On Beatin' It

A lot of people ask me what the purpose of this blahg is. Well, that's not really true. There are not a lot of people who even know about this blahg, so they're obviously in no position to be asking me anything about it. In fact, nobody really cares. But that really makes no difference to me. In fact, this all helps to answer the question I posed in the first sentence on an admittedly false premise.

Anyway, so far we've had a few anonymous responses to the tripe with which we've siphoned away our own spiteful bits of bandwidth. The only one of any substantial length was wholly negative--in fact, it was bombastic enough to suggest that the writer spent a good deal of time fashioning it, which means that we've obviously bothered at least one person out there with our mere existence to compell her to respond ad nauseam, which is Latin for "too much and without irony." This, unlike Campbell's russet potatoes, is not a point of pride. The previous sentence contained an inside joke directed at Eli Moss. I'm not going to explain it, since 50% of our readers are Eli Moss, and the remaining 50% are themselves 50% Eli Moss. That relates obliquely to the point I'm trying to make, I think. Maybe not.

So I guess I've left it unsaid for long enough now. The whole purpose of this blahg is masturbation. It's the intellectual equivalent of beatin' it. Eli and Eli know as well as I do that we could easily be using our time for more valid and positive pursuits--for instance, anything--but we've decided to put this garbage together anyway, because it sort of feels good. It's something done, essentially, for ourselves, to give an outlet, in a quasi-ironical sort of way, for our swelling egos. Swelling, as a matter of fact, like baboon cocks. The world is our pornography, and the keyboard is the stroking hand. That's really quite coarse. I don't care. Nobody reads this.

I think none of us harbor any delusions about the pettiness of all this. Even if there is anything we can contribute to the world--and, because we're all nihilists at heart, we know there isn't--a blahg is the absolute worst avenue for us to take. Even popular blahgs get no traffic. Even Maddox, the Internet Superhero, is utterly inconsequential. Nobody cares about him. Nobody cares. We could say that this is different, because the (imaginary) target audience is really just people we know, but look at the example of Max Karson. Who cares about Max Karson? I don't, and I even read him. He commands my attention for the five minutes it takes to read his tasteless newsletter, and then he's the farthest thing from my mind. He doesn't matter. We matter even less.

So that brings me back to the point: beatin' it. It's a thing to do. The fact of the matter is that we're three individuals who come from a town pretty well regarded among bullshit intellectual circles, and by most of the prevailing standards we're comparatively remarkable. I'm going to Harvard, Moss is going to Brown, and the Real Eli is going to Columbia. I don't know about the other two, but I'm not really proud of this. The problem is that, according to just about everyone around us, and just about everyone in America (as well as East and Southeast Asia), we're supposed to be proud.

There are children falling asleep in South Korea tonight beneath pictures of strangers smiling in front of the John Harvard statue, because their parents want them to remember how much they can accomplish. Certain teenagers across the country would probably cut off several of their least favorite fingers (or one of their favorites) to have my spot in the class of 2011. It isn't because they're crazy. They are really just the logical extension of a cultural trend to measure success among young people with a yardstick sold (at a wildly inflated price) by the College Board. America has always been about the Rat Race. Once upon a time is was for money, for cars, for the corner office and the blond, buxom wife. Really it's still about that, but it's seeped down into the younger generations and the objects of desire have become degrees printed with certain names. We've got our own Rat Race, and all of the sudden, we three assholes have basically won. We've won and we don't understand why or how, and in my case I don't really understand when I even started playing.

You don't need to read another rant about the futility of social climbing. You don't need to hear another person explain that prestige is a shameful illusion or that education is worth nothing if pursued for the sake of success. You know this. You can't graduate high school without knowing this. Yet nobody ever talks about it. Everyone seems to insist that they've got some purpose, that they're going somewhere, that they're shooting for the Ivy League so they can make a difference.

BULLSHIT.

People go to the Ivy League for the same reason I do: they don't know what else to do. Nobody knows what to do or what to try to do. Guidance counselors say that college is the place to find yourself. That's nonsense. That's like saying a restaurant is the place to decide if you're hungry. The only evidence we have that anyone finds himself in college is that sometimes people drop out. The others stick around, get their degree, and hope the answer will appear before they get stuck with kids. Starting at the end of high school, there is a big standing joke that everyone is in on but nobody is laughing at. I'm not sure of all the details, but it's got a big lead up and the punchline is something to do with taxes. But mostly people just never really get it, and so they revert to the simplest, laziest, and most foolproof of all philosophies: hedonism. They drink every chance they get, have sex every chance they get, organize their longterm goals around fulfilling fantasies, and in the meantime they masturbate in one way or another. Beatin' it. It's a way of life. Anyway, it's better than Confucianism. Cocentric circles my ass.

So if you really want to know what this blahg is all about, you need to know that we embrace its worthlessness. Nothing we do here is meant to accomplish anything, nor is it even really meant to boast or to be self-inflating. We aren't trying to earn validation or to piss people off. We've just spent our lives in a vacuum of meaning and are about ready to be shipped off to another, but in the interim we've decided to set up our own, because, hey, it's just another thing. Everyone gets to the point when he grows tired of being told he's on the top of his game, suspicous because he's never really had to work for anything, and starts to wonder if the game isn't just a load of bullshit after all. Then, more often than not, I guess, he realizes that it is, and so he does the only thing that doesn't rely on the value of anything else: beatin' it.

So there you go.

-Tim

P.S. I don't care about being funny. Bite me.

Of Dumbasses, and Friendly Boot-shaped Neighbors

I am prone to prejudice, I'll admit. Hell, even preconceived notions, assumptions...I can go days at a stretch without actually dusting off the ole' brain and inserting the dozens of punchcards necessary to prod the belching machine into shitting out an original opinion. The difference between myself and the people I'm about to swarthily lampoon (oh my, yes) is this: I realize that I'm on autopilot a lot of the time, and am fully aware when my conception of something is totally baseless and unfounded--whether of a cultural stigma, a political belief, or Tim's capacity for abstract thought.

The belligerently ignorant people "what done torn my best sunday britches," to briefly revisit my hayseed heritage* (see footnote), are guilty of the crime I am too perfect to commit. They, blithely unaware of the idiot-smog issuing from their mouth parts, go around yelling what amounts to "I don't know much, hyuck, but I can sure right well assume things, hyuck. Hay, wanna listen to (hyuck) some stuff I made up about the world around me, narf?"

Today's unfortunate victim was Italy. The shitgeysers that came up with these worldly insights into our mustachioed neighbors to the very west (or east, really) probably aren't up to writing things with Language, so I'll take the liberty of writing the travelogue they never will.

~My agventure in Iduhlee!!
by The People I Deal With Every Goddamn Day

[entries are not dated, because our dear slackjaw never figured out the buttons on his free power rangers digital watch with super megazord powerup noises]

Day 1: i arrived today in italy because my mom said i should go to italy to see a little of the world and i like meatballs so i said ok. the plane was scary. i don't see any meatballs but there are some guys in suits i wonder if theyr in the mafia oh right its italy duh.

Day 2: All the roads in the city where they took me to are made of water. i asked the man how do you drive on the roads and they said we use botes hahaha and i said enough chickenshit giacomo make with the meatballs or i'ma go all Puzo upside you organ grinding head capische how you like me now and then they got really quiet and one of them whistled.

Day 3: I saw a man in a red shirt and some overalls and i think he said his name was marie and he jumped really high with a funny boing noise and he hit his head on a block in the air and a coin went out of the block and he yelled when he hit his head and then he fell down and there was a lot of blood on his head and he didn't move.

Day 4: Still no meatballs. i think I'm actually in Atlantis or something with all the water in the street if this is really italy what gives come on.

Day 5: today i went to oh my god its coming through the wall ow

Unfortunately, the entries end here. It seems the author of this memoir (pending publication and subsequent movie adaptation) died tragically on the fifth day of his sojourn, in an incident involving God, his Merciful Hand and a Stray Vespa. Fortunately, most modern Effeminate European Scooters (EES's) come equipped with divine retribution recorders protected in a reinforced black box, designed for just such cases of intrinsic universal justice. More on this as it develops.

-Moss

*Seriously. Podunk, Ketunky. Some six people on my dad's side live out there, who fill out at least twice that many places in the family tree. They are all named either Cletus or Thelma, with no regard to gender.**

**Yeah, Tim. I'm doing the footnote thing now, too.

I'm psychoanal.

If you spend any substantial amount of time with me, you should already be aware of my habit to go around diagnosing complete strangers with obscure mental disorders. I haven’t done it too much lately because I gave it up for Lent, but the urge is still as strong as ever. I’ve taken a lot of flak for this lately, mostly because people assume I’m just being a jackass.

But I’m not. See, not many people know this, but I’m actually a certified psychoanalyst. I’ve never earned a degree or even taken a single class on psychology, but it turns out that in America very few people check your credentials before you’re cited on national news, and after you’ve done that, nobody really questions you anymore.

Ever since I received my certification last spring (the circumstances of which, incidentally, are quite Mexican and surreal), I had been spending most of my time reading the news, hoping for some small gap in the public’s understanding which I could exploit for the sake of furthering my supremely unethical career. An opportunity finally arose last week during Fox News’ unique coverage of the Virginia Tech massacre, and, needless to say, I took it without so much as a moment of silence...erm, I mean, hesitation.

If you find yourself compelled to read through the article I’ve linked above—and I recommend you just don’t—note the citation of Philip Zimbardo. It’s somewhere around the 27th sentence. Do you notice anything strange about the name Philip Zimbardo? That’s right: it’s an anagram for ‘Abhor Limpid Zip,’ which, as you’ve probably figured out by now, is my name translated from English, to Sanskrit, to Chinese, back to English, then to Japanese, and then back into English again*. I admit that it really isn’t a very clever pseudonym, but to my credit, nobody has managed to figure it out yet.

So, yeah, I’m Philip Zimbardo. I really did write the book the article mentions, too—but to be fair, I really just lifted all of the ideas from Chaucer’s Troilus and Criseyde and replaced all the archaic words with equally incomprehensible jargon that I found on wikipedia and in my copy of DSM-IV, which I really only use to hide my ‘tropes**. I was worried that people would figure me out, since I’m quite certain it’s the only book on psychology written entirely in Rime Royal—or to feature a plot—but, hey, turns out it’s still just our secret. Go figure.

Chances are that right now you’re quite disgusted with me. I think that’s warranted***. I’ve lied, conned, and cheated my way into the medical profession without any regard for the consequences of my actions. Much like Darwin, I’ve published a book that will probably be construed by fanatical religious leaders as scientific basis for their destructive dogma for decades to come—due entirely (again like Darwin) to my monstrous, all-consuming ego and my insatiable craving for falsehood.

I’ll admit I have a problem. I’ve actually diagnosed myself. I have Acute Reciprocal Identity Corrective Disorder. It basically means that I’m insecure in my own sanity and I strive to correct it by critically evaluating the mental states of others. Also, turns out I’m probably gay. I’m not really sure how this happened. I blame Albert Hoffman and that blue tint at the top of some windshields****.

But you really don’t need to worry about me. Many people with my disorder have been able to lead happy, productive lives*****. In fact, according to DSM-IV, approximately 93% of all Americans aged 15-49 have at least a mild case of ARICD. And every psychoanalyst has it. Every single one.

So in the end, I say whatever. Despite my possible mental imbalances, I’ve still a certified psychoanalyst, which means I’m really in charge of who’s crazy and who isn’t. I make up my own rules, break them regularly, laugh about them, and rewrite more nonsensical ones whenever I think it will help my career. Plus, I get to publish lies and be a source for Fox News.

It occurs to me now that I’m being paid more than the President for doing the same job. And isn’t that the American dream?******

-Tim

*This is true. And so is everything else.
**That’s slang for psychotropic substances, dumbass.
***But I still don’t care.
****I swear it’s growing.
*****J.D. Salinger notwithstanding.
******Yes, it is.

Yeah, I'm talking to you, Paul Norton

People who put milk in coffee are fucking pussies. There, I said it. I’d add sugar to that statement too, but if you put sugar in your coffee I’m just not going to recognize your existence from now on. Wow, the world’s much more peaceful when you ignore 13-year-old girls.
Seriously though, it never ceases to amaze me how many kids will proudly exclaim “oh, I love coffee!” and then proceed to murder what was once a perfectly respectable drink by adding half a gallon of milk and enough sugar to feed Ashley Olsen for a week (or Mary-Kate for two months. It’s funny because she’s anorexic.) Yeah, you don’t love coffee, asshole. You love coffee-flavored milk-syrup.
Oh, right, what you meant to say was “I love caffeine.” Yeah, man, drinking coffee is all about the rush. Oh wait! No it’s not! If you want the rush there’s a thing called No Doz. Hell, No Doz doesn’t even require the exploitation of third world countries like coffee does. Pop two of those and order a fucking Italian Soda you drug addict. It’s ok though, not only will you be more wired than me, but you’ll be more moral too. But at least I’m not a pussy.
While I’m at it, I’m just going to apply this to everything in life. If you’re going to do something, go all-out. There’s no point in being semi-committed to anything. You know who else had interests? Hitler! You know who else had hobbies? Stalin! Interests are what people had in the 20th century. Obsessions are the mark of the 21st.
Take insomnia, for example. Some people only sleep for a couple hours one night and spend the next day complaining about how they had “the worst insomnia.” Fuck that. I never sleep. No joke, I haven’t slept a wink since 1973. It’s quite an impressive feat considering the fact that I was –15 the last time I took a nap .
Oh yes, my eyes are open and alert to anything and everything going on around me at all times. Just ask my ex-girlfriend. Wait, she might cry if you do that, so make sure you have her undivided attention first.
Back to my original point? I pee in the Raos milk pitchers.
-EK

People do things. It's a fact.

I've got to write a quick response to the simmering pile of crap below this post, which has somehow managed to squirm and slide its Brown, greasy trail into this previously pristine blahg of ours.

Something that all (three) readers should know before venturing any further is that Eli likes to string together lots of strange words into strange sentences for the sake of, well, being strange. You may love him for that, but not many people do. Most are simply confused and even nauseated by the unforgiving image he projects of a battered and wasted intelligence bogged down in a shameful, Baroque style of writing. Don't bother reading that sentence again. What I'm saying is that he's bombastic. That means over-the-top. HE USES DEM DUR BIG WORDS, Y'ALL, HURKADURKA. So don't mind him.

Now, I have a habit of actually speaking in person to Eli. I'm not proud of it. It's sort of like picking your nose, which is, when you think about it, a small, self-conducted enema. How this resembles speaking with Eli should become apparent soon enough. In regular conversation he uses phrasology such as "bowels of mediocrity," and "duly noted," and "stick it in me, soldier," without so much as batting an eyelash. This is all abso-fucking-lutely true. If you don't believe me, just ask him yourself. What's that? You're afraid to? That's what I thought, pussy. You'll just have to trust me.

But I'm getting a little sidetracked. What I'm trying to tell you is that there really is no need to ever take Eli seriously, nor should you ever feel compelled to analyze something that seems mysterious, confusing, or subtle. It isn't. That's just the result of Eli's freeflowing writing practices, which involve little more than a deck of dirty cars, a half-empty boggle container, and copious dosages of Nyquil. That doesn't mean you shouldn't read him. You positively should. It's sort of like brushing your teeth. If you don't, your teeth will fall out and you'll need to live off oatmeal for the rest of your lonely and unfulfilling life. Such is the case with reading Eli. How is that, you ask? Doesn't matter.

So what I'm really getting at here is that when Eli decides to call us--meaning Tim and the Real Eli--juvenile, hypocritical, or irrelevant, take it all with a grain of salt. Chances are that he's totally right. But he writes like such a cockfaced stoner that you shouldn't even listen. Leave that to Brown. Lord knows they need something to do. And just remember, if you're ever offered a spot in a play written by Eli, just decline. He's more obnoxious than Harold Pinter, and if you don't know who that is, go hit your head against the wall, because it's basically the same thing.

Much Love,

Tim