Hateful Profiling

 

This Photo Is Simply Here to Judge You

Break is over, now it’s back to work.  Tests and papers, reviews and interviews, a constant cycle of excellence, or expected excellence at least.  I didn’t update last week, because I didn’t have to.  Back at Mizzou, it is a necessity.  It’s the one fine distraction that I feel okay investing time into.  And I’m sure you feel this way as well.

Today? Characters.  It’s a hodgepodge of people, (don’t worry, just three,) I’ve met this semester, or people I have at least observed for one reason or another.  I most likely don’t know their names, so they will be labeled accordingly, and the non-physical details will be filled in with imagination.  Enjoy their fantastic fantasy life stories.  Maybe you’ll meet them someday as well.

The Creep: It’s not unusual to find long, dangling hair on a college campus, often dirty, more often just unattended.  Herman possesses these flowing locks, coal black, that he parts down the middle.  He has thick glasses that he smashes against his face, and despite my assumption that he indeed changes clothes on a regular basis, his clothing scheme remains eerily similar from a day to day basis: A black t-shirt tucked into his black or blue jeans, showcasing a formidable gut that dances merrily with each step.  I only see him at night, usually with a cell phone pressed against his ear, which leads me to believe he is some kind of Vampire CEO, Lord of Darkness, or something of that nature.  Or perhaps he is involved in role playing games where he is the most experienced tri-level goblin in the area, making him an icon of sorts in the RPG underground.  He looks much older than an average student, but then again, if he is a vampire he could be thousands of years old.  Or the most logical solution: He’s a joke.  Future career path? Computer programmer. 

The Drama Queen: I find her at the library.  I find her at a restaurant.  I find her doing laundry.  And it’s not just a matter of an archetypal character, because we all know a drama queen or two, and some of us, (this guy,) have been involved with a few too many.  But the stories this girl shares are incredible, if not appalling, and even though I don’t know her name, I know far more about her than I should.  “So they were fucking on my bed, so I picked up the curling iron and threatened to kill them both.”  That’s a quote, readers, and it’s only one of many notable ones.  Her friends always sit and nod, never contributing, because perhaps they have the decency not to spread their private problems in a public forum.  It’s similar to those people that need to relate every possible example to their own life, which usually involves some hideous incident of parental abuse or terminal illness, and leaves everyone in attendance depressed or in a state of self-loathing.  I can’t imagine which of these scenarios have tormented this young girl, but I am certain I would prefer not to find out.  Future career path?  Hooker.  (She has a rack that demands mention, and will serve her well some day.)
 
The Faux-Intellectual : It is often insisted that we contribute to conversation in the academic field.  Profs require our input on a number of topics, and often our reluctance to participate is deemed as disrespectful.  It needs to be stated, however, that you are NOT required to involve yourself in every possible instance of suggested participation.  Furthermore, if you do, there is no need to attempt to wow the audience with your analytical skills, (or lack thereof.)  I’ve reported on this character before, but his faults bear repeating.  He’s a jackass with the smile of a Cheshire cat, and his contributions to in-class discussion leave me exhausted and disgusted.  His self-confidence is one of his most remarkable traits, second only to his ability to take the most allotted speaking time with the least amount of actual in-depth thought.  You can’t place big words in a half-assed thought and pretend as though you are Aristotle.  It doesn’t work that way, sadly, or else I would fill my entire day with such gems as “the sky is Brobdingnagian, my friends.”  That means it’s big. You, much like I, used an online thesaurus.  Have you read Gulliver’s Travels?  I did.  I can use it.  You, instead, have to choke on it.   I hope someone tries to drop you off a building, assuming you are a piano due to your frustratingly shiny teeth.

There you go friends, a couple passages of continued distain.  And I think we are all better for it.

Alexander Denison, PhD.
 

Behind the Music

Columbia, MO -

In 2009, four University of Missouri college students embarked on perhaps the greatest musical adventure ever conceived.  45 minutes of absolute mind-bending experimentation resulted in a three song EP, released last night.  Though their trip to the top was impressively quick, it was not without sacrifices and tragedy.

The group began as a junkyard instrumental four piece with original members Jamie Goncalves, John Henry, and Derek Sipp on modified table-top percussion, and Alex Denison on borrowed ukulele.  A thirty minute jam session seemed to foreshadow the inevitable success of the band, and plans were made to record.

Then tragedy struck.

Anatole Figueroa, the owner of the aforementioned ukulele, demanded it’s return.  The group was devastated, and Denison was left without a role.  The group’s productivity quickly declined, and after nearly an hour, Goncalves left the band to pursue other projects, most notably, crystal meth.  The rest of the group mourned, uncontrollably. 

John Henry, band leader, decided to take the band in a new direction.  He had heard of a young virtuoso named David Conway who had connections in the music industry.  After meeting with the band, Conway was recruited, along with three acoustic guitars.  Although only Henry knew more than 4 chords, the band’s progressive roots flourished with the addition of more strings.  Conway’s spirited industrial background was a great influence to the group.  They later adopted the name Grab-Ass and the Bourgeois, but no member claims to actually hold the title of Grab-Ass. 

The band also began to experiment with vocals, provided by Denison and Conway, respectively.  Henry became lead guitar player, with Sipp as the sole percussionist, while Conway and Denison provided backing guitars when necessary.  Within minutes of the new arrangement, a new single was recorded, entitled “Don’t Forget Me.”  Two more soon followed, “Not For You,” and “A Few Words,” providing adequate tracks for the release of their first EP, “I Won’t Play With Your Naughty Parts When You’re Dead (Songs About Dave)”.   It has been well received by critics.

Soon after the effort, the band parted ways.  Conway went back to Chicago to continue his career as a part-time Jewish rodeo clown.  Henry became the world’s second black airline pilot, (only after Kareem Abdul-Jabaar.)  Derek Sipp could not be reached for comment, and is assumed dead by all fellow members of the Aryan Nation.  Denison was charged with sexual harassment in late 2009, but the charges were dropped when the nurse was informed it was all in good fun. 

Intentions to reunite have been discussed, although no dates have been finalized.  Despite the lack of a prolific career, their lone record remains as one of the finest pieces of modern classical music ever produced. 

If you haven’t yet heard them, enlighten yourself with some previously unreleased studio antics from “I Won’t Play With Your Naughty Parts When You’re Dead”: 

http://www.youtube.com/profile?user=JGHen4&view=videos

As if Facebook Wasn’t Bad Enough

I got to thinking today, and don’t get me wrong, it’s not something I do often, but I got to thinking about how dangerous it is for some of these celebrities to have Twitters. 

For those of you stuck in the past, Twitter is social networking website that basically works like Facebook status updates, all day, in real time.   You can follow anyone you want, and they don’t have to accept you as a friend. 

It’s somewhat of a time waster, and a bit of a novelty, but none the less, I follow mine religiously.  I keep track of Shaq and Claire McCaskill, Michael Ian Black and Kevin Pollack, and a number of news outlets and friends.  God forbid I be the last one to find out what Chris Dodd ate for breakfast, you know?

But aside from being absolutely pointless at times, (i.e. current Twitter on my feed from comedian Doug Benson: “just told the owner of a karaoke bar that his place smelled like vomit and shit,”) I often wonder whether anyone tracks people via Twitter.  It would be fairly easy considering the information some people provide, and if I were some kind of crazed psychopath, I could easy cut one of them off at the airport and turn their skull into a potpourri holder. 

Claire McCaskill just tweeted that she’s at the D.C. airport, and although I’m not sure half of you know who she is, a disgruntled neo-con could easily swing by and stuff her into a plastic bag.  Shaq routinely reports where he is at, from restaurants to tourist traps, and encourages people to come find him.  Sometimes he offers tickets, like a game.  Luckily for the Big Cactus, he is a bit harder to stuff into a plastic sack.

So ignoring the point that I don’t give a damn about where you are, and most of the time, what you’re doing, I often worry about sociopaths online.  They might not even exist, but I always wonder about them.  The Travis Bickel’s of the world who could pick off a big shot just for kicks, you know?  Maybe that person is you.

Anyway, I’m off to karaoke with Doug Benson.  I’ll tweet you the results.

-Alex Denison

P.S. I encourage Twitter, by the way.  Pretty neat.  If you get the notion to  join, my name is redbearbluebear.  Follow me, and I’ll return the favor.  

The Luck of the Irish, the Life of a Fool

9 A.M. this morning, I stumbled down the sidewalk of College Ave. with an orange juice in my hand.  My khaki pants sagged down past my ass, and my shirt had come untucked.  The dazzling emerald green tie I had picked out the day before dangled loosely around my neck, looking only slightly less disheveled than my hair.  Every passerby gave me a smile.  Every driver gave me a glance.  The air was absolutely perfect.

Unlike so many of the sidewalk patrons, (and unlike the assumptions they made about me,) I was not drunk, nor hung-over, nor a walking container for any kind of alcoholic beverage.  I was just goddamn tired.  David Conway and I made the now traditional pledge to stay up all night and “study,” which consisted of several hours of word scrambler games, a couple half-assed guitar odes to our friend The Ozone, and a cumulative total of maybe one hour of Spanish review.  It was a good night, and with 2 exams today, I felt primed and ready for takeoff.

And then it hit me.  That nauseous kind of tired that brings you down below the surface.  When I got home, I took a shower, and fell asleep inside the stall.  I decided I needed to get out of my apartment, to keep myself from curling into my bed forever, and I downed three frappuccinos at the Union, and plopped down in a patio chair outside of the bookstore.  Within minutes, I was facedown on the table, drooling through the lattice. 

I was awakened by a tour group, startled by the screams of teenage girls, and checking my watch, I was further alarmed to find it was 7 minutes until my first exam.  I scurried across the street and scribbled out a few responses about Ponzi schemes and adulterers, none of which made a bit of sense when I went back to check the work.  I lumbered to J1100, and played more scrambler games to keep myself from smashing my keyboard with my skull.  I daydreamed about a girl that sits behind me, and before I knew it, I was en route to exam number two: espanol.

This was much easier than the first of its kind, and the latin dialect flowed from my pen like smoke from a corn-cob pipe.  Satisfied with my answers about cannibal weddings and alien statues, I dragged ass to the quad for English.  What a stressful little walk it always is, through the barriers of Jesse Hall, and my lifeless limbs made it none the better.

I walked in and was greeted by a fellow name Scott who always calls me “Big Red,” with a condescending smile slathered across his mug.  I don’t have the heart to tell him in person, but I hate Scott, and I hate everything that comes out of that gaping hole in the middle of his face.  He’s the kind of guy that likes to hear himself speak, but can’t even keep himself entertained, so he drags out these faux-intellectual questions like we all have nothing better to do than listen to his bullshit.  To avoid the stiff pointed fingers suggesting hypocrisy, I can admit that I enjoy hearing myself speak, but can anyone deny that this silver-tongued ranchero gives only the finest of oral drippings?  Exactly what I thought, dear comrades, and that’s why we get along so well.

I spent the entire class thinking about strangling Scott.  He has a long neck, and I can imagine his melon jiggling back and forth like a bobblehead from my fury.  But I barely had enough energy to keep my own head from falling to the floor.  I only stayed for 15 minutes, and made my exit to the street.  Luckily, the teach ran out of things to do.

So for those who haven’t experienced it, and for those not dominated by drink, or drug, or drama, this is what its all about.  This is what college really is, and this is how you will learn to live.  Moment by moment, day by day, and overdose of caffeine by overdose of caffeine. 

And hopefully, like me, you’ll love it.

 

What's the Story, Morning Glory?

More to Make You Nauseous

To continue this week’s theme of thoughtless ramblings, I again will only give a maximum of 15 minutes for this post.  2 tests tomorrow and a ten page paper to submit, and this blog is the last thing that I need to be doing.  As a matter of fact, it’s disgusting that I feel I am obligated to contribute at all. 

So today’s topic?  5 simple points of self-loathing.  And believe me, comrades, you are lucky I stop at five, because the list could go on for days…

1. I desperately need a haircut.  I keep telling myself is looks good, or that when it grows out long enough I will look like a mystic, but these are all lies.  I sweat like it’s my job, and all of this hair just gets matted to my face and makes me look like a damp hobo.  Currently, the style is like a ginger Antawn Sigur from No Country for Old Men.  Next week it shall be cut, or else I’ll just decapitate myself.

2. In keeping with the theme of hair, and follicle follies, I think it’s important to note that I am proud of the fact that I can grow distinguishable facial hair.  It has always been a trademark.  But I have had several young ladies ask me to grow a goatee, and it hurts me to have to tell them that I can’t.  My mustache divides itself too far, as though Cheech tried to trim himself with a weedwhacker.  My mom tells me I have the tiniest bit of Native American in my blood, so this just gives me one more reason to curse our nation’s savages.

3. I wore a shirt and tie today, and spent 20 minutes trying to tuck my shirt in.  It’s not that I couldn’t do it, its simply that it always looks bizarre.  One way, I look like a hunchback, with excess tail hanging out the back.  Another, I look like a giant wearing a ladies medium.  Naturally, I blame it on the shirt, (or even the mirror,) but I know it’s just the gut.  When I was little I used to think if you got fat you could just slice off the obese areas with a knife, like butter, and sometimes I wish this were true.

4.  I made the point to someone yesterday that people generally don’t respond kindly to my presence.  On a bus full of people, with only the seat next to me vacated, new passengers would choose to stand.  In recent days, I have been called both “intimidating,” and “authoritative” in appearance, and I cringe at these ideas which I have run from for so long.  Furthermore, the bus analogy that I shared with a friend turned out to be a recent idea on PostSecret.  So, besides looking like an unapproachable ogre, I also am incapable of original thought.

5. I should work out more, not only for good looks but for necessity, but I have come up with an array of excuses as to why I don’t.  The underlying reason?  My titties jiggle when I run in t-shirts, and if I could address this lone dilemma, I would easily triple my gym time.  But the idea of other people noticing my flopping flab on a treadmill makes me cringe.  I have considered duct taping my fat down, to prevent it from causing small earthquakes, but I have too much hair to achieve this without incredible pain.  One more to add to the list: my disgusting canvass of body hair that grows courser by the day, and has begun to turn black.  I sometimes wonder if I’m turning into a fly, but my man-breasts always remind me that insects exercise daily.

I hope these made you feel better today.  If not, you’re even worse off than I am.

Alexander Denison, Walking Picasso. 

Complaints and Grievances

I’m busy.  3 and a half tests this week and 2 comprehensive papers.  So my time to interact with this blog is limited.  My offer to you, most humble of readers, is to simply provide you with a list of things that have pissed me off today, and will most likely piss me off tomorrow.  You can call it a shit list if you prefer, but I won’t endorse such an idea for fear of copyright laws. Don’t let the picture fool you, it’s merely an attempt to draw you in, and then destroy all of your hopes and dreams. 

Without further ado….A list of things that made me cringe today.

1. Johnny Knoxville wannabes – You’re 30.  You can get a real job now and quit wearing Vans everywhere.  Some people might find these characters endearing, like a youthful spirit trapped inside of an aging man, but that’s bullshit.  I think there are rules against accented sideburns and aviators when you pass 29, and certainly never in combination. 

2. Raggedy clothes – I saw a girl today with a pair of khaki shorts on that literally had the ass blown out of the back.  She had on some Joe Boxer shorts underneath that spared me the, presumably, ungodly sight of her pale, pimple-covered ass.  Harsh?  I think not, because it is intentional to wear clothes like this.  I’ll buy you a pair of pants for Christ sake, if it spares me from your disgusting trends.

3. Glasses – I am indeed a pompous asshole, but not even I can have a vendetta against all people who have glasses.  No, I’m speaking specifically of those clowns that think the bigger the better, wearing mini-telescopes on their faces.  The only benefit of such moronic practice is that I have to look at less of their faces, which is always a benefit.  I’m actually considering buying a fake pair of glasses, but I assure you dear reader, my shining face will always be in full view…

4. The sun – I have brought up this point before, but apparently people think I am kidding.  I am the lonely anti-sun advocate in the world, but every day I find more reasons to maintain my position.  I am sitting inside, looking out a window at some friends of mine that claim “the weather is SO nice, we are enjoying it thoroughly.”  But all I see from my view are clenched faces with cupped hands on their foreheads, trying to fight the ever present glare of Mr. Sun, that bastard of all bastards, that refuses to chill out and insists on hampering all of my good moods.

5.  Umbrellas – At this point in the exercise, I may or may not just be picking random items that I can see from my perch.  However, I can make a compelling argument against umbrellas as well, or parasols if you like, but that would make you a sissy.  They look obscene, they never do anything you want them to, they collapse frequently at the very moment that you need them, and they attempt to make everything look like a tropical island.  I don’t want to live on a tropical island.  I want to see the frozen tundra I deserve, covered in broken glasses and the corpses of the Knoxville sinners.

Enjoy your hellhole of a day. 

Alex ‘son of a bitch’ Denison

Acoustic Showcase

March 14 Playlist: Acoustic Showcase

In response to last week’s technical difficulties, this week abandons the electronic aspect of music.  Take that, technology, you evil spawn of the stone wheel.

1. Dead the Passage of Jesus – The Dirty Three (Feat. Nick Cave)
2. (Do You Wanna) Come Walk With Me – Isobel Campbell and Mark Lanegan
3. Everyone – Van Morrison
4. About a Girl (Live) – Nirvana
5. Cold Cold Ground – Tom Waits
6. The Gentleman Soldier – The Pogues
7. 30 Century Man – Scott Walker
8. Gravedigger – Dave Matthews
9. Good Morning Little Schoolgirl – Muddy Waters
10. Pink Moon – Nick Drake
11. El Sol – Mark Lanegan
12. Mother Goose – Jethro Tull
13. Pay No Mind – Beck
14. Today I Was an Evil One – Bonnie “Prince” Billy
15. Here Comes the Sun – The Beatles
16.  Tango ‘Til They’re Sore – Tom Waits
17. On Your Wings – Iron & Wine
18. Avalanche – Leonard Cohen
19. Where the Wild Roses Grow – Nick Cave & Kylie Minogue
20. Holland, 1945

Saturday, Midnight – http://kcou.fm

No One Else Can See This Apparition – A Poem

 I was greeted last night by the crude floating head,
Of a Confederate general I had presumed to be dead.
As to the business he brought, and the words that he said,
I couldn’t say.  I resumed sleep, instead.

Now, I’m not an expert, but I would like to note,
That spirits cannot be deterred by a moat,
Nor wolfhound, nor bear, nor brave billy-goat,
Nor do they obey the county’s anti-ghost vote.

So how do we fend off the pale unalive,
When they offer no warning as to when they’ll arrive?
And how will one ever expect to survive
Against the perils of specters you cannot revive?

I’ll tell you for certain, (because you’re my friend,)
That the hauntings that scare you may never end,
And the translucent figures you can’t apprehend,
Have every intention to spook and offend.

But don’t worry! They’re harmless, you will soon see,
As the lofty blue waves of the Caspian Sea.
And although more real than an anchovy tree,
They will not hurt you – this, I guarantee.

So the next time you’re bothered by a transparent creep,
Don’t cry for your mother, don’t break down and weep!
Instead, hug your pillow, and try to go back to sleep.
Quit dreaming of ghoulies, and start dreaming of sheep.  

-Alexander Denison, PhD

Rock n’ Roll…Indeed…

“Hey kids – do you know what shock rock is?”

No…tell me more!

“Gladly.  Well, once upon a time there was this idea called rock n’ roll.  The Christians didn’t like it, which made it even more popular with the teenagers, you know?  Anyway, it constantly evolved into a whole platform of genres we are familiar with today, including metal, hard-rock, prog-rock, prog-metal, alternative rock, alt-metal, nu-metal, funk-metal, death metal, black metal, pop-rock, rockabilly, psychobilly, acid rock, hardcore, grindcore, metalcore, Christcore, Christian rock, Christian metal, grunge, krautrock, punk, horror-punk, art rock, southern rock, space rock, glam rock, classic rock, math metal, post-metal, post-rock, post-jazz, post-hardcore, post-punk, avant-rock, punkcore, afro-punk, industrial, industrial metal, indie-rock, noise rock, garage rock, ska, Viking metal, shoegaze, and so on, if you catch my drift.

“But all of those suck, kids.  I can whistle better tunes out of my ass. And do you want to know why?”

Surely I do, and can no longer wait to hear your reasoning!

“Because the only kind of rock…involves some shock. “

What do you mean by shock, oh brilliant bringer of all that is heavy?

“Well, what does it mean to shock? Hey Billy, come over here.  If I pulled out a switchblade and stabbed you right in the gullet, would you be a bit surprised?”

Yeah.  I guess so.

“Dare I say…shocked?”

I imagine so, mister!

“Of course I’d be right.  Now go sit down before I impale you with my massive erection, you hear?  That’s what we’re talking about kiddos.  The sky’s the limit!  And best of all, when someone asks what you believe in, deep down, above all other dogmas, you can look them in the eye and say the spirit of rock n’ roll.  You ever wanted to defecate on an elderly woman?  Bring it to the show!  Maybe punch a small child in the head, leaving him a vegetated mute for the rest of his existence?  Feel free!  Ever wanted to drag an unwilling teenager on stage and maliciously rape her as part of your act?  Rock and Roll!  We’re not just talking about rocking out with our genitalia flapping in the breeze.  We’re talking real, hard, American rocking.  The kind that leaves a certain stink that a Glade plug-in can’t defeat.  The lingering stench of rock, children.  It’s the only way to live. So who’s with me?”

We are!  We are!

“Great.  Put on your SS gear and your floppy dildo headbands.  Children –  tonight we rock!”

ROCK N ROLL!

-Alex Denison

The True Holiday Season Approaches

If there’s one thing you can immediately assume about me from a first impression, it is that I enjoy food.  Sandwiches, burritos, soup, eggrolls, the list goes on and on, to the point where I might even consider myself a connoisseur of sorts.  Although, unlike other connoisseurs, my interests are rarely of the fine variety, and instead tend to be mundane items like sandwiches and burritos that may lack the criteria to be delicacies, but remain delicious.   Regardless of what I am specifically stuffing in my face, I think we can all agree that I need to lose a few.

But with the most important of all holidays right around the corner, I’m not sure if this would be the proper season to attempt a drastic weight loss program.  The holiday is of course St. Patrick’s Day, and although I am of strong Irish decent, I couldn’t care less about the aspect of heritage.  Nor could anyone else for that matter, the majority of its celebrants being college students looking for a good excuse to get wasted, (as if they ever needed one before.)  I already look like an oversized version of the Notre Dame Fighting Irishman, and I don’t really need a holiday for everyone to point that out.  No, comrades, the only thing about St. Patrick’s Day that matters, and consequently makes it the finest of all celebratory events, is the Shamrock Shake.

What is a Shamrock Shake, you may be wondering, and in case you are, I thought I would let you know right away that your life thus far has been an absolute waste of time.  Why allow this to happen, when you can drink three or four of these amazing shakes a day and become a proud waste of space.  The formula is simple: a mint milkshake from our good friends at McDonalds, but comrades, it is so much more.

Inside each cup of Shamrock Shake is a magic that cannot be equaled.  Christmas has eggnog, but it fails to be defined by it.  Thanksgiving has turkey, but who has time to sit down and eat anymore?  Halloween has candy, but what a broad array of sweets to choose from.  No, only St. Patrick’s Day, with it’s Shamrock Shake, is perfectly represented by an eatery. 

My suggestion?  Buy several.  Freeze them if you must.  Ignore the calories for now, dear readers, and just soak in the goodness.  They are, after all, a limited time offer.  I encourage you to stock up for the summer, (and winter,) because nothing tastes sweeter than a little hint of Shamrock on the 4^th of July.  Bored by conventional breakfast foods?  Throw out your milk and douse your cereal in Shamrock Shake.  Hell, cover your Lucky Charms in Shamrock Shake and I think that qualifies you for sainthood in the Catholic Church.  But don’t hold me to that.

It’s the merriest of seasons, so don’t let it go to waste.  I never endorse any product, but this one cannot be ignored.  Each shake is made with a drop of St. Patrick’s actual blood, so you know it’s good for you, regardless of what the nutritional facts display.   It’s not just a commodity, comrades, it’s an alternative lifestyle that begs you to embrace it.

And if you feel the need to get drunk on St. Patty’s Day, just spike it.

Your stomachs will thank me later.

Alexander Harrison Denison : Ordained Saint.