The Urbanator

by The Jimperor

                Harry only just leapt around the corner before the familiar curse and sickly-green bolt of light passed by him. The tail end of his cloak was singed, but he didn’t notice. Bewildered muggles were screaming and running franticly away from the burnt corpse of what was a businessman a few seconds ago, now sprawled in the middle of the street. Harry shouldered past them with no regard, sweat and blood congealing on his glasses – he was looking for a way out, any way out at all. The throng was nearly impenetrable.

                Again: the curse; a string of words; a green flash; and more screaming. He held his wand tighter, expecting the end at any moment. The serpentine laughter seemed to echo in between the buildings, a precise sound in a blurred sea of fear. He heard the dying cries behind him, but they did not register. Nothing did except the irrepressible desire to escape.

                A solution appeared. Through a gap in the veritable stampede, Harry immediately recognized a small side-alley, and blindly rushed for it. As soon as he entered, the crowd filled the gap he left and streamed onward, a flow of human shields.

He ran. A fence provided a barrier, but only a temporary one. He pointed his wand, said a quick utterance and the fence melted into its base components and he simply sprinted over it. A few turns, and he was met with isolation, a blessed sanctuary of soot-infused brick and overflown dumpsters. He allowed himself a brief sigh of relief.

                “You will never escape me, boy.”

                Fear was ice down his spine as he turned. He saw Voldemort lift his dread wand, but the manic desire for life gave Harry the quicker hand. With his own resplendent wand leveled at the Dark Lord, he uttered the one incantation that he knew would save him.

“Modus Ponens!”

--

This is what I mentally pictured in my philosophy class everyday while going over the basic logics last fall. Except that it wasn’t logic – it was wizardry. Grade-A Hogwartsian magic, and no doubt about it. And it wasn’t just the spel- I mean, terminology – that lent an air of mysticism, either. For what is magic without a wizard?

At first, I thought my professor was a wizard indeed. He’d say these statements, recite some ancient incantation, and then things would like, happen, man. At least, they were supposed to, but I assumed that since I didn’t get an invitation to go to Hogwarts on my 11^th birthday, I could not perceive these surely wonderful events happening.

 My professor wasn’t just a wizard, though. That would be an injustice. He was a superhero wizard.  I will hence present my (illogical) argument.

People are late sometimes. My professor was a person. Therefore, my professor was prone to being late. Modus ponens.*

* I may or may not have been wielding a wand whilst typing this.

The only caveat here is that he was late all the time. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, he would arrive at a minimum of 5 minutes late, out of breath, and adorned in a shimmering armor of perspiration beneath his grunge attire. Did I mention his grunginess? Nay, he was generally well-bathed, but I refer to his fashion style. His complexion and hair stated So Cal, but his flannel shirts begged to say Seattle, early-to-mid-90s. Whether Seattle existed before then or after is not the focus of this article, although it is an equally mystical one.

At first, I did not know what to make of his consistent tardiness and general sweatiness. No professor ever sweated so profusely, nor arrived so late, nor in such a bewildering combination thereof.

It hit me only days after he introduced wizardry into my life. As he was discussing the finer aspects of disjunctive syllogisms, in his absent-minded way, a thought began to form. He was always late; he was always sweaty and out of breath; he explained this wizardry as if it were second nature; his mind always seemed focused elsewhere. There could be only one explanation.

He kept evil at bay.  (Modus Tollens. I think.) *

* Yeah, definitely have a wand here. It’s only a replica though, because, y’know, muggle. However, it is a 12-inch hickory with unicorn hair… ladies.

He henceforth became known in our hearts and minds as The Urbanator, the superhero/wizard who made it safe for us to make the hazardous, tortuous trek from one corner of the campus to the other. I felt confident and assured when he arrived late, and I, nor my compatriot-wizards-in-training, was no longer baffled.

I finished the semester with an A in that class, and a mind full of wondrous, arcane lore that was totally useless to a muggle like my good self. It didn’t matter, though. All that counted was that I knew university was in good hands.

It is regrettable that this story will now take an ill turn. Fast-forwarding to the now, a full year later, there is no news of The Urbanator. I had felt a fell wind upon the air, but I could not exactly identify the source. Upon discussing registering for classes for the upcoming spring semester, the topic of philosophy professors was brought up. Naturally, I referenced the hero of this tale. Examination of the schedule, however, yielded depressing results. His name was nowhere on the list. Further backtracking showed that he taught no courses this semester either.

In a similar fashion to my reverie of finding out his identity, I can speculate within good reason what foul fate befell him. The only entity in this Star Sect- er, state – that could dare oppose him is none other than…. The Cockatron.

All images of Cockatron were unfortunately sexually assaulted and then eaten.

I shall soon be investigating this personally. I owe it to you, Urbanator. We all do.

The Interview

by Von Droomer


INTERVIEWER: So, are you ready for the next portion of the interview, Mr. Droomer?
APPLICANT: Of course.
INTERVIEWER: Ok, let me just get my notes together. There we go! Alright, name a time when you displayed great leadership skills.
APPLICANT: ...
INTERVIEWER: Take your time. Remember, this can be anything.
APPLICANT: May I ask a question?
INTERVIEWER: Certainly.
APPLICANT: What does it matter?

INTERVIEWER: Excuse me?
APPLICANT: What's the point?
INTERVIEWER: Well, here at Retail Megacorp, we take pride in the leadership abilities of our employees, and -
APPLICANT: You mean like the stock guy with dreads who 'leads' himself to the snack aisle every night to sneak a discount bag of corn chips? Or are we talking about the cashier I had last week who was too busy talking to her bff that dropped by to notice she charged me twice for my printer paper?
INTERVIEWER: Well, I don't think you can judge based on those isolated incidents.
APPLICANT: Fair enough, but I would assume that means you can't judge me on my lack of world experience if you're willing to hire keepers like that.

INTERVIEWER: Perhaps we should move to the next question.
APPLICANT: Bring it on.
INTERVIEWER: Name a time when you had several tasks that needed to be completed and you had to prioritize to finish them all on time.
APPLICANT:  *blank stare* Are you serious?

INTERVIEWER: Is there a problem?
APPLICANT: Oh, no problem, you're just asking me if I've done something that everyone has had to do at some point in life. How about this - when I was six, I wanted to build a city in the middle of my room, but I also wanted to play my new pokemon game. You know what I did? I sat there confused because I wasn't born with the common sense to do both of those things. My brain overheated, I was taken to the hospital where I waited for four hours because some stupid gunshot victim came in and they had to PRIORITIZE. And that's when the lightbulb clicked and I knew that if the time ever came where I needed to explain to someone if I had ever prioritized, I wouldn't sound like a drunk baboon trying to recite the worker's manual.
INTERVIEWER: I'm sensing some hostility...
APPLICANT:  Strange. I thought I was being calm and reasonable. Shall we move on.
INTERVIEWER: Ok, last question - name a time where you took responsibility for a mistake that you made.
APPLICANT: Oh, that's easy. I applied to this one place because I needed a part-time job to make finances a little easier to handle for me and my girlfriend. I applied to this place because it looked fairly simple, a place I could go to and work with minimal stress because it was a simple job that anyone could do. I realized my mistake as soon as the application process started and I realized this particular company made you jump through more hoops that a trained poodle. So here I am, fixing that mistake by telling you no, I would not like this job, and if you want a piece of advice, stop taking yourself so seriously.

I was then politely shown the door. 

But really. To all of those companies out there, I realize that it's a bad economy and there are a lot of people looking for jobs. But how can your standards be so high while being so low? The questions you ask at these interviews are completely inane. It's time to take a step back, really look at the jobs you're hiring for, and please, PLEASE stop taking it so seriously. Getting hired on in a stock position should not feel like being screened for government clearance. You may have the company's best interest in mind, but you come off as arrogant douches and present an environment I and many others do not want to work in.

And as for the two major retailers who act like they're in Highlander or something - you know who you are - just remember that you are still a discount retail chain and nobody respects you. Good day.

The Day I Met the Devil

by Von Droomer


It was a quiet midsummer day, the kind of day that nothing could stop me, especially at the fearless age of two. In those glorious times, life was easy and the world was my toilet. I had no second thoughts about strutting out into the yard, dropping my rockin' dinosaur shorts and watering the roses with my biological shower. But all would not go so well this day.

I had just found a nice clump of weeds that looked like they needed an afternoon drink. Momentarily leaving my army men and robots to fight among themselves, I dropped trow and let the Kraken loose. (Although at this point in my life, it was probably more like a cuttlefish.)

It's important to note that at this time I lived on the top of a big 'ol mountain in the Ozarks. I had about two neighbors that I could see from my house, and one of them just so happened to raise goats.

So there I am, my willy free in the summer breeze, merrily pissing away, when I hear the most terrifying sound my ears ever had the misfortune to suffer through. A noise so demonic and twisted that it could turn away the armies of heaven and give Chuck Norris a moment of pause. It was the piercing cry of evil incarnate, and it had come for my soul. In terror, I turned to see the face of nothing less than the devil himself.

Baaah, mother fucker. 

Panic swarmed through me. I could see my short, candy-filled life flashing in its godless eyes. With no time to think, no time to second-guess, I turned to flee from this nightmare beast. With my pants clinging loosely around my chubby little ankles, I waddled away furiously, every step threatening to send me tumbling to the ground to be consumed by the monster behind me. I could here its hooves spitting brimstone and burnt cookie crumbs as they pounded on the ground behind me. The breath of Satan burnt my neck as salty tears streamed down my rosy cheeks. 

My lungs gasped for air as I approached the door to my house, my sanctuary, and relief washed over me when I saw that he door was open. With no thought past my imminent freedom, I flung my tiny frame through the threshold. To my despair, the snake-tongued, furry dragon behind me entered the house - my sanctuary! - as well, its hunger for my flesh not to be denied. With no other option, I pressed forward.

Through the living room we went, and still the beast pursued. Into the kitchen, and I could still not escape. Finally, into the bathroom - a dead end - where I sought the protection of the bathtub, the thin plastic curtain serving as my last line of defense between my chidlhood innocence and eternal suffering. 

At that moment I'm not sure which was louder, the gurgling bleats of the monstrosity before me, or my own cries for a merciful death. Or maybe another, different noise coming from beyond the demon livestock, from family who had surely come to my rescue. 

Laughter. 

I was confused, outraged, and disappointed. I was in a struggle for my life and possibly my afterlife, yet those who should be there to protect me were seemingly getting joy from my predicament. My pleads became more desperate, and I was sure this was how I would meet my end. 

Thankfully my family soon decided that they had enjoyed my terror for long enough and banished the hell beast from our fortress. I was shaken up, but alive. I had come face-to-face with the eyes of doom and escaped unharmed. I was free. 

But I swear to god, if you ask me to go to the fucking petting zoo I will falcon punch your spleen and run. Because somehow, someway, I know that those beady-eyed sheep-wannabes want nothing more than to deliver my soul to Hades. 

Soon. 

Major Problems

by Thor

                Have you ever had a friend or a loved one come and tell you they are changing their collegiate major? If so, what was your reaction to that information? Did you say something like, “Oh, couldn’t make the grades, huh”? If you answered yes to that last question I would like you to do me a favor. Go down to your local sex shop and purchase the largest dildo they have, one of those novelty 3 footers. Take it home and lube that thing up real good with some high quality kerosene. Then light it on fire and shove it straight up your ass. Be sure to film it, because I want to see this happen to one of you fuckers. I want you to hand deliver the tape to me too so I can personally ask you what the hell goes through your mind right before you say something so ridiculously thoughtless. Is it that you want to turn all your friends against you? Is it a ploy to get as many hits out on you as possible? Is it really worth that to be in the Guinness book of world records? Maybe it’s just that you learned your social tact at the Herman Cain academy for the future cock whistlers of America.

 It’s your fault you’re a 6^th year senior!

I realize you may not agree with the decision the person is making, but this one they most likely put a lot of time and thought behind. They are definitely nervous about the change and hoping they made a good decision. When you say something that completely undermines a decision of this magnitude, it makes people want to shove an entire dead armadillo in your peehole and watch the infection take root. If you are worried about the person, don’t be, they are in college and can make decisions like the grown ass adult they are. They need support not criticism, especially if they have a Jewish mother, they have met other people worrying about their quota for the rest of eternity. If they are already second guessing the decision,  you piping in is not going to help anything. Leave them alone.

                The worst thing that could happen is they will lose some time and money, which, in this situation, is going to happen either way. It’s worth the peace of mind. If they at least try the other major they will know which major they want to stick with, which for some reason is kind of important to some people. It’s not like the degree you get will affect the rest of your adult life.

My degree is in astrophysics but my passion is in the low quality food industry.

They are considering how it will affect the rest of their life. They aren’t just thinking “damn, that calculus test was tough. Fuck it, I’m changing my major”. They are trying to find a balance between money and what they really enjoy doing. If they change their major to something causing the balance to shift one way or the other, that just shows where their priorities lie. If you don’t like it then mind your own damn business, because those are their priorities, not yours.

                Another thing - obviously the field of study the person is changing to means something to them. When you throw out the assumption that they are changing because their skull is too full of diaper entrails to hack it in their previous major courses it makes people start reaching for their emergency dickwad armadillo. If you don’t want your friends to think you think they are as stupid as they think you are then shut the fuck up.

                So what have we learned? If you don’t want a flaming three foot rod in your ass, or a dead salmonella infested armadillo in your pisser show some support to people changing their majors. They are stressed enough.

A Letter to the Drivers in my Town

by Von Droomer

Hey, guys. It's me. Yeah, that guy that hardly leaves his apartment. Anyway, I know that I've only been here about a year and I fully expected living in town to be a lot different from living on Boondock Mountain, Population: my extended family. What I didn't realize is that they gave Driver's Licenses to 3 year-olds throwing  temper tantrums. It just seems like a bad idea to me. As a result of my recent frustration at the lack of driving skill and common courtesy of the motorists in this area,  I have assembled the following lists of complaints.

1. Basic Traffic Laws are NOT That Complicated
 If you are operating a motor vehicle, I am under the assumption that you at one point knew and understood the rules associated with it, at least well enough to pass the written part of your driving test on only the 28th try. But in case you have forgotten, there are a multitude of brightly colored visual reminders that line the roads that are called, in street terms, "signs". These "signs" will tell you all sorts of information - when to stop, how fast you should go ( I say 'should' because most of you seem hellbent on proving just how fast your '89 Honda CAN go), what the road looks like ahead, and even if the road ahead is closed. And no, most of these aren't just helpful suggestions that you may or may not choose to follow, most of them are laws put in place for your safety. And, more importantly, the safety of others, because at this point Darwinism sounds pretty damn good to me.

If, for some reason such as a surprise lobotomy or a crazy, amnesia-inducing coconut accident voids your memory of the meanings of said signs, then maybe you should try that test for the 29th time instead of assuming that "YIELD" means "gun it to get ahead of the jerks that are already on the main road".

And while we're on the topic of merging...

2. Turn Signals are NOT a Myth.
It's true - there exists a device that may be activated if you find yourself needing to merge into another lane or to turn onto a different road or into a parking lot. This is the turn signal, usually located on the left side of your steering wheel. If you're not sure which direction that is, hold up your hands in front of you, put only your thumbs and forefingers up, and then gouge yourself in the eyes so you have a legitimate excuse for not knowing how to drive.

Now, don't take it too far the other way. Turning on your turn signal does not mean that you can just weave around all willy-nilly and expect everyone to make way for you because, hey, you're following the rules, right?

3. I Hate Rednecks
Or, more precisely, I hate driving on roads clogged up by 4x4, rebel-flag and camo painted, mud-on-the-tires mountains of gas-guzzling yahoo trucks. The minute you decide that 6 mpg and $1000 dollar tires are worth the effort to distract everyone from (yet somehow bring attention to) the size of your penis, you forfeit all rights to complain about the "cost of living". How about you get a house with how much cash you sink into that Monster Truck you drive around. Maybe you could afford to eat something other than grits if you didn't burn through a third-world nation worth of oil every time you did 90 on the freeway.

And to those people who buy huge-ass, diesel-fueled farm trucks and never let them get a speck of dust on them - FUCK YOU. I'm going to buy 50 pigeons and train them every day for however long it takes to ONLY shit on trucks like yours.


In conclusion, I find the drivers in this humble and otherwise mostly friendly town to be, in colloquial terms, total douchebags. I realize that the majority of those addressed in this letter lack the cognitive function required to read, much less take anyone's advice that was not about how to date your cousin, but for those of you who understand my frustration/homicidal rage, do your part; together, we will make a pigeon army like no other.

With All Due Respect (Which amounts to, oh, about NONE),
Von Droomer

Glory to the TV Gods

by Von Droomer

I have an addictive personality. It's why I never took up smoking, and also why I have the time to write this blog and enable all of my fellow web addicts. A bottle of Coke and an afternoon on Reddit is all I need to be happy in the world.

(And my loving and understanding girlfriend, who might take my precious computer away if she isn't mentioned.)

As one would expect, I have also grown addicted to certain television shows. For me, and I'm sure many of you, the way I enjoy shows that I like is through the power of the internet (and nerdy friends). For older shows, I track down episodes on Netflix, Hulu, or any maybe/possibly/probably not legitimate website brimming with downloads, or find a friend who owns all or most of the seasons on DVD and watch them consecutively until I pass out from malnutrition or my bladder surrenders.

Problem solved? 

For newer shows, I usually watch them the day or two after they air on whatever website has them up. There are many shows that I've done this with. Community. Dexter. Doctor Who. And, of course, the show that has been called the best sitcom of the past decade. A show that ended all too soon and that fans have been waiting to return with an awkward, obsessive determination that would make Gob Bluth proud. 

Better get the money from the banana stand. 

That's right, everyone. It's back. 

Quite.

I could go on about how excited this makes me, but I am afraid that any words I write here would not do the multitude of wild flailing dances I am currently performing in my living room. So instead, I will leave you with this brief update, so that you too may share in the joy of kissing your cousin, maybe. I mean Maeby. In any case, don't miss this, or you may end up like this: 

Please, if you for some god-forsaken reason fail to realize what IT is, click the link and become enlightened. (HINT: It rhymes with Molested Envelopment, but is way less creepy). 

Meet the Neighbors, Part 2

by Von Droomer

Now that we've covered Satan's Asscrack, it's time to introduce you to my friendlier, older, more hospitable neighbors. Let's Mr. Rogers this shit.

1. The Bird People

In the apartment on the right lives a sweet older couple that always takes the time to greet my girlfriend and I, making little noise other than their early-morning addiction to the Lawrence Welk Show. Well, that and the occasional Jerry Springer episode they hold in their house, screaming epithets that rip through our apartment walls like they were made of string cheese. 

 The walls, not the insults, though I'm sure dairy-based insult comedy has its place in the world - probably some farm in Holland

However, there is more than just the grated voices of a forgotten generation living in that apartment. Imagine my surprise when I came home one day to find the nice old man walking his pet. 

His pet pigeon. 

Yes, it seems not all of the squawks echoing through through our walls were coming from his wife. As it turns out, they may have more than one bird, as I'm almost positive I saw a huge cockatoo in their living room as well. 

It was either that or the pope.

But so be it. I'll look past the bird seed out front and the occasional screeches of a traumatized bird if it keeps scaring the demons upstairs back into their cages. 

2. The D&D Guy

I'm a nerd. Now, while this may be upsetting to some of you readers, it's the truth and I don't try to hide it. I've always been socially awkward, but some of that awkwardness has subsided over the years. One of the best things I've done to address my social anxiety was to start playing Dungeons and Dragons. 

But mysterious person on the internet, doesn't D&D separate you from reality, allowing you to instead live in a fantasy world of your design? Well, yes. To an extent, anyway. However, D&D has always been to me, first and foremost, a way to connect with friends.You all get together one a week or so, hang out, roll some dice and have a good time. And that role-playing part? It's not easy to let go and get into a character in front of others, believe me. 

I even took it a step further and took it upon myself to be the group's main Dungeon Master, meaning it's on me to make a fun, exciting story and be able to immerse the players in it. I've been doing it for five or six years and I am just NOW getting comfortable with it. Having to interact with everyone in and out of the game is one of the DM's main responsibilities, and social skills are a vital part of that. 

I tell you all of that to tell you this; the neighbor to our left lives a single, older gentleman that we saw on occasion but never thought one way or another about him. One day I was returning from the store with a few packs of Magic the Gathering cards (NERD!) and he happened to be leaving his apartment as I arrived. He saw the cards in my hand, and immediately asked if I played D&D. 

I said yes without hesitation, and we began to talk about playgroups, and old campaigns, minis and everything remotely related to the game. I soon found out that he was a former employee of TSR as a graphic designer, and still made art and minis that he sold online. 

Many a nerdgasm was had. 

We still talk fairly often, and I know that if I ever need anything from him, he would be happy to help. He even gave me a piece of his artwork as a housewarming gift. 

I don't have any jokes here, I'm just bragging at this point. 

So, as you can see, not ALL of your neighbors are going to be demons sent to ruin your life. Sometimes they'll just be white and nerdy. And that's not bad at all. 

Meet the Neighbors

by Von Droomer

There is a finite number of important steps that you will take in life - graduation, marriage, having a baby - and of all these there is none more full of adventure than your first apartment. That first tentative step out of your parents' place or college dorm is equal parts terrifying and exciting, with nothing but the world before you.

A world filled with crumbling, caustic sinkholes that others have the cajoles to call an apartment. Shopping around can be a frustrating merry-go-round, where the horses are overpriced mud pits with a roach problem and the operator already passed out after his eighth round of Scotch. It's not pretty, is what I'm saying.

Even after surviving all of the searching, paying all of the deposits, moving truckloads of furniture and boxes of junk into the only place that was actually decent for your modest (read: broke) price range, there is one adventure that will continue as long as you plant your made in China flag on that lot that technically isn't yours.

Say hello to the neighbors.

Now, maybe your neighbors are different than mine; in fact, they probably are.  I won't try to say otherwise and will instead paint you a picture of how life is in my apartment.

Let's meet the neighbors, shall we?


1. The Mysterious Douchebag
The Mysterious Douchebag is an entity of shady origins that inhabits the darkest reaches of humanity. Or one of the upstairs apartments. Then again, as you will find out later, they may be one and the same.
Sightings of the Mysterious Douchebag are rare, though sightings of his compensating 4x4 are impossible to avoid, as if he were waving it in our face to distract both us and himself from the fact that he has a tiny pe-

...personality. In any case, the subject mostly remains elusive, the only evidence of his continued existence being the annoying act of leaving his door open and his TV on loud, probably to drown out the moans of pleasure his girlfriend belts out because of the size of his truck.

2. The Angry Chair Lady
Relaxing at home one night, my girlfriend at work and the whole of the majestic land called 'Internet' at my fingertips, I was disturbed by the familiar two note ring of my doorbell. Expecting a visitor, or possibly those nice kids who sell candy bars, I opened my door with a naive optimism that I have not enjoyed since.

The wails that issued from the foul creature outside my door pierced through the barrier of hospitality I had formed in preparation for dealing with such neighbors. In my stupor, I could only make out a few words. "Did you take my chair?" the harpy shrieked, nothing but murder in her eyes. I managed only a shake of my head before her voice cut into me again.

"My chair is missing! I've never had a problem until YOU moved in!" Ignoring the fact that I had moved in some three months prior to this attack, I plugged my ears and muttered out a reply. In all honesty, I was unaware this she-beast had any outside chairs. My denial quelled the monster, and she allowed me time to escape before ringing the bell of her next victim.

This horror perches in the apartment across from the Mysterious Douchebag, on the floor known as the Fifth Layer of Hell.

3. The Newbies (formerly the Hippo) 
When we first lived with the apartment we lived directly below the apartment of a, erm, glandularly challanged woman who moved with the grace of an intoxicated wildebeest. We really had little problem with her, except for the first two weeks where she moved her chair directly above our ceiling fan, which would threaten to fly off at any moment and decapitate everyone within blades' reach if it was ever turned on above its lowest setting. So yeah, looking past the attempted manslaughter, she was one of our more pleasant neighbors.

And then, the Hippo moved.

In her place was a young couple that we have already dubbed our arch Nemeses. Things were off to a great start when it took them two weeks of constant banging, trudging, hammering, and, going by the noise that was made, training a herd of elephants to dance to "Thriller" just to move into the apartment/circus tent/ Satan's taint.

Now, things are pretty calm during the week. We hear little noise from them, probably because their devil rituals require complete concentration. But every weekend they have kids over. Whose kids are they? I wish we knew. Maybe they're kids from a previous marriage. Or maybe they are the sacrifices they use to appease Lucifer. It's open for debate.

What I do know is that those little bundles of joy must REALLY enjoy the game "you have to run everywhere  or you will die", along with such favorites as "let's hit the floor repeatedly with hammers", and "I hope you don't enjoy sleep, poor fuckers that live downstairs". What fun!

So now you know the upstairs neighbors and this post is already growing long. So, I shall continue the introductions at a later, undetermined point in the future so you may meet my much more docile neighbors downstairs. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to bang on my ceiling with a broom like a cartoon character.

The Drudge Life; Surviving Manual Labor

by Von Droomer

My life recently has been, as some would put it, lethargic. I prefer to think of it as relaxed, or lord-like, or "Like a master of my dominion, ruler of all I see and commander of all that I own". Mt girlfriend calls me a housewife. To each their own.

Unfortunately, the time has come for me to be thrust back into the working world. I have a little bit of experience in the land of employment, some of it good, most of horrible, and through most of it I was subjected to the same bullshit that everyone faces. So, you know, whatever. I won't tell you the story of most of my jobs, at least not today, because fuck you, it's my article.

I won't tell you about my first job either. Mainly because it was a summer job in high school and those barely count as jobs, but also because it was boring as fuck. Knowing that you are at least a somewhat sensible audience, I will spare you the numerous recollections of high school girls throwing their buns around the kitchen of a half-star restaurant (and god, I wish I meant that in the best way possible). No, today I tell you a different story.

 It was the summer after high school, and much like today I needed a job in a big way. I managed to get on at a nearby target factory that for the purposes of this article I will call "Dumbshits". Now, when I say Dumbshits made targets, I'm talking about hunting targets for bow hunters. Being in the South, this particular factory did quite well, as there are few things rednecks love more than going all Legolas on some wildlife ass.

I can't give you a day-for day account of my time there because I have slept since then and deleted most of the memories. But I've got enough of them left to give you a basic rundown.

To make the targets, we had to put a frame and center into the main bag, and then stuff the shit out of it with used fuck blankets from some whore-house in Hong Kong. At least that's where I'm assuming they came from. Maybe Vegas. The point is, they gave you rusted scissors (probably from all the reproductive fluids staining the material) and had you futilely attempt to hack your way through the thick cords of fiber, then jam it inside a plastic bag, all the while scraping your knuckles on the burlap center that I swear to God came from Columbia. Fucking Columbia.

This wasn't a target factory, it was where a wealthy drug lord's landfill. And we were the fucking seagulls.

The actual work wasn't the worst part (even though there was always the threat of finding the occasional spoon, pin, knife, or, I'm not shitting you, a used syringe tangled in the old, musky, and ironically named comforters). The people there were the worst.

Oh, sweet baby Jesus, did Dumbshits have a knack for hiring just the most wonderful people. A good two thirds of them were ex-convicts, all of them were painted with a menagerie of amateur tattoos, and they went through so many cigarettes a day that the ground in the break area might as well have been a giant fucking ashtray. So many wonderful people, I don't know where to start.

First, you had the forty something, who had been in and out of prison his entire life. You had the token black guy. You had the overachiever who made quota every day, though I'm pretty sure it was mathematically impossible. You had all manner of loudmouths and douchebags, including the one-upper, who was so obviously lying just to seem "cool" in front of the others that it was hard to watch.

And then there was "Kenny".

Kenny, as I'll call him, though I honestly don't remember his actual name. He worked in the space next to me, though he didn't talk to me for the first few days. That was fine with me; something told me I really didn't want to converse with any of these people, that maybe they wouldn't be interested in my sweet Magic the Gathering cards, or care so much if I was a dungeon master. I was right.

The first thing Kenny said to me told me all I needed to know about him. Seemingly out of nowhere, he gets my attention and asks, "Have you ever had a girl lick your asshole before?"

I'll just leave it at that.

I only worked at Dumbshits for about two weeks, which was long enough to see about seven other employees come and go, the forty-something quit before he could be subjected to a drug test, and hear Kenny spout off witicism of such filth that I redefined my definition of foul language, downgrading Eminem to "Light Swearing".

I guess if I learned anything from my time there, it was this: by Buddha's belly, I never, EVER want to go to prison. Fuck.

Oh, and I guess something about good work environments, blah blah blah. Whatever. But mainly the prison thing. I mean FUCK.

Until the next time around, mortals.

The BCS is Big BS and other stupid issues in sports

by Von Droomer

Every year is the same story, coming from the same people, and equally shrugged off by the same money-pigs - I mean Conference Owners.

The BCS is college footballs pride and joy, an overly complicated system measured by both computer rankings (read: facts) and voting by the Associated Press (read: random guessing). It is a structure unique to Division 1 College Football with, as many BCS opponents will be quick to point out, every other major sport, including every other level of college football using a playoff system to determine the champion. Surely the BCS must be an amazing an accurate system, able to determine which two teams are to play for the national championship each year, based solely on how they performed throughout the regular season.

Surely.

Okay, so usually there is a clear cut top two teams, teams who go undefeated or lose two games and happen to play in the SEC. But what if there are multiple undefeated teams? What if there is just one? How subjective  are the votes when trying to decide number 2? And that's not even mentioning the other 34 bowl games that are played each postseason. How much difference is there between 14 and 15?

Let's not forget the preseason polls. While the NFL does release Power Rankings each week online, those are simply a gauge of how hot teams are, and have no actual impact on where teams end up playing in the postseason. The BCS, however, completely determines your position at the end of the year. Preseason polls are based on how good you think a team is, but beating a top 25 team early on can carry a team through the season, even if that team wasn't as good as expected.

Sure, at the end of the year teams are judged more on the current top 25 teams they've beaten, but a lot of those teams are still riding on wins against early season favorites. "Yeah, Boise State plays a light schedule, but they beat Georgia when they were in the top 25!" Nice. But Georgia isn't a top 25 team now, so there's that.

Why the lack of humor on a humor-based site in what you were sure was a humor article? Fuck you, that's why. You are severely underestimating the severity of this situation. The Conference owners just want to keep lining their pockets with bowl money no matter who wins the championship every year. With all the recruiting scandals and cash flying around between players and agents, College football is nothing more than a money-sucking, soap opera minor league for future NFL stars and washouts.



Dear me from five minutes ago,

Did you see the Patriots game? Tom Brady is ridiculous!

Deconstructing a Mild Inconvenience (or, How Have I not Cock-punched You Yet?)

by Von Droomer

I sit in the same spot on campus most every day I'm there, clicking away at the latest news stories, enjoying a good belly laugh at the latest meme, and altogether having a pleasant time during my daily perusal of mind-numbing internet sites.

And then the beast awakens.

Sometime, at some point and without fail, there comes the banshee shrieks of the whiny soccer mom taking too many classes, or the "I've got a suit therefore I can act like a douche" business major yammering on his cell phone, or - god forbid - the cringe-worthy comedy styling of some popped-collar frat boy trying to impress his latest victim.

Look, I get it. You're in college, and no matter what other position you find yourself in life, that simple fact makes you feel indestructible. It's a safe-haven, where the insane is expected and the art of the asshole can be perfected. We've all got our stories, right Man-who-lost-his-job-and-wife-and-kids-and-was-fisted-by-the-economic-crisis?

It doesn't matter. I still feel like jamming pencils in my ear when you burst into the door, still cursing at the one you tried first but was locked just like it has been the ENTIRE SEMESTER, panting out a conversation that they can hear in 1968, and giving ME dirty looks for staring. Yeah, that's right, I'll stare all I want. Want to keep your conversation private? Then get out of public, you [at this point I went into such a furious tirade of filth and violent anger that I took a break to have a frozen burrito. It was most satisfactory.]

My point is, at least show a little human decency and keep it in a decibel range that won't cause permanent hearing damage. Now, please excuse me while I plunge these headphones far into my ear canal and pump heavy metal into my cranium to forget what your voice sounds like.

Droom Squad Now: A critique of everyday life.

by Von Droomer

We are the Droom Squad, everyday elites from the dredges of America's glorious lower middle class (but maybe more towards the upper lower middle class), and we revel in the simply astounding absurdity of the norm, of the politically correct, and the offensive beyond repair.
This is not social commentary. This is not satire. Except in the fact that it is both.
Here's the deal - each week (month, day, whatever), we will bring you a cutting, thrilling, complete critique of things in our lives, as if they were the same horrible movies we pay ten bucks to see, and then the snacks and WHAT?! SEVEN DOLLARS FOR WONKA? I THINK NOT, SIR!

I digress.

So sit back and enjoy the ride, because chances are I won't.  But that's a sacrifice I'm sure you're willing to make.