Why Pentaceratops is more awesomer than Triceratops

Me at age 22 asked me now to guest post. I had to ask what a guest post was. My teacher in first grade, Mr. Archuleta, told me about e-mail once and my brother’s teacher told him what a fax machine was. I think it helps you do your taxes, but I don’t know for sure.

Anyways, I’m writing a guest post, but writing gets tiring, so I just want to say why Pentaceratops is more awesome than Triceratops. Here’s a list:

1. Pentaceratops has FIVE (5) horns compared to Triceratops’ Three (3). Pentaceratops wins.
2. Pentaceratops lived in New Mexico, Triceratops lived in Colorado, Wyoming, and whatever MO and SD are. Pentaceratops wins.
3. In a fight, the three horns of the Triceratops would be tied with three of Pentaceratops’ horns, which would leave Pentaceratops two more horns to attack and thus win.
4. Though Triceratops and Stegosaurus are evenly matched, as we saw in 3, Pentaceratops could beat Triceratops, so it could also beat Stegosaurus.
5. Pentaceratops has the largest known skull for a land vertebrate. A scientist said that. Largest known means that it’s larger than Triceratops. And we all know larger is better. Pentaceratops wins.

Thanks for reading my writing. And also, I am the best.

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I found his last will, but where’s his testament?

(I spent most of last night and this morning in a hospital waiting room. My friend Frank had to get his appendix removed and they couldn’t do it until 8 a.m. the next morning. In the mean time, I took down his last requests just in case something went hideously wrong on the operating table. Come to think of it, I hope he’s okay, I don’t like what he left me…)

I, Frank Jagear, being of sound mind and judgment– sound being that my premises are true and of valid form– hereby bequeath my estate to the following in the following proportions:

• If somebody could reach the top of Mt. Everest, they are entitled to 90 percent of my assets.
• To Pixel: I leave my girlfriend.
• To my girlfriend: I leave eternal care of Pixel… and also my truck.
• To my brothers: I leave the shared responsibility of paying for my funeral.
• To the state of Idaho: I leave my entire shoe collection.

(note: he is now being injected with 2 mg of morphine)

• To the state of Lousiana: I leave my baseball card collection.

……….. I, Frank Jagear, in a half-state of mind

• Leave my philosophy theory to Pixel
• Leave my motorcycle to Glen Berry on the condition he learns how to walk again.
• Oh, and the truck I gave my girlfriend must be given to her father.
• I leave my entire G.I. Joe collection– except for Cobra Commando– to the Battered Women’s Shelter in the hopes that it will make them happy.
• I want all of my fingers and toes cut off and embalmed to make key chains for all of my friends.
• I want one of my kidneys put on eBay.
• Science has my full consent to clone me.
• To David Chacon: I want my ninja clan to sodomize his wife.
• To Chaparral Elementary School: I bequeath my sword collection.
• Anything left over I leave to my mother.
• As for my remains, I want to be cryogenically frozen.
• Oh, and I give my grandparents my college debt and my cat Lyle.

XOXO,

Frank Jagear

Preparer’s initials: PQS

3:28 Oct. 2, 2007

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Please do not kill me oh nerdlingers

So I looked through a few fantasy novels the other day at my girlfriend’s place. She’s a lovely girl: beautiful, smart, funny, talented and well read. I can only assume that fantasy novels were the closest thing to crack she could get without receiving social stigma while still maintaining a habit to something that is sure to cause cancer in later life.

Seriously, what the hell is with these fucking books? It’s like the authors wanted to write a novel but sadly were born without the ability to actually formulate anything resembling coherence with reality. Or style. Or drama.

I can feel the nerd rage already (not you dear). Why? Because I’m going to single out Robert Jordan here. Mostly because I know you pock-marked greasy bastards out there who curse in elven (I’ll be DAMNED if I’m gonna give THAT a capital letter) will be all over me for saying so, but what the fuck is with this shit? He writes eleven books? ELEVEN?! Religious texts get by with less than this. What makes that uppity bastard think he can string out readers for so long. What’s he doing? Making sure every book has got thirty new characters, two new worlds, five new monsters, plus a handy recipe for dwarf sugar cookies?!

And what makes me, a prospective novelist, most pissed off is that while I (and countless others) try to develop a personal style, a narrative sense and so forth, here comes the magnificently mundane utilitarian shambling writing style of our friend Jordan. How much have I read of him? Not much, but enough to know that if I have to read another word involving a character I don’t care about, from a place I don’t care about, with friends I don’t care about, with a name that involves an apostrophe, someone gon’ die. There’s the trick, my friends: if you want to write a novel, just write! Tumble your way through page after page, introduce characters as you see fit and make sure to make all the women buxom, beautiful and totally created to fulfill deep seated male fantasies that these nerdburgers have.

Oh and look at the amazing titles! Wheel of Time! Knife of Dreams! Fires of Heaven! My word, Robert, you astound me with your brilliance (”A sarcasm detector, that’s a real useful invention” *BAM*). Perhaps I can give you some suggestions for further titles when you write Wheel of Time book number two-hundred-and-twelve-mark-one:

• Coin of Magic
• Sword of Sorcery
• Cup of Death
• Magic Item of Magic Property
• Noun of Intransitive Verb

It’s amazing that you have time to bathe when you’re working on book after book like that, and coming up with some great titles! In fact, I express doubt that you in fact do bathe, basing my beliefs on the people I’ve seen who actually actively enjoy your books and consider them some kind of literature as opposed to mindless (OHHHH ever so mindless) escapism. At least the latter can be excused as being the simple act of rebellion a brain enacts against existence itself… meanwhile the former should be rooted out like a FUCKING PARASITE BURROWING ITS WAY INTO MODERN SOCIETY AS WE KNOW IT.

The test? If you read a book that includes any of the following:

• A heroine who wears skin tight anything and slays dragons/elves/dwarves/quantity surveyors/any monster the author just made up for the sake of the next Dungeons and Dragons rule book and the subsequent retailing.
• A character who’s name is something like Squador, Qu’elic, Excreptor the Megadeathslayer.
• The type of plot that gets a member of any ‘Dark Ages Society’ hot in the pants.
• Complex metaphors on the Bush administration as thinly veiled stereotypical brutish orcs.
• The use of phrases such as ‘Flurox chortled as he spake’. Sorry, but this is a load of wank. Hot, steaming, chunky, wank.

If you note these warning signs, and find yourself justifying your reading of such literature, saying such gems as “Oh come on, Spear of Destiny is just as good as Catch-22, you just don’t appreciate it!” then don’t be surprised if the next sensation you receive is not unlike that of an orc’s slammin jammin appraisal of an elvish countenance on noonsong day.

In other words, I’ll kick you in the nuts.

P.S. My own site, http://borderwaste.blogspot.com/ is now finally being updated. So, uh, go look. Often. And rejoice you bastards!

Last Year: United we stand, Divided we remain, And..... Scene!
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Jury *what*?!

Just now I wrote a nice lengthy excuse to get out of jury duty. Something about how Jesus said don’t judge other people blah blah. It’s all very complicated, and I’m sure you aren’t after hearing the details. Lord knows, I hope the people at the court don’t want to hear the details. Hence why I peppered my excuse with lengthy Bible passages all cunningly formulated to reduce whoever reads it with a big case of the ‘rolling eyes’ and a hefty dose of ‘tearing up the excuse in a huff after striking my name from the registry’.

So civil disobedience isn’t dead. But now sitting in the afterglow of the excuse of a religion I don’t really follow any more (I have a love hate thing going on: God hates me, but I love his creation [women]) I will now put forward ways YOU TOO can get out of jury duty when the time comes.

• Make up your OWN RELIGION. Now this is more of a weekend excuse, if you have time. I recommend starting off your excuse with something along the lines of “L Ron Hubbard was a douche” and then move on to point out that he totally misrepresented Xenu and that Cruise and Travolta aren’t THAT dumb anyway. Make your religion as farfetched as possible, as the people in the courthouse LOVE a surprise more than a fat kid loves cake (ah, 50 Cent, you’re a veritable Yates).
• Claim you’re a secret agent. The secret (ha! Wordplay! Move over 50!) here is to make your excuse esoteric and metaphorical. Stuff like “I’m afraid I’ll be in Geneva in the morning, and who knows when I’ll be back. Maybe never if they ever find me.” Also remember not to sign your name, if this is your tack, and date the paper in binary (cause binary is cool, right?). Your address should confuse the issue further. ‘Behind you!’ is the perfect example of a secret agent’s address. Bonus points if you actually manage to be behind them when they open the letter.
• Write your excuse in a rambling, self-serving manner, kind of like what Hemmingway would write. If he didn’t have talent, I mean. Narrative structures be damned! Just sit down and start scribbling. Think more like Hunter S. Thompson than you ever have before (no, I’m NOT condoning drug use. Just recommending it). Start off your excuse with a bold first line that actually shocks the reader. “I dismembered the remains of the Christmas turkey sometime around noon on a winter squabble. Fleep!” Move on from there, outlining why, indeed, you ARE the Lizard King… oh and you shouldn’t do jury duty, I guess.
• Draw a picture of a famous celebrity instead of an actual excuse. Especially Arnold Schwarzenegger. In a weird style. Saying shut the fuck up. I don’t care what you say, this is ART.

So there you have a quick example of how to exercise your civic right to be a lazy ass. Seriously tho, fuck the judiciary. Oooh, how political of me!

Last Year: Oh, my pouty lips
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How to be a Mature Aged Student

So you’re over 21? Well, for the sake of this document, I will assume you’re way over 21. We’re talking 21 being ‘oh back then!’ So lets say you’re actually mature.

Actually, fuck it, you’re old. OLD.

OLD.

And so you’ve decided ‘what the hey, I’m bored with my life, I think I’ll get a degree’. Sure I may or may not say something like ’shouldn’t you have thought of that back when Roosevelt was still in power?’ This shouldn’t deter you. I’m merely ‘having my fun’. And by that I mean, GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY UNIVERSITY, YOU OLD FUCKS.

Appearance.

There are many factors at work here. Firstly, if you are an aging female, make sure you wear tank tops and the like, which are body snug. Nothing us virile students like more than seeing sagging breasts! Just ask around, and if you take each incongruous look as a positive sign, you’ll see just how popular your fashion statement is! Also, make sure you don’t (I repeat- DO NOT) shave your armpits. We’re all very into the bohemian look.

For the men, remember that ladies are ‘into’ ‘grunge’ ‘now’. Meaning it’s ‘cool’ (in your language- it is ‘pip pip’ and possibly ‘the cats pyjamas’) to wear clothing that makes you look like Kurt Kobain (he was a singer). Sure it makes you look like Kobain POST suicide, but who’s counting? Also, don’t shave your face regularly, just let it sit in a state of half completion. The women on campus are sure to dig your patches of clean shaves intermittently interrupted by tufts of hair. Speaking of hair- don’t wash it, whatever you do! Oh and no deodorant! Remember what I said about bohemian looks? They go for bohemian smells as well!

Lecture behaviour.

Lectures are there for everyone, a university will tell you. We all have the same right to learn, and should be afforded the same opportunities.

Poppycock, as you would say.

When the professor enters the room, feel free to walk straight up to him/her and ask him/her a quest/ion. Don’t worry about the rest of us, as we’re all commies or hippies anyway, and are probably all on drugs (you know the ones? The drugs you guys all took before we were born? But they were okay then, yeah? Because it was common and everyone did it? Yeah those drugs.) hence we don’t actually matter. Due to the fact you’ve entered the class and are unclear on an issue, by all means waylay the lecturer.

During the lecture, make sure to shush everyone around you. Reasons to shush these people can range from the mundane (chatting) to the creative (the noise of someone behind you shifting their weight from one buttock to the other). Oh, as an added bonus to the people sitting behind you, if you have tricep flab, be sure to allow it to wobble freely and openly as you nervously jot down notes about whatever the hell course you’ve paid money to be in.

Also feel free to interject during the lecture at any time. Something like ‘HUH’ is especially effective in impressing the entire room full of students. Another useful phrase can be ‘SLOW DOWN’, since if you’re having trouble getting all the notes you need, obviously everyone else is too. If they’re not, though, who cares? YOU paid for the fucking class, right?

Tutorial participation.

This is your chance to shine. Every tutorial is, for the lack of a better metaphor, a shrine to the worship of YOU. YOU are the oldest person in the room, so, it follows, that you will be the out and out smartest. Some people will naysay this, and bring up such feeble counter examples as:

• ‘You paid to get into this class’
• ‘You were a goddamn SECRETARY for forty years’
• ‘You watch Fox News to be INFORMED!’
• ‘Just die already’

All these should be ignored. Yell loudly over other students. Make humming noises as the tutor speaks, showing everybody in the room that you understand. God forbid anyone might think of you as stupid in a class YOU PAID FOR since you PAID GOOD MONEY TO BE HERE and WILL DAMN WELL GET VALUE OUT OF EVERY FUCKING CENT. Belabour every damn point the lecturer raises. Attack the textbook’s viewpoint constantly, without logical reasons either! ‘It doesn’t sit right’ is good enough for YOU, so everyone else should goddamn agree.

Also attack fellow classmates when they point out flaws in your argument. A lot of people seem to believe university should be a place where you learn new things and new ways of viewing the world. NOT TRUE. University is there to remind YOU of what you already knew. Confirmation! Any viewpoint that contradicts your own should, therefore, be viewed as wrong and tossed to the dogs. Remember once again: university is your ticket to knowledge. Well, I mean, university is a ticket for OTHERS to get to YOUR knowledge.

Failure and your own stupidity.

When you fail your exams or essays, remember, it’s not YOUR fault that you don’t understand the central problems of the texts you’ve been set or the methods conveyed to you. It’s simply the university’s fault for setting such ambiguous and pointless readings that don’t correspond with your own view at ALL. Feel free to kick up a stink in class over your marks, especially if you DIDN’T fail but also didn’t grade as highly as you wanted.

If you ever get shot down in debate, do NOT EVER CONCEDE DEFEAT. To you, defeat should be clawed out of your pit bull like grip as you hang on to what you KNOW is the case. If you believe postmodernism is a piece of crap system that didn’t teach nothin’ to nobody, you should stick to this view. When someone brings up the point that postmodernistic thinking has brought us such notions as multiculturalism, feel free to spit venom at the student, stating that, in essence, you’ve been around a long damn time and know a good thing when I’s sees it! Postmodernism is all pointless exaggerated artworks. If an art major attacks this view, call him a fag (or, the female variant, a ‘lesbo’) and walk out.

You’re always right.

Last Year: Idle Tuesday
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