"I am agog; I am aghast! Has Marius fucked off at last?!?" Éponine Thénardier, removing her gaberdine, stood agazed on her cell phone. Pacing around her family's apartment in the opulent Gorbeau House, she glanced again and reconfirmed: she had nary a voice message. Known about town as the "Jondrette girl" (which, to her, made some sort of uninterrogated sense, though in having no clue as to just why the Parisians favored this term for her, she couldn't put her finger on exactly why), Éponine was a beautiful girl of somewhere in the neighborhood of…like, 15-17, or thereabouts, I think, and was certainly no stranger to the adoration of the proletariat--which made the absence of telephonic communiqués all the more befuddling and disconcerting (a feeling that she described alternately as "disconfuddlin'" and "shitbagged"). And yet, for Éponine, feeling shitbagged was somehow sublime; the sheer rarity with which the attention of the masses would come to wane made this personal disconfuddlement both terrifying and beautiful. Ordinarily, this disconshitbagging would eftsoons evaporate into the muggy springtime fogstars, and Éponine would crawl betwixt the sheets of her garbagemat and drift away into blissful slumber, soon to waken once more, free from the shackles of fuddleshitbags.
But on this day, as the first sun of a new Parisian June broke through the mistshine of the morning, Éponine was concerned. She stared, countenance unwavering (in a creepy, depressed sort of way, an expression/sensation which she'd refer to alternately as "decreeped" or "dickwiggled"), at the piles of letters she was supposed to send to rich folks across France (a daily task imposed upon her by her parents, M. and Mme Thénardier, who had left behind a lucrative existence as hotel owners in Montfermeil to retire to Paris, at which time they began to make Éponine write these letters--letters which they made her write under the name "Jondrette," a fact that both confused and bored her [a sensation that she'd refer to alternately as "borfused" or "fuckwaddled"]) to ask for some sort of donations or something--actually, Éponine would just copy from a script that her paps had already written, and she didn't really pay much attention; the act of reading made her feel both anxious and hungry--a feeling which she'd describe alternately as "hungraxious" or "pissheveled"--and she'd usually put it on auto-pilot. Of course, better still were the days when local inkhorn-mate Jean JeanValson (or something like that--remembering names made Éponine both furious and startled, a feeling which she'd describe alternately as "fartious" or "shartled") would come by and, appealing to what he claimed were the duties of the philanthropist, give the girl a biscuit and write her letters for her. Secretly, Éponine thought that maybe this ValJen Jeaner guy had a thing for her, but he seemed genuinely nice, and was also far too old for her, and so she tried not to think about it too much--besides, secret inklings made her feel both nauseous and fibromyalgiac, a feeling that she'd describe alternately as "fibronauseoalgia" or "just-plain-cock-berries."
On this morning, Éponine felt that the letters could wait. As she wandered the apartment, pacing hither and yon, she was certain that a pattern had emerged, a fact which left her incensed: pattern recognition made her feel tripped-out and salty, a feeling that she'd describe alternately as "salted out" and "pussbooted," and beyond that, it had become clear that no one was calling her anymore, which was the whole disconfuddlement shit, but, like, every single day. Placing her silent cell phone on the davenport and popping a disc into her Blu Ray player, she plopped back onto her trashbed and burst into tears. She had always known that the attention of the townsfolk was irrelevant, meaningless, and unavoidable, but it had been weeks since her last "telegram from Alexander Graham Bell" (which was a fun little term she used for "voice mail"--even though the usage of fun little terms made her feel droopy and pooped, a sensation which she actually had never described), and she hadn't seen Marius, JeanVal, Cosette, Fantine, or even that wacky policeman in at least a fortnight.
Sitting up on her rubbishpad, she slowly scanned her apartment, finding nothing but solitude. "Empty chairs at empty tables," thought she, "where my friends would love to sit." Suddenly, as in a dream or a movie--maybe even a French porno (the old kind, like, long before the days of contemporary, super-kinky French stuff like that put out by [exhaustive 12-pg. list of modern French pornographers redacted--Ed.]--I'm talking the classic stuff, like 1936's Mme Pam, the Bellman, and a few Croissants)--she had a grand epiphany (an experience that made her feel both "pennywise" and "pound-foolish" because she loved that axiom but didn't even come close to understanding it): The townspeople were depressed!
It all made sense now. Surely intimidated by her natural glory, the townspeople had become blubbering messes, homebound weirdos whose only exposure to the outside world would be via the memories of Éponine's grace and splendor, which they would never again experience, having found it too terrifyingly beautiful (and thus disconshitbagging) for human consumption. "I can hear the people sing," thought she, "singing the song of horny men (and women)--it is the music of a people who will not have sex again, for they dreamed a dream of me, but life has killed that dream they dreamed, and it is a dream that shall not be. Maybe I'll write and sing a song for them." And so she did.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This beautiful excerpt from Victor Hugo's Les Miserables (1862) offers insight into one of literature's most unique characters. Éponine truly feels sorrowful for the plight of the miserable ones who will never hold her heart (nor suckle her breasts, which were probably pretty nice by the time she was 18, which is all that really matters because you wouldn't consider it before then, right, dawg?!?), and, as far as secondary characters go, few are more beloved than she.
Of course, you might know her best from the famous musical based on this novel. AWESOME FUCKING COINCIDENCE ALERT: I starred as Éponine in the original Broadway cast (1850-2009) of Les Miserables!!! I'll let you breathe in that news for a moment (this fucking blog entry's really heating up now!), and we'll move on to a new paragraph.
AWESOME FUCKING NEW BLOG FEATURE ALERT: While my plans to introduce a new video feature to this blog remain on hold (for technical reasons that I'll explain in great detail next time--so don't fucking bother me about it until then!!!), I've gone ahead and done you one better. So, with that, it is your great pleasure to allow me to introduce a stunning innovation that will revolutionize the blogosphere (and fucking better put me in the running for 2012's BlogLord of the Year--I swear the fucking International Council of the Internet [at this point, I'd like to ask the official ICI representative who is vetting this post as part of the extensive process that goes into publishing anything on the ol' web to go ahead and skip past the rest of this parenthetical aside--as in, past these brackets and past the closing parenthesis and onto the rest of the initial sentence] wouldn't know innovation if it was sucking on their dicktits!) and likely alter the course of your life and existence both permanently and irreparably: Ladies, Dudes, and Snakes (seriously hoping that a few snakes like to read this blog), I present to you the new Incredibly Loud Slideshow feature!!!
That's right: I have managed to make photos move! Really, this is better than a video feature in every conceivable way--like, it combines photos and motion! So, what I've done is taken the original Broadway cast recording of my show-stopping performance of Les Mis classic (and stalwart member of the musical canon) "On Your Own" and put it to some pictures! Now, of course I don't own the rights to this song; thankfully, I can think of no recently proposed legislation that would regulate the usage of copyrighted materials on the Internet, so I feel comfortable that I can post this shit with impunity!
The first Incredibly Loud entre into the exciting world of slideshows. Includes performance photos, interpretive picture/lyric matching, and the original audio of AM Chenowith's legendary portrayal of Éponine Thénardier in the Broadway hit Les Miserables.
Whew. I'm out of breath just listening to you listening to me singing. It's time for us to hit the showers (not together--didn't you fucking pay any attention to the song?!? It's NEVER GONNA HAPPEN!) and call it a day.
Hmm. Well, you're still here. Not…sure what else I really have to say…don't want to have to ask you to leave…kinda would hope that you'd just sorta…like, get the hint…
WAIT!!! Actually, I did have something else! Taylor Swift--she of the voice that is matched in thinness only by my bosom--is set to star in the major motion picture production of Les Mis! As in, the musical, not the novel (which was already turned into a movie starring…eh, who cares? That thing was lame.)! Now, I'm only one (well-hung) man; how much change can I effect alone? Thus, your mission is clear, o miserable ones: Tell Hollywood that you want Chenowith!! Now, I'm not exactly sure how to get a hold of them…I guess start with www.Hollywood.com, or, easier still, dial every possible combination of phone numbers until you reach someone out there that matters!
Once you're done fillin' up answering machines (Hollywood is traditionally behind the times, technologically speaking, so this mission's gonna be a bit old-school), report back here posthaste! Fill up my comment boxes, follow @AMChenowith on Twitter, Like IncrediblyLoudWriting on Facebook, and e-mail me @ incrediblyloudwriting[dot]gmail[dot]com. Remember: Alone, you are worthless, but together, in service of me and my aims, you might accomplish…something. See you soon.
You're welcome,
AM Chenowith
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Thursday, July 7, 2011
We Called Him 'Grandpa'
Greetings. As the journey towards the release of ILW’s new video feature has proven arduous and trying (read: you want the video editing software installed so bad, YOU do it!), I thought I’d toss a figurative bone to your (literally) insatiable hunger (STOP eating my blog; you’re flushing my bandwidth budget down the toile–STOP, don’t do THAT either!) for more writing most loud. To that end, I invite you to take a short break from Facebook-creepin' on Abbi Peterson’s ‘I’m Real Bad, But I’m Real Hot: Summer Trix ‘n Treats 2011' photo album, and spend your time wisely by reading (I know, I know: reading’s not your ‘bag.’ Well, you know what else, Austin Powers? The 90s are over, man, and your slang is, like, sooo not cool! Anyway, dullard, take a LONG break!!) these words I’m about to write.
AWESOME PREFACE SEQUEL: My current version of WordPerfect (fuck you, it still exists, I bet) is recent enough to have spell check. However, its spell check does not recognize the words ‘blog’ and ‘Facebook.’ So, it’s kinda like I’m writing this to you from the past. Not, like, time traveling or whathaveyas (awesome note: it DOES recognize the word ‘whathaveyas’! Wait. Does the squiggly line underneath mean ‘spelled correctly’?), but from MY past (which shall henceforth be the only fucking past that matters to you). So, get that knitting...device-thingy...eh, that’s no good. Like a cat on a string, I shall...spin you...a yarn...eh, fuck it. Here’s your story:
‘Twas many a summer’s morn that found grandpa and I together on the front po–wait, GOT IT!
Here it comes...
Hang in there...
Wait for it...
BOOYAH! (unrelated)
Almost time...
BOOM: Hope you’re ready to do some sewin’, ‘cause I’m about to spin you a yarn! (BlogLord redemption: Complete.)
‘Twas many a summer’s morn that found grandpa and I together on the front porch (which, in actuality, was comprised of two shitty lawn chairs placed at stumbling distance from the front door [which, in actuality, was nothing more than four loosely-connected two-by-fours shoddily hammered into a hole in the facade of my grandparents’ house–-which, in actuality, was little more than an igloo-shaped mound of dirt, clay, and cigarette ashes, held together by spittle and love] and, of course, provided no shade; so, really, we were on grandpa’s “porch,” just outside of the “door” of his “house”...but, of course, I was too young to know that then), me in my bib-‘n-overalls, he sparking the day’s first blunt. Each morning, when the clock (in actuality, a local schizophrenic man with a good screaming voice and lots of energy) struck six (times, upon my forehead), my eyes would dart open, and I would sprint through the home screaming, "You’ll never catch me, you schizo fuck!!” until finally he’d tire himself out, throw up, place a phone (in actuality, one tin can with a string to nowhere) call to the White House, and then head for home. Catching my breath, I would sit at the kitchen table (which, in actuality, was little more than three rigid, erect, deceased Shetland ponies, shoulder to shoulder and duct-taped together) and listen intently to the sound of ferocious footsteps in the gravel pacing away from our home and the schizo’s profanity-laced sobbing fading gently into tinkling sparrows and mosquitoes, soon overtaken by Grandpa's thunderous coughing.
Around this time, my nostrils would invariably begin to with the delightful smell of bacon (in actuality, Grandpa's morning farts) and I'd find my spirit refreshed, ready to meet any endeavor that a new summer's morn was sure to promise. Slipping on my shoes (which were really nothing more than two hollowed-out squirrels, thumb-tacked into my heels and soles; like most kids, I'd get one new pair a year, just before the school year would begin. Going to the mall--in reality, the side of the highway--and waiting for a new pair of shoes was often the highlight of my year. Took us a lot of time, too. Sometimes, a truck would come along and smash a squirrel on the VERY FIRST DAY that we were out there waiting, and we'd hoot, and we'd holler, and Grandpa would slam a shot or two of tequila and down a Quaalude or six and we'd go back home--Grandpa always said, "God never giveth a man more than one shoe at a time, so, let's say a prayer of thanks for the timing that allowed for your shoe to dart across the street at the exact instant that the blessed trucker came barreling down the road and head for the hills. You can try 'er on when we get home."--and I'd be SURE that this season of shoe shopping would be unlike those before, and I'd dance and shout that we'd find a squirrel by the very next day, even! And, of course, Grandpa would nod, huff a nip of ether, and laugh knowingly. So, anyway, I would usually have but one shoe for about half of any given school year.), I would dart out of the house and hop into Grandpa's lap (which, in actuality, was a homemade prosthesis fashioned out of empty 2-liters, Elmer's, and wadded-up Kleenex). By this time, Grandpa's blunt would be reduced to a stub in his ashtray (actually the aforementioned prosthesis) and he'd call out for his beloved steamroller--and I, with pride, and a sense of duty, would reach under his chair and fetch it for him. "Here, pack me a 'roller," he'd inevitably say; I'd mouth the words along and quickly load up a towering bowl.
Like many of the Midwest's grizzled farmers, Grandpa would have put in more work by the time the steamroller began to pour that sweet Mary into his lungs than most men accomplish in a week. His routine never changed (though he wrote it down to remember):
1.) Up before the sun, drop acid.
2.) Get Grandma up and out of her bedroom (in actuality, an elaborate, revamped shed, complete with digital keypad entry, combination lock, retinal screening device, barred windows, and rape stick).
3.) Drive Grandma to work (in actuality, the local Children's Hospital, where Gran was the noted Director of Patient Care).
4.) Grandpa stuff.
By this time in the morning, Grandpa was on to stage four and had built up to a superhuman level of energy. Finishing his steamroller and pounding a shot of Jack, Grandpa would want to do one thing, and one thing only: Teach his grandson America's pastime (the Grand ol' game, a lil' hardball, stickball, tossin' the white, just-a-bit-o'-woodstick), baseball.
As I was diminutive in stature (though in neither cognition nor phallus), you'd imagine that Grandpa would start me off with Nerf, or Whiffle, or whatever, but Grandpa would have none of that "pussy shit," and slamming the rest of his Zima, he'd pick up a real bat (in actuality, a top-of-the-line carbon fiber transfemoral prosthesis that he'd beaten off of a homeless man) and ball (a round, cushioned piece of cork, wrapped tightly in windings of wool and cotton yarn and covered by stitched cowhide--actually, Grandpa's baseballs were pretty well done), and we'd hop the barbwire fence into the backyard (in actuality, Grandpa's neighbor's cattle yard), where he'd throw me pitches.
One fateful morn found Grandpa hackin' and-a wheezin' and-a snortin' and-a stompin'. We were in the backyard, and I was on fire (in actuality, I WAS on fire, Grandpa having just flicked his brunch--which, in actuality, was one of them Bob Marley joints…you know…with the cone shape, or whatevs--into my overalls, but in this case, "on fire" is used in a figurative sense), hammering every pitch that Grandpa fired my way. The longer we went, the further I'd hit 'em and the harder he'd throw 'em. After a low-blow distraction technique (the aforementioned joint toss), I slammed Grandpa's heater into oblivion (figurative, again: the ball did still exist, and, as always, I had to go run and get it). As I stepped back to the plate (in actuality, a dinner plate--which, in reality, was a cardboard box flap), Grandpa, clearly frustrated, took off his hat and wiped his brow. Stepping back onto the mound (in actuality, a mound of ants--Grandpa fucking HATED ants!!!!!), Grandpa's eyes bored into mine with steely focus. As he went into his windup, I remember thinking that I was gonna hit the fucking ball further than I had EVER before. Grandpa's release point, as always, was high and visible--the rotation of the ball out of his hand screamed 'fastball, high and tight'--and then, the lights went out.
I woke up to the sound of the doctor (actually a figment of Grandpa's acid-riddled brain) explaining that I'd been severely concussed, and was likely to experience a rash of symptoms--perhaps forever--that included short-and-long-term memory loss, hallucination, paranoia, and reliance on convoluted sentence structure.
So, anyway, by sophomore year, the bitch was just straight crazy, calling our dorm room like 13 times in a row, leaving pissed off messages on the machine--all of the usual shit. I admit it: I still fucked her from time to time, but c'mon--I'm not fucking made of steel (well, not all of me ;-), right?!), and it's hard to stay firm (well, easy for some of me ;-), right?!) when you're fucking wasted and some chick is just being straight OBVIOUS. Anyway, I always wrapped that shit, though, cause stalker chicks like that are bound to pull the goalie sometime, and there's no WAY I was having a kid with that shit. So, I know, I shouldn't have taken advantage of her feelings and all, but she's straight pulling my cock out, and I'm saying, "no, no, c'mon," and all of that, but, really. At a certain point, that shit's already in her mouth, and, at that point…yeah. So, anyway, to the 2011 Senior Class at Ridgeway High, go forth, and make us all proud. Your parents will probably love you no matter how it all turns out, but rest assured: I'm already disappointed.
_______________________________________________________
Wow! Pretty unbelivable to relive. Anyway, take this story with you. In order to test your reading comprehension, I'll leave the moral up to you to figure out. (Don't worry: I'll still tell you what my blog stories mean in the future. This will just be good practice.)
Anyway, fucking Like my Facebook page already so that I can start doing something with it, and definitely follow @AMChenowith on Twitter, where I actually do write some words every now and again.
You're welcome.
AWESOME PREFACE SEQUEL: My current version of WordPerfect (fuck you, it still exists, I bet) is recent enough to have spell check. However, its spell check does not recognize the words ‘blog’ and ‘Facebook.’ So, it’s kinda like I’m writing this to you from the past. Not, like, time traveling or whathaveyas (awesome note: it DOES recognize the word ‘whathaveyas’! Wait. Does the squiggly line underneath mean ‘spelled correctly’?), but from MY past (which shall henceforth be the only fucking past that matters to you). So, get that knitting...device-thingy...eh, that’s no good. Like a cat on a string, I shall...spin you...a yarn...eh, fuck it. Here’s your story:
‘Twas many a summer’s morn that found grandpa and I together on the front po–wait, GOT IT!
Here it comes...
Hang in there...
Wait for it...
BOOYAH! (unrelated)
Almost time...
BOOM: Hope you’re ready to do some sewin’, ‘cause I’m about to spin you a yarn! (BlogLord redemption: Complete.)
‘Twas many a summer’s morn that found grandpa and I together on the front porch (which, in actuality, was comprised of two shitty lawn chairs placed at stumbling distance from the front door [which, in actuality, was nothing more than four loosely-connected two-by-fours shoddily hammered into a hole in the facade of my grandparents’ house–-which, in actuality, was little more than an igloo-shaped mound of dirt, clay, and cigarette ashes, held together by spittle and love] and, of course, provided no shade; so, really, we were on grandpa’s “porch,” just outside of the “door” of his “house”...but, of course, I was too young to know that then), me in my bib-‘n-overalls, he sparking the day’s first blunt. Each morning, when the clock (in actuality, a local schizophrenic man with a good screaming voice and lots of energy) struck six (times, upon my forehead), my eyes would dart open, and I would sprint through the home screaming, "You’ll never catch me, you schizo fuck!!” until finally he’d tire himself out, throw up, place a phone (in actuality, one tin can with a string to nowhere) call to the White House, and then head for home. Catching my breath, I would sit at the kitchen table (which, in actuality, was little more than three rigid, erect, deceased Shetland ponies, shoulder to shoulder and duct-taped together) and listen intently to the sound of ferocious footsteps in the gravel pacing away from our home and the schizo’s profanity-laced sobbing fading gently into tinkling sparrows and mosquitoes, soon overtaken by Grandpa's thunderous coughing.
Around this time, my nostrils would invariably begin to with the delightful smell of bacon (in actuality, Grandpa's morning farts) and I'd find my spirit refreshed, ready to meet any endeavor that a new summer's morn was sure to promise. Slipping on my shoes (which were really nothing more than two hollowed-out squirrels, thumb-tacked into my heels and soles; like most kids, I'd get one new pair a year, just before the school year would begin. Going to the mall--in reality, the side of the highway--and waiting for a new pair of shoes was often the highlight of my year. Took us a lot of time, too. Sometimes, a truck would come along and smash a squirrel on the VERY FIRST DAY that we were out there waiting, and we'd hoot, and we'd holler, and Grandpa would slam a shot or two of tequila and down a Quaalude or six and we'd go back home--Grandpa always said, "God never giveth a man more than one shoe at a time, so, let's say a prayer of thanks for the timing that allowed for your shoe to dart across the street at the exact instant that the blessed trucker came barreling down the road and head for the hills. You can try 'er on when we get home."--and I'd be SURE that this season of shoe shopping would be unlike those before, and I'd dance and shout that we'd find a squirrel by the very next day, even! And, of course, Grandpa would nod, huff a nip of ether, and laugh knowingly. So, anyway, I would usually have but one shoe for about half of any given school year.), I would dart out of the house and hop into Grandpa's lap (which, in actuality, was a homemade prosthesis fashioned out of empty 2-liters, Elmer's, and wadded-up Kleenex). By this time, Grandpa's blunt would be reduced to a stub in his ashtray (actually the aforementioned prosthesis) and he'd call out for his beloved steamroller--and I, with pride, and a sense of duty, would reach under his chair and fetch it for him. "Here, pack me a 'roller," he'd inevitably say; I'd mouth the words along and quickly load up a towering bowl.
Like many of the Midwest's grizzled farmers, Grandpa would have put in more work by the time the steamroller began to pour that sweet Mary into his lungs than most men accomplish in a week. His routine never changed (though he wrote it down to remember):
1.) Up before the sun, drop acid.
2.) Get Grandma up and out of her bedroom (in actuality, an elaborate, revamped shed, complete with digital keypad entry, combination lock, retinal screening device, barred windows, and rape stick).
3.) Drive Grandma to work (in actuality, the local Children's Hospital, where Gran was the noted Director of Patient Care).
4.) Grandpa stuff.
By this time in the morning, Grandpa was on to stage four and had built up to a superhuman level of energy. Finishing his steamroller and pounding a shot of Jack, Grandpa would want to do one thing, and one thing only: Teach his grandson America's pastime (the Grand ol' game, a lil' hardball, stickball, tossin' the white, just-a-bit-o'-woodstick), baseball.
As I was diminutive in stature (though in neither cognition nor phallus), you'd imagine that Grandpa would start me off with Nerf, or Whiffle, or whatever, but Grandpa would have none of that "pussy shit," and slamming the rest of his Zima, he'd pick up a real bat (in actuality, a top-of-the-line carbon fiber transfemoral prosthesis that he'd beaten off of a homeless man) and ball (a round, cushioned piece of cork, wrapped tightly in windings of wool and cotton yarn and covered by stitched cowhide--actually, Grandpa's baseballs were pretty well done), and we'd hop the barbwire fence into the backyard (in actuality, Grandpa's neighbor's cattle yard), where he'd throw me pitches.
One fateful morn found Grandpa hackin' and-a wheezin' and-a snortin' and-a stompin'. We were in the backyard, and I was on fire (in actuality, I WAS on fire, Grandpa having just flicked his brunch--which, in actuality, was one of them Bob Marley joints…you know…with the cone shape, or whatevs--into my overalls, but in this case, "on fire" is used in a figurative sense), hammering every pitch that Grandpa fired my way. The longer we went, the further I'd hit 'em and the harder he'd throw 'em. After a low-blow distraction technique (the aforementioned joint toss), I slammed Grandpa's heater into oblivion (figurative, again: the ball did still exist, and, as always, I had to go run and get it). As I stepped back to the plate (in actuality, a dinner plate--which, in reality, was a cardboard box flap), Grandpa, clearly frustrated, took off his hat and wiped his brow. Stepping back onto the mound (in actuality, a mound of ants--Grandpa fucking HATED ants!!!!!), Grandpa's eyes bored into mine with steely focus. As he went into his windup, I remember thinking that I was gonna hit the fucking ball further than I had EVER before. Grandpa's release point, as always, was high and visible--the rotation of the ball out of his hand screamed 'fastball, high and tight'--and then, the lights went out.
I woke up to the sound of the doctor (actually a figment of Grandpa's acid-riddled brain) explaining that I'd been severely concussed, and was likely to experience a rash of symptoms--perhaps forever--that included short-and-long-term memory loss, hallucination, paranoia, and reliance on convoluted sentence structure.
So, anyway, by sophomore year, the bitch was just straight crazy, calling our dorm room like 13 times in a row, leaving pissed off messages on the machine--all of the usual shit. I admit it: I still fucked her from time to time, but c'mon--I'm not fucking made of steel (well, not all of me ;-), right?!), and it's hard to stay firm (well, easy for some of me ;-), right?!) when you're fucking wasted and some chick is just being straight OBVIOUS. Anyway, I always wrapped that shit, though, cause stalker chicks like that are bound to pull the goalie sometime, and there's no WAY I was having a kid with that shit. So, I know, I shouldn't have taken advantage of her feelings and all, but she's straight pulling my cock out, and I'm saying, "no, no, c'mon," and all of that, but, really. At a certain point, that shit's already in her mouth, and, at that point…yeah. So, anyway, to the 2011 Senior Class at Ridgeway High, go forth, and make us all proud. Your parents will probably love you no matter how it all turns out, but rest assured: I'm already disappointed.
_______________________________________________________
Wow! Pretty unbelivable to relive. Anyway, take this story with you. In order to test your reading comprehension, I'll leave the moral up to you to figure out. (Don't worry: I'll still tell you what my blog stories mean in the future. This will just be good practice.)
Anyway, fucking Like my Facebook page already so that I can start doing something with it, and definitely follow @AMChenowith on Twitter, where I actually do write some words every now and again.
You're welcome.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Charlie Sheen Goes Crazy Again! Will and Kate--Exclusive New Pics! Sexy Amateur Selfshots! or: Welcome, New Visitors!
Well, those rascals on the International Council of the Internet have done it again! Exclusivity has its perks, and as an officially-licensed BlogLord, it is both my duty and privilege to share with you, my repellent, downtrodden, simple-minded subject, the brand new Web-shattering, mind-bending, world-raping technique that will sweep the NetGlobe just as soon as I type the letters that together compose the words that our language (English ONLY, asshat! Okay, French, too. MAYBE German, but you'll have to talk to me later on...and bring money. Also, leave all of that kinky, bizarro DeutschFuckin' at home! Fine, bring it with you.) uses to symbolize the concepts which said words represent. Ready for it? Here goes: Search Engine Optimization.
Indeed, this modern acheivement of technoscience an--all right, let's stop right here. Do me a favor, and grab yourself a mirror. Take a look.
My god.
Look again. Is it really acceptable to present yourself to me looking this way? Listen, your hair is trending towards corpse-like-stringy already, and we've got to be nearing the Dodranscentennial (I totally know how many years that word means!) of your last (non-golden) shower; would it kill you to sell enough meth for some hair product and toilet paper (or, failing that, the tissue paper stuff that department stores use to line their boxes when they gift wrap your Christmas presents? Oh, that's right. You never got a Christmas present--you're an ORPHAN! Ha! Let's all of us laugh at the orphan! Not you, though, orphan. You stare at the floor! Anyway, like I was saying, that waxy-paper stuff got me through the first three months of 2010--and your blog subscription dues paid for my anal fissure repair! Thanks, orphan!), for chrissakes?!?
Sigh. All right, that was uncalled for. It took me a long time (not really, but this might make you feel better) to build up the courage to provide you with this (necessary!!!) constructive criticism, and instead of taking it to heart (and, preferably, butt, too--SERIOUSLY, clean your ass!!), you interrupted with seemingly-interminable questioning: What's the best hairstyle for me? Who is the NCAA's all-time leading rusher? Six Simple Steps to a Beautiful Backyard Garden! (This one isn't a question, fuckstick!) How can I tell if I'm pregnant? Is Charlie Sheen going crazy? What are the hottest spring fashion trends? Where can I find the hottest lesbian college girls? How many calories can I eat in a day? Do you have a mortgage calculator?
It is apparent that you value my time as much as your appearance. Alas, my schedule requires my ever-present attention from all sides (Note to self: Cancel partnership with Bukakke Scheduling Corporation. Also, hire Dave's Towel and Hose-off Service.), and I don't have the time to be providing answers to all of your "astute" queries. What kind of answers would I provide if I did have the time? ENOUGH WITH THE FUCKING QUESTIONS!!
Anyway, to gladly answer your question, my answers would look something like this: NFL Draft Results! The Controversy over Pippa's Dress! Obama "Birther" Controversy Re-Ignites--Certificate a Fake! Zsa Zsa Gabor--Still Alive! Meghan McCain--Apparently a Person! Hottest Twitter Trends! Drunk College Girls Party Down! Charlie Sheen with Porn Star! Porn! Porn! Pussy, pussy, Porn!
So, anyway, where was I headed before your pallid countenance, swollen paunch, and stinkity-poopity-poopy-butt caused me to derail? That's right! Search Engine Optimization (SEO) techniques! (NEW ACRONYM ALERT! "SEO" stands for "Search Engine Optimization"! Just another addition to your acron-ulary, courtesy of ILW! If y---what's that? You don't remember what "ILW" stands for?!? You need to smoke way less pot. Also, share more of your pot.)
So, what was I gonna say about SEO (knowledge put into action! I'm the greatest teacher this side of "Swingin'" Dick Raimer, who, despite his current prison sentence for lascivious acts with a child--even though everyone knows thatI that kid was askin' for it--was easily the greatest shop teacher that I ever had while in junior high.) techniques? Not much, apparently. See ya later!
Wait, no! I wanted to welcome in the new subordinates to the Incredibly Loud Family! (Also, I wanted to coin the term "Incredibly Loud Family," which you are most certainly NOT authorized to use, or even say--including, but not limited to, the case whereupon one should encounter or belong to a family of incredible loudness--without authorization from the aforementioned NetLord persuant to Article VI.0492 of Chapter 292 of the Charter Act of Internet Phraseology in accordance with Internet Law as established by Incredibly Loud Law! Stealing Money from Dickholes by Enforcing Bogus Rules! in 2009. Seriously, this is a legal matter, baby, and suin' you's no fun!)
At this point, I feel I should pause to let the new readers catch their collective eye-breath. You've scanned an awful lot of words to this point, and the timid yet erratic movements of your mouse (that's right; I've inserted a Trojan into your computer--which is just as fuckin' hot as it sounds--and can now monitor your every maneuver. Feelin' pretty bummed out that you went extra kinky with the porn this afternoon, huh?) betray your confusion. You came here for breaking celebrity gossip (and/or next-door chicks showin' some nip/a bit-o'-puss), and found yourself immediately enthralled (and, indeed, indoctrinated). But how on Earth did I lure you into this utopia to begin with?
Ever heard of a full circle? Well this, minions, is the very defi--you haven't? How can you have lived on this fuckin' planet long enough to--what's that? Oh. I see. Hahah. Little bit of egg on my face, it would appear, eh? Well, at least you've heard of that phrase. I mean, it's a pretty common idiom...then again, you've heretofore demonstrated little-to-no understanding of even the most basic of concepts...so, perhaps you'll forgive my presumption.
Anyway, here's where all of these new, crazy ideas come full circle: SEO techniques! Again! By choosing a title that reflects the kind of stories that the average Internet user (that's you, new visitors--keep reachin' for that lowest common denominator!) is searching for, your site is more likely to show up in search queries on the world's most popular engines (Infoseek, Lycos, Ask Jeeves, et al.). So, what you're reading is an awe-inspiring, life-altering blog entry that is merely under the guise of some bullshit "article" about whatever wholly irrelevant nonsense it is that you new readers care about.
Now, I don't want to get too deep (It's okay if that turned you on, but what follows won't be sexual. Sorry.) into the inner-workings (That do anything for ya? If not, work on your imagination.) of the magical land of SEO. After all, I'm the one scraping the $25 bi-annual dues together for membership with the International Council of the Internet--all that's asked of you is to sit here, read this, and imagine (then execute) ways to donate the money for my membership dues! Anyway, suffice it to say that, in addition to query prediction, certain keywords can increase your searchability and overall relevance as well.
Of course, some keywords are more effective than others. What sort of keywords? I dunno; you tell me, pussy! What kind of hard young dick would ask a silly question like that? You hot teenagers (18+) just think you can sit there all day, playing with your boobs, stripping your friends, and filming your own at-home lesbian orgies. Even Charlie Sheen, if consulting with Zsa Zsa Gabor (I hate to keep bringing her up, but seriously, she's at the fucking top of Yahoo!'s "Trending" list just about every fucking day!) at Westminster Abbey while Bree Olsen fucked whichever other porn star it is that Charlie Sheen is fucking in front of Charlie and Zsa Zsa in a session that was only broken up when American Idol came on television to announce the Official Rules for American Idol Voting, which became all the more interesting when American Idol presented the Top Ten American Idols of All-Time, wouldn't be crazy enough to give away the secrets of using popular keywords to enhance your searchablility--and I'll be godDAMNed if I'm gonna be crazier than Charlie Sheen!
So, in a nutshell, SEO allows a given search engine's CrawlerBots (almost certain to enslave mankind at some point) to identify key words, questions, and phrases on your website, and for your website to show up with higher priority for a greater number of relevant searches. Pretty easy, huh? Actually, it's insanely difficult, beyond your comprehension, and not worth explaining any further.
But, wait: How did I acquire my loyal subjects to begin with? You guessed it: SEO techniques! (The circle becomes full once more.) With what bait were they lured? Thankfully (because, seriously, I'm beyond sick of your questions at this point), the Internet holds the answer. Utilizing Google Webmaster Tools and Blogcounter, I've been able to track the various terms that search engine users have used to find this blog. Busted!! Here's a list of some of the more illustrative search queries, and what they turned up here at ILW:
*"Marshal Ney"--Marshal Michel Ney, known as one of the more stimulating figures in French history, is (possibly) one of the hottest search trends on the Interwebs. This curious surfer was lucky to come across this post.
*"nowsuckonthat.blogspot.com"--It seems a bit easier to simply type that address into your browser--and yet, this user was fortunate to happen across this entry, no doubt changing their Net-xperience for the rest of time.
*"young boy removing hisdress upto panti"--I'm really not certain which keywords made this blog a relevant retrieval for this query, but rest assured, I am proud. No judgement here--I can only hope that this fantasy was satisfied here at ILW.
*"Why athena made penelope more attractive"--The pedagogical value in this blog has never been more apparent. This user found my insightful close reading of The Odyssey a particularly valuable Sherpa along the trail of education--here's a big "You're welcome!" for the A, dude!
*"alright i'm getting dizzy just enjoy the party"--Let's hope that this site was a welcome respite from the world of socialization! Also, props on your ability to read--and scout out new blogs--while fucked up at a party!
*"cocksucking contest"--If we held one, I missed it. Bummer.
*1000 iterations of "cum-hungry cocksuckers"--First of all, I hyphenated "cum-hungry" for the user in this replication. Most search engine users disregard grammar whilst jacking off. Anyway, there were about 70 versions of this phrase. I assume there must be a real dearth in the amount of porn on the Internet for Google to readily throw my site into the "relevant" category for these searches. Better luck next time!
So, as you can see, I have a real need to diversify my following. I couldn't be more stoked to have Young-Boy-Removing-Hisdress-Upto-Panti Guy here, but he can't carry this load (though he could probably take it) all by himself. Simply put: I needbetter more followers.
By now, my fanboys-'n-dolls consider this entry the biggest bag of sellout this side of Chocolate Starfish and the Hot Dog Flavored Water. (If you understood that reference, punch yourself in the face three times--one for each dollar bill, y'all.)
However, loyal denizens need not dismay, for your adoration goes neither unheeded nor unnoticed. With this in mind, I'd like to do my loyal followers (you too, newbies--just don't tell the others!) the favor of sharing a true story from my past.
It was tenth grade, and it was almost summer. Things were going well enough. I was on the football team, and leading the squad with 43 points and 12 doubles per bout. While the others dealt with the agony of pubescence--acne, social anxiety, hairless genitals (talkin' to you, Mikey Alopeecciano!)--I enjoyed the spoils of near-superhuman cognition, and a body that forced Adonis to commit suicide (which is a pretty cool story that I'll tell you sometime). Yes, my face was without blemish, I was a star of athletic sporting games, and I had a pube-bush that was regularly inhaled by the young ladies who desperately mouth-grasped at my weiner. I was all that and a bag of chips (a common accompaniment during those times), but there was one young man's attention that I simply could not grab, and as spring faded into summer, and summer back into spring, I grew more and more perturbed. By the time that spring had sprung into the winter of ninth grade, I was downright distraught.
The boy was known by just one name: Stripes. Rotund, silent, and possibly retarded (medically, not in a cruel way), Stripes was quite the enigma. His wardrobe, impetus for his nickname, contained but one shirt--a light brown sweater with solid gray stripes that ran horizontally. The sweater got quite the workout (even more than my Christ-abs), particularly when considering that Stripes was infamous for another quirk: Puking in public.
Summer had turned into winter, which finally gave way to glorious fall. As the outside world burst into fall's full bloom, the world of academia slid headlong into end-of-term exams, or as they're better known to students: Finals. Hoping to advance into 7th grade, I knew I had to pass my history final. Of course, our high school had but one history teacher (the dreaded Mr. Anuz), and his tests were notorious for their difficulty. I had finished my exam in the first 90 seconds, and was trying my hardest to focus on pray-wishing for the success of my classmates. Suddenly, the back of the room exploded into unadulterated commotion. Students leaped from their chairs, leaving unfinished booklets in their wake, desperately trying to pull their desks and bags from the eye of the storm, where Stripes, in a futile attempt to keep a hand over his mouth, was spraying chunder in five different directions.
The talk in school that afternoon was that Stripes's hork had smelled like Peach Schnapps. As a college senior, I was too young to know what alcohol smelled like, but I played along anyway. In reality, I had been too distracted to even notice, for as Stripes was led away from the scene of his crime, his eyes had met mine, and there they remained until the nurse had pulled him from the room entirely.
Some things never change, and when summer signaled the beginning of my 14th year (and the dreaded 2nd grade), I was reminded of this fact immediately. It was 2nd period, and I had just finished slaying the aria in Buccacinniocci's "Mio Babbino plays The Magic Flute" during Choir practice. When the music stopped, I was strangely but acutely aware of a set of eyes boring into my existence. I looked up. The eyes belonged to Stripes. At the time, I thought nothing of it. The director excused me to perform my hourly ritual of honey gargling and tilapia snorting (gotta keep the vocal chords fresh!), and the rest of the choir waited patiently for my return. When I strode back, fresh with fish and honey, into the room and took my place atop the director's lap, I felt again that my soul was being raped, and my eyes looked up to find that same set of brown-'n-grays. That shirt really did bring out his eyes.
So, the year went on, and Stripes ralphed again, this time backstage just before the choir was to perform at Tantamount, the city's largest theater. As a fifth grader growing with confidence, I had accepted the fact that Stripes just didn't seem to like me (and also, I was old enough to know that his puke did smell like Peach Schnapps!). Sure, he looked at me--so did everyone else! While his eyes never seemed to stray from my person, not once had the chap even so much as breathed in my direction. Where was the explicit adoration, the exaltation, the servitude, the gratitude? Indeed, the school year was winding to a close as summer's icy winds rolled into spring's sweltering rainfog, and I thought that junior high would end with nary a word from a boy whose attention I so desired.
It was the last day of school, and I had just finished a grueling session of providing personalized yearbook messages for the entirety of the student body and faculty. Swinging by my locker one last time, I swept the last of its possessions into my bag, which I swung over my shoulder before slamming the door shut. The end of the school year was ordinarily a torrent of emotion--so many accomplishments, so many friends, so much love. You put 1,000 pubescents together for 180 days, and it's going to foster an environment of teamwork and family. With a galvanizing force like me, our school was like a giant caterpillar: One giant, awesome brain, and a bunch of legs that helped get me to the top of the hill. But as the door swung shut on the school year, I remained tormented. Why wouldn't Stripes buy in?
As I headed down the hallway towards the parking lot one final time (high-fiving janitors and doing a bunch of other cool shit, too), I saw a figure underneath the Exit sign, which, in this moment, seemed to shine like 50-60 guys holding up a bunch of those really strong light-thingers that they use to light up baseball stadiums and U2 concerts 'n stuff. Suddenly, the figure became clear, and my breath stopped in my chest (before my super-strong lungs forced it out of my mouth). It was Stripes.
As I reached the doorway, time seemed to stand still. In a moment that wouldn't have been more surreal had I been simultaneously raped by David Lynch, our eyes met, and Stripes's beautiful mouth opened just enough to utter one simple phrase: "In case you're wondering why I'm always staring at you in class and stuff, it's because I like you." Stunned, I offered a brief, "Um, thank you." After having tender sex with the lad (not really, but just in case Stripes has tracked me down via this blog, I thought I'd offer him this fantasy. Good sleuthin', Stripesy-Boy!), I went home and masturbated to the knowledge that I had won another fan.
So, to my readers both old and new, the message of this story should be clear (and no doubt would be, if you didn't suffer from such terrible reading comprehension skills): I need your undying attention and affection, but yours alone will never be enough (sorry!). In adolescence and adulthood, I've held much of the world under my thumb--but it will never be enough until each and every last human falls in line.
So, old readers, that's why I used these fancy Internet tricks to scoop up some noobs. Noobs, don't mind those old fuckers; they're just jealous of your sexy youthful vigor. Together, you form a family, and your collective worship is powerful. I need your love, and I feed from your love. Narcissism is the better part of valor, and without you, my valor levels would be pretty low.
So, the message is two-fold: As usual, help me spread the word! Facebook updates really seem to do the trick (I can track where you came from, remember, Mr. PotWeed?), and you can even follow ILW on Facebook and Twitter (FUCKING DO IT ALREADY!!!!). I have some really cool stuff planned, but if a tree falls in the forest and only idiots are there to hear it, some of those idiots are going to get crushed and killed, so we need to make sure there are plenty of idiots around to hear the tree fall, survive, and then tell others where they could also hear the tree fall. But, like Stripes before you, your silent awe is not enough. Use the comment boxes, or shoot me an e-mail (typing instructions are possibly available at your local library).
And with that, I send you off into that good night.
You're we--WAIT!! I almost forgot! I actually did have a Hot Amateur Selfshot to share with you!!!
You're welcome.
Indeed, this modern acheivement of technoscience an--all right, let's stop right here. Do me a favor, and grab yourself a mirror. Take a look.
My god.
Look again. Is it really acceptable to present yourself to me looking this way? Listen, your hair is trending towards corpse-like-stringy already, and we've got to be nearing the Dodranscentennial (I totally know how many years that word means!) of your last (non-golden) shower; would it kill you to sell enough meth for some hair product and toilet paper (or, failing that, the tissue paper stuff that department stores use to line their boxes when they gift wrap your Christmas presents? Oh, that's right. You never got a Christmas present--you're an ORPHAN! Ha! Let's all of us laugh at the orphan! Not you, though, orphan. You stare at the floor! Anyway, like I was saying, that waxy-paper stuff got me through the first three months of 2010--and your blog subscription dues paid for my anal fissure repair! Thanks, orphan!), for chrissakes?!?
Sigh. All right, that was uncalled for. It took me a long time (not really, but this might make you feel better) to build up the courage to provide you with this (necessary!!!) constructive criticism, and instead of taking it to heart (and, preferably, butt, too--SERIOUSLY, clean your ass!!), you interrupted with seemingly-interminable questioning: What's the best hairstyle for me? Who is the NCAA's all-time leading rusher? Six Simple Steps to a Beautiful Backyard Garden! (This one isn't a question, fuckstick!) How can I tell if I'm pregnant? Is Charlie Sheen going crazy? What are the hottest spring fashion trends? Where can I find the hottest lesbian college girls? How many calories can I eat in a day? Do you have a mortgage calculator?
It is apparent that you value my time as much as your appearance. Alas, my schedule requires my ever-present attention from all sides (Note to self: Cancel partnership with Bukakke Scheduling Corporation. Also, hire Dave's Towel and Hose-off Service.), and I don't have the time to be providing answers to all of your "astute" queries. What kind of answers would I provide if I did have the time? ENOUGH WITH THE FUCKING QUESTIONS!!
Anyway, to gladly answer your question, my answers would look something like this: NFL Draft Results! The Controversy over Pippa's Dress! Obama "Birther" Controversy Re-Ignites--Certificate a Fake! Zsa Zsa Gabor--Still Alive! Meghan McCain--Apparently a Person! Hottest Twitter Trends! Drunk College Girls Party Down! Charlie Sheen with Porn Star! Porn! Porn! Pussy, pussy, Porn!
So, anyway, where was I headed before your pallid countenance, swollen paunch, and stinkity-poopity-poopy-butt caused me to derail? That's right! Search Engine Optimization (SEO) techniques! (NEW ACRONYM ALERT! "SEO" stands for "Search Engine Optimization"! Just another addition to your acron-ulary, courtesy of ILW! If y---what's that? You don't remember what "ILW" stands for?!? You need to smoke way less pot. Also, share more of your pot.)
So, what was I gonna say about SEO (knowledge put into action! I'm the greatest teacher this side of "Swingin'" Dick Raimer, who, despite his current prison sentence for lascivious acts with a child--even though everyone knows that
Wait, no! I wanted to welcome in the new subordinates to the Incredibly Loud Family! (Also, I wanted to coin the term "Incredibly Loud Family," which you are most certainly NOT authorized to use, or even say--including, but not limited to, the case whereupon one should encounter or belong to a family of incredible loudness--without authorization from the aforementioned NetLord persuant to Article VI.0492 of Chapter 292 of the Charter Act of Internet Phraseology in accordance with Internet Law as established by Incredibly Loud Law! Stealing Money from Dickholes by Enforcing Bogus Rules! in 2009. Seriously, this is a legal matter, baby, and suin' you's no fun!)
At this point, I feel I should pause to let the new readers catch their collective eye-breath. You've scanned an awful lot of words to this point, and the timid yet erratic movements of your mouse (that's right; I've inserted a Trojan into your computer--which is just as fuckin' hot as it sounds--and can now monitor your every maneuver. Feelin' pretty bummed out that you went extra kinky with the porn this afternoon, huh?) betray your confusion. You came here for breaking celebrity gossip (and/or next-door chicks showin' some nip/a bit-o'-puss), and found yourself immediately enthralled (and, indeed, indoctrinated). But how on Earth did I lure you into this utopia to begin with?
Ever heard of a full circle? Well this, minions, is the very defi--you haven't? How can you have lived on this fuckin' planet long enough to--what's that? Oh. I see. Hahah. Little bit of egg on my face, it would appear, eh? Well, at least you've heard of that phrase. I mean, it's a pretty common idiom...then again, you've heretofore demonstrated little-to-no understanding of even the most basic of concepts...so, perhaps you'll forgive my presumption.
Anyway, here's where all of these new, crazy ideas come full circle: SEO techniques! Again! By choosing a title that reflects the kind of stories that the average Internet user (that's you, new visitors--keep reachin' for that lowest common denominator!) is searching for, your site is more likely to show up in search queries on the world's most popular engines (Infoseek, Lycos, Ask Jeeves, et al.). So, what you're reading is an awe-inspiring, life-altering blog entry that is merely under the guise of some bullshit "article" about whatever wholly irrelevant nonsense it is that you new readers care about.
Now, I don't want to get too deep (It's okay if that turned you on, but what follows won't be sexual. Sorry.) into the inner-workings (That do anything for ya? If not, work on your imagination.) of the magical land of SEO. After all, I'm the one scraping the $25 bi-annual dues together for membership with the International Council of the Internet--all that's asked of you is to sit here, read this, and imagine (then execute) ways to donate the money for my membership dues! Anyway, suffice it to say that, in addition to query prediction, certain keywords can increase your searchability and overall relevance as well.
Of course, some keywords are more effective than others. What sort of keywords? I dunno; you tell me, pussy! What kind of hard young dick would ask a silly question like that? You hot teenagers (18+) just think you can sit there all day, playing with your boobs, stripping your friends, and filming your own at-home lesbian orgies. Even Charlie Sheen, if consulting with Zsa Zsa Gabor (I hate to keep bringing her up, but seriously, she's at the fucking top of Yahoo!'s "Trending" list just about every fucking day!) at Westminster Abbey while Bree Olsen fucked whichever other porn star it is that Charlie Sheen is fucking in front of Charlie and Zsa Zsa in a session that was only broken up when American Idol came on television to announce the Official Rules for American Idol Voting, which became all the more interesting when American Idol presented the Top Ten American Idols of All-Time, wouldn't be crazy enough to give away the secrets of using popular keywords to enhance your searchablility--and I'll be godDAMNed if I'm gonna be crazier than Charlie Sheen!
So, in a nutshell, SEO allows a given search engine's CrawlerBots (almost certain to enslave mankind at some point) to identify key words, questions, and phrases on your website, and for your website to show up with higher priority for a greater number of relevant searches. Pretty easy, huh? Actually, it's insanely difficult, beyond your comprehension, and not worth explaining any further.
But, wait: How did I acquire my loyal subjects to begin with? You guessed it: SEO techniques! (The circle becomes full once more.) With what bait were they lured? Thankfully (because, seriously, I'm beyond sick of your questions at this point), the Internet holds the answer. Utilizing Google Webmaster Tools and Blogcounter, I've been able to track the various terms that search engine users have used to find this blog. Busted!! Here's a list of some of the more illustrative search queries, and what they turned up here at ILW:
*"Marshal Ney"--Marshal Michel Ney, known as one of the more stimulating figures in French history, is (possibly) one of the hottest search trends on the Interwebs. This curious surfer was lucky to come across this post.
*"nowsuckonthat.blogspot.com"--It seems a bit easier to simply type that address into your browser--and yet, this user was fortunate to happen across this entry, no doubt changing their Net-xperience for the rest of time.
*"young boy removing hisdress upto panti"--I'm really not certain which keywords made this blog a relevant retrieval for this query, but rest assured, I am proud. No judgement here--I can only hope that this fantasy was satisfied here at ILW.
*"Why athena made penelope more attractive"--The pedagogical value in this blog has never been more apparent. This user found my insightful close reading of The Odyssey a particularly valuable Sherpa along the trail of education--here's a big "You're welcome!" for the A, dude!
*"alright i'm getting dizzy just enjoy the party"--Let's hope that this site was a welcome respite from the world of socialization! Also, props on your ability to read--and scout out new blogs--while fucked up at a party!
*"cocksucking contest"--If we held one, I missed it. Bummer.
*1000 iterations of "cum-hungry cocksuckers"--First of all, I hyphenated "cum-hungry" for the user in this replication. Most search engine users disregard grammar whilst jacking off. Anyway, there were about 70 versions of this phrase. I assume there must be a real dearth in the amount of porn on the Internet for Google to readily throw my site into the "relevant" category for these searches. Better luck next time!
So, as you can see, I have a real need to diversify my following. I couldn't be more stoked to have Young-Boy-Removing-Hisdress-Upto-Panti Guy here, but he can't carry this load (though he could probably take it) all by himself. Simply put: I need
By now, my fanboys-'n-dolls consider this entry the biggest bag of sellout this side of Chocolate Starfish and the Hot Dog Flavored Water. (If you understood that reference, punch yourself in the face three times--one for each dollar bill, y'all.)
However, loyal denizens need not dismay, for your adoration goes neither unheeded nor unnoticed. With this in mind, I'd like to do my loyal followers (you too, newbies--just don't tell the others!) the favor of sharing a true story from my past.
It was tenth grade, and it was almost summer. Things were going well enough. I was on the football team, and leading the squad with 43 points and 12 doubles per bout. While the others dealt with the agony of pubescence--acne, social anxiety, hairless genitals (talkin' to you, Mikey Alopeecciano!)--I enjoyed the spoils of near-superhuman cognition, and a body that forced Adonis to commit suicide (which is a pretty cool story that I'll tell you sometime). Yes, my face was without blemish, I was a star of athletic sporting games, and I had a pube-bush that was regularly inhaled by the young ladies who desperately mouth-grasped at my weiner. I was all that and a bag of chips (a common accompaniment during those times), but there was one young man's attention that I simply could not grab, and as spring faded into summer, and summer back into spring, I grew more and more perturbed. By the time that spring had sprung into the winter of ninth grade, I was downright distraught.
The boy was known by just one name: Stripes. Rotund, silent, and possibly retarded (medically, not in a cruel way), Stripes was quite the enigma. His wardrobe, impetus for his nickname, contained but one shirt--a light brown sweater with solid gray stripes that ran horizontally. The sweater got quite the workout (even more than my Christ-abs), particularly when considering that Stripes was infamous for another quirk: Puking in public.
Summer had turned into winter, which finally gave way to glorious fall. As the outside world burst into fall's full bloom, the world of academia slid headlong into end-of-term exams, or as they're better known to students: Finals. Hoping to advance into 7th grade, I knew I had to pass my history final. Of course, our high school had but one history teacher (the dreaded Mr. Anuz), and his tests were notorious for their difficulty. I had finished my exam in the first 90 seconds, and was trying my hardest to focus on pray-wishing for the success of my classmates. Suddenly, the back of the room exploded into unadulterated commotion. Students leaped from their chairs, leaving unfinished booklets in their wake, desperately trying to pull their desks and bags from the eye of the storm, where Stripes, in a futile attempt to keep a hand over his mouth, was spraying chunder in five different directions.
The talk in school that afternoon was that Stripes's hork had smelled like Peach Schnapps. As a college senior, I was too young to know what alcohol smelled like, but I played along anyway. In reality, I had been too distracted to even notice, for as Stripes was led away from the scene of his crime, his eyes had met mine, and there they remained until the nurse had pulled him from the room entirely.
Some things never change, and when summer signaled the beginning of my 14th year (and the dreaded 2nd grade), I was reminded of this fact immediately. It was 2nd period, and I had just finished slaying the aria in Buccacinniocci's "Mio Babbino plays The Magic Flute" during Choir practice. When the music stopped, I was strangely but acutely aware of a set of eyes boring into my existence. I looked up. The eyes belonged to Stripes. At the time, I thought nothing of it. The director excused me to perform my hourly ritual of honey gargling and tilapia snorting (gotta keep the vocal chords fresh!), and the rest of the choir waited patiently for my return. When I strode back, fresh with fish and honey, into the room and took my place atop the director's lap, I felt again that my soul was being raped, and my eyes looked up to find that same set of brown-'n-grays. That shirt really did bring out his eyes.
So, the year went on, and Stripes ralphed again, this time backstage just before the choir was to perform at Tantamount, the city's largest theater. As a fifth grader growing with confidence, I had accepted the fact that Stripes just didn't seem to like me (and also, I was old enough to know that his puke did smell like Peach Schnapps!). Sure, he looked at me--so did everyone else! While his eyes never seemed to stray from my person, not once had the chap even so much as breathed in my direction. Where was the explicit adoration, the exaltation, the servitude, the gratitude? Indeed, the school year was winding to a close as summer's icy winds rolled into spring's sweltering rainfog, and I thought that junior high would end with nary a word from a boy whose attention I so desired.
It was the last day of school, and I had just finished a grueling session of providing personalized yearbook messages for the entirety of the student body and faculty. Swinging by my locker one last time, I swept the last of its possessions into my bag, which I swung over my shoulder before slamming the door shut. The end of the school year was ordinarily a torrent of emotion--so many accomplishments, so many friends, so much love. You put 1,000 pubescents together for 180 days, and it's going to foster an environment of teamwork and family. With a galvanizing force like me, our school was like a giant caterpillar: One giant, awesome brain, and a bunch of legs that helped get me to the top of the hill. But as the door swung shut on the school year, I remained tormented. Why wouldn't Stripes buy in?
As I headed down the hallway towards the parking lot one final time (high-fiving janitors and doing a bunch of other cool shit, too), I saw a figure underneath the Exit sign, which, in this moment, seemed to shine like 50-60 guys holding up a bunch of those really strong light-thingers that they use to light up baseball stadiums and U2 concerts 'n stuff. Suddenly, the figure became clear, and my breath stopped in my chest (before my super-strong lungs forced it out of my mouth). It was Stripes.
As I reached the doorway, time seemed to stand still. In a moment that wouldn't have been more surreal had I been simultaneously raped by David Lynch, our eyes met, and Stripes's beautiful mouth opened just enough to utter one simple phrase: "In case you're wondering why I'm always staring at you in class and stuff, it's because I like you." Stunned, I offered a brief, "Um, thank you." After having tender sex with the lad (not really, but just in case Stripes has tracked me down via this blog, I thought I'd offer him this fantasy. Good sleuthin', Stripesy-Boy!), I went home and masturbated to the knowledge that I had won another fan.
So, to my readers both old and new, the message of this story should be clear (and no doubt would be, if you didn't suffer from such terrible reading comprehension skills): I need your undying attention and affection, but yours alone will never be enough (sorry!). In adolescence and adulthood, I've held much of the world under my thumb--but it will never be enough until each and every last human falls in line.
So, old readers, that's why I used these fancy Internet tricks to scoop up some noobs. Noobs, don't mind those old fuckers; they're just jealous of your sexy youthful vigor. Together, you form a family, and your collective worship is powerful. I need your love, and I feed from your love. Narcissism is the better part of valor, and without you, my valor levels would be pretty low.
So, the message is two-fold: As usual, help me spread the word! Facebook updates really seem to do the trick (I can track where you came from, remember, Mr. PotWeed?), and you can even follow ILW on Facebook and Twitter (FUCKING DO IT ALREADY!!!!). I have some really cool stuff planned, but if a tree falls in the forest and only idiots are there to hear it, some of those idiots are going to get crushed and killed, so we need to make sure there are plenty of idiots around to hear the tree fall, survive, and then tell others where they could also hear the tree fall. But, like Stripes before you, your silent awe is not enough. Use the comment boxes, or shoot me an e-mail (typing instructions are possibly available at your local library).
And with that, I send you off into that good night.
You're we--WAIT!! I almost forgot! I actually did have a Hot Amateur Selfshot to share with you!!!
You're welcome.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
You've Just Seen a Face OR: A Real Bad Napoleon Complex
You disgust me. I'll let that sink in. Skip ahead a line.
No, not this one. Skip ahead again.
Nothing to see here. Skip forward, just one more line.
Hi there! What can I help you with? No, you've got the wrong line. You need to skip forward.
Howdy, stranger! What can I do ya for? Nope, I reckon you've been misinformed. Skip ahead.
GET THE FUCK OFF OF THIS LINE! SKIP AHEAD, AND TELL NO ONE WHAT YOU SAW!
Best to just skip forward.
These aren't the words you're looking for. You can go about your business, down at the next line.
FINALLY! We've been waiting for a half-hour for you to sho--wait, my apologies. Next line.
Italics only...bitch. Next!
Hiya. Me again. I promise. This is the right line. You made it! Okay, now go to the next line.
Over the last 15 minutes of line-skippin', you've been provided with ample time for self reflection, which has undoubtedly devolved into mere panic. What on Earth could he have meant by 'You disgust me?' 'Tis only a mere fortnight since my last rag-washin'! No, your physical hygiene (finally!) isn't the source of my grand repugnance towards all that is you; rather, it is the feculent condition of your mind.
Listen, junior high was difficult. Some of you spent most of your time trying to hide erections that lasted for upwards of 17 hours; some of you spent most of your time ruining pair after pair of panties with newly-flowing chick blood and trying to convince your asshole stepdad that just because he'd murdered your mom didn't mean that he couldn't go buy you tampons, and then, when that failed, having to talk your way into a waitress job--at the age of 13--in order to pay for Maxi Pads and replacement undies; and some of you spent your time both hiding hard-ons AND cleaning endless amounts of blood from your groin (you dudes remember that time that Stinky Stevie Washington got his cock stuck in his boxers, and when he unzipped, he sliced clean through his plantain and passed out? Dude, the janitor was so pissed! EPIC!!). Whatever you were up to, one thing is clear: you weren't studying your History textbook.
Indeed, my contempt towards your general ignorance knows no bounds; alas, my pedagogical duties are equally unrestrained, leaving me with little choice but to share with you this tiddlebit of good news: I'm gettin' a history book published! The timing of this grand achievement (for me, not for you ... well, except for in as much as you are part of society at large, and will thus benefit, if somewhat vicariously, from the great leaps that society takes as it benefits from the historical insight in my new book!!) could not be more serendipitous. Remember how I called you "disgusting"? There was a reason fo--okay, really? You don't reme--that was literally, like, five minutes ago. Seriously ... just go back to the top of this entry. We'll wait for you here. No, it's cool--I'm sure we've all got time to burn. Definitely nooo chance that anyone will be resentful ... we're waiting ... finally! Jesus freaking Cripes. The kind of assholes that I deal with on a daily basis...
Anyway, I find you disgusting, remember? Alas, the universe offers you but one chance of redemption; fortunately, it can be found nestled deep in the annals (don't get too excited; you misread that last word) of time. So, without further adieu, I present to you an illustrative citation from Incredibly Loud History: Finally, A History you can Understand (Chenowith, AM. Texas Education Agency Publishing, 2011.):
CHAPTER 73: SACK UP, NAPOLEON!
Michel Ney was a creature of habit. 22 June 1812 was a day like any other, and Ney began his morning ritual in kind, desperately pumping at the bulge underneath his fine silk pajama trousers. Terrified that the semi-commotion would arouse the attention of his bunkmates (the original Marshals of France), Ney found himself racing desperately against the sun, whose ascent regularly threatened to peak before Ney's morning acclivity had been equally conquered.
Yet, the morning of 22 June began like any other. Wiping himself clean with his fine silk pajama socks, Ney rose before the rest of the Marshals. Resentful of the sun that began to filter its way through the cracks in the shoddily-assembled canvas tent under which eighteen men were supposed to sleep (without any heavy petting, according to the bogus Napoleonic Code that governed employment at that time), Ney wiped the dried-up sleep from the corners of his eyes (and groin).
The break of dawn was never cathartic for Ney; rather, it served as an ever-present reminder that reality would once again strip Ney from the nocturnal utopia where he preferred to reside. The morning of 22 June began like any other; Michel Ney wished with all of his might for the ability to return to his dreams.
And yet, sleep itself was little relief. While daylight seldom found Ney in reverie, he'd been having the same dream for years, could pinpoint its exact beginning. 19 May 1804 was a day that had begun like any other, but had ended with Ney standing in front of the entire French Army (an experience that, for Ney, was preceded with terror so great that he invented the technique of imagining an audience in their underwear in order to assuage one's fear of public speaking...thanks, Ney!) while supple, tender Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor of France and King of Italy, conferred upon him the rank of Marshal of France.
Napoleon had concluded the coronation by dubbing Ney "Bravest of the Brave." As the French Army erupted into celebration (they had all gotten pretty boozed up beforehand), Napoleon turned to shake Ney's hand. The feeling of Nap's soft, sinewy fingers that somehow seemed to crawl beyond the knuckles and creep past the wrist before burrowing deep down into one's soul was one that Ney would never forget; the wink that Napoleon gave as he slowly released Ney's hand (and, Ney felt, heart) was etched into Ney's persona so deep as to alter it forever. That night, the dreams began.
For eight years, each night was like any other. Napoleon appeared to Ney in his dreams, majestic and proud atop a white steed (which was slightly less-endowed than your average steed, due to Napoleon's totally reasonable request to not risk his own genitalia becoming fodder for ridicule by the men who bathed both the horse and his majesty) and took Ney's hand once more. Ney's eyes would well with tears. "Nappy, it's been eight years. Why haven't you called?" he'd sniffle. "Have you waited for me?" would come the reply. "Bonnie-baby, I would wait an eternity." With this, Napoleon would lean in towards Ney, whose trembling hands crept towards Napoleon's bon--and at just this point, each morning, reality would impose itself once more, leaving Ney to "finish the dream," if you will. Was that a bit vague? I mean to say that he'd wake up and masturbate. (All ACCURATE historic recounting MUST account for the amount of masturbatin' that went on. Those ol' history guys LOVED crankin' it! Not the chicks, though. Okay, some of them.)
22 June 1812 had begun like any other day; little did Ney know that he was about to change history (see what happened there? This is a history textbook, and this story is about history, so using the word "history" kinda makes it a pun!). The Marshals of France were incensed:
"He's just too damn nice to be an effective leader!"
"Look, I love the guy, but if you start to listen to the man on the street, you'll wind up living with him."
"The purpose of government is to RULE the people for their own best interests, as decided by US! What about that concept is so hard for Napoleon to understand?" "For an emperor and king, the guy sure doesn't know much about imperialism."
Ney knew all of this to be true. Napoleon was far too eager to acquiesce to the desires of those under his rule, and while this trait made him incredibly popular to the denizens of his hegemony, it had also lead to the impasse at which the Marshals of France--and, indeed, the French Army as well--had reached upon arriving at the border of Russia. The people of France had been clear: No more war. This was a prosperous time for the contented citizens of France--hundreds if not thousands of years before or since any sort of revolution--and they wished to be left to their business of wine drinking and fried-food invention (ever heard of a li'l dish called "french fries"? Guess where them shits are from? That's why they didn't want to battle Russia; they were already kicking some ass with food creation!!).
This was a major problem. The Marshals of France knew that the march towards hegemony could not stop now; stemming the tide of imperialism would prove to have disastrous results for France, should it be allowed. However, Napoleon always bent to the will of the people. "Take Italy!!" they screamed, take Italy he did. It was a stroke of luck that Napoleon had become Emperor of France to begin with (France, at this time, was using a convoluted physical contest to determine political seniority; the contest entailed a weird combination of juggling, pull-ups, and tap-dancing, and Napoleon, drunk and high, had stumbled by just in time for his buddies to enter him into the election contest as a joke. What happens next? History, brah!). After much success, his adherence to his populace threatened to cost him his reign.
Napoleon at home, 1804
Michel Ney was not about to let this happen. 22 June 1812 was a day like any other day; Ney was determined to live an evening without precedent. Bursting forth from the cacophonous gang of Marshals and sprinting through the army's base, he arrived in short order at Napoleon's encampment, which, as always, was a small hut hastily arranged with an insufficient amount of twigs and mud. Napoleon loved makin' those damn huts.
Ney reached the hut and, gasping for air, called out to Napoleon. Even as he did so, he peered through the cracks in Napoleon's shack. His heart sank; inside, Napoleon was making out with that asshole freshman dude from that stupid fucking frat. "One second," called out Napoleon. "I've waited for EIGHT FUCKING YEARS! HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?" questioned Ney. "Just calm down, and let's ta--" "No! I shall never! As a Marshal of France, it is my duty to inform you that you must invade Russia. As Marshal of your heart, it is my duty to inform you that the time is now for you to become your own man. If you are to become a great leader--and I know that you can--you must break free from the confinement of common thought, and do what you know is right. If you never learn to think for yourself, you may just develop a complex. You wouldn't want that. Russia is there for the taking, even if I no longer am. Go get 'em, cowboy."
With those words, Ney sprinted back to the Marshals' tent, where he shot himself (to death) with whatever the old-school French guns back then were like. I bet they were pretty cool.
However, things did turn out pretty well for ol' Napoleon--and indeed all of France--after this whole crazy experience. Napoleon finished copulating with the college dude (during which he coined the term "froggy style"), and decided that Ney was right. The next day--a day like none other before it--marked the beginning of the greatest march of imperialism in world history. France quickly raped and pillaged its way through Russia, taking it over, and re-branding it as the world's greatest tourist attraction for all things french-fry. Napoleon lived to be 173 years of age, and never listened to a word that any of you damn idiots had to say ever again.
Whew. That was exhausting for you, huh? Wipe the tears of confusion from your face ('cause I ain't touchin' you), and let's get to the moral of this inspiring tale.
"Social Networking." There, I said it. Your rage is palpable. "Don't do it! Sellout, sellout! What are you, 13 years old? Hey, asshole, why not be less of a dick? Social Networking is for people who have friends! Dude, don't get on Facebook! Only rapists use Twitter! What if The Beatles would have used Myspace?" ENOUGH!
Let's bring history back into the mix. Remember Napoleon? Well, the--wait, you don't remember? That's what you JUST rea--you know what? That's enough of this shit. Some people have places to be. You go back to the beginning of the chapter, and read it again. The rest of us are moving ahead. You can see me at recess. Well, if you love basketball so much, you better learn to fucking read better, 'cause "recess" may as well be a French word for as little as you'll be saying it.
The REST of us better remember my exhaustively-researched rendering of the life and times of Napoleon Bonaparte. But what greater lesson can we extrapolate from it? Seriously? Isn't it obvious?
You don't want me to spread my joy around the rest of the Internet. I get it. You're jealous. It's even a little bit cute. However, the tides of imperialism must never be stemmed by the naive vociferation of the proletariat.
I've recently come to understand something very important about myself: I have a Napoleon Complex. That's right, like in the story above. As you've learned, this means that I have a hard time asserting my dominance, and am often afraid to put my foot down when it comes to my less-astute followers. I'm simply not as manipulative and destructive as I need to be, and for this, I apologize to you all sincerely.
So, by now you've figured it out: I used the Napoleon story to illustrate how little about history you really know (So you just got history-schooled! See what just happened there? "Schooled" is slang for humiliated--which you were--but also an improper way to say "educated"--which you certainly were as well. Wait, now I just grammar-schooled you too, see?), but also to tell you to shut the FUCK up and let me go about my business. The story also serves as a warning to the rest of the Internet: Incredibly Loud Writing is coming.
And so, it is despite the great consternation of the fanboys-'n-girls here at Incredibly Loud Writing that I announce the official launch of Incredibly Loud Facebook and Incredibly Loud Twitter.
Like the French before you, you have two choices: Either fall in line, support the cause, and follow me on those sites, too, or shut the hell up, keep to yourselves, and go back to singing awesome songs about discord amongst the proletariat, thievery, revolution, and redemption (you wacky "miserables" ;-) ).
So, here's the Facebook link: http://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Incredibly-Loud-Writing/205330422826959
Here's the Twitter link: http://www.twitter.com/AMChenowith
You can find both perma-linked on the side of the blog (where, in the near future, you'll be finding all sorts of wacky links and features).
Well, we've been through a lot today. You're visibly upset, and I understand why. However, I've already made it up to you. How's that, you say? Remember that new picture that you saw at the top of the page when you first surfed on in? (Thank god we left that dude that can't remember anything behind a while back, huh? Frickin' dunce.) That was me! Go ahead, look at it again. I'll gladly wait.
That's right: This Omniscient 'NetLord has a face to match the hubris. Look into those baby-blues. Smell the beard. Taste the beard. Come closer. Closer.
The time of full subjugation draws near. Stare into my photo for the next 45 minutes, and I'll meet you back here next time.
You're welcome.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Ahh, shit. Yeah. Hi.
Oh ... um, hey. Yeah, it's good to see--no, no, go ahead. Interruptions are sort of ... your thing. No, I'm not being a dick. Listen, there's no fucking reason for us to fight right now, seriously.
Thanks. You look good, too. Really good, actually. How long has it been? Mmhmm, that seems about right. Has been a while. How's the boyfriend? That's cool. Yeah, that's cool of him to say. I ran into him at Wal-Ma--yeah, I'm sure he did tell you. Anyway, what else is new?
Wow. Wow, just ... really? No, that's great. Married, huh? Seems like you might have let me know ... face-to-face. Well this doesn't really--how does this count? I mean, I fucking prompted you! You would have never told me on your own. No, you wouldn't have.
No, I don't fucking care, it just seems like, if we are friends--and you said that we'd still be friends--that it might be something worth mentioning.
Listen, get fucking snotty. It's what you do. What else would--no, argue as much as you like, it's what you do. I'm not going to argue with you. I'm gonna be the bigger man. The BIGGER man, and you can tell that to your little boyfriend.
No, look, I'm sorry. I am. I don't mean to be a dick. Don't apologi--don't fucking INTERRUPT! Listen, don't apologize. Look, why don't we get out of here. Go pay for your toilet paper, and I'll wait here for you. Turn around, lemme see that ass. Mmm. Been too long, girl.
Hell hath no fury like an obsessive fanboy (or girl) scorned. However, this stunning reenactment (using only words!!!) of this one time that I ran into this chick who had a TOTAL Melvin for a boyfriend (well, husband at that point) when she was at the gas station (and I was at the same gas station, if you can believe that luck!) and I waited for her to buy ass paper, and then we went and got a bite at Denny's, and we way came close to making out (and also, I could see some of her boobs 'cause of the shirt she was wearing) demonstrates the central component to a healthy BlogGodSexMaster/tremblingsubservientbarelyliteratepeon relationship: forgiveness!
Indeed, my ire towards you, the smellypoopypoopystupidbuttweineredsmellyrumpeating reader, is well deserved. Luckily for you, it is also well intentioned.
I don't mean to be manipulative. Plato once said (well, I mean, the cover of the book says that he said it, but then inside the book, it says that Socrates said it, so I don't even know what that means or what to believe, but whateva, I suppose?!?), "You are a beautiful boy, and I want to taste your face." As you might have guessed from the way I wrote it, Socrates or Plato or whatever gyro-eatin' yahoo it was that really said this shit wasn't just talking to himself: he managed to get someone to listen to it! Can you even believe that bullshit? That's worse than that interrupting bitch that I ran into at the--SIT THE FUCK BACK DOWN! Seriously!
Man, everyone these days is so distracted with their fucking IpLayers, and facespace, Dave'sItinerary, and all those weird porno site things where the girls pretend not to be upset while the dudes do things that I've only performed, but never dreamt of ... mmm ... have left you all unable to ... pay attention for more than three ... seconds ... mmm ... BRB, got something to do (By the way, BRB is an "acronym"--which means letters that stand for word-thingys--that stands for "Business Regarding BabymakingsoI'llreturnshortly." Seems to me that they combined a bunch of words to cheat their way into an acronym that, at best, doesn't really work, and, at worst, is a cheap attempt at a joke that only a Deceivingly Intelligent Conniving Klansman could laugh at [which, on the Internet, is acronymized as DICK--or, more commonly, simply "dick." So, all those times you thought someone had called you a dick on the Internet, it turned out that it was a pretty layered rip-job on you, and you should feel even worse than you did before. You just got netBlasted. Also, I just made up the term "netBlasted." Take that shit to the streets! Not the real streets, though. You'd way get shot. The digital streets, though? Take it there!!!!]) ... aaaaand I'm back! Whew. Wayhot shit disgusting stuff. Research, however, is the key to responsible blogging, and I'll be goddamned if I won't do my part!
As I was saying (or, more accurately, trying to say before SOMEONE was so uncouth as to interrupt me ... !!), Internet distractions are at an all time high. Even now, the mentally-weak amongst you (read: all of you) are probably multi-tasking to the point of distraction, never fully engaging with ... the world around ... you ... long enough to ... eh, fuck it, where the hell was I going with this? Let's check back in with Placrates!
Socrates: When human sees a god, he appears to him as a glistening, virile, taut, wet, sloppy, stubble-bearded boy. For it is in this sight, that man truly knows the essence of--
Phaedrus: Actually, I'm late for an appointment with--
Socrates: Sit down, boy! Loosen your robe as you ever-so-gently lay back against the Tree of Discourse! The day grows long, as do I, but alas, yet has my story to grow in kind, dear boy!
Phaedrus: What?
Socrates: I've warned you before about the interruptions, Phaedrus. Is it not true that, shall a man receive an adolescent boy in all of his natural beauty and splendor, that the boy should sit with his mouth closed--well, periodically open, but you get the drift...should not this boy act at the behest of his elder, stopping not to rudely interrupt his chain of thought?
Phaedrus: It's just that I'm running la--
Socrates: And, should not a young boy realize that, should he wish to continue to study under the Lord of Discourse, he should act at the behest of his elder, denying neither advances most physical nor anecdotes most homoerotic? AND, should NOT a young boy realize that, with ONE trip to see a certain young wanna-be philosopher's father, he could once again be subject to the unyielding hand of the WhipLord down in the salt-n-pepper mines? And, should not a boy remember that 'tis a most beneficial set of circumstances that his father was able to ... mm, "pay" the Lord of Discourse for his service? mmm.
Phaedrus: Yes, I suppose he should.
Socrates: There's a good boy. Now, close your eyes, and open your mouth.
Phaedrus: Well, all right, I suppose. Aaahhhh--hey ... wait a tick! Is this--is this play that you're engaging me in?
Socrates: Soon, my boy, soon. You're on the right track ...
Phaedrus: I've got it!! It's false play, isn't it?
Socrates: Getting closer ... lean back ...
Phaedrus: I--I don't know.
Socrates: It's false false play, idiot--and that's a real thing! Now suck on that!!!
SCENE
So, where was I going with this? Sorry, let me finish this article I'm reading on cnn.com ... something about manipulation. My manipulation, I believe ... got it!
The above passage from the Phaedrus is generally cited to demonstrate the danger in manipulating (see, there's that word again, I'm back on track!) power structures for one's own hot, sweaty sexual benefits.
Here's the skinny: You're under my stubby, chocolate/oil/grease/hot dog runoff/malt liquor-covered thumb. I know it; hell, even you know it.
Still, this isn't right. I know you have feelings for me, and, well, I have 'em too. But the fact is, you're better than this. All that waiting around for me, checking this blog every day, refreshing the page every 3-5 seconds just to be sure that I haven't updated--hell, think of how many F5 keys you've worn out on my site alone!
I'm flattered that you care, and I love it when we're together. The feeling that comes over me when I see you submit to my every earthly, kinky desire: well, it simply can't be put into words (and I graduated sigma cum verbose from Davey Writtenfield's School of Highfalutin, Incredibly Pretentious Diction!)
But, just as Socrates should NOT have--in a move he'd famously term "dick-course"--forced himself upon and into young Phaedrus (no matter how willing the supple lad may have been--and believe me, he was willin' and ready! ;-) ), it is time for me to set you free. I'll give you a moment to collect yourself, dry your tears, and--SERIOUSLY, FUCKING HANG ON FOR ONE LAST SECOND AND LET ME FINISH MY THOUGHTS! What the FUCK with the interruptions?!
All right, get dressed though, for real. It's not happening, and it's pathetic. Hot? Sure. Morally okay? Unfortunately, no.
You don't love me, you love the idea of your idea of what I could ideally--in an ideal world, of course--be, should I be idealized.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that I need to stop using you. My power over you necessitates that you submit--and you get off on it. It's not okay, and I need to stop. But, I'm not going to.
So, get ready to hear from me quite a bit more often, from here on out! I promise.
You and me, we gonna be the real thing.
Just don't call me. Also, never stop into my work. Check in with me here at the blog, or not at all. You should also probably know that, should my friends ask about you, I'm telling 'em that you're a trampy whore who I haven't seen since the last time you slutted out at that party.
Should you decide to disregard this mandate and go ahead and call, it will no doubt go just like this:
Whew, that was a familiar routine for you, eh? And yet, it never seems any less devastating. You don't want to go through this (again!!), and while I'd love to put you through it, I'm turning over a new leaf. I can use you, but not be a dick to you.
For, should not a demagogue ensure the well being of his horrifically simplistic followers? Of course he should, no?
Ohhh, shit!! False FALSE play, bitches! Just like your other hookups, I'll be back just as soon as I'm wasted and your self-esteem is at its lowest!
Suck on that!!!
You're welcome.
Thanks. You look good, too. Really good, actually. How long has it been? Mmhmm, that seems about right. Has been a while. How's the boyfriend? That's cool. Yeah, that's cool of him to say. I ran into him at Wal-Ma--yeah, I'm sure he did tell you. Anyway, what else is new?
Wow. Wow, just ... really? No, that's great. Married, huh? Seems like you might have let me know ... face-to-face. Well this doesn't really--how does this count? I mean, I fucking prompted you! You would have never told me on your own. No, you wouldn't have.
No, I don't fucking care, it just seems like, if we are friends--and you said that we'd still be friends--that it might be something worth mentioning.
Listen, get fucking snotty. It's what you do. What else would--no, argue as much as you like, it's what you do. I'm not going to argue with you. I'm gonna be the bigger man. The BIGGER man, and you can tell that to your little boyfriend.
No, look, I'm sorry. I am. I don't mean to be a dick. Don't apologi--don't fucking INTERRUPT! Listen, don't apologize. Look, why don't we get out of here. Go pay for your toilet paper, and I'll wait here for you. Turn around, lemme see that ass. Mmm. Been too long, girl.
Hell hath no fury like an obsessive fanboy (or girl) scorned. However, this stunning reenactment (using only words!!!) of this one time that I ran into this chick who had a TOTAL Melvin for a boyfriend (well, husband at that point) when she was at the gas station (and I was at the same gas station, if you can believe that luck!) and I waited for her to buy ass paper, and then we went and got a bite at Denny's, and we way came close to making out (and also, I could see some of her boobs 'cause of the shirt she was wearing) demonstrates the central component to a healthy BlogGodSexMaster/tremblingsubservientbarelyliteratepeon relationship: forgiveness!
Indeed, my ire towards you, the smellypoopypoopystupidbuttweineredsmellyrumpeating reader, is well deserved. Luckily for you, it is also well intentioned.
I don't mean to be manipulative. Plato once said (well, I mean, the cover of the book says that he said it, but then inside the book, it says that Socrates said it, so I don't even know what that means or what to believe, but whateva, I suppose?!?), "You are a beautiful boy, and I want to taste your face." As you might have guessed from the way I wrote it, Socrates or Plato or whatever gyro-eatin' yahoo it was that really said this shit wasn't just talking to himself: he managed to get someone to listen to it! Can you even believe that bullshit? That's worse than that interrupting bitch that I ran into at the--SIT THE FUCK BACK DOWN! Seriously!
Man, everyone these days is so distracted with their fucking IpLayers, and facespace, Dave'sItinerary, and all those weird porno site things where the girls pretend not to be upset while the dudes do things that I've only performed, but never dreamt of ... mmm ... have left you all unable to ... pay attention for more than three ... seconds ... mmm ... BRB, got something to do (By the way, BRB is an "acronym"--which means letters that stand for word-thingys--that stands for "Business Regarding BabymakingsoI'llreturnshortly." Seems to me that they combined a bunch of words to cheat their way into an acronym that, at best, doesn't really work, and, at worst, is a cheap attempt at a joke that only a Deceivingly Intelligent Conniving Klansman could laugh at [which, on the Internet, is acronymized as DICK--or, more commonly, simply "dick." So, all those times you thought someone had called you a dick on the Internet, it turned out that it was a pretty layered rip-job on you, and you should feel even worse than you did before. You just got netBlasted. Also, I just made up the term "netBlasted." Take that shit to the streets! Not the real streets, though. You'd way get shot. The digital streets, though? Take it there!!!!]) ... aaaaand I'm back! Whew. Way
As I was saying (or, more accurately, trying to say before SOMEONE was so uncouth as to interrupt me ... !!), Internet distractions are at an all time high. Even now, the mentally-weak amongst you (read: all of you) are probably multi-tasking to the point of distraction, never fully engaging with ... the world around ... you ... long enough to ... eh, fuck it, where the hell was I going with this? Let's check back in with Placrates!
Socrates: When human sees a god, he appears to him as a glistening, virile, taut, wet, sloppy, stubble-bearded boy. For it is in this sight, that man truly knows the essence of--
Phaedrus: Actually, I'm late for an appointment with--
Socrates: Sit down, boy! Loosen your robe as you ever-so-gently lay back against the Tree of Discourse! The day grows long, as do I, but alas, yet has my story to grow in kind, dear boy!
Phaedrus: What?
Socrates: I've warned you before about the interruptions, Phaedrus. Is it not true that, shall a man receive an adolescent boy in all of his natural beauty and splendor, that the boy should sit with his mouth closed--well, periodically open, but you get the drift...should not this boy act at the behest of his elder, stopping not to rudely interrupt his chain of thought?
Phaedrus: It's just that I'm running la--
Socrates: And, should not a young boy realize that, should he wish to continue to study under the Lord of Discourse, he should act at the behest of his elder, denying neither advances most physical nor anecdotes most homoerotic? AND, should NOT a young boy realize that, with ONE trip to see a certain young wanna-be philosopher's father, he could once again be subject to the unyielding hand of the WhipLord down in the salt-n-pepper mines? And, should not a boy remember that 'tis a most beneficial set of circumstances that his father was able to ... mm, "pay" the Lord of Discourse for his service? mmm.
Phaedrus: Yes, I suppose he should.
Socrates: There's a good boy. Now, close your eyes, and open your mouth.
Phaedrus: Well, all right, I suppose. Aaahhhh--hey ... wait a tick! Is this--is this play that you're engaging me in?
Socrates: Soon, my boy, soon. You're on the right track ...
Phaedrus: I've got it!! It's false play, isn't it?
Socrates: Getting closer ... lean back ...
Phaedrus: I--I don't know.
Socrates: It's false false play, idiot--and that's a real thing! Now suck on that!!!
SCENE
So, where was I going with this? Sorry, let me finish this article I'm reading on cnn.com ... something about manipulation. My manipulation, I believe ... got it!
The above passage from the Phaedrus is generally cited to demonstrate the danger in manipulating (see, there's that word again, I'm back on track!) power structures for one's own hot, sweaty sexual benefits.
Here's the skinny: You're under my stubby, chocolate/oil/grease/hot dog runoff/malt liquor-covered thumb. I know it; hell, even you know it.
Still, this isn't right. I know you have feelings for me, and, well, I have 'em too. But the fact is, you're better than this. All that waiting around for me, checking this blog every day, refreshing the page every 3-5 seconds just to be sure that I haven't updated--hell, think of how many F5 keys you've worn out on my site alone!
I'm flattered that you care, and I love it when we're together. The feeling that comes over me when I see you submit to my every earthly, kinky desire: well, it simply can't be put into words (and I graduated sigma cum verbose from Davey Writtenfield's School of Highfalutin, Incredibly Pretentious Diction!)
But, just as Socrates should NOT have--in a move he'd famously term "dick-course"--forced himself upon and into young Phaedrus (no matter how willing the supple lad may have been--and believe me, he was willin' and ready! ;-) ), it is time for me to set you free. I'll give you a moment to collect yourself, dry your tears, and--SERIOUSLY, FUCKING HANG ON FOR ONE LAST SECOND AND LET ME FINISH MY THOUGHTS! What the FUCK with the interruptions?!
All right, get dressed though, for real. It's not happening, and it's pathetic. Hot? Sure. Morally okay? Unfortunately, no.
You don't love me, you love the idea of your idea of what I could ideally--in an ideal world, of course--be, should I be idealized.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that I need to stop using you. My power over you necessitates that you submit--and you get off on it. It's not okay, and I need to stop. But, I'm not going to.
So, get ready to hear from me quite a bit more often, from here on out! I promise.
You and me, we gonna be the real thing.
Just don't call me. Also, never stop into my work. Check in with me here at the blog, or not at all. You should also probably know that, should my friends ask about you, I'm telling 'em that you're a trampy whore who I haven't seen since the last time you slutted out at that party.
Should you decide to disregard this mandate and go ahead and call, it will no doubt go just like this:
Whew, that was a familiar routine for you, eh? And yet, it never seems any less devastating. You don't want to go through this (again!!), and while I'd love to put you through it, I'm turning over a new leaf. I can use you, but not be a dick to you.
For, should not a demagogue ensure the well being of his horrifically simplistic followers? Of course he should, no?
Ohhh, shit!! False FALSE play, bitches! Just like your other hookups, I'll be back just as soon as I'm wasted and your self-esteem is at its lowest!
Suck on that!!!
You're welcome.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Here, Have a Blog Entry
Of the many ways in which this humble blog has revolutionized the Internet, I am most proud of the harmony in which various forms of media live together. As these once-strange bedfellows work in concert here at Incredibly Loud Writing, so must your senses--auditory and visual--work together as you browse this site.
"It's kinda like listening to the radio AND reading words," said some guy at a party I was at, and I was pretty sure he was talking about this blog! He was mackin' on a chick pretty hard though, so I didn't interrupt to press him for details; rest assured that THIS blogmaster has NEVER blocked a cock in his life, unless it was to strategically deter the initial cock in question in order to (possibly/hopefully) insert his own blog-mastering cock at a later (bar close) time.
So, we've established two things: This blog is revolutionary, and people are starting to talk. Well, three things: I don't block cock. But the first two of these three established things are the reason that you're here today.
In the words of the illustrious Beatles: "There's gonna be a revolution, yeah, you know; we all want to read your blog."
The bulk of this entry will be in audio form, so put on your listenin' shoes now. Then, walk them shoes back to the store. There's no such thing as "listenin'" shoes--you've been had. Demand a refund, impart a great sense of indignation, and tell 'em that Chenowith's onto their li'l scheme.
Now that you've returned--$75 richer, if out a pair of relatively nice shoes (which, if you were really frugal, you'd have hung onto anyway; so the listening enhancement was bogus, but the shoes themselves were pretty nice looking...probably worth the $75...bad call, dude), we can get onto today's big announcement.
Imagine an Internet where videos could be viewed by you, the terrifically uncreative, easily amused, hygenically-unsound reader. Friends, the technology exists. I'll give you a moment to soak it all in. The world is changing fast, Gramps; better look around to catch your breath while you still can. Climb the mountain while you're young, without looking a gift horse in the mouth, for a hen in the bush is worth a penny saved in the barrel. The world spins faster with each passing rotation of the sun.
So NOW, assuming that you didn't waste all of your imagination on "an Internet where videos could be viewed by you, the ... reader," imagine that these videos were created by A.M. Chenowith.
"By Joe, it's like watching a television, listening to the radio, and reading words!" These will be the words that echo through each and every house party...if you make it so! That's right; the tables have turned.
If I'm gonna be slaving over a hot camera day and night to produce hilarious video content to go with the already-brilliant audio and prose, it is your collective job to bring people to this blog. Send e-mails, use FaceSpace, give away free laptops for anyone who gives this site a hit...it is incumbent upon you all to pull out all the stops to increase web traffic at this site. Always remember: You owe it to me.
I had considered preparing a speech to motivate you like the coach/father/mother figure that I am to each and every one of you. However, as you are no doubt aware, I've written and performed some of the greatest speeches in history. "Why not," thought I, "Why not recapitulate some of my finer oratorial glory in an audio piece that all could enjoy? Plus, that way, I wouldn't have to write another fucking speech. I fucking hate speeches!"
So, here it is.
You're welcome.
A look back at some of A.M. Chenowith's memorable moments in history, meant to motivate you all into helping advertise this site. Remember, Tucker Max got a movie deal AND won the 95th Annual Biggest Cocksucking, Entitled, Wealthy Frat Boy, Duke Blue Devil of the Year Award, presented by Entourage on HBO, and his bullshit writing started online too!
"It's kinda like listening to the radio AND reading words," said some guy at a party I was at, and I was pretty sure he was talking about this blog! He was mackin' on a chick pretty hard though, so I didn't interrupt to press him for details; rest assured that THIS blogmaster has NEVER blocked a cock in his life, unless it was to strategically deter the initial cock in question in order to (possibly/hopefully) insert his own blog-mastering cock at a later (bar close) time.
So, we've established two things: This blog is revolutionary, and people are starting to talk. Well, three things: I don't block cock. But the first two of these three established things are the reason that you're here today.
In the words of the illustrious Beatles: "There's gonna be a revolution, yeah, you know; we all want to read your blog."
The bulk of this entry will be in audio form, so put on your listenin' shoes now. Then, walk them shoes back to the store. There's no such thing as "listenin'" shoes--you've been had. Demand a refund, impart a great sense of indignation, and tell 'em that Chenowith's onto their li'l scheme.
Now that you've returned--$75 richer, if out a pair of relatively nice shoes (which, if you were really frugal, you'd have hung onto anyway; so the listening enhancement was bogus, but the shoes themselves were pretty nice looking...probably worth the $75...bad call, dude), we can get onto today's big announcement.
Imagine an Internet where videos could be viewed by you, the terrifically uncreative, easily amused, hygenically-unsound reader. Friends, the technology exists. I'll give you a moment to soak it all in. The world is changing fast, Gramps; better look around to catch your breath while you still can. Climb the mountain while you're young, without looking a gift horse in the mouth, for a hen in the bush is worth a penny saved in the barrel. The world spins faster with each passing rotation of the sun.
So NOW, assuming that you didn't waste all of your imagination on "an Internet where videos could be viewed by you, the ... reader," imagine that these videos were created by A.M. Chenowith.
"By Joe, it's like watching a television, listening to the radio, and reading words!" These will be the words that echo through each and every house party...if you make it so! That's right; the tables have turned.
If I'm gonna be slaving over a hot camera day and night to produce hilarious video content to go with the already-brilliant audio and prose, it is your collective job to bring people to this blog. Send e-mails, use FaceSpace, give away free laptops for anyone who gives this site a hit...it is incumbent upon you all to pull out all the stops to increase web traffic at this site. Always remember: You owe it to me.
I had considered preparing a speech to motivate you like the coach/father/mother figure that I am to each and every one of you. However, as you are no doubt aware, I've written and performed some of the greatest speeches in history. "Why not," thought I, "Why not recapitulate some of my finer oratorial glory in an audio piece that all could enjoy? Plus, that way, I wouldn't have to write another fucking speech. I fucking hate speeches!"
So, here it is.
You're welcome.
A look back at some of A.M. Chenowith's memorable moments in history, meant to motivate you all into helping advertise this site. Remember, Tucker Max got a movie deal AND won the 95th Annual Biggest Cocksucking, Entitled, Wealthy Frat Boy, Duke Blue Devil of the Year Award, presented by Entourage on HBO, and his bullshit writing started online too!
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Duncan the Dullard OR: What have YOU accomplished over the last four months?
On the shores of Ithaca, Telemachus cast another stone into the Ionian Sea. Watching it skim, almost daintily, across the top of the rippling waves of foam, the young man sighed aloud.
"It was here," thought he, "where Father first showed me how to skip rocks." Young Telemachus dipped his fingers into the sand, pulling from it a flat, smooth stone most suitable for skipping. "Here it was that we built sand castles. Here I murdered my first fish, tore through it's innards, than learned how to prepare a fire-based fish meal. " A tear formed quickly, then began its descent down the young man's perfect cheekbones, coming to rest near his cut, rugged jaw.
At twenty years old, Telemachus was a sight to behold. Walking towards the sea, the West Wind gently ran his fingers through the young boy's hair. It wasn't a creepy sort of head-rubbing; really just a tussling sort of thing that was playful and completely, totally innocuous. Seriously, Telemachus should have thanked the kind old wind; he knew not just how hot he looked as the uncreepy, gentle old wind blew his sweet, moist breath through Telemachus' sunflower-blonde hair.
Telemachus scanned the horizon, searching desperately for signs of his father's ship. It was a futile routine, but one that he had practiced daily for nearly twenty years. The wind had gotten harder and harder; it seemed to blow Telemachus with all its glorious might. The fibers of young Telemachus's loin cloth fought back, stretching against the ample constraints of the sweet boy's--what ho? It couldn't be. Telemachus ran into the waves, desperate to get a look at the ship on the horizon. Finally, it became clear: Odysseus was home.
Together, Odysseus and Telemachus walked the long dirt trail from the sea to their mighty home. Telemachus had walked the trail alone, many times; often he would stop and stare directly towards the sun, praying for his father's return. When his eyes began to burn, he knew his prayer had been accepted. Now, with his prayer finally answered, he turned to the sun, and gave it a pretty cute wink. "Thanks, Helios," said he.
Finally, Telemachus turned to Odysseus, and prepared to speak. He had been waiting for this moment for nearly twenty years. "Dad, Dad, you'll never believe what's happened since you've been gone! I played t-ball, and I learned to draw, and there's a bunch of suitors at the house that we need to kill, and plus I got all As in high school, and I learned about wine, and what foods each wine are supposed to go wi--"
"Jesus Christ," bellowed Odysseus. "I've been home for like six fucking minutes! Give me a goddamned break, and you can bother me later!" The boy smiled. His father was home.
Later, Odysseus and his wife Penelope were alone at last. After a tearful reunion, and several glasses of scotch, Odysseus now laid his wife onto the bed, his hand slowly wandering up Penelope's soft, vanilla thighs. He had imagined this moment for nigh twenty years, had ached for her with every ounce of his being (well, except for that whole thing with Circe, but c'mon; that was just a year of gettin' bombed, and gettin' ass...plus, being in different zip codes, it really wasn't cheating). At long last, he was home.
As his fingers crept into her warmth, a clammy, cold hand slapped upon his wrist.
"We need to talk," screeched Penelope. "There are like thirty suitors here. They're partying every night, drinking all of my fucking wine, and eating all of your meat. It can't be a good influence on Telemachus. For the love of the gods, how is he even supposed to sleep? And you don't even wanna know some of the things they've said to me! You've been home for like a half-hour, and you still haven't even--"
"ENOUGH!" cried Odysseus, slamming a mighty fist upon the table. Even as he did this, his protector, goddess Athena, took action. Disguised now as a small girl, she thrust open the mighty bedroom doors, strode across the room, and slapped Penelope across the face. Then, with a wink at Odysseus, she morphed into the majestic sparrow, and flew out of the room.
Penelope stared at Odysseus, aghast.
"Remember, wife," said he, "if anyone asks, you fell." And with that, Odysseus stormed out of the room, went downstairs, and got hammered with the suitors.
This beautiful, oft-cited excerpt from Homer's Odyssey is generally interpreted, in the world of post-modern, deconstructionist criticism, as a passage espousing the necessity--and indeed, hilarity--of domestic violence.
However, for YOU, this passage has only one interpretation: Don't ever ask a man about his business.
Yeah, so I've been gone for like four months. Back out! What have you done in that time period that's so fucking great? Stop right there. If you're so fucking spec--don't interrupt me. Don't you EVER interrupt me! I am the leader of thiscult blog, and you will do what I say, when I tell you to do it.
I ask the questions around here. Never forget it, lest you suffer the same fate as poor Penelope.
Now that you're firmly re-subjugated, we can get back to business. Today I'd like to introduce a new feature I'll be running from time-to-time: Questions from the Reader!
You haven't noticed, but the comment boxes have been getting pretty full. However, each and every one of you used the space to express your undying adulation towards me, your humble blog author and King. There's nothing wrong with this, per se. I just assumed that some of you would prefer that your hero worship and/or graphic sexual fantasy descriptions were read by me privately, and would greatly embarrass you once you sobered up and realized what you had written. Thus, I did all of you the favor of removing your comments.
In the future, these sweet-nothings can be whispered to incrediblyloudwriting@gmail.com.
Please continue to fill up the "Comment" sections under each blog entry, but be forewarned: I shall henceforth allow any and all "Comment" correspondence--no matter how blubbering--to be displayed on the mighty Internet!
There was one comment that I allowed to remain, and it serves as the impetus for "QFromtheR." This question (though the box is clearly marked comments) comes from your fellow peasant, Duncan.
A.M.--I have enjoyed reading,seeing, and hearing your blog entries to this point. Is there a way I can also smell these amazing bits of entertainment?
Incredibly yours,
Duncan.
I'll give you all a moment to stop laughing.
Alright, that good? Seriously, stop, we've got things to do. Yeah, yeah, ha ha, what an assbag, I know. Really, let's all calm it down and get back to--is that gum? Are you chewi--give me the gum. Give me the gum, now. If we can't all be responsible, we won't have treats next week. Alright, back to work.
Duncan, I'd like to begin by thanking you for your thoughtful question. I appreciate your patronage here at Incredibly Loud Writing, and as I used your question in the blog, you'll be receiving a FREE "Incredibly Loud Writing" baby-tee, as well as a cassette tape single of the Darrel and The Groundhogs smash hit, "Three Groundhog Cocks." You pay only $7.95--American currency ONLY--in shipping and handling. Now Duncan, I'd like you to go ahead and skip forward five lines. With your hard work, you've earned it! Go on, skip ahead! We'll catch up there. Start now.
What a fucking idiotic question for real, huh? Alright, let's laugh a little more. There you go. That's good. Wow.
Welcome back, Duncan! I hope you enjoyed the vacation. Make sure to note it on your timesheet. Now, to speak directly to your insightful query: Of course Interactive Internet Smelling Devices--or I.I.S.D--exist! As a licensed blog owner, I was required to pass a six-month course on general Internet knowledge (one I recommend to you), as well as pay the hefty Internet Portioning fees.
Here's the skinny: The International Council of the Internet, who administers these devices of control, has the technology. It is being fine-tuned, and when ready, will be shipped directly to Bill Gates, who has the daunting task of inserting it into Windows (a construction process that generally takes up to a year, requiring several man hours, and impacting urban traffic negatively). Once this process is complete, the new version of Windows will be loaded into a flat-bed truck, and shipped across the country. At this point, you'll be able to smell more Incredibly Loud Writing than you ever thought you'd hear or taste.
So thanks for your question Duncan. I'm sure at this point that you've got another one (Duncan, go to the next sentence), because you're PRETTY FUCKING SLOW! Hi again, Duncan. You're wondering where the I.C. of the I. gets all their money for smellology. A simple question, from a simple mind. The answer is right in front of you, and indeed ubiquitous in the land of the Internet: Copyright Fees!
While the dues from new Internet owners keep the 'net spinning, advances in tech would not be possible were it not for the heavily regulation of Internet content. The Council receives a cut of all copyright fees paid for reproducing copyrighted materials on the Internet. As such, the Council dutifully monitors ALL Internet content, ensuring that copyright laws are never broken!
Beyond the monetary benefits, this process serves as a method of control. Imagine an Internet where anyone could have a website! That's not an Internet I'd want to visit. Additionally, things like movies and music could be shared using user-to-user technology, with no money changing hands!
Needless to say, the Council performs a truly heroic deed in protecting us all from the horrors of an unregulated 'net. However, this does make it a bitch to access copyrighted work for this blog! It took me the last four months to collect the $25 fee for the rights to rebroadcast--well now, I'm getting ahead of myself.
Thanks for the questions, Duncan!
--AM Chenowith
Together, we join arms and celebrate: We've come to the end of all this reading! Well, almost to the end. Hang in there.
In 2006, I was working as an intern at Independent Radio Iowa. My first assignment was to chronicle local musician Thad Taylor, who was making a splash in the burgeoning music scene in Solon, Iowa. IRI's top reporter, Brock Rosaleb, conducted several interviews with Taylor, which I recorded, then pieced together, as I discovered an affinity for digital editing.
But I paid the aforementioned $25 to reproduce this copyrighted (damn you, Independent Radio Iowa) material not to display the genesis of my audiogenius--no, this is to introduce you to a kindred spirit.
Thad Taylor personifies the ethos that typifies the mantra that represents my art. He'll teach you more in these ten minutes than I have during the three hours it took you to read this post. I'll step aside now, and let this brilliant man speak for himself.
Check back soon for more Incredibly Loud Writing.
You're welcome.
From Independent Radio Iowa, circa 2006: A young audio editor named AM Chenowith successfully documents a moment in time with musical legend Thad Taylor. Take 10 minutes now to listen to it, or recover from all of that reading by taking a nap, getting high, going to the bathroom, or watching football, or something like that. But then, come back and take 10 minutes and listen to the god damn piece.
"It was here," thought he, "where Father first showed me how to skip rocks." Young Telemachus dipped his fingers into the sand, pulling from it a flat, smooth stone most suitable for skipping. "Here it was that we built sand castles. Here I murdered my first fish, tore through it's innards, than learned how to prepare a fire-based fish meal. " A tear formed quickly, then began its descent down the young man's perfect cheekbones, coming to rest near his cut, rugged jaw.
At twenty years old, Telemachus was a sight to behold. Walking towards the sea, the West Wind gently ran his fingers through the young boy's hair. It wasn't a creepy sort of head-rubbing; really just a tussling sort of thing that was playful and completely, totally innocuous. Seriously, Telemachus should have thanked the kind old wind; he knew not just how hot he looked as the uncreepy, gentle old wind blew his sweet, moist breath through Telemachus' sunflower-blonde hair.
Telemachus scanned the horizon, searching desperately for signs of his father's ship. It was a futile routine, but one that he had practiced daily for nearly twenty years. The wind had gotten harder and harder; it seemed to blow Telemachus with all its glorious might. The fibers of young Telemachus's loin cloth fought back, stretching against the ample constraints of the sweet boy's--what ho? It couldn't be. Telemachus ran into the waves, desperate to get a look at the ship on the horizon. Finally, it became clear: Odysseus was home.
Together, Odysseus and Telemachus walked the long dirt trail from the sea to their mighty home. Telemachus had walked the trail alone, many times; often he would stop and stare directly towards the sun, praying for his father's return. When his eyes began to burn, he knew his prayer had been accepted. Now, with his prayer finally answered, he turned to the sun, and gave it a pretty cute wink. "Thanks, Helios," said he.
Finally, Telemachus turned to Odysseus, and prepared to speak. He had been waiting for this moment for nearly twenty years. "Dad, Dad, you'll never believe what's happened since you've been gone! I played t-ball, and I learned to draw, and there's a bunch of suitors at the house that we need to kill, and plus I got all As in high school, and I learned about wine, and what foods each wine are supposed to go wi--"
"Jesus Christ," bellowed Odysseus. "I've been home for like six fucking minutes! Give me a goddamned break, and you can bother me later!" The boy smiled. His father was home.
Later, Odysseus and his wife Penelope were alone at last. After a tearful reunion, and several glasses of scotch, Odysseus now laid his wife onto the bed, his hand slowly wandering up Penelope's soft, vanilla thighs. He had imagined this moment for nigh twenty years, had ached for her with every ounce of his being (well, except for that whole thing with Circe, but c'mon; that was just a year of gettin' bombed, and gettin' ass...plus, being in different zip codes, it really wasn't cheating). At long last, he was home.
As his fingers crept into her warmth, a clammy, cold hand slapped upon his wrist.
"We need to talk," screeched Penelope. "There are like thirty suitors here. They're partying every night, drinking all of my fucking wine, and eating all of your meat. It can't be a good influence on Telemachus. For the love of the gods, how is he even supposed to sleep? And you don't even wanna know some of the things they've said to me! You've been home for like a half-hour, and you still haven't even--"
"ENOUGH!" cried Odysseus, slamming a mighty fist upon the table. Even as he did this, his protector, goddess Athena, took action. Disguised now as a small girl, she thrust open the mighty bedroom doors, strode across the room, and slapped Penelope across the face. Then, with a wink at Odysseus, she morphed into the majestic sparrow, and flew out of the room.
Penelope stared at Odysseus, aghast.
"Remember, wife," said he, "if anyone asks, you fell." And with that, Odysseus stormed out of the room, went downstairs, and got hammered with the suitors.
This beautiful, oft-cited excerpt from Homer's Odyssey is generally interpreted, in the world of post-modern, deconstructionist criticism, as a passage espousing the necessity--and indeed, hilarity--of domestic violence.
However, for YOU, this passage has only one interpretation: Don't ever ask a man about his business.
Yeah, so I've been gone for like four months. Back out! What have you done in that time period that's so fucking great? Stop right there. If you're so fucking spec--don't interrupt me. Don't you EVER interrupt me! I am the leader of this
I ask the questions around here. Never forget it, lest you suffer the same fate as poor Penelope.
Now that you're firmly re-subjugated, we can get back to business. Today I'd like to introduce a new feature I'll be running from time-to-time: Questions from the Reader!
You haven't noticed, but the comment boxes have been getting pretty full. However, each and every one of you used the space to express your undying adulation towards me, your humble blog author and King. There's nothing wrong with this, per se. I just assumed that some of you would prefer that your hero worship and/or graphic sexual fantasy descriptions were read by me privately, and would greatly embarrass you once you sobered up and realized what you had written. Thus, I did all of you the favor of removing your comments.
In the future, these sweet-nothings can be whispered to incrediblyloudwriting@gmail.com.
Please continue to fill up the "Comment" sections under each blog entry, but be forewarned: I shall henceforth allow any and all "Comment" correspondence--no matter how blubbering--to be displayed on the mighty Internet!
There was one comment that I allowed to remain, and it serves as the impetus for "QFromtheR." This question (though the box is clearly marked comments) comes from your fellow peasant, Duncan.
A.M.--I have enjoyed reading,seeing, and hearing your blog entries to this point. Is there a way I can also smell these amazing bits of entertainment?
Incredibly yours,
Duncan.
I'll give you all a moment to stop laughing.
Alright, that good? Seriously, stop, we've got things to do. Yeah, yeah, ha ha, what an assbag, I know. Really, let's all calm it down and get back to--is that gum? Are you chewi--give me the gum. Give me the gum, now. If we can't all be responsible, we won't have treats next week. Alright, back to work.
Duncan, I'd like to begin by thanking you for your thoughtful question. I appreciate your patronage here at Incredibly Loud Writing, and as I used your question in the blog, you'll be receiving a FREE "Incredibly Loud Writing" baby-tee, as well as a cassette tape single of the Darrel and The Groundhogs smash hit, "Three Groundhog Cocks." You pay only $7.95--American currency ONLY--in shipping and handling. Now Duncan, I'd like you to go ahead and skip forward five lines. With your hard work, you've earned it! Go on, skip ahead! We'll catch up there. Start now.
What a fucking idiotic question for real, huh? Alright, let's laugh a little more. There you go. That's good. Wow.
Welcome back, Duncan! I hope you enjoyed the vacation. Make sure to note it on your timesheet. Now, to speak directly to your insightful query: Of course Interactive Internet Smelling Devices--or I.I.S.D--exist! As a licensed blog owner, I was required to pass a six-month course on general Internet knowledge (one I recommend to you), as well as pay the hefty Internet Portioning fees.
Here's the skinny: The International Council of the Internet, who administers these devices of control, has the technology. It is being fine-tuned, and when ready, will be shipped directly to Bill Gates, who has the daunting task of inserting it into Windows (a construction process that generally takes up to a year, requiring several man hours, and impacting urban traffic negatively). Once this process is complete, the new version of Windows will be loaded into a flat-bed truck, and shipped across the country. At this point, you'll be able to smell more Incredibly Loud Writing than you ever thought you'd hear or taste.
So thanks for your question Duncan. I'm sure at this point that you've got another one (Duncan, go to the next sentence), because you're PRETTY FUCKING SLOW! Hi again, Duncan. You're wondering where the I.C. of the I. gets all their money for smellology. A simple question, from a simple mind. The answer is right in front of you, and indeed ubiquitous in the land of the Internet: Copyright Fees!
While the dues from new Internet owners keep the 'net spinning, advances in tech would not be possible were it not for the heavily regulation of Internet content. The Council receives a cut of all copyright fees paid for reproducing copyrighted materials on the Internet. As such, the Council dutifully monitors ALL Internet content, ensuring that copyright laws are never broken!
Beyond the monetary benefits, this process serves as a method of control. Imagine an Internet where anyone could have a website! That's not an Internet I'd want to visit. Additionally, things like movies and music could be shared using user-to-user technology, with no money changing hands!
Needless to say, the Council performs a truly heroic deed in protecting us all from the horrors of an unregulated 'net. However, this does make it a bitch to access copyrighted work for this blog! It took me the last four months to collect the $25 fee for the rights to rebroadcast--well now, I'm getting ahead of myself.
Thanks for the questions, Duncan!
--AM Chenowith
Together, we join arms and celebrate: We've come to the end of all this reading! Well, almost to the end. Hang in there.
In 2006, I was working as an intern at Independent Radio Iowa. My first assignment was to chronicle local musician Thad Taylor, who was making a splash in the burgeoning music scene in Solon, Iowa. IRI's top reporter, Brock Rosaleb, conducted several interviews with Taylor, which I recorded, then pieced together, as I discovered an affinity for digital editing.
But I paid the aforementioned $25 to reproduce this copyrighted (damn you, Independent Radio Iowa) material not to display the genesis of my audiogenius--no, this is to introduce you to a kindred spirit.
Thad Taylor personifies the ethos that typifies the mantra that represents my art. He'll teach you more in these ten minutes than I have during the three hours it took you to read this post. I'll step aside now, and let this brilliant man speak for himself.
Check back soon for more Incredibly Loud Writing.
You're welcome.
From Independent Radio Iowa, circa 2006: A young audio editor named AM Chenowith successfully documents a moment in time with musical legend Thad Taylor. Take 10 minutes now to listen to it, or recover from all of that reading by taking a nap, getting high, going to the bathroom, or watching football, or something like that. But then, come back and take 10 minutes and listen to the god damn piece.
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