November 28, 2005
Posted by Ryan under Humor
Original article posted by Cornelius:
If you’re not familiar with the joke, stop reading and go find a Jonny Cash song called “Boy Named Sue” and listen to it. Then, resume reading.
I can relate to this young man. About two months ago I was walking up a ladder to go on shift in a guard tower. When I reached the top the two guys who were waiting to be relieved said, “Good morning Uma!” I looked at them and said good morning back. I had no idea what to say. What do you say? They just called me “Uma.”
It turns out that they had been having a conversation about actresses (Uma Thurman, for one) and one of them decided that I was going to be, from that time forward, “Uma.” Whatever. You can’t win against fools, so I might as well play along. It could be worse I guess. They could have given me a name that wasn’t even a name, like “Cube”, for instance. (No offense to Cube intended. Or the man who named him.)
So anyway, I figured that they’d get bored of the joke and it would go away. Not so. Those two guys started calling me “U-MA!” everywhere they saw me. Yes, that’s how it’s said too. “U-MA!”
After about three days, everyone in my Battery started calling me that. I guess it stuck. It’s been two months and that’s all they call me. Someone will ask for Anderson and they’ll say, “Oh, you mean Uma. He’s over there.” I go in to the chow hall and someone will say, “Hi Uma! What’s up?” Then everyone else looks at me funny.
So now I’m Uma, I guess. I know how the boy named “Sue” feels. The difference between us is that I have accepted my fate and decided not to harm those who gave me the name.
Re: My name is SUE! How do you do?
Yeah I would not let that get to you. I myself have been called all sorts of names from Nazi, satanist, pussy, asshole, queer, dick head, you name it I been called it. Those things almost never bother me at all, of course i am nearly emotionaly dead to the world anymore, my life is full of propaganda anymore.
I call Kellie, Kellers of course she is or was ok with that, I made sure to ask her if it was ok to call her that. But only I get to call her that, it is mine no one else can have that not her current boyfriend nor any of her friends, that is one thing I will slap the shit out of a person for, is taking my heart given name and using it witho out my permission.
Re: My name is SUE! How do you do?
Grumble Gramble….. I think Cube is a fine name…. but then Bearded Blaine you need to remind these men what your real nickname is.
Re: My name is SUE! How do you do?
I never had a real nickname Cube. Many people have tried to name me many things over the years and none of them have stuck. “Cornelius” has been relegated to a screen name and “Bearded Blaine” is more of an adjective than a nickname. I don’t even have a beard anymore. Who ever called me “Bearded Blaine” with any regularity anyway?
You’re right though. Cube is a fine name. It can’t be a fine name if no one uses it. Then it doesn’t do its job. “Cube” does that. It is a fine name.
November 27, 2005
Original article posted by Gunny:
I am a tightwad. I’ll break my back to pay off a credit card or a car loan before I am required to. I never just make the minimum payments. I don’t like to pay full price for anything either; I am never satisfied I am getting a good deal until I compare prices. Being cheap does have its advantages. For instance, I saved 4K by talking a car salesman down from $10,000 on my truck. The trouble is that I can never seem to keep any money in the bank. As soon as I realize that I have a little more than I need, I begin depositing that money into the coffers of the China King.
I love food, and Chinese food is never far from my thoughts. Sometimes I will reward myself with a Chinese buffet or go to one if I am feeling down. Sometimes I know I shouldn’t because I am low on money, but it calls to me. When Kung Pao beckons, I must obey. You can know General Tao’s slaves by their sitting alone in the buffet. Incidentally, they also have red stained lips.
This spendy/savey madness causes me a real conundrum. Sometimes I wonder how much money I’ve spent on Chinese dinners throughout my life. I probably have averaged two or three of them per week since I was twelve. What if I could have all that money back? Could I retire? I always look back through my checking account statement with guilt when I see how much I have spent on going out to eat. When those totals hit triple digits I start making my resolutions. These never last long; I usually cave within a week.
It really bothers me because I never allow myself to get into debt, but I can also never save any money. My hope is that if I can make more money in the future, my addiction to Chinese food will actually help me win over my spending. After all, a Chinese buffet can only cost so much. As long as I don’t take every meal I eat at the China Star, my earnings could surpass my spending eventually. If not, maybe someday a pharmaceutical brand will make an MSG patch or gum.
November 27, 2005
Original article posted by Asmodeus:
My friend was assaulted last week by a police officer, coming home from work, and though many of you do not see me as the protective type, to those I call true friends I am very protective and very pissed this happened to him. He was arrested by campus police for get this tresspassing and resisiting arrest. What did he do? Nothing but trying to get home from work, which is on campus and now he is scratched up on his knees.
This is what pisses me off about our legal system, innocently walk home from work and get beat up by those who are supposed to serve and protect you. Molest childeren and you are out within 90 days assaulting yet more kids! Does something seem wrong about that with you people? It does me.
That police officer was lucky that person was not me, I tell you this is why i act like a criminal I have no respect for the system at all, that cop would have been shot if it was me, and it would have been by his own gun none the less. he wants me to protest but of course I can not do that because I am violent about my voice, I believe taking names and throwing back the crime solves everything, writing my government solves nothing I tell you nothing they dont hear, getting to that bastards family is key to winning the war.
I am sorry that life has to be that way, that is why Anarchy can not thrive. I never involve the police in any of my matters, they always turn ugly, yeah sure I threatened Kellie with the police with Neal but I never really turned him in, i look at it this way sure he gets away with two girls (she might not know that other part) but I see it this way unlike me kellie does have a heart, it may be hard for me to see she does, but I believe she does. My punishment to her is this, if Neal molests his child and gets caught for it and it is gruesome Kellie will live for the rest of her life knowing she could have stopped what happened but did not.
I wash the blood off of my hands. Well that is all I have to say about our corrupt useless government, if any of you have good ideas that is not violence I will listen and take it to my friend, but from experience violence works in a very powerfull way if you do not have fear for the law.
November 27, 2005
Original article posted by Asmodeus:
WRONG! Radio silence is a sign of nuclear threat. Like childeren when they are playing queitly be on gaurd something is up. Most of you really will not be affected except the fact I finaly shut up which is what everyone really wants right.
I am a fair person, and I have allowed room for peace talks but I know Kellie too good to know she will not take that option, in fact most of our relationship consists of war, who will come out on top. Her saying she does not care does not make sense to me, I have known her for 6 or more years longer than any boyfriend she has, I have known her a long time it seems it would be a waste to throw that all away.
We all have our periods of anger, our imperfections infect our lives, but that is no reason to quite like she did! We tell people things are not fair so deal with it, however when it would happen to her it is different isnt it. I do have my own issues with being friends, i see things in a different light because I have already experienced it.
To most women if I slept with a bunch of girls just to sleep with them and that is it, to you that would be wrong right? I think it is equaly wrong to do that emotionaly to men. This is where Kellie thinks I am sexist, I believe that the only man in her life should be the man she is currently with, the only way (If I was Ryan that is I wouldn’t allow her to be with other men alone, I would ask her and not tell her but ask politely that I do have my reasons and that just as I should never be with another woman alone she should not be with another man alone.
God this is going to be a long one, I am sure most of you would say that is sexist, I would say protective, you would say sexist because I would be trying to control who she allied herself with but we could be friends as a couple together. Me saying protective cause all i have to tell you is reefers, GHB, to name a couple and also I have learned there is a toxin you can make to do just the same as these other things that pollutes the nervous system and you use rhye seed, I know how to make it, doesnt that frighten you? It is damn easy too.
Also I would like to add, that if she is seeking other men for emotional support than of course the person that is supposed to be giving it to her is not now is he. I would like Ryan to think long and hard about that one, she thinks you suck in a lot of ways and of course she did not tell me that directly (except the part you are bad in bed me and my friends had a good laugh at that one, and of course they came up with some theories but we wont get into that)
Also I am sure most of you would argue that I too am not emotionaly there for her, and I would have to say you are right, I wish I could be as emotionaly adequate as I am sexualy adequate for her, unfortunately I can make her body cream better than I can make her feel loved and needed.
Well I too am open to any good ideas nothing wrong with that, and you all have until the first of December to give any ideas or thoughts to me, I do really favore anything that could help me understand her better I will talk back I just wanted to write this early because I am sure she will not stop and I will have to do as I plan (trust me its really bad).
So later people I hope you guys have lots of fun poking fun of people and shit.
November 22, 2005
Original article posted by Greg:
But speaking of which…
I have something on my wall that I like to read sometimes.
“Whereas, it is the duty of all nations to acknowlege the providence of Almighty God, to obey His will, to be grateful for His benefits, and humbly to implore His protection and favor, and;
“Whereas, both Houses of Congress have, by their joint committee, requested me ‘to recommend to the people of the United States a day of public thanksgiving and prayer, to be observed by acknowledging with grateful hearts the many and signal favors of Almighty God, especially by affording them an opportunity peaceable to establish a form of government for their saftey and happiness’;
“Now, therefore, I do recommend and assign Thursday, the 26th Day of November Next, to be devoted by the people of these states to the service of that great and glorious Being who is the beneficent author of all the good that was, that is, and that will be; that we may then all unite in rendering unto Him our sincere and humble thanks for His kind care and protection of the people of this country previous to their becoming a nation;… to promote the knowledge and practice of true religion and virtue, and the increase of science among them and us; and, generally, to grant unto all mankind such a degree of temporal prosperity as He alone knows to be best.
“Given under my hand, at the City of New York, the 3rd day of October, a.d. 1789.
As for me… I’m grateful for the circumstances in which I have been able to live my life till now. I feel blessed (or ‘lucky’ to use athiest-speak) in terms of family, friends, upbringing, and opportunity. I am especially grateful to good friends who help me be my best just by being who they are.
I always used to hate going online and happening across a religious website. Or a Blog of somebody who is religious. And here I am on a mission. Writing religious things.
My voice is only just returning. I never realized before, but having a voice is pretty much essential to missionary work. I’ve spent the last 5 days or so just feeling useless. I hope that my voice will be up to the task of recording today.
Otherwise, things seem pretty good.
See last year’s entry for descriptions of this year’s weather.
Re: Founding Father Grateful, Film at 11.
Darn straight! If I’m ever President, (gasp!) I’m going to read that at the first Thanksgiving Day I’m in office!
November 22, 2005
Posted by Ryan under Prose
Original article posted by bluesman:
It was the drops of blood that gave her away. Well, that’s not entirely true. She started acting strange after she came out of the restroom. Before she went in, she had been quiet, reserved, but lucid. Nothing out of the ordinary for a first date. Nothing that would require long explanations. After she came out, her demeanor completely changed. Her eyelids had fallen to half mast. She slouched in her chair. The corners of her mouth were pulled up into a very faint smile. She laughed loudly at things that weren’t even jokes. She lost interest in her meal. She was relaxed to the point of absurdity. Several times she made to hit Josh on the arm in that playful way girls do when they like a boy, but she missed each time, and nearly fell out of her chair with the last attempt. He had helped her back into her chair, while she giggled and said something he didn’t catch.
There was also the thing that fell out of her purse as she tried to get out of his car. He might not have given a second thought to it, he knew where she worked, but he had seen the drops of blood—dark points on spotless white pants. He had been staring at her in one of the obvious places: her rear. He saw the first drop when they got up to leave the restaurant. She stood up, turned around to pick up her sweater that lay draped over the back of her chair, and there it was: a small dark spot high up on her backside, just below the belt loops on the right side. At the time, it meant nothing to him. But then he saw another one, after she came out of the restroom at the music store. She had sat on her haunches, looking at the rap section, laughing obnoxiously, making noises, as though she were a human beat box. She nearly fell again, threw her hands out to arrest her fall, the C.D.s she held in her hands skittering on the floor. As he stooped to pick up her and the scattered C.D.s, he saw a second dot on her pants, this one just down and to the left of the first. Her behavior became even more erratic. She had put on a pair of headphones at one of the listening stations, and was bouncing to and fro, alternately pointing her index fingers in the air, a la John Travolta, her lips pursed and sticking out in a caricature of a kiss. The other browsers snickered and laughed behind their hands, while the store owner just looked on impatiently. Finally Josh pulled her away. She complained loudly as he led her out to the car, pulling away from him, fighting him. She tried to play it off with a smiling face, but her features were pinched and agitated. The smiles were more snarls than anything.
She started to complain of a headache, and so he pulled over next to a newsstand that had little packets of aspirin hanging in tidy rows. Before he could get out, she had jumped out of the car, yelling. Then he saw it fall out of her purse and onto the floor of the car: a small, plastic cylinder with a black rubber plunger and a tiny needle. The plunger was pushed all the way in. As he stared at it, the object became clear, immediate, present. He picked it up. It felt heavy in his hand. The back lettering on the sides, denoting measurements in milliliters, stood out sharply. Josh felt sick at his stomach.
There was a commotion outside. Looking up, he saw she was fighting with the newsstand keeper, holding a little packet of aspirin in one hand, and a bottle of mineral water in the other. Her face was twisted, her body rigid with anger. She threw the bottle of water at the newsstand guy. It struck him square on the nose, and he disappeared behind the counter, holding his hands to his face. She went berserk. She tore apart the newsstand, throwing newspapers, gum, playing cards, and souvenirs everywhere. Josh jumped out of his car, running toward the chaos. A cop came running up, called over by a concerned onlooker, and tried to calm her down. She turned on him, trying to scratch his face with her hands. The officer grabbed her and forced her down, kicking and screaming, to the pavement. And there she lay, on her belly, with her face pressed into the cold, wet cement, screaming and cursing, spittle flying from her mouth, tears gushing down her cheeks, as she thrashed underneath the heavy policeman. Josh just stood there, seeing dark spots and sinister syringes, looking down at the train wreck that was his date.
This is Camille’s story.
Camille worked on the third floor of the Midwest Regional Hospital. The third floor is Behavioral Sciences. It is the place where drug addicts, depressed teenagers and semi-suicidal people go to wait for proper treatment. A holding pen/halfway house for the marginally dangerous. Camille worked the graveyard shift. She had been there two years, working three twelve hour shifts that start at six p.m., Thursday through Saturday. She got along okay with her co-workers, if only for the fact that she always showed up on time, did her charting properly, and was always willing to work everybody else’s shift when they called in sick—which was every three day weekend or whenever somebody made camping or boating trips.
Behavioral Sciences shared floor space with Pediatrics, and Camille had to walk through halls adorned with painted scenes from Toy Story, The Jungle Book and Bambi to get to her corner of the floor. Along the way were narrow, darkened rooms with small children sequestered within—children shaved bald, I.V.s sticking out of their emaciated arms, translucent respirators over their mouths, emotionally and fiscally crushed parents sitting beside them.
Camille had to punch in a code to enter her work area. Her code was her own birthday, until one of the patients in Behavioral found it out and then told it to his friend during his afternoon call. The friend came in later that night, drunk, and threatening to lock up Camille and the other woman on duty, Teresa, waving a small steak knife as he shouted. Everyone in Behavioral had to change their codes after that, and Camille changed hers to the birthday of her mother, whom she hadn’t spoken to for three years.
Once inside the heavy door, she would sit down behind the long counter than faced the patient’s rooms, and get the shift change report. The twelve hours she would spend at work consisted mostly of tedious sitting. The patients usually came out of their rooms to pace, or to tell their life’s story to Camille, or whoever was working that night. One night a patient would tell Camille about how she ran away from home. The next, another would tell her how he tried to poison his wife because she refused to buy him pantyhose. Every once in a while, a patient would become so agitated that they would have to restrain them. Sometimes the patients were so violent they would call hospital security—a fat balding man well versed in Star Trek lore who would tell Camille that “a phaser set to stun would put this one down, quick,”
At around three a.m. Camille would take her lunch break, all fifteen minutes of it, in the small office behind the bathroom. There was just enough room to slide into the creaking roller chair that was wedged between the wall and the heavy metal desk that held the patients paperwork. She would eat in silence, staring at the insipid posters which hung on three of the four walls of the space—a man in a rowboat, gliding across a fog-strewn lake in the early morning light, a woman scaling an impossibly high slab of sandstone in the middle of a forsaken desert, a muscular runner at the blocks, his body covered in sweat. Each scene was underscored with a caption:
THE ROAD LESS TRAVELLED BY
DETERMINATION IS SEEING THROUGH WHAT OTHERS WILL NOT
SUCCESS IS A JOURNEY, NOT A DESTINATION
And there Camille would sit; slowly eating her food, her face blank, the word PERFECTION standing over her like some crushing, incomprehensible monument.
Re: Story #26
Keep up the story posting…. its what this place is about and I enjoy what you post.
November 16, 2005
Original article posted by Greg:
So I took a little train ride to taipei today to rehearse. About 2 hours later the rest of the group showed up (yes, late. I wasn’t early.) and we sang through it twice, said “Sounds good to me.” and had lunch.
But my voice is nearly gone today. I can’t sing above an F. It may have something to do with those filthy chickens I played with a couple weeks ago, but I don’t think so. Maybe I shouldn’t have licked one of them. Hmmm.
But we are actually going to make a CD next week, which I think is pretty exciting. I’ve always wanted to be famous. So we’re making a cd of hymns in chinese for the chinese people. Because they haven’t got any. So we thought they could do with some. So it’s being done. I can’t believe some of the talent here in the mission. It’s amazing.
Not much else is new here. Suprized. No earthquakes since elder Ruoti came on island, which is too bad. I remember my first day I had a pretty decent one.
I have a desire to memorize hamlet’s monologue, but no hamlet to read from. And then also no time to read it. And I don’t know where this desire is coming from.
Haven’t found any buddhist gods lately, which is sad. But I can always imagine myself carting a leprechaun around in my bike basket.
I bet that kind of thing would be helpful for people in Iraq. Just imagine an angry leprechaun in your knapsack or whatever. “Ye’ll be feedin’ me more of your MRT candies or I’ll be feedin’ ye to a sandworm!”
I had the chance to talk to a guy who had been excommunicated from the church years ago. He was a catholic missionary once long ago, then bought himself a Book of Mormon one day, started reading it 3 years later, and decided that same day that he needed to join the church. Long story short, he got in trouble for something unspecified, got excommunicated, and then 3 years later re-baptized. The thing that struck me was his attitude towards going through church discipline. He felt really blessed that the Lord would take the time to teach him just how serious his sins were, instead of letting him go on and assume it wasn’t a big deal.
It was a nice meeting, anyway. I thought.
My time is up. I like letters.
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