When you stop, step back, and refuse to stomach academia’s limitless supply of leftist propaganda, you’ve got to realize that in actuality, it’s a damn good time to be a Republican. Let’s take stock of the current state of affairs:
- Fox News is the #1 cable news channel in America. Nightly, O’Reilly makes Donahue his bitch.
- Affirmative action is on its deathbed (but we knew it was terminally ill when Piscataway rolled around).
- Two words: tax cut.
- Title IX is being reformed. Eleanor Smeal, president of the Feminist Majority: “This is a defeat for us.”
- Bill Maher’s candy ass is off the air. (I know he’s not a liberal per se, but he’s still a piece of shit.)
- George Fucking Bush is the president, and he 0wNs j00.
- Leftist antics on the campuses of America are consistently being outed and ridiculed at places like Campus Nonsense.
I saw Hans Blix in a TV interview yesterday, and strangely enough, I didn’t hate him. In fact, I found him quite affable. Perhaps there is hope for the Scandinavians after all.
Also, The Chron is certifiably funny these days. It’s seirously made me laugh out loud the last couple of times I’ve read it. Josh Hime’s review of the X-Box game “Dead or Alive”, which features scantily-clad female volleyball players, is gorgeous. I quote:
“Myself, I have no soul, so I can tell you that it’s a good game with boobies, and that makes it a great game. … Instead of playing volleyball, you could hang out at the pool and rest, which is a segment in which your chick does stuff like lie around, stretch or sit, and you zoom the camera onto her breasts. A+. You can also do this anywhere that there isn’t a volleyball game in progress. This game has thought of everything.”
And in non-political news, I FUCKING HATE TRAFFIC. Seriously, it’s enough to keep me from living in a big city. It took me 3.5+ hours to get home today. I thought I was gonna go Falling Down on some motherfuckers.
Moods
What puts you in a bad mood? Not what annoys you, but what sticks you in a bad mood for hours? Because I can’t exactly figure out what does it to me, and that’s a problem.
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I do not like people to see my resumé, know my GPA, or hear about what grades I get. It embarrasses me, not because my academics and accomplishments are pathetic or because they are so spectacular as to warrant adulation, but rather because I don’t like to talk about those things. In a word, I think it’s unprofessional.
I’m sure this distate for discussion of one’s academic achievements dates to my unhappy days at Uni High. The kids at Uni had a deplorable, disgusting attitude toward academics, treating it like a big pissing contest. They would compare grades when tests were returned. Special praise was heaped on the kids with the best SAT scores. It sickened me. And the worst? As Uni students graduated and walked across the stage to receive their diplomas, their names along with the college they would be attending was announced. Think about that. Here is a school so fixated on grades, the ACT, and Ivy League colleges that they dare not let their students savor the accomplishment of graduation; no, they must trumpet one last academic achievement — the crowning achievement — of their students as they depart from high school. How disgusting.
Consequently, today I strive to avoid any talk of academics that is tainted by even a tinge of boasting. I’m very sensitive to it. I also dislike when others speak of their grades and accomplishments — it just seems like a matter that should be kept private.
This is not to say I’m not confident in my abilities; I am, but not unequivocally so. For the most part, I’m confident in my ability to write papers and take tests and so on. On the other hand, whenever a teacher prefaces handing back an assignment with an explanation of the grading, I without fail begin to worry, to doubt, and to associate my work with all of the faults that the professor mentions. Usually, though, I do fine.
To sum up this self-centered little manifesto, I guess I should say that in some ways, I am a very open person, and in others, I’m quite private. I believe accomplishments should be kept in the latter realm.
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I could write a narrative, or I could compose an entry of one-to-two sentence “paragraphs.” I hate those.
7 in the morning. Counter-Strike. Don’t take naps from 10pm to 12:30am if you want to get to bed at a normal hour. Or, Plan B: don’t play Counter-Strike.
Amazingly, I didn’t start a paper the day before it was due. I started it the day before the day before it was due. :)
Dialogue from a dinner party:
“What do you do?”
[confused pause]
“Are you in theater?”
“No, I’m a normal person.”
“So, I hear you’re in a movie?”
“No. [pause] A film. An independent film.”
“I’m going to have to make you my bitch.”
“Oh, I think it would take a lot of roofies for that.”
Oliver Twist? Dammit.
Three events involving three females have led me to draw the following conclusion: some women just have no shame.
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Evans-Pritchard on Nuer religion (but it applies so well to ill-conceived contemporary analyses of religion that I had to go and be academic and quote it here):
But Durkheim and his colleagues and pupils were not content to say that religion, being part of the social life, is strongly influenced by the social structure. They claimed that the religious conceptions of primitive peoples are nothing more than a symbolic representation of the social order. It is his society that primitive man worships in the symbol of a god. It is to his society that he prays and makes sacrifice. This postulate of sociologistic metaphysic seems to me to be an assertion for which evidence is totally lacking. It was Durkheim and not the savage who made society into a god. (emphasis mine)
Evans-Pritchard, E.E. Nuer Religion. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1956. pp 313.
Hey NU kids: have you ever noticed that orange painting to the right of the check-out desk in the library? I’m talking about the one that’s about 15′ by 5′ with some colored circles on it. That thing is a piece of crap. I can do better in Microsoft Paint.
Of all the annoying personalities I can think of, the flaming theater major may be the worst.
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Do you know those new cell phones that can play multiple tones? I’m talking about the ones with songs, not ringtones. I fucking HATE them. Some kid in my German Lit class has had his go off in two consecutive classes, which I think is grounds for chopping off a thumb. Damn you, Sprint…
I have a new goal in life: to learn how to speak clearly, succinctly, eloquently, and most importantly, without littering my speech with “umm,” “hmm,” or “uhh.” When someone is speaking at length, listen closely to the number of extraneous words he tosses in. It’s inefficient, and it dilutes the content. My goal is to streamline my speech.
Web Comm. It’s frustrating. Sorry, can’t expound.
I had an odd thought a few days ago. Ma and Pa, I know you read this crap, but uhh.. Anyway, I was wondering about whether people in the Middle Ages engaged in oral sex very much. Thing is, them cats were dirty — not only did they not bathe much, but I think they wore their clothes sewed on and crap like that. So it just seems to me like the nether regions could start gettin kinda funky, you know? And who wants to go a-divin’ down there, then? It’d have to be a brave soul… and one willing to risk crabs and/or lice in the beard afterward. Now that’ll ruin your day for sure.
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It is 4:18 in the a.m., and thus I feel compelled to treat this as Sunday morning rather than Saturday night.
Strange days, these are. Alcohol in all shapes, sizes, colors. A pinstriped suit–why? Disconcerting forgetfulness. It is colder here. The wind finds strength in the unblemished track above the lake.
Blue light, blue shirts. The whites of their eyes show as they pass you in the hallway. Expectant faces, learning faces. Puffed up with pride and bravado, waiting for the prick of reality to deflate their dreams.
The rambling jumbling entangled mess … seeps in. Finds a way in, a parasite, a home, and speaks through you, through us. Uses our lips. Or unlocks? You decide on the verb. Laughter, a spreading contagion. My jaw aches a bit afterward. I suppose it is something of a comforting feeling.
zZzzZzzz…
The library has this amazing soporific quality to it.
I find it more than a bit disconcerting to look back on hours just experienced and find them disheveled, out of order, easily condensed into small glass jars. It is as if someone else owns them; or worse yet, someone threw them away.
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And I get a strange pleasure out of deleting people from my AIM Buddy List. Lame, eh?
- ResCon training: Where the über-nerds gather.™
- Rilke: Is this dude on acid?
- Song of the moment: “In a Big Country” by Big Country
- Hardcore for the white man: RA the Rugged Man. No, I’m serious.
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