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.”

Haggis the Goat part 9

      They left the airport where they had landed in the plane (I use the term "airport" loosely, as it was really more of a complex of runways and buildings for the takeoff, landing, and maintenance of civil aircraft, with facilities for passengers. But no matter, the point still remains). Steve suggested they all go to the nearest Jamba Juice and enjoy a citrus-y beverage. However, there was no "nearest Jamba Juice" because they were in Scotland, and Scotland has nothing of the sort. In fact, the sort of "juice" they have is spirits, and not the kind that haunt the castles and manors of Scotland (though they have plenty of those).

     They asked the nearest Scotlander if there was a place for some citrus juice. "Aye, citrus juice, ay? I'll tell ya laddie, ain't no citrus juice round these parts."

    Steve asked "Is there a place where we can get some nice, refreshing H2O?"
The Scot replied in a stereotypical thick Scottish accent in this stereotypical manner. "Ach, we don't have H2O round these parts either. Just C₉H₁₆O<sub>2. "
     After their conversation with this stereotypical Scot was over, they continued to walk, led by Hippie Guitar Man. In the city, they rented a car. In this car, Hippie Guitar Man the driver, they traversed the land to the point where Hippie Guitar Man had his traumatic experience as a child with the giant haggis. 

     The car rolled up the dirt pathway. Hippie Guitar Man applied his foot to the brake, halting the car. He turned off the car. The engine stopped. There was dead silence. Minutes passed, and no one breathed. Time itself seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for something to happen, for the shaky Hippie Guitar Man to make his move and face the odious memory of that abominable night. 
   He shook his head and opened the car door, stepping out onto the earthy pathway. As his foot hit the aforementioned earthy pathway, a deafening roar deafened them half to death. "Aw, snap." Said Hippie Guitar Man, lazily chewing his fingernail. "Baaaahh", said Haggis, which is roughly translated, "Wait, it was like 2 months ago when I read the last chapter. How should I be reacting to this, again? What's my motivation here?" So, as he thought it over, I flipped back to part 8 to find out, myself. 
"Baaaaaaahhhhhh." said Haggis, being translated, "Oh, right. We're here to avenge Hippie Guitar Man by destroying the haggis. I'm not sure what the haggis actually did to him, but that doesn't really matter now." "That is quite right, Haggis." said the Ridiculously White Man with the Handlebar Mustache (yes, I am going back to calling him that. I was an idiot for ever letting that go). "Alright, enough stalling for time so that the author can think of ideas for what's going to happen next. Let's take down that haggis."


     As the Ridiculously White Man with a Handlebar Mustache finished these words, another deafening roar blasted through the air. Haggis and the Hippie Guitar Man ran ahead towards the forest in the distance, while the Ridiculously White Man with the Handlebar Mustache ghost-rode the car behind them. It was time to face the beast.</sub>

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 #1

This issue: "We are Young" by Fun.

First of all, this song is basically composed of one verse and a chorus. A vapid, useless, meaningless, overly repetitive chorus with poorly written lyrics and analogies that don't seem to be analogous to anything. The song reminds me of "Pumped Up Kicks" in a way, except that song is actually good, while this song has nothing to offer except an admittedly catchy tune. They're both upbeat songs that sound happy juxtaposed with depressing lyrics, though the lyrics to "We are Young" seem to be positive if you don't really look into it.
Buuuut they're not positive. Which is fine.

"she's waiting for me just across the bar
My seat's been taken by some sunglasses asking about a scar, and
I know I gave it to you months ago
I know you're trying to forget between the drinks and subtle things"

Tis a silly song.

There's only one good thing I've gotten from this song, and that is it's really fun to belt out 'TONIIIIIIIIGHT' at the top of your lungs when someone else is speaking.

 In closing, if you really, really like this song, and the lyrics have inspired you, then that's fine. Just know your taste in music is bad and you should feel bad.

Next week, another installment will be written and posted on here, even though I know you don't care about my clearly superior opinions.

     —  Master Chef.

*note: the opinions and viewpoints stated in this article are necessarily the viewpoints and opinions of the staff and writers of Tales From The Burrito. Any offense and/or hatred inspired by this post is your own fault, you silly nitty, and we fully hope you are offended. Any resemblance to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental and unintentional, except any resemblance to Stephen Tyler, who we aren't sure whether is living or dead. 



P.S.- Happy Esther Day.