it's true. conduct an exit poll on christmas morning. collect your data and take a good look and surely you will agree that santa doesn't like you if you're poor. if you're rich, santa brings you like a new car or stock options or something similarly badass. if you're poor, santa brings you maybe christmas dinner. isn't santa kind of an asshole? why would he do something like this? what could bring one of the jolliest, most worshipped dudes on the planet to mollycoddle the fat cats? the answer is simple: santa claus fucking DOESN'T EXIST!!
dkd
15 December 2005
12 December 2005
The Worst Surprise Party Ever
Every year it happens. Jesus wakes up with a wicked hangover from his whatever night of the week it is party, and finds his celestial bedroom filled with the souls of roughly one and half millennia of jackfucks. When he starts to open his eyes, "SURPRISE!!!" roars from the chorus of nincompoops. At this hour--7am (Christians get up way too fucking early), this declaration of "surprise" is as nauseating as the mental image of Michael Bolton and Kenny G sixty-nining.
Jesus politely smiles at the crowd. He does this because he's Jesus, the Son of God, and the only being capable of keeping his composure in a situation this awkward. However, the smile never lasts long. Jesus is forced to pull the covers over his head. Safely hidden, Jesus thinks to himself, "Jesus, who the fuck are these people in my bedroom?" After a short period of time, the onlookers begin to pull the covers away from Jesus and shower him with crappy presents. Thus begins the shittest day in heaven for Jesus; December 25th.
You see the only thing worse than a surprise party (and they always suck), is a surprise party on the wrong day. It's bad enough on its own to be ambushed into quality time with your M R family and jerk off coworkers.
On your birthday though, you can rationalize it as their misplaced generosity on the one day they can be total shits to you while you're completely handcuffed by a “day of your birth” stipulation. However, say these monkeyshits forgot your birthday, or didn't know it in the first place. Say they just picked a random Tuesday on the calendar (cause you were born on a Tuesday, they think) and all convened at your house unbeknownst to you. Say Tuesday is the day you wank off to macchio porn, Macchio Day if you will. And say you had a bad day at work and all you want to do is lube it up to Karate Kid II. Then bam.... "Surprise". Say they did this every year.
Well Guess what.... this is what "Christians" do to Jesus every year.
Surprise America, you fucking idiots. I'm cool with the whole season of giving thing. I love the holidays. Keep the holidays; the world needs charity, kids need sweet ass toys, and I need my girlfriend to have as many reasons a possible to have sex with me. It's good for the economy. It's probably even bad for the terrorists (I imagine it's more difficult to pull off an attack when all the good parking spots are taken). All I’m saying is leave your Jesus pretensions at home. He doesn't want a part of this. Recently there has been a move by some groups to put the "Christ" back in Christmas. From under the covers surrounded by dead assholes Jesus says, “Eff You”.
Every moron that has watched the history channel for more then ten minutes knows that Jesus has nothing to do with Christmas. That's why smart people like the Doctor call it "X-Mas". So how did this confusion begin,, you ask? Allow me to explain:
You see every year Europeans, such as the Celts, the Romans, the Germans, The Norse and the Finnnnnnnns, all had a parties around December.
What were they celebrating? Some celebrated the solstice. Others just celebrated because it was cold as balls and they wanted to get drunk (Jerkoffs in Boston, does this ring a bell?). At a certain point a bunch of prude ass Christians showed up to the party and asked some cool dudes what was going on. The cool dudes realized that Christians were a total buzz kill so they planned their answer carefully. The conversation which probably took place in Ireland or England or something might have gone like this:
EXT. Europe-Night
It’s cold but peeps be crunk and kicking it by the fire. There is music and bitches.
Fundamental Christian: what's this going on here
Cool Dude 1: what are you talking about christian guy?
FC: This party here?
Cool Dude 2: Oh that.
Cool Dude 1: Um, what's the geyser you guys really really fancy?
FC: our lord and savior jesus christ
CD 1: yeah, it’s his birthday or something.
FC: it is?
CD 2: totally.
FC: We shall call it Christmas
CD 1: whatever.
Now I hope this "Christ" in Christmas issue and the whole boycott situation is a ploy by religious groups just to see how much lame ass pull they actually have. I really hope they aren't serious. Leave Jesus alone, he’s a grown ass man. He's tired, and his head hurts.
Playing the part of Cool Dude #1,
Dr. Koala Dick
Jesus politely smiles at the crowd. He does this because he's Jesus, the Son of God, and the only being capable of keeping his composure in a situation this awkward. However, the smile never lasts long. Jesus is forced to pull the covers over his head. Safely hidden, Jesus thinks to himself, "Jesus, who the fuck are these people in my bedroom?" After a short period of time, the onlookers begin to pull the covers away from Jesus and shower him with crappy presents. Thus begins the shittest day in heaven for Jesus; December 25th.
You see the only thing worse than a surprise party (and they always suck), is a surprise party on the wrong day. It's bad enough on its own to be ambushed into quality time with your M R family and jerk off coworkers.
On your birthday though, you can rationalize it as their misplaced generosity on the one day they can be total shits to you while you're completely handcuffed by a “day of your birth” stipulation. However, say these monkeyshits forgot your birthday, or didn't know it in the first place. Say they just picked a random Tuesday on the calendar (cause you were born on a Tuesday, they think) and all convened at your house unbeknownst to you. Say Tuesday is the day you wank off to macchio porn, Macchio Day if you will. And say you had a bad day at work and all you want to do is lube it up to Karate Kid II. Then bam.... "Surprise". Say they did this every year.Well Guess what.... this is what "Christians" do to Jesus every year.
Surprise America, you fucking idiots. I'm cool with the whole season of giving thing. I love the holidays. Keep the holidays; the world needs charity, kids need sweet ass toys, and I need my girlfriend to have as many reasons a possible to have sex with me. It's good for the economy. It's probably even bad for the terrorists (I imagine it's more difficult to pull off an attack when all the good parking spots are taken). All I’m saying is leave your Jesus pretensions at home. He doesn't want a part of this. Recently there has been a move by some groups to put the "Christ" back in Christmas. From under the covers surrounded by dead assholes Jesus says, “Eff You”.
Every moron that has watched the history channel for more then ten minutes knows that Jesus has nothing to do with Christmas. That's why smart people like the Doctor call it "X-Mas". So how did this confusion begin,, you ask? Allow me to explain:
You see every year Europeans, such as the Celts, the Romans, the Germans, The Norse and the Finnnnnnnns, all had a parties around December.
What were they celebrating? Some celebrated the solstice. Others just celebrated because it was cold as balls and they wanted to get drunk (Jerkoffs in Boston, does this ring a bell?). At a certain point a bunch of prude ass Christians showed up to the party and asked some cool dudes what was going on. The cool dudes realized that Christians were a total buzz kill so they planned their answer carefully. The conversation which probably took place in Ireland or England or something might have gone like this:
EXT. Europe-Night
It’s cold but peeps be crunk and kicking it by the fire. There is music and bitches.
Fundamental Christian: what's this going on here
Cool Dude 1: what are you talking about christian guy?
FC: This party here?
Cool Dude 2: Oh that.
Cool Dude 1: Um, what's the geyser you guys really really fancy?
FC: our lord and savior jesus christ
CD 1: yeah, it’s his birthday or something.
FC: it is?
CD 2: totally.
FC: We shall call it Christmas
CD 1: whatever.
Now I hope this "Christ" in Christmas issue and the whole boycott situation is a ploy by religious groups just to see how much lame ass pull they actually have. I really hope they aren't serious. Leave Jesus alone, he’s a grown ass man. He's tired, and his head hurts.
Playing the part of Cool Dude #1,
Dr. Koala Dick
05 December 2005
nostalgia is for pussies
Oh my god you guys: do you remember the '80s? I remember them SO hard.
Remember metal lunchboxes? They were SO cool. Remember David Hasselhoff, and Michael Jackson when he was cool and wore that piano t-shirt? Oh my god, remember that piano t-shirt? I do. Remember Pacman? And Top Gun? Pacman and Top Gun were awesome. Remember "Afterschool Special?"
Remember Gorbachev? Remember that spot on his head? That spot on Gorbachev's head was SO '80s.
I want to fuck the '80s. Oh my god. I want the '80s to drip honey all over me and love me slow. I want to give the '80s a handjob and NEVER wash my hand. I want to smell like the 80's genitals for weeks.
Remember Atari?
Sometimes I have dreams about the '80s and I wake up and my pants are all wet. What's that about? Is there maybe a book on this that
I can read and discover things about the '80s and my body and how I can please the '80s in the way it wants me to? I'm only 15, but I swear to God I remember this stuff.
Remember slap bracelets, and G.I. Joe, and Fraggle Rock?
Remember Cagney and Lacey?
No, you don't asshole. No one under the age of 25 does: you're not fooling anyone. How about this one: remember walking around the mall and being suffocated by clouds of Aquanet? Remember acid rain? That shit was caused by the big hair trend.
Remember all that shitty music? Remember motherfucking Poison, for God's sake? Remember the threat of nuclear annihilation? (alright, that was okay. a healthy dose of existential dread actually brings out the best in us.) But remember poverty, and the President saying he didn't think there was a reason for anyone in America to be poor? Remember the war on drugs? Yeah, righteous. I SO want to be a kid again, UH! I want to masturbate to pictures of tube socks, members only jackets and the war on drugs. The war on drugs was SO '80s.
I'm not saying that Transformers, Voltron, He-Man, Thundercats, Fraggle Rock and everything else I actually do remember from my childhood weren't entirely fucking sweet, but can we please stop pimping them out like Thai hookers? If you handed Voltron three dollars and said "hey, I remember you SO hard. I remember you harder than any of the other rising juniors at the University of Michigan. Will you go down on me?" he would fuck you up with his huge sword.
Please. At least have the decency to nostalgify the early 90's too. they had Sublime and Bill Clinton.
No Voltron BJ's,
Doctor Koaladick
Remember metal lunchboxes? They were SO cool. Remember David Hasselhoff, and Michael Jackson when he was cool and wore that piano t-shirt? Oh my god, remember that piano t-shirt? I do. Remember Pacman? And Top Gun? Pacman and Top Gun were awesome. Remember "Afterschool Special?"
Remember Gorbachev? Remember that spot on his head? That spot on Gorbachev's head was SO '80s.
I want to fuck the '80s. Oh my god. I want the '80s to drip honey all over me and love me slow. I want to give the '80s a handjob and NEVER wash my hand. I want to smell like the 80's genitals for weeks.
Remember Atari?
Sometimes I have dreams about the '80s and I wake up and my pants are all wet. What's that about? Is there maybe a book on this that
I can read and discover things about the '80s and my body and how I can please the '80s in the way it wants me to? I'm only 15, but I swear to God I remember this stuff.Remember slap bracelets, and G.I. Joe, and Fraggle Rock?
Remember Cagney and Lacey?
No, you don't asshole. No one under the age of 25 does: you're not fooling anyone. How about this one: remember walking around the mall and being suffocated by clouds of Aquanet? Remember acid rain? That shit was caused by the big hair trend.
Remember all that shitty music? Remember motherfucking Poison, for God's sake? Remember the threat of nuclear annihilation? (alright, that was okay. a healthy dose of existential dread actually brings out the best in us.) But remember poverty, and the President saying he didn't think there was a reason for anyone in America to be poor? Remember the war on drugs? Yeah, righteous. I SO want to be a kid again, UH! I want to masturbate to pictures of tube socks, members only jackets and the war on drugs. The war on drugs was SO '80s.
I'm not saying that Transformers, Voltron, He-Man, Thundercats, Fraggle Rock and everything else I actually do remember from my childhood weren't entirely fucking sweet, but can we please stop pimping them out like Thai hookers? If you handed Voltron three dollars and said "hey, I remember you SO hard. I remember you harder than any of the other rising juniors at the University of Michigan. Will you go down on me?" he would fuck you up with his huge sword.
Please. At least have the decency to nostalgify the early 90's too. they had Sublime and Bill Clinton.
No Voltron BJ's,
Doctor Koaladick
29 November 2005
Dr. Koala Dick: For Your Information
*A new segement where the doctor lays down the science without even having to write sentences.
Things This Kid is Allergic to:
Peanuts, Cats, Bee Stings, Wheat, Gluton, Dragons, Caps Lock, Riding in the Back Seat, Doing Laundry, Driving, Going to Class Sober, Condoms, Having Sex With Ugly Girls, Voting, Shampoo, Going Down, Losing Socks, Being Polite, Homework, South America, Charity Work, Relationships, Farts, Reading, Rain, Getting His Ass Kicked, Being Told What to Do, Super Mario Bros. II , Star Trek, CBS, Not Having a Pet Monkey, Going to Parties, Flying Stand-By, Girlfriends, Boyfriends, The News, French People, Carrot Cake, Picking Up his Cell Phone, Speaking Spanish, Valentines Day, Masturbating with His left Hand, Taxes, Medicaid, Sloppy Seconds, Crappy Cars, Punctuation, Calvin Coolidge, Bird Flu, Being Poor, Candyland, Fingerblasting Softly, Texas, Radio, Talking to Girls, Girl Talk, Independent Films, Winter, Cybering With Grils Older Than Fifteen, Chapstick, Wankers, Watching Animal Planet, Leather Pants, Being Convincted By a Jury, Military Service, Your Mother's Minge, Being Picked Last, Jizz, Waking Up Before Noon, Hasselhoff, Warming the Bench, Sasquatch.
Things This Kid is Allergic to:
Peanuts, Cats, Bee Stings, Wheat, Gluton, Dragons, Caps Lock, Riding in the Back Seat, Doing Laundry, Driving, Going to Class Sober, Condoms, Having Sex With Ugly Girls, Voting, Shampoo, Going Down, Losing Socks, Being Polite, Homework, South America, Charity Work, Relationships, Farts, Reading, Rain, Getting His Ass Kicked, Being Told What to Do, Super Mario Bros. II , Star Trek, CBS, Not Having a Pet Monkey, Going to Parties, Flying Stand-By, Girlfriends, Boyfriends, The News, French People, Carrot Cake, Picking Up his Cell Phone, Speaking Spanish, Valentines Day, Masturbating with His left Hand, Taxes, Medicaid, Sloppy Seconds, Crappy Cars, Punctuation, Calvin Coolidge, Bird Flu, Being Poor, Candyland, Fingerblasting Softly, Texas, Radio, Talking to Girls, Girl Talk, Independent Films, Winter, Cybering With Grils Older Than Fifteen, Chapstick, Wankers, Watching Animal Planet, Leather Pants, Being Convincted By a Jury, Military Service, Your Mother's Minge, Being Picked Last, Jizz, Waking Up Before Noon, Hasselhoff, Warming the Bench, Sasquatch.
18 November 2005
menstruation station
dear science,
can we please come up with a new word for this? vaginal bleeding is already gross enough without that 'trua' sound being involved. the last time i heard someone say this word i vomited all over a fucking bus. people thought that was gross, but i pointed at the person on the bus who said it and told them 'YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS WHOLE BUS GETTING PUKED ON. GET OFF! WE DON'T WANT YOU HERE WITH YOUR DIRTY VAGINA TALK. PLEASE LEAVE BEFORE MORE PEOPLE ARE SOAKED IN VOMIT.'
most of the other people on the bus did not agree with me and found my shouting to be inappropriate. fuck them. that word is sick and should be publicly banned. did you know there's an island somewhere on which cursing is illegal? it's because it's all owned by this one guy who makes the rules. i think i saw that on pbs one time. it's probably true.
i think that if thomas jefferson were around today, he would agree with me that the word 'menstruation' severely impinges on my rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. how can i be happy when i'm forced to think about that shit? i can't. jefferson, being a supporter of an agrarian economy, would also probably support a return to the golden age of forcing women to spend five days a month alone in a hut. also, the women should have to build the huts because this is in no way my problem.
in my expert medical opinion, that shit is gross.
this is simply unacceptable,
dr. koaladick
can we please come up with a new word for this? vaginal bleeding is already gross enough without that 'trua' sound being involved. the last time i heard someone say this word i vomited all over a fucking bus. people thought that was gross, but i pointed at the person on the bus who said it and told them 'YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS WHOLE BUS GETTING PUKED ON. GET OFF! WE DON'T WANT YOU HERE WITH YOUR DIRTY VAGINA TALK. PLEASE LEAVE BEFORE MORE PEOPLE ARE SOAKED IN VOMIT.'
most of the other people on the bus did not agree with me and found my shouting to be inappropriate. fuck them. that word is sick and should be publicly banned. did you know there's an island somewhere on which cursing is illegal? it's because it's all owned by this one guy who makes the rules. i think i saw that on pbs one time. it's probably true.
i think that if thomas jefferson were around today, he would agree with me that the word 'menstruation' severely impinges on my rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. how can i be happy when i'm forced to think about that shit? i can't. jefferson, being a supporter of an agrarian economy, would also probably support a return to the golden age of forcing women to spend five days a month alone in a hut. also, the women should have to build the huts because this is in no way my problem.
in my expert medical opinion, that shit is gross.
this is simply unacceptable,
dr. koaladick
12 October 2005
an open letter to richael mobbins
you just shut the hell up. seriously. that's what you do. the next time you're faced with an opportunity to talk some bullshit about whatever the hell it is you're ever talking about, you just shut the hell up. know what? you know what? i don't care if you wear a kilt. Mel Gibson, aka THE BRAVEHEART, told me that everybody in Scotland thinks you're a piece of shit. everybody! even the president of Scotland heard about that night at the Glasgow Zoo with the chimpanzee, and he text messaged, like, everybody.
China hates you. there are over one thousand three hundred million people in China. do you have any idea what it takes to get 1.3 billion people to agree on anything? well, apparently all it takes is two little words long: your bullshit.
Mel Gibson, aka THE BRAVEHEART, creator of The Passion of The Christ, let me in on a little secret. You see, apparently it was your fault that our lord and savior died, robbins, and not the fault of those pernicious jews as Mel had kind of led us to believe. jesus wasn't even really crucified. did you know that? jesus heard about the thing with the chimpanzee and he gave up on humanity and put a shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. are you beginning to understand the consequences of your bullshit? because of you, maybe the greatest black man ever to be painted white and appropriated by assholes killed himself, and the guys in charge had to come up with this whole cruciFICTION just so more people wouldn't find out about the night with the chimp and go kill themselves. that means you're also pretty much responsible for the crusades.
seriously, richael. chimp fucking is one thing, but getting fucked BY the chimp? and liking it? and videotaping it? and sending out copies of the tape as christmas cards when the act portrayed on said christmas card tapes DIRECTLY CAUSED THE DEATH OF CHRIST?
you just shut the hell up. that's what you do.
01 October 2005
let me tell you how to beget
"Wouldn't it be great if they made, like a "Sesame Street", but for kids?"
-Ali G
Stop me if I get too vulgar…
I'm all for children's programming. As a youngster, I went to see Sesame Street on Ice. I found it to be a fun and educational time. I learned a lot about the letter G (as in Goat), the number 12, how to ice skate with a cape on (thanks Count), and I also learned that when you throw up cotton candy it kind of glows in the dark. All learning aside, I'm older now, and while i value the lessons educational programming has taught me, i have some issues and reservations with the blumpkin Bolsheviks down at PBS.
I know what you're thinking, here we go again. I agree with you. I think it would be sad to have a Blog totally designed for the purpose of reaming people. However, Dr. Koala Dick is clearly not that kind of institution. Koala Dick, from time to time, merely stumbles upon questions essential to threadwork of our goddamn society, and asks them in a very loud, public and anonymous manner. Sure, there is the occasional reaming, but I refer any complaints to the words uttered by the great Julius Caesar, "Fuck the Fuckheads".
So, why the fuck are Clifford the Big Red Dog, AND Big Bird so huge? And how this gone unquestioned for so long? What kind of sick bastard seeks to confuse impressionable children into believing that seven foot tall yellow birds and tsunami sized dogs actually exists? Was Sesame Street just down the ye olde road from Chernobyl? And if these freakish creatures did indeed exists, do you really believe they would be nice? I think we can all deduce from simple laws of nature and instinct that such dynamo creatures like the ones we are discussing would own independent Kingdoms. These Kingdoms would each resemble a primitive feudalistic society that is barely worth describing because it would be insult to the jack holes that find "Mad Max Three: Beyond ThunderDome" an acceptable film.
Brief “Kodak Moments” might include: Big Bird flying around the steel cage, Big Bird ripping out the hearts of challengers with his ginormous beak, and Big Bird retiring to his bed to gently sex up Tina Turner while screaming about getting his laundry done. Also,
Clifford would probably invade Manhattan like fucking Hannibal, take huge craps in central park, and run some kind of posse/ dog gang from his Trump Tower Penthouse (if the fuckcastle still existed). Whether or not this happens before the Nuclear Holocaust, I do not know. But again, to expose children to these treacherous possibilities is simply wrong.
The only thing more perplexing than the Big Bird/Clifford complex is how the fuck Sesame Street is habitat to both a Huge Yellow Bird (which clearly identifies him a tropical species) and a Wolly Mammoth. According to most scientific analysis the species Mammuthus primigenius became extinct roughly 30,000 years ago. While I wondering how Sesame Street obtained the Mammoth Monopoly owning the last member of its species, my sister reminded me that Snuffleupagus does indeed have a wife and a child.
The Snuffleupagus Family, if that is even their real name, must have the most interesting and twisted family tree this side of Arkansas/West Virgina/Mississippi/Alabama/any other retarded state, line. In case you missed it, I implied there was incest involved, good old fashioned Incest. I hear the babes always fall for the "survival of our species" contingency--its probably something about their natural mothering intuition. Somewhere down the line a Snuffleupagus ancestor was probably forced to breed outside its species. This might be the only time in my life I say, “We can only hope it was with an Elephant”.
Either way, this revelation explained a lot. Sesame Street is not about educating our children, but instead it aims to instill survival skills into a mentally retarded, lonely Woolly Mammoth.
The real tragedy is that for this Mammoth to continue his species, Big Snuffleupagus would have to first endure a reverse Henry VIII scenario; banging away in hopes for a female counterpart. Then comes the truly disgusting part where Snuffleupagus junior is forced to repeatedly jam his sister like goddman Noah of the Ark. Frankly the whole Mammoth Repopulation Endgame as is disgust me. The fact they would even include the possibility of such a scenario in what we accept as a children's shows is evidence of the variety of bell ends employed at PBS. You don't believe me? watch the funding telethon, its priceless the crap they try and pawn off on you. If there's any real lesson to be taken from the aforementioned Mammoth predicament, i think we can all look at Snuffleupagus Jr. as a perfect case for continuing cloning research.
what the eff is Elmo?
dr koala dick
ED NOTE: Upon further research, Dr, Koala Dick discovered that Aloysius Snuffleupagus, who I referred to as “Snuffleupagus Jr.” does indeed have a sister, Alice Snuffleupagus
-Ali G
Stop me if I get too vulgar…
I'm all for children's programming. As a youngster, I went to see Sesame Street on Ice. I found it to be a fun and educational time. I learned a lot about the letter G (as in Goat), the number 12, how to ice skate with a cape on (thanks Count), and I also learned that when you throw up cotton candy it kind of glows in the dark. All learning aside, I'm older now, and while i value the lessons educational programming has taught me, i have some issues and reservations with the blumpkin Bolsheviks down at PBS.
I know what you're thinking, here we go again. I agree with you. I think it would be sad to have a Blog totally designed for the purpose of reaming people. However, Dr. Koala Dick is clearly not that kind of institution. Koala Dick, from time to time, merely stumbles upon questions essential to threadwork of our goddamn society, and asks them in a very loud, public and anonymous manner. Sure, there is the occasional reaming, but I refer any complaints to the words uttered by the great Julius Caesar, "Fuck the Fuckheads".
So, why the fuck are Clifford the Big Red Dog, AND Big Bird so huge? And how this gone unquestioned for so long? What kind of sick bastard seeks to confuse impressionable children into believing that seven foot tall yellow birds and tsunami sized dogs actually exists? Was Sesame Street just down the ye olde road from Chernobyl? And if these freakish creatures did indeed exists, do you really believe they would be nice? I think we can all deduce from simple laws of nature and instinct that such dynamo creatures like the ones we are discussing would own independent Kingdoms. These Kingdoms would each resemble a primitive feudalistic society that is barely worth describing because it would be insult to the jack holes that find "Mad Max Three: Beyond ThunderDome" an acceptable film.
Brief “Kodak Moments” might include: Big Bird flying around the steel cage, Big Bird ripping out the hearts of challengers with his ginormous beak, and Big Bird retiring to his bed to gently sex up Tina Turner while screaming about getting his laundry done. Also,
Clifford would probably invade Manhattan like fucking Hannibal, take huge craps in central park, and run some kind of posse/ dog gang from his Trump Tower Penthouse (if the fuckcastle still existed). Whether or not this happens before the Nuclear Holocaust, I do not know. But again, to expose children to these treacherous possibilities is simply wrong.
The only thing more perplexing than the Big Bird/Clifford complex is how the fuck Sesame Street is habitat to both a Huge Yellow Bird (which clearly identifies him a tropical species) and a Wolly Mammoth. According to most scientific analysis the species Mammuthus primigenius became extinct roughly 30,000 years ago. While I wondering how Sesame Street obtained the Mammoth Monopoly owning the last member of its species, my sister reminded me that Snuffleupagus does indeed have a wife and a child.
The Snuffleupagus Family, if that is even their real name, must have the most interesting and twisted family tree this side of Arkansas/West Virgina/Mississippi/Alabama/any other retarded state, line. In case you missed it, I implied there was incest involved, good old fashioned Incest. I hear the babes always fall for the "survival of our species" contingency--its probably something about their natural mothering intuition. Somewhere down the line a Snuffleupagus ancestor was probably forced to breed outside its species. This might be the only time in my life I say, “We can only hope it was with an Elephant”.
Either way, this revelation explained a lot. Sesame Street is not about educating our children, but instead it aims to instill survival skills into a mentally retarded, lonely Woolly Mammoth.
The real tragedy is that for this Mammoth to continue his species, Big Snuffleupagus would have to first endure a reverse Henry VIII scenario; banging away in hopes for a female counterpart. Then comes the truly disgusting part where Snuffleupagus junior is forced to repeatedly jam his sister like goddman Noah of the Ark. Frankly the whole Mammoth Repopulation Endgame as is disgust me. The fact they would even include the possibility of such a scenario in what we accept as a children's shows is evidence of the variety of bell ends employed at PBS. You don't believe me? watch the funding telethon, its priceless the crap they try and pawn off on you. If there's any real lesson to be taken from the aforementioned Mammoth predicament, i think we can all look at Snuffleupagus Jr. as a perfect case for continuing cloning research.
what the eff is Elmo?
dr koala dick
ED NOTE: Upon further research, Dr, Koala Dick discovered that Aloysius Snuffleupagus, who I referred to as “Snuffleupagus Jr.” does indeed have a sister, Alice Snuffleupagus
22 September 2005
boxing's been good to me
Does anybody know what the deal is with Ronald McDonald? Did he go to a certified clown college or was he home schooled? My guess was he was home schooled. I can't imagine a clown institution set on being as zany as Ronald, and yet being so corporate. I bet clowns at small liberal art clown colleges label Ronald a "sell out" while simultaneously hitting the nitrous, and dying their hair normal colors like hardcore clowns.
Anyways, I don't work at a McDonald’s, not that there's anything wrong with it, but thank god. I'm just saying in the event I am ever given unrestricted access to a Soft Serve machine this country will look a lot different; lactose non-tolerants will be pissed.
Soft Serve pipe dreams aside, I instead spend my time working at art gallery. We own and sell paintings crafted by some of the greatest masters of the 20th century. Some of them are worth over a million dollars, I, however, make boxes. When I signed on to be an assistant curator I assumed for the most part I would be hanging things, painting walls and using a sweet ass electric drill Johnny Wayne style. Unfortunately, I was unaware of the ubiquitous equation of the art world, Art + Dude with College Degree = Doing something with boxes.
It's not that i dislike my job entirely, or that I find box making to be an incredibly tedious activity (I find ways to make it fun). It's just well...only in the art world would they pay an educated man ten dollars an hour to craft boxes—especially when children in third world countries do it for pennies on the dollar. Plus, I mean, I read Pynchon—and understand parts of it, and they expect me to contently make boxes.
The whole thing is bizarre. One would think and institution such as an art gallery, which ships many things of varying size would have a organized fleet of boxes. Perhaps that same institution might also have a box supplier, from which to buy new and specialized boxes. Instead, we have three piles of assorted cardboard and Styrofoam all unclaimed relics for previous pieces, arranged much in the same manner as the background junkyards in those “Save the Children of Africa for Fifty Cents a Day” commercials. It’s embarrassing and intriguing at the same time.
As all good things commence, the whole process generally starts with my boss humming. I've learned this specifically means he's thinking about the relationship of one object to another. More often not, this state of mind is derived from the fact that after we receive a piece, the box it came in always seems to disappear. I suspect this is because we use that box to send off something else we lost the box too, perpetuating a terrible cycle that now dominates my life.
The only reasonable explanation I can conceive of is that the previous box is pinched by Box Gnomes, reputed for their ability to make comfortable and affordable housing out of cardboard. This free source of cardboard would explain the affordability. However, I have played out the Box Gnome scenario numerous times in my head, and thwarting our security system would require a tactical strategy seemingly too complex for any variety of Gnome.
Either way, before actual box making begins my boss and I usually trudge around our three packaging archives (which are essentially the previously mentioned piles of old Styrofoam and cardboard) for about a half hour. We cavil about politics and music while we pick up random scraps of refuse briefly pretending to recognize them as the lost box. We both know this quest is, for the most part, futile. As we begin to hit a lull in the conversation, my boss will usually sit down and eye or perhaps paw a box, or apparatus obviously larger and disparately shaped than the piece we intend to ship. He then suggests that I rig a box for our selected piece of this material. I of course agree, because who complains when they are being paid ten dollars an hour to dick around with cardboard, Styrofoam peanuts, tape, a utility knife, and a painting worth more than their life.
The first real step to box making is perhaps the most important. After my boss leaves the room, and before i cut or touch anything, i grab a beverage or my choice for the gallery's stock of refreshments for shows and place it in the fridge--this will be important later.
Then I return to the work table spend a few moments just staring at the piece. What I'm doing here is interpreting the piece and attempting to conceive what style of box this piece would most enjoy--where the tape should go, the thickness of the cardboard, and how many times I'm should fuck up and cut something vital attachment off.
The crafting then begins. I use no sort of measuring tool, so that means I “eyeball” pretty much the entire thing. Since I usually get things wrong. This equates to a box where the sides are almost assuredly always uneven. I have learned though, that doesn't mean anything. Also, I can pretty much guarantee that parts of the box will be bent, in places they shouldn't be bent, and in a manner they shouldn't be bent. This is also irrelevant. In many ways my box is much like the wang of and scarcely worked male porn star-- Dirk Diggler, the middle years. The said porn star keeps waiting, practicing and wtahcing film for his big day--his big return, and in doing so contorts and twists his man piece into curves and shapes neither known too nor desired by nature. However, while he is stuck his new mangled form; my box has the benefit of tape.
When the cardboard is all cut and set i use this crappy, clearly German, tape dispenser to compress my creation into shape. Since the dispenser is total rubbish, i usually mysteriously cut myself on the knife--that is unable to cut tape, and often apply way more tape than is considered acceptable. The end result often draws skepticism from my boss regarding the structural stability of the box. More often than not, I agree with his misgivings are agree to make the proper modifications. These modifications simply require adding more tape, and in lots of places. After i do this i grab the aforementioned beverage from the refrigerator and chill out for ten minutes, sipping it and staring into space.
Then it’s time to call Fed Ex. From calling Fed Ex numerous times not only have i learned that their hotline is one misdialed number form a phone sex number, but i believe i have also developed a good repoire with the Fed Ex automated answering woman. She really listens to me. Many times it's like she knows what I'm am going to say before I even say it.
After I schedule a pick up for the package i have to label the package with instructions--such as which end is top, and indicate the package as fragile. This is the money shot of boxing. While it seems mundane and simple, no matter what age you are, it’s difficult to not to describe an excuse to sniff markers as remarkably exciting. While many marker connoisseurs would say all permanent markers sniff the same, I personally have taking a liking to RED (readers and gift givers make note, Christmas is coming rapidly).
Also, I forgot to mention that i get to weigh the package. This would be a step of little significance if we had a sensible scale. Unfortunately our scale has a base of about 9 square inches, and many of the packages we send weigh over 50 lbs or where the scale maxes out. So weighing translates into balancing and approximating.
After about an hour Fed Ex usually arrives. By Fed Ex, I mean a small troll lady who always shows up at the wrong door. When she finds out she's at the wrong door, she explodes into a list of excuses. After I tell her it's alright, we'll just have to walk an extra forty feet, and that it’s really no problem she momentarily calms down. This subdued state continues until she's the package or packages, the it becomes the equivalent of the worst Christmas ever. When she sees that perhaps some of the boxes tower over her, it’s like the fucking holocaust just started and she trying to figure out how to get out of Poland. So, again, I become the pacifier and end up carrying fucking 120lbs of packages to the truck, like i fucking work for them, where she waits for me and pretends to do something important.
Granted, this is all I do all day. In true "Office Space" fashion I probably do roughly and hour of good hard concentrated work for every five hours they pay me. The rest of the time is spent scanning the internet, staring at the art pretending to think complex thoughts, and playing with my swivel chair. Regardless, I have college degree. Boxing, while entertaining is below me. I should be something that requires a little more intellect and strategy, like porn.
I learned to box like Lincoln talked,
dr koala dick
ps. you use your semicolons your way, and I'll use mine my way.
Anyways, I don't work at a McDonald’s, not that there's anything wrong with it, but thank god. I'm just saying in the event I am ever given unrestricted access to a Soft Serve machine this country will look a lot different; lactose non-tolerants will be pissed.
Soft Serve pipe dreams aside, I instead spend my time working at art gallery. We own and sell paintings crafted by some of the greatest masters of the 20th century. Some of them are worth over a million dollars, I, however, make boxes. When I signed on to be an assistant curator I assumed for the most part I would be hanging things, painting walls and using a sweet ass electric drill Johnny Wayne style. Unfortunately, I was unaware of the ubiquitous equation of the art world, Art + Dude with College Degree = Doing something with boxes.
It's not that i dislike my job entirely, or that I find box making to be an incredibly tedious activity (I find ways to make it fun). It's just well...only in the art world would they pay an educated man ten dollars an hour to craft boxes—especially when children in third world countries do it for pennies on the dollar. Plus, I mean, I read Pynchon—and understand parts of it, and they expect me to contently make boxes.
The whole thing is bizarre. One would think and institution such as an art gallery, which ships many things of varying size would have a organized fleet of boxes. Perhaps that same institution might also have a box supplier, from which to buy new and specialized boxes. Instead, we have three piles of assorted cardboard and Styrofoam all unclaimed relics for previous pieces, arranged much in the same manner as the background junkyards in those “Save the Children of Africa for Fifty Cents a Day” commercials. It’s embarrassing and intriguing at the same time.
As all good things commence, the whole process generally starts with my boss humming. I've learned this specifically means he's thinking about the relationship of one object to another. More often not, this state of mind is derived from the fact that after we receive a piece, the box it came in always seems to disappear. I suspect this is because we use that box to send off something else we lost the box too, perpetuating a terrible cycle that now dominates my life.
The only reasonable explanation I can conceive of is that the previous box is pinched by Box Gnomes, reputed for their ability to make comfortable and affordable housing out of cardboard. This free source of cardboard would explain the affordability. However, I have played out the Box Gnome scenario numerous times in my head, and thwarting our security system would require a tactical strategy seemingly too complex for any variety of Gnome.
Either way, before actual box making begins my boss and I usually trudge around our three packaging archives (which are essentially the previously mentioned piles of old Styrofoam and cardboard) for about a half hour. We cavil about politics and music while we pick up random scraps of refuse briefly pretending to recognize them as the lost box. We both know this quest is, for the most part, futile. As we begin to hit a lull in the conversation, my boss will usually sit down and eye or perhaps paw a box, or apparatus obviously larger and disparately shaped than the piece we intend to ship. He then suggests that I rig a box for our selected piece of this material. I of course agree, because who complains when they are being paid ten dollars an hour to dick around with cardboard, Styrofoam peanuts, tape, a utility knife, and a painting worth more than their life.
The first real step to box making is perhaps the most important. After my boss leaves the room, and before i cut or touch anything, i grab a beverage or my choice for the gallery's stock of refreshments for shows and place it in the fridge--this will be important later.
Then I return to the work table spend a few moments just staring at the piece. What I'm doing here is interpreting the piece and attempting to conceive what style of box this piece would most enjoy--where the tape should go, the thickness of the cardboard, and how many times I'm should fuck up and cut something vital attachment off.
The crafting then begins. I use no sort of measuring tool, so that means I “eyeball” pretty much the entire thing. Since I usually get things wrong. This equates to a box where the sides are almost assuredly always uneven. I have learned though, that doesn't mean anything. Also, I can pretty much guarantee that parts of the box will be bent, in places they shouldn't be bent, and in a manner they shouldn't be bent. This is also irrelevant. In many ways my box is much like the wang of and scarcely worked male porn star-- Dirk Diggler, the middle years. The said porn star keeps waiting, practicing and wtahcing film for his big day--his big return, and in doing so contorts and twists his man piece into curves and shapes neither known too nor desired by nature. However, while he is stuck his new mangled form; my box has the benefit of tape.
When the cardboard is all cut and set i use this crappy, clearly German, tape dispenser to compress my creation into shape. Since the dispenser is total rubbish, i usually mysteriously cut myself on the knife--that is unable to cut tape, and often apply way more tape than is considered acceptable. The end result often draws skepticism from my boss regarding the structural stability of the box. More often than not, I agree with his misgivings are agree to make the proper modifications. These modifications simply require adding more tape, and in lots of places. After i do this i grab the aforementioned beverage from the refrigerator and chill out for ten minutes, sipping it and staring into space.
Then it’s time to call Fed Ex. From calling Fed Ex numerous times not only have i learned that their hotline is one misdialed number form a phone sex number, but i believe i have also developed a good repoire with the Fed Ex automated answering woman. She really listens to me. Many times it's like she knows what I'm am going to say before I even say it.
After I schedule a pick up for the package i have to label the package with instructions--such as which end is top, and indicate the package as fragile. This is the money shot of boxing. While it seems mundane and simple, no matter what age you are, it’s difficult to not to describe an excuse to sniff markers as remarkably exciting. While many marker connoisseurs would say all permanent markers sniff the same, I personally have taking a liking to RED (readers and gift givers make note, Christmas is coming rapidly).
Also, I forgot to mention that i get to weigh the package. This would be a step of little significance if we had a sensible scale. Unfortunately our scale has a base of about 9 square inches, and many of the packages we send weigh over 50 lbs or where the scale maxes out. So weighing translates into balancing and approximating.
After about an hour Fed Ex usually arrives. By Fed Ex, I mean a small troll lady who always shows up at the wrong door. When she finds out she's at the wrong door, she explodes into a list of excuses. After I tell her it's alright, we'll just have to walk an extra forty feet, and that it’s really no problem she momentarily calms down. This subdued state continues until she's the package or packages, the it becomes the equivalent of the worst Christmas ever. When she sees that perhaps some of the boxes tower over her, it’s like the fucking holocaust just started and she trying to figure out how to get out of Poland. So, again, I become the pacifier and end up carrying fucking 120lbs of packages to the truck, like i fucking work for them, where she waits for me and pretends to do something important.
Granted, this is all I do all day. In true "Office Space" fashion I probably do roughly and hour of good hard concentrated work for every five hours they pay me. The rest of the time is spent scanning the internet, staring at the art pretending to think complex thoughts, and playing with my swivel chair. Regardless, I have college degree. Boxing, while entertaining is below me. I should be something that requires a little more intellect and strategy, like porn.
I learned to box like Lincoln talked,
dr koala dick
ps. you use your semicolons your way, and I'll use mine my way.
range of fire
so i work at this driving range. to make matters worse, i commute there. it's an hour and change away from my apartment, and there's no public transportation that goes to driving ranges, so i have to drive the whole way. also, i get paid $7.50/hr. why do i do this, you ask: for the motherfucking memories.
like this one: a kid comes in and asks how much for a soda. we sell them for $2.50, which is by no means a popular move, and i think may actually be a policy specifically designed to make my life even more miserable than it already is. so i tell the kid how much, and he says 'i'll give you two dollars.' i suppress my urge to say 'what is this a goddamn barter economy? are we in fucking istanbul?' and instead tell him 'sorry,' at which point he shoots me the ambiguous one-liner, 'you're a good businessman.' as he leaves, the person i'm ringing up says, 'do you know that guy?' i say 'no, i think he was just a douche.'
or this one: a dude in a spandex-tight blue shirt named sergio comes in with his girlfriend and wants to use a driver. we have a selection of sweet drivers for people to demo, and we charge $5 for it. again, this is a policy that i have to explain to, and in turn be frowned at by, total nutsacks all the time. while i'm ringing someone else up, sergio tries in vain to pull a club out of a car where it's locked and says 'you charge for the drivers? how can you call yourself a driving range? i mean, doesn't that defeat the whole purpose?' i pretend not to hear him, but he keeps looking at me, so i say 'no, i mean, you can use other clubs,' and again point to the irons we let people use for free. instead of letting it go, he says once more 'i just don't see how you can call yourself a driving range, i mean, to pay, for the drivers?' at this poing i'm thinking 'go away sergio. just go away.' instead i say 'back when i named the place i didn't really think about that.' he decides he wants to rent one so i go over to where he's standing, hand still on the clubhead, and unlock one for him. as i'm doing it, he says to his girlfriend, 'i like montreal so much better, they let you use the clubs for free there.' if only sergio had been in montreal that day.
or this one: a guy comes in and says 'where's the offtrack betting place?'
i say, 'i have no idea.'
'you know, you get off the highway, there's a sign, "OTB" and then...'
i have never seen this sign before in my life. i tell him that.
he says 'i gotta place some bets' and leaves.
or this one: a french woman calls me on the phone asking for directions. not only is she overtly french, putting an unnecessary 'uh' on the end of all her words (case in point: 'can you tell mee-uh how to get to the golf-uh range-uh?' to which i respond '...yeah'), she also has the common personality disorder of not listening to people when they talk. she tells me she's in the parking lot of the golf course adjacent to the range. i give her directions, which consist of three turns. i have to do this three times, because each time she tells me 'eet eesn't wuuurkeeng.' i realize, after the second session of directions-giving, that she is, in fact, at a different golf course, one with a vaguely similar name, but it takes a while to convince her of this. And stress vaguely: there are two words in the name of the course where i work and only one in the name of the one where she is confusedly making donuts, or perhaps croissants, in the parking lot, talking on her cell phone.
she eventually arrives, and proceeds to clusterfuck the whole operation by making me listen to her half-french, half-english, i-just-got-off-the-boat-from-the-goddamn-riviera dialect while there's a huge line of people just trying to hit some golf balls like decent god-fearing, god-loathing and god-ambivalent americans, scratching their heads and their nutsacks while they check out this once-hot middle-aged french woman's ass (she's wearing tights). oh yeah, and she doesn't pay any attention at all when i answer her qeustions, so she repeats the same ones with the same extra 'uh's, all for an unnecessary amount of time. she is trying to sign up her french kids for golf lessons. i'm thinking 'yeah, good idea french lady, this is going to turn out great. your kids don't speak english, and they are going to SUCK.'
she gets them signed up just in time, right before the lesson is about to start. the kids go outside, and she wants me to help her find a left-handed junior club for her son who is not only french but left-handed. it goes something like this:
'ummm, weeel you help meee find-uh the right club-uh?'
'yes, one second, let me ring these gentlemen up first, seeing as they are merely trying to purchase golf balls and all speak american.'
'okay-uh, because i can't find-uh...' she trails off while puttering around in the bin of loaner clubs.
i ring up one guy, and there's still about four in line when she asks me again for help.
'just one second, ma'am,' i say.
'the class is starting.' she throws her hands in the air and leaves in a huff.
when i go over to the rental clubs, the first one i see is a left-handed junior club, perfectly-sized for this tiny french kid. i take it out to her and she is utterly mystified by my observational acumen and club-finding ability. 'how-uh deed you know-uh? eet eesn't wreeten anywhere.'
i calmly explain to her that left-and right-handed clubs physically face different ways when you look at them.
or this one: a guy who comes in frequently, but, like the aforementioned hanger-on, never purchases anything, and who draws his victims into confusing conversations about people he once knew, dropping names as if they're supposed to mean something and assuming his victims know what in god's name he's talking about, and who always makes some odd comparison between whatever topic he's inflicted and the game of golf, then laughs hysterically to himself as he waves goodbye, tries to get me to sell insurance for his friend from his days in the army.
or this one: i see an old man outside while i'm walking up and down the range, picking up empty buckets. he is wearing an old man hat. he stops me to tell me how the place has gone totally to shit. he rattles off several names of people who used to work there, people i've never heard of in my life, and i give him sort of a blank but affable look throughout, and then say 'yeah, i don't know, i just started here recently.' he proceeds to tell me that, of the fifteen pros that used to work there, all have left since the 'new' management has come in, and concludes by contrasting my place of employment with a nearby golf course which is, according to him, '300% better than when the fuckin county used to run it). then he points to the range building and says 'i mean, i'm italian too, but those fuckin dagos don't know what they fuck they're doing,' to which i say, 'i see.' i then proceed to look around, and fail to notice any golf clubs near this guy. he isn't standing by one of the asto-turf mats, and i don't recall selling him a bucket of balls, so i say, when he lets me get a word in, 'so did you just come by to check the place out?' he doesn't seem to understand, says no, and starts telling me about some clubs he has at home. when i get the chance to speak again, i say, 'uh-huh. so did you come by just to see what's going on?' and he says 'no i don't know what the fuck's going on here.' to which i reply, 'you and me both.'
the next time i see him, he comes in asking if anyone has inquired about some lost clubs he found on the range, and says 'you know, i didn't want to give them to you guys, cause i don't know if you guys would sell them or what, you know, i don't need em, i got about a hundred clubs at home, but you know, i don't want to just leave em here.' i say, 'i don't think we'd sell them, i mean, people usuallly just put them in the lost and found, that way whoever lost them can find them.' predictably, he remains resistant to my logic. i finally say, 'that's what the lost and found is: people lose clubs, then they get found, and that's where they go.'
these anecdotes may have seemed foreigner-heavy, but let me assure you: it's not just the foreigners. i have a theory: people will act as stupid as you let them. unfortunately for me, i am paid to let them act however they damned well please, which is pretty fuckin stupid.
and it burns, burns, burns,
the range of fire
dr. koaladick
like this one: a kid comes in and asks how much for a soda. we sell them for $2.50, which is by no means a popular move, and i think may actually be a policy specifically designed to make my life even more miserable than it already is. so i tell the kid how much, and he says 'i'll give you two dollars.' i suppress my urge to say 'what is this a goddamn barter economy? are we in fucking istanbul?' and instead tell him 'sorry,' at which point he shoots me the ambiguous one-liner, 'you're a good businessman.' as he leaves, the person i'm ringing up says, 'do you know that guy?' i say 'no, i think he was just a douche.'
or this one: a dude in a spandex-tight blue shirt named sergio comes in with his girlfriend and wants to use a driver. we have a selection of sweet drivers for people to demo, and we charge $5 for it. again, this is a policy that i have to explain to, and in turn be frowned at by, total nutsacks all the time. while i'm ringing someone else up, sergio tries in vain to pull a club out of a car where it's locked and says 'you charge for the drivers? how can you call yourself a driving range? i mean, doesn't that defeat the whole purpose?' i pretend not to hear him, but he keeps looking at me, so i say 'no, i mean, you can use other clubs,' and again point to the irons we let people use for free. instead of letting it go, he says once more 'i just don't see how you can call yourself a driving range, i mean, to pay, for the drivers?' at this poing i'm thinking 'go away sergio. just go away.' instead i say 'back when i named the place i didn't really think about that.' he decides he wants to rent one so i go over to where he's standing, hand still on the clubhead, and unlock one for him. as i'm doing it, he says to his girlfriend, 'i like montreal so much better, they let you use the clubs for free there.' if only sergio had been in montreal that day.
or this one: a guy comes in and says 'where's the offtrack betting place?'
i say, 'i have no idea.'
'you know, you get off the highway, there's a sign, "OTB" and then...'
i have never seen this sign before in my life. i tell him that.
he says 'i gotta place some bets' and leaves.
or this one: a french woman calls me on the phone asking for directions. not only is she overtly french, putting an unnecessary 'uh' on the end of all her words (case in point: 'can you tell mee-uh how to get to the golf-uh range-uh?' to which i respond '...yeah'), she also has the common personality disorder of not listening to people when they talk. she tells me she's in the parking lot of the golf course adjacent to the range. i give her directions, which consist of three turns. i have to do this three times, because each time she tells me 'eet eesn't wuuurkeeng.' i realize, after the second session of directions-giving, that she is, in fact, at a different golf course, one with a vaguely similar name, but it takes a while to convince her of this. And stress vaguely: there are two words in the name of the course where i work and only one in the name of the one where she is confusedly making donuts, or perhaps croissants, in the parking lot, talking on her cell phone.
she eventually arrives, and proceeds to clusterfuck the whole operation by making me listen to her half-french, half-english, i-just-got-off-the-boat-from-the-goddamn-riviera dialect while there's a huge line of people just trying to hit some golf balls like decent god-fearing, god-loathing and god-ambivalent americans, scratching their heads and their nutsacks while they check out this once-hot middle-aged french woman's ass (she's wearing tights). oh yeah, and she doesn't pay any attention at all when i answer her qeustions, so she repeats the same ones with the same extra 'uh's, all for an unnecessary amount of time. she is trying to sign up her french kids for golf lessons. i'm thinking 'yeah, good idea french lady, this is going to turn out great. your kids don't speak english, and they are going to SUCK.'
she gets them signed up just in time, right before the lesson is about to start. the kids go outside, and she wants me to help her find a left-handed junior club for her son who is not only french but left-handed. it goes something like this:
'ummm, weeel you help meee find-uh the right club-uh?'
'yes, one second, let me ring these gentlemen up first, seeing as they are merely trying to purchase golf balls and all speak american.'
'okay-uh, because i can't find-uh...' she trails off while puttering around in the bin of loaner clubs.
i ring up one guy, and there's still about four in line when she asks me again for help.
'just one second, ma'am,' i say.
'the class is starting.' she throws her hands in the air and leaves in a huff.
when i go over to the rental clubs, the first one i see is a left-handed junior club, perfectly-sized for this tiny french kid. i take it out to her and she is utterly mystified by my observational acumen and club-finding ability. 'how-uh deed you know-uh? eet eesn't wreeten anywhere.'
i calmly explain to her that left-and right-handed clubs physically face different ways when you look at them.
or this one: a guy who comes in frequently, but, like the aforementioned hanger-on, never purchases anything, and who draws his victims into confusing conversations about people he once knew, dropping names as if they're supposed to mean something and assuming his victims know what in god's name he's talking about, and who always makes some odd comparison between whatever topic he's inflicted and the game of golf, then laughs hysterically to himself as he waves goodbye, tries to get me to sell insurance for his friend from his days in the army.
or this one: i see an old man outside while i'm walking up and down the range, picking up empty buckets. he is wearing an old man hat. he stops me to tell me how the place has gone totally to shit. he rattles off several names of people who used to work there, people i've never heard of in my life, and i give him sort of a blank but affable look throughout, and then say 'yeah, i don't know, i just started here recently.' he proceeds to tell me that, of the fifteen pros that used to work there, all have left since the 'new' management has come in, and concludes by contrasting my place of employment with a nearby golf course which is, according to him, '300% better than when the fuckin county used to run it). then he points to the range building and says 'i mean, i'm italian too, but those fuckin dagos don't know what they fuck they're doing,' to which i say, 'i see.' i then proceed to look around, and fail to notice any golf clubs near this guy. he isn't standing by one of the asto-turf mats, and i don't recall selling him a bucket of balls, so i say, when he lets me get a word in, 'so did you just come by to check the place out?' he doesn't seem to understand, says no, and starts telling me about some clubs he has at home. when i get the chance to speak again, i say, 'uh-huh. so did you come by just to see what's going on?' and he says 'no i don't know what the fuck's going on here.' to which i reply, 'you and me both.'
the next time i see him, he comes in asking if anyone has inquired about some lost clubs he found on the range, and says 'you know, i didn't want to give them to you guys, cause i don't know if you guys would sell them or what, you know, i don't need em, i got about a hundred clubs at home, but you know, i don't want to just leave em here.' i say, 'i don't think we'd sell them, i mean, people usuallly just put them in the lost and found, that way whoever lost them can find them.' predictably, he remains resistant to my logic. i finally say, 'that's what the lost and found is: people lose clubs, then they get found, and that's where they go.'
these anecdotes may have seemed foreigner-heavy, but let me assure you: it's not just the foreigners. i have a theory: people will act as stupid as you let them. unfortunately for me, i am paid to let them act however they damned well please, which is pretty fuckin stupid.
and it burns, burns, burns,
the range of fire
dr. koaladick
20 September 2005
Pass the Lotion
I don't watch award shows, but I'm not going to pretend like I didn't see ten minutes of this past week's Emmy awards. And sure, I'll concede that i like watching celebrities pretend how to read in front of a large group of people. I'll even concede that I think the "disastrous" and "accidental" nipple slips are funny and society find them strangely arousing (I'm on to you Nicholas Cage, three wardrobe malfunctions in a row is NOT a coincidence). I even like it when actors, actresses, and credentialed key grips across the board use the time we use to celebrate them, to make bold political statements (i.e.- "It's time to bring the boys home and send the Hurricanes to Iraq). However, i have to draw the line somewhere and say "hey, you there, stop the industry reach around, we live in a society".
But indeed, society we exist in, and our parents created, loves the reach around. Sharing; Friends selfless helping friends from behind them is what we’re all about. Kindergarten, (which sounds suspiciously German to me) lays this foundation of unconditional generosity for us at an early age as we share crayons, knowledge of dirty words, and pink eye with our peers. From age five or six this foundation continues winding itself through a Byzantine maze of complex emotions and gambling debts. What a fucking sweet Utopia.
The Emmy's captured the pinnacle moment of this self congratulatory society. The ten minutes of magic i captured involved the award for best performance by somebody not named David Letterman. This embodiment of real genius emrged when Hugh Jackman was awarded an Emmy for his performance hosting the Tony's. Upon recollection i decided that the discontinuation of production of Delorean's aside, this was perhaps the most heinously banal figurative sixty-nine ever perpetrated by mankind. Through the blinding rage (not that it particularly enraged me, i just like to think of reasons to give television the finger) I was forced to envision who-- or more specifically what type of person, Hugh Jackman had to suck off to pull out this one. I bet he wears contacts and loves his wife dearly.
Then, to perpetuate my exercise, I imagined all the people across the country and around the world watching the Emmy's who were relieved when Jackman won. These people empathized with Jackman, and his plight, his preparation, his sheer artistry. They must have experienced a moment of anticipation as the nominees were shown. They then paused, placed their heads firmly inside their incredibly large rectums and after brief contemplation, inferred that Jackman's performance was the most talented, and indeed award worthy of the group.
As the envelope was opened, they probably panicked, fretting whether or not their man would win, thrusting their head in a turtle-like fashion just a bit further up the colon than perhaps they had ever traveled before. However, it was only a precautionary measure. As the winner was announced they rejoiced, safely removed their heads, grabbed their cell phones and started calling everyone they know to celebrate as they spilled guacamole Doritos all over the floor. .
all the world's a stage
and I'm just a playa in a play,
dr. koala dick
But indeed, society we exist in, and our parents created, loves the reach around. Sharing; Friends selfless helping friends from behind them is what we’re all about. Kindergarten, (which sounds suspiciously German to me) lays this foundation of unconditional generosity for us at an early age as we share crayons, knowledge of dirty words, and pink eye with our peers. From age five or six this foundation continues winding itself through a Byzantine maze of complex emotions and gambling debts. What a fucking sweet Utopia.
The Emmy's captured the pinnacle moment of this self congratulatory society. The ten minutes of magic i captured involved the award for best performance by somebody not named David Letterman. This embodiment of real genius emrged when Hugh Jackman was awarded an Emmy for his performance hosting the Tony's. Upon recollection i decided that the discontinuation of production of Delorean's aside, this was perhaps the most heinously banal figurative sixty-nine ever perpetrated by mankind. Through the blinding rage (not that it particularly enraged me, i just like to think of reasons to give television the finger) I was forced to envision who-- or more specifically what type of person, Hugh Jackman had to suck off to pull out this one. I bet he wears contacts and loves his wife dearly.
Then, to perpetuate my exercise, I imagined all the people across the country and around the world watching the Emmy's who were relieved when Jackman won. These people empathized with Jackman, and his plight, his preparation, his sheer artistry. They must have experienced a moment of anticipation as the nominees were shown. They then paused, placed their heads firmly inside their incredibly large rectums and after brief contemplation, inferred that Jackman's performance was the most talented, and indeed award worthy of the group.
As the envelope was opened, they probably panicked, fretting whether or not their man would win, thrusting their head in a turtle-like fashion just a bit further up the colon than perhaps they had ever traveled before. However, it was only a precautionary measure. As the winner was announced they rejoiced, safely removed their heads, grabbed their cell phones and started calling everyone they know to celebrate as they spilled guacamole Doritos all over the floor. .
all the world's a stage
and I'm just a playa in a play,
dr. koala dick
a day in the life
remember all those times you used to beat off to photos of ralph macchio in tiger beat magazines and your mom would knock on the door and you'd say you were reading and she'd say she had your laundry and you'd say just leave it outside but she'd already opened the door so you were rushing to hide your massive erection under the covers but didn't know how in the name of god you were going to explain the nipple clamps or the eyeshadow?
doctor koala dick remembers.
remember the first time you called a girl "macchio" while you were doin it?
doctor koala dick remembers.
remember feudalism? huh? remember that, japan? macchio was just as good at karate as you are, japan; he never resorted to stupid feudalism.
ralph macchio could see through wood.
doctor koala dick remembers.
remember the first time you called a girl "macchio" while you were doin it?
doctor koala dick remembers.
remember feudalism? huh? remember that, japan? macchio was just as good at karate as you are, japan; he never resorted to stupid feudalism.
ralph macchio could see through wood.
08 September 2005
Tag Team Back Again
I'm tired of Californians acting pretentious because they "discovered" Green Day. I don't even like Green Day, but every lame ass party i go to some rolling stone intelligencia ass face tries to wax philosophical about the current "state of music" and through his rambles drops the bands name. Next thing you know, the prick next to him, who's been waiting for this chance all night, acts fucking VIP about the conversation and makes outrageous claims like that his ancestor listened to fucking "Dookie" while hunting Mastodons. Get a clue.
Quick solution: A) Quit lying; you were humming "Long View" to yourself in sixth grade with your lame ass skater haircut like the rest of us. B)Lose your high horse; you didn't effing cure Polio--you listened to a sub-average sell out punk band ten minutes before the rest of the country.
Also, while we're talking about music--most overrated song of all time: the Star Spangled Banner. What's the deal here, has anybody stopped to consider why we play it at every damn sporting event? As tribute? Yeah I really want to thank my country for inventing more leisure sports--otherwise what would nerds cyber about in between wanking it to tranny porn. Are were blindly participating in a tradition of brainwashing ourselves into patriotic robots by associating Pro-America nostalgia with alcoholism?
My first piece of evidence stems from the fact that ye olde "Banner" consummates the beginning of Hockey Games, which is a Sport our country neither invented nor really likes (I like Hockey but I was always kind of a weird kid anyways), and somewhere down the line this excessive pageantry expanded to include an excuse for Canadians to ram their crappy "Oh Canada" down my throat. Oh Canada, I don't give a fuck about you. PS thanks for Alanis and all the other times you musically skull fucked me during my youth. Needless to say, America's National anthem is out of place at Hockey events, it's like Manilow and Tesh showing up wasted at the Latin Grammy’s or the Vibe awards, it insults our intelligence.
Furthermore, recently at a baseball game, as the first few notes were pumped through the stadium PA, and some grossly under talented mongoloid children's choir began to discordantly butcher the lyrics, somewhere in this transaction the guy behind me reminded me to remove my badass cap. The gentleman, who'll we'll call Einstein for the sake of this piece (If you're reading this by the way, I forgot to compliment your shitstache champ, i know they're hard to grow at the right consistency) offered his sagely advice by nudging me on the shoulder, indicating his own hat in his hand, which was promptly followed by a "I'm smarter that you fancy boy" smile. Just because I'm wearing a polo shirt and you're wearing a T-shirt donning the stains of apparent "skid marks" scattered amongst it (which, sir, if they were indeed skid marks I would be thoroughly impressed to hear the story of how they reached your shirt) doesn't make you a class warrior.
Later, when Einstein spilled part of his beer on me and "forgot" to apologize I spent the greater part of the sixth inning contemplating whether or not I should drive to his house and t-bag his girlfriend. However when I realized his girlfriend probably was sitting on the couch watching "Friends" reruns and crying because her boyfriend doesn't spend enough time with her. I decided against taking action merely on the principle that I hate the show "Friends". To make a long story short, despite his life failings, in an effort of congeniality and human compassion I abided and removed my hat.
And what tribute that was, "hey America, and all the ghosts of people that died to protect our freedom, check out my goddman hat hair!! It looks great...I know...seriously...yeah and all I did was wear a hat..."
Meanwhile, Einstein couldn't even remember the words to the song.
Beside my own personal experiences with the SSB, one must also review the lyrics of the song. I'm not going to cavil and sit here and tell you that the verbiage of the song is "antiquated" or that it's not "user friendly". Frankly I enjoy the fact that jerk offs like the guy behind me can't remember the words. Also, I find comfort in the "oh says" of the lexicon of colonial America. Where I do take issue though is the fact that our anthem is not one of triumph or victory. Instead, Mr. Key chose to glorify the American's ability to take it in the ass and ask for more. Originally titled, The Defense of Fort M'henry (not even gay), the tale captures the shelling of an American fort during the war of 1812.
What cathartic message was Key able to adopt from this experience? It was a message that depicts Americans as enjoying a punch in the face, and then asking for another. When i was 7 my soccer team got beat like 9-0, it was embarrassing. Still, nobody quit. The whole team showed up for the next game too. But did anybody write a song about it? No. You know why? because we lost 9-0. It should also be noted that the SSB was adopted as an anthem first by President Woodrow Wilson, a proven kid toucher; and formally adopted as the anthem by congress during Hoover's presidency who we all know gave the best BJ's of every president besides Zachary Tyler. The song was first played at a baseball game by a band during the seventh-inning stretch. As many of you know, that is a time slot now occupied by "Take Me Out To the Ballgame," a fun children's song similar to "Ring around the Roses" minus the frighteningly morbid social commentary.
Thus being, I suggest its time we adopt a new national anthem. One whose position cannot be filled by something we might see Big Bird singing on Sesame Street. A song that is both timeless, yet strongly connected to a period of prosperity in our nation. A song received well by all, yet edgy; a song that the guy who sat behind me at the game and my parents probably won't understand.
To fulfill such criterion i can only think of one song. It hit me in the eighth inning of the aforementioned game. It celebrated a Pujols homer and inspired a jolt of energy in my blood: "Whoomp There It Is". Tag Team, my friends, in their early 90's masterpiece, crafted a song that echoes the drive of our fair nation, and more importantly a song that speaks for itself.
Because the Koran told me to,
doctor koala dick.
Quick solution: A) Quit lying; you were humming "Long View" to yourself in sixth grade with your lame ass skater haircut like the rest of us. B)Lose your high horse; you didn't effing cure Polio--you listened to a sub-average sell out punk band ten minutes before the rest of the country.
Also, while we're talking about music--most overrated song of all time: the Star Spangled Banner. What's the deal here, has anybody stopped to consider why we play it at every damn sporting event? As tribute? Yeah I really want to thank my country for inventing more leisure sports--otherwise what would nerds cyber about in between wanking it to tranny porn. Are were blindly participating in a tradition of brainwashing ourselves into patriotic robots by associating Pro-America nostalgia with alcoholism?
My first piece of evidence stems from the fact that ye olde "Banner" consummates the beginning of Hockey Games, which is a Sport our country neither invented nor really likes (I like Hockey but I was always kind of a weird kid anyways), and somewhere down the line this excessive pageantry expanded to include an excuse for Canadians to ram their crappy "Oh Canada" down my throat. Oh Canada, I don't give a fuck about you. PS thanks for Alanis and all the other times you musically skull fucked me during my youth. Needless to say, America's National anthem is out of place at Hockey events, it's like Manilow and Tesh showing up wasted at the Latin Grammy’s or the Vibe awards, it insults our intelligence.
Furthermore, recently at a baseball game, as the first few notes were pumped through the stadium PA, and some grossly under talented mongoloid children's choir began to discordantly butcher the lyrics, somewhere in this transaction the guy behind me reminded me to remove my badass cap. The gentleman, who'll we'll call Einstein for the sake of this piece (If you're reading this by the way, I forgot to compliment your shitstache champ, i know they're hard to grow at the right consistency) offered his sagely advice by nudging me on the shoulder, indicating his own hat in his hand, which was promptly followed by a "I'm smarter that you fancy boy" smile. Just because I'm wearing a polo shirt and you're wearing a T-shirt donning the stains of apparent "skid marks" scattered amongst it (which, sir, if they were indeed skid marks I would be thoroughly impressed to hear the story of how they reached your shirt) doesn't make you a class warrior.
Later, when Einstein spilled part of his beer on me and "forgot" to apologize I spent the greater part of the sixth inning contemplating whether or not I should drive to his house and t-bag his girlfriend. However when I realized his girlfriend probably was sitting on the couch watching "Friends" reruns and crying because her boyfriend doesn't spend enough time with her. I decided against taking action merely on the principle that I hate the show "Friends". To make a long story short, despite his life failings, in an effort of congeniality and human compassion I abided and removed my hat.
And what tribute that was, "hey America, and all the ghosts of people that died to protect our freedom, check out my goddman hat hair!! It looks great...I know...seriously...yeah and all I did was wear a hat..."
Meanwhile, Einstein couldn't even remember the words to the song.
Beside my own personal experiences with the SSB, one must also review the lyrics of the song. I'm not going to cavil and sit here and tell you that the verbiage of the song is "antiquated" or that it's not "user friendly". Frankly I enjoy the fact that jerk offs like the guy behind me can't remember the words. Also, I find comfort in the "oh says" of the lexicon of colonial America. Where I do take issue though is the fact that our anthem is not one of triumph or victory. Instead, Mr. Key chose to glorify the American's ability to take it in the ass and ask for more. Originally titled, The Defense of Fort M'henry (not even gay), the tale captures the shelling of an American fort during the war of 1812.
What cathartic message was Key able to adopt from this experience? It was a message that depicts Americans as enjoying a punch in the face, and then asking for another. When i was 7 my soccer team got beat like 9-0, it was embarrassing. Still, nobody quit. The whole team showed up for the next game too. But did anybody write a song about it? No. You know why? because we lost 9-0. It should also be noted that the SSB was adopted as an anthem first by President Woodrow Wilson, a proven kid toucher; and formally adopted as the anthem by congress during Hoover's presidency who we all know gave the best BJ's of every president besides Zachary Tyler. The song was first played at a baseball game by a band during the seventh-inning stretch. As many of you know, that is a time slot now occupied by "Take Me Out To the Ballgame," a fun children's song similar to "Ring around the Roses" minus the frighteningly morbid social commentary.
Thus being, I suggest its time we adopt a new national anthem. One whose position cannot be filled by something we might see Big Bird singing on Sesame Street. A song that is both timeless, yet strongly connected to a period of prosperity in our nation. A song received well by all, yet edgy; a song that the guy who sat behind me at the game and my parents probably won't understand.
To fulfill such criterion i can only think of one song. It hit me in the eighth inning of the aforementioned game. It celebrated a Pujols homer and inspired a jolt of energy in my blood: "Whoomp There It Is". Tag Team, my friends, in their early 90's masterpiece, crafted a song that echoes the drive of our fair nation, and more importantly a song that speaks for itself.
Because the Koran told me to,
doctor koala dick.
12 August 2005
hat's off to a great value
today dr. koaladick went to a friendly neighborhood gas station and, after locating an arizona tea product (arnold palmer half and half with splenda: it kicked so much ass), asked the attendant a usual question: what's the cheapest kind of cigarettes you have? unfortunately dr. koaladick lives in a city where cigarettes run $6 a pack and up. he is not happy about this.
dr. koaladick is a hopeless addict. despite what his girlfriend will tell you, he does not think this makes him cool, nor does he do it just to piss her off. some people just don't understand.
so, as the doctor assumed a pouty demeanor and began sifting through the various medical licenses from rio, monte carlo, paris, singapore, and st. paul, minnesota that crowd his wallet (k.d. enjoys gambling, decriminalized drug laws, and the occasional snow-in with some chef boyardee lasagna and a quality pilsner) for a twenty-dollar bill, the dude behind the counter gave him an answer he'd never encountered: here, these, $1.99.
the doctor raised his visage, shocked, and marked the stack of green packs by the lighter display.
'what's this? $1.99?'
the attendant pointed.
the doctor picked one up. it said 'hat's off' and had a sketch of a dick tracy style hat. they were menthol 100's.
'i wonder why they're so cheap.' the doctor then noticed the words 'made in india' printed on the side. he also noticed the words 'twenty little cigars.'
he asked the attendant about this cigar business, and whether or not it was safe to inhale. the attendant told him they were cigarettes, not cigars. k.d. looked back to the box, coonfused. no point arguing with the man, he thought. the attendant said, again, 'cigarettes.' perhaps a shitty translator had been employed in the production of this pack of mystery smokes. etymologically, however, the prospect seemed sound.
. . .
the doctor's first puff sort of burned. 'jesus' he coughed, 'this stuff tastes like sandpaper. sandpaper and...and...eucalyptus?' dr. k's pupils grew wider, and by the time he had walked two blocks things were starting to get funny. everything moving a little slower than normal, and strangely disproportionate. the next thing he knew he was sitting in his living room with underpants on his head, shirtless and playing shinobe on ps2. for a second he thought there were bats.
. . .
dr. koaladick awoke the next day with a headache that felt like africa colliding with the arabian peninsula behind his forehead. he reached out his right hand and felt around for his medical bag, in dire need of really any of the pills it contained, but it wasn't there because he was on a sidewalk. the sidewalk next to wrigley field, to be exact. he could hear sounds that reminded him vaguely of words, rubbed his eyes and saw the fuzzy outline of some drunk bastard sloshing his beer around, carrying on about how the pirates suck. fucking idiot, thought dr. k, everybody knows the pirates suck...now where in god's name was that gas station?
the end
dr. koaladick is a hopeless addict. despite what his girlfriend will tell you, he does not think this makes him cool, nor does he do it just to piss her off. some people just don't understand.
so, as the doctor assumed a pouty demeanor and began sifting through the various medical licenses from rio, monte carlo, paris, singapore, and st. paul, minnesota that crowd his wallet (k.d. enjoys gambling, decriminalized drug laws, and the occasional snow-in with some chef boyardee lasagna and a quality pilsner) for a twenty-dollar bill, the dude behind the counter gave him an answer he'd never encountered: here, these, $1.99.
the doctor raised his visage, shocked, and marked the stack of green packs by the lighter display.
'what's this? $1.99?'
the attendant pointed.
the doctor picked one up. it said 'hat's off' and had a sketch of a dick tracy style hat. they were menthol 100's.
'i wonder why they're so cheap.' the doctor then noticed the words 'made in india' printed on the side. he also noticed the words 'twenty little cigars.'
he asked the attendant about this cigar business, and whether or not it was safe to inhale. the attendant told him they were cigarettes, not cigars. k.d. looked back to the box, coonfused. no point arguing with the man, he thought. the attendant said, again, 'cigarettes.' perhaps a shitty translator had been employed in the production of this pack of mystery smokes. etymologically, however, the prospect seemed sound.
. . .
the doctor's first puff sort of burned. 'jesus' he coughed, 'this stuff tastes like sandpaper. sandpaper and...and...eucalyptus?' dr. k's pupils grew wider, and by the time he had walked two blocks things were starting to get funny. everything moving a little slower than normal, and strangely disproportionate. the next thing he knew he was sitting in his living room with underpants on his head, shirtless and playing shinobe on ps2. for a second he thought there were bats.
. . .
dr. koaladick awoke the next day with a headache that felt like africa colliding with the arabian peninsula behind his forehead. he reached out his right hand and felt around for his medical bag, in dire need of really any of the pills it contained, but it wasn't there because he was on a sidewalk. the sidewalk next to wrigley field, to be exact. he could hear sounds that reminded him vaguely of words, rubbed his eyes and saw the fuzzy outline of some drunk bastard sloshing his beer around, carrying on about how the pirates suck. fucking idiot, thought dr. k, everybody knows the pirates suck...now where in god's name was that gas station?
the end
03 August 2005
A moment of Introspection: vol. I
Dr. Koala Dick asks:
Which Messiah are you?
Answer all questions as honestly as possible, results below.
My favorite food is:
a) Duck
b) Cake
c) Rice
d) I don't eat, I have a gambling problem.
Its been a long day at work, you get home and your flatmates want to party, you:
a) Take a quick shot of tequila and rally
b) Tell them to go on without you, open a bottle of wine and turn on Lifetime
c) Tell them you're not feeling well then while they're out call my fuck buddy again and do it in the Kitchen (because its the most social room).
d) Use the vibrator, but tell my friends I'll catch them next time.
My pick to win English Premiership this year is:
a) Whatever team has the prettiest jerseys.
b) Chelsea, you have to respect financial security.
c) Liverpool, they are the classic example of the conflict between of underachieving and overachieving.
d) I'm a total cock and know nothing about football, but I think David Beckham is dreamy.
If I HAD to bang one of the Golden girls it would definitely be:
a) Dorothy
b) Rose
c) Blanche
d) Sophia
If you were in the circus you would be the:
a) Fire eater
b) Ringleader
c) The blades of grass, outside the tent; serene, complex, motivated.
D) The Clown
Israel is not relinquishing land it promised to Palestine in peace agreements; as president of the United States you:
a) Send and independent committee to conduct new negotiations
b) Magically build another country out of trash and give it to the Palestinians. I would probably call it Crapakistan.
c) Watch whatever is on CBS, there's no way to solve this shit.
d) Continue to Kick ass
If you had only one wish, you would:
a) Turn back time and bring the pants I'm wearing back in style
b) Be a ballerina
c) Have a mind blowing electronic orgy with every 70's sitcom star I've ever secretly desired
d) Teach me to talk about my compulsive eating
If you answered:
mostly a's) you are Prometheus. You gave man fire and paid for it by having your organs eaten by birds for eternity. Enjoy your medicines, your snuff porn, and your lasers.
mostly b's) you are Jesus. You are the cake eater of Messiahs. The hair style you champion goes in and out of style harder than Rollerblading. Your followers will kill and persecute thousands of people over the course of history. Then, in a stunning move, pretend thse events are not relevant while simultaneously making shitty movies about the whole ordeal.
mostly c's) you are Buddha. This quiz means nothing to and you're probably stoned right now anyway.
mostly d's) You are the Ralph Macchio. Yes Ralph Macchio is a messiah. Everybody knows that aside from his eloquent performance as the Karate Kid and mastery of the swan kick Ralph Macchio also bakes a delicious cobbler and consoles troubled teens on a bi-weekly basis. Ralph Macchio also invented tan lines and aluminum.
Which Messiah are you?
Answer all questions as honestly as possible, results below.
My favorite food is:
a) Duck
b) Cake
c) Rice
d) I don't eat, I have a gambling problem.
Its been a long day at work, you get home and your flatmates want to party, you:
a) Take a quick shot of tequila and rally
b) Tell them to go on without you, open a bottle of wine and turn on Lifetime
c) Tell them you're not feeling well then while they're out call my fuck buddy again and do it in the Kitchen (because its the most social room).
d) Use the vibrator, but tell my friends I'll catch them next time.
My pick to win English Premiership this year is:
a) Whatever team has the prettiest jerseys.
b) Chelsea, you have to respect financial security.
c) Liverpool, they are the classic example of the conflict between of underachieving and overachieving.
d) I'm a total cock and know nothing about football, but I think David Beckham is dreamy.
If I HAD to bang one of the Golden girls it would definitely be:
a) Dorothy
b) Rose
c) Blanche
d) Sophia
If you were in the circus you would be the:
a) Fire eater
b) Ringleader
c) The blades of grass, outside the tent; serene, complex, motivated.
D) The Clown
Israel is not relinquishing land it promised to Palestine in peace agreements; as president of the United States you:
a) Send and independent committee to conduct new negotiations
b) Magically build another country out of trash and give it to the Palestinians. I would probably call it Crapakistan.
c) Watch whatever is on CBS, there's no way to solve this shit.
d) Continue to Kick ass
If you had only one wish, you would:
a) Turn back time and bring the pants I'm wearing back in style
b) Be a ballerina
c) Have a mind blowing electronic orgy with every 70's sitcom star I've ever secretly desired
d) Teach me to talk about my compulsive eating
If you answered:
mostly a's) you are Prometheus. You gave man fire and paid for it by having your organs eaten by birds for eternity. Enjoy your medicines, your snuff porn, and your lasers.
mostly b's) you are Jesus. You are the cake eater of Messiahs. The hair style you champion goes in and out of style harder than Rollerblading. Your followers will kill and persecute thousands of people over the course of history. Then, in a stunning move, pretend thse events are not relevant while simultaneously making shitty movies about the whole ordeal.
mostly c's) you are Buddha. This quiz means nothing to and you're probably stoned right now anyway.
mostly d's) You are the Ralph Macchio. Yes Ralph Macchio is a messiah. Everybody knows that aside from his eloquent performance as the Karate Kid and mastery of the swan kick Ralph Macchio also bakes a delicious cobbler and consoles troubled teens on a bi-weekly basis. Ralph Macchio also invented tan lines and aluminum.
30 July 2005
hall of famer
I don't know why people are so worried about an oil shortage. I only change my oil about once every four thousand miles. Gas is what they should be worried about. I use a lot of that.
I don't want to write about Lance Armstrong. But are we really nation of competitive zealot fuckers that we praise anything successful that we can put an American Flag next to? Are we that desperate? Don’t get me wrong, I have hated the French for a really long time. The hair pulling and crotch grabbing distress he has manifested within the French press is the coolest thing to occur in the francophone epicenter other than Napoleon doing a tiger woods fist pump (which he probably did) and Stereolab.
Seriously though, conquering cancer aside, can we admit his recent accomplishments are a bit rudimentary? I'm sure god gave him a "way to hit that bro" on the whole Sheryl crow episode. Sheryl is one of those rare cases where one might wank it to her photo spread only to later find his/her mother flipping through the same photo spread remarking, "i just love her". The situation is both horribly awkward and enticing…but about the cycling thing.
Bike riding is a task achieved by many of the nations 1st graders. I learned to ride when i was 10, but that was only because my previous house had sidewalk that was dangerously uneven at points--i think i was the only 5 year old to be knocked unconscious riding a big wheel. While i mastered this task much later than many of my peers once i learned it i kicked some fucking ass.
Lance also kicks fucking ass on the bike, but he's 33. If I spent from the time I was five until I was thirty three devoting myself to one elementary task i would be pretty good no matter how many testicles i had. His main competitor is an Italian (probably gay) and a German guy named Jan (obviously gay). Plus he I have not seen him throw any sweet tricks like back flips or supermans. One would think after 28 years of riding a wheelie would be in order.
The other thing i read on this subject was that Lance's heart rate was 40 beat per minute. The average human heart rate is 70 beats per minute. Since when did we start lauding laziness, especially bodily organs. In a race, my heart would kick Lance's heart by a lot, by pure mathematics it is almost twice as fast. I am the walrus.
this whole deal was half ass anyway,
dr. koala dick
ps. check your prostrate, right now, hard, ladies too.
I don't want to write about Lance Armstrong. But are we really nation of competitive zealot fuckers that we praise anything successful that we can put an American Flag next to? Are we that desperate? Don’t get me wrong, I have hated the French for a really long time. The hair pulling and crotch grabbing distress he has manifested within the French press is the coolest thing to occur in the francophone epicenter other than Napoleon doing a tiger woods fist pump (which he probably did) and Stereolab.
Seriously though, conquering cancer aside, can we admit his recent accomplishments are a bit rudimentary? I'm sure god gave him a "way to hit that bro" on the whole Sheryl crow episode. Sheryl is one of those rare cases where one might wank it to her photo spread only to later find his/her mother flipping through the same photo spread remarking, "i just love her". The situation is both horribly awkward and enticing…but about the cycling thing.
Bike riding is a task achieved by many of the nations 1st graders. I learned to ride when i was 10, but that was only because my previous house had sidewalk that was dangerously uneven at points--i think i was the only 5 year old to be knocked unconscious riding a big wheel. While i mastered this task much later than many of my peers once i learned it i kicked some fucking ass.
Lance also kicks fucking ass on the bike, but he's 33. If I spent from the time I was five until I was thirty three devoting myself to one elementary task i would be pretty good no matter how many testicles i had. His main competitor is an Italian (probably gay) and a German guy named Jan (obviously gay). Plus he I have not seen him throw any sweet tricks like back flips or supermans. One would think after 28 years of riding a wheelie would be in order.
The other thing i read on this subject was that Lance's heart rate was 40 beat per minute. The average human heart rate is 70 beats per minute. Since when did we start lauding laziness, especially bodily organs. In a race, my heart would kick Lance's heart by a lot, by pure mathematics it is almost twice as fast. I am the walrus.
this whole deal was half ass anyway,
dr. koala dick
ps. check your prostrate, right now, hard, ladies too.
19 July 2005
better than your parent's bed
I wish people would stop being so unexcited about space foam. There's a lot of possibility in space foam—aka invest now. It's not like I am a space foam salesman or anything. However, as a lifestyle expert, I would not be surprised if you next house is constructed entirely out of space foam. Imagine a space foam kitchen, space foam toilet, or a space foam solarium.
I understand most readers will look upon this space foam contention with skepticism. This speculation evolves most likely from their previous encounter with another space product; Astronaut Ice Cream. Astronaut Ice Cream is a brittle crunchy flavored box. Perhaps it is described as ice cream devoid of all the things that make ice cream good. For those of you who have not had it, it’s like chewing a full pack of cigarettes, minus the fun.
To offer a historical context, things got hot in Somalia when the UN, seeking to utilize its Astronaut Ice Cream surplus, introduced it to the starving citizens. History books, allegorical tribal fairytales, and kickass movies like Black Hawk Down, blame Somali warlords and unfavorable weather conditions (it was fucking hot). This explanation however is a bold faced lie. As soon as the strawberry cardboard crunch hit the streets of Mogadishu, senseless taste bud jihad erupted. Astronaut Ice Cream also caused Sky Lab to crash.
What is important is to understand the distinction between two very different space products. One must realize that while you can sleep on space foam, sleeping on a bed of astronaut ice cream is highly impractical. One would first have to discern which flavor/flavors one would use, only to move on to more difficult questions of cream brick layout, viscosity, and colored coordinated throw pillows. I mean, in theory you could construct and sleep on such a bed, but your wife would probably leave you. Possibly for a man who sleeps on jelly beans.
Besides, on a bed of space foam one can only imagine the possibilities intercourse with your significant other. During sessions you might find yourself achieving intimacy levels of stellar intergalactic proportions. Afterwards, you would probably dream about comets and black holes. Also, if aliens do indeed exist, and land, you have a bed made to their exact specifications. Consequentially you might be the first human being to have sex with an alien. You friends might frown upon it, but who knows it could be pretty sweet. Aliens might have two tongues or be really into doggy style.
Your friend in the space foam bizness,
dr koala dick
Ps. I stole the “exact specifications” terminology from mitch hedburg
I understand most readers will look upon this space foam contention with skepticism. This speculation evolves most likely from their previous encounter with another space product; Astronaut Ice Cream. Astronaut Ice Cream is a brittle crunchy flavored box. Perhaps it is described as ice cream devoid of all the things that make ice cream good. For those of you who have not had it, it’s like chewing a full pack of cigarettes, minus the fun.
To offer a historical context, things got hot in Somalia when the UN, seeking to utilize its Astronaut Ice Cream surplus, introduced it to the starving citizens. History books, allegorical tribal fairytales, and kickass movies like Black Hawk Down, blame Somali warlords and unfavorable weather conditions (it was fucking hot). This explanation however is a bold faced lie. As soon as the strawberry cardboard crunch hit the streets of Mogadishu, senseless taste bud jihad erupted. Astronaut Ice Cream also caused Sky Lab to crash.
What is important is to understand the distinction between two very different space products. One must realize that while you can sleep on space foam, sleeping on a bed of astronaut ice cream is highly impractical. One would first have to discern which flavor/flavors one would use, only to move on to more difficult questions of cream brick layout, viscosity, and colored coordinated throw pillows. I mean, in theory you could construct and sleep on such a bed, but your wife would probably leave you. Possibly for a man who sleeps on jelly beans.
Besides, on a bed of space foam one can only imagine the possibilities intercourse with your significant other. During sessions you might find yourself achieving intimacy levels of stellar intergalactic proportions. Afterwards, you would probably dream about comets and black holes. Also, if aliens do indeed exist, and land, you have a bed made to their exact specifications. Consequentially you might be the first human being to have sex with an alien. You friends might frown upon it, but who knows it could be pretty sweet. Aliens might have two tongues or be really into doggy style.
Your friend in the space foam bizness,
dr koala dick
Ps. I stole the “exact specifications” terminology from mitch hedburg
13 July 2005
chiclet, cockroach, sloppy joe
While leaving a local eatery the other day I wondered, who still buys chiclets? that candy has been awful for years. How has a product so renowned for providing a displeasing, even demoralizing experience continued to exist? Is the chiclets presence in our a society a leftover plot of soviet days? aplot perpetuated by terrorist? or perhaps there is a wealthy person with either an extremely sick mind, a penchant for the nasty, or perhaps a twisted sense of humor that is responsible for their existence in almost classy eatieries .
After careful contemplation, doctoral contemplation in fact, I concluded that the responsibility for the chiclets does not lay on any of these scapegoats. Instead, chiclets existed because they always would in a badass capitalist society like ours.
All Andy Rooney bullshit aside, I think we can all remember the first time we tried chiclets. I personally recall mine occurred after a particularly satisfying meal. Looking for a smooth chewable candy to polish it off I selected chiclets from the array of other candies. What followed is hazy; I vaguely recall spitting something out in my grandma's hand and blacking out. I woke up minutes later soiled in urine (possibly not my own), severely parched, short twenty five cents and any sense of decency.
Despite this tragic experience (a foreshadow into how many of my tragic evenings would end later in life), I never took it upon myself to caution my younger brother years later when he himself opted to try the candy himself. Perhaps it was because as a child he was an insufferable twat whom I was constantly forced to beat into line. Another possibility is that even in my youth I understood he was participating in a essential capitalist ritual.
While this juncture would normally lead one into a wicked diatribe on brand names and the commodization of society instead I will just note that it is fun, perhaps even our duty and Chiclets purpose, to teach children a lesson. That lesson being that just like any other commercial product, (cars, drugs, burial relics from saint) if you are willing to buy candy from anywhere, or stray too broadly in your quest for a new candy consciousness, eventually someone will sell you some fucking oddly colored squares that taste like sugar and cigarette tar.
Chiclets are America’s communal kool-aid. They are the Adam Smith litmus test that determines whether or not one is capable of understanding the rules of capitalism and abiding and belonging to surrounding society. Its sugary salivation is the ethos to becoming a citizen. Sure, your grandmother might disown you out of embarrassment, your brother might grow up to become a raging alcoholic, and perhaps sometime in your life you might recount this entire experience at your expense to a man named Samir, calling you from India, to check and see if you have paid you American express bill from three months ago. But seriously from then on, you will know about the superiority of the Spree (hard not chewy).
hover boards unite,
dr koala dick
After careful contemplation, doctoral contemplation in fact, I concluded that the responsibility for the chiclets does not lay on any of these scapegoats. Instead, chiclets existed because they always would in a badass capitalist society like ours.
All Andy Rooney bullshit aside, I think we can all remember the first time we tried chiclets. I personally recall mine occurred after a particularly satisfying meal. Looking for a smooth chewable candy to polish it off I selected chiclets from the array of other candies. What followed is hazy; I vaguely recall spitting something out in my grandma's hand and blacking out. I woke up minutes later soiled in urine (possibly not my own), severely parched, short twenty five cents and any sense of decency.
Despite this tragic experience (a foreshadow into how many of my tragic evenings would end later in life), I never took it upon myself to caution my younger brother years later when he himself opted to try the candy himself. Perhaps it was because as a child he was an insufferable twat whom I was constantly forced to beat into line. Another possibility is that even in my youth I understood he was participating in a essential capitalist ritual.
While this juncture would normally lead one into a wicked diatribe on brand names and the commodization of society instead I will just note that it is fun, perhaps even our duty and Chiclets purpose, to teach children a lesson. That lesson being that just like any other commercial product, (cars, drugs, burial relics from saint) if you are willing to buy candy from anywhere, or stray too broadly in your quest for a new candy consciousness, eventually someone will sell you some fucking oddly colored squares that taste like sugar and cigarette tar.
Chiclets are America’s communal kool-aid. They are the Adam Smith litmus test that determines whether or not one is capable of understanding the rules of capitalism and abiding and belonging to surrounding society. Its sugary salivation is the ethos to becoming a citizen. Sure, your grandmother might disown you out of embarrassment, your brother might grow up to become a raging alcoholic, and perhaps sometime in your life you might recount this entire experience at your expense to a man named Samir, calling you from India, to check and see if you have paid you American express bill from three months ago. But seriously from then on, you will know about the superiority of the Spree (hard not chewy).
hover boards unite,
dr koala dick
06 July 2005
unified theory
I used to work at an Italian restaurant. One of the waiters once confided in me that the restaurant was evidence that entropy theory was wrong. If entropy did exist, he contended, the establishment that currently employed us would have been reduced to a pile of rubble many years ago. At that moment, I agreed with him because I hated my job; because I hate jobs in general.
Comedy aside, that restaurant was poorly managed. But that tends to be the case when you let three Ethiopian Brothers run an Italian establishment. This is not to say they were not nice individuals or entirely incompetent, but if
The humorous punch line of this anecdote arrived three days after this scholarly waiter bestowed his wisdom upon me; he quit the job citing marital dysfunction. I mean it’s not funny, I liked the guy, but the irony is wicked wicked. Seriously, i hope everything worked out for him and he developed the recreational drug habit he needed.
The lesson here (for people who don’t already get it) is that entropy theory is wrong when you don’t understand it. You see, this waiter brought upon the assumption that entropy would have increased in the same area—specifically the location of our restaurant. What he didn't understand was that entropy was increasing very chaotically. While he was waiting for the foundation of a bar/bistro to collapse entropy was banging his wife, probably with vigor. So don't even act like you know what I'm up too, and also if you want to give someone a college graduation present, don't give them enough money to last comfortably until about August without a job, it makes them get really nervous around mid-July, bitches.
i got five on it,
dr koala dick
01 July 2005
30 June 2005
dangling ding dongs
doctor koala dick is comfortable with his sexuality.
when doctor koala dick was a young lad, and not yet the doctor of renown he is today, he and his friends would often frolic about on drugs making jokes and playing fun pranks on one another. rarely, though, did these pranks seriously challenge the sexual boundaries of our bear koala dick.
but that changed one night in the lair of one of the lamer accomplices, when one of dick's closest compatriots came rushing up behind him in a darkened room, mounted him and dangled a delicious confection in front of his head. koala dick was stunned, a veritable bear in headlights, completely unprepared for this potentiality, and stoned utterly mindless. at this point in his life, this was, without question, the gayest thing that had ever happened to him.
but only until he took a bite.
when doctor koala dick was a young lad, and not yet the doctor of renown he is today, he and his friends would often frolic about on drugs making jokes and playing fun pranks on one another. rarely, though, did these pranks seriously challenge the sexual boundaries of our bear koala dick.
but that changed one night in the lair of one of the lamer accomplices, when one of dick's closest compatriots came rushing up behind him in a darkened room, mounted him and dangled a delicious confection in front of his head. koala dick was stunned, a veritable bear in headlights, completely unprepared for this potentiality, and stoned utterly mindless. at this point in his life, this was, without question, the gayest thing that had ever happened to him.
but only until he took a bite.
29 June 2005
génération de âne
I got another parking ticket again. I refuse to participate in this nazi-fest charade being put on by the parking control enforcement. In a decent society people can park wherever the fuck they want for as along as they want too. It that means parking on the grass then so be it. I've been thinking about a way to make this parking issue go away. I think hiding in the back seat in clown make-up will probably do the trick.
I don't know how it is in your country but here, I knew kids in middle school who used to squirt cologne into their mouth to become inebriated. I know. When I was a kid, everyday I would look forward to the day when hover boards were invented and they would make me so cool I would have a threesome with punky brewster and the hot chipmunk from rescue rangers in celebration, but that day in seventh grade when I saw that kid spray ck1 in his mouth I knew it would probably never happen.
You can't expect too much from a generation of cologne drinkers. Not that all of us did it, but you knew if one did, there were others. Any social sect who lets multiple members of there group do something like that is probably going to have trouble fixing the infrastructure already in place, let alone create something cool like hover boards, light sabers or cordless thermometers.
Soon, it was 1997 and everything sucked; the plan for the reunification of Germany had failed more or less, neon was no longer cool and people got complacent with the fact that Carson Daly was banging hot chicks.
Kundera quotes Nietzsche “einmal est keinmal” What happens but once may as well have never happened. I say, tell that to the girl from the Wendy’s bathroom, and while you’re at it, ask her to stop calling me.
Fuck yeah fuck yeah I’m wearing blue jeans,
dr koala dick
who are you?
across the globe and in most of outer space, people are wondering what the real doctor koala dick is. this is a highly complex question and most likely none of its resolutions will ever become widely regarded as truth. doctor koala dick is simply too big to live inside any of our little boxes. so, as you see, the real question is this: what is doctor koala dick to me? the answers to this query are more concrete, though no less myriad. to some, doctor koala dick is nothing more than a regular australian koala bear who built himself up from nothing to become one of the most respected doctors in his field, that being the field of all that is tubular, and now holds doctorates in everything from wakeboarding to nuclear ice fishing. to others, doctor koala dick is a source of solace, of support, for in these uncertain times, doctor koala dick doesn't stop grinding rails and doesn't think you should stop either. naturally, when discussing the doctor, the untold masses of illigitimate children can be a significant talking point, but it is well documented that doctor koala dick loves and takes care of his children and that most of them are now crime fighters. doctor koala dick plays air guitar better than anybody and believes it would be better if we all got down.
the sun also gets dome
so earlier today i thought of an alternate ending to Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises. At the end, instead of sitting there in the back of a car with Brett Ashley in Spain or whatever, and instead of whoever raisind that baton or whatnot, instead at the end jake says 'check me out i've got a huge dong now thanks to the miracle of plastics and the talent of some european doctors. i can satisfy you in ways you haven't even thought of. the thing spins and vibrates, it's studded like a bumpy cucumber.' and it ends with brett moaning. literally, instead of 'isn't it pretty to think so?' the last line is 'and she moans heavily in a little bit of pain but obviously enjoying herself. the end.'
i think this would do a lot for the self-esteem of male readers, specifically those without penises. it gives a new hope to living without a penis, and updates the story in keeping with scientific advances made since Hemingway's time. in fact, having thought of this, i almost wish i had either a) been born without a wang, or b) had my previous wang blown off in a war. because that way i could get to have a fake one and it would probably be awesome. i would probably get my parents to pay for it, and they have a lot more money than i do, a.k.a. more than $600. Think of the kind of wang you could get for the cost of renting a studio apartment in a major city for a month. it's a wonder more people don't injure themselves on purpose and undergo a temporary homelessness in order to pay for a prosthetic wiener of epic proportions. you could probably get one with:
1. a car alarm with keyless remote that makes beeping noises
2. a built-in ipod (tell me that wouldn't be sweet)
3. a body fashioned after optimus prime, with the ability to transform into a badass rig
4. wireless ethernet
5. a headrest, and a tv in that headrest
6. a dvd player that plays only porn and mick jagger concert footage (jagger doing the rooster dance)
7. a micro machines garage
8. a stock ticker
9. a fold-out map so you can find your way to linens and things to buy new sheets every few hours
10. something that makes it turn into a pogo stick
i think this would do a lot for the self-esteem of male readers, specifically those without penises. it gives a new hope to living without a penis, and updates the story in keeping with scientific advances made since Hemingway's time. in fact, having thought of this, i almost wish i had either a) been born without a wang, or b) had my previous wang blown off in a war. because that way i could get to have a fake one and it would probably be awesome. i would probably get my parents to pay for it, and they have a lot more money than i do, a.k.a. more than $600. Think of the kind of wang you could get for the cost of renting a studio apartment in a major city for a month. it's a wonder more people don't injure themselves on purpose and undergo a temporary homelessness in order to pay for a prosthetic wiener of epic proportions. you could probably get one with:
1. a car alarm with keyless remote that makes beeping noises
2. a built-in ipod (tell me that wouldn't be sweet)
3. a body fashioned after optimus prime, with the ability to transform into a badass rig
4. wireless ethernet
5. a headrest, and a tv in that headrest
6. a dvd player that plays only porn and mick jagger concert footage (jagger doing the rooster dance)
7. a micro machines garage
8. a stock ticker
9. a fold-out map so you can find your way to linens and things to buy new sheets every few hours
10. something that makes it turn into a pogo stick
28 June 2005
To: Stegosaurus
Dr. Koala Dick recently traded a comedy writing secret to a fellow colleague for the operating manual of a 1992 Volvo 940, and a to be named later Sponsorship of an African Orphan.
I’ve decided to name you Stegosaurus. I hope you realize how cool that is. How are things in
I went to the post office today and I feel like I’m developing a friendship with one of the workers. His name is Rick and he looks pretty disgruntled. For that exact reason I am always overly polite to the guy. It is most certainly a benefit to have a friend in the postal department. I know this because at one of my former residences, the postal worker did not like me because I stole his girlfriend. Even though I only ended up dating her for two weeks, my packages were lost and mishandled for over a year, I guess postal workers don’t get laid often.
I also applied online today for a job at a local bookstore. It was most heinous. What was supposed to be a simple online application evolved into 37 page personality test. They asked me questions about my anger management, my ability to be enthused and if I stab people in the back. In then end I think the computer decided that I; a) I’m kind of a jackass, b) think most other people are benders, and c) am able to fake enthusiasm well. Either way they probably want to hire me so hard.
Man or machine,
dr koala dick
27 June 2005
the next movement
During the four years i spent at college many people asked me what i was going to do after college. A lot of the time i answered them by telling them i was going into the peace corp.
I'm not entirely sure i was insincere on the reply--i did complete the peace corp application all the way up to the essay section. I also talked to many people who were going to the peace corp and asked quesions about their experience, the process of applying, and i listened intently.
Regardless, four years later, everytime i talk to one of these inquisitive characters they never fail to ask when I'm going into the peace corp. Even if i haven't tlaked to them in years.
I've been honest but from now on I'm lying. When they ask, I will say, "soon." Furthermore if I haven't spoken to them in a few years i will say, "I already did."
peace in the middle east,
dr koala dick
I'm not entirely sure i was insincere on the reply--i did complete the peace corp application all the way up to the essay section. I also talked to many people who were going to the peace corp and asked quesions about their experience, the process of applying, and i listened intently.
Regardless, four years later, everytime i talk to one of these inquisitive characters they never fail to ask when I'm going into the peace corp. Even if i haven't tlaked to them in years.
I've been honest but from now on I'm lying. When they ask, I will say, "soon." Furthermore if I haven't spoken to them in a few years i will say, "I already did."
peace in the middle east,
dr koala dick
01 June 2005
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