, come to think of it, sounds like a pretty fun way to kill a couple of hours.
A while back, though--months, actually--I received a message that was so horrifying, so revolting, so disgusting, that I actually contemplated running away from my home, since I was convinced that someone was watching my every move, even though they had their eyes elsewhere. This tops the "I'm convinced you have a large penis" comment that Sean Tatum sent me. Hell, this tops EVERYTHING.
Now, I'm about to show you what the message is. But before I do, you might want to sit down. While you're at it, put on your analytical glasses, too, because this might take a while.
Ready? You SURE? Alright, here goes:
"You seem pretty cool."
That's it. That's the entire message, sent to me on June 14th of last year, by a girl (you're often told the gender of the person sending you the message). Four words, 17 letters. Who could have thought that such a small combination of consonants and vowels could create such terror?
"But John," you say, "what's so wrong with this message? It's just a small little compliment! It's not like they threatened to kill you or anything."
First of all, I only wish that they had threatened to kill me; I'd have a slight chance at getting a restraining order in that case, as opposed to the "no chance in hell" odds without an outright threat. Second of all, there's no compliment in that statement at all. Shit, there's no STATEMENT in that statement. Imagine if someone walked up to you and told you that you seem pretty cool. What would happen? Well, either they would follow that up by saying "...but on the inside, you're a piece of shit" or they would stand there and wait for you to ask them to dinner so that you can get to know each other better. That's a pretty big gap between intended messages.
Still, though, I can't freak out because some dumb bitch sucks at using the English language, right? In most cases, yes, but this is fucking Honesty Box. You're supposed to say what you mean, not offer up somebody's interest with half an idea. What kind of a person would send such a message?
There are two. The first is easy: a moron. Reading over that message, I'm so tempted to read it in a Valley Girl voice. "Like, OMIGOD, you seem PRETTY KEWL (annoying giggle)! Let's, like, go driving to LOVER'S LAYNE!" Thing is, though, that my female friends with Honesty Box are the kind of people who know how to clearly make their intended message heard. On top of that, the message had no errors in capitalization or punctuation, meaning that she wanted her muddled message to be received clearly.
Which means that the second possibility is more likely: she's a closet psychopath. Think about this: she's anonymous. She thinks enough of me to send me a message. And yet, she's still so insecure about herself that, EVEN THOUGH I WILL NEVER KNOW WHO SHE IS UNLESS SHE WANTS ME TO KNOW, she can't even tell me that she likes me (which was the likely intent, let's not kid ourselves). Imagine a female version of Milton from "Office Space".
Come to think of it, actually, due to my lack of response (aka, I took her stapler), she's probably had months to stew this over, and is actually getting ready to kill me!
But don't worry, kids. If there's one person who can dissolve a potentially dangerous situation, it's John Downey. So I'll send her a response. And, in the interest of full disclosure, I will first tell my dozen readers what my response is.
"Dear Crazy Ho,
Thank you for taking interest in my penis. However, as of this time, there is no USB-to-Cock converter currently on the market, so I cannot, as of yet, virtually fuck you through the Internet. Besides, I prefer women with enough self-confidence to, you know, talk to me in public, as opposed to hitting on me through Facebook. BUT HEY, I'm sure you'll find someone sweet. Why don't you go hit on a nerd? They're sure to go crazy with a woman who can talk nerdy to them! Also, due to their lack of anyone giving a shit about them, nothing bad will happen to you if you happen to slit one of their throats! Hell, take a bath in their blood! If tomato juice can get rid of a skunk's smell, then the smell of nerd cum should be no match for the powers of human blood!
Happy Hunting,
Downey"
So, the writer of this now frequently updated blog is trying to stay in the swing of blogging. This requires putting up a post a day. Rather than write something off the top of his head, though, he is burning "back catalogue", or material he wrote for classes that would get underappreciated, because he is tired on this day. Below is my reaction to...well, just read it. Enjoy.
"Dodging A Bullet"
by John Downey
I've discussed some of Facebook's applications in the past as part of my ever-increasing list of "Things That Piss Me Off", but one application that (a) works and (b) serves a useful purpose is the Honesty Box. Sure, it's kind of "sketchy" (ie, somewhat creepy), but it's a lot more useful than that LOLCats thingy. For those of you unfamiliar with Honesty Box, it lets you send people anonymous messages, as well as receive them. It's a good way to tell someone why you hate them, while also getting constructive criticism yourself, without having to worry about the consequences. Or you could just send someone 900 messages saying that they suck, which, come to think of it, sounds like a pretty fun way to kill a couple of hours.
A while back, though--months, actually--I received a message that was so horrifying, so revolting, so disgusting, that I actually contemplated running away from my home, since I was convinced that someone was watching my every move, even though they had their eyes elsewhere. This tops the "I'm convinced you have a large penis" comment that Sean Tatum sent me. Hell, this tops EVERYTHING.
Now, I'm about to show you what the message is. But before I do, you might want to sit down. While you're at it, put on your analytical glasses, too, because this might take a while.
Ready? You SURE? Alright, here goes:
"You seem pretty cool."
That's it. That's the entire message, sent to me on June 14th of last year, by a girl (you're often told the gender of the person sending you the message). Four words, 17 letters. Who could have thought that such a small combination of consonants and vowels could create such terror?
"But John," you say, "what's so wrong with this message? It's just a small little compliment! It's not like they threatened to kill you or anything."
First of all, I only wish that they had threatened to kill me; I'd have a slight chance at getting a restraining order in that case, as opposed to the "no chance in hell" odds without an outright threat. Second of all, there's no compliment in that statement at all. Shit, there's no STATEMENT in that statement. Imagine if someone walked up to you and told you that you seem pretty cool. What would happen? Well, either they would follow that up by saying "...but on the inside, you're a piece of shit" or they would stand there and wait for you to ask them to dinner so that you can get to know each other better. That's a pretty big gap between intended messages.
Still, though, I can't freak out because some dumb bitch sucks at using the English language, right? In most cases, yes, but this is fucking Honesty Box. You're supposed to say what you mean, not offer up somebody's interest with half an idea. What kind of a person would send such a message?
There are two. The first is easy: a moron. Reading over that message, I'm so tempted to read it in a Valley Girl voice. "Like, OMIGOD, you seem PRETTY KEWL (annoying giggle)! Let's, like, go driving to LOVER'S LAYNE!" Thing is, though, that my female friends with Honesty Box are the kind of people who know how to clearly make their intended message heard. On top of that, the message had no errors in capitalization or punctuation, meaning that she wanted her muddled message to be received clearly.
Which means that the second possibility is more likely: she's a closet psychopath. Think about this: she's anonymous. She thinks enough of me to send me a message. And yet, she's still so insecure about herself that, EVEN THOUGH I WILL NEVER KNOW WHO SHE IS UNLESS SHE WANTS ME TO KNOW, she can't even tell me that she likes me (which was the likely intent, let's not kid ourselves). Imagine a female version of Milton from "Office Space".
Come to think of it, actually, due to my lack of response (aka, I took her stapler), she's probably had months to stew this over, and is actually getting ready to kill me!
But don't worry, kids. If there's one person who can dissolve a potentially dangerous situation, it's John Downey. So I'll send her a response. And, in the interest of full disclosure, I will first tell my dozen readers what my response is.
"Dear Crazy Ho,
Thank you for taking interest in my penis. However, as of this time, there is no USB-to-Cock converter currently on the market, so I cannot, as of yet, virtually fuck you through the Internet. Besides, I prefer women with enough self-confidence to, you know, talk to me in public, as opposed to hitting on me through Facebook. BUT HEY, I'm sure you'll find someone sweet. Why don't you go hit on a nerd? They're sure to go crazy with a woman who can talk nerdy to them! Also, due to their lack of anyone giving a shit about them, nothing bad will happen to you if you happen to slit one of their throats! Hell, take a bath in their blood! If tomato juice can get rid of a skunk's smell, then the smell of nerd cum should be no match for the powers of human blood!
Happy Hunting,
Downey"
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Downey's "Classics" Presents: I Need Legal Advice
Apparently, the best way for a writer to make a name for himself today is to do various writing jobs that doubles as an advertisement for his blog until he is ready to write a novel, which pays more than a job writing for a magazine. Sure, the writer could just skip a step and write the novel right away, but that shit is difficult, and without something resembling a cultivated audience, it would arrive in bookstores to general apathy. And that's even if it makes it into stores.
So, the writer of this now frequently updated blog is trying to stay in the swing of blogging. This requires putting up a post a day. Rather than write something off the top of his head, though, he is burning "back catalogue", or material he wrote for classes that would get underappreciated, because he is tired on this day. Below is a satirical reaction to a strange situation--someone claimed that they were going to sue their doctor because of an irrelevant offhand comment he made. Enjoy.
"I Need Legal Advice"
by John Downey
I couldn't get my car out of the parking spot today because there was too much snow on the ground, so I had to walk to school today. On the way there, somebody tried to mug me, but I was able to break his arm and make a clean getaway. I got coffee from Dunkin' Donuts, but I spilled it all over somebody's baby by accident. The kid's mom yelled at me for being clumsy, so I called her a judgmental bitch who didn't understand the tough life I had. The bitch's fiance, who I have a math class with, stopped me on the way to school and asked for an explanation. I ran him through with my pencil, "Assassin's Creed"-style. A dog walked up to me, so I tried to bite its nose off. I got most of it before the owner yanked his dog away and said something that I missed because I was too busy not giving a fuck because I'm John Downey bitch, so I knocked him out, raped his father, and then took a shit on his sleeping mother. I slit the throat of the guy who was going to find the cure for cancer. I snitched on a couple of drug dealers, then I stole all of their porn and video games. I cast an early vote for John McCain. Right as I got to school, I was arrested by a couple of cops for various counts of assault, rape, attempted murder, murder, and resisting arrest (they interpreted my request to suck my balls as a refusal to be arrested, for some reason).
I plan on suing the snow for causing emotional duress that resulted in the events of the past day. I'm not responsible for today's mess; the snow is, and if you think differently, you should be put on an island and that island should be bombed.
What I need to know is, how do I send Mother Nature a subpoena? Any help in answering that question, as well as money to pay for legal fees/hospital bills/Fallout 3, would be much appreciated.
So, the writer of this now frequently updated blog is trying to stay in the swing of blogging. This requires putting up a post a day. Rather than write something off the top of his head, though, he is burning "back catalogue", or material he wrote for classes that would get underappreciated, because he is tired on this day. Below is a satirical reaction to a strange situation--someone claimed that they were going to sue their doctor because of an irrelevant offhand comment he made. Enjoy.
"I Need Legal Advice"
by John Downey
I couldn't get my car out of the parking spot today because there was too much snow on the ground, so I had to walk to school today. On the way there, somebody tried to mug me, but I was able to break his arm and make a clean getaway. I got coffee from Dunkin' Donuts, but I spilled it all over somebody's baby by accident. The kid's mom yelled at me for being clumsy, so I called her a judgmental bitch who didn't understand the tough life I had. The bitch's fiance, who I have a math class with, stopped me on the way to school and asked for an explanation. I ran him through with my pencil, "Assassin's Creed"-style. A dog walked up to me, so I tried to bite its nose off. I got most of it before the owner yanked his dog away and said something that I missed because I was too busy not giving a fuck because I'm John Downey bitch, so I knocked him out, raped his father, and then took a shit on his sleeping mother. I slit the throat of the guy who was going to find the cure for cancer. I snitched on a couple of drug dealers, then I stole all of their porn and video games. I cast an early vote for John McCain. Right as I got to school, I was arrested by a couple of cops for various counts of assault, rape, attempted murder, murder, and resisting arrest (they interpreted my request to suck my balls as a refusal to be arrested, for some reason).
I plan on suing the snow for causing emotional duress that resulted in the events of the past day. I'm not responsible for today's mess; the snow is, and if you think differently, you should be put on an island and that island should be bombed.
What I need to know is, how do I send Mother Nature a subpoena? Any help in answering that question, as well as money to pay for legal fees/hospital bills/Fallout 3, would be much appreciated.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Downey's "Classics" Presents: Snow White
Apparently, the best way for a writer to make a name for himself today is to do various writing jobs that doubles as an advertisement for his blog until he is ready to write a novel, which pays more than a job writing for a magazine. Sure, the writer could just skip a step and write the novel right away, but that shit is difficult, and without something resembling a cultivated audience, it would arrive in bookstores to general apathy. And that's even if it makes it into stores.
So, the writer of this now frequently updated blog is trying to stay in the swing of blogging. This requires putting up a post a day. Rather than write something off the top of his head, though, he is burning "back catalogue", or material he wrote for classes that would get underappreciated, because he is tired on this day. Below is possibly the strangest story he's ever told--and that covers a lot of ground. Enjoy, if you can.
"Snow White"
by John Downey
Robbie looked it over. She looked nice. Her body hadn’t really started to deteriorate yet, though the makeup had already worn off.
“Well?” said the dwarf.
Robbie thought it over. She was beautiful; why were they selling her so cheap? He inquired about that.
“She didn’t pay rent. Bitch forced herself on us. A few of us starved; that’s how we lost Hokey, Pacey, and Sparticus.”
She wasn’t well loved. She wasn’t considerate towards other people’s feelings. She wouldn’t be missed, in short. She did look nice, though, and Robbie couldn’t afford to be picky with his fetishes.
“300, then?” he asked.
“750. We still need to fix the door frames that she smashed with her huge ass.”
Robbie didn’t think that she had a huge ass. He thought her ass was perfect. Maybe not 750 perfect, but close enough. He paid Grumpy his asking price.
“Just make sure that you do your business with the drapes down,” was Grumpy’s parting words as Robbie carted her away.
The moral of the story:
If you don’t want to be taken advantage of by a necrophiliac, treat dwarves the same way you want to be treated.
So, the writer of this now frequently updated blog is trying to stay in the swing of blogging. This requires putting up a post a day. Rather than write something off the top of his head, though, he is burning "back catalogue", or material he wrote for classes that would get underappreciated, because he is tired on this day. Below is possibly the strangest story he's ever told--and that covers a lot of ground. Enjoy, if you can.
"Snow White"
by John Downey
Robbie looked it over. She looked nice. Her body hadn’t really started to deteriorate yet, though the makeup had already worn off.
“Well?” said the dwarf.
Robbie thought it over. She was beautiful; why were they selling her so cheap? He inquired about that.
“She didn’t pay rent. Bitch forced herself on us. A few of us starved; that’s how we lost Hokey, Pacey, and Sparticus.”
She wasn’t well loved. She wasn’t considerate towards other people’s feelings. She wouldn’t be missed, in short. She did look nice, though, and Robbie couldn’t afford to be picky with his fetishes.
“300, then?” he asked.
“750. We still need to fix the door frames that she smashed with her huge ass.”
Robbie didn’t think that she had a huge ass. He thought her ass was perfect. Maybe not 750 perfect, but close enough. He paid Grumpy his asking price.
“Just make sure that you do your business with the drapes down,” was Grumpy’s parting words as Robbie carted her away.
The moral of the story:
If you don’t want to be taken advantage of by a necrophiliac, treat dwarves the same way you want to be treated.
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