Thursday, February 24, 2005

fleecing the stupid

Three posts in one day; and this one less than an hour after the last. You must think I have nothing better to do with my time. And you would be right. I do have nothing better to do with my time.

This is because I am moving tomorrow. The title at the top of the page says that I am writing to you from the beautiful mud plains of Columbus, Ohio. That is not exactly correct. Currently, I am writing to you from the beautiful mud hills of Cincinnati, Ohio, where I have spent the last five years hoping against hope that I can remain a kid for the rest of my life. All of this stops tomorrow. Tomorrow I move into a brand new house in the township of Clintonville on the outskirts of Columbus, Ohio. On Monday I start a job at a company in Columbus (which I will not list here for fear that my boss will locate my website and then fire me for speaking poorly of the company…rest assured, I will speak poorly of the company. After nearly a decade of full time work, coupled with a lifetime of mundane part time and temporary jobs, I have learned one, immutable fact. And that fact is this: work sucks and there is always something to complain about).

The movers are coming tomorrow at 10:00am. They will pack my belongings in boxes and load them onto the truck. They will take everything away and deposit my things into my new abode, on the crime-riddled streets of Clintonville, as I mentioned earlier.

This should be a happy time for me. This should be a time of great, exuberant celebration. After nearly six years as a prisoner to the hopeless confines of Cincinnati, I should be glad that the gods of capitalism have offered me a reprieve. But for some reason, I am not. I had resigned myself to living in Cincinnati. I had grown attached to its ugly hills, cheap attempts at social activism, and the friends I have made and hardly ever see. I have grown closer to my family than I ever thought I would. My mom and I have gone to church together for the better part of six months now and dad and I have talked incessantly about spring making way for an enjoyable season of golf.

So I’m a bit sad. Yes, I’m excited about starting a new job and getting the opportunity to hang out with old friends on a more regular basis. But I can’t help but feel that this move, like all the rest, will be temporary. I can’t help but feel that by the time I get the chance to establish some roots, I’ll have to tear them up again and move on.

I don’t know why. And I don’t know why I’m telling you (since you aren’t reading this anyway), but that’s what it feels like.

But who knows? My new roommate says that there is a group of people that likes to play Frisbee golf every Sunday after church. Maybe I can take part in that. Maybe I can pretend to be horrible for a few weeks, then bet vast amounts of green money against everyone and flog them mercilessly for weeks on end.
That would be a great way to start, wouldn’t it? And if not, it would give me a good reason to move again!


I went back and read that last post, along with the title of the page, and found that my spelling skizills are woefully inadequate. It reminded me of a poem I read, which was entitled, "The Impotence of Proofreading." It was all about how spell chukking is impotent, and how a preponderance of mist aches can maik you look dum.

Reading my previous post made me sad. It reminded me of the days when I was a teenager, hopeless plodding through books by John "f-ing" Steinbeck and Herman Melleville when all I wanted to do was watch television and play video games. I thought I had grown intellectually since then. I thought I had become infinitely more intellegigent sense then. I thot I had grown so much more smarter then how I yoused to be, that I was bee-ond reproach when it comes to matters of the Engilsh language.

But I was wrong. And I was sad. Because I still made a lot of mist aches. And all I really wanted to do was play video games.

So I went back and changed the title of the page from "[enter puncline here]" to "[enter punchline here]". I then thought I would go back and edit the post, to make myself look more smarter. But I didn't. I thought to myself, why bother with all that? Why worry about how you look to the one or two people who might read this stupid "online journal?"

Really. Why worry? Anybody who knows me and knows who I am already knows that I'm (more) dumber than a box of rocks, and anybody else is going to be turned off by me explanation of why the word "blog" is pointless and stupid. Plus, if things get bad, I can always start a new blog and call it "Brain Droppings from a Man who is Smarter than You!" And I can be as pretentious as I want to be. I expound upon the dullards who read poopular fiction with witticisms that far out weight their pititful IQ's. I can deride their taste in music, in fashion, in all things that are not exactly what I do, and I can pretend that this makes me feel better about who I am and what I have to offer the word.

But I won't do that. And I won't go back and edit my last post. Because, ultimately, I jest don't kare. I don't feel moreally and intelectualy superior to everyone else.

And all I really want to do is play video games.

I can't believe I'm doing this all over again

So I tried this thing years and years ago, ok. I tried setting myself up with an "online journal" many moons ago, and it never worked out. Oh, sure, I'd write in it for a week, maybe two. Then, Real Life(tm) would hit, I'd forget about the whole thing, and my pointless missives about nothing at all would disappear into the ether, much like all those reruns of Seinfeld (only not nearly as funny).

But I'm back, baby! And the only reason I'm here is because I wanted to leave stupid comments in another "online journalist's" site. (by the way, I refuse to call it a "blog" because that sounds too much like what people do in the toilet after a night of heavy drinking) But who knows, right? Maybe I'll enjoy this. Maybe I'll get thousands and thousands of readers who por over my every word, waiting for some zen-like state of enlightenment to jump out at them, smack the macross the face and tell them "NO SOUP FOR YOU!"

The chances are that this won't be around for too terribly long, though. And if you're reading this, count yourself lucky. The good people at will more than likely delete it in short order, leaving you to slaver through the remaining pieces of peurile drivel that exists in small chunks all across the Intarweb.

See, I can use big words! I are smart.

Piece out,
The Sasquatch