The number one weapon in the war against the war against terror isn't protest.

It isn't passive resistance.

And it certainly isn't Ani DiFranco records.

The number one weapon to stop the people who would stop Saddam is farm-fresh, cleverly arranged...


That is why you fail.

Eternal gratitude to LGF

UPDATE: Comment from Sean: "They may be naked, but they have a point."

Uh, no. No, they don't: 1/18/2003: Iraq's Nuclear Program Revealed


AIM Madness

Ben: Is the Rock-Harder party dedicated to eliminated the shame that prevents men and women from having sex when they both like each other?
Aperockets: The RockHarder party is dedicated to Rocking Harder
Aperockets: nothing more, nothing less
Ben: But I'm more of an acoustic kind of guy. Do I have a place in the Rock Harder party?
Aperockets: Outside, taking people's coats
Ben: I'm touched. :-)
Aperockets: suitably so
Ben: So, no quiet moonlight lovemaking for me?
Aperockets: Not where anyone can see, no
Ben: Damn, that's harsh.
Aperockets: I know
Aperockets: but you have to rock hard
Ben: Fuck man, I might have to make an opposing party.
Aperockets: It's a democracy
Ben: The "Quiet Melody" party.
Aperockets: They're not my party
Aperockets: but my blog supports them
Ben: Oh.
Ben: Really?
Aperockets: Really
Ben: Who started the Rock Harders?
Aperockets: In fact, I am frightened by some of their hard-liner tendencies
Ben: I thought it was you.
Aperockets: They've been around since time began
Aperockets: It's like that question, can God make a rock that even he can't move? Only in this case, it's "Can God Rock so hard that he gets tired out and no longer rock?" The RockHarders seek out that level of rock. The God-tiring rock.
Ben: :-)
Ben: It is good you have a blog.
Aperockets: It is very good.


Someone's telling me something.

If you misspell "blogspot" when you're typing in my url and you accidentally put "blogpsot," you'll be taken here: Aarons Bible (the lack of apostrophe is all Aaron.)

Oh, wait. I was going to eke a whole entry out of the fact that someone had chosen to rip off my URL, but then I tried a little test (typing in fuckwad.blogpsot.com), and it appears that Aaron who loathes apostrophes has total control of the entire "Blogpsot" domain, fuckwads and all. And more power to him, say I.

Uhmm... well, shit. Aaron has completely robbed me of subject matter. You'd think he'd have enough, what with the entire friggin' Bible, New AND Old Testament, but apparently that just isn't enough for some self-righteous domain-hogging Jeebus-loves-me doucebags. Couldn't even have the decency to exclusively rip off the HFT url, just to give me something to write about. Well, that just steams my clams. And I hope Aaron's allergic to seafood.

This Just In: Everybody and their insane blowhard mother is running for President in 2004. Of course, all these exploratory commitees and press conferences are essentially one big useless pissing contest, as the one party everyone knows will make all the difference in the coming election has yet to even think about selecting a candidate: The RockHarders, the only political organization that has HFT's one-hundred-and-one percent complete support (we were born with that extra percent, you know you're jealous.) We will make no pretense of journalistic objectivity here when it comes to the drinkin'est fuckin'est party ever to rock our fragile representative democracy: these guys kick ass, take names, then submit those names to their larger, more intimidating friends who can come back and kick the same ass again later.

The RockHarder's platform consists of the following issues: Price and availability of quality drugs, the Constitutional protection of a citizen's right to play Playstation 2 all night and not talk to his girlfriend, figuring out why the hell Brad's couch smell all, like, funny, and the immediate establishment of The Department of Drum Solos. To assist them in finding the perfect candidate, we are conducting a reader poll: who do you, fine upstanding citizen, feel would make the first Rock-Hardering President?

Results tomorrow. Or, you know, whenever.


There's a big bloody cut on my wrist, and here's the part where I say it's over, done, kaput, goodbye, they'll all be sorry now.

Unfortunately, I'm not that blogger. I'm not draped in black and I'm listening to Hey Mercedes, not Skinny Puppy. The cut is from a four-by-four piece of timber that decided to put its big sharp woody corner right in the tender part of my pale wrist this afternoon at Loew's, where we were buying wood to build the set for the next show. Then when we got up to the "Commercial Sales" register, lugging about a national forest's worth of lumber and a cart full of discount drills, the cigarettey old woman said someone at the district hadn't paid off the P.O., and no, we couldn't take the wood if we couldn't pay for it. Fair enough, old bird, but if I'm going to slice open my wrist I want it to MEAN something.

Like, say, for punishment. Like, say, for somehow misplacing a seventy-eight dollar paycheck. Which I actually, I think, did this week, if you can believe it. You ever think to yourself "Remember that you're putting this here! It would be awfully easy to forget!" Yea, one of those things. I think it's somewhere in my room, but finding a tiny scrap of paper in my room is like finding a specific cracker in the ol' cracker factory, that is to say: THOSE FUCKING CRACKERS ARE EVERYWHERE, G. I don't think my room has pesky theiving rodents, but if it does, some mouse probably dashed off to the mouse bank, cashed it, and is currently blowing the wad on mouse-coke and mouse-whores.

For some reason, the idea of mouse-whores makes it seem not so bad. Wait, who the hell am I kidding? Seventy-eight fucking dollars. Of course it's bad. That's twelve hours of work I'd rather not have disappear in a whisp of absent-minded smoke. I've already lost way too much to that damn smoke, sometimes it seems like I have nothing but.

Seventy-eight fewer dollars for a digital camera, or college tuition, or real whores. Damn. Of course, I suppose if I look at it the right way, I never had the money at all. Why, if I'd worked more that week, it wouldv'e been a HUNDRED dollars, and then I'd be even more pissed off, if only because a hundred has three digits instead of two. Or the fact that I'm losing money right now by not having a fabulously well-paying and glamorous job putting shoes on horses or calling field hockey games, or whatever it is the kids are doing to earn pocket-money these days.

I feel like I should stop looking at things "the right way" and start "not forgetting shit all the time." Yea, sounds good.


12 years I've been in school.

That's three presidential administrations. Three-fourths of my life, that is. Twelve bloody years.

And yet today, in Creative Writing, the teacher pulled out an overhead with a little happy stick-figure mountain climber guy who was facing a long line with lots of peaks and valleys, a plot diagram. And then she explained to us what this whole plot thing was about.

And I thought, just let me write. Seriously. Skip the lecture and we'll write. I'll take that little mountain climber guy up the mountain, down again, underneath, whatever. Maybe he'll get in a break-dancing competition with some mountain goats. Maybe he'll get his hat stolen by a sneaky sherpa. Just, whatever you do, please don't explain resolution again. I get it. Really. Twelve goddamn years.

At the same time I'm complaining about the lack of intellectual rigor in one class, I'm dropping out of another because it's too much work. Honors Chemistry, which has been the bane of my existence since early August. You thought the syphillis was the bane of my existence, maybe, or the knowledge that my string of gleeful hitchiker-slaughterings will someday come back to haunt me. Well, you were wrong. Bleeding sores and racking guilt have nothing on ionic nomenclature, my friends.

Try as I might, I'm just not a science guy. I think, like most things having to do with the inner workings of the universe, it's interesting in broad strokes. But when I actually have to get in there and muck around with exothermic reactions and sulfuric acid, I'm useless. I need one more science credit to graduate, but whether it's Honors Chemistry or regular, simple worksheets, easy labs, and nap-taking regular Chemistry, I still get the credit. So guess which one I'm in now?

If you guessed regular Chemistry, where we're just starting things we were supposed to have fully grokked back in September in Honors, you're correct. Your reward? The satisfaction that can only be found by grasping the sheer magnitude of my bloated sense of lazzzzziiiinessss. Congratulations. I just grasped that magnitude myself. It's pleasingly gigantic.

Not as huge as Alecia's laziness. I'm not even sure she actually GOES to school anymore. Which is fine, as long as she keeps celebrating God's precious gift of purity by imbibing tremendous quantities of God's precious gift of alcohol. I was thinking, in Creative Writing class, you know, the one with the plot diagrams and happy mountain climbers, and later, nap-time and graham crackers if it continues with its regression back to second grade, you really couldn't ask for a better character than Alecia, which is probably why her blog gets so much link-love. Although if it turns out she really does like this twenty-four-year-old she's dating, I will have to dismiss her as a total sell-out and start taking applications for a new Hard-Living Slut friend.

We are close to reaching the saturation point for the Getting All Of DC's Friends Blogs project: Matt and Jack now have a joint blog. You know you guys can configure it so it actually says "Posted by Matt" or "Posted by Jack," right? Although the fact that everything says "Posted by Matt and Jack" does give it that kind of cute, hetero-life-mate flair we've come to expect from you two jokesters.

25th Hour: It's not often you see a movie that's mostly just talking. This one is. And it's also mostly some of the best performances I've seen on screen in a while.

On screen in the living room is Futurama, which is now on the Cartoon Network four nights a week, because life is all sunshine and daisies, thank you very much.
I promised Alecia a post if she'd change her blog's title from the ever-popular (and ever-puzzling to outsiders) "Just Screechin' and Bonin'" to "This Means Whore," which she, in turn, did. And then, instead of posting, I did my homework and went to sleep, like a stupid homework-doin' to-sleep-goin' BASTARD. I won't say the fact that I neglected the poor blog here kept me up. But I did dream about being chased by ninjas peeved at my lack of updates over the past weekend. When ninjas get peeved, they throw sharp chunks of metal.

So here I am, updating.

The bold letters are usually for when I switch topics, but I'm not ready for that yet. However, I've already placed the tag, so there's no going back now. I just wanted to point out that Motivational Ninjas will doubtlessly be the wave of the future. Pep-talks? Former NFL stars coming to your workplace to lecture you about how you can "run in for the big score," even when all you're doing is calling old people and fooling them into signing up for long-distance service? A relic, my friend. From now on, if someone wants you to get something done, a parchment will appear on your doorstep one day, written in Japanese characters, with a translation below reading, "File your taxes or GET KILLED BY NINJAS."

Shit, the bell rang. Now I have to go to class, or, you know, get killed by ninjas. What would you do?
Oh dear sweet blog, I am not worthy of your loyalty.

But that doesn't change the fact that I'm tired.

Got ninety hits today (Sunday) without writing a word. The world is doubtlessly unjust, but we never complain when it's unjust in our favor.

Like now.