The Snowdens of Yesteryear.

As this time of the year approaches, I realize just how much I hate the holiday of New Years. Most associate this festive day with loved ones and the hopeful anticipation with what the New Year will bring, and this I applaud. For me, this holiday is filled with memories of drunk relatives berating me for whatever gripe they have at that particular moment (at least when they are sober they have the tact to do it behind my back), or the desolation of solitude. As for the hopes that change will occur in the next year, I am almost positive it will, but only to a detriment to me. There is always nostalgia that can fog up reality with its rose-colored glasses, but the past years have been but a downslope. Gone are many of the people I once called friends, I do try to keep in contact with them, but a line of text across an internet page or an infrequent remote voice never brings about the same warmth of comraderie as a group of friends in person. Hell I can think of only one person that isnt related by blood that has endured my presence for ten years. Now i now that absolute continuity is impossible, but it seems the less mistakes I make the more life amps up the suckage. We learn from early relationships only to have them falter due to no part of our own actions. All the knowledge we build up seems to work against us as the inexplicable arrives each day by the donkey-cart load. As I have seen the things I cherish slowly slip away and see some of my family turn into loathsome demons,I can do naught but begrudge this day which marks a progression in time and my apparent misery. Yes, there is always hope that this will be the year it all changes, but I, the pessimist, do so severly doubt it, it is like comparing the luminescense of Venus (ahh my eyes) to that of a dwarf star on the other side of the universe. So as you break out your gear for New Year's, celebrate it well, but save your tidings for someone else, for all you will find here is contempt. Flipping through the channels, I keep on stumbling into this movie "flashbacks of a fool", and cannot help but think of my own life. I have made foolish mistakes, I will be the first to admit, but the lessons I have learned from them have borne no fruit. So bring on another 365, show me more of the darkness in this world. I still long for the Snowdens of yesteryear.

Sic Semper Tyrannosaurus

Dave

I was at : 4307 NW 76 Terrace, Gainesville, FL 32606,

The equity of silence

Eyes blur against the dry grain of their liddish oppressors. Grey light filters through the shades, forcing the iris to cringe in terror and retract. An aimless hand wanders vertically to a shiftless face. A knowing caress met with the razor sharp reality of stubble, yet it still feels good. After gathering an adequate knowledge of the sandpaper-like texture, it moves to a bridge that holds the face together. The fingers pinch, as if to pick up a dirty sock, searching for the crystals of grime pigeonholed in the folds of the eyes. The mouth moves as to yawn, yet no sound or rush of air accompanies it. The lids try to regain their power not once, but twice, yet the eyes hold firm. The body goes from obtuse to right in a lackluster effort, then contorts as the muscles mount manifestation against the previous demands. The eyes shift, wantingly searching for some sense of familiarity, yet only to be greeted by the grinning chariactures of nightmare. Gone or dissapeared is most everything which once bestowed comfort. All that is left is a prowling jaguar, lonesomely skulking for its past glory. The mouth begins to move, as if to release a vocalization disparaging this disgruntled state, but stops short as its uselessness is brought to light. A glance to the other side of the bed. Gone is the thoughtful companion, as the fingers trace the absent curve of her wondrous bodies, memories filling the vacuum of reality. What is in her place are technology's failed abortions of companionship, a phone and three remotes. One for the tv, one for the cable box, and one for the dvd. The power cord for the cell phone reaches into this edifice for nocturnal confinement, like the forgotten child of a Dali painting. The lungs fill with air then collapse again. Death's embrace was near again last night, as the soul ripped free a few more of the mooring lines, one could almost swear it could have slipped loose and meandered out of the body. Yet conciousness was here when morning came. Some would call it a home, I call it an adorned prison cell where I sleep. I find the board shorts crumpled near a closet full of things I cannot name. I put them on, the good feelings of times long past make a slight resurgence, then beaten down as the cold threatens to engulf the rest of the body. Aimless feet plod towards the bathroom. The haggard face and mad scientest hair reflect the grim misgivings of the owner, as the toothbrush makes its daily monotonous trek. I scrounge the first t shirt I can find, noticing how the favorites had disappeared slowly over the years. I move towards the kitchen, slowly as to not make too much noise, and disguise my presence. A voice raises a question to me. Damn, i have been found. I do not respond, i do not turn, and I do not speak. Silence is my warmth and my security in this world. It is all I want from it, and all I have to offer to it. Silence is my equity.

I was at : 4244 NW 76 Terrace, Gainesville, FL 32606,

Kelvin, you betrayed me

The cold saunters to the window

Warmth,aggravated, musters a defense

A battle upon crystallized silicon

Warmth has human support

Yet the cold is too strong

Defense defenestrated

Like an unbound mist

Frigidity moves slowly forward

Down the wall to the floor

The determined icy imp crawls,

Pets scurry but the humans sleep

The miniscule hibernation

Senses dulled fully

Freezing fingers reach out

Grabbing the victim but not waking

The skin turns to goose,

Hairs stringing skyward

There is no further hope

All protection is lost

Slowly the skin loses colour

The breath shallows

The eyeball solidifies

The jaw slackens

The cold wins.

I was at : 2910 NW 83rd St, Gainesville, FL 32606,

Yeti Shearer Tabloids and other Tibetan Tales

As i often bemoan, my creativity dissapates with chagrined aplomb during the christmas season, as i bend my thoughts on what to get my family as gifts. Thus as i turned to my computer as a means of escape in this dreary reality, something jumped into my minds as i was contributing to the extinction of yetis and bears...

As I was wondering what caused the demise of these brilliantly extinct fictional animals, I began to wonder what uses a yeti could be to an individual, nay, an entrepreneur. This started as a launching pad from the previous discussion concerning tauntauns. Now if one was to start mass-producing yeti jackets, there would need to be a substantial workforce in place to procure the fur. As shearing would be more profitable and humane than skinning, this would be their profession. The exotic locale and absurd premise could lend itself to all sorts of lurid and hysterical tales. This is just a premise, let's see if it bears any fruit, i've got several pots on the stove.

Sic Semper Tyrannosaurus

Dave

I was at : 4308 NW 76 Terrace, Gainesville, FL 32606,

Concerning Tauntauns, Theramore, and Tebow.

I know it has been quite awhile since my last post, but alas the holiday season tends to fry my brain quite thouroughly, so this post will not be filled with some random literary oddity, but with just the randomness of reality.

As some of you (prolly most considering the popularity of this blog) might have noticed, there was quite the epic tweetversation concerning tauntauns and their application in the fashion industry. For those of you who do not know what a tauntaun is, please consult wikipedia or The Empire Strikes Back, for it will not be furnished here. Now, as far as utility goes, the tauntaun ranks in my top five bipedal forms of transportation. (Also making the list, chocobos, emus,moas, and other humans) Its ability to survive in cold weather leads even the most scrutinous observer to produce the fact that tauntaun fur must insulate well. This I do not dispute. My trepidation in embracing the tauntaun coat is the fact that it stinks. Now some may say that the warmth the beast provides would override the odor, I believe this can really only stand on its own merit in extreme situations of survival. Take for example sewer rats, a plentiful fur supply if there ever was one. Not loved, so no one would complain about their loss, and adaptable to almost any condition possible. So why does no one wear sewer rat coats? Because they smell. Same with the tauntaun, it wouldn't work. Turpentine and flame couldn't get that smell out.

Aside from Star Wars universe fashion speculation, been goofing off on the WoW. Finished off the night in Theramore, with that prick of a fisherman, Nat Pagle. If i was the world's best fisherman, i'd be damned if i was gonna live in a swamp.

So Tebow lost Heisman, what is the deal that people aren't going to NoLa for the bowl? If i had the money i would be there right now.

Sorry for the abrupt prose, but it's late and i'm tired.

Sic Semper Tyrannosaurus

Dave

I was at : 4244 NW 76 Terrace, Gainesville, FL 32606,

Where are you now, Cameron Fry? The world turns its lonely eyes to you....

Albrecht Durer

The horse slowly marched toward some imperceptible destination. All that went through its mind was the desire to gnash its teeth on some cruncy oats. The years of war and strife had not been kind to the quadriped. Its once lustrous white coat was now worn and unkempt, as if each of the tens of thousands of miles that its hoofs had seen had etched a miniscule burnish upon its skin. Now, like an ill-fitting coat, its skin hung ajar, leaving spectators to gawk in curiosity and shame. Still, somehow, the horse continued to meander forward. It was the steadfast devotion the horse had for its master that kept it going. Throughout the violence and the weariness, the master had always fed the horse and shown it affection. This knowledge and certainty of what lay eventually in the future pushed the drive of the horse. Yet, the exhaustion was inevitable. The horse tried to keep to rhythm of the hooves on the well-trodden dirt path constant, but everysooften a malicious root or capricious rock would force the weary stallion to adjust its path. Stay the course, the horse muttered to itself. (Now there are some that insist in this world that they can speak to horses and maybe even hear their faint whispers, this is ridiculously absurd, only horses can understand other horses, silly) Clipclopclipclopclippityopopop. The illucid song represented the wisdom that had etched itself into that equine brain over the years. Every obstacle, every charging beserker, even that hellacious sulfuric firestorm near Acre, the horse knew how to deliver its fare safely against those seemingly insurmountable odds. The battles and the voyages this steed had suffered and undertaken should have granted it notoriety on par with the mount of Alexander, yet alas there is no chronicler for the deeds of horses. As he meandered forward, the shuffling hooves still completing their task, the horse began feel an encroaching dark presence, nay two of them, seeming ready to envelop him in folly. Now if only the small, four leggedd nuisance that was accompanying them would stop running around his legs. It was getting difficult to continue without crushing the loathsome abberation.

It was a crisp fall afternoon in central europe. The scent of crisp autumn leaves mingled with the aroma of the freshly harvested hops. It was a great day to be a dog. And nothing was better than serving his master. The best was fetching birds and rabbits when they went hunting, because usually then the master let him have some of the spoils of the hunt. Though it had been a long time since they had been hunting. The landscape had change as well, there had been no birds that let loose a joyous song, and the rabbits were woefully skinny. Forests and mountains had given way to sand, more sand, and heat. There was little to like about this new place, and the dog was glad to leave it and return home. The only thing that kept him going was the presence of his master, whom he lived to serve and please. The increasing familiarity of his surroundings also lifted the dogs soul, almost as much as a soup bone. Yet, darting around the legs of the beleagured warhorse, the canine sensed that something was awry.

What a dumb dog, thought the knight, he is gonna get himself killed running around those hooves like that. It was only because the stallion was old and had survived countless battles that the rapacious playfulness of the hound had not startled the horse. With much regret the knight realized that this long and steadfast relatinship might have to come to an end soon. It seemed wrong to have an animal so valiant turned into an adhesive. This melancholy turned into trepidation as he sensed that there was something amiss in his surroundings. He pulled taut on the reins and the horse abruptly came to a halt. The dog needed no coaxing and took refuge beneath one of the stallion's legs, visibly shaking. The world stood still, the sun was swallowed by the moon, and all that was light turned into darkness. Two figures, one on each side of the path, arose in the gloom and snickered. There was no aid, the knight would have to face this task by himself. The pallid figure was excruciatingly skinny, yet his skin was pulled so taught that one could see every bone in his body. His eyes were dark and sunken, his face contorted into a macabre grin that seemed knowingly to have the endgame in its favor. In its left hand was perched an hourglass, framed by what seemed ivory, or was that bone? Only a few grains were left in the upper tier, and the hand which held the hourglass seemed poised to beckon the knight forward. The right hand grasped a scythe firmly, the knuckles ready to burst out of the skin containing them. There was to be a reaping, and it was up to the harvest to resist. A torn, tattered, and hooded black robe hung onto the maniacal frane. Whatever menace the first figure eminated was dimmed next to the vile putrescence of evil which was the second's aura. There was nothinh human about it except the two arms and legs it possessed, and it was only a similarity, not in form. The legs were that of a goat, and the hooves burned the very earth it touched. The torso was that of a wolf, and the arms were stolen from a mantis, though albeit surely one that did not pray. The head returned to the form of a goat, bleating out its curses from a forked tongue. The horns on its head as gnarled and crooked as the soul it possessed. Yet they still pitched their sweet songs, this devilishly macabre pair, yet the only honey was in the lies and falsehoods of their promises. Yet, somehow the knight was allured by these dastardly sails pitches. He was tired, and had he not stared death in the face a thousand times before. Maybe it was time to put down his lance and hisn convictions. The imaginary comfort of corrujption felt so warm......

I was at : 4308 NW 76 Terrace, Gainesville, FL 32606,

The Hand of the Medusa

1966 Rolling Stones

Je suis l'ange de la mort, perché sur la crâne des mécontents. Je me nourris sur la désespoir et la folie de la condition humaine. Je suis partout et je suis nulle par. Me voit dans le miroire, parce que vous ne me faites pas d'attention dans l'éspace réel. Toutes les cauchesmares et les voix invisibles sont des maniféstations de ma douleur, de mon éxistence. Ma parole c'est silent, mais elle dérange les plus fort des ésprits, immobilise les plus forts des hommes. La mort, c'est un fait, et moi, son noble servant, obéissant, terrifiant. La chaire pourrie des ripoux me semble un canard rôti, le sang des violents d'un Bordeaux éxtravagant. Vous-vous croyez digne de me regarder aux yeux? Alors, vous êtes courageux, parce que mes yeux sont la porte de l'enfer, et le regard la scythe de la mort elle-même. De me connaître, c'est de connaître le désastrre et la catastrophe, de goûter la nile de la haîne. En verité. personne me connait, il ne peuvent pas, je suis l'homme qui force des autres à traverser la rue. Je suis la solitude vue par les suicides, je suis la feu des maniacs de pyro. Des kleptos essayent de me voler, mais tous qu'ils peuvent voler, c'est leurs âmes. La condition humaine c'est d'éviter la mort, de m'ignorer, mais sans la mort, on n'est pas humain, on est sur-naturel. Donc, je suis la condition humaine.

The mental great white north

Looking up from the bed,
The fan blades twirl around.
Always trying to gain some ground,
Yet never seeming to get ahead.
They eyes dialate,
The darckness encroaches.
The glittering broaches,
Resigned to their fate.
Excitement is sparse,
The clouds are grey.
Yet those I encounter push me away,
Society is a farce.
To say that culture is bleak,
Is still too bold.
A curse borne by the old,
Remenisence is what they seek.
A riot must start
For minds to be swayed,
New foundations made,
To create what is art.
For jester is dead,
Screeched in the sky.
The end brought night,
For prisoners cast in lead.
A failure to change,
A want for stasis,
Misery in it's basis,
Humanity's mange.
Some young, some old,
Do not stir.
At this lack of fur
They see still equals gold
And was is new is evil.
Through ignorance they speak,
For their minds are weak,
But not is their will.
Artists must take up this fight
And tear off the blanket of snow,
To let the human spirit glow,
And fade into the night.
Culture must not become a tundra,
A mental Great White North,
We must sully forth,
Don our trusty fedora,
And unite for art.

I was at : 2800-2908 NW 83rd St, Gainesville, FL 32606,

Marlowe at the Bistro

Every decision is a progression of a journey. A turn at the fork in the road, if you will. The only things that you can count on is yourself and the existence of said journey. There is hoping that the vessel you have procured for this trek is seaworthy and will bear you upon this trip with as little displeasure as possible. Yet there are inevitabilities that make the bile jump from liver to tongue. We do not all start on the Thames and finish upon the Congo. Each person must find his or her fluvial metaphor of importance and follow it to it's terminus. Though there is one thing that one must recommend, and that is a guide. Freeslaven or Virgil for those who err on the side of caution, for Kurtz is not someone to be trifled with. Though there are those who wake up alone in the jungle, for the rest of their expedition has gotten waylaid by the perils of their own journey. For these lonely explorers, awareness is key, for there are many a hyena that smile and laugh to your face, yet as soon as you turn your back, they claw and bite at you, jeering all the while. While it may seem that you are trapped deep in the Heat of Darkness, with danger all around, remember there is no Stanley without Livingston, or vice versa. Those that build slowly and suffer the incertitudes of doubt and misfortune tend to not waver and suffer the catastrophic fluctuations of those that find immediate success. Yet, be forever wary of those hyenas, because they can be found among those that try and keep themselves closest to you. The longer they are within close vicinity, the more damage they can incur. If impossible to distance yourself from these savage beasts, do not be afraid to arm yourself. For a jackal that has tasted the knotted hide of a bullwhip mixed with his own blood will be all the more cautious on his next approach to your camp. Yet it seems we often remember crossing the brambles more than the pleasant meanderings across the plains. This is for each thorn, each jagged pain serves as a lesson, for mistakes are only costly when they go unheeded. Some say you need a compass to navigate these waters, I say you need a muse. For it is only she who can guide you to and help you conquer your inner Kurtz.

Sic Semper Tyrannosaurus

Dave

I was at : 4245 NW 77th Terrace, Gainesville, FL 32606,

Do kiwis dream of sheared sheep?

There is no ticking of a clock or wristwatch (where did I put that thing by the way?) that marks the dark discontent which enshrouds my eyes. This eerie silence is only cut short by the occaisonal flurry of rain and the occaisonal auditory hallucination. A Guy Ritchie movie flickers across the television, forcing my eyes to occaissonally dart to something other than the cell phone screen on which this post is being written. This is not Alphaville, nor is it Saigon, this is Gainesville, a trap for the mind and soul from which their is no return. Guess i will try my hand a Poe-esque short story.

The blank sheet of paper screamed at him, hurling insults and darting curses as if were a game animal that had just been tagged and knew that its breaths were becoming a rare commodity. The words of anguish were whizzing by him like machine gun fire and yet there was silence. The torment that his ears were suffering was not born in the physical world, but in that side space of existence where one cannot seperate the real from the imaginary. Rain danced upon the rooftop as if flocks of mosquitos were ramming into the windows by the millions. And yet the page stared back at him in that mocking, blank fashion. What was he to fill it with? Words of wisdom, a few bolts of humour into the thunderstorm of humanity, or the spider web strand fragility of existence that plagues some forlorn human souls? Despite these hypotheses, there was no experimental text that could lead to a successful conclusion. The rain droned on, and the page remained blank. Some springs runneth over and others run dry, not due to any measurable geological cause, but simple which hand of fate has been washed. Today the paper could have been the Sahara.
He sat down, tilted his head to the side and glared at the paper. What cruel mistress had promised him a muse and sent him in its place a harpy, nay, a Gorgon. For a mind that had seemed so full of fantasy and ambition was now frozen in granite, forced to go through eons of erosion before ever seeing the surface again. He drew out his trusty pocketknife from his pocket. This was not one of those fanciful devices which seemed to hold every tool, gadget, and wiget a man could need beneath its slick exterior. It attached neatly to his keys and contained one blade and a pair of scissors. The exterior was anything but sleek, as there were numerous pits and scratches where the device had been put to use under duress. It was this tool he took and and began to cut the piece of paper. It was a cathartic experience, as he seemed to be cutting at the very life of those caustic voices. It was difficult at first, the shrieking words of contempt seeming to multipy and reach a crescendo before eventually tapering off and dying altogether. When they were finally silent, looked at the remains. Twelve identical rectangles now sat before him, each emitting and eerie glow as the white reflected off the candlelight. He started to remember the days when he fooled around with origami, and wondered if the activity of making something physically would somehow translate mentally into opening up the creative process, which had seemed to bottle itself up with the most stubborn of corks. Yet indecisiveness swept over him again, what should he make, what would symbolize the rebirth of his creativity. He thought of his ideas marching by him, and yet he failing to grasp on to any of them. Then it came to him, as obvious as gravity to a black hole, he would make a little troupe of soldiers. As chinese emperors had done so before him, he would make a symbolic army to demonstrate his prowess. As theirs was of terracota, his would be of paper.
A frenzied pace of activity soon followed, as he created a suqad of men to represent his ideas; murder,suicide,revenge,love,loss, and lust, they were all there. After an hour or so, he leaned the chair back and admired his handywork. There his little soldiers stood, waiting to provide him inspiration for their appropriate theme, much like small statues of the muses during antiquity. As quick as a quark, the storm outside intensified, and he went to make sure that the windows were latched hardily. Just as he was inspecting the las one, it blew open and extinguished all the candles in the room. He quickly closed the window in the dark and began searching for some matchez. He failed to notice when the lightning illuminated the tenebrous spaces of the house, something else was moving. He moved towards the table, only to trip over the fallen chair. But how did it fall? He braced his arm to bring himself up, only to discover that he had severly twisted his ankle, maybe even have broken it. The adrenaline had somehow masked the pain. He further adjusted his arm to maneuver himself into position so he could stand on one leg. That was when he felt something scurry across his arm. At first it felt like it was a large insect or maybe even a spider, but the contact seemed to be a bit too scratchy for that. And like water pouring through a breaking dam, the voices of malice returneed.
Think you can destroy us by changing our form? You are gravely mistaken! Soon scratches began occurrong all over his body, becoming deeper and deeper until they broke the skin. They soon started becoming more concentrated higher up on his body. Surely his neck could not fall to this paper army?

Prolly absurd, but what the hell its late anyways. Hope you enjoyed the read.


Sic Semper Tyrannosaurus

Dave

I was at : 4231 NW 77th Terrace, Gainesville, FL 32606,

With apologies to André Bréton

Well as another day comes to a close, my body has decided to push itself to the limits by denying me sleep. In order to try and survive this in a slightly reasonable manner, I have plugged in the ipod and turned the tv to adult swim. To try and get some sort of creativity out of this, gonna try those free association exercises while my mind is fatigued but not shut down.

The skulking panther treads the razor's edge daintly
As napalm effervesces the egg foo yung.
Vesper twists the british tar along the Blue Nile,
Hark, the dripping blood is not the Grail,
But Bryll's horn of empty.
Short, running against the devil,
The anjou wine burst into flame.
Yet, suzette does not explode.
She is too busy looking at some scruffy-looking Narf-herder.
Tom-tom is not Jacques Cartier.
The Jewel of the Nile is tone deaf in Alaska.
Lox, lochs, and locks; of relgion,monsters, and thieves.
Les sanglots longues d'autumne blessent mon coeur d'une languer monotone.
If jack had a long moustache why was Terry Thomas the big mustache?
Snidely whiplash pump the brakes.
Not now Muttley!
Gargamel created the snorks when he drowned the smurfs.
Blue iguanas are phil collin's backup band.
Hip to be a quadrilateral in an isoceles world.
helium three is liquid uranium.
Blondie said no to Fernando but yes to Dagwood.
The Onion is what happens when absurdity meets Larry's sides.
The unchained righteousness plays chess with Virgil in the third circle.
Cererbus hates alpo.
Dr. Who has to be swiss.
A time paradox only bothers people with watches and literary critics.
I wonder if Michel Foucault has one of those pendulum things on his desk.
Constructing a cathedral is a easy as One, Two, Proust.
Being stuck at the Chateau d'If isn't philosophical, just corrupt.
Infinite power is the dice of dieties.
South beach is the northernmost expanse Purgatory.
It's not bulemia if you swallow.
African or european malaria comes from the Standells.
Bucky Dent and Aaron Boone share a middle name.
The two seam blister oozes with wisdom.
Confucious played croquet with a terracotta pinwheel.
Claymation childhood bliss forgotten among Mr. Wizard's toupee.
I can do that on TV, just not on radiology.
Fractured sanities ratcheted into the Chief's world series run.
Golden Brown colored glasses missed the long cool woman in a black dress.
Coors fooled everybody but the jester.


If you could follow that train of thought you should prolly not hang around me that much. Well that prolly fills your surrealism/absurdity quoto for the day


Sic Semper Tyrannosaurus

Dave

I was at : Gainesville, FL 32605,

The End of a Long Gameday

As yet another day comes to an end, the weariness of doing nothing really starts to set in. In one way or another, the entire day was spent pressing my eyes into glaring at some sort of glowing screen, and they are screaming bloody murder. To kick off the day was the Ol' Ball Coach hosting Clemson in what most were predicting to be a rout in favor of the visitor. Needless to say, I think I hear Matt Hiatt crying somewhere. About three quarters into that match I sojourned myself to the computer screen, mostly to escape the inane pandering of the sub-human intellectual zombies known as sportscasters. I understand that they had to get a degree in broadcasting, but why does it seem that the only things they can say competently is what is displayed upon the teleprompter. At least I can flip on the itunes and listen to good music on the computer (and still have almost real time updates of the scores and plays). After whittling a bit of my life and soul away on computer games (My cities shall be the beacon where Sims should flock if I ever get a lobotomy and buy that game... Maxis, please stick to spore and sim city). Then after a sparse meal (I swear the people who stock this pantry have no taste buds), I settled in to watch the Gator football game. Now some will call me a blasphemer (some, I think half of the globe does) for saying that I really didn't care if it was Tebow's last home game or not. Those that have hitched themselves to the Tebow bandwagon most fervently have forgotten that this sport is played by the team, and that it is the pride of the University that should be instilled in the fanbase, not of an athletic team, or an individual on said team. Now, countless announcers and other figures in the sports world will try and tell me how well Tebow has handled the spotlight. Hogwash. He still gave more than his fair share of interviews and let the media rampage that was the Tebow lovefest continue unabashed. A truly humble person would have put that to rest as soon as it reared its ugly head. I will be happy to see what Brantley can do, and see a offense that more resembles Spurrier's fun and gun. Moving on to the next point, I was ecstatic to see our University shred State's athletic team. Growing up in Gainesville, one would think that their are no FSU fans in the vicinity. In the 80's and 90's they would be sorely mistaken. I have seen Warrick Dunn tear UF's defense to pieces and the Choke @ Doak. Every victory against the former Women's college serves as vindication to those jerks who not only insisted that FSU was a better school athletically, but also academically. This doesn't even include the morons that insist a University's athletics is the sole barometer to which a school's success should be measured. After licking my chops after said vindication, had more Thanksgiving leftovers, turned back to the computer and followed Billyball from there. Was fairly confident in this game, as opposed to last night's upset of Michigan State (I still want to smack Mateen Cleaves in the face). So loaded up Blizzard's largest seller of the past 5 years and literally killed time there. There is now some sort of weird aura around my computer where the laws of Physics and most watches do not work. Now having seen that Stanford has beaten Notre Dame, and coupled with losses by Kansas and Maryland, its good to see that coaches whose Waistline exceed my height are 0-3 on the week. There just is a trepidation I feel when those coaches are yelling @ their freshman, they might actually eat them. (Little known fact, for each of these teams, one of the Gatorade coolers is filled with Worcestershire sauce.) Well that is about it for me tonight, nothing much creative going on between the ears tonight, gonna try and not have dreams that seem like they are taken out of my episodes of playing call of duty. Think a John Woo film without the doves. Hell, prolly might make hollywood some money instead of actually financing Ninja Assassin.


Sic Semper Tyrannosaurus


Dave

Black Friday, or the capitalismgasm

Myself, as with many of you (many assuming that people actually read this thing), indulged myself upon numerous helpings of yams, or sweet potatoes to us who reside below the Mason-Dixon line, stuffing, green peas, gravy, cranberry sauce, and turkey (you didn't stare @ it did you (see yesterday's post)?). Yet before I retired for the evening, for myself I watched a most enjoyable Nightmare before Christmas... sad thing is I still think a severed head is an appropriate gift for several people I know, there had been a throng of people who had delved head first into the money-saving ecstasy known as Black Friday. For those who obsess over the tiniest price, or the seasonal must haves (you know who you are Furby lover, and you disgust me), are indelibly responsible for the capitalistic nature not of just Christmas, but society in general. For if we eliminate the capitalistic nature of Christmas, the economic structure of the United States would have to change drastically to survive. Think of it, without Black Friday, would many companies survive as we know it (surely not without a government buyout). Yet the image of thousands of people pressed up against the glass awaiting that shimmering Holy Grail of crap (changes annually) , or standing in line on a cold Friday morn in November, a fog of melancholy and Dunkin' Donuts surrounding them. These are the pathetic masses which drive the economy every year, for without them, we would not be letting go of that all important dollar, putting it back in to the economy. Instead, we would prolly wait until we needed something to buy it.
Well, leaving that disasterous pustule that is Black Friday behind, some of you will not head to the stores on that blister of a day, and instead spend it as most should, someplace warm without screaming children or parents. In this blissful seclusion there is almost always sports to be watched. After watching Texas barely get by that Downs-syndrome of a program called Texas A&M (just don't get them angry, you wouldn't like them when they are angry), I am actually looking forward to some Gator Basketball, despite almost all inevitability of a loss (for some odd reason, Michigan State is only favored by five.) For the rest of the sports spectrum we have the Iron Bowl, where I think the team that has slept with the most livestock wins. If you live in Alabama, your life is already marked up as a loss, so get over it. You know its bad when the marquee matchup of the evening is Pitt vs. Western Virginia in football. If you have yet to lose a loved one in a coal mine collapse, you prolly care more about that leftover gravy in the fridge.
For myself, I will prolly settle for watching my former college get molested in basketball and spend the rest of the evening in front of a battered CRT monitor either wasting time by playing video games or trying to squeeze some creativity out of the intellectual black-hole that is my current environs.



Sic Semper Tyrannosaurus


Dave

A Fowl Holiday

The Story of Stan the Turkey

As everyone in that strip of land between Tequilaland and Maple Syrup Heaven sits down with their family and friends on this unique holiday, one must always remember that there lives a dark, untold side to every holiday. This, a little day called Thanksgiving, is no exception. When you are sitting at the table this evening, glance quickly at the ornithological specimen (or appropriate substitute), but do not linger. For if your eyes dwell too long upon this avian sacrifice to the puritanical gods, you shall be stricken with a curse that has fallen upon many a human, even if they be too daft to find themselves aware of it. Now I know many of you will question this malefic existence on such a day, saying that it represents unity among peoples. This I will not quibble over, for it does show strength of humanity, though it marks a day in high treason between man and bird. To show you the strength of this hatred and magick, I will transport you to the twentieth century and tell you the story of Stan the Turkey.

The year was 1985 and Marty McFly had just gotten back from the future. In a unimportant town, down a thoroughly ordinary street, and up in a quasi-normal tree, there laid an egg. Though this egg has nothing to with this story. If one went down the tree, followed the driveway, went through the backyard and into the woods about 300 feet, there one would find the egg that was to be of some importance in out story. It was one of twelve, and this one bore no distinguishing marks of any kind. To the typical human observer, it brought one word to mind: omelet. Though one set of odd circumstances befell this little clutch of eggs, for soon after hatching they, and their mother, were discovered by a meandering farmer named Joe. Since it was mid-June and nothing is finer for breakfast in mid-June than turkey bacon, one could have foreseen the worst to happen to this avian "lost tribe". Yet, Joe was looking to expand into the whole new "free-range" market, and considering the fact that Turkeys tend to sell more per pound than chicken and duck, he decided to transport this lot to his farm just outside of town. Thus, the setting for Stan's childhood and adolescence was set: Home on LaGrange. Soon enough, farmer Joe had more than 100 turkey chicks running around on his farm, Stan being the most mundane of the group. From egg to chick to adolescent, there seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary about Stan, nothing that hindered him in the slightest, nothing that made him stand out in any exceptional way. So upon matriculating from his teen years into maturity, Stan became an accountant.

Now for those of you unaccustomed to the intricacies of Turkey society, you may think that all they do is walk around and eat seed all day. This is just a fallacy and to the keen observer can be quickly dismissed after a mere 10 years of study. There is actually a highly organized system of Turkey government in place. First of we have the Turkey Tetra, the four highest classified males, (determined by/and determines the pecking order) who get their pick of the females, and also have first dibs on the seed. The rule in a fairly oligarchical manner, first of all ensuring that their rule and system of government remains in place until other young Turks challenge their authority. Slightly below this are the roughly twenty mates of the Tetra, who have the distinguished notoriety of living to produce further chicks into this patrician-like class within the Turkey society. There have been several protests among female turkeys to end this misogynistic view of how the female turkey has their place in society, but considering these turkeys belong to a lower class, their views are taken into advisory and summarily dismissed. (see Feminism among turkeys) Then comes the turkey middle class, which are government functionaries which figure out who gets what grade of seed and how much. (This was the class which Stan belonged to) This class was run by the amazingly few Turkeys who could actually count, and then the rest of the class shuffled paperwork in between them. (Note for humans: Turkey paperwork is actually carved in the dirt by an intricate display of scratching patterns, even though this is sometimes confused for a mating ritual, whenever you walk over it, you are actually erasing at least a week's worth of work) Though due to human interference, this seems to be almost a Sisyphean task. Only about 5% of turkeys can actually count, and there once was a turkey who could do calculus, but he was exiled as a madman. That leaves the turkey underclass, whose primarily role is to eat the lower quality seed and get as fat as possible, so they get chosen to be taken to the axe and the more functional turkeys can continue to exercise their control over all turkeys.

So was the way of the Turkey world. Stan had found his niche and tried to enjoy it to the best of his ability. As with every male in the known universe, they are content to live out their lives as they are until women get involved. This particular she-turkey was named Layla and was one of those aforementioned feminist turkeys. Stan's best friend, Norm, thought he was out of his mind for taking on one of "those" types of turkeys, yet the unrest that had begun to stir in Stan's soul concerning the way the land of the Turkey was run had driven him to a soul that was a bit more of a free spirit. For the objections that Stan could not make in public (for he would lose his cushy government job), she could. His rebellion lived vicariously through her. Though, unbeknownst to Stan, the Turkey Tetra had begun to grow tired of the growing movement of these she-Turkeys. They feared that the rest of the lower class and a good chunk of the middle class would actually start believing and following these birds, and put an end to the long-running reign of the Turkey Tetra. (It was actually five years, but that seems like a long time for a turkey.) So they had decided to make an example, and that example was to be Layla. Within a turkey minute they had made sure that she was to receive the grain and portions that was served to the lowest of the low, and forbade any other turkeys from communicating with her, under the penalty of peck. She ballooned soon enough and it wasn't long before she caught farmer Joe's eyes, and was shipped of to the market as the star of some family's cornucopia.

Layla's exit from the Turkey world hit Stan very hard. He resorted to hanging out constantly with Norm and a newspaper editor with weird shoes who smoked cigars at a watering hole names "Grats". He hit the sauce hard, cranberry sauce. The alcohol wasn't the worst part, their was this weird guy named Art Carlson who kept on yelling that turkeys could fly. Stan's mind began to soar, however, and those forgotten aspirations that everyone has during their youth began to make their way back to his Cranberry-soaked mind. Aside from the illusions of grandeur that accompany cranberry-binging, the anti-oxidants, there are also the empty calories. Soon, Stan himself began to plump out. Despite those little round red devils, a bizarre lucidity came over Stan, and he knew that the Tetra must be displaced. He had no idea how it was going to be replaced, but he knew it had to be done. He started quietly with Norm, the publisher, and even Crazy Art Carlson. He realized that while most turkeys can never physically fly, their dreams may soar. So thus this small underground movement was born, yet with all things that are small, it has enormous potential for growth. Soon over half the Turkeys were aware of Stan's stance against the Tetra. Yet, even with painstaking efforts to keep the noise levels of this philosophical revolution to a minimum, the Tetra soon grew aware and scared of Stan's little brigade. They sent out 6 of the largest Turkeys to go and subdue Stan and make him see the light of their decisions, yet he would not be persuaded. He knew there was no way he could overpower those six, so he did all he could. He made as much noise as possible, soon all that had sympathy for him fought and pecked for his freedom.

One thing that Stan had not counted on is the fact that the world of Turkey lived in a bubble. For you, the enlightened reader must remember Home on LaGrange and farmer Joe. He was used to a few squawks and gobbles coming from the Turkey area, but what he heard on this day was an all out uproar. Couple this with the fact that his Free-range turkeys were not fetching quite the prices he was hoping for, Joe was not going to lose his six finest birds due to some half-assed ornithological social rebellion. So, he went out to the barn, and backed his truck up to the Turkey area, with about 100 turkey cages. It was the rumbling of the truck's motor that caused Stan to look up past the turkey wire and see the doom that not just awaited him, but all of Turkeykind. He had been so angry, so frustrated that he failed to see past the Tetra, and the fact that they just profited from the system in place. If had wanted to destroy the way things were, he needed to destroy the system and not the Tetra, for they were expendable. Farmer Joe, he realized as he was hoisted up and stuffed into a cage, was the Gray Eminence that was responsible for it all. Yet, what had turkeys done to cause such ire and hatred towards humans that the only boon they saw of a turkey's existence was its death?

That is when Stan swore his revenge upon humans, for he now knew there was no escape from this farm. He sat in that cage, thinking and staring, as one by one they all grew fatter, and the larger ones were hoisted off into the far unknown. One day, as the wind had gathered a distinctive chill and the leaves had changed into a distinctive orange hue, Stan, or more aptly Stan's foot, was fidgeting with the cage door, when a surprising click sprang forth from the prison, and the door swung open. Stan popped his head out and looked around, most of the others were sleeping, as they were always tired from the constant eating. He jumped down, the fence that had previously kept a sturdy border for the turkeys was gone, as the cages were their prison now. Yet, he could smell something coming from Farmer Joe's house. Having resigned himself to death long ago, he followed the lustrous lure of curiosity and found his way to the LaGrange abode. There the family sat around an oblong quadrilateral with numerous edibles in front of them. The centerpiece was something that struck a familiar tone with Stan, but he couldn't quite place it. Not wishing to draw any attention to himself, he removed himself from the dining room and headed to what the humans called a kitchen. There were many a smell to be found here, but what disturbed Stan the most was an underlying stench of death beneath the aroma of food, and it seemed to be emanating from a cylinder near the counter. He peered over the edge and found the dismembered head of Norm staring back at him. With a guffawing squawk, Stan ran out of the house, with Farmer Joe, investigating the noise, soon in tow. Seeing an imminent demise at the hands of the angered farmer, who had just begun feasting on Stan's former friend, Stan veered away from the cages and tries to make for the woods. Fortune smiled greatly upon the forlorn turkey at that moment, as the farmer stepped upon a rake which soon smacked him right in the face (as one should do with deer who approach your car unannounced)

The woods were dark, unfamiliar and full of ill omens. The squirrels seemed especially malicious with their conniving plans involving pine cones. Stan then perceived a familiar avian form shifting behind the brush not too far away. He approached with trepidation to find an emaciated Art Carlson scrounging for berries. He turned, saw Stan, and smirked. (If you find yourself looking at a turkey smirk, you are in for a treat, because they are rare to come by if you are a turkey, much less a human) "Knew you would make it out alive, see you and I, we're not like the rest of them, we were not born to those who were fed, we were born to those who knew how to feed."

It was then that strange glimpse's of Stan's past began to resurface, and he realized what Art Carlson meant. They were wild turkeys, not born into a life of domestication. Hence, why he has insisted that they could fly. Art had also known well in advance what Farmer Joe's intentions had been, yet the Turkey fence had been too tall for even him to scale, and since he ate little and spouted things considered to be absurd to other turkey's he was considered unfit to eat. (Farmer Joe had misinterpreted the signs and just figured he was sick) It was in those woods under Art's tutelage that Stan learned the darkest secret of them all, Turkey Black Magick.

Back at the farm, Farmer Joe grew restless. Within a week of Stan's discovery and subsequent departure, he had sold off the rest of the turkeys to avoid further losses, and now he was looking to hunt after Stan and the one who he called "the sick bird". He headed off towards the woods, shotgun in hand, being sure to curse the rake as he passed it. The underbrush was thick, and he was sure he could hear the turkeys gobbling over the cawing of the crows (or was it a Raven, he hadn't heard of a raven being found in the wild in ages, had to be a crow). He moved forward slowly, trying to be fully aware of all of his surroundings. Just as Joe thought he had everything under check, it became deathly still and silent. (For those of you having trouble with this walk out in the woods, and then imagine that there are no birds singing, no leaves rustling, no animal chatter, no far off noises from civilization..... Eerie, isn't it?) Then, he felt something on his arm, a feather. He turned and looked Stan straight in the beak. He then shook his head and looked him in the eyes (why the hell am I looking a bird in the eyes? thought Joe), and then felt himself change.

Farmer Don had left to go catch up with Farmer Joe about five minutes after he had left LaGrange, cuz he had a hankering for some Turkey dinner, even though Thanksgiving was not that long ago. He wandered into the woods and saw the damnedest thing, one huge turkey, being touched by a smaller turkey. A shotgun laid at the feet of the large turkey. Not thinking twice, Don shot the large turkey and headed back to LaGrange, thinking Joe had dropped his gun and gone home. The turkey was mighty delicious and Joe was never seen again.

So, dear reader, before you partake in your Thanksgiving Turkey, think of Farmer Joe, and think of Stan. And above all do not let your eyes linger upon a fallen turkey, for you may incur their wrath, and never, ever, look a turkey in the eye.







Hope you enjoyed the read



J/k Turkey is mighty tasty



Sic Semper Tyrannosaurus

Dave

Pre-turkey day

First off let me show some dismay in that there is nothing on TV at the moment, if I have to survive 24 hrs plus in my parents vicinity i need a plethora of distractions. Secondly this is my first blog from my phone, which may limit the length of the post ( I hear the collective sigh of relief from humanity) and also permit me to make more errors ( no spell check yet on this app). Another upside is that it will truly allow me to blog wherever i am, with no need for a computer, just a phone charger. For example I am indeed sitting on the computer, playing WoW (geek status just shot up five levels) waiting on people to show up. For the uninitiated this happens a lot unless you take this game waaaay to seriously. The unpleasant aroma of burnt pastry just hit my nostrils and i hope my mom didn't screw up the pie because I hate baking. Reutrning to sports why is it only Dallas and Detroit play on Thanksgiving? Have TV execs yet realized that Joe Shmoe cares little to nothing about those teams? Then Friday Billyball takes on Michigan State, I dunno if some of you recall when we played them for the basketball title, but needless to say it contributed to my hatred for the state of Michigan. Looks like are gonna trade away Mikey Lowell which is a shame because the guy did play with a lot of heart, which I admired. On a final note, a wise word for those playing the new call of duty, the kills are just as random as ever.

Sic Semper Tyrannosaurus

Dave

On the fragilities of life

Prolly managed to squeeze about 1-2000 words in creatively before the Gator Basketball game took over and production ground steadily to a halt. Though the way it seemed, I should have payed less attention to the game, for each time I was distracted by something else, the Gators seemed to pull away from those dreadful Seminoles. After trying to come up with characters that would entertain and interest a reader, and not outright scare and disgust them, I decided to put up the pen for the day. Note to the wise, two largest contributions humanity has ever made: Duct Tape and Mono-sodium Glutamate. Joined Adi online for the subsequent destruction of people online (man Scott we could've used your help on those teams, the rest of our teammates sucked ass). As I was doubting the plausibility of someone knowing my location well enough to shoot me through three wall directly in the head, I pondered the fragilities of life and how absurd they are. Life is tough, and one must have the mettle in order to survive. Once they lose it, they die. Maybe that could be the focus for one of my characters.... Sounds like an existential piece.


Sic Semper Tyrannosaurus

Dave

Creative Diversions and the whatnot

Seeing as I will be sitting out Trivia Tuesday for the first time in a long while, figured I would try and curb the surrounding ludicrousness into something creative. Started working on a story called Grim and typed up the beginnings of Sigh-Fi, realizing that between the two of them I had still only written approximately 4000 words... man sometimes it just seems more with the work you put into it. Hoping to delve more into the latter tonight, maybe actually get it to where the background is completely done. That is the worst for stories, having to get it so people are familiar with the universe that exists in a corner of your mind. Last I checked its my mind, and most people that tend to delve to deep into there either go crazy or run away shrieking (There have been two instances of both occurring). Thinking of definitely moving on from the reality-based portion of the book to the one where there are no limits.

Sic Semper Tyrannosaurus

Dave

Inagural Blog

Heh, guess it has been well over a half decade since I first tried this whole blogging thing, but with even less to occupy me now, I shall launch my whimsical rants (or so I hope) onto the internets with the full brashness of a Notre Dame/New York Yankee fan (i.e. douchebag). Feel free to respond to this blog as you will, but it will prolly merit as much attention as the blisters that form between my toes when I walk over 5 miles in flip flops.


Sic Semper Tyrannosaurus

Dave