So I was reading a blog - this one, to be exact - and I thought of something. Notice how there's a disclaimer at the top of the article? Let me quote, here, if you're too lazy to click it. "Warning: This post may contain language that is offensive to some." Since when do we treat offense like it's some kind of radioactive isotope? Why do we, as a collective whole, get so paranoid about hurting people's feelings? There's no right in this nation not to be offended.
You see, I'm in a wheelchair but I say cripple all the time. I'm a self described cripple. I, frankly, don't have time to be offended and anyone who hates me simply for the fact that I'm in a wheelchair is quite obviously feeble minded and their opinion - therefore - is not worth consideration. See how easy it is? It's not a big fucking deal to hear cripple or faggot or nigger. Why should people let words hurt them? Grow a thicker skin and toughen up. Unless the Westboro Baptist Church or the fucking KKK are coming around shouting it at you, there's absolutely nothing to fear from a simple word.
What's even worse is the people who get offended but aren't even involved in the allegedly pejorative words being used. For instance, I was discussing European politics with some friends some time ago and the word 'Gypsy' came up. The whitest white guy I know, whose family has been in the States for generations and hasn't a drop of Roma in them, said that he found that word offensive and that the preferred term is 'Roma.' Really? Why should he be offended? Some times, I think this society goes way too far to try not to step on anyone's toes. It's okay, you know. They're just words. Toughen up and get on with it. Yes, that means you, the 'R' Word.
That's one I really don't understand. The term 'mental retardation' quite literally means a slowing of the mental faculties. It is an accurate descriptor and was even designed to be specifically politically correct. Do they think that by newspeaking the word away they can magically stop people from calling out their buddies for being stupid and acting like idiots? No! In fact, in the United Kingdom, children have already taken to using 'special' as an insult. It is an ultimately futile campaign and a downright waste of energy that could go to solving real problems that the mentally deficient face - things like lack of proper care and funding for special education and adult assistance. The reasoning for this futile campaign must be mindboggling.
Now, make no mistake. I am not a hateful man at all, here. I mean, my dearest and closest friend - other than my fiancee - is a bisexual woman. My fiancee herself is a minority - Chinese, in fact. I like to think I'm a very tolerant man and I believe that no one should be hated or reviled simply because of what they are. Still, being offended doesn't make you special. It's not like you taking offense at something suddenly gives you the right to silence someone else. We all have a right to say whatever we damn well please and if people don't like it, then they don't have to listen.
Anyway, that's my rant. Sound off in the comments if you have something to say about it. I need a drink.
30 January, 2012
24 January, 2012
Critique my writing!
I wrote this just now as a bit of flash fiction. Tell me what you think! It's extremely rough and has not been edited, but it's my first horror scifi so I thought I'd share.
////UNSMC VESSEL "UN PROSPERITY"
MISSION LOG: DATE UNKNOWN, 7.0012 CYCLES SINCE CRITICAL SYSTEM FAILURE
ENSIGN MARCUS NGERE - UNSMCID 232-191-000127, RECORDING
::LOG BEGINS::
"How long have I been out here?" That was the question which clung like an epoxy bonding agent to the forefront of
my mind. I stared out at the long hallway before me as I floated out of the dormatory ring of the ship, my stomach
churning at the onset of weightlessness, though the fact that I hadn't eaten in four cycles might have aided in this
condition.
Checking the computer junction's temporal readout between the dormatory ring and ops, I could see that seven cycles
had passed since we were hit by that... thing, causing a critical system failure, killing life support systems and
forcing a full reboot of all systems. We only had one working stasis pod. The crew elected to save me above all
the others. I had no idea how long I was out, but when the onboard computers woke me some time later, I felt like
death.
A klaxon sounded, alerting me to a fresh problem. Ring Charlie - the point of impact - had come back online.
It shouldn't have been possible, but I was curious and decided to investigate. I grabbed a tool belt and floated down
the corridor to the third ring of the ship.I opened the sealed access airlock, feeling the pressure drop slightly.
Ring Charlie had apparently only barely repressurized from it's exposure.
Realizing now that the size and scope of the damage might well still require attention, I removed the rivet gun and
repair sheet from the tool belt, hefting them both in my hands. Opening the interior door with my foot, I gingerly slid
down the ladder leading into the habitation ring. It was dim and dank, the enviornmental and lighting systems still
somewhat frazzled from the impact. I cursed a little, kicking myself for forgetting my flashlight. Regardless, I
pressed on into the twilight of the damaged ring, feeling around for an emergency light.
My boot slid as I stepped in a thick, gooey liquid. It must have been a coolant leak. I raised the rivet gun, priming
its CO2 pack and raising the aluminum repair sheet as I felt for the leaking pipe. I grabbed hold of a thick wire and
jumped slightly as it slipped away. It was somewhat sticky, pulling my hand for a distance and depositing it on a
switch. Shrugging, I flipped the switch, an illumination pod for an instrumentation panel.
There, in the pale starlight and sickly orange glow of the instrument panel was Crewman Jennings, staring me in the eye.
Strange tendrils fed into his skull and his mouth oozed a sickly green-red pus in ungodly quantities down his suit and
onto the floor. "It f-found us..." He - if he could truly be called a he anymore - sputtered as the lights in the ring
were slowly turned on in staggered succession. "J-join usss" he hissed, as the lights revealed the rest of the crew
behind him, all staring at me and revealing a writhing, loathsome organic mass plugging the impact hole.
I deposited every rivet in the gun in Jennings' face. The poor bastard went down but got right back up, shambling towards
me as I sprinted up the ladder, charging to Ring Echo - CIC - and barricading myself inside. I surveyed my surroundings:
the armory had already been nearly exhausted and bloody drag marks showed the fate of the last of the crew to have held
out.
At this point, death by exposure seems merciful. I sit here now, having barely powered on the subspace beacon. They're
beating on the door now, screaming... screaming the most horrible scream imaginable. I'm recording this log to let you
know there's no point in saving me. Avoid the UN Prosperity at all costs and send a naval vessel to burn this wreck out
of the sky. There must be no survivors. I found a Type 97 service pistol on the transmitter console with one round in
its magazine. I've racked the slide and I'm pointing at the glass. Wish me luck.
::LOG ENDS::
////WARNING: COMMAND RING DEPRESSURIZED
////SYSTEM ALERT: REQUEST TO LAUNCH COMMS BEACON WAS DENIED, LOG NOT TRANSMITTED
////DISTRESS CALL SENT, RESCUE PARTY REQUESTED
(EDIT: I've started posting this around various other places, so it will probably be reposted without credit if people like it enough. Just know, future readers, that I'm the original author and would like credit. Also, I don't plan to be so repost happy with the follow ups.)
////UNSMC VESSEL "UN PROSPERITY"
MISSION LOG: DATE UNKNOWN, 7.0012 CYCLES SINCE CRITICAL SYSTEM FAILURE
ENSIGN MARCUS NGERE - UNSMCID 232-191-000127, RECORDING
::LOG BEGINS::
"How long have I been out here?" That was the question which clung like an epoxy bonding agent to the forefront of
my mind. I stared out at the long hallway before me as I floated out of the dormatory ring of the ship, my stomach
churning at the onset of weightlessness, though the fact that I hadn't eaten in four cycles might have aided in this
condition.
Checking the computer junction's temporal readout between the dormatory ring and ops, I could see that seven cycles
had passed since we were hit by that... thing, causing a critical system failure, killing life support systems and
forcing a full reboot of all systems. We only had one working stasis pod. The crew elected to save me above all
the others. I had no idea how long I was out, but when the onboard computers woke me some time later, I felt like
death.
A klaxon sounded, alerting me to a fresh problem. Ring Charlie - the point of impact - had come back online.
It shouldn't have been possible, but I was curious and decided to investigate. I grabbed a tool belt and floated down
the corridor to the third ring of the ship.I opened the sealed access airlock, feeling the pressure drop slightly.
Ring Charlie had apparently only barely repressurized from it's exposure.
Realizing now that the size and scope of the damage might well still require attention, I removed the rivet gun and
repair sheet from the tool belt, hefting them both in my hands. Opening the interior door with my foot, I gingerly slid
down the ladder leading into the habitation ring. It was dim and dank, the enviornmental and lighting systems still
somewhat frazzled from the impact. I cursed a little, kicking myself for forgetting my flashlight. Regardless, I
pressed on into the twilight of the damaged ring, feeling around for an emergency light.
My boot slid as I stepped in a thick, gooey liquid. It must have been a coolant leak. I raised the rivet gun, priming
its CO2 pack and raising the aluminum repair sheet as I felt for the leaking pipe. I grabbed hold of a thick wire and
jumped slightly as it slipped away. It was somewhat sticky, pulling my hand for a distance and depositing it on a
switch. Shrugging, I flipped the switch, an illumination pod for an instrumentation panel.
There, in the pale starlight and sickly orange glow of the instrument panel was Crewman Jennings, staring me in the eye.
Strange tendrils fed into his skull and his mouth oozed a sickly green-red pus in ungodly quantities down his suit and
onto the floor. "It f-found us..." He - if he could truly be called a he anymore - sputtered as the lights in the ring
were slowly turned on in staggered succession. "J-join usss" he hissed, as the lights revealed the rest of the crew
behind him, all staring at me and revealing a writhing, loathsome organic mass plugging the impact hole.
I deposited every rivet in the gun in Jennings' face. The poor bastard went down but got right back up, shambling towards
me as I sprinted up the ladder, charging to Ring Echo - CIC - and barricading myself inside. I surveyed my surroundings:
the armory had already been nearly exhausted and bloody drag marks showed the fate of the last of the crew to have held
out.
At this point, death by exposure seems merciful. I sit here now, having barely powered on the subspace beacon. They're
beating on the door now, screaming... screaming the most horrible scream imaginable. I'm recording this log to let you
know there's no point in saving me. Avoid the UN Prosperity at all costs and send a naval vessel to burn this wreck out
of the sky. There must be no survivors. I found a Type 97 service pistol on the transmitter console with one round in
its magazine. I've racked the slide and I'm pointing at the glass. Wish me luck.
::LOG ENDS::
////WARNING: COMMAND RING DEPRESSURIZED
////SYSTEM ALERT: REQUEST TO LAUNCH COMMS BEACON WAS DENIED, LOG NOT TRANSMITTED
////DISTRESS CALL SENT, RESCUE PARTY REQUESTED
(EDIT: I've started posting this around various other places, so it will probably be reposted without credit if people like it enough. Just know, future readers, that I'm the original author and would like credit. Also, I don't plan to be so repost happy with the follow ups.)
23 January, 2012
I'm bored.
So whilst perusing various leaked enemy listings of the infamous Cult of Scientology, I came to a shocking revelation: those assholes had the unmitigated audacity not to list me! What have I done wrong?
How am I not a suppressive person to them? I try to do the right things: threatening them online, telling Scientologists that I'm armed in case the OSA tries to flex with me, mocking them at their gay little "stress tests" in person; but I get nothing in return. Those ingrates! How cruel. Well, in retaliation, I'm going to start posting links to high level Scientology internal documents until I am satisfied that I'm on a list. Readers: have fun! Scientology: this means war. Apathetic persons: keep doing what you do.
Some major releases by Wikileaks: the Intelligence Agency of the Common Man
OT VII rundown
KSW rundown
LRH Helatrobus Lectures
How am I not a suppressive person to them? I try to do the right things: threatening them online, telling Scientologists that I'm armed in case the OSA tries to flex with me, mocking them at their gay little "stress tests" in person; but I get nothing in return. Those ingrates! How cruel. Well, in retaliation, I'm going to start posting links to high level Scientology internal documents until I am satisfied that I'm on a list. Readers: have fun! Scientology: this means war. Apathetic persons: keep doing what you do.
Some major releases by Wikileaks: the Intelligence Agency of the Common Man
OT VII rundown
KSW rundown
LRH Helatrobus Lectures
21 January, 2012
It's on like Red Dawn.
Holy shit! It's been twenty days since last I posted here. Excuse me while I go commit ritual seppuku.
Okay, I'm back. That was kind of boring. So what's new with all four of you people who read this rag? Not much here, just the usual life of a professional writer: heavy drinking, cavorting with socialites and giving advice to struggling up and comers. A rather strange story to this effect occurred last week, and I guess since I've nothing better to do I shall relate it to you all.
Last week, I polished off about a litre of Stolichnaya vodka (for whom I should be the official spokesman or something) and was wandering about my apartment complex, shouting at children, when there before me appeared a grizzled old man. He seemed rather perplexed by the sight before him: an inebriated cripple shouting at everyone in his midst, bedecked in fedora, monocle and tweed suit and having nary a care in the world.
"Young man." He asked me. "How do you do it? Though I, in all my years, have learned much of this world and what it has to offer, I have yet to live such a depraved life as you and I do highly doubt that I know how."
It was then that I rolled myself in my mighty, gilded wheelchair to him and clapped him familiarly upon the shoulder. "My boy." I told him. "It is a simple enough proposition, living the 4.5 tatami life." I related. "Indeed, it is quite an easy thing to do. Simply quit your job, drink incessantly and dress as if you're a mercenary from the 1940s and the money will follow."
"Th-that's really it!?" He stammered to which I nodded generously and drunkenly. He, with the energy and vigor of a schoolboy cheered and sprinted to his apartment as I promptly rolled my wheelchair onto my neighbor's porch to vomit.
I saw the old man again yesterday. Well, I saw him in a fashion. Whilst reading Komsomalskaya Pravda, my news rag of choice, I read that an energy cloud had begun attacking Pyongyang a week prior. I didn't need to read the rest of the article. I knew that the old man had finally gotten his wish. He was going to destroy Communism. A proud tear streamed from my eye then, I am not ashamed to say. I put down the paper and turned to my trusted sidekick, the Blind Wizard. "It is time." I said, donning my cloak and jetpack. "Prepare the zeppelin, The Red Hammer, for I have a new nemesis."
It's on like Red Dawn, ya herd?
Okay, I'm back. That was kind of boring. So what's new with all four of you people who read this rag? Not much here, just the usual life of a professional writer: heavy drinking, cavorting with socialites and giving advice to struggling up and comers. A rather strange story to this effect occurred last week, and I guess since I've nothing better to do I shall relate it to you all.
Last week, I polished off about a litre of Stolichnaya vodka (for whom I should be the official spokesman or something) and was wandering about my apartment complex, shouting at children, when there before me appeared a grizzled old man. He seemed rather perplexed by the sight before him: an inebriated cripple shouting at everyone in his midst, bedecked in fedora, monocle and tweed suit and having nary a care in the world.
"Young man." He asked me. "How do you do it? Though I, in all my years, have learned much of this world and what it has to offer, I have yet to live such a depraved life as you and I do highly doubt that I know how."
It was then that I rolled myself in my mighty, gilded wheelchair to him and clapped him familiarly upon the shoulder. "My boy." I told him. "It is a simple enough proposition, living the 4.5 tatami life." I related. "Indeed, it is quite an easy thing to do. Simply quit your job, drink incessantly and dress as if you're a mercenary from the 1940s and the money will follow."
"Th-that's really it!?" He stammered to which I nodded generously and drunkenly. He, with the energy and vigor of a schoolboy cheered and sprinted to his apartment as I promptly rolled my wheelchair onto my neighbor's porch to vomit.
I saw the old man again yesterday. Well, I saw him in a fashion. Whilst reading Komsomalskaya Pravda, my news rag of choice, I read that an energy cloud had begun attacking Pyongyang a week prior. I didn't need to read the rest of the article. I knew that the old man had finally gotten his wish. He was going to destroy Communism. A proud tear streamed from my eye then, I am not ashamed to say. I put down the paper and turned to my trusted sidekick, the Blind Wizard. "It is time." I said, donning my cloak and jetpack. "Prepare the zeppelin, The Red Hammer, for I have a new nemesis."
It's on like Red Dawn, ya herd?
01 January, 2012
2012: My Predictions.
It is no secret that for several years I was internationally renowned as a prophet and a soothsayer. My company was in demand by all the finest crowned heads of Europe and the Middle East. Fame, fortune and women: all were mine because of my uncanny ability to scry from the past the secrets to unlocking the riddles of the future.
Presented now, for the first time since I awoke from that dream where I predicted shit for rich assholes, my uncanny prophetic abilities. I shall present twelve predictions; one for each month of the year. Watch as the months go by, dear reader - I think you might be pleasantly surprised!
January: Hot on the heels of the recent announcement that the Neon Genesis Evangelion remake is being concluded, GAINAX announce that they know for a fact that they will once again be disappointed with the ending of the beloved and acclaimed series. To rectify this, they announce that director Tom Six is being brought in on the project.
Six reveals his vision for the franchise's future, wherein Gendo Ikari - the leader of NERV - seeks to make the ultimate anti-angel combat machine: by fusing each Eva unit mouth to anus. We are all left wondering what happens to the pilots, but let me tell you: the otakus eat it up.
What an asshole.
February: The United States Department of Education announces that February's spelling will be changed at long last to 'Febuary.' "Honestly, we don't know how that silent 'r' got in there." Secretary of Education Arne Duncan admits, nervously wiping his brow. "We're really sorry it took us so long to fix this." He promptly commits seppuku on live television: shocking all three of C-SPAN's viewers into a terror coma.
March: Dubstep dies its final death as the ever distractable American public hears the twenty thousandth dubstep remix of Daft Punk's Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger interspersed with dialogue snippets from Portal's GLaDOS. The combined age of its funerary pall bearers? 17.
April: The author's birthday is marked by the re-emergence of fine oak billiard pipes as popular accessories. The move is hailed by many - including Christopher Lee and the Royal Shakespeare Society's Michael Boyd - as the final proof that I will always be more correct than my dear friend Elisabeth.
May: At the 2012 World's Expo in Yeosu, South Korea; it is revealed that scientists have perfected the means to turn water into fruit punch with a simple packet of dehydrated flavoring. "Really," says Doctor Martin Chen of MIT, "It's the culmination of my life's work." The poor sods in the science team do not know of Kool-Aid. No one tells them. They just don't have the heart.
June: My fiancee moves in. The event is presaged by a monumental, once in a century move: I clean my apartment.
July: Something happens. Someone is quoted as saying something, and the public reacts.
August: The long awaited return of Dragon*Con, arguably the best thing about Georgia, which dramatically understates how awesome it truly is. Since the author and his fiancee will have gotten much of the sex and drinking out of the way in the preceding months, they are actually able to attend the event this time instead of occasionally emerging from their room late at night to drink more.
Patrick Stewart, Micheal Dorn, and Johnathan Frakes - close personal friends of the author - are in attendance, and I finally convince Josh that I bought him that goddamn Ramune two years ago.
September: Hot on the heels of Dragon*Con, Adult Swim announces that they're bringing back their anime block, just because they like pitting their viewer base against itself. "Honestly," says Jackson Publick of the Venture Brothers "I think they might just be pure evil, those fuckers."
October: Without a clear frontrunner in the Republican primaries and election day fast approaching, the remaining Republican candidates are sent to Australia's scenic Thunderdome to fight to the death. The winner will go on to be the GOP's pick for presidential candidate, while the most recognizable corpse is put forward as the candidate for Vice President.
November: Republicans lose, Obama is reelected. I flee to an underwater art deco city of my own, completely original devising; where the artist will not fear the censor. I call it: Ragnarok.
December: The world ends. Ragnarok prevails.
Presented now, for the first time since I awoke from that dream where I predicted shit for rich assholes, my uncanny prophetic abilities. I shall present twelve predictions; one for each month of the year. Watch as the months go by, dear reader - I think you might be pleasantly surprised!
January: Hot on the heels of the recent announcement that the Neon Genesis Evangelion remake is being concluded, GAINAX announce that they know for a fact that they will once again be disappointed with the ending of the beloved and acclaimed series. To rectify this, they announce that director Tom Six is being brought in on the project.
Six reveals his vision for the franchise's future, wherein Gendo Ikari - the leader of NERV - seeks to make the ultimate anti-angel combat machine: by fusing each Eva unit mouth to anus. We are all left wondering what happens to the pilots, but let me tell you: the otakus eat it up.
February: The United States Department of Education announces that February's spelling will be changed at long last to 'Febuary.' "Honestly, we don't know how that silent 'r' got in there." Secretary of Education Arne Duncan admits, nervously wiping his brow. "We're really sorry it took us so long to fix this." He promptly commits seppuku on live television: shocking all three of C-SPAN's viewers into a terror coma.
March: Dubstep dies its final death as the ever distractable American public hears the twenty thousandth dubstep remix of Daft Punk's Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger interspersed with dialogue snippets from Portal's GLaDOS. The combined age of its funerary pall bearers? 17.
April: The author's birthday is marked by the re-emergence of fine oak billiard pipes as popular accessories. The move is hailed by many - including Christopher Lee and the Royal Shakespeare Society's Michael Boyd - as the final proof that I will always be more correct than my dear friend Elisabeth.
May: At the 2012 World's Expo in Yeosu, South Korea; it is revealed that scientists have perfected the means to turn water into fruit punch with a simple packet of dehydrated flavoring. "Really," says Doctor Martin Chen of MIT, "It's the culmination of my life's work." The poor sods in the science team do not know of Kool-Aid. No one tells them. They just don't have the heart.
June: My fiancee moves in. The event is presaged by a monumental, once in a century move: I clean my apartment.
July: Something happens. Someone is quoted as saying something, and the public reacts.
August: The long awaited return of Dragon*Con, arguably the best thing about Georgia, which dramatically understates how awesome it truly is. Since the author and his fiancee will have gotten much of the sex and drinking out of the way in the preceding months, they are actually able to attend the event this time instead of occasionally emerging from their room late at night to drink more.
Patrick Stewart, Micheal Dorn, and Johnathan Frakes - close personal friends of the author - are in attendance, and I finally convince Josh that I bought him that goddamn Ramune two years ago.
September: Hot on the heels of Dragon*Con, Adult Swim announces that they're bringing back their anime block, just because they like pitting their viewer base against itself. "Honestly," says Jackson Publick of the Venture Brothers "I think they might just be pure evil, those fuckers."
October: Without a clear frontrunner in the Republican primaries and election day fast approaching, the remaining Republican candidates are sent to Australia's scenic Thunderdome to fight to the death. The winner will go on to be the GOP's pick for presidential candidate, while the most recognizable corpse is put forward as the candidate for Vice President.
November: Republicans lose, Obama is reelected. I flee to an underwater art deco city of my own, completely original devising; where the artist will not fear the censor. I call it: Ragnarok.
December: The world ends. Ragnarok prevails.
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