Apocalypse day 342: Thanksgiving.

Hello, friends. It has been quite a while, hasn't it? Or perhaps this is your first time stumbling upon this little blog of mine. Regardless, this is my first time writing for this blog in months. You might be saying to yourself, "Gavin, in your last post, you said this blog was cancelled because you died!" 

That's true. I did say that. But I say a lot of things, not all of them can be true all of the time. Now, it will be true eventually. And in fact, if all goes according to the Prophecies, it will be true in a matter of days. This is why I once again resurrected my blog. This is what I want to talk to you about: The Prophecies. 

Thousands of years ago, there was a civilization called the Mayans. These were a fascinating people, and very gifted in the ways of prophecy, as well as calendar making. In fact, the Mayans were regarded as the best calendar makers in the world. 

Recently, it came to the attention of the world that the Mayan long count calendar ended on December 21st, 2012. Many people assumed this meant the end of the world. 

They were wrong. 

It just meant the beginning of the end of the world. 

As the Prophets of the Ancient and Unspeakable Ones foresaw, December 21st, 2013 is when the world will end. 

They prophecied that the Nug-Shohab (the Great Headless One) would return from his 10,000 year slumber on December 21st, 2012. He would wreak havoc for one year, until it would finally end in utter destruction. 

As any of you who own calendars know (unless you own a Mayan calendar, which ends at 2012), it is approaching that time. Over the last year, the world has been plunged into madness. But the liberal media won't report on it. The zombie outbreak in Northern California, for instance. There was not a single mention of it on CNN. 

Or the Blood Wave in New York. Did Fox News report on it once? The answer is no. 

That's why I'm here. The world needs to know what is going on. 

People may not believe me, but I will still truthfully report what is going on. The Nug-Shohab will come. There is every reason to be afraid. 

But in your fear, there is a lesson to learn. You can be thankful that you have something to fear for. So go, eat with your families. Enjoy your last days. 

 You have something to be fearful for. Be thankful. 

tales from the burrito cancelled

tales from the burrito has been indefinitely been cancelled because of the Death of the author.

Spaghetti,

Master Chef.

Haggis Part 10: The Haggis.

          A loud, terrible shriek tore through the trees. "BAAAA!" Haggis the Goat enunciated, which means something along the lines of "We have no time for detailed battle strategy and planning, so I highly suggest we RUN!!!!" So the heroes ran away into the thick cover of the trees. They all crouched down on the ground, peering cautiously from behind a tree.
         Hippie Guitar Man shook his head. He narrowed his eyes and stood, planting his feet firmly on the ground. There was resolve and determination in his eyes. The kind you might see in a man about to face his fears. The kind you might see in a man climbing a mountain that everyone said was impossible to summit. He's just feet away. He just has to place one foot after the other, and he will have achieved his goal. The kind of determination you might see in a 4 year old trying to pour his own cereal. He gritted his eyes. Or his teeth, I mean. "This is mine. Stay here, man." He said.
      The Ridiculously White Man with the Handlebar Mustache grabbed him. "No. We can't let you do this alone. You don't know what it's capable of. We can help you."
     "Nah, man," Hippie Guitar Man replied. "I got this. I may not be the brightest cookie in the tool shed, but I do know this: A man has to face his own battles. You mess with the orange juice, you get the pulp. And this haggis has been sticking his nostrils in the wrong orange juice."
     Hippie Guitar Man brushed The Ridiculously White Man with the Handlebar Mustache's hand off his shoulder. He walked a few steps, and another shriek rang through the thickly wooded forest. He turned around. "If I don't come back in one day..." "Hamburgers." The Ridiculously White Man with the Handlebar Mustache finished. "What? What was that?" Hippie Guitar Man asked, perplexed. "I... I was trying to finish your sentence to show the readers that we've grown as characters and bonded, or something." "..." Hippie Guitar Man responded, backing away. "I don't know what you're talking about, man. BUT I'M GOING TO FIGHT THE HAGGIS!!!" He ran toward the cries of the demented creature. "Baaaaa!' Haggis called after him, encouragingly.
      Hippie Guitar Man was alone now, running through the thick mass of bramble and trees. It was dark and foreboding. Just as a mountain climber could misplace his foot, and just as a 4 year old could cause a terrible cereal accident, this too could be a mistake. The twigs snapped under his feet.
       After a while, he slowed. Silence. Strange, tense silence. He no longer heard the haggis's cries, but he knew he must be close. He could smell it. After another few minutes of walking, he stepped into a clearing. But not a natural clearing... Someone, or, dreading the thought, someTHING had knocked over the trees and tore them from the ground. He saw a footprint. Not a human footprint, but the footprint... of a toad. But right next to it was a much larger footprint... That of the haggis.

On "the Self."

Throughout my short life, I have found humans to be fascinating. Disgusting at times, yes; repulsive, yes; but what makes them interesting is their choice to be the way they are. A conscious decision? Not always, in fact, rarely. But life is made up of little moments, each one a choice. Each choice results in some sort of outcome, each outcome affecting who you are. You cannot simply "Be yourself" because "yourself" is something constantly being created. You are not born a self, but rather, the self is being invented each moment you live and is constantly under construction until the moment you die. Once you have died (and even before then to an extent, but exclusively afterwards) the Self you have created is left in other people's minds. Not wholly, not completely, perhaps not accurately, but it is a reflection of the Self you have created being seen through the mirror of the Self they have created. Each little choice, every judgment, everything you think and the way you react to stimuli comes from decisions you have made in the past, and can affect the decisions you make in the future. But one thing that baffles me, and I believe always will, is the choices and decisions that could cause someone to like Nickelback.

Vice Prez debate: 11 October 2012.

       Tonight's debate was good. My favorite part was a tie between Biden's ridiculous laughing (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/10/11/joe-biden-laughing-photos_n_1960060.html#slide=1633548) and Ryan's burn of Joe Biden. "I think you would know better than most people words don't always come out of our mouths like we mean them." Paraphrasing, of course. I can't remember what he actually said.
       But more than this debate, I'm looking forward to next week's legendary traditional "yo mama" jokes debate. This was a tradition started in the era of the great election between John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, though most people falsely believe it started with the election between Thomas Jefferson and Alexander Hamilton. The Yo Mama joke debate was so heated, physical violence ensued and both Jefferson's and Hamilton's mothers had to attend counselling sessions. Since then, it has been a highly respected and anticipated debate. Next week's jokes are kept a top secret, and it is even rumored some of them will be free styled, an interesting move from both Obama and Romney. Experts have anticipated that these jokes will be used:
Romney: "Obama, yo mama so fat she makes the national debt look small!"
Obama: "Yo mama so ugly, uh, Joe Biden couldn't stop laughing at her during last week's, uh, debate!"
             Obama has revealed his jokes are being written by comedic genius Darrell Bluett, while Romney has made the unprecedented move of having his VP, Paul Ryan, write half the jokes, and an even more unprecedented move of having Joe Biden write the other half.

        Yes, ladies and gentlemen, next week will prove to be quite interesting. And remember, vote, vote, vote!*




*The phrase "vote, vote, vote!" is meant simply as you really, really should vote, however, if you are a Democrat, chances are you've taken it literally.

Songs you Probably like and Reasons They're Terrible (Or, I'm an unrepentant and insufferable snob whose opinion is respected by no one.): Issue #2

This issue: "Stronger" by Kelly Clarkson.

This song starts off strong by contradicting common logic. "You know the bed feels warmer Sleeping here alone" While clearly Ecclesiastes 4:9-12 (NIV) says

^"9 Two are better than one,
    because they have a good return for their labor:
¹⁰ If either of them falls down,
    one can help the other up.
But pity anyone who falls
    and has no one to help them up.
¹¹ Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm.
    But how can one keep warm alone?
¹² Though one may be overpowered,
    two can defend themselves."

"You know I dream in color And do the things I want"

"You know I dream in color." Why say this? Do you think that makes you special? Most people dream in colour. Maybe 20% dream in black and white (we can only assume that this comes from a childhood habit of having their local theater pianist play them to sleep while those crazy neighborhood kids are up to their usual silent shenanigans.) 

"And I do the things I want" 

This reminds me of a passage in Judges. Judges 17:6 to be specific. And we ALL know how that ended. NOT WELL. "In those days there was no king in Israel; every man did what was right in his own eyes (KJV)." 

And the chorus:

"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger Stand a little taller Doesn't mean I'm lonely when I'm alone What doesn't kill you makes you fighter Footsteps even lighter Doesn't mean I'm over 'cause you're gone."  

Well thanks for that message of inspiration, Kelly. The only problem is that it isn't true. For instance, losing your leg in a drunk driving accident would not make you stronger. You never see that person in the gymnastics in the Olympics (I haven't anyway, but I don't watch the Olympics that much). And you might say 'ah, yeah, but EMOTIONALLY, not PHYSICALLY.' Well in that case, I can go ahead and eat my 6th fried bacon-n-butter burger coated with extra bacon and dipped in chocolate. Because while it will kill me eventually and is obscenely unhealthy, every one I eat until I die is just MAKING ME STRONGER (Although it's still inaccurate, because "footsteps even lighter" is like the opposite of what is happening every time I take a greasy delicious bite of my chocolate dipped heart attack).

The rest of the song is just repeating the bridge and chorus, so that's all the lyrics I'll analyze for now. 

But all in all, this song sends the wrong message. "it's okay to disregard the wisest man in history!"; "it's okay to be a fat fatty wallowing in bacon grease!"; and most importantly, though you only get this from the video, not the lyrics, "it's okay to include kung fu moves that would be rejected from a 1970s B movie in your poorly choreographed and cheesy music video!" 

     Spaghetti, 

Master Chef. 

Rims on the Wagon: Chapter 10

Chapter 10: no one messes with a bearded baby

               

                In his amazement at seeing his favorite artist in person like this, Danny walked straight into a large claw arcade. He realized about the time that the claw started pulling his hair that he had made a terrible mistake. On reflection, he realized he shouldn’t have taken what I said about walking “into a large claw arcade” so literally. He could hardly be blamed for this, since he had no idea what I said about it, but the fact remains. He made quite a racket trying to get out, and a crowd started to gather. M.G. and his posse turned to see what was happening just as the machine tipped over, sending Danny sprawling across the floor in the broken glass. M.G. looked at him with disgust for several seconds, and was about to walk away when he heard the sound. What sound? THE sound. Danny’s fall had knocked him into a daze, and without knowing where he was or what he was doing, he began to rap. M.G. had never heard its equal. Many of the posse thought that M.G. himself had started singing, and they joined in with their rhythmic calls of “YEEEEEAH. M.G.!!!”, but he quickly silenced them. “I’m not one to be modest about my skills, y’all, but I won’t ‘tend like I can rap like that.” They stood in shock. “Kid, you got the makings of something great. HEY!! I don’t wanna see no south-side wannabes messing with my little man, here. The kid’s got skill. The kid’s got a beard. The kid is south-side.”  The posse was shocked. Danny, as he came to his senses enough to realize what his idol had said, was also shocked. I was shocked. Why was I shocked? Because I realized that I had taken for granted that you would know the most obvious fact in the world about Amish children: they are all born with full beards. One look at that exquisite facial salad was enough for M.G. to see that this kid had some street-cred. “Boys… men… south-side modified gangstas… I want you to give it up for Bearded Baby.”

                M.G. invited Danny, or as he was now known, “Bearded Baby”, to join his posse. They walked, they talked, and they rapped. They walked about the town, they talked about the town, and they rapped about everything in between. Danny told his hero his whole story, including how he had found out about him. “Man, you straight up rap after just a few months of knowin what south-side is in the first place? YEAH!! I give you some props fer that, Beard-Baby.” Danny couldn’t believe what was happening to him. He was talking to his favorite rapper of all time, and his own hero was giving HIM props.

                The posse continued to walk around the town, and eventually made it to the rap legend’s favorite hangout. “Bearded Baby, I want you to make yourself at home in my favorite hangout.” Said M.G., as he gestured towards the front door of his favorite truck stop. “This jin-u-wine south-side eatery is the best you’ll ever see.” Danny looked with wonder at the slightly rustic, yet slightly elegant gas station. The front windows were totally covered in glossy posters of racecar drivers and their favorite light beers. The gas pumps had computers on them, yet the attendant wore pleasantly comfortable looking overalls. The door had a sign reading, “You TRY n come in here with your wanna-be south side swag and no shirt, and we say, ‘naw.’” Upon walking inside, Danny was blown away by the cool, air-conditioned air. He was mesmerized by the bright, shiny fluorescent lights. He was enraptured by the selection of Bob’s Authentic Amish Bear Jerky. He was dumbfounded by how the bathrooms smelled even less repulsive than his favorite aunt’s outhouse. “Jonathan’s hairband!” exclaimed Danny. “this place is amazing!” “This,” said M.G., “this here is a little piece of south side.”

                “D’oh, schwack.” Said Danny, “It’s almost 5:30. I need to get back to Mr. Nathaniel’s house for dinner.” He thanked the rap legend and his posse for the warm welcome, and jogged back towards Nathaniel’s apartment. “Hey, Danny!” said Nathaniel as he opened the door for him. “It’s nearly time for dinner, you’d better get washed up.” “Ok. Sorry I was gone so long.” Danny said. “I got the digits of your apartment number backwards and almost got kidnapped by some guy with a pet ear sitting on his shoulder when I accidentally knocked on his door.” Nathaniel laughed, “Oh, that’s just Mr. Jimmie. He’s harmless enough. He probably just wanted to show you his exotic hankie collection. By the way, I don’t think you’ve met my wife, Chartreuse.” As he said this, his wife, Chartreuse, came into the door. “You must be Danny!” she said as she brushed the mass of ridiculously curly hair out of her eyes enough to see him. “Since Nathaniel called earlier, I’ve been looking forward to cooking a fresh pot roast for everyone! I’m just about to put it in, so hurry and get ready for dinner.” “You’re just now putting it in? I thought Mr. Nathaniel said it was almost ready?” Danny pondered aloud. “Oh, don’t worry.” Chartreuse assured him, “It won’t take more than 15 minutes.”