The scale for measuring a pet peeve - mosquito bites, idiot drivers, idiots in general - stretches for theoretical and figurative miles. Mine clocks in somewhere in the billions, I'm sure, if not to some other astronomical number with a number of zeroes behind it such that they could be assembled into a binary army worthy of universal conquest. The zeroes would do my horrible beckoning, and surely the commas would have their place in command as well, particularly as we did battle with the evil (and this is stolen from a friend of mine) "Kurtzoids from planet Penny-Arcadia." I assure you he has a valid reason for saying that, and truthfully it's a splicing of two seperate comments, so I guess that makes it a bit of a false statement. Also, I happen to Love Penny Arcade with a capital emphasis on the letter L, such that one of my life goals is to meet the venerable Tycho and Gabe, and hope I don't explode in glee. But I digress.

I write these blogs for several reasons. First and foremost it's my PsOV, which can be either humorous or annoying or pure rant. There are other types of posts that defy any catergorization, and it would be a waste of time and data to list them all. In the end, I'd say the majority of my posts will be rants of "teh angars," such that the machines I rage against will feel some virtual verbal wrath. It's no secret that I exhume part of my anger-ness on this blog, and I feel no reason to keep it all in. I know hardly anyone will care about my tribulations, but it's worth a shot. At the least a number of close real and 'net friends will read them and get an inside view on my devils and angels, but that's being romantic about it.

Sigh.

So where to begin? I could write volumes on the subjects swimming in my synapsi, but I don't have the time or energy, so I'm going to try and keep it short. So I'll cut to the chase. Tonight I had to waste two hours of my life watching Van Wilder. Two whole damn fucking hours that I'll never get back. If you could sue people for time lost to their trash, then I'd be at the fucking office now, at three-thirty in the morning, waiting for some jagoff ambulance chasing "has-months-of-experience" chowderhead laywer to lay my case down before whatever fucking court took such cases, which probably exist in Bizarro World.

The movie is insane. It's a mindfuck. If my mind had an anus, it would be barking up that quarter, and probably without any kind of...ease-in-goo. If you don't know what I mean, I MEAN IT WAS AN ASS RAPE FOR MY BRAIN, AND IT DIDN'T USE LUBE. And by the way you clueless jackass, don't fucking come back to this blog, because I'm obviously talking above your damn intelligence quotient, and I don't need banana fucks like you reading it. You probably like Van Wilder, in which case I hope God has mercy on your soul in the same way he might display it towards hemorroids.

Again I digress. I actually do have an itenerary (sic), so let's get to it.

The movie's plot is pretty simple: There's a fast talking kid that spends seven (!) years in college because he loves it. He has an awesome apartment, his own golf cart for transportation, hundreds of friends, a personal rent-a-cop, lots of women to have sex with, etc etc. He never studies, doesn't care about grades, his dad pays for it, etc. In short he's living the MTV life. He's young, he's hot (I'm comfortable with my heterosexuality, thank you), he's popular, he's carefree, etc. Anyway, he does all this. A girl comes in. He tries to score with her. She eventually shows him the idiot he is. She then proceeds to love him (sigh sigh sigh). He almost gets expelled. He doesn't get expelled. He graduates. Yay. More explanation for each segment I choose to rip apart.

Let me start off by saying the entire movie is a metaphor for what is wrong with America.

Just shoot me now.

Direct quote today from one of my classes: "Does 'scrapped' mean to throw away?" As in, "Tom scrapped the plans for the wang-o-matic in leui of his desire to create the wang-a-matron."

Sigh.

I just got home from some grocery shopping and I feel a MIGHTY NEED to share this.

I'm in the cereal aisle looking at pre-packeged sugar chunk lumps with sugar sprinkle smegma, and I notice something. The Trix rabbit must be really, really horny. I mean seriously. He's always looking hungrily at the cereal, at the kids on the cereal box (which is more scary than funny I guess, because he could be a pedophile), at the curvaceous bowl. They should change the name to "Fux." Plus the name of the cereal is "Trix," which suggests a treasure trove of innuedo hilarity. Trix cereal is composed of lumps in the shape of fruits, so the rabbit might be gay, in which case we shouldn't say "rabbit," but "siwwy wabbit" instead. He usually dresses up like women and whatnot in his commercials as he tries in vain to score some cereal. Maybe the cereal makes you horny. And gay. I think the wabbit is undressing me with his eyes whenever I'm near the box of cereal, and it makes me think I'm losing my mind. Or maybe he's checking out the Lucky Charms leprechaun. "Oh, he's alwehs afteh meh luckeh charms!" I can imagine the scandals already.

Hmmm, Elmer Fudd. "Wascally wabbit." I wonder if Elmer Fudd is gay. "I've got a carrot in my pants, a-huh-huh-huh-huh!" Phallic symbol hat? God damn, Elmer himself looks like a damn penis. A laughing gun toting penis with a penis hat. And the gun is ust a metal penis! My god!

Surely governmental agents are en route as we spea

I feel some sort of need to write today.

This will be, at half attempt, the beginning and introduction. I don't plan on anything formal. Formalities are stuffy and restraining constructs - you have a void that must be filled through order of rules and by proper measure. But I'm honestly not into the strange and strict. I'd rather freedom, I'd rather give and please.

Welcome to my blogspot.

I realize many people may read the first and wonder what the word "iracund" means. Well, simply, he's a jerk. An apple-cheeked bastard. The kind of guy that degrades and picks apart and effaces the warm aura. He slides in, he destroys, he leaves you feeling bad. I like to think the word almost explains itself from its visual framework: an "iracund" means "i r a cunt." A d doens't equal a t (in this universe), but it is close enough to merrit its own...merrit. That said, I have taught you a word for the day. So use it.

I'm not sure what compels me to write at this moment, but fittingly it is a strange force. A gravetic surge and convalescing wave of sorts, it ebbs to and fro in rhytmic madness. I am drawn to my writings but I think that I will not appease anyone or help or satisfy the masses, which is by all means the normal. You can't please everyone for any amount of time. Some fool once said you can, if only for brief periods. But the internet has shattered all pretense that everyone can have a shared and common opinion when given the same information. By this I mean the most rational and concrete example can be twisted and contorted, and I assure you that someone out there will disagree with you. The example in question doesn't even have to be complex or multi-faceted. You can find people that will argue what two and two equal, I swear. If you don't beleive me, I can point you towards some websites that will quickly and readily respond to such a challenge with terrifying and monsterous ferocity, as if bearing down on a wall in waiting for release.

Now personally, I hold that 99.9% of the sapiens population should have a permanent stamp across their forhead that reads "idiot," but you can't have it written just one way. Instead it needs to be like the writing on the ambulance - you'll need one that is backwards so that the person retains the capability to read it in the mirror, because they need to to remind themselves, "Plum sure-bob I'm an igit!" Likewise and conversely, "idiot" needs to be stamped so that everyone that talks to this person can plainly read it. It assures a moebius (sic) strip of label - no one will ever mistake that person's mind for anything short of a parked car.

It's this mindset - that everyone's IQ levels are, on average, in the one-digit range lower half quad - that makes me dangerous and annoying and hated. Humans like to think they are truly intelligent and inhabit a higher being of person and existence. We are above the cows, the beavers. But I think the opposite. If there's proof that evolution doesn't exist, it's the same species that originated such an idea. I honestly don't buy into the idea that we, as a genus subset, continually push towards an idea of perfection - stronger and better and faster and pleasent smelling. We're not. I won't discredit the idea of adaption - that an organism responds intuitively to its environment and, over a peroid of time, has mutations in their genetic makeup that accurately and efficently respond to problem stimuli - but I will not choose to beleive humans mantina the ability to move themselves further and further towards excellence. I think it's more like a game of Monopoly. We live at Baltic, we take a ride on the Reading, and ultimately we're back where we started with a few extra bucks. Currently, humankind is stuck in jail, and it's going to take three million chances before we roll a pair of double sixes and finally break free. And besides, the cop in that game was an asshole, always blowing that whistle and shit. I really hated him. Johnny Law particularly took his agressions out on Spotty the Dog, being a diecast aluminum game peice. Surely the threat was there, and the northeast corner of Monopoly's judiciary outfit was there to bring swift and quick justice.

I'm not sure if I strayed off topic, but I'll say you can't really do that unless you have a set and prepared agenda. Which I don't. I guess that means there's a lot of lee-way in terms of when I'm straying off course and going on a tangent, beacuse this whole damn blog is going to be a string of tangents. My promise is that they will be entertaining at all times. At all times. If you don't think it's entertaining, then you are wrong. I have spoken. But I can't say that each entry will make you happy or smile or content. I'm not some damn skee-ball game, I'm not going to spit out more tickets just because you do better or like me. I'mgoing to get on here and talk and speak and rant and rave.

In the end, my point is that I'm probably going to offend you. I will say things that I think are right and true because this is my own soapbox in digital nirvana, and there's not a hell of a lot you can do to stop me. Just pretend I'm Wile E. Coyote and I have Acme rice bombs and knick-knick-missle-spoons at my disposal, among whatever other ludicrous weaponry my being might be holding. But I'm not going to fall off the cliff and go splat. I'm going to win. I'm going you run you over with a damn steamroller after I trapped you in a corner by painting a tunnel on the rocky wall. "The bullet is enormous! There is no escaping!"

But it's like I said. I'm an iracund. I'm goign to sound off, I'm going to piss off, I'm going to whack....nevermind.

I don't care about you and your opinoins, because half the time I'm going to think they are stupid. I'm also not in the business or market to consider your worthless thoughts and expositions on my writings, becaues I flat out don't give a shit. It makes no damn difference to me. I'm going to write, you're going to read it, and you can do whatever the hell you want afterwards. You walk away satisfied? Good, have a cookie with the bloke that hated what I said today. And then stfu. I don't really care.

Yea, I'll like it if people enjoy my stuff, but I'm not writing to appease anyone but myself. It's an exercise in sanity, and exercise in journalistic release.

In the end, I truly hope you enjoy my rantings and ravings, but I'm just saying there's no gaurantee. There's always a prize in the bottom of the box of my blog-cereal. But that doesn't mean I haven't broken it already. And that doesn't mean I won't laugh if you swallow it by mistake. I put it there, and you can try to find it yourself.

That said, the portal is opened and the pancakes are sizzling...