MOVING!

For those of you that don't know and those of you that will find this site in the future I want to let you all know that these posts are being moved and will be accompanied by similar posts and lots of stupid ideas.

New site: Pegasus Fortnight

And for those of you from the very distant future looking for cultural remnants of a civilization long dead? Pegasus Fortnight can help you there, too. I'm actually an archivist.

Enjoy!

Little People. "Little" as in "Immature."

The Spam:
Sender: Adrianne
Subject: I was excluded from the parties and celebrations
Body: Bessie will help you pack your things

Beyond the Spam:
I'm not going to sugar coat this one like my previous posts. I'm just going to come right out and say it: Adrianne is a passive aggressive whore. So what if I didn't invite her to a few parties and celebrations? This isn't The Great Gatsby. It's the goddamn real world! And in the real world you won't get to go to every party and there are no green lights off in the distance on the Sound that are symbolic of your ambitions coming in line with the ambitions of the world itself. No, your green light is red. As in, stop trying to come to my parties. You have horrible social skills as evidenced by your subject line being longer than the body. Bad form, Adrianne. Bad form.

Ok, now that I got that off of my chest I can take a look deeper into Adrianne's subconscious. Why would me not inviting her to a few parties make her send Bessie, a huge nordic giant of a woman, over to my house and pack my bags? I don't even live with Adrainne or rent from Adrianne or have any monetary dealings with her! Now that's some balls. Trying to evict me from my own home. Balls. Which is where I guess I should begin.

Adrianne is transgendered.

Now, I have nothing against transgendered individuals. In fact, they're typically splendid people, they just happen to have been caught up in the wrong body but there are some, just like any group of people, that are complete assholes. Adrianne is one of them. Adrianne is the type of person who thinks Rocky was calling out to her at the end of the movie. NEWS FLASH: YOU WEREN'T ALIVE THEN. Unless you got surgery that made you 20 years younger along with giving you a vagina. Vaginal rejuvenation applied across the whole body, so to speak. If so, give me some of that! Minus the vagina. I don't want one of those. Ok, maybe a little one. But I digress and regress into tiny fits of juvenile titters.

Ok. Man up, Dan! And give Adrianne the business!

So she's full of herself. She thinks the world owes her something for not doing her right in the first place and it's honestly a little grating. That's why I don't invite her to any of my parties! They're pretty tame, anyway, we just sit around decoupaging posters of Tony Danza out of scraps of old TV Guides and People magazines. Oh Tony, he is SO the boss. So why would she want to do that? She'd just totally kill the moon by trying to make a collage of Tony Danza instead. Total faux pass, Adrianne. Total. Decoupage is scraps applied to a form in an effort to make it appear like the surface! Collage is creating a new form from an assemblace of different forms. GOSH. Get it through your head.

If you can't grasp such rudimentary ideas about such wonderful artforms then I don't think there is any help for you. I would reply back to your e-mail and say "Sod off!" but, honestly, Bessie scares me. There's a reason she shares her name with the most common name for cows. And it's not because she likes to eat grass. Why must you keep such a lurking behemoth around?

Which reminds me of your slight Napoleon Complex. I almost forgot you are only three feet tall. I suppose you probably also feel I'm secluding you from my parties because you're short. Well, I'm not. I just feel that since most of my parties, apart from decoupage ones, involve standing around and looking over walls that you wouldn't be able to have any sort of fun at them. So I'm sorry for being considerate, for not wanting someone to hold you on their shoulders the whole time and I'm sorry you're overly sensitive.

Look, we're getting nowhere. Have your woman-cow servant give me my Thundercats underoos back and lets just go back to being friends with benefits. Ok? I have a thing for little people. I just wish I knew you were transgendered first. It would have cleared up a lot of confusion.

Something Erudite

The Spam:
Sender: me
Subject: Locke is a LIE!
Body: (none)

Beyond the Spam:
The Narrator in Fight Club had Tyler Durden who, during the moments when Tyler took control, acted as an anarcho-primitivist with grand plans to return civilization into a neo-paleolithic paradise through Project Mayhem which involved blowing up buildings, kidnapping high power executives and eating lots of cheesecake. He knew it'd go straight to his thighs but it just made him feel so alive he couldn't stop! Decadence was Tyler Durden's middle name. Really, go read the book again. Chapter 12, page 147: Tyler Decadence Durden.

My alter ego, who I will call Burt Morality Lancaster, on the other hand, sits around pondering long dead empiricists and has grand plans of boring me to death. 

Locke is a lie. Really?! Out of all the anarchy you could be raising you decide to toss that gem my way? How can Locke be a lie anyway? He had an opinion! Yes, the social contract was a very compelling idea but I don't remember signing shit when I entered society. Unless that tiny, baby foot shaped ink-blot on my birth certificate counts as a signature on a binding contractual agreement and it was placed on a document that said "I hereby defer my human rights to the greater authority during instances in which it would best behoove society as a whole." And if it did say that I could probably only understand half of those words at the time and I demand a lawyer. Oh, and don't even bother telling me that that's more of a Utilitarian statement because I don't care.

It could be worse, though, Burt could have said "The Cake is a LIE!" and made Portal fanboys (and fangirls) everywhere squeal with the kind of high pitched screams you'd expect to hear from two banshees who used to be in the cheer squad together way back when they were still alive and in highschool being reunited for the first time in three hundred years. Yeah, long description for an ear shattering, maddening scream but I went for it. Savor it.

Anyway, would it be wrong of me to say I felt a bit disappointed that my Burt wasn't out there fucking things up a bit? Live a little, Burt! If Locke truly is a lie then there is no social contract, there are no rules by which you are bound! So blow some shit up! Grab that big electromagnet you've got sitting in your basement (you DO have an electromagnet, right? No alter ego of mine should be without one) and start erasing some episodes of Degrassi! Also tear up those Jonas Brothers tickets I bought last week. I can't bring myself to do it and I just know if I still have them by time the show rolls around I'll be in the front row in my halter top with a ring on each finger and each ring would be filled with promises. The promises I made to myself to get groped by the Jonas Brothers.

But no, you'd rather sit around like some less attractive Rodin sculpture wondering just how come the governed give their governments the right to govern. Fun sentence, right? Read it a few times and see if you don't giggle at least a little.

I want you to do something for me, Burt. And for yourself. Which is also me. So do something for me twice. The next time you decide to text some midnight philosophical epiphany you have to me please take a page out of Fight Club and be participating in a little bit of anarchy while you're doing it. Like tearing the tags off of my pillows - they keep tickling my face when I try to sleep. 

A Bunch of Snake Oil!

The Spam:

Sender: Tuba

Subject: She'll never be disappointed

Body: Your python will be able to work for days without a rest!

Beyond the Spam:

"Ophidiophobia." It's a big fancy word that means "fear of snakes." I suppose that would make an ophidiophiliac someone that loves snakes. Combine that with a workaholic and you get a workophidiophiliac or, to make it easier, you get Tuba.

Now Tuba himself isn't a workaholic but he damn well makes sure that his pythons are. Did you see that? He makes them work for DAYS without a rest! I'm sure there is some obscure child labor law somewhere that states it's illegal to make snakes work that much. Why a child labor law? Because most children are cold blooded bastard spawn who only care about where their next Pokemon is coming from. Is Pokemon still cool? Oh wait, I don't care. Whatever the case, what Tuba is doing is illegal, immoral and completely reprehensible.

So why does he do it? "She'll never be disappointed" speaks volumes but it'd be far too easy of a pot-shot to say this has to do with penile inadequacies - because it does - but there must be something that has deeply scarred his psyche to make him want to run a serpentine sweatshop. What do they produce anyway? Oil? Oh yes, I went with a snake oil joke, bust out the old school vaudeville piano music and dancing white men in black face.

No, what really drives Tuba is his long standing desire to impress mommy. Ever since he dropped out of clown school he has been nothing but a disappointment to her. It's all she ever wanted for him! Why else would she name him Tuba? To be the next Tommy Johnson? And don't bother doing a Wikipedia search on that name, just trust me when I say that man could blow a horn.

Whenever he visited home, which was just a quick walk up the basement steps, and saw that faraway look in his mother's eyes he could only think to himself "I gotta start taming some fucking pythons." Why? Because he had just watched a lot of Harry Potter and he loved the fact that Voldemort was some weird half-man half-snake half-chemo therapy patient hybrid and have you priced chemo lately? It's about twice as expensive as a python and money from the paper route was just barely enough to fund his World of Warcraft addiction and his Fleshlight collection.

The actual process of getting a snake to perform manual labor would, under normal circumstances, be quite a trying project. But Tuba is an industrious fellow and set up an extra WoW account, taught the python to hit one button and make him tons of virtual gold which he then sold on e-bay. Thus his python working business was born and two little Indonesian kids lost their jobs. Now THAT'S outsourcing.

If only he knew his mom would be twice as disappointed in him to find out he just doubled the amount of Warcraft accounts in his name.

Tuba, I'll only tell you this once: what you're doing is slavery. Let those poor pythons go! Or at least let them play a better game. Like backgammon or jacks.

With this in mind I must refuse your services. I have a python and it works very hard but that's because it is a HAPPY python. He has great benefits, a decent PTO accrual rate and his own office with a great bay window view. His name is Bendy. Incidentally, that was the first nickname given to my penis.

When the Leaves Start to Change and Fall

The Spam:

Good evening Daniel

Wow...what a cool, fall, and wet day here in the NW corner of Arkansas.  It has definitely turned Fall here.

Went to church today, read a book, watched a movie, and took a nap, and bought groceries.  Nothing earth-shattering, but it was fun.  However, I have the Sunday night blues....waiting for that Monday morning alarm clock..

How was your weekend?

When the leaves start to change and fall, I might drive over to Eureka Springs for the day.  If you could meet me there, that would even be more fun.  Something to think about.  If you ever want to come this way, I can meet you for a meal or an outing.   I am thinking about going to see Riverdance this month in Fayetteville at the Walton Arts Center.  Is that something you would be interested in?  Just being friendly...no motives here.

Have a great Monday.  Thanks for your communication through emails.

Gary

Beyond the Spam:

Oh where to begin with Gary. Gary, whose idea of a good day is reading a book, watching a movie, taking a nap, buying groceries, feeling depressed about it later on and then actually looking forward to work the next day!

Gary, who designates time with the vague phrases such as "when the leaves start to change and fall."

Gary, who is probably a real guy and just sent an e-mail to the wrong Daniel and is not actually a spammer.

Where to start with Gary?

Well first of all his whole e-mail is one big lie.

I imagine Gary as an overweight, balding, light skinned man draped in a slightly open paisely bathrobe. He knows it looks ridiculous but he just doesn't care anymore. Besides, it makes him feel a little bit sexy. Especially when he rubs the one leg he just shaved against the other one he didn't. It feels just like being next to a woman! But is that what he wants?

Of course, his sexuality must be brought into question when he asks me to go see Riverdance. But it's not Riverdance that catches my eye. There is nothing inherently homosexual about Riverdance. In fact, it's pure manliness. A topless man, moving his legs at lightning speed surrounded by women who are so enchanted by his magical gams that they can't help but dance along themselves? Pure heterosexual magic, a modern day Piep Piper. But his line about "no motives here" is what quirks my brows.

Any time anyone says "no motives" there is undoubtedly a motive. But why hide it, Gary? Are you ashamed to be yourself? Because that's no way to go through life. Perhaps that's why you shoot off e-mails to random people instill in them the sense of ennui you feel on an hourly basis. 

A shallow effort to make yourself appear more normal, for sure. But we both know your dark secret, don't we, Gary? We both know you head off to S&M clubs during the weekend, clad in the tight leather suit you so lovingly call "The Glove" looking for a fun night of being a submissive. And then when you get home late Sunday, worn out from a night of Quaaludes and lashings (of the whip and tongue varieties), you feel a bit depressed, a little unfulfilled like your life just isn't going the way you imagined. And so you type away, long into the night, trying to grasp onto whatever vestiges of normalcy you have left. I can only imagine how many people you sent similar stories to. Perhaps inviting them to go see the Fiddler on the Room "when the water becomes slightly warmer than it was before." Damn you and your watch that only knows vague environmental changes, Gary. Damn you.

But you aren't fooling anyone.

I have a little secret for you, Gary: nobody is normal. If you want bareback with some dude after a hot night of Riverdancing then by all means go for it. Tie up your paisely bathrobe, comb what hair you have left into your signature combover and stop hiding from yourself. I'm sure there are plenty of young bucks who'd love to be elbow deep in your world.

As for me, while I appreciate your offer to go see Riverdance, I'll have to gracefully decline. I'm more of a Cats man myself. Besides, I just abhor ambiguity. Maybe if you set a time more specific than a whole fucking season I'd be more receptive to your advances.