Amish time!

*Open these in new windows to enlarge them*

I did my part, now you do yours. You know what I want... That's right, toast and chips.

Anyway, a new video was released a while ago, but being the lazy individual that I most certainly am, I could not bother to post about it. Soon, more news of the graphics card!

Irritable bowel syndrome tablet

I just dusted off my old Wacom tablet, installed the drivers and made this poorly-drawn comic to test both the tablet and my artistic prowess. One of those two things passed the test to my satisfaction. Try to guess which item passed.



Not entirely hilarious, but somewhat poignant, I like to think.

A promise is a promise... Or is it?

This post exists purely due to my wanting at least one post a month. Since it is 9:40 P.M. on August 30, I am well within the buffer zone.

I'm quite sure that it will come as no surprise that my I.Q. is well above the average. How much you ask? Well, perhaps one day you'll be as smart as me and therefore able to comprehend numbers greater than 7. You're still asking? You obnoxious git. That's no way to treat your obviously superior future leader/genocidal king/retail manager. So when you shuffle into a clothing store of the future, ask for some knitwear and are unable to be alive due to having a somewhat stubborn predisposition of mediocrity, we'll see who the real "delusional invalid" is, won't we? Wait, you're still asking the specific amount of points by which my I.Q. is above-average? Whatever, my I.Q. is 132.

Now, your small-brained head may be questioning (with limited understanding of the very words you murder) the validity of my score. I'll have you know that the test was judged by a top board of scholars. The flashing banner ad said so, just under its many asterisks and conditions that I needn't molest my valuable time with. Only plebeians use written words. In my new world order, we will all make use of a complex system of blinks that I myself have conceived. I am merely engaging in such a simplistic medium for the benefit of this readership. That's right, Enrique, that means you.

At the conclusion of this test (I like to call it "THE TEST!" because as everyone knows, capitals make it true; henceforth, the test shall be referred to as THE TEST!), I was prompted to celebrate by entering my bank details into the text box next to the Flash frog. I am still awaiting my novelty cheque.

So, may you all bask in my glowing glory glow from down in the gutter (specially-built for dullards) as copies of THE TEST! are dropped from monkey-piloted space-craft, designed by me and my crack team of French supermodels.

So yeah, this is simply me fulfilling my promise to myself that I would provide one post per month, at the very least. No-one cares except my one fan: that strange Spanish man who has begun to send me emails about the mould in his house and how much it looks like Jesus. Brilliant.

To Pez or not to Pez...

Today I bought a Pez and accompanying dispenser for "ol' times' sake". By "ol' times' sake", of course I mean nostalgic, wishy-washy consumerism. That old thing. Anyway, after I got home, I cut open the bubble packaging and attempted to load the infernal contraption. It was hard. Very hard. Extremely hard. It may possibly be the single most difficult feat known to man. To attempt to load a Pez dispenser is the most fiddly, frustrating, fruitless and deadly endeavour that could ever be conceived by a fevered mental patient. So after that was done, I began to eat the candies. I raised the small idol shaped like Batman's face to my mouth and tilted his lifeless head backwards, his eyes staring at me, clearly begging me to stop, if not for my own sake then for those who will find the oncoming slew of obscenities offensive.

I paused for a moment to contemplate the implications of my actions. Batman's face was clearly awash with morbid anticipation. He's done this before, the poor bugger.

Pez is without any kind of doubt in the realm of realistic thought a ridiculous candy. We eat hideous, chalky candies in an extravagant and unnecessary dispenser shaped like a character's face. We peel back the character's head and eat these pellets from inside their neck. Let me just say, without so much as even a hint of hesitation: what the fucking fuck?

I ate the candy. I nearly vomited on my floor with an ambivalent mix of rage, disgust and (most prominently) utter confusion.

What barely human, masochistic fool created such a "candy"? It tastes like chalk and turd mixed in a large pot made from some variety of solid piss. It is completely, 100%, totally, ultimately, surely, highly, really, very, quite, extremely, absurd, ridiculous and sad that people must feel the need to not only fill the void in their life with candy, but to do so with this horrid excuse for a food.

Reading the above paragraph only makes it evident that I need to tone down my thesaurus-reading prowess. And my thesaurus-perusing power. And my thesaurus-viewing skill. And my thesaurus-comprehension ability.

Anyway, in short: I find Pez candies and their attached dispensers over the top and silly, as far as candies go. Why use them? Why eat them? Why buy them? Most importantly, why invent them?

Recollection: Money.

Unfortunate misfortune with a dash of bad luck

I've not been blogging too much lately, and this is because this blog is crap and has no readers. One little tidbit (or is it "titbit"? No, that's crap, it sounds a bit sexy. On the other hand, it sounds a bit sexy!) of of-course-this-happened-to-me situation happened to me today, and I thought that I would like to share it with the world*.

There I was having a shit and- wait; some people might find the phrase "having a shit" offensive... Okay, I'll kindergarten it up for those pansies. There I was having a crap and- hmm... Is that still too strong a wording? There I was minding my own business (boom tish!) and I hear a high-pitched yelp from inside my living-room. My heart skips a beat, as though it were a Caucasian dancer. It was one of my two small dogs; Considering their acrobatic prowess, I thought it highly likely that one of them jumped onto a chair, missed and hurt a little twig-like leg. Stupid, weak animals (note to self: teach dogs about natural selection, then teach myself how to use a gun).

In my mind, I deliberated the options:

1 - Continue to produce waste into the receptacle, casually wipe and check the damage at a later time, as though nothing happened. I like to call this plan "The Plan That I Should Have Taken".

2 - Rush out, pants at my ankles, butt covered in bowl-presents and check my dogs. I like to call this plan "The Maternal Mother Plan, But Seeing As I Am Neither Female Nor A Mother I Really Should Rename It".

3 - Somewhere in between. This plan involves the hurried wiping reminiscent of a cheap maid and a brown patch on the inside of my pants, also reminiscent of that same cheap maid.

I chose plan 3. Aren't I the clever one? I wiped poorly, leaving somewhat of a "you missed a spot" spot on my cheeks. Fly unbuttoned, I waddled to check my living room. Not a trek, but enough to turn my underpants into that second bathroom I've always wanted. The dogs were fine - my guess is that one of them did fall off of a chair or slip over, but was fine and simply yelped because of its sissy nature. Those dogs need to be culled for scientific purposes, à la Japan. Did anyone else think that that sounded like I want Japan culled? Well, if it makes you feel better, I didn't mean that the entirety of Japan needs to be culled, just those that hunt whales.

I hobbled back to the bathroom, lowering my trousers as I walked, hoping in vain to minimise the damage like some sort of washroom army general. I have many medals, and no one can take that away from and old veteran like me. I sat down without even looking at the inside of my underwear and began to wipe. Luckily for me, my underpants were kind enough to do it for me! They're a true friend. How many others would be willing to wipe your cheeks all in the name of camaraderie?

Fucking life. Really. It's like some strange sit-com where no one watches, yet it is not cancelled despite the actor and writer's wishes! It probably screens on Fox, considering their pathetic misinterpretation of good as bad and vice versa.

Or perhaps the dogs simply set me up, yelping to get my attention and send me carreening out of the toilet, ready to kiss booboos and bandaid scrapes with a Toy Story bandaid. I bet they're laughing right now... That's it, I am looking into those books on Amazon.com as I type.

*Since when did the world become three people?