Be A Dog

It seems like everywhere you go in the land of fictional, there’s always this one paradigm you can’t avoid: Cats are evil, dogs are good–with the former sometimes being so evil as to plot world domination. In theory, this is highly amusing; in practice, as in real life, it makes no sense.

Firstly, this paradigm implicitly argues that animals have souls. I don’t think this is true–and if it is true, then there should at least be a corollary which states that only non-tasty animals have souls.

Secondly, cats are too damn lazy to be evil. At their very best, cats are chaotic neutral–they just want to be left alone so they can get high on catnip and shag. Their philosophy of life is basically this: “Human beings exist to feed us and change the channel whenever QI comes on”–because, as everybody knows, cats love Stephen Fry. This is one of the mysteries of the universe.–”It is in our best interest not to try to overthrow them, because if we did then we’d have to do all the work.”

Dogs, on the other hand, are not lazy. They love people, and probably would do most anything to keep their owners safe–most of them at the very least–which opens up the possibility of an I, Robot scenario (sadly, I am referring to the2004 film and not the original novel which was a kajillion times better) in which dogs enslave the human race in order to protect us from ourselves. Their philosophy of life is this: “Must protect master from harm! *Attempts to bite bumper of 18-wheeler*”

So, dogs, even though they are in essence “more good” than cats, are also more likely take over the world because the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and tasty tasty roadkill.

~~La Stranezza

Never Gonna Give You Up

This post, thankfully, has nothing to do with Rick Astley. Well, actually, I just decided it has everything to do with Rick Astley, but that’s besides the point.

To preface: Frau Kade of Lizbean, you totally lied to me. You said you would post every day for a year and then you didn’t. I’m sorry, but a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6_b7RDuLwcI.

Now, on to the post itself: Why do people rickroll each other? Is it because we’re jerks? Undoubtedly so. It’s been going on for centuries–ever since the year 1592 when Sir Richard Astley sailed the ocean blue, spreading evil and evil ‘dos.

You see, back in 1592 (as previously mentioned) Sir Richard Astley of Hertfordshire was forced to flee England due to the fact that everyone hated his guts because of his Billboard Hot 100 hit, “Mine friends and I must getteth downeth on Frigedaeg” which, coincidentally, was the basis for Rebecca Black’s single Friday. On the boat over to America, he started writing an even more annoying song, which he called “Never Gonna Give You Up”, referring to his dear England. He played it for the crew of the ship he was travelling on, and they threw him overboard–but not before they had it stuck in their heads. Upon their return to England, they spread the song like wildfire, and thus the modern practice of rickrolling was born.

As for Astley, he eventually drifted to Ireland where he was received with open arms due to his hatred of England. He vowed one day that his progenies would return to spread that heinous song, but was promptly stoned to death after one Irish dude had the misfortune of asking him what song he was talking about, but not after he had impregated his second wife, who gave birth to Richard Astley II. After the Irish dude discovered the boy’s paternity, he banished both the son and wife to Scotland. They were kicked out of every place they went to, until eventually they found a nice deaf couple to live with. Rick Jr. married their daughter, and thus the Astley line lived on.

~~La Stranezza

P.S. Take my ominous quiet on the subject as an indicator that I did not get a part in Chicago.

Curse You, Gojira!

I went to an audition Tuesday, for Chicago. Callbacks are supposed to come out sometime later today, so I’m keeping my hopes even though the last two times I did that they turned out to be ill-founded in fact. The final cast list comes out tomorrow morning, hopefully, unless something goes horribly wrong, like Godzilla rampages through our fair city (again…although that first time might’ve just been one huge hallucination) or the Russians invade. Or, perhaps the Russians will invade and Godzilla will come out of the lake because everyone knows Godzilla and Putin don’t get along too well and then Godzilla will eat all the Russians. It’ll look a bit like this:

Yes, I know what you’re thinking. Godzilla is a girl’s name, and has nothing to do with anything. I have to admit, you’ve got a point–however, it does present a unique opportunity to segue to my next topic: Namely, if I were a giant reptilian creature the size of a scalene triangle then I could probably get any role I wanted, as all giant reptilian creatures are Asian, and everybody knows that Asians are the best actors.

This is also a happy coincidence, because due to the fact that I recently ran over not one but several congressmen from Ohio, I have to complete 120 hours of community service. Part of this community service is issuing public service announcements, like “stop drop and roll”, and “brush your teeth or we will find you”–you know, stuff like that. My public service announcement is: “You don’t have to be a giant reptilian creature to realise your life dreams–unless those dreams consist of destroying Tokyo, in which case: get back to work, Nicholas P. Murphy.”

~~La Stranezza

P.S. It turns out I don’t know how to cut up a mango. It’s harder than it looks.

Summertime Blues in E Flat minor

Ever since school (and, more recently, the broadcasting season) ended I’ve discovered my time–once occupied with things like studying and trying to make it look like I’m studying without actually having to do so–is now occupied with things like watching reruns of the 1992 Batman animated series and trying to make it look like I’m watching reruns of the 1992 Batman animated series without actually having to do so. At one point I contemplated doing something constructive, but then I realised that that was absurd and so I stared at the ceiling instead. People thought I was dead.

Anyways, the point is this: Have you ever seen the Shining? Oh, damn, that’s not the point, that’s the tangential starting point that I use on my meandering quest towards the point. As I was saying, in the Shining Jack Nicholson goes all crazy because he’s stuck inside for a really long time with nothing to do and also evil spirits are trying to possess him, but that’s besides the point, which isn’t the real point but which is a point nevertheless. As I was saying, I already said that, didn’t I? Oh, damn…

Let’s start again. So, all work and no play make Jack a dull boy. More importantly, what was with the tricycle? It was so goshdarn loud…It reminded me of some sort of giant cement demon trying to eat a slightly smaller albeit crunchier gravel demon using only its feet and a pair of grand pianos. Did you know the stairwell scene was shot upwards of 120 times (I don’t remember the exact number, but I’m thinking it was 126…) because Kubrick was a perfectionist and had a beard? Karl Marx also had a beard, so I think it’s safe to assume they were the same person.

Getting back to my point: An increasing lack of intellectual stimulation has caused my mind to start atrophying, and I fear that my cognitive functioning will soon come to a.

~~La Stranezza

A Butterfly!

“She turned her attention to the pancakes which, she now decided, ought to be waffles instead. She put away the griddle and pulled out the waffle iron with the conviction of a woman cooking breakfast for her mentally disturbed husband and small child.”

Today’s post is about thought patterns. To understand thought patterns, you must first understand what thought is. Wikipedia defines thought as “any mental or intellectual activity involving an individual’s subjective consciousness.” However, I am personally more satisfied with Aristotle’s definition of thought as “αποξηραμένα ρινική βλέννα γεύση μεγάλη και είναι καλό για το ανοσοποιητικό σας σύστημα.” This quote comes from Aristotle’s That Really Long Greek Book No One Bothered to Read.*  

“Wait,” you says, “but I can’t read Greek! How am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?” Well, my good chum, as I was saying, thought patterns are very important. As you should know, there are two different basic thought patterns–linear and thematic.

Linear thought patterns focus more on time and causality. A linear train of thought looks kinda like this: If a train leaves for New York at eight AM, then it can be assumed that it will reach New York in time for dinner. If it reaches New York in time for dinner, then it can be assumed that the people on the train plan on eating dinner in New York. This is probably the most common thought pattern, although

Thematic thought patterns are pretty common, too. Thematic trains of thought focus not on causality or logic, but on motifs–colors, shape, etcetera. Example of a thematic train of thought: Trains have wheels and wheels spin round. Spinning wheels look pretty and so do butterflies. I like butterflies and they like me. Trains don’t like me, though, because they’re not sentient beings and are incapable of articulating emotion. *Somewhere in the distance, you hear trains howling*

Most trains of thought aren’t actually that simple, though–they combine different elements of thematic and linear thought patterns along with thought disorders like echolalia and clanging to make the thought pattern of a “normal” person basically incomprehensibly and reprehensibly rhyming, rhyming. I have discovered that this is exceptionally true in regards to me, myself, and I. Take, for example, the epigraph of this post. Because the woman in question is cooking breakfast for her mentally disturbed husband and small child, the sentence is ultimately and cyclically self-referential, not to mention redundant. That’s how I think, though–that’s how everybody thinks, really–in terms of rhymes and alliteration and randomly jumping from concept to concept, not in a straight line. If you ever meet somebody who says they can think in a straight line, then they’re lying. There’s no such thing as a straight line; it’s merely a useful lie you tell to kids so they don’t go crazy thinking about it all, like Santa Claus and happiness.

~~La Stranezza

*This is one proposed translation of the title. However, Michael Madsen, classicist scholar and impersonal friend of mine suggested that The Motorcycle Morticians would make a really cool name for a band.

Sherlock Holmes in the 21st Century!

*Coughs* That was a reference to the short-lived Sherlock Holmes-based television programme “Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century.” This post, thankfully, has nothing to do with that horrible show, so let’s move on before I start reminiscing and end up exploding or whatever happens when you eat metaphorical Madeleine cake.

–More good news: They have Sherlock on Netflix. *The applause of flies* For those who don’t know what Sherlock is–it’s basically a modern update of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s classic Sherlock Holmes stories in which Holmes is portrayed by Benedict Cumberbatch (Random fact: he also played Peter Guillam in Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy) as a “high-functioning sociopath” with Asperger’s (probably, although it’s never actually confirmed nor denied) and just the right amount of spunk. I should also add that he doesn’t know that the Earth revolves around the Sun. That isn’t even the best part, though; the best part is that he’s not imaginary!

Anyways, if you love British television, Benny Cumberbatch, Sherlock Holmes, and don’t hate America, then you should definitely watch Sherlock. That is the truth, or otherwise I’d be lying.

~~La Stranezza

P.S. Sorry if I don’t comment on your blogs. I got my computer confiscated for being awesome and I haven’t been online since Tuesday. In unrelated news, I’m doing Chicago auditions soon. Pretty exciting, huh? (This is the part where you say yes.)

Growing Pains

I have excellent news–but first a bit of back story so my excellent news appears to make more sense (although whether it actually does is up in the air).

Ever since I was 12 or 13–I have terrible memory when it comes to important things–I’ve had a small amount of chest hair. Like, just a teeny tiny tuft on my lower stomach in the shape of an upside down “v”, and recently I noticed that it comes all the way up my belly button, which is excellent because it furthers me in my lifelong goal of becoming a male stripper or perhaps a fireman.

Why, you ask, was it necessary that you tell me about  your chest hair, you dummkopf?! That was the most disturbing thing I heard all week and I subscribe to not one but six–yes, six–journals on the history of boogers throughout the ages!

And I answer you: It wasn’t really necessary, but it sure was funny.

~~La Stranezza, telling inappropriate anecdotes since April 2011. Speaking of which, I never celebrated the fact that I’ve had this blog for over a year…H’m…I ought to do that eventually. However, due to the fact that dingoes ate my babies and I’m watching Tintin, you’ll just have to wait until I forget again.

The End.

P.S. I wonder if Tintin has chest hair. Not the Jamie Bell Tintin–he’s a slang term for genitals, you understand–but the Colin O’Meara Tintin. That Tintin is the bomb. He’s the Chuck Norris of Tintins. He makes Speedy Gonzales look like Regular Gonzales. Word.

Camping II: Lessons Learnt and Lost

Good news, everyone! I’m back from my camping trip–yes, six days of living fancy-free, sleeping outdoors, brewing coffee over an open-fire and abstaining from the use of frivolous luxuries like Oxford commas. I got slightly sunburned, which wasn’t fun because I have skin delicate like a coconut, or possibly a fruit slightly more delicate than a coconut like an orange or something. It wasn’t all bad, though–I went and I saw the University of Arkansas in Fayettville and ate Taco Bell without having violent diarrhoea. And then when it was time to start packing it rained rather hard and then everything got wet so when we arrived at our so-called house we had to set up our tent again and then I ate spaghetti because spaghetti is delicious.

Anyways, this is what happened next: I watched Community and it was friggin’ hilarious (thank goodness for dvr), and then I thought to myself, “Well, I really ought to go and write a blog post because I have wrote anything in a week” and then that’s what I’m doing write now. Not to be a time-travelling eyeball-stealing oracle or anything like that, but the next thing I’m going to do is finish this sentence.

And now for the news with me wearing a funny cape.

Thanks, me sans cape. Well, as you all know, Mother’s Day is today–and if you didn’t know that, then you’re obviously a Godless Communist who should be shot, because Hitler didn’t celebrate Mother’s Day either, you Jew-hating freak! Anyways, you should probably get your mum something nice like a newspaper hat or a rub-on tattoo…I dunno…and you should get me something for my mother, too, because my evil plan failed (it turns out you can’t ship tigers over the internet).

~~La Stranezza

Camping

So, I will not be posting this next week because I’m going camping. I didn’t know I was going camping–well, I did, actually, I just didn’t know when…Anyways, the truth is that I didn’t schedule any posts and so you’ll have to amuse yourselves some other way over the course of next week, like by renting Michael Bay films and pointed out their horrible, horrible flaws. Here are some other fun things you could do over the next week:

• Hack my WordPress account and steal my identity, leaving me penniless and stranded in Mexico.
• Create your own fan video celebrating my sublime greatness.
• Talk behind my back about how narcissistic and paranoid I am. I know you do already.
• Build a fort out of pillows and use it as a base of operations for your campaign against the local 7-11. That’ll teach them for giving you a lifetime ban!
• Rewrite the Scottish play (you know the one I mean. The one that starts with M and ends with H and has letters in between) as a droll musical featuring Jedi Knights and infringing several copyrights.
• Plot the downfall of your archnemesis Wil Wheaton; unless you are Wil Wheaton, in which case you have no enemies…that you know of. *Creepy background music*
• Become the Prime Minister of Spain. Wait, Spain has a prime minister, right…? *Not sure* *Should look this up*
• Hang out with your friends and do boring things like talk about how finals are evil or how you’re pretty sure your history professor is a vampire.
• Go outside.

And those are all the awesome things you could do over the next week. Well, there are probably more, but I don’t know what they are. I guess if you were bored enough you could paint houses…Or burn them down.

~~La Stranezza

P.S. For legal purposes, I do not advocate the burning down of houses. However, if you decide that arson’s your bag, I’d like pictures.

I Don’t Believe In A No-Win Scenario

However, a no-win scenario believes in you! Yes, I know that doesn’t make any sense whatsoever. That’s kinda the point–it’s nonsensical, which means you can’t make sense of it, which means you can’t win; but because you win by realising that it’s a no-win logical fallacy, you can say that it’s a bit of a paradox. Paradoxes are as frequent in nature as Brooklynites are in Portland, or as obese people are in a weight-loss program. After all, what’s the point of shaving off the pounds if you don’t have any to lose? Well, anorexia for starters…

The point, is, though, is that paradoxes are the Universe’s–if you believe in such a thing–way of telling us that we ought not to be such sticks in the mud about things like logical consistency or the laws of nature. If science fiction has taught us anything, it’s that science fiction authors generally aren’t the greatest scientists but they are the best children because it’s always children who come up with the best albeit least realistic ideas. Children are paradoxes, because they’re smarter than grown-ups but also not-as-smart. Everything is a paradox, even paradoxes because they allegedly break the laws of logic and physics and nature and everything else while also being laws themselves.

To be even more blatantly metaphysical and incomprehensible, let’s talk about how the fact that thinking paradoxes are paradoxical is itself a paradox because we just said that paradoxes were the general rule of thumb, and therefore it’s really proculodoxes that are paradoxes and not the other way around. And then a meteor comes out of nowhere and gives everyone an ice cream headache because we aren’t in Kansas anymore, Toto, and other various clichés.

~~La Stranezza