The Rusty Gate

I'm writing this on my awesome shiny laptop I got today. Thought I'd let you know.

I can't figure out how many credit points I need for this next semester or how many units need to be at 200-level or 300-level. I hate numbers.

I wish I wasn't still living at home. If I could find a decent studio apartment somewhere half close to things I need, or find a house or a unit with multiple rooms in a rather convenient location and someone who I could stand to cohabit with for more than three days, and if the aforementioned studio apartment, unit or house was affordable, then my problems would be solved. Until new ones arose. Like termites. Or bills. Or homicidal thoughts. Mind you, I've got all those now. Except the termites.

I bet Roger Federer doesn't have these problems. In fact, I know he doesn't. He's too awesome.

Oh, and I think the guy next to me in the uni library poses a national security risk. Stay tuned.

I just wrote a large thing about me being in a bad mood and Michael Jackson and my awesome behavioural profiling skills and the fact that if the dude next to me at the library doesn't get some fucking water or something and stop coughing pretty damn soon I'll help him with his cough by tearing out his lungs. Then I wrote more about dogs and The Closer and arse-licking sports journalists and my twenty-six dollar library fine and expensive petrol Then the internet deleted it.

But at least I feel better. Now I'm going to take my dog for a run.

In the last short while we've lost David Carradine, Dom Deluise, George Carlin, Bea Arthur, Danny LaRue, and now Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson. And Patrick Swayze's about to join them. I'm pretty damn sure there's some sort of cull of awesome people going on. I better watch out.

I think there are some people who don't know that humans have more than one walking speed.

Am I the only one who's not really interested in seeing Transformers 2?

Anyway.

I should be doing my essay but in the course of my research I found this. This quote is from a paper by Eric Demaree, called 'The Case for Christian Objectivism'.

'This paper also builds on C. S. Lewis and Dostoevsky to provide irrefutable evidence for God's existence: If God is dead, everything is permitted. Obviously, in every person's mind, at least a few things are not permitted; consequently, in every person's mind, a God who demands morality is alive.'

Is Mister Demaree using that silly, circular, eons-old 'prove I'm wrong' rationality that has been failing people like him, and making people like him fail, for millennia? Is he another one of those Bible-waving, banner-flying, finger-pointing, loud-yelling nutjobs who seem so numerous these days? Is Fyodor Dostoevsky rolling in his grave?

These are my issues without even reading the whole paper.

So, a funny thing happened on the way to the assessment. All you technophiles, maybe you can shed some light on this.

There I am yesterday, almost finished writing my essay, when...stop! Ciggie time! I save the document to Word, email it to me as an attachment, then go out for a cigarette.

When I come back, I open the email I sent myself with the Word document of my essay attached. However, when I open the attachment, this and only this is what I find contained in it.



This is very clearly not my assessment on the dispositionalist response to Kripke's Wittgenstein's argument for the absence of meaning-facts in language. Other than that, I am dumbfounded. As far as I can figure, the internet ate most of my essay, leaving me with the critically shorter and sub-par draft version of my assignment. I was hell-bent on world destruction for a few minutes when the hilarity of the situation hit me and I was convulsed with laughter at my chair.

I have never seen this photo or this kid before, though I would like to know who he is so I can tell him that his haircut may well justify DOCS going in and removing him from his parental home on grounds of abuse. I have no clue how the hell it got in my attachment. Does anyone know what the hell happened here?

Just when you think I'm gone, I spring up again when you least want/expect/need it. Like onion grass. Or herpes.

Not much new to report, except for the fact that I have a job. A casual job, but a job none the less. It's in market research. I give people Tim Tams and the like and wait while they answer questions relating to them.

And my Roger won the French Open. Huzzah. He's about as close as you get to being more kick-arse than me.

I can't check out all your scribblings because I want to go home, so tell me;

What have you lot been doing?

I haven't posted in ages.

And I'm not going to now.

Aluminium sighting and something forbitten with teeth.

That is all.

What I meant was;

Everyone has to come see Dylan Moran with me for my birthday as he is here in April.

All the Left 4 Dead aficionados should click the link on the last post I wrote because its funny.

Meanwhile, I'm sure you've all heard Christian Bale losing his shit on the set of T4. I present to you the transcript of it from pollsb.com.

'...kick your fucking ass. I want you off the fucking set you prick. No, don't just be sorry, think for one fucking second. What the fuck are you doing? Are you professional or not? Do I fucking walk around and rip- no, shut the fuck up Bruce, do I-no! No! Don't shut me up. Am I going to walk around and rip your fucking lighs down? In the middle of a scene? Then why the fuck are you walking right through? a-tada-tada like this in the background, what the fuck is it with you? What don't you fucking understand? You got any fucking idea about- Hey! It's fucking distracting having somebody walking up behind bryce in the middle of the fucking scene. Gimme a fucking answer. What don't you get about it? ... fuck sake man you're amateur... you've got something to say to this prick? Well somebody's should be watching him and keeping an eye on him. It's the second time that he doesn't give a fuck about what is going on in front of the camera. Alright? I'm trying to fucking do a scene here and I'm going why the fuck is Shane walking in there? What is he doing there? Do you understand? My mind is not in the scene if you're doing that. Stay off the fucking set man, for fuck's set. Right let's go again. Let's not take a fucking minute, let's go again. And let's not have you fucking walking in... You're unbelievable man, you're un-fucking-believable. The number of times you stroll in the fucking background. I've never had a DP behave like this. You don't fucking understand what its like working with actors. That's what that is. I'm not asking you, I'm telling you. You wouldn't have done that otherwise. I'm gonna fucking kick your fucking ass if you don't shut up for a second, alright? I'm gonna go, do you want me to go and trash your lights? Do you want me to fucking trash them? Then why are you trashing my scene? You do it one more time, and I wain't walking back to set if you're still hired... seriously man - you and me, we're fucking done professionaly.... fucking ass.'

Prickatry 101. Enrol now.

Sorry, kids. This just teaches you all a lesson.

Listen to me, and hang on my everty word.


I'm going to have fun, while you all try tears of remorse.

Muhaha.

Now if only I could kick the mind out of Roger Federer.

Dammit.

^eddit.; everyone shouyld love dylan moran and come with me to see him in april near my northfay. kay?

his is another edit. for all those including myself who lovbe left 4 dead, look at this video thing. And then laug. i command you.