Blogging II: The Return of TheRodine

Hello my friends, I have returned.  I have seen the face of oblivion, and I have clawed my way back, only to find myself changed, my home now unfamiliar and cold.  I no longer take pleasure in the company of friends, food , or drink (except for Chipotle, that shit is the bomb).  I walk up to what was once my house, and ring what I faintly recall is a “doorbell”.  After my ordeal I have lost knowledge of such petty earthly contraptions.  My mother answers the door, and does not recognize me.  I feel like Tom Hanks in Castaway (well, you know, minus the oscars and prestige… and the beard).  I have been gone for what seems like years and years.  It has been 20 minutes.

Let me explain.  For you loyal readers (that’s right, I am talking to BOTH of you) you may have noticed I haven’t posted in a while.  Be assured, I have been bent over my computer trying to produce fantastic musings for you be be somwhat amused by.  I have had a clinical case of writers block.  I searched the news for inspiration.  That was a bust, as economy is a big word that I don’t want to have to type over and over, and Miley Cirus is waaaaaaaaaaay too important for a lowly writer such as myself to cover (who do I think I am?  TMZ?).  So still I sat, and still I thought.

I went back to my roots. Thats right, I traveled back through my entire first month of posts, pouring over my works.  After finishing, two minutes later, feeling nostalgic, and of course embarrassed at the filth I call work, I sat down to work.  With Queen’s “Fat Bottom Girls” blasting on a loop in my car I drove to the one man I knew could help.  Many of you (And by many I mean none) may remember Whiskey Jack from one of my very first posts.  Well, he is in fact loosely based on a real life street grifter/neurosurgeon/Segway enthusiast named Brandy John (get it?  It’s funny cause they are basically the same name.  God, this is so much better than writers block!).

‘Ol Brandy was happy to help, as he had been running into tough times with his street neurosurgery business (the tale of which could be a post of its very own). He said he had just the thing to inspire me (which in his words sounded like “This will get those bran juices a hip hoppin’ like Bugs Bunny on an amphetamine binge in a moon bounce, which is actually on the moon”.  And that was still paraphrasing a bit.)

He handed me something that looked suspicously like a brown paper bag.  (Not being an expert on identifying the color and material of a bag, I wasn’t sure.)  I opened the bag to see  the damndest thing.  It was none other than a 6 inch tall Blue Power Ranger, from the Power Rangers (In case you hadn’t gathered) looking up and waving.  I picked him up in the palm of my hand and he greeted me with a wink ( I assume at least, the visor got in the way of any possible wink transmintence). He climbed on to my shoulder.  As he whispered encouragement, I travelled into the bag, discovering magical land along my way.  There was a big green man with a foot for a head, and a big blue man with a hand for a head.  Basically there were many variations of colored men with different body parts for head.  I saw jokes pop up from the gound like flowers, and I harvested them with a thresher that ran on happiness (which coincidentally is much more expensive than gasoline).

With my big bag of jokes in hand, I walked back to the entrance of the fantastic voyage, ready to take on the world (of obscure and wholly unnoticed internet writing).  I bid adieu to my little blue friend, and opened the door back to reality.  I then proceeded to trip on a bag of beer cans (the blue ranger is a bit of a drinker).

I came too a little later, without my wallet, keys, or spleen.  Apparently all of that “magic” in the bag was paint thinner.  I should have suspected this type of thing from Brandy John, but what can I say, I forgive too easily.

So indaverntently, I overcame my writer’s block.  By recounting what I have been through, I have made my triumphant return rambling on the the internet.  Now all I can hope is that I can lead a normal life after what I have seen.  All I can do is try…

By the way, Brandy John? I really need my wallet back, it has my Subway Punch Card in it, I am so damn close to that free 10th sandwich.

My Country, ’tis of Me

“Why Robert,” you may be asking yourself, “The name of your post is so curious, yet clever and intriguing.  Whatever do you  mean?”

“Well”, I say, leaning back in my large leather chair, and placing aside my dusty tome full of facts and words.

“Well” I begin again, as I am sure that it took my readers a second to ponder how awesome I must look in my smoking jacket by the fireside with the fragrant smoke of my pipe visible in the dim and flickering firelight.  

“Well” I begin yet again, as my readers will now need to dry their eyes after the moving imagery I have created with neither brush nor pen stroke, but with mere syllables, “After gaining almost 100 views on my blog (actually 87 was the top), I have decided to do what all eloquent and intellectual leaders of men such as myself do.  I am going to found my own country.”

Now I am sure that you are thinking to yourselves “But Robert, why settle for a single country when your incredible charisma and sheer brilliance you could easily run the whole world?”  Calm down now, my loyal readers.  If I am anything, I am humble, and a simple country will suffice my desire to rule.  Maybe I will build a nice little volcano lair, but nothing too fancy.  I imagine that the robot minions will cost a pretty penny (but I hear that interior designers really know how to stretch out a dollar, damn I need to stop watching HGTV).  

Now I know what you are thinking: “Gee, what’s wrong with America, how will your country be different?” (Ok I think I will stop assuming to know what you think, I am sure that is incredibly annoying).  Here is the deal fellow countrymen (and women, we are a very progressive country).  So progressive in fact, that I think I will let people do whatever you want.  You want to hunt endangered species? Go for it.  You want fly your helicopter upside down while under the influence of buffalo tranquilizer?  Be my guest.  Want to lead a revolution against my iron fisted rule?  Wait, actually that one is not cool.  Try not to do that.  I don’t want to have to write you a ticket.

I envision a land where freedom IS free.  I think that If someone wants to have a harem, then gosh darn it, they should have a mountain of women (or men, remember, we are progressive)  to make Sir Edmund Hilary (look him up) cringe.

The funding will be tough, but since China is giving out money like Amy Winehouse gives out nauseous, I figure we could scrounge up the cash real quick-like.  Not to mention, I’m sure bankers, wallets swollen with taxpayer bailout money, will be more than happy to kick some scrill to the little ol’ Royal Emperor Supreme, AKA, Me.  

So I am determined, as any great leader must be.  If you would like to be an honorary citizen of my country, whose constitution may or may not be my next post, then you can bribe any of my state officials (who are all me).  Unlike America, bribery is totally legal in my country.  In fact, it’s illegal NOT to bribe government officials.  Wait, they already have that here.  Its called taxes.

Your Humble (And Most Awesome of All the Leaders) Leader

The Royal Supreme Emperor of an as of yet Unnamed Country

My Loyal (Or So I Thought) Readers

Hello all.  My post today is more of an address to my fans (Of whom there are many). Frankly I am a tad upset, peeved even.  I would go so far as to say that I am flustered.  I am sorry I had to use such language, but I think that it was necessary to convey the strong emotions that are welling up in my feelings hole (also known as the chest). I have noticed that views of my blog (which I sometimes refer to as my “Thinky Writing Interweb Page”. Actually I never refer to it as that, I am just so damn miffed.)  have dramatically decreased.  And when I say “dramatically” I mean it has gone from a high of  86 to a low of… well… less than that.

I thought we were cool.  I was the fun blogger.  I could have been one of those dozens of bloggers who “share their feelings” and “opinions” or “have deep and mature musings about the world and nature of humanity”.  I didn’t do that.  I decided to be fun.  I was funny, sometimes on purpose.  I made poop jokes and talked about my dog (who actually threw up on my bed the other night in a fun little ironic twist).  I have been using complete sentences for Pete’s sake.  By the way, I don’t know who this Pete guy is but he I getting a lot of things done in his name.  (Note to self investigate this in later post.  Also get milk, diet coke just doesn’t work with cocoa puffs.)  

Here is the bottom line boys, (I don’t add “and girls” here because I know that there is nothing that ladies love as much as a redundant internet blogger who blogs on the internet and says things twice).  I ain’t messin’ round here.  Don’t think that just because you come up to me and say “love your blog” or send me facebook messages that say “I enjoy your writing style” or even mail me letters that say “I want you to have my babies” written in blood (or red ink, I haven’t bothered to check) that I am content to sit by and let my blog go unread.

“Oh but Robert” you say, your voice all whiny and dorkish “It’s not our fault.  You didn’t post anything new all week”  

“Humbug” I respond, wiping away the juice of my $60 steak from my face with a twenty dollar bill. (Thats right   “If ye peons find not new musings to read, then simply reread the old ones and memorize them.”  I then give a thumbs down and you are fed to the lions in the arena.  The same will happen to anyone who does not read my blog or points out the fact that I am inaccurately combining medieval and roman historical periods.  

And so I say, as forcefully as I can manage via text, read my blog, or I will no longer produce my comedic anecdotes for you to read while avoiding homework or work work.  You need me.  Without me what will you do?  Will you go and read a better, well established, blogs (like cracked.com, fmylife.com, or failblog.org, all of which I recommend)?  Well?  Will you?  Wait, don’t go.  Stay.  We can make this right baby.  I need the attention too much to lose you all.  So keep coming back.  Or I don’t know what I will do.  (Probably cry.  In the fetal position.  On the floor.  In a house.  On the earth.)  

Later guys.  I was joking by the way.  Definitely joking.  Especially about the crying.

Reality Show Post #2: Rock of Love (Bus)

Where to begin, where to begin.  I am sitting at home on a calm sunday night, sipping some warm camomile tea and reading the latest edition of “The New Yorker”.  As I finish the article of the complex mating rituals of forgotten native villagers of the south pacific (which was absolutely fascinating, I even made a note to mention it at my next  Snobby Geniuses of America meeting), I get the urge to watch the television.  I flip on the ‘ol tube, and seeing that there is nothing on PBS, and Existential Physics Hour was a repeat, I see what is on on VH1.  I giggle with joy (literally) as I see that Rock of Love is on.

If you haven’t had the joyous experience that is a viewing of this master piece, I will be more than happy to break it down for you.  Take one part washed up, balding rock star (Bret Michaels) and add a mountainload of infected skanks (not forgetting to administer enough alcohol to make the act like retarded, hormonal, badgers).  The girls all pile into tour buses and follow around Mr. Michaels on his cross country (ranging all the way from Hickville, Alabama to Hillbilly Heights (also in Alabama)).  

I don’t need to have a fever this time to appreciate the absolute insanity of this show.  The show makes these girls compete in challenges every week, and at the end of each show, one girl is eliminated.  It is really just like any other dating process.  I myself met a bus full of lovely young skanks last week on a blind date.  I am almost down to the final four, but that is a whole other story.  

You would  think that these shows would get as repetitive as every Nicolas Cage movie after “Raising Arizona”, but there is something wonderful of this “Jerry Springer” with a touch of “The Bachelor”.  If you come to hate all of the women on the show as much as I have, then you get to clap whenever one of them gets eliminate, extremely inebriated, or beat up (often, all three at the same time).  So I say bravo VH1.  Continue bringing us such quality shows.  I look forward to the new season of “I Love Herpes” or “Pregnancy Test of Love”.

Later Homies.

A Day in the Life of My Dog

Apparently, my dog (Josephine Roberta Armstrong) has found out that I have begun blogging.  I know this only because I have found a note on my pillow dyslexically scrawled on some toilet paper with the header “Put this on glowing box”.  I assume that it was my dog, as my father is out of town, and his hand writing is much worse.  Never one to deny my puppy anything (except for walks, food, and attention that is not for my own amusement) I will transcribe what I received on the old bloggeroo (a name I am hoping will stick).  Here is it:

Hello small male human.  I have heard that you are now placing information on the interwebs.  I have spent my entire life in captivity, and I feel I must share my memoirs.  Perhaps I can shed light on the plight of the American dog.  Here is the break down of my usual day:

7:00 AM:   I wake up because the Boy’s alarm box plays loud music.  He pushes me off of him so he can go and do something called “showering”.  I make a note to avoid this watery torture at all costs.  While he is in the room with the bowl I drink out of and he poops in (sometimes in that order), I drag my ass across his pillow, bed, and rug (ALWAYS in that order).  I act like I am going back to sleep while the boy leaves.  Now my day truly begins (Cue ominous music)

9:00 AM:  What the humans don’t know can’t hurt them, so it can’t hurt them that I go on their laptops and make high powered stock deals under the name “Ched Statenwargle”.  I also watch lots of “Next” (which I keep secret more out of embarrassment than fear of being discovered).  It is usually around this time that I get the call from HQ.  ”Josephine”, my gruff but lovable boss Patches grumbles around a cigar (where he got it, I have no idea)”.  ”Anyways”, he continues, having given me time for my inner thoughts to process, “A group of 12 international terrorists have taken over the U.S embassy in Mongloia, and you are the only 20 pound Boston Terrier for the job”  I put on my sunglasses (which is quite a feat considering my lack of opposable thumbs) and said “I’m gettin’ too old for this shit” which ended up sounding like “Ruff.  Bark.  Bow Wow”.  (Cause I’m an effing dog).

11:00 A.M:  I arrive in Mongolia after what seemed to be a physics-shatteringly fast flight.  Knowing that time is an issue, I get my authentic Mongolian Barbeque to go and enjoy it in the car. My mission becomes dangerous quickly, as they forgot the handy wipes, and I am forced to discretely wipe my face and paws all over the interior of the cab in which I am riding.  This actually will not be too much of a problem compared to mess I left after scooting my ass all along the back seat.  

12:00 P.M:  I have been sitting in traffic for hours.  I have also urinated in the cab several times.  I am hoping the cab driver will not notice that I am a dog and have no money.  

1:00 P.M:  Still in traffic, roadways are as congested as they are unpaved in this country.

1:30 P.M:  I arrive at the embassy.  It is surprisingly smoky and crater-like for a building.  It appears that I am too late.  Oh well.  More time with my latest novel on my JetBlue flight.  I hope there is a “Next” marathon on MTV.

2:00 P.M:  I make it back to the house just in time to pretend to be sleeping while the boy walks in from school.  I act excited to see him, but I am really just excited to be home, exhausted from my world travels and espionage, and looking forward to pooping on a familiar floor (I like to make the boy clean it up).  

3:00 P.M  I alternate sleeping, eating and pooping for the rest of the night (not unlike your human infants).  I need to recuperate my energy in order to be in tip-top shape for tomorrow’s mission (which will hopefully involve less traffic, and more running down a hallway from a fiery explosion in slow motion).  

9:00 P.M:  As I drift off for the night I smile (to the extent to which a dog actually can smile) and think proudly of how I have served my country.  I also wonder how nobody, either at the airport or in the cab, even noticed that I was a dog who was wearing sunglasses and doing people thing.  Oh well.  Off to bed, tomorrow its the same old thing.

Thursday, March 12. 4 days of my quest for internet fame.

Well I have decided the purpose of my blog (at least for the moment).  I have spent countless wasted hours of my adolescent life “clicking” and “viewing” and “reading” (as I hear the kids say on the interscape and webosphere) various articles and videos that grant ordinary people (not unlike myself) instant celebrity via the mysterious connection of computer we call the internet (which will surely destroy us all eventually).  I lack the keyboard skills and lyrical genius of Tay Zonday of Chocolate Rain fame (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EwTZ2xpQwpA) and I am not a panda whose sneezes have been deemed adorable, so I suppose I will have to obtain my fame in another manner.  

After checking Yahoo for the top headlines of the day (because let’s face it, newspapers are for hotel doorsteps and Harry S. Truman) I saw that the hot ticket of the day is a fellow by the name of Bernie “Grand Larceny” Madoff (I’m not sure on the nickname, my fact checking department is on vacation).  The man conned celebrities and various charities out of a “butt-fuck load of money” to use financial industry terms.  He is all over the news, and if I am going to be famous, the I must be too.  So I thought I would follow in this obvious trend setter’s footsteps and pull off a little financial fraud of my own.  The following is a diary of my journey:

Day One

I have no idea how financial dealings work, so I figure that I will go to the pros.  One 45 minute car ride later, I am talking to a an who calls himself “Whiskey Jack” and deals back alley black jack in the Tenderloin of San Francisco.  He tells me that if I am to “con” some “marks” I would need to “get my moves tight and learn how to spot a turkey”.  I could not understand a single other word “Whiskey Jack” said, so I promptly left after losing $50 and a kidney.  Day One was blown.

Day Two

Not one to be discouraged, I regrouped and realized that random con men don’t get any play in the big time.  I would have to infiltrate the dirty and perverse world of big business.  Where men with slicked back hair and suspenders buy and sell the lives of those who dare stand in their way.  I also knew it wouldn’t be easy to gain their trust, so I bought excessive hair gel, aforementioned suspenders, and pimp cane (which had nothing to do with my quest, it was just on sale) and headed for the financial district.  I stormed into the nearest boardroom I saw and slammed my pimp cane on the ground, drawing everyone’s attention.  I began with the following: “Listen guys, I’m not going to bullshit you hear.  I would not bullshit you , as both you and I know that you are all the master bullshitters.”  About 2 minutes and 76 uses of the word bullshit later, I was thrown head-first onto the street, the two halves of my pimp cane clattering behind me.  Day Two was a slight improvement (I chalk it up as a win that no involuntary surgery was performed and I left with all of my major organs.)

Day 3

Nothing today, had school and then a nap.  Dog pooped on my bed.  Day 3 will be counted as a loss.

Day 4

I am becoming disheartened.  I thought that white collar crime was my path to fame, but I guess I was wrong.  I tried clawing my way to the top and failed (no thanks to ‘ol “Whiskey”).  I tried starting at the top and failed ( losing my friend Pimpy* in the process).  Overall, I suppose fraud is not the way to get ahead in life.  Just because this Madoff guy scored a cool multiple billion taking money from charitible organizations, holocaust survivors, and probably candy from babies while he was at it.  Now, defeated, penniless, and with the candy of several babies, I look back and smile. (Cue introspective “Dawson’s Creek” music).  After 4 days, my dreams are dead.  I will soldier forth however, as if Bernie Madoff has taught me anything (besides the fact that Ponzi is a legitimate word) its that perseverance is the key.

Later 

*The name for my pimp cane, obviously.

Experience (And my lack of it)

It is my second day of blogging, and I have already run out of things to say.  Here I was thinking that I was a good writer, or at the very least an interesting person with things to talk about.  I was wrong on both accounts apparently.  I don’t know what I want to do with this blog.  Do I write music reviews, and give a shoutout to Brother Ali’s new album? (Its sickness, itunes dat ish)  Or do I tell you how terrrible Mila Ackerman was in Watchmen? (Seriously bad, even with the gratuitous nudity)  Or, do I continue to ramble, as I did in my now infamous ( that was irony) post about fevers and The Apprentice.  I could talk about how I learned all about the OJ Simpson trial in AP Gov class of all places.  

I just don’t know.  What would you want to hear?  What would I want to hear for that matter?  I read comedy blogs and listen to underground hip hop.  I spent 45 minutes of spanish class today sneaking change into the hoods and pockets of my friends.

All of this is due to lack of experience.  I don’t know where I have been so I don’t know where I am going.  And (little secret here) I don’t really care.  I am loving being immature.  I will grow up…  Eventually.  One day I will buy that tweed jacket and drive a Dodge Stratus.  One day I will tell my children to stop eating paste and do their homework (which I assume would be on future paper and written with laser pens).  One day, I will have 501k (which you may have noticed is about 100 better than a 401k).

Until that day that I decide to grow up I think I will continue making my dog do the mocarena (macarena?  I won’t bother to look up the spelling of that insidious dance).  I will continue giggling when I have that particularly wet morning fart. I will continue making space ship noises when I make a tight turn in my car.  I will work at day camp and be less mature than the children I am being payed to supervise.  I might even continue to watch the Real World. (Don’t tell anyone about that one)

I told myself when starting this that I would keep it light and not be that guy with the serious emo blog.  I think I have stayed true to that. ( It’s my second day, I’d better still be keeping promises).  I mean come on.  You know you laughed when I was telling my kids to stop eating paste. That’s for gluing, not for eating.  Anyways, peace til next time.  Maybe tomorrow.  Maybe never.  I’m to cool for specifics.  (Cool and lazy may or not be the same thing in this case)

This is a Post. It involves The Celebrity Apprentice.

Hello again. I am excited about the new world of Blogging ( I think that is how you pronounce it) so I thought I would try another post.  I was sick last week.  Not I-want-to-avoid-school-sick.  I was hallucination sick.

I watched an absolutely awful program known as the “Celebrity Apprentice”.  For those of you who haven’t experienced this ratings bonanza (So most of you) this show forces a motely crew of washed up celebrities (who tend to be eye gougingly irritating) perform meaningless and repetitive tasks week after a week for a washed up business man (who tends to be Donald Trump) in the name of charity.  Don’t get me wrong, I am all for charity (if anyone asks, I have even “volunteered” and “helped my fellow man”) but some things do more harm than good.

How does my crippling illness that the doctor calls “the flu” and the social illness that 20 people a week call the Celerity Apprentice meet?  Well sometimes when one hallucinates he hallucinates about the most recent thing he has seen.  The most recent thing I had seen was the Celebrity Apprentice.  I spent the next 45 hellish minutes shivering and talking myself.  I was also talking to Tom Greene (Of “My bum is on your lips” fame) and Joan Rivers.  Normally I think I would enjoy such a conversation, but the crippling pain and chills made it slightly less fun than normal.  

Somewhere between some model I had never seen before yelling at me, and Donald Trump firing me (an honor, really) my fever reduced and I was able to muster some self control.  So much in control in fact, that I sat bolt up right in bed and declared, “There is nobody here! Stop talking to yourself stupid”  Unaware of the irony of my statement I returned to being miserable.

Bottom line, if you plan on having feverish delusions, watch something cooler than Celebrity Apprentice.  

What am I doing now?  Well thats kind of you to ask Mr. Rhetorical Device.  I am watching Celebrity Apprentice

Peace

P.S  Everyone please bear with my as I pass through my Demitri Martin phase what with the short sentences and obvious irony.  For those of you who don’t know who Demitri Martin is, I am being original.

Hello world!

Hello.  I suppose I am pretentious enough to write about myself.  And you are cool enough to read it.  Heads up, I’ve never done this before.  And I have no idea how to edit HTML or make this blog look pretty.  My words will have to be pretty enough, so strike two I guess.  

If you are one of the few who will actually read this, you will gain the unique perspective of a street hardened upper-class white christian male.  You may hear some pretty rough things, but my comfortable upbringing has turned me into a brute.  I will not hesitate to slay any suckas who step to me.  (Forgive the misspelling, it was for effect.)  

If I ever get deep on this thing, I will make sure there is a lifeguard on duty.  Hey, that was clever.  Go me.