Fake News: The Second Coming

The Savior, Jesus Christ decided to come down from heaven today. He did not come to slay the unholy or to ascend the righteous to heaven. Instead, he came to present President Barack Obama’s birth certificate to the American people.

“I had to put an end to this garbage. I don’t care if you like his politics or not it’s childish to undermine everything the man does because you’d like to believe he’s not an American citizen when there is overwhelming evidence to the contrary,”

The messiah, 2000+,  huffed “It’s desperate and pathetic,” he said.

The messiah descended live on Glenn Beck’s show to present the certificate.

Beck was so stunned he immediately began stuttering before he planned his defense.

“Messiah, that’s messi plus ah,” Beck said. “That means the ahha the messiah causes a mess in America. Therefore, the messiah is bad.”

Christ attempted to argue.

“You’re arguing against words not the point,” said Christ who died for the sins of all mankind. “You’re just deferring because you have no idea what you’re talking about,”

Beck responded by asking several rhetorical questions while intermingling his life story.

“I’m sorry I wasted your time America. I thought the messiah would be a good thing, but clearly I was wrong.” he said.

Jesus responded.

“That guy never really liked me. He was just using me to support his irrational ideas. When I didn’t agree with him he shunned me. It’s ok though I forgive him. He isn’t intelligent enough to amend his ideas to new information, so instead he delegitimizes information to his choosing. That way he is always right.”

Jesus thought he would have more luck on Bill O’Reilly’s office but he was surprised by what happened.

First the son of God presented the birth certificate and O’Reilly questioned his authenticity. Jesus turned water into wine and made a nice fish dinner for the crew. O’Reilly was so mad that he cut Christ’s microphone. However, Jesus didn’t need a microphone for the people to hear him, so he continued to talk. O’Reilly called for security to take away the messiah, but they refused for fear of damnation. O’Reilly then took matters into his own hands and shot the messiah which accomplished nothing because the messiah continued to resurrect himself.

“I don’t believe he is the real messiah. This was a test from Satan. The real messiah would have agreed with me. In fact, I probably am the messiah.” O’Reilly said before he began hysterically screaming me me me, everything is always about me.

In typical messiah fashion Jesus wasn’t upset about his meeting on earth.

“All human beings are fallen,” he said “that’s why patience and tolerance are the greatest virtues. I can’t allow myself to be corrupted by the actions of few men. Instead, I must challenge them toward greatness and lead as the north star to a sailor. My light can guide the most destitute in the darkest times.”

A new poll showed that Americans now viewed the messiah as soft and his approval rating dropped from 100 percent to 40 percent. However, belief in President Obama’s lack of citizenship remained unaltered.

I’m still alive and I think that’s a good thing.

The title says everything about my mood.  I still don’t have a job and I’m pretty sure I’ve applied everywhere.  I understand that adversity breeds character, but I think it’s my time now. 

I’m ready to become a world trotting writer who focuses on human psychology/feelings (especially in regards to adversity) and who bullshits around with economic, environmental and cultural issues.  I can’t become one of the world’s greatest writers and humanitarians without work.  I need to start putting the hours in, so let’s stop this little game of cat and mouse and just do it already.  I’m ready for the commitment and you need the excitement…

Employers seeking writers may contact me at ryan.neal0@gmail.com.  Seriously offers only people.

The grassy plains of Kilimanjaro

“The Marvellous thing is that it’s painless,” he said. “That’s how you know when it starts.”

“Is it really?” she said mocking him.

“Yup, there’s absolutely no pain at all,” he said.  “I’ve cut my leg.  It’s sure to become frostbitten and in a couple of days I’m going to die.  I hope you’ll forgive me for being a bastard.  It’s difficult for a man to know he’s going to die.

“You cut your leg on a root and it’s 65 degrees up here.  There hasn’t been snow on top of this mountain in 20 years.  You’re going to be ok.”

The man lied on the cool grass nursing his wound.  It was hard for him to walk without mild discomfort and he was careful to keep his core heated.  He did jumping jacks and pushups, but was careful not to sweat.  Moisture can drop your body temperature quickly.   

The woman enjoyed the cool breeze and the view.  From the mountain top she could see all sorts of animals.  Monkeys had made their way up the mountain.  It was a good habitat for them because there were trees, but the weather was warm.  It was a beautiful day on top of Kilimajaro

“Are you sad that I’m leaving you?” he said.

“I’ll make due.  There are some nice men back home who don’t die from root scratches,” she said.

“You’ll have a new man before I’m even in the grave, won’t you?”

“I don’t even know why you’re my man now”

She looked at him with a gaze he was familiar with and he assumed all women gave.  She was annoyed by him and thought he was an idiot, but she’d never been more in love in her life.

He played with his wound.  He picked at it.  The blood was cold on his hands and he held it up to her with a smile on his face.

“Look at this.  It’s infected.  Yup it’s infected.  You’re going to have to shoot me.  There’s a gun in my pack.  Don’t look at me just pull the trigger.” he said.

“Ryan, I’m not going to shoot you.”

“You have to.  Do you want me to die a slow death from gangrene?  I need you to be strong.  Shoot me in the face.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Come on baby.  I’d do it for you.  I’d shoot you if you needed me to.”

“That’s so romantic.”

“I’m a romantic guy.”

“If you don’t shut up.  I might just shoot you and then I’ll feed your body to the leopards that run around up here in the warm weather.” 

He knew she was beginning to become agitated with this discussion, but that only encouraged him.  He was beginning to have fun. 

He got up and walked around.  The brush was thick and roots and trees hung everywhere.  There was no snow.  The snow on Kilimanjaro had been receding for years.  The mountain resembled a jungle more than an actual mountain.  He grabbed his leg and fell next to a tree.

“If only I had whiskey.  Then I could die in peace, but now I will die in slow agony because the women I love won’t shoot me.” he said.

“God damn it Ryan.  Are you really going to keep this going?”

“How can you swear at me in a time like this?  I’m dying.”

She looked into his eyes with her head tilted and annoyed.  He looked back at her and smiled.  He continued to look at her with a smile on his face for a couple of seconds until she dropped her head.  It was the look he was going for.  He grabbed her by the elbow, brought her in close and kissed her on the forehead.

“It’s remarkable baby.  I think I’m going to make a full recovery.  It must be a miracle.  I think god has saved your man.  Well I think I’ve seen enough of this mountain.  There’s not even any snow on it.”

She shook her head.

“God damn you’re an idiot.”

I enjoy talking shit

Recently, Larry Johnson of the Kansas City Chiefs was suspended for making anti-gay comments.  It all started when he criticized Todd Haley’s play calling.  A MU student responded to said criticism and then Johnson responded to his picture.  He said the student looked gay in his picture and that where he comes from they’d call him a charlie boy or some shit like that after a street that’s predominantly gay.  It was a joke.  The media ran with it and now it’s a big deal.  The journalism student was just happy to get attention. 

I don’t understand what the big deal is.  Larry Johnson was just talking shit.  He didn’t mean to offend gays.  If there’s no intent then it’s just shit talking and shit talking is just want men do.  It’s a way of establishing authority and building relationships.  A man’s amount of friends is directly related to his ability to talk shit.  My friend calls me pig I call him garbage dick.  It’s an intellecutal competition where each man is driving one another to new heights of trash talking.  There is a trick to shit talking though.  You can never come across as mean and you have to no when to stop.  Don’t be that guy who crosses the line and everyone secretly hates.  Also, don’t go big right away.  Some shit talking topics are off limits when you first meet someone.  For example, girlfriends are great shit talking material amongst close friends, but never ever talk shit on a man’s girlfriend you just met.  And you’ve got to be sensitive.  My friend Cayce is dating an 18-year-old, so I can make prom jokes, but I’ve got to be careful.  There really is a thin-line in shit talking.  There must always be an I care about you tone in your voice.  So for example, I’m kind of worried about you buddy.  That fat chick you banged last night looked skeezy.  You should probably get checked out.  A good rule is: Talk shit as you would like shit talked to you.  A lot of times I like to follow up my shit talking with a shoulder rub and a don’t be so sensitive baby.  

But let’s get back to the Larry Johnson thing.  The media handled it all wrong.  What the journalist should have said is where I come from we call guys like you Golds after the roided out meatheads who inject each other in the ass.  That would have solved the problem.

A really ridiculous post on manliness

Mother nature beat me up today, and it’s not fair because I can’t fight back.  I got poured on for hours and now I’m sick.  Why didn’t momma nature call me up and tell me it’s going to rain?  I’m so mad I could punch a cloud.  Even if I did receive a call about the impending monsoon there really was nothing I could do.  I have a 1940s machismo which doesn’t allow me to own an umbrella. 

You know who owned an umbrella?  Gene Kelly when he danced in the rain.  I think I’ve proven my point.  There are a couple of other things I find gay.  Pink shirts for one.  I never got this fad.  Men should wear black.  Johnny Cash wore black.  Name one manly man who ever wore pink.  Henry VIII definitely wore a pink skirt and was still able to marry six women, but that’s only because he was king and he could do what every he wanted.  He was also a psychopath who beheaded several of his wives.  Pink isn’t just gay.  Wearing it makes a man insane.

Sandals are also gay.  You know who wore sandals?  The greeks.  ‘Nough said.  Men shouldn’t wear sandals.  Their feet should be disgusting and full of fungus.  That’s how you know they’re active. 

Tanning is gay.  What man has 20 minutes to tan?  Lift weights.  Build a career.  Build something with your barehands.  Senseless preening is for women. 

Which brings me to the least manly thing of all… chest waxing.  A man’s chest should be hairy.  It’s a proven fact that a man gets one chest hair for every manly thing he does in his life.  It’s a badge of masculinity and it should be encouraged to grow like a wild bush in the African Safari.  If a man doesn’t have chest hair it means he’s indecisive, tans, and does his nails all day when he should be taking care of business.  That’s a fact.  You can look it up in the encyclopedia brittanica.

But if a man does accidentally shave his chest hair there are somethings he can do to get his mane back. 

First, buy a motorcyle and a leather jacket.  Upon purchasing said items a man instantly gets 50 chest hairs.  It’s one of the few ways to rack up man points with just money.

Second, you can work 95 hours a week and climb to the top of your occupation.  You’ve got to be careful how you do this though.  You have to make sure everyone knows you’re working constantly, but anytime anyone asks about the time you put in you just say:  I’m just doing what I have to do to be the best.  That’s fucking manly right there.  You know you’re awesome.  There’s no need to brag.  Working 95 hours does require sacrifice, but if you don’t have time for sleep then don’t sleep.  All that money you make will pay for your future ulcers.  Also, stress related illnesses are manly because it means you’re pushing yourself to the limit.

One might think that getting smashed face wasted and going home with a random girl is manly.  This one’s tricky.  It only works during a mid-life crisis or until you’re 22 or if you’re rich.  The problem with random hook ups is they actually require more time than dating.  Remember, career always comes first.  Going out everynight trolling for a new girl is going to hinder your development.  Also, decisiveness and understaning of one’s needs is manly.  At some point whoring just becomes flip flopping.  There is a point when it becomes manly to settle down.  I promise you it’s true. 

Another thing a man can do to earn man points is slaying wild animals.  The more dangerous the better.  Danger is manly.  Climb mountains and then base jump off them.  Shoot a lion from a bush.  Not from a truck.  If you miss the lion in the truck you can drive away.  If you miss from a bush.  You better think fast because that lion is going to be pissed.  Men do things balls to the wall and except the consequences later.  Almost everything should be brushed off.  Go up to that hotty at the bar and lay down the mack.  If she isn’t interested maybe her friend is.  There’s never any time to be discouraged, even if a lion is mauling you because you are a bad shot.  Punch that lion in the face and tell him: don’t mess with me pussy.  If you’re a real man he’ll be intimidated.  If you get eaten then it means you are little girl.

Which brings me to my next manly thing.  Black eyes and scars are manly.  A man should never go two weeks without one or the other.  A black eye says I don’t take shit from anyone because I’m the man.  A scar says I have the confidence to take risks.  If you’re worried about your manliness just get in a bar fight.  Lots of times you’ll get both scars and a black eye.  One man may give you a black eye by punching you in the face.  At the same time his buddy might smash a bottle over your head.  It’s a two for one special on manliness. 

Helping others is manly.  If someone is stranded on the sign of the road help them out.  I changed a ladies tire one time when I was drunk (I wasn’t driving).  Is that the manliest thing ever?  Probably

One last interesting note.  Though pink shirts and umbrellas are gay it’s completely ok to say overtly gay things to your other man friends.  It’s called bromance.  The more overt the better.  Haven’t seen a friend in a while?  Why not tell him to bring that sweet ass over here and then pat him on the toosh.  There’s absolutely nothing gay about that… at all.

Save the Earth bitches

Apparently, today is Blog Action Day, an annual event to get blogger to blog on one topic.  This years topic climate change.  Now, I’ve already written before on the plusses of climate change here and I think we can all agree that it would be nice, but some people want to actually stop global warming, so here are some things you can do.

First, stop cow farts.  Chances are if you live on a farm you have a cow and chances are it’s farting.  Those farts are destroying our environment, so cork up their bottoms or if that’s too cruel then you can just feed them fish oil.  A study showed that eating fish oil significantly reduces cow farts.

Methane isn’t the only cause of greenhouse gasses though.  Deforestation is also a major problem.  I think we can all agree it wouldn’t be prudent to stop tearing down forests in places where people would like to live/vacation one night out of the year/wonder what this place would like without all these fucking trees.  But there is another option.  We can plant trees in the desert.  Who wants to live in the desert?  It’s hot and there are tons of snakes and scorpions.

Another thing we could do is put huge freakin ice cubes in the ocean.  The oceans are hot and that’s making the world hotter.  Of course it’s nice to be able to take a dip in October.  I could go either way on this one.  I think there was a Futurama episode where they did this and if I remember correctly it completely cured global warming, so we could probably do that.  Also we could have all the robots fart at one time and move the earth back.  That would be good too.

Another thing we could do is use alternate fuel sources like solar, wind or nuclear power.  However, in order to do this it would be necessary to sack all the worlds oil executives/automotive companies/anyone who makes a ton of money of fossil fuels.  Since these people can not be sacked because they are the most powerful people in the world we are stuck with oil.  However, if the other energy sources repeatedly attacked the fossil fuel industries perhaps we could see a charge, sort of like how the wandering tribes destroyed Rome. 

Anyway, I’m clearly a doctor/genius and I’ve done my good deed for this year.  I’m going to cook seal fat I’ve had sealed in 17 styrofoam containers on my propane grill in the back yard.  Save the Earth bitches.

Back in the STL

My friend Chris Mullins went back to St. Louis to visit his family.  I haven’t seen Chris in over a year and his whore wife (as he repeatedly called her) recently left him at the altar because she met someone else while he was overseas.  As a result, I decided to chuck it back to St. Louis for a visit.

My visit started off real bad.  I got a ticket for going 90 in a 70 that’s going to cost me a fortune.  Apparently, the cop followed me for a while, but I didn’t notice because I was jamming out to my ipod.  He asked me why I was going so fast?  I had so many answers.  I have to pee.  There’s no one around and I’m in a hurry, but I didn’t say any of those.  Although, I think there should be a pee exception.  Whenever I drive long distances I always end up speeding because I have to pee.  I think it’s the vibrations of the car or the hot seat, but I always have to pee.  I think speeding due to bodily functions should be a viable excuse.  Either that or I should be able to pull over on the side of the road and do my business.  It has to be either one or the other.  Let’s get to work congress. 

I ended up going with the aw schucks I’m sorry approach and just accepting my ticket.  I just wanted to get back on the road.  I really had to pee.  I got home around midnight and went right to bed.

Friday night I went out with my old friends who are much more experienced drinkers than I am.  Some of those guys drink full-time.  I had no idea how much of a light weight I was until after that night.  I barely remember a think and the hangover would last two days.  I didn’t get out of bed until monday which means I missed farm aid.  I really wanted to see Wilco. 

Monday night I watched football with my friend with the whore wife and Jeff.  It took me three days before I saw Chris and he was the whole reason I came back.  Ah well better late than never. 

The game was the Packers vs. Brett Favre and the Vikings.  I really enjoyed this game because I have a friend who is a Packers fan.  I imagine every guy who knows a Packers fan did the same thing I did.  Act like a complete asshole.  I don’t know why men enjoy being assholes, but damn we really do.  Aaron Rodgers fumbled in the first quarter.  My text: Brett Favre wouldn’t have fumbled there.  Brett Favre throws a touchdown.  My text: 1 I’m sending you a message for every Brett Favre touchdown.  By the time I got to 3 my buddy texted me: Fuck your mother.  That was his only response for the whole game.  Around this time Chris decided to text his buddy whose a Packers fan.  Then we started comparing notes.  You said what?  That’s awesome I’m texting my buddy that.  It will crush him. 

Eventhough my friend was silent I kept on texting him: The Packers defense is good.  If you had Brett Favre you’d be a Superbowl team for sure.  It’s a shame you let him go.  He didn’t say anything back, but I know he was crying on the inside and that comforted me.  My final text: Well you guys tried and that’s all that matters.  I’m sure that really pissed him off.  Every guy knows if you don’t win then you’re not trying hard enough.  We had a couple of beers, (four for me) so Chris’s mom came and picked us up.  We went to bed at midnight.  So that’s five days in St. Louis with two sleeping by midnights, two days sleeping all day and one night of drinking that I could barely handle.  It’s official I’m old. 

Tuesday was Chris (the one with the whore wife) and my last day in St. Louis, so we went for a tour of the brewery.  I’d never been, so it sounded like fun.  It was ehh.  The first stop is the horse church.  It’s a Clydesdale stable with stained glass windows.  You can’t get close to the horses because they’re roped off.  The tour guide said they only keep horses with white feet, brown fur and a black mane.  What happens to the rest of them?  Does Budweiser make glue?  I sure hope not. 

Then we got to see the place where the beechwood lagering takes place.  On the way there there’s an awesome sand sculpture that says Budweiser and has a little star.  I wish I had a picture it’s pretty cool.  My friend Chris’s response: you know some little kid’s going to touch that.  None of them did. (Ya, you can bring your kids on the booze tour).  They were too well behave.  I however, couldn’t resist.  It was real… and awesome. 

Don’t ask me what beechwood lagering is.  They told me, but I don’t understand.  It happens in massive steel tanks that hold 200,000 six packs, so it would take you and 99,999 of your friends to carry all that beer.  And depending on how big of drinkers your friends are possibly the same amount to drink.  With my friends it would probably take about 10 people.  I’d bring the team down by passing out after 12 or so and then sleeping for two days.

Then we were taken to a room where our tour guide explained the seven steps to brewing.  There’s hops and mashing and stuff, but I didn’t really pay attention.  I however did pay attention when the tour guide explained what is required to become a beer taster.  This is going to crush a lot of dreams.  To be a beer taster you need a masters in chemical engineering and then you have to go to beer school.  You need as much education to be a beer taster as you do to be a doctor.  I told my friend Dawson and he was upset.  He was going to put in an application.  He’s been laid off for two years and he’s not good at anything, but damn he can drink. 

The idea of beer school sounded awesome to my friends and I.

Professor (me): Damn it Johnny why are you late to class again?

Johnny (my friend Kevin): I was up late studying again.  I studied a whole case.

Professor: I thought I told you you’re not supposed to cram.  You need to study a little bit every night.

Johnny: Ya ya, I know, but I get behind.

Then we took a lap in the packaging plant and then it was back to the hospitality room where you get two free samples of beer.  I assume they’re limited to two because anymore would put you over the legal limit.  They only had like eight different beers on tap which really ticked me off because who wants to sample bud light?  I got a Stella and a pumpkin beer both of which I’ve had before and then the tour was over.

After the tour we sang karaoke.  It was $10 bottomless cop, but I decided to drink water (I’m 25 going on a 100.  Really I should just eat seaweed at this point)  It used to be hard to entertain myself when I’m around drunk people and I’m sober, but no longer.  I sang karaoke sober and luckily there were cougars stalking around our table.  I told my friend Dawson I was going to get him one. 

Dawson: You would do that wouldn’t you.

Me: Without mercy.  I’d get you liquored up and send you home with her.

Dawson: and then you’d call me the next day after it happened.

Me: I’d ask you how your night was.

Dawson: and then you’d tell me to roll over and I’d say fuck you.

Me: and it would be glorious.

I went home after that conversation and went to bed.  Guess what time it was.  Just guess.  Yup it was midnight.  Let’s recap.  That’s 6 days in St. Louis catching up with friends with 3 nights sleeping by midnight, 2 days recovering from hangovers and one solid night of partying.  I’ve got the Mizzou Nebraska game tomorrow.  I’ve got a feeling I won’t be writing again until Sunday.

I should write

The more I write the less I am able to write.  Every time I write the revision process takes a little longer.  I am not going to worry about form or punctuation or spelling on this one.  I’m just going to vomit it out.  Here are some things I would write about if I had more time.

My car is nearly dead.  Actually, at the moment it is dead.  It’s a cadaver to be tinkered with.  Now that it’s dead I can pull it apart and look at its anatomy.  I feel like a first year medical student.  It’s gross and there’s gunk everywhere, but it’s kind of neat.  My unexpert diagnosis is the fuel pump is dead or the fuel filter is clogged.  The fuel pump is like a heart.  It pumps fluid through out the body and the fuel filter is like an artery.  When it’s clogged fluid can’t be pumped through out the body.  Last year I changed the fuel lines, so basically I am giving my car a whole new circulatory system.  Not bad for a first year student.

I’m going to back track now.  If I were concerned with form I wouldn’t do this.  My car died on the highway.  I was trying to go home after graduation and it just died.  It’s got nearly 200,000 miles so it wasn’t much of a shock.  I was in the left lane and the car stopped getting gas, shut off and idled down the road.  I turned my blinker on so I could get over.  I was slowing down quickly and there were trucks in the right lane.  I think they were trying to let me in front of them because they slowed down to about 30 miles an hour before they realized my car was dead.  I made it over to the shoulder and parked in front of an exit sign.  I barely made it past the exit.  Cayce picked me up.  I told my sister I wasn’t coming back to St. Louis, read and went to sleep.  My car was gone the next day.  It was towed to a place where the receptionist lady chain smoked cigarettes.  Her ash tray was the size of a frizbee.  You need a big ash tray for that many cigarettes.  A sign on the wall said something like forgiving is good for Christians, but bad for business.  My car almost made it home from the tow place.  Close enough that it didn’t get towed again, but I was still mad at it.  Don’t you know I’m your doctor.  Don’t mess with me.  I’ll kill you bitch.  Maybe that’s what it wants.  It wants to die.  Nope, not going to happen.  I’m keeping you on life support.

If I had time to write I’d probably write about working 30 hours from Saturday to Monday.  That was a pretty tiring experience.  My back hurt on Tuesday.  A sign that I’m getting old.  I use to believe hard work will get you anywhere, but know I think hard work will get you an early grave.  Hard work’s for chumps.  I’m cashing in my journalism degree for some big time cash, a 40 hour work week and benefits.  You get benefits, money and you only have to work 40 hours a week.  And you get to meet interesting people and learn about their values and how they became successful.  It’s charity. 

Which reminds me I’ve been reading a lot lately and I’ve been networking.  Networking is scary for me.  I don’t want people to feel used.  I just want like minded people who have the same concerns as me.  I hope we can help each other.   Berkley Hudson has been helping me.  As has a lady on the journalism school whose name I can’t spell.  Hopefully, I’ll have a real job soon.  I’d miss some of my friends if I left though. 

At work when it’s slow Cayce and I play a game.  

To play the game you’ll need hollow eggs and a knife sharpener.  The eggs are the ball and the knife sharpener is the bat.  You can use anything you want for the bat, but the ball must be hollowed out eggs. 

To hollow an egg poke wholes in both sided then blow the yolk out one end.

Once the egg is hollow, one person should pitch it to the other.  The batter then hits the egg.  When hit it should make a loud noise and explodes, sending itty bitty white shrapnel all over the place.  If it doesn’t then you’re doing it wrong. 

I think I’ll always play eggball even if I become a big wig journalist.  I’d get a new car though and I’d blow this one up like they do on Mythbusters.  I’d gut the car and put the frame on a track going a hundred miles an hour toward a heavy swinging arm that shatters  it, sending Ryan’s car shrapnel all over the place.  That would be cool.

Playing the Oregon Trail

I was goofing off on sporcle today when I found a quiz on the Oregon Trail.  The quiz asked me to list ways of death, hunting game etc.  When I was in the third grade, my class would have a computer day where we were supposed to learn about computers, but really we all just played the Oregon Trail.  I remember the Oregon Trail being the greatest game in the world.  I remember hunting for hours and not wanting to be interrupted.  That game was great and informative.  The guy who made it should have been awarded a Nobel prize or maybe they should create an Oregon Trail prize for gaming excellence.  I decided to see if there was anyway I could play the Oregon Trail online.  There was.  This is the story of my Oregon Trail experience.

At the beginning you choose between a farmer, a carpenter, and a banker.  Farmer is the hardest, so that’s what I chose.  You don’t get much money as a farmer, so you’ve got to be careful about what you purchase.  The first thing you do is buy supplies.  The salesman is a real asshole.  He says you can’t possibly make it to Oregon unless you buy 1,000 pounds of food, 10 sets of clothing, 3 sets of Oxen, a bunch of bullets, and spare parts.  As a farmer, I couldn’t afford that.  At the same time, I feel like it’s an accurate description of America.  We tax dreams in America.  

Then: I can see you desperately need to go West, well I’m going to have to charge you more.  You’re demand is high and I’ve got the supply.  That’s how it is. 

Now: Want to make money when you get older, you’ll need to go to college.  You need to go to college, well you’ll need to get a loan.  You really need this loan so I’m afraid you’re going to have to pay an incredibly high interest rate.  That’s just supply and demand. 

I didn’t trust him, so I decided to hunt my own food.  It’s important to know that 1848 society was much different than today’s world. The guns back in 1848 could not shoot through bushes and they only shot in four directions.  As a result, you’re going to want to be out in the open when you hunt.  This isn’t as bad as it sounds.  The animals weren’t as aware of humans, so they were much stupider.  They’ll run right up and touch you.  And human beings weren’t as evolved as they are now.  They ran almost as fast as deer or bears. 

However, 19th century homosapien’s speed is offset by their appetite.  The average family on the Oregon Trail ate 15 pounds of food per day, which means each person ate 12 quarter-pounders per day.  Interestingly, no one on the Oregon Trail has ever died of clogged arteries.  In fact, you’re going to have to look out for malnutrition even as you eat 15 pounds of food per day.  I guess this shows that if you exercise you don’t have to maintain any diet whatsoever.   

At first, I was racing through the Oregon Trail.  I was amazed at how easy this game was now that I was older.  I remember all my people dying.  It wasn’t until the end that I remembered God hated everyone on the Oregon Trail.  At first there were little plagues.  I lost my trail and my fatties ate 60 pounds of food until I found the trail again.  But as I got close to Oregon it got worse.  A fire broke out, and my party lost their clothes and some food.  Yup a fire managed to burn my people’s clothes, but left them unharmed. Withouth their clothes my people had only their fat to protect them from the elements and their health began to deterioate.  Then a cow rustler stole my oxen.  As a result my pace slowed to about one mile per day.  Damn, no good cow rustlers.   I had so many bullets, Why didn’t I shoot him?  

You’d think that since they were only traveling one mile per day they wouldn’t have to eat their normal 15 pounds of food, but you’d be wrong.  I tried to curb their food supply, but if they only ate nine quarter-pounders per day their health worsened.  One of them died. 

Luckily for me, I was close to Oregon when all this happened, so I was able to make it with four people in critical condition but still alive.  My score was awful.  Even after my triple point famer bonus, I only scored 2500 points, which ranked me as a lowly greenhorn.  The lowest rank possible.  The game isn’t as good as I remembered it, but it’s nowhere near as bad as some of the other things from my youth that I revisited.  Does anyone else remember the Ninja Turtles movies?  Why was Vanilla Ice in there and why was he ever popular?

Ridin’ a loophole into heaven and some American commentary just ’cause.

I’m a bad person.  I am well aware of this fact.  I couldn’t give you reasons why, but I’m sure I’m not that good.  I decided the only way I could ever get into heaven was to find a loophole.  Aren’t I a good American?  

The other day my sister told me I should be a lawyer.  They make a lot more money and friends then muckraking journalists.  I don’t think my sister understands that I get no pleasure from wealth.  I get pleasure from destroying the character of public officials who dream huge dreams from a small box and who are completely unaware of the consequences of their actions because they’re so self important and detached from what is really going on.  Why is this important?  Because I have an internal antagonism.  I need to check authority, but the only way I can get into heaven is to never judge anyone.  I know when I get up there St. Peter’s going to say something like:

“Ryan, you gave up origami for lent.”

“Ya, so what of it.”

“You don’t do origami.”

“I had to give up something.”

“Why didn’t you give up drinking or books or rides in your car.”

“I like those things.  Why should I give them up?”

And then St. Peter would have to explain the purpose of giving things up for lent, but it wouldn’t really matter because I am already in. 

This is a real tough decision for me, so I decided to weigh the pros and cons of both sides.  I imagined what heaven would be like:

I imagine that James Dean gave Jesus his coat because Jesus was the biggest bad ass there, and Gandhi’s always trying to wear the coat.  He touches it.  It feels so cool.  Sometimes when Jesus feels nice he lets Gandhi wear it, and he smiles that smile he’s so famous for.

Moses and Abraham give Jesus crap all the time because they think he’s only the big wig because his dad’s God.  They always complain about nepotism.

“Would you sacrifice your first born for God?”

“Would you wander in a desert for 40 years?

But Jesus just ignores them.  We play guitar, but not any guitar Woody Guthrie’s guitar, and here’s the kicker it literally kills fascist.  Outstanding.  I’m upset that I can’t play, but Jesus tell me to just give it a try.  I pluck a couple of times and it sounds exactly how I want it to sound.  Holy crap, I’m a guitar virtuoso in heaven.  But can I sing?  Jesus tells me to go for it.  Holy crap, I can sing in heaven, and not some American Idol beautiful but without resonation, sound,  I sing like Robert Johnson or Dylan, with soul.  Damn heaven is sweet, but how’s my family doing.

My dad who’s too shy to talk to anyone is a total ladies man.  My sister doesn’t bullshit anymore and my mom doesn’t drink.  My brother can drive and he’s not too afraid to assert himself.  It’s all pretty great in heaven. 

I have no choice.  I can never judge anyone.  If a CEO buys a $35,000 toilet or commode and then asks the government for a bailout, I’m sure he has a good reason for it.  I don’t at all think he should be buried alive in it.  I don’t think it’s idiotic for people to complain about welfare recipients taking away their ability to buy said toilets.  And I don’t think America’s problem isn’t free loaders it’s that we’ve become so materialistic that we are defined by our possessions rather than our character, that if we were comfortable with our ideas and character we wouldn’t feel the need to buy so much junk and we’d choose to give.  And everyone would be content that they had everything they needed and they wouldn’t be so spoiled to believe they must have every passing want.

Ahh who am I kidding?  John Thain you should be buried alive.  Congressmen you should spend more time in your districts talking to your constituents and less time collecting money.  Anyone who talks about what’s best for the whole world from a television studio in New York City is an idiot.  I guess I’ve got no chance at heaven now, but I doubt hell would take me: I can’t help but fix things.