Okay, look...

First, there is no such word as irregardless. Shut up, you asshole. Second, attention everyone: You use the word "apparently" too much. Finally, the phase "Happy Holidays" has been in use longer than Kwanzaa has existed. When I say "Happy Holidays" it means that I wish for you to have an enjoyable holiday season. I am not using it to avoid the word "Christmas" in fear of offending my non-Christian friends. There is not a Jew within a 35-mile radius of where I'm currently standing. Christmas, Christmas, Christmas!!! Merry fucking Christmas!!! I am not afraid to say it. Do not correct me just because Bill fucking O'Reilly told you to, you fucking automaton!! In fact, I take back my "Happy holidays"...I hope you get genital warts.

Even worse than I predicted

Once upon a time I maintained a website where I (and the others on this blog) wrote pretentiously about the shit that I (we) found interesting. Now we do that here. Anyway, the last article that I wrote for that site, over a year ago, was about baseball. In particular, the article was about how stupid the Los Angeles Angels were for signing Gary Matthews, Jr. to a 5 year, $50M contract to be their centerfielder. I argued that Matthews might be an ok player for a year or two (but never worth $10M a year), but in the long run the Angels would regret having him on their roster.

I was wrong. The Angels regretted having him on their roster almost immediately. Gary Matthews, Jr. was statistically the worst player that the Angels played everyday last year. The Angels offense was pretty potent last year, with only two regulars that were below average according to OPS+. Shortstop Orlando Cabrera was 5% below average and Matthews was 7% below average. Coincidentally (or not), Cabrera was traded away this winter. I'm sure the Angels would love to trade Matthews away, too, but no one will take him with 4 years and $40M left on his contract.

Matthews was so bad that the Angels went out and signed Torii Hunter to a 5 year, $80M contract to play centerfield for them next year (I won't go into why that is also a bad deal except to point out that Hunter is already 32 and admitted that he was prepared to sign for less). That means that Matthews will probably move to leftfield (or the bench) one year after signing his big contract, in part, because of his "outstanding" defense in centerfield.

Perhaps this will turn into a yearly post for me, where I can break down the stupidity of the Angels as the sign a new centerfielder to a bad contract each year. Thank you to the Los Angeles Angels for providing me something to write about.

My Turn

Ok, so I am in the mood to keep posting, so here is the beginning of a story that I started writing a couple of months ago. In the same vein as Josh Muselix's story, it is a goal of mine to actually finish one of these stories at some point. Unfortunately, full-time employment keeps me from sitting around and writing all day.

___________________________

Sunday morning. It was raining. Karl wanted nothing more than to pull the covers back over his head and go back to sleep. The steady drumming of the rain on the bedroom window was hypnotic. Karl’s half-asleep brain imagined the sound was actually caused by wave after wave of miniature soldiers marching across the window in their tiny little army boots. For some reason Karl was comforted by the thought of a blanket of inch high Rambos covering his window.

Just as Karl was becoming fully committed to the troop deployment, a bloodcurdling scream from the next room disrupted his jack-boot revelry. Karl was startled and got out of bed to determine the source of the scream. He paused at the pile of clothes on the floor to pick up and put on a t-shirt and pair of shorts. What he found in the next room was his younger brother in frantic activity centered around a video game console.

“What’s going on out here?” Karl asked lethargically.

Karl’s younger brother Todd, who was the classic hyper-active spazz of a 13 year old brother, never looked up.

“My Xbox360 froze! It froze!” Todd was nearly screaming in hysterics, “I was just about to go in the room where the guy is to get the bomb so I could go find the guy with the thing and blow it up and…”

“It’s not your Xbox…” Karl started, but he didn’t really have the energy to argue semantics.

“Yeah, yeah,” Todd said, “has it ever done this to you before? I mean it was just fine last night and it worked all morning…”

“Isn’t it a bit early for all this?” Karl interrupted, knowing that it would be minutes before Todd quit talking of his own accord.

Todd looked at Karl for the first time.

“It’s already 8:30, Ice.”

When Karl was fourteen he had decided that he hated his name. Carl Weathers was the only cool person he could think of that shared his name. And Carl Weathers hadn’t been cool for a long time. So, using the poor decision-making skills that are typical in the average fourteen year old, Karl declared that he wanted everyone to call him ‘Ice’. What could be cooler than Ice, after all? It didn’t take Karl long to realize his mistake, but the damage was done. Three years later, everyone still called him Ice, and always with the gleam in their eye that he saw in Todd’s eye that particular Sunday morning. Some days the name would be enough to make Karl seek retribution physically against his brother, but his mind had not quite wholly returned from the land of the rain soldiers and the moment passed.

Karl and Todd lived with their parents in the suburbs in a small ranch-style house that looked exactly like every other house in their neighborhood. It was the sort of neighborhood where almost everyone took pride in the maintenance of their house and yard because that was the only way to differentiate between them. The day their father installed a small fountain in the front yard, below the picture window in the living room, was a controversial day in the neighborhood. Their father was so proud, but many in the neighborhood thought it was ostentatious. Their father knew that they were all just jealous.

There were a few houses in the neighborhood, however, that didn’t take care of their house or lawn at all. These were the houses that were discussed the most by the neighborhood gossips. Rumors would spread through the neighborhood about criminal activity that would go on at these houses and occasionally law enforcement would show up to prove a rumor or two to be true.

Karl and Todd’s house backed up to one of the run-down houses. Their father complained bitterly and almost non-stop about the house and its perpetual state of disrepair. Several months before that Sunday morning there had been a small fire at the house. When the fire department arrived, they found that a multitude of criminal activity had been going on in the house and the occupants had been led away by the police shortly thereafter. The house had been vacant from then until a moving van had shown up on Saturday.

Karl’s father was convinced that a new passel of rogues would be moving in and he was already in full complaint mode.

Internet addiction of the month

Mainly because I was tired of there being no new posts, but also because I have become obsessed with this and I want you all to get sucked in, as well, I give you Word Sandwich.

Luckily that site is blocked at work or I would have lost my job by now.

Enjoy, fuckers.

Kids Say the Craziest Fuckin' Shit

My four-year old daughter was watching Emeril cook something on the Food Network while I worked on my laptop. It had been completely silent in the room for at least 5 minutes. Out of the silence came this conversation:

"Daddy?"

"Yeah Honey?"

"Can Santa see my pee-pee?"

Apparently she's reading The Onion already.

(http://store.theonion.com/holiday-card-set-ho-ho-ho-i-saw-you-masturbating-p-148.html)

You know who you are!

I have a friend who toils for Warren Buffett. Ten years ago he accepted a sales position for Geico Insurance for $10/hour. Today he makes $15. In the mean time Warren Buffett kept amassing great sums totaling today up to $52 Billion. My friend is happy to toil away for his pittance. He has no ambition beyond a fridge full of beer and a pack full of Marlboros (I did just learn that he has an iPhone!). He is a political conservative. He has no white guilt. He listens to Rush Limbaugh et. Al and believes them. He thinks that poor people are lazy not realizing how hard he has worked to become one of them. Meanwhile Warren Buffett publicly, and uncharacteristically gave away most of his fortune to the Gates foundation. Buffett Reaizes his responsibility in this trickle up economy. The top 1% of rich people in this world can use their spare change to end disease, hunger and poverty in this world. If the rest of the 99% of us did so, it wouldn’t even scratch the surface.

Yes it's long...no, you don't have to read it

"Jike strode into Clarence’s station, his arrival trumpeted by the thud of the metal door striking the plastic stopper. Jike scanned the store and took in its sights and smells. Coolers of beer, soda and trendy energy drinks. Walls of overly-sugared and salted treats. Sandwiches tarrying to serve as meals for those who do not consider taste, nutritional content or personal safety when managing their intake. Jike finished his inventory with the wall of cigarettes, and the two filthy men arguing in front of it.

“I don’t care, the name’s gotta go.”

Jike slowly moved toward the soft drinks, stealing frequent glances at Clarence.

“But Clarence, it’s been Melville for over 60 years. What’re we gonna call the place?”

Jike took one more quick look as he ducked down, opened the glass door and grabbed a Refresher. He cracked it open and took a drink in one swift movement.

“Don’t care, just not Melville.”

“Just what in the hell is so bad about it?”

Jike smiled and moved to join the polemics at the counter.

“One, Melville never set foot in the town couldn’t give two craps about us…”

“Clarence, you are conscious of the fact that this municipality was incorporated a mere fifty-one years after the novelist’s death are you not?” asked Jike.

“Shut up boy! Where’d you get that Refresher?”

“I simply glaumed it from the infrigidator. You may subtract it from my wages.”

“Goddamnit! Put it back. You’ve eaten your last three checks and you owe me $43.60 more! Why do you have to talk like such an idiot? And yes, Goddamnit, I know that they named the stupid town after Melville was dead, but I meant that he wasn’t from here and never wrote about the area or nothin’ like that.”

Jike calmly stared at his employer. “If it weren’t a sin, I would wager that you have not even so much as skimmed the pages of Moby Dick, much less his poetry, short stories or letters. How can you possibly know that Melville did not have a special place in his heart for Wisconsin? Speaking of sin, I find it somewhat perturbing that I shall not see you again after this life is ended due to the fact that your flesh will be burning and you will be enduring the torment of wicked beasts for all eternity as a permanent tenant of Hades. You took the Lord’s name in vain twice in the course of one ignorant rant. And speaking of speaking, I find it especially ironic that you would refer to my vernacular as ‘stupid’ when the very phenomenon responsible your anger is your fear. The circumstance that is instigating your fear is your ignorance. As people like you often confound ignorance with stupidity, you remarking that I, ‘talk stupid’ is the very epitome of ignorance as well as stupidity itself. Oh, the irony is gummous.”

The third man piped up, “He’s a retard, but he’s got a point. Have you read every goddamned letter that Melville ever sent? Do you know of every goddamned train he ever got on? How do you know that Melville didn’t love the goddamned place?”

“Everybody shut up! Do you know what a person from Melville is called? A Melvillian. It’s got the goddamned word ‘villain’ right in it. We’re a town full of villains that happily accept everybody else’s shit…literally! That’s it. I ain’t gonna debate it no more. The name’s gotta go. And you, fat boy, put the Refresher back and get to work, goddamnit.” Clarence yelled.

“I’ve already consumed nearly half of this callibogus. How could I possibly put it back now?”

“It’s not a goddamned ‘callibogus’. It’s a goddamned soda and you better find $45 or find another job, you fat little turd.”

“You may subtract it from my wages.”

“Shut up. We’re gonna go and get a coffee.”

“There’s coffee right here Clarence,” said Jike, motioning to the counter.

“We’re gonna go get a coffee that hasn’t been there all goddamned day, and isn’t setting next to you.”

“Again, you realize that you’re going to Hell?”

Clarence rolled his eyes as he motioned violently with his head for his friend to follow him across the street. The two men strolled off quickly, leaving Jike to languish behind the register."







If you'd like to read the other 90,000 words, please send annual payments of $72,000 to my attention.

It's a simple question

Which is the larger number: 60% or 2/3?

This isn't a trick or a riddle. Twice in the last week someone has told me that they aren't very good at math, so I asked them this simple question in order to see just how bad at math they are. The first person answered incorrectly and really had no idea how to figure out the answer (if it isn't readily apparent). The second person answered correctly, but then completely blew it when trying to explain.

Both of these people are college graduates (and presumably finished the fourth grade). It's not like I am all that great at math myself - I'm not trying to imply that I am or to feel superior to anyone. I just can't believe that there are reasonably intelligent adults that can't answer that question.

You Decide!

Sting of Nostalgia

I'm not much for emotion. Most of them are just annoying to me. However, when I found this picture while going through a gigantic file marked "personal" it nearly made me cry. Couple that with the fact that my recent birthday was so bad that it replaced the one that inspired me to write a song called "Worst Birthday Yet" and all signs are officially pointing me home. I just hope that at least some of it still looks like it did when I left.

Storytime

Once upon a time (six months ago) I lived in a small suburb of a moderately sized midwest city (now I actually live within the city limits of the same moderately sized midwest city - Movin' on up!). It was a decently well kept suburb and my neighborhood was mostly filled with your average middle class people. There was one family, however, that I would consider to be a bit trashier than the rest (no, not me - I put up a nice facade). I lived in a circle at the top of a hill and three houses counter-clockwise around the circle lived the trashy family. It seemed as though neither of the parents worked, their yard was never kept up (another neighbor mowed their lawn a few times because he was sick of looking at it), and the police visited a few times on domestic disturbances calls. So yeah, one of those families.

Anyway, one fine spring day I was sitting in my living room watching television. I noticed that the kids from the circle (including several from the trashy house) were playing baseball in the street - my house would have been their left field wall. They weren't actually using a baseball, but some kind of hard rubber ball. I watched them for a while and they ran through my yard several times to get their ball - no big deal. But then I noticed that the left fielder kept running through a flower garden that we had planted in the yard to get the ball, when he easily could have gone around. So I said something. My wife was semi-appalled and called me a grumpy old man yelling at the neighbor kids to stay off his lawn, but it wasn't really like that. The kid ran through the garden and ended up right under the window, so I asked him not to run through the flowers. I was even polite. But, of course, it scared the shit out of the kid, who wasn't expecting a voice to come from the house.

So, the kid apparently runs back in and tells his dad that I yelled at him. But the dad is a huge coward and doesn't want to confront me. Instead he comes out and picks up the bat and tells the kid to throw a pitch. The guy points his bat at my window - calling his shot. I was actually hoping that he would break one of my windows, because it would have been fun to fuck with him over it. Instead, after all his bat waving and posturing, he swings as hard as he can and pops the ball high up in the air. But not towards my house. The ball came down squarely on the roof on my next-door-neighbor's car, which was parked in his driveway, and set off the alarm. This, of course, was even better than what I'd hoped would happen. The trashy guy lived up to his reputation and dropped the bat and ran inside like a coward before my neighbor came out of his house.

Our Gang

This is just unbelievable. I find the candidate's stupidity as offensive as her comment, to tell you the truth. How is it possible that she could be that dumb? What possible outcome was she hoping for when she made that remark?

Politicians (I am totally non-partisan: they all suck) continually do things that elicit this reaction from me. Their job security depends on good public relations. No matter how good a lawmaker may be at the lawmaking portion of their job, they will not be a lawmaker for long if they continually put their foot in their mouth (or if they attempt to pay an undercover cop to put his dick in their mouth). Is it too much to ask for them to restrain their stupidity while they are in public?

I have similar feelings about professional athletes. They won the genetic lottery and many get paid millions of dollars to play games. Why would they risk fucking that up by carrying loaded weapons into airports, or participating in dogfighting, or drinking and driving? What an incredibly stupid risk to take.

My New Video Game!

So I've come up with a new video game that's a cross between an Mmorpg and a Battlefield 1942-like online action game. Check out the details!

The game takes place on earth several hundred years from now and Earth is divided into 3 factions. Players can choose one of two factions when they create their characters and level up by fighting battles untill eventually they become the most powerful players on the planet! All action is real time twitchy player skill based, but the player can level up to power up his weapons and abilites.

The three factions are:
1. U.S.-China-Japan Commercial Concern (UCJCC)
2. United Socialist Republics of Europe (USRE)
3. The African Union (AU, non-player neutral faction, gaining points with them can help you on the battleground)

UCJCC controls North America and non-Russian Asia.
USRE controls Europe, Russian Asia, Australia and S. America.
AU controls Africa.

Resources are important in the game and several player classes are devoted to gaining and delivering resources. Resources include ammo, armor, food, powerups, tools and other items that players will need on the battleground.

There are ten player classes to choose from. Each player faction has a unique class. Each class has unique abilities to help her faction on the battleground, and all factions will be necessary from true victory on the battlfield.

Player Classes Are:
Ninja: (UCJCC only) Infiltrates enemy lines to assasinate personell.
Pirate: (USRE only) Infiltrates enemy lines to steal resources.
Driver: Drives supply vehicles to the front (trying not to get killed) and eventually gets to drive tanks in battle!
Mechaneer: Controls mechs and robots that can take on the roles of other classes.
Pilot: Flies planes in either recon, bombing, or dog fighting roles.
Anti-Air: Focuses on destroying enemy aircraft and placing strategic decoy placements.
Rifleman: Specializes in firearms mastery
Mauler: Specializes in melee mastery
Grunt: Proficiency in ranged and melee combat, mastery of neither.
Medic: Heals battle damage and applies preventative buffs in battle.

90% of all game time occurs on the battleground, from level 1 on. Players earn XP by completing battlefield objectives. Winning low level battles helps the high levels in that faction, so even the newbie can help win the battle!


Well whattya think? Sound fun?

Abort, Abort!!! Yeah that's right, it's an abortion!!!

To quote Mark Oliver Everett, “I hate a lot of things, but I love a few things. And you are one of them.”

I am pretty sure that every industry has at least one product per generation that is the result of a dare. You know, something like:

“Hey fellow high-fashion eyewear industry executive?”

“Yeah Dawg?”

“I bet you can’t get women in Montana to walk around in public wearing enormous goggles.”

“You’re on, bitch!”

Man, do I hate those sunglasses that women are wearing nowadays. Ladies – no matter how attractive you happen to be, when you’re wearing these $138 sunglasses every heterosexual man within a 30 mile radius and I are thinking about this man. Please believe me, you are not doing yourself any favors.

There have to be a million examples of dare-related fads. Here are a few more of my guesses:

If you’re really, really hot and you just want to go to the mall without desperate erection-plagued men showering you with gifts and marriage proposals every step of the way, you should wear one of these. It’s absolutely guaranteed to drive away all but the most perverted among sexual sociopaths…the guy who makes lewd suggestions to pregnant chicks. That’s right – you can feel free to trollop from one mini-station of capitalism to another disguised as a woman who is seven months pregnant…and has terrible taste in clothes. Now there’s nothing wrong with pregnancy. I’ve witnessed the glow of pregnancy emitting from more than one female in my day. Pregnant women can be attractive. They can also be successful and athletic. However, I have never heard a woman say, “Oh God, I just wish I looked like I did when I was pregnant!” Except of course when they verbalized the equivalent of this expression, “I love this fucking baby doll top!” at the mall the other day.

...so I got about that far in the first draft of a column for the West Virginia Surf Report when I stopped to take a break and read this. Stupid Maddox. What really, really sucks is that his was funnier.

Labels Poetry

Lazy old people probably will have sex with you young people, sisters.
Labels suck half of the truth.
Emoticon's goals: No longer a fat guy.

24 in 1994

This is a link to a video.

http://www.engadget.com/2007/11/09/24-in-1994-the-lost-pilot/

It will remind old people who think they're still young people that, well, no. You're not. Save the bit about the pace of technological change, too. Only old people say that.

Answering Your Biggest Questions About Me

Hi. Thanks for all the questions. Here are the top three:
Q: Are you still a really, really fat guy?
A: No. I am no longer fat at all. Thanks for asking.

Q: A long time ago I declined an offer from you for sex. I declined mostly because you were so fat. I'd now like to reconsider. Will you have sex with me now?
A: Probably...

Q: Why don't you provide labels for your post?
A: Mostly because I don't care if people read it or not.

Well Okay Then

Just wanted to say that I am here. I was going to write a long entry that talked about stuff, but then I couldn't get my camera phone to work. So yeah...hey Walker, Can you say motherfucker on this blog?

But When Do I Get Paid?

Wait, you mean to tell me we're in this for the love of blogging? Aw, man!

Also, I use emoticons when I blog ;)

Get used to it sisters!

What If I Tried This...

this is g&tPOP.
I've never seen my letters in a blog. Here are all the bad-assed things i can do.

Hello... is this thing on?

Ok, Half of the Truth is a blog by four guys that enjoy writing and arguing, but are too lazy to maintain a website. We've each tried to varying degrees and each attempt now lays cold and dormant. If each one of us can post something to this blog whenever it strikes us, theoretically we each will on have to do 1/4 of the work of a normal blog, which is just about perfect for us. Our goal here is to entertain ourselves - and if others find their way here and enjoy reading what we've written, that's a bonus.