Some recent developments which may cause me to hit you in the face without warning;

-Hivelife is officially closing. I've conceded to move my writing elsewhere, although few servers are awesome enough to contain the magnitude of my incredible writing. I'm challenging other servers to write me emails explaining why they should be allowed to host my crotch-kickingly-good work. I will be checking my inbox for messages from google, livejournal, and blogger.

-I now am working, bringing in at least three hundred dollars a week from nepotism. For those of you who don't know what that is, Webster's Dictionary officially changed its definition to this after I sent them an angry glare in the mail;
Nepotism - the act of awarding an individual employment or free money after King Devon threatens to practice contact juggling with the employer's severed head.

-I recently turned down a job offer at a marketing firm in Woburn because I was not satisfied with the changes I would have to make in order to accommodate their needs. It usually works the other way around.

-I have started a pile of money, and have been searching for a means to tailor it into a sleeping surface. I've always wanted to sleep on a pile of money.

I think this may be my last post here, so please look at these other links for different stylings of humor;
Distaste For the Illogical
Tobor the Robot's Logical Blog
Humorous Stories

And Forever, Hail to the King, baby!

I need a job. I've had interview after interview, but no luck. This economic crisis is an insignificant twitch in the brow of the whole fucking universe compared with the crisis that will happen on someone's face when they stop wanting to hire me. People don't seem to realize that when they say I'm not needed, they're tempting fate. Here is a list of things I am poised to do to people who don't instantly offer me jobs;

-I am ready to wind up and power-kick the employer in the face so hard that their surprise level will cause an earthquake of seismic proportions. The building will then collapse.

-I could punch the employer's babymaker with so much force that back in time, previous generations of the person's ancestry will be born retarded. Yes, I am capable of punching backwards through time.

-I might tear out the employer's chest-bone and sternum-shank them in the throat an infinite number of times.

-I would wind my fist up to the speed of light and punch the person's jaw so hard that they will spin in place enough times to drill through the floor and fall onto a pile of explosions being created at the explosion factory on the floor underneath in exactly 2 seconds.

-I could yank both of the employer's legs apart so hard that he or she will execute a midair split, allowing me to take a large, angry bite of their groin shortly before tearing them in half down the middle.

I would think these are enough incentives to hire me for a well-paying job.

Having graduated already, I can't really understand why less than everybody is not offering me a pile of jobs. You see, I'm kind of a big deal, and I am finding it frustrating and alarming that I don't have people clammoring to hire me, especially when my money has almost run out.

I just suffered through an interview at a temp agency where they said I wasn't quite qualified to do some of the work they had available. I almost flipped the desk, ripped the person's eyeballs out, and crammed them into their nostrils. It would have made for quite a show, but the bottom line is that I wouldn't have been paid to do so. So I left.

I think I have enough money for one more spoonful of gas into my car and maybe one more cheap lunch on the Burger King value menu.

Let's hope it doesn't come to that.

Since Hivelife is going to die soon, I think I'll give those of you left who still read this something to take with you. It's a list I left myself on my computer when I had too much to drink. It was entitled; "Last Night...Love, you."

To Do List -

#1 - Get a Passport (city Hall)
#2 - Email Dr. Lucy's contact
#3 - Research Airfare to 'Nam
#4 - Check up on Money Order cho sach tieng viet
#5 - Practice Basketball...you can handle this shit
#6 - New Chapter of Memoir, check comments
#7 - Fight the Asian Beetle in New England...be creative
#8 - Use Fire
#9 - Drink that 40oz in your crisper, then deal with the aristocracy in your hometown
10 - Run for office
11 - Good luck
12 - post this on your blog, and hope it snaps you out of your stupid drunken haze
13 - It really won't though
14 - Drunk Devon and sober Devon rarely collaborate
15 - You think so?
16 - This is no longer a 'To Do' list
17 - Let this be proof
18 - I'll show you (fist pump)

Have you ever gotten so drunk that you wake up the next morning and start trying to find clues about what happened the night before? Or why you woke up in another state cuddling a raccoon with your clothes off?

Also, notice that I arbitrarily ceased using number signs at #10 for some reason I still can't figure out.

This list was not only inspiring to me, but it made me realize something important--I probably shouldn't drink too much booze at one time.

See you later, folks. It's been fun.

I don't know how many people actually subscribe to Howard Stern's show on satellite radio. I don't really care, because I tend not to care about things that cost money. What I find fascinating is that not two days ago, the guy brought a girl on the show who wants to auction her virginity off to pay for college.

...what?

I had two thoughts about this. My first thought;

"Holy shit, that 22-year-old bombshell is going to get her box violated by a 300-pound troll who happens to have 3 million dollars, acne, and a huge collection of Star Trek figures!"

My second thought?

"Damn it. Why didn't I think of that?"

The fact is, despite the controversy, this girl is about to get a way better deal than most people. A lot of morons give their virginity away for free. I didn't even get to keep the box mine came in. In fact, I wonder why it is that most people seem to value virginity. In some countries (like Cambodia), forcefully ravaging a female virgin's nether region is still thought to cure things. You know, like diseases you can fix by taking the money you were gonna spend on having illicit sex with a 14-year-old girl and instead using it to pay for medicine at a hospital.

It's kind of stupid, really. Some folks in Cambodia who are apparently comprised entirely of stupid particles believe that sheathing their porkswords in a hilariously underaged virgin's sex scabbard will CURE THEM OF AIDS.

If cures that MAKE SENSE don't work, then why would an idea that would make a CRACK-SMOKING ORANGUTAN scratch his head in confusion >EVER< help you?

In fact, I'm pretty sure the AIDS crisis in third world countries is exacerbated when old men with AIDS play genital hockey with eight-year-old girls. I think they just wanted an excuse to have unrestricted backstage passes to a child's vagina. This is why we need---




The last thing a Cambodian brothel customer would expect when walking in with the intent to go junk-jousting with a little girl is to see this glowing beacon of justice.

Problem solved.

I hate the very concept of the "Bro." I hate bros themselves. Actually, "Hate" is a relatively strong word. I much prefer referring to bros as people I "strongly dislike and want dead."

Whenever I go to a nearby bar, I always see throngs of spiky-haired, pop-collared ding-a-lings clamoring for a Heineken and a Jagerbomb. This is a list of terms which endear the bro-culture with a train-wreck of deserved stereotypes. Have fun with it;

The "Bro-Job."

I always see bros hugging and nearly kissing eachother whenever one or more of them accomplishes an insignificant feat. Whether it happens to be that one of them has successfully macked on a fly honey, pounded a huge-capacity of intolerable bro-fluid drank, or even spiked his hair perfectly with an inauspicious amount of FDA-Restricted hair gel, there's always a group of bros waiting to give eachother "Bro-Jobs."
Here's an example-


Notice the Jagerbomb and the look of unquestionable comraderie.
Despite the fact that nobody in their right fucking mind would ever consume the panda-anusy sensation of liquid licorice, Jagermeister remains the drink of choice and brocial-lube for all bro interractions.


Many of them engage in bro-hugs, which reduce the heterosexuality quotient of any given area by infinite fractions of percentages. Forever.

The "Bro-Zone."

Whenever you walk into a bro-fested area, you may find the climate threatening. You may find that the temperature in a recently-discovered bro-saturated area might be excruciatingly hot, caused by the weather phenomena known as the "Bro-zone." Caused indiscriminately by the inappropriately large amount of hair gel used by bros in the vicinity, the "Bro-Zone Layer" is fueled by the plastic layer of inorganic super geographic phenomena created when several people with the same spiky haircut enter into an alcohol-vending establishment and collectively ask for pitchers of inexcusably inexpensive draught beer.

"Bro-do Baggins"

I've never watched any of the Lord of the Rings movies or read any of the books, but I can point out at any given college bar the one person who deserves wholeheartedly to be pushed into the fires of Mordor. There's always one asshole who is trumpeting his sexual conquests to the entire bar, regardless of whether or not the patrons in audible range are under 80 years old. This figure will rarely leave the bar before 1AM, and will gladly challenge you at darts, beer pong, vocal volume, or challenges of flatulence. Avoid them at all costs.
Alternate names for these individuals include "Bro-dudes, Brosephs, or Indiana Brones."

Watch out for these vocabulary terms at your local nightlife, regular life, or up in your grill at the worst possible moment. If you smell a hint of Redbull or Old Spice, leave your present company for a conference about how much you value solid characters and individuality of those who aren't holding onto themselves provocatively.

And keep on fighting the good fight.

-Hail to the King, baby!

I get annoyed easily, and this irritating topic is incendiary as ever. I want to tell you something that may come as a surprise to you tools, something I think you need to settle down for a minute and hear;

Michael Phelps is not that great.

If I hear one more person talking about how "awesome/invincible/anus-tinglingly-erotic" he is, I'm going to hit them so hard in the face that the only talking they'll be able to do is talk about how much pain they're in. Instead of glorifying Michael Phelps, they will start preaching to others about how great I am and how much effort and desire it took to hit them in the face so hard.

The fact that this guy is a good swimmer is just about the only thing worth commending about him. The fact that everyone is making a huge deal about which cereal boxes his face will appear on is very nearly making me shit violently in anger. I recently spent some time talking about this guy with a fellow high school classmate at Towson High in Baltimore. What I find stunning is that most people find it hard to believe that Phelps is a regular guy who HAPPENS TO BE GOOD AT SWIMMING.

He is of good character, is in proper physical shape, and he swims a lot. Other than that, there is not much else to discuss as far as his "greatness." He was not personally caressed by a chorus of angels, nor was he ever thrice anointed with sex dust. In fact, he looks really goofy.
All of you please close your mouths and stop drooling.

This is my analysis of Mr. Phelps.



So the next time anyone out there feels the need to restate that Michael Phelps has won too many gold medals for swimming a lot, please also consider that--

#1 - Everyone already knows that, and you have nothing interesting to offer to an intelligent discussion,

and

#2 - Human beings ordinarily aren't supposed to fit in toolboxes.

Hail to the King, baby!

As many of you know (or if you know me at all whatsoever), I hate the Olympics.

I hate it for a comprehensive list of well-thought-out reasons which I will share with you. Who knows, maybe we'll even have time for a picture or two!

Reasons why the Olympics is a tool festival;

#1 - The "sports" "events" are completely ridiculous.

Every time I sit down and watch the Olympics, different countries are competing in sports such as cycling, power lifting, and power walking. And new to this year, I've even witnessed the paralyzingly boring snorefest known as "synchronized diving." Only people who don't have lives compete in these morbid wastes of time, and I'll be damned if I have nothing better to do than watch people get upset because they played a poor game of "holy shit my heart is stopping because of the lack of action" water polo.
You know what REALLY pisses me off? The fact that this group of ether-sniffing yokels over in Oregon want to petition to make "power yoga" into an Olympic event. They insist that since India has held yoga-posing competitions for over 100 years, that this sport will be perfect for making people all over the world sit on the edges of their seats in nail-biting anticipation. Oops, what I meant to say was that they want to make it an event in the Olympics because they're selfish self-absorbed bitches who don't care how low the Olympic standards sink. Seriously, "power yoga?" I'd rather watch "power-paint-drying."



#2 - People in some countries think other countries care when they boycott the Olympics.

People have been boycotting the Olympics since the Olympics was invented. Nobody gives a freeze-dried shit if your country decides to not send athletes to the Olympic games. You're only depriving your own athletes of their chance to participate in synchronized flatulence or whatever sport they were taken from their homes as a young fetus to prepare themselves for. There were countries protesting the Olympics because of World War 2, there were countries (including the United States) protesting the Olympics because of the Cold War, and the Russians protested right back the next Olympics. Honestly, who gives a shit if you don't show up? The games are still gonna monopolize every channel and bore the shit out of people who just want to watch the next episode of "Scrubs."
It pisses me off to the point that my urine burns whenever people write letters to the editor of their college newspaper suggesting that nobody should participate in the Olympics because of "China's poor treatment of Tibet"/"The jerk-faced Apartheid"/"Insert desired cause here." If anything, the Olympics are a forum for jackholes to put their menial differences aside and indulge in some healthy competition. Fuck the Olympics as a stage for advancing a cause, and fuck people who think that protesting them is the way to get something to happen. It's not, they're just a handful of stupid games briefly interspersed with McDonald's Chicken Biscuit commercials. That brings me to my next point-

#3 - Real Olympian athletes don't eat McDonald's Chicken Biscuits.

Every time I see those commercials for McDonald's Chicken Biscuits that shows successful athletes holding them, I am tempted to drive to my local McDonald's and take a large dump in the fryolator. If you're an athlete in the Olympics, I guarantee that your trainer wouldn't let that garbage-food hybrid so much as even touch your imagination. If you want to be in shape enough to compete in the 400 meter hurdles or the 100 meter butterfly swim, you have probably never in your life even tasted the tip of a McDonald's straw. I would understand the advertisement if instead of a relay baton the athletes passed each other a chicken biscuit, but as I recently recall, they most certainly do not. I'd like to keep it that way. McDonald's chicken tastes like my newspaper anyway.

In fact, here's a diagram!



In short, the Olympics are a huge waste of my time, and everyone around me pretends that they are interesting enough to discuss in casual conversation. NEWS FLASH - THEY'RE NOT! Kindly get a life and shut the hell up.

A Gold Medal to the the King, Baby!!

UPDATE - Something I left off of the list is how hilariously uncouth China is spinning all of their crazy problems for the world media. The American environmental agents who have tested China's green-ass water have reported that the pollution is three times worse than the Chinese government disclosed. Here's what else the Chinese government blatantly lied about for no good reason; The Sicknesses

I frequently hear from people who are caught up and well-informed in the ghetto culture about many different topics. One thing I hear a lot, especially recently, is the word "hood" as an adjective.

Example;

Thug #1 - "Yo, I just capped some fool up in my crib."
Thug #2 - "Ay baby, you so hood!"

This phenomena was quite fascinating to me. It caused me to look up the word on UrbanDictionary.com
According to their archives, "Hood" means the following;


1. The ghetto.
2. Someone who is from the ghetto.
3. Someone who acts like they are from the ghetto.

They got me thinking, the second and third definitions. Saying someone is "so hood" seems to insinuate an association with a ghettofab lifestyle, a fearless demeanor, and pools of experience in seeing or partaking in things that are crazy/violent/unusual. It also made me want to look around the world and see what other kinds of people would be "mad hood" as well.

Here is a list of "hoods" that are vastly more scary than American urban areas and the people who live there.

1 - Fallujah, Iraq.



Since this has been a dangerous "hood" for several decades, it's impossible to dismiss the idea that merely being here means that your life here would be in incredible danger. Most people in the United States fail to understand that as dangerous as they think their own neighborhoods are, there's always a place like Fallujah to compare it to. Here, you can't simply move away if you don't like the lifestyle. With the government in tumultuous upheaval, red tape all up in the bureaucracy, and poverty running rampant, people don't escape this hood often at all. Every day people are shot (both by American soldiers and Iraqi militants), arrested, and blown up, shattering family life and any chance for neighborhood peace on an almost hourly basis. This is why Fallujah makes #1 on my list of dangerous hoods.

2 - Area around Khartoum, Sudan.



Many people like to talk about the Darfur conflict in Sudan and the surrounding areas, but I find that very few people know very much about it at all. Instead of discussing the political situation or what everyday people are subjected to, I noticed that most college students just like to say the word "Darfur" and then talk about fundraising. In Sudan (and other places like Kenya), there are several militant groups who are struggling for control of the country. Since the departure of the Apartheid, lawlessness and corruption have flooded the streets, deserts, and jungles surrounding places like the city of Khartoum.
What does this mean?
It means that not only are the local militias roving around and using scare tactics to recruit children for their militias, but the villages are in constant fear of not only unrestrained rapings, but also death by fire, bullets, and starvation. None of these roving militants actually have to answer to law enforcement for their heinous crimes because....well, there isn't any!!

3 - Israel/West Bank.



The fact that this hood has been completely up the creek since 1948 has made it a constant topic in the news media. Since residents of Israel have been constantly feuding with the native Palestinians over who is more entitled to what has created an escalating land battle. Palestinians have to worry about sub-machine-gun-toting settlers scaring them off of their land, and Israeli Jews can't go through a single day without having to watch out for RPG attacks and suicide bombers. In most hoods, people don't typically worry about schools, restaurants, and day care centers going up in violent, fiery explosions. That's not true in both urban areas of Israel, nor is it true in the Palestinian-native lands in the Gaza Strip and West Bank. At any given moment, some fanatical homie could be poised to light up a total stranger and bust a cap in someone's ass--Nowhere is safe and nobody is off-limits, making it one of the scariest hoods in the world.

4 - Local 'hoods.



I decided to place local hoods like West Hollywood, Los Angeles under the last listing. A lot of people are intimidated by the crime rates in urban areas like these, but they're absolutely not as serious as in other places in the world. In Los Angeles, there have been over 2000 violent crimes in the past month, not to mention the fact that there's a huge fault line in the middle of the city which was responsible for a horrendous earthquake last week. People who do live in these places are faced with a few significant risks, but I think I would take a rapper more seriously if he was from any of the three above hoods more so than this one.
Some people assume that they can easily become victims to violent crimes, but the vast majority of the violent crimes which happen are against people of a different gang affiliation, or are for some reason that can be attributed to the victim's own involvement in some way. In other words, no self-respecting gangster is gonna roll up on you and start spittin' with his fo-fo just because you're standing there and just kickin' it.

In closing, I must ask you to compare yourself and your own experiences to what I've talked about here. How hood are you?

Hail to the King, baby!

Hey Guys. In my last entry, I forgot to graphically depict what I want to do to people who publicly say something stupid like "the book was better than the movie." Here's the original picture;



Here's what would likely happen seconds after that picture;



There.

Now I saved your imagination the trouble.

Hail to the King, baby!

I absolutely hate it when some moron tells me that "(Name of popular book) was SOOO much better than (Name of current movie titled after said book)." It makes me angry. Well, angry isn't the right adjective. It's more like 'unjustifiably furious.'

It happens so often that my blood pressure just sort of stays at an unhealthy level of twice that of a normal human.

Every time some jackhole says that in my presence, I let out a routine ear-splitting battle cry which disintegrates the ear drums of everyone within a 500 foot radius. Because of the obliterated eardrums, there is no natural barrier holding the fluid in their ear canals, resulting in blood streaming out of both ears like fire hoses at a five-alarm blaze.

After that, I proceed to involuntarily tear out the spines of those nearby, paying no regard to who actually made the original comment. After this feat, I start repeatedly hammering the lifeless bodies around me with the extracted spinal columns.

Why do I do this? Psychologists have speculated many reasons, but I have the correct one right here. It is because saying that some book is better than some movie is a wildly dumb thing to do. It is one of the most asinine expression that can pass between the lips of a human being.

First of all, you can't compare a book to a movie because they are two different platforms. A movie cannot do what a book can do, and vice versa.

Second, movies made about books are INTERPRETATIONS of books. Did you get that? I'll say it again. Movies are INTERPRETATIONS of BOOKS, meaning that a visual manifestation of what an author wrote cannot be said to have been "better" or "worse" than the original work. It can only be a "good interpretation" or a "horseshit interpretation."

Third, no director has a telekinetic link to your imagination. What this means is that a movie producer doesn't know what YOU were thinking or picturing when you read that book, and cannot put that on the movie screen. They have their own pictures in their minds, meaning you can only judge what THEY have interpreted. Of course it's not going to be what YOU pictured, because they make more money than you.
No movie can be fairly compared with the power of your own imagination. Unless you're a dipshit. Which you are.



A GOOD conversation looks like this;

Person #1 - "Starship Troopers as directed by Paul Verhoven was a fantastically good interpretation of the book by Robert Heinlein. He got his point across with stunning cinematography, dazzling effects, and attention-grabbing dialogue."

Person #2 - "I agree. Also, that fully-nude co-ed shower scene was awesome!"

A HORRIBLE conversation looks like this;

Ding-a-ling #1 - "I think the book 'I Am Legend' was WAAAYYY better than the movie! Also, same about 'I, Robot.' Will Smith is not a good book, either."

Ding-a-ling #2 - "My finger appears to be lodged in my nose. Also, don't you not know how to read?"

As you can see, movies are a medium for interpretation for many works of literature. Talk about them as such, and not about how you're a complete ass-brain.

Hail to the King, Baby!

I just finished watching the NBA finals, finally happy that the Celtics took it upon themselves to finally win a championship during my lifetime. I was excited that they finally pulled one out, seeing as the last time they did that was before I was born.

One thing mildly disturbed me about it. In a cutaway to one of the commercials, they showed a montage of various Celtics players in compromising poses, appearing as if they were being sexually gratified at the time. I couldn't find an exact example, so I "drew" one from memory;



I was startled at how much it looked like this anonymous basketball star was giving an air BJ. I looked around to see if anyone else caught anything else like this, and found a video where extremely uncomfortable amounts of sexual tension can be derived from awkward physical contact. I found this;

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HqIhOpQJBqw&feature=related

I don't know if I'll ever be able to think of basketball the same way again.

I feel like finally writing about Dreamphone, the magical board game with the large pink telephone where the objective is to find out which boy likes you.



This game, which cost my sisters and I 78 cents at the Salvation Army Thrift Store, was the single greatest investment in our lives.

In fact, this old school commercial sums it up quite nicely:

Dreamphone Commercial

Although I was disappointed to find out that Tony wasn't the dreamy stud who had a crush on me, I was mildly impressed by the real-sounding voices of the potential crushes coming from inside the phone. My younger sister Rhiannon seemed to have a knack for winning the game and figuring out which boy had a crush on her before anyone else.

I assume it's because at 17 years old, when it comes to playing crush detective, she's smack dab in her prime.

I don't really mind that I wasn't any good at it anyway. At least if I lose, I can be straight until the next game. Plus, I won't have to deal with being awkward around the boy who likes me.

I know that I vowed last year that I would do something fun for my last college Spring Break, and here's the entire list of fun places I went;

-Mid-TermsVille

In this fantastic scenic paradise, I relaxed with an absurdly-low-priced cream ale in front of a beautiful backdrop which looked strikingly like my computer on my desk. As far as entertaining activities, I indulged in pressing keys with letters on them for days on end until the screen displayed fifteen pages of intricately worded bullshit about the Kenyan Camel Bookmobile. After that, I migrated to a magical place of colder temperatures and glowing light.

-The Fridgistan

I arrived in this area after pulling on a long and slender teleportation handle. The ensuing light that engulfed me gave me a freezing cold feeling, and I instantly regretted not bringing a sweatshirt or two. Throughout the vast expanses of what I now refer to as "The Fridge," I saw bottles of exotic beverages hailing me from different corners of the world. I grabbed a couple of them and proceeded to drink them without hesitation. The ensuing feeling placed me in an even more relaxed state of mind where I could only imagine things like who I wanted to immediately have sex with, why Nebraska didn't need to be a state, and why "my wiener" would win every game of rock, paper, scissors ever played.

-Hangoverstown

I didn't like this place very much. I was under the weather here, and found myself unceasingly combating sudden headaches and the merciless questions of the natives. They asked frequent unintelligible things like "How much did you drink?" and "Why is your car parked sideways?" I tried to bury myself in the surrounding terrain, but the only thing that dulled the sounds of the jeering natives was the throbbing in my head.



It wasn't a fantastic break, but I took a picture. Maybe I was a little envious of people who actually did something for their Spring Breaks, but I at least have the memories that will last a lifetime. Actually, no. I don't even have those. For some strange reason, I couldn't remember much before my trip to Hangoverstown.

I got hosed.

Anyways, I think I might become a travel writer.

After some careful thinking for an extended period of 14 seconds, I've realized a very revolutionary principle. It seems that the only time I seem to have meaningful conversations is when I'm piss-ass drunk. I realize this now because I haven't been drinking for a little while, and I also subsequently haven't had any recent overpoweringly meaningful conversations with anyone. Coincidence??

I think not.

In fact, last weekend I found myself at the seedy Hotel Vernon, an old speakeasy from the 1920's. The second greatest thing about the Hotel Vernon next to the $1 draghts of beer is the odd assortment of characters there who are usually a few pineapple chunks short of a fruit salad.

These people are immensely fun to talk to. For instance, there's Princess Freddy, a former Hell's Angel who emerged from a life of ass-kicking and leather-jacket-wearing to realize his true calling as a princess. He now frequents the Vernon complete with glitter, tiaras, and incredibly gorgeous hairstyles, and usually has a couple amazing stories to share.

Another example of conversational beauty is the guy whose name I forgot. Oh wait a sec...it's Joe. That's right. Anyways, Joe is a classical pianist who I've never seen without a knit cap, he occasionally plays Chopin pieces on the pirate-ship-room piano. If asked who his favorite Romantic or Baroque Era musician is, he will go on for at least 3 and a half hours.

The most recent trip to the Hotel Vernon acquainted me with another guy named Joeseph, an old man of 63 years who "single-handedly stopped the Vietnam War." Never without a safari hat and a walking stick, he pierced my soul with his large eyes and scruffed against my conscience with his mall-Santa-style beard. The dollar draughts must have really punted his sobriety out the bar window, because at 2.5 inches away from my face, he went into brave detail about these many sensational topics;

-Why I should assassinate the president
-How he literally single-handedly was able to stop the Vietnam War
-How every time he goes to a "Bed, Bath, & Beyond," he can never seem to find a bed, bath, OR a 'beyond'
-How youthful and amazing everyone else "looks"
-Why subtraction isn't necessary knowledge

On top of everything, I found him in the bathroom when I was about to leave. Not only did he continue his righteous tirade, but he socked me really hard right in the gut. Then he left.

It was a strikingly meaningful conversation, and I wonder why it is that I can never seem to find conversation like this when I'm sober. I suppose I will figure it out someday, but until then,

Bottoms up, and Hail to the King, baby!

As a journalist, it's difficult coping with how awesome I am. You deal with haters all the time, but when people you care about start to call you up and tell you that you've cut 'em deep is something that's never easy to deal with. This transition has been rough, but today taught me several important lessons which I will pass on to you all.

Lesson #1 - Beer is awesome.



Beer gives you an unlimited power than allows you to see the world from a more intellectual perspective. Note: It is important to consider that this view is annulled once behind the wheel of an automobile. Either that or fiercely amplified. I forget.

Lesson #2 - Accomplishing things is key. (publishing slanderous bullshit is NOT)

Here's a picture of me accomplishing things.


Ok, so I lied. My ambition leaves much to be desired. That's not the point. The point is that I am ready to rid people of their illusions. When you think of the best ideas you've ever had, the couch is the best place to do so, believe it or not. Actually, believe it. Now. Also, so is the crapper. Isaac Asimov used to take a tape recorder with him whenever he went to poop, and he wrote some damned good books.

Lesson #3 - Be prepared for your friends to hate you.

Whenever you write something controversial, your friends may suddenly proclaim to not be friends with you. This is a funny thing that happens when you speak your mind. Every time you say whatever you want to say, you come under fire from people who want your face to be stabbed with the icepick of supreme justice. I can't afford to draw another picture, but here's an imaginary one:

...

You eventually get to the point where you want to retract the statements you've made, or reinforce them. I've chosen to stick somewhere in the middle and give the ol' KingDevon-Style One-Two-Fuck-You to the powers that be. Whenever there's something on your mind that you just want to set free like a suppressed fart, then you'd damned well better just let it OUT! Let me get a fuckin' A!

On a more serious note, I've been struggling with the terrible effects of writing to a broad audience. I, as is customary and evident here on this blog, wrote some stupid and slanderous things just to beat a deadline. It wasn't nice to people, and this as we all know, is how McCarthyism started. Whenever you've been saying something to a group of people, and one group confirms your imaginary facts yet the other does not, you've suddenly got a case of what is known as the "conflict of interest." It can commonly be defined as "something that people who know you want to kick your ass for."

This is the sort of thing that keeps the ol' King Devon from making a regular blog. These problem causers. These roustabouts. These guttersnipes. These tomfoolery generators. But huzzah! I shall overcome!!!

-Hail to the King, baby!

I've been grumpy lately. I've been having the worst sore throat of my entire life. God decided to punish humanity for its shameful ways, and my throat apparently decided to burden all of it without notifying me. Every time I try to swallow, it feels like every single arsonist in the world decided to break out of prison inside my trachea.

It's been terrible. It even motivated lil uninsured me to go seek medical assistance.

Apparently, it's not what everyone else says has been "going around" (of course it wouldn't be), but rather a severe bacterial infection in my throat.

Now, bacterias are living things. This basically means that if I want it to go away, I can simply say to the bacteria "HEY DICKWEEDS! GET OUT OF MY THROAT!"

It didn't work as well as I expected it to, so they looked at me strangely and prescribed me something called an antibiotic. Not sure how it works, but I think they meet each other and have little bacteria-sized turf wars. I am currently rooting for the anti-bacterias, because those are the ones that are supposed to make me feel better.

I also heard that getting rest is good for you, so I think I might go do that. I sure as hell can't swallow food, so making people give me food iv's would be a lucrative solution. I'll work out the logistics later.

Hail to the King, baby!

I had a realization recently. Since coming to UMass, I've headbutted about 9 different people. That's a lot. In fact, it's about 900% more than most people. It made me realize something else;

I am pretty damned awesome.

Here is a list of reasons why the headbutt is the best attack move/argument ender/dinosaur subduing maneuver/way to get a job promotion/way to end a stagnant relationship EVER!!

1- Nobody expects it.
The last thing you'd probably expect when abruptly engaging in a fist fight is a solid piece of skull smashing into the bridge of your nose. Actually, you probably wouldn't expect your adversary to passionately embrace you and then kiss you wildly, but a headbutt is still up there on the list.

2- It's incredibly intimidating.
When you are on the receiving end of a headbutt, you almost can't believe how much you just got owned. It's the equivalent of a slam dunk at a basketball game, only ten thousand times more painful. Also, it shows that the headbutt-giver has an incredible tolerance for pain, and that fact alone should mentally squash any hope you have of inflicting any real damage.

3- It makes women want to have sex with you.
Once you land a headbutt on some schmuck, every woman within a ten miles radius of the ensuing blast of awesome-energy will tear their clothes off and attempt to ravage you. Several times.

4- It's manly.
Not to be confused with #2, the two reasons are quite distinct. Testosterone is manly, and you need a certain level of testosterone in your reserve to execute a life-ruining headbutt. Also, you should scream loudly after the impact to add to the manliness. This is optional.

5- Nobody will question your competence as a combatant ever afterwards, lest they become headbutted.
Self-explanatory. You really do instantly become the man, and nearby sets of testicles shrink in accordance.

In summation, headbutts are fantastic. If more people headbutted eachother, fighting would go on for only half the amount of time, saving people precious hours to go do community service or help out at a soup kitchen or help a grandmother across the street.



For humanity's sake, adopt the almighty headbutt.

I have a spoonful of truth right here for you chumps.

By virtue of the fact that I am the only regular blogger on this whole server, I am thereby BETTER than YOU. I am focused, determined, and I kick more asses than someone who is furious with his donkeys.

Now, that impeccable essence of perfection will be translated into occasional television appearances. As a columnist, I was very excited when some amazing UMass students decided to create a new televised media coalition for the school and the surrounding town of Amherst.

Let me explain.

The Collegian is an amazing paper, read by many. Nobody, however, watches the UMass television station (UVC-19, channel 19 on campus).
Now, columnists like myself were asked to help create a television talk show about both local campus news and pressing national issues. I will be speaking furiously and angrily about the state of insurance here in Massachusetts, and why it's equivalent to any vehicle manufactured by the Dodge motor company in the 1990's; it's a constantly broken piece of ugly shit.

That's just ONE of the issues. You'll have to tune in to watch the first episode, and I'll be telling everyone who breathes and their mothers all about it the second it airs.

Listen up, and watch. You won't be disappointed.

Because of my gaping lack of money, I volunteered to perform several experiments as a pawn of the UMass psychology department. This has been an entertaining proposition for me for a multitude of reasons. Not only do I get to take part in awesome experiments which I don't know dick about, but I also get to wear neural brain-wave-measuring nets on my head (which, might I add, are covered in a highly-conductive electric baby-shampoo-esque slime).

Here's a picture:



Note the tears and expression of vivid distraught.

So...

I spent a few hours inside this fisherman's net, catching the undersea organisms of knowledge, and then trawling the phytoplankton known as brain waves.

According to the proctors of the experiment, I have "very good brain waves." That's fancy psychology talk meaning I don't often blink or furrow my brows. You see, whenever you do any of those things, you severely alter the lines that represent your brain waves. Ordinary brain waves look like this:



HOWEVER.
Once you move your face in any way, your waves may look like this:



The point of the experiment was that if I could memorize several series's of sounds and then recall them correctly 32 out of 36 times, I would be paid 30 dollars for two hours of work instead of three. That prospect motivated me so much that I almost successfully memorized not only the 6 assigned sound patterns, but also the entire "Crime and Punishment" manuscript in roughly twelve minutes.

It was a well-earned stipend.
As an aside note, I got all 36 patterns correct, which is a first in any of the test subjects. I also managed to absorb the resolutions to several moral dilemmas commonly pondered in humans since the dawn of time.

I plan on using the money to put enough gas in my car to arrive safely at the liquor store and buy bourbon.

Hail to the King baby!

I've decided that since I've written everything that I've always wanted to in the UMass newspaper (the UMass Daily Collegian, obviously), I should get around to start thinking about topics that I should write about for my last semester.

Here's what YOU can do--

If you recall having an argument with me at any point, whether fueled by alcohol or not, where I was discussing something that made me unjustifiably angry, you should leave me a message or a brief email letting me know what it was we were chatting about.

I have a couple things in my queue right now, but would be more than happy to recall things that could potentially inspire me to write well for my University's reputable news publication. In other words, send me some ideas, lunkheads.

Thanks,

-King Devon the Magnificent

Normally, I can't stand bitching to others about my personal life. I find it annoying and boring when losers write on their blogs about how many ham sandwiches they ate the other day, or about how many times they pet their cat. Nobody really gives a shit, and nobody ever will.

I thought I'd mention this, though;

My hair has gotten too fucking long.
Ever since I came home from UMass on winter break, my entire family (save my dad, whose hair is longer than the sainthood canonization process) has not let me hear the end of it (no pun intended). My sisters keep telling me to cut my hair through unrelenting ridicule, my brother just tells me how stupid I look, and the cat will sneak up on me while I'm sleeping and start rapidly clawing my hair.



Don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't want to cut the god-forsaken stuff off. I'm just too poor to do it.

I have $0.45 in my debit account, $100 bucks in unpaid phone bills, and am on thin ice with the amount of potential income I have for the next two weeks. Haircuts aren't on top of my list of life-or-death priorities.

Here's the funny thing--a lot of people have told me that they actually LIKE my hair longer. I know, I couldn't really believe that people were saying that to me, given how ugly my family had convinced me that I was. Then, something happened that shattered my universe's rectum right off. My big sister told me that--Actually, I can show you in MS Paint pictures;



My reaction???
||
/



I think my entire world got blown to shit when I heard my older sister tell me that my long, nappy, horrible, disheveled tuft of yellow nightmare on my head could be potentially GOOD. I can ignore it when other people tell me it's not bad looking, they're obviously just being nice and trying not to hurt my feelings. My family members, on the other hand, are BRUTALLY honest, and wouldn't spare my feelings even if I needed my self-esteem to live.

I've been confused before, but I honestly don't know what to think anymore. Now I don't even know if I WILL get my hair cut upon the restoration of my finances. Who knows?!?

Seriously, damn it. What the hell should I do??

Am I just crazy, or do people actually remember Mentos commercials? In case you are stupid, here's a picture of some Mentos;



The one thing I remember best about Mentos is not how to use them to create a carbon dioxide bomb, nor even what they taste like. I remember the corny and unintentionally hilarious commercials that aired (if memory truly serves) around 1991.

They always featured the same cheesy theme song, which contained the word "fresh" in the lyrics about ten times, usually while some chump encountered a hilarious problem. Then, the subject would pop a Mentos and become inspired to solve the problem creatively. In my favorite one, some guy in a suit lies down on a bench, not realizing it was just painted. Initially pissed off, the man calms down, pops a Mentos, and decides to roll all around in it, making a pinstripe pattern on his black suit. Thanks, Mentos!

In fact, here it is now!



So here's another sucky one just like it!



Here's the most ridiculous one yet!



Actually, I can't decide whether or not it's the original commercials which are funnier, or the parodies. Here's my favorite one of all time:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZvlQaKQOBwE (It's a link because the loser disabled embedding)

And here's the runner-up:



Also, this one's the second runner-up:



What's funny is that all of the Mentos parodies I've watched except for the first runner-up I selected for some odd reason contain gun violence. It was a strange anomaly. I think that there might be nothing else possible as far as props to make them funnier. Regardless, that's why #2 made it. It was clever, and did NOT contain a firearm.

Mentos is easy to make fun of because of how corny it is. The most notable thing about the candies themselves, according to everyone with an opinion, is that they taste like garbage. These commercials, however, are priceless!

Hail to the King, baby!
Do do do dooo do do, dooowaaaah!

Finally, Christmas is over. I don't have any problems with Christmas itself, but the Christmas songs that play non-stop from late November until the end of December really make my life morbidly unpleasant. In light of that, I had a few pressing questions about them, for whoever has the balls to accept responsibility for their existence:

#1 - What in the hell is 'figgy pudding?'

In the third verse of Satan's anthem more familiarly knows as "We Wish You A Merry Christmas," the house guests are feverishly complaining and putting out an ultimatum if some submissive pawn fuck nearby doesn't "bring" them "some figgy pudding." First of all, nobody in the last century knows what the hell figgy pudding is, and furthermore, if I had a bunch of guests angrily demanding some, I'd present them with a bowl of land mines and tell them to dig in.

#2 - Why is blatant promiscuity suddenly acceptable around Christmas?

In the song "Santa Baby," the singer who we all know the name of sings shamelessly about St. Nick's seduction in the most tasteless way possible. One child in another carol watches the debauchery of his cheating mother when he "sees mommy kissing Santa Claus." Other Christmas mantras include "All I Want For Christmas is You" from the obviously lying Mariah Carey, and that annoying one about what some annoying wiener did with his heart last Christmas, only to do it again the next year. What message is this sending?

#3 - Why won't anybody acknowledge that the only horrible songs written by the Beatles were written about Christmas?

This one just baffles me. The Beatles wrote fantastic music, but some of their work throughout the inspiration of Christmas is awful. "Happy Christmas (War is Over)" has got to be one of the most annoying songs in human history, and "Simply Having A Wonderful Christmas Time" makes my spine tremble in shameful embarrassment. These need to never be played ever again.



I'm glad Christmas is over for this collection of reasons. I could probably make better music with a sack full of angry cats, and next Christmas, I might just do that.