E3: Aka: Mostly Crap - The Convention

I'm honestly not much of a gamer anymore. And that is because I've grown up, not due to lack of interest; I just have more things that interest me in the real world. Though I do still keep my finger on the pulse of modern gaming, and that means that I usually pay attention to something called the Electronic Entertainment Expo; also known as 'E3'. This used to be an event that gamers wished they could attend, but was only open to special people, and the Press. This year, there were a lot of interesting games; Watch Dogs, HALO 4, Sleeping Dogs (apparently there is a dog theme coming upon us), a new Hitman, some new content for Skyrim, many more. The one thing everyone is talking about is a game called Star Wars: 1313. Not much is known except it is aimed for a mature audience - compared to the usual Teen-rating and below, previous entries in the series have had  - and that it is about bounty hunters. They showed a video of what appeared to a mission intro (probably the first mission) and that was pretty well it for gameplay. This got LucasArts the award 'Best of E3' from GameSpot.

Honestly, I am a bit saddened that GameSpot gave this the 'Best of E3' title. It really shows how low the requirements are. This is coming from someone who is a big Star Wars fan. I have read most all teh books, have played almost all the games; I still revisit Jedi Academy, Tie-Fighter, and X-Wing: Alliance from time to time, as well as The Force Unleashed.

I want to look forward to this, but I just can't. All I saw in the gameplay videos was a bunch of flashy scenes with nothing being brought to the table: third-person shooter mechanics that look like a blend of Grand Theft Auto IV and Mass Effect 3 with prettier bump mapping and slightly more interesting physics is apparently all that is needed now to give you an award. Keep in mind that this game is still more than a year from release. The speculated release for this is Dec 31, 2013.

In other videos the developers talked about it, but they all had the same bullshit things that everyone making this kind of game have to to say. '... different ways to play the game', '... equipment and physics engine will make play through unique', '..yada yada...'. If I had a buck for every time I've heard these statements regarding games that developers are creating, I'd have loads of cash in the bank. The downside would be a series of aneurysms from disappointing play-throughs followed by being forced to listen to the same developers give lame-ass excuses or Peter-Molyneux-esque apologies when the games, magically, don't live up their pre-release-hype-ridden promises.

I *might* take another look when an actual demo is available that shows more than just what the color will be available for the car. I want really see how the car handles, what features it has; I want to know whether I will get bored of driving it for a short time or not. Maybe I'm just getting old... or maybe game critique websites and businesses are not holding up their end of the deal. E3, many years ago, showed games and products that was more than just a commercial; it showed damn near finished products and those were the ones people paid attention to. They didn't care about something that was almost two years away and may or may not get cancelled. I really wish we were back in the golden age of reviewers and Press when a bad review could shatter a developing company and publishers were held to better standards.

Untitled

My shackles get weaker as the rooms empty
You are gone and the dust in your wake
Is the only means to see what path
I never want to take.

For rich or for poor
In sickness and health
I'm just amazed the bullet
Down the cold-steel bore
Only dry-fired.

Can I finally wash the taste of cobalt from my mouth?

The rooms are now empty
I'm through the door
Bracelets and chains, a broken circle
Shattered promises bound in metal stay on the floor

I step into the abyss
Smiling as I fall forward to the unknown
Not knowing or caring if something will catch me
I am free.

Dreams of Depression and the Salvation of Space

Donald didn't sleep well; to say that he was suffering insomnia the previous night would have been the tip of the iceberg. What little sleep he did get, he was plagued with dreams that were so relentlessly symbolic and cerebral that he had been subjected to a very deep depression upon waking that it followed him through the rest of the day without error, fault, or concern as to how it affected his performance at work; nor did it spare him the ability to hide it deep enough that his co-workers wouldn't know that something was amiss and ask him whether or not he was 'ok.'

Freshly out of a relationship, he found himself pacing his apartment at night wishing that he was anywhere but where he was; he would keep looking at his phone to see if he perchance missed the sensation of it vibrating in his pocket indicating a call from a friend who would rescue him from the walls of his apartment which he had only recently started to associate as his own, private prison. It was a small apartment and there was little space available. He wasn't claustrophobic, but he was feeling the closeness of the walls more distinctly as of late. He didn't have a couch or table. He certainly wouldn't want to invite anyone over out of sheer embarrassment of the fact that, with the exception of a folding cot, he had no place to offer them to sit and make themselves comfortable. Inviting a lady or a friend over to dinner was out of the question. Where would they eat, the floor? Donald found himself eating alone, at least on the nights where he forced himself to cook something and not eat out, while sitting in his rocking chair watching a movie or some television series that he had collected on DVD over the years.

That day he had been a robot at work. He talked with some friends over instant messenger throughout the day. What humor he found, and smile he could generate, was in schadenfreude from his friend Samson who had commented that he, Samson, had enough pictures of horribly offensive images to warrant creating a sub-folder of a specific topic; in this case it was amputee porn. Donald wasn't laughing so much at the concept of the porn, or that his friend collected it; it was more the fact that he knew that both him and Samson were very sick puppies in regards to the fact that they found the fact that a sub-folder was necessary absolutely hilarious in a sophomoric way. Donald could always count on Samson to improve his spirits, even if only for a short while.

The rest of the day was the usual routine in cyber-crime. Examine confiscated evidence that the field agents would bring in, try to rescue data and then sift through it to see if there was anything of importance or relation to the case that the hardware was brought in on. It was boring and drall but it kept a roof over his head and ensured that he wouldn't go hungry. It didn't help his ego or morale that, despite his finding extremely little pleasure in what he did, he was naturally good at his job. But it was not his passion. His formal education was actually that of a trained artist. Unfortunately no one pays, or pays attention to, most artists when they are still alive; so he had to shift gears to his other talent that failed to inspire any form of creativity: becoming a tech-head.

After work he got back home, simultaneously avoiding people while talking to one or two who were his good friends about what was bothering him. The dream he had was one that he knew rattled his very id at a subconscious, psychological level. It was the sensation that everyone he knew, had become friends with, was interested in, or may have been seeing was doing nothing more than giving him lip-service; in the end, they would not be there for him when he needed them. Ever. In the end, he would be the friend that everyone would forget about when they make their plans or when they want to hang out with someone on a Friday night.

What hurt the most is that he had seen evidence of this in the past. The previous year he had organized a party for a combination of New Years, his at-the-time girlfriend's, and his birthdays. Only his co-worker Jack and his girlfriend showed up. Everyone else who said they were interested bailed for other parties with other people. No one even bothered inviting him, or her, to join them.

His divorce destroyed a lot of the trust that he was capable of having in other people. This dream, despite it being almost three years after the divorce, damaged it even further. Right now, this evening, he hated people more than he ever did; and he did consider himself a bit of a misanthropic, jaded, cynical asshole by nature as it was. Though, despite whatever misgivings he had about himself, accurate or otherwise, he hated feeling alone worse than anything else. Pacing back and forth he wished that he could shut off his emotional need to want to be with someone. Sex wasn't the issue; his hand could satisfy his release quite well enough. But knowing that you can either come home to, or wake up next to someone who genuinely, without question, gives a flying fuck about you was what he truly craved more than anything in the world. He was a loner by nature. Most of his life, throughout school and even a bit of college, he always found himself on the fringe; he never quite understood 'people'. Individuals he could usually get along with. In fact, he prided himself on being a bit of a social chameleon. Toss him into a group of people, he'll find someone he could chat up and make laugh. In the end, though out it all, he always felt alone and different then anyone else he ever met.

Tonight he was facing his typical conundrum. Not wanting to deal with the complications of relationships or people, but desperately wanting to be anywhere else other than the place that he lived. Tonight, however, he felt a mild difference. A question suddenly manifested itself in Donald's mind: why do I not like living here? Aside from escaping the clutches of my soul-sucking bitch of an ex-wife, why did I choose this place? He really enjoyed it when he first moved in, why did it repel him now. There weren't bad memories here like there was in the previous dwelling.

Then it hit him like the mountain of accumulated crap that he realized surrounded him. It was the space. The lack of simplicity. He recalled when he first moved into the place that he wanted to maintain a bit of a simple life. Not much internet. Few possessions. Just enough to get by. Just his computer, his art, his writing and his parrot. Instead he realized that the cycle that is common amongst most people had begun again and slowly worked its way into his apartment much like a cancer slowly developing in the lungs or heart of a smoker and not showing itself until it was almost too late: he accumulated more stupid crap over the last two years and he never really did anything with it. Books on shelves that had been purchased with the prospect of being read and never opened; nick-nacks and bits and bobs were strewn around the place occupying whatever open, flat, space was allowed to them; the practical closet that his art studio and computer room was had turned into an aviary with little control over what inspiration the initial space was intended for. It had to go.

The next thing he knew, he found himself clawing books off the shelf. Was it important? Did he actually read it within the last two years? Had he read it before? Why did he keep his calculus and business class notes and textbooks? Why the fuck did he still have ancient technical certification guides that were completely outdated by this point in time. As the night passed he found himself with two boxes full of books and crap that would be destined for a donation center. The rest of the contents of the bookshelves was on the floor in the main room. The bookshelf in the studio, which original was a high-tensile, wire shelving unit, was disassembled and put away in a small storage nook in his hallway. The bookshelf in the main room would be stripped apart and then reassembled to take it's place. After that was done he would begin the process of placing books back on it; during this process he would go through them again and ask himself if he really would want to keep them. He was now forcing himself to limit his space even further.

His vision that started this showed a open area in the main room where a couch could go. He could then have people over to his place and not feel as though he was completely separated from society, or his friends. It would even allow him the ability to setup a small corner dedicated to his music; having found a new passion in learning the guitar over previous five months he realized he didn't have any space setup for it where he could sit and focus on it for a period of time with little to no distraction. The corner in the main room would suit that purpose perfectly.

As he finished disassembling the old wire shelf and looked around at the productive disaster area that his apartment's main room had become he felt his stomach growl. He laughed in spite of himself. He'd dealt with depression, even a bout worse than the one that he was feeling today, and every time it came around he always ended up forgetting that it was pretty damn important that he eat food. He thought about calling this girl that he was seeing, sort of. They agreed to stay undefined, and it very slow, which was fine with him. Though, the tone she used, told him she wasn't as interested in him as he was interested in her (at east that was the most probable situation; though he sometimes wondered if he was over thinking their whole situation.) She had also dropped a big hint that she didn't like being texted or called much by her would-be suitors. He opted to pass on seeing if she was interested in dinner. Besides, he knew that the lack of definition (and by result, lack of communication) of what exactly 'they' were was contributing to this whole ordeal (that was even assuming 'they' were even 'anything' at all right now). Despite whatever confusion he felt about the ordeal, he didn't need his trust issues to affect his feelings towards her as he did genuinely like her. The fact that he liked her, and was completely scared of things going too quickly, to the point of border-line social paralysis, actually kept him from reaching for the phone. If she wanted to keep things quasi casual, that's fine; frustrating, but fine. Donald's mother raised a respectful gentlemen. They could always talk more about things in the future once he got himself a bit more centered.

Instead he opted to grab his laptop and backpack and head out of the apartment; he was ready and willing to deal with people if it meant his stomach would shut up. The remainder of the reorganization could wait for later. Besides, he hadn't written anything serious in almost a month. Maybe it was time to write a new fictitious journal entry. He could change the names, add a touch of drama and mystique, all while spilling his guts out on the page and no one would be wiser (well, almost no one -- his friends who knew him closest would see through his bullshit in a heartbeat): his stomach shuts up, he gets cathartic release, and someone thinks he is being creative. He smiled as he left the apartment door, thinking that maybe tonight may result in a positive ending for the day after all.

Bugs in Germany

A friend posted a writing exercise where you had to start the first paragraph with a favorite food and end with a place you've wanted to visit but never have. It's a bit overdue, but here is what I came up with. I think it starts out nice but about halfway through the voice gets a bit lost and feels a tad rushed:


It was probably the coldest night that the city had experienced all winter and the winter that had hit the city was the hardest winter on record in over ten years. Sure, snow came in and the city's fleet of snow plows and deicing trucks would rev up their engines and be seen going down streets like they were on parade. That was nothing new. This winter brought with it a biting cold that made you freeze up the moment you walked out side regardless of what clothing you may be wearing. A wind hadn't let up in a month and it carried with it invisible, frozen daggers that dug into your eyes if you looked at the wind with them fully open. It was no longer uncommon to open the news paper and see a series of John and Jane Doe's, along with a series of luckily identified dead homeless people who had given into Jack Frost's cold, welcoming embrace. Half of them were found without clothing on. Everyone was miserable and desired the sun to creep through the perpetual, two month long cloud cover that loomed overhead day and night. At least the bugs on a log helped alleviate things a little.

Bugs on a log. Celery, peanut butter and raisins. It had always been my favorite snack food since I was a child.  Of course it could have just been because it was an excuse to eat peanut butter. I ran my lip over my teeth and gums, clearing crevices of the tasty, stringy goo. It gave me something to do while I froze my ass off in the front seat of my car, shivering and watching my breath. The coffee was also helping keep me warm, but the thermos was three-quarters empty and getting cooler by the moment.


As I reached over to the passenger seat and plucked another stick of celery with the raisin covered brown paste filling it's bowl, I realized just how much of a fool I was to agree to taking on this job watching a brownstone. The problem with stakeouts is that you had to be patient and you had to ensure that you could occupy your mind with things so you wouldn't get bored. If you had a partner with you, one of you could read while the other watched or you would have a nice quiet conversation to pass the time.  Tonight I did not get that exception to my normal solo-steakout rule. Instead I normally passed the time watching movies in my head; I'd pick one that I had seen enough to have memorized practically every scene, every facial tick, every line of dialogue, voice and vocal inflection. The cold was getting in the way. Instead of picturing the explosion, or the conversation in the diner, all I could think of was how goddam cold it was. My patience was wearing thin. Unfortunately the money was too good.


The job was simple. Watch a brownstone and wait until a man with a jagged scar running across his forehead to show up and go inside. Follow him in, pick the lock, and begin an audio surveillance of the room that he was in; bonus points if I could use a fiber-optic camera to get some good pictures from underneath the door frame. I knew the room that this man was supposed to be going to so that made catching up to him the easy part. Dying from hypothermia on the other hand was something I was more concerned with at the time.


The street was completely empty. Snow was coming down and I had to periodically get out of my car to wipe of the windshield. I cursed myself every time because that was not conducive to good surveillance. While not having a choice in the matter I would always open the door slowly and carefully and make sure that the windows with lights on didn't have silhouettes in them, and the ones that didn't weren't moving. A couple quick scrapes and flicks of my hand, just enough to clear the glass for enough visibility to see the entrance of the brownstone, and I would bounce back into the car. After about the fifth time I was really starting to lose my patience, which is something that is unheard of for me.


It was about a quarter to midnight when the target finally came into view. The scar on his head was more prominent than the grungy, blurry photo that the contractor had sent me; I took the manilla envelope from the underneath the defunct telephone booth that the initial instructions directed me to on the second phone call.  It was jagged and ran across the forehead. He had a tight, dark mustache which turned down either side of his face and came up the sides of his cheeks in a thin goatee, though he kept his chin clean shaven. His cheeks and jawbones looked as though they were chiseled from the cold wind that was blowing outside the car. He wore a long dark coat; wool from nearest as I could tell given the distance and quick accumulation of more snow on the windshield. His left, gloved hand, held a briefcase and his right hand was in his pocket. He started up the brownstone steps and disappeared from site.


I counted to five before getting out of my car. I quickly pulled out my small bag that I carry on stakeouts and carefully hurried over to the steps. Normally I would have been faster; the ground was slick with ice and snow. My shoes, despite their good traction slipped here and there as made my way down the sidewalk. The steps were equally as treacherous. How my target managed to walk up the steps without showing so much as a sign of concern or frustration was beyond me. I almost fell on my face on the third step. After regaining my balance and gripping to the hand rail tighter than the icy cold that gripped the air, I made my way up the steps.


A quick study of the lock showed that it was a simple design in nature; it probably was as old as the brownstone's facade. Before I pulled out my picks I gave the handle a quick test and found that while it wasn't unlocked, the door gave way with ease; either the door doesn't close well or my target wasn't expecting anyone to follow him. Either way, I didn't take time to inspect the architecture; I was just glad to finally be out of the cold. In fact, my body welcomed the transitioned that I had to fight to keep it from shaking in joy at the sudden transition in temperature; it was all I could do to just keep my teeth from chattering as I made my way quickly and quietly up the stairs.


My destination was the third floor. I figured I'd take it a bit slowly on the second floor so that my target would get comfortable in his room. I figured it was probably just some important figure having a discrete rendezvous with a prostitute or high class call girl. It wouldn't be the first time that I captured some politician on film in flagrante delicto with someone who wasn't their husband or wife. Those were usually the easy jobs that I took for a quick paycheck. The more difficult jobs were the reason why I never went on the job without carrying a handgun. I could feel it pressing up against the middle of my back.


I made it to the room where the target would be in and set up shop in the apartment next door that was guaranteed by my contractor to be completely open and vacant. I should have known things would start going from cold to worse when, upon opening the apartment door, I found that it was perfectly furnished. Someone did live here. I guess by vacant, my contractor meant that no one would be there for the evening. Hopefully that would be all evening as it wouldn't be good for my otherwise spotless reputation to have the rightful occupants of this place walk in on a perfectly illegal surveillance job. Based on the very complete information that I had been given when I took the contract, I suspected that I would have the entire apartment to myself for the entire evening. I could probably have had a dip into the very fine selection of scotch that the residents of this place kept in the bar that I passed. With the feeling that I felt in my gut, I almost did take the residents up on their unspoken offer. The only thing that kept me from it was my standards of never leaving anything that could be considered a trace during a surveillance job.


I moved into the bedroom. I shined my flashlight only enough to capture the layout of the room in my head and then proceeded to work in the dark. My first move was to close the drapes. Afterward I opened my kit and pulled out a small, high frequency, directional microphone and started feeding it into the vent. According to the plans that were given to me, the vent shared the wall in the next room. The contractor was very thorough in the information. I couldn't help but think why they just didn't do this themselves.


I knew it was in position when I heard the voices coming in clear on the other end of the vent.


“Your friend told me that I could find you here. I must admit, I was expecting something a little bit more of a fight,” a very deep, foreign voice said.


The sound of the voice made me pause. I've heard that tone before. The last time I heard it was when I was looking down the barrel of a gun. The only way I got out of that situation was the police storming the room and apprehending the gunman.


I worked quickly. I had a very small and quiet drill. I didn't have time to feed a fiber-optic camera under the door. I'd have to bore through the wall. It would be a small hole. I doubt anyone would notice, or at least anyone on this side of the drywall. The other side would be more tricky. I had a small little canister of spackle which looked to be close match to the color of the wall that I briefly saw upon flashing my light on the room. I just hoped that the resident of the place next door opted to not paint the walls like these people did.


The drill worked quickly; I felt it give when I broke the first layer of drywall. The second layer was going to be the trick. I just hoped that the people in the other room wouldn't hear the drill.


“So, I'm only going to ask this once. Where did your contact tell you to meet you? Was it here?” the voice said.


I couldn't hear the other persons response. It seemed muffled. Somehow I could picture my target talking to someone who was gagged and tied to a chair. Working fast, I barely felt the give as the drill punctured the second layer of drywall. I fed the camera into the hole and saw the room on the other side.


It was a sparse room. I could only make out a bed and a body moving around the room. Sometimes the figure was just feet moving around, other times as he moved, I saw him from mid chest down. It was definitely the target that I saw walk into the building. He never took off his coat, and the gloves were unmistakable; even from the distance that I initially saw them from the windshield.


“So, it is here?” the voice asked.


I could see the figure holding up something and then putting on the nightstand next to the bed. For being so professional and scary looking, the individual appeared to be sloppy. I never would have put whatever it was back on the nightstand. That was something I knew I would want look at. Whoever he was talking to wasn't in the picture, but my suspicions were confirmed when I saw the figure pulled out a silenced pistol. It was as quick; there was no dramatic speeches or begging. The pistol fired three times. I could hear the silenced reports over the directional microphone. Anyone else in the opposite room wouldn't have heard anything.


My target holstered his weapon and bent down to police his brass. He took his briefcase and walked out of the room. I pulled the camera and the microphone as soon as I thought he was safely out of the room.


I waited at least ten minutes, during which I applied a small bit of putty to cover up the hole. No one would notice unless they paid very close attention. Picking the lock on the opposite door was as easy as I expected the main entrance to be. I quickly made my way into the room that I was surveying. As I expected, there was a body tied to a chair with a sock duct-tapped into his mouth and three holes into his chest. He was young, probably in his twenties.


I've seen bodies before, but this one seemed to be different. The look on his face seemed as though he knew he was in over his head. He clearly wasn't begging for his life, but the look in his dead eyes seemed to be one as to having been resigned to his fate. I almost felt sorry for the poor bastard even though I didn't know him.


I went over to the nightstand after puttying up the hold on this side. To my joy, the wall was creme white, same as the putty's color. A quick swipe and a few blots with a tissue and it didn't look like anyone had touched the wall at all. On the nightstand, a plane ticket to Munich, Germany. My target was probably already on a phone booking a flight to that location. Where he was going in Munich, I could only guess. I knew that my employer would probably know.


Technically this job was over. I did what I was contracted for. I got the video and the audio recording. While I didn't have a face, the contractor would know that my target was the shooter. Something told me that the contractor was going to be wanting me to pursue the target overseas. Besides, there was something in the victim's eyes that made me curious as to what this case was going to turn to. The funny thing about the whole ordeal that I just witnessed, the only thing that went through my mind before I left the room and reported back to my contractor was whether or not they had peanut butter in Germany. I wanted another bug on a log.

Change of structure

I have deleted some content from this blog because I'm changing it's spectrum. I won't be commenting much on my personal life unless it is in the form of a rant. New plans for this is to be a blog of rants; blunt, sarcastic, insult-laden opinions, and various short stories that I deem good to post here but don't desire to publish through normal means.

It's everyone's favorite couch-surfer, Xenophobia, again!

If you cross the N. Korean border illegally, you get 12 yrs. hard labor. If you cross the Afghanistan border illegally, you get shot. If you cross the U.S. border illegally you get a job, a driver's license, food stamps, a place to live, health care, housing & child benefits, education, & tax free business for 7 yrs. No wonder we are a country in debt. Re-post this if you agree.

Agree to what? You've made no real postulations, or statements regarding much of anything; you have however spouted a lot of jingoistic propaganda that serves no purpose other then to point blame and do nothing to help solve the problem; no offer of or suggested solution is being given at all. So let's just get to the point of what I'm inferring from that statement by my asking you this question: do you honestly believe that that Mexicans and latinos are the reason that our country's debt is a serious problem? Are you seriously that ignorant, stupid, racist and blind to see that it is due to other serious problems rather then the open door policy that we tend to have for this country.

There seems to be a movement in this country that seems to be a throwback to the 1950's coldwar, post WWII mindset that makes Latin American's out to be fucking boogeymen. Right now they are apparently drug dealing landscapers, and melon pickers who are coming here to take all our jobs away from us. I would like to point out that the people that have this mindset are usually the kind of people that will not take up landscaping or melon farming because that is something for a Mexican to do, because they think that hard labor or cleaning work is a job that is beneath them. These are also the same people that are polluting the gene pool by pumping out a child every nine fucking months and then turning around and asking me or others (like their churchs) for help raising their litter of fuck trophys.

Sorry, getting side tracked: overpopulating parenting fuck-addicts shall be a topic for another rant. We'll stick with this country's, or at least parts of this country's strange dispisal of the brown boogeyman from America Down Under. Do these people realize just how critical to our country's economy the immigrants from Mexico, Central and South America are to our economy? I would love to see what would happen in Arizona or California if all the illegal (hell, I'm feeling generous, let's throw legal latino immigrants in too) immigrants just went on a general strike for one single day. How many mothers would not be able to work or would be late to work because their babysitter isn't going to be available? How will restaurants be able to serve people as efficiently and smoothly without their cheap labor they have available for washing dishes? Do you honestly think that contruction will magically get ahead of schedule and *gasp* on fucking budget because your cheap, expendable, knuckle-dragging labor units aren't willing to come into the outdoor office today? No it won't. Shit may not stop, but it will slow down and America does not like it when shit slows down. We want our fast food, our internet and our gas and we want it now goddamit!!!

So instead of offer solutions or suggest changes, we now have stooped to the point of inferring that we need to change our boder policies to be more in line with that of totalitarian dictatorships and religious fascists? So if someone jumps over our border, we should toss them in a prison and labor camp (by the way our prisons are already overcrowded due to our insane penalties for non-violent crimes) and then pay even more than it would cost just to ship their asses home I guess. The prison systems (sorry... prison business) will jump at this shit in a heartbeat; they never turn down an excuse to suckle more green milk from the tax payer's teat. 

Or should we just shoot them. But that would just be wrong, right?  Hey, I can think of an upside becuase I'm the total jaded and twisted fuck that I am: organ harvesting. Little Timmy's 100,000 kidney may have just reduced in cost because suddenly the supply is starting to come in line with the demand! Sweet... Pistols all around! Go out and kill yu a border hoppin, taco bending, sweat soaked, cactus nigger and bring home an organ, because hey... that's what Jesus would do, isn't it? hayuck. hayuck. Subjugate, demonize and vilify a honest, hard working, people. It's the American way! We did it with the natives when we first came over, now we'll do it to our neighbors because we're that schizophrenic, white trash family on the block. You know, the one who lives in the house with multiple gutted cars on the lawn, all of them are up on blocks; they are never going to run, but instead they are the houses for the multiple psychotic doberman pinschers that they own (the one's whose owners place bets on which one will sink their teeth into the kids as they runs from them on their way to and from school.)

If you seriously believe that the Mexican's or our 'border problem' is the reason why our country is in such debt, you seriously need to read more news because it isn't them. It isn't them hopping over our borders. They are not stealing jobs because the jobs they take are ones we don't want to do. How can someone steal something from you that you don't have in the first place? I've only known the majority of them to be good, honest, hard working individuals; culturally they are speckled with the same amount and equivalent number of douchebags that ruin it for the rest of the majority. Just like the xenophobic pricks that think we need to become like Afghanistan or North Korea in order to solve our problems. Our forefathers didn't create a country that was really free from persecution, they knew that utopia was not going to happen. Instead of just being religion, now we have to deal with the persecution coming to us wrapped up in a three piece Armani suit armed with a cell phone and a business card.

Language use in contrast to what is actually being said

I know it would be considered by some a 'bad thing' but I really need to stop reading political news. All it does at this point is serve to piss me off more than provide any insight to the political processes that run this country. The one thing that I have taken away from it is being able to listen to the words that are coming out of someone's mouth and translate those words into what they are really saying.

Now I will preface the following with the statement that I am a contradicting liberal. I think we should extend hands out to help our fellow citizens and that everyone should be given a chance. Additionally I think the playing field should be fair and balanced for everyone. But I also support abortion and the death penalty (when used appropriately.)  Most of my issues are with the republican party at this point, though if you give me a bit of time I will be quite capable of calling out the democratic party on their bullshit too.

So, that said, lets look at one of the biggest things that the republican party has been preaching:

"We need to create jobs."

They say that they want to create jobs, but keep look at what isn't being said. It will tell a lot about what is really being told to you. What they are not stating is where they want to create the jobs. So far I have yet to hear anyone of them say that they want to create jobs in the country that they are supposedly administrating responsibly. Instead, it seems that they want to create jobs for American companies in third world countries where they don't have to pay the workers the same expected wages that they would have to pay a citizen of the United States for doing the same amount of work and producing the same quality of work. (You don't have to go to another country to get shitty quality goods. I'm a lazy American and I know we are quite capable of fucking things up on our own... we don't need to offshore that quality of our citizenry.)


"We can't do this because it is bad for business"

Another line of shit I see spew out of these walking septic tanks. What does this mean if we look at the language directly: it means that businesses will suffer (supposedly) if we were to follow a particular political path. The one thing I never hear or see is evidence backing these statements that 'business will suffer.' I think what they really mean is that this will require businesses to spend more on maintaining their internal infrastructure and we can't have that because that would mean that not as much money would be lying around doing nothing except to be used as a rag when investors look at their accounts and decide to stroke themselves. Money that sits around does nothing and makes a business stagnant. If you use that money to build on your infrastructure you can make a more sustainable company - its simple economics (I think): make a smart, internal, investment in your company with your profits, and you will (hopefully) profit from that investment (btw: this includes PAYING YOUR WORKERS GOOD, EQUAL, LIVABLE WAGES.)

I seriously want to know what how X would be bad for business and I never have gotten a satisfactory answer. A statement like this with no real evidence backing it other then 'speculation' is bullshit at best.


"Unions are evil and they take and give nothing back."

I will grant you one major thing with this statement in that there is a lot of useless bureaucracy and wasted money inside unions. I will grant you that wholeheartedly. So that said, I have seen/heard these words being spouted out (not exactly verbatim) and I have to state that this is absolute bullshit. What they are telling me, based on the actions and 'evidence' that I've seen is that unions are one of the few obstacles that remains in their way (they being inanimate entities known as corporations) from having total dictatorial control over the lives of the people who are responsible for ensuring that the foundations of these organizations are stable.

That said, I do think that there is a lot of waste in unions and I have strong objections to the idea of 'tenured positions.' It would be a lot better if the anti-union preachers would back up their statements in regards to the corruption of unions and their lack of benefit to society with actual evidence rather then a mix of straw-man arguments and jingoistic rhetoric that they hear at the dinner table.



I can probably think of more here, but these are the things that have been popping up more often then not as of late.