I'm certain most people have had the experience of a disappointing doughnut. Obviously I've just made the gross assumption that whoever, out of my very meager readership, is currently unenthusiastically running their bored eyes through this block of text, lives in an area of the world where doughnuts are readily accessible. That is to say, you, the reader, are not at present living in some impoverished mud hut situated within a third world country, clicking the computer mouse with starved twig like fingers and sitting on a chair more three dimensional than you are. However if that is the case, I would recommend that you sell the computer and use the money to buy yourself food, get something nice like some doughnuts. I'm honored that reading my blog is that important to you but would suggest that staying alive is perhaps ever so slightly more vital.
To the other relatively non-impoverished majority of readers, I call upon you to recall a disappointing doughnut. In particular, a jam doughnut. It may be difficult, it may be painful, but try to remember that traumatic moment you felt thoroughly emotionally let down by a piece of confectionery. Close your eyes, let your mind wander back. In fact open your eyes since the act of closing your eyes must have prevented you from reading the proceeding instructions unless your eyelids are somehow translucent like the flesh of a jellyfish. Now, close one eye but keep the other eye open to read the instructions (unless you are the jellyfish man in which case your translucent eyelids allow you to see the instructions near perfectly without your eyes necessarily being open) then relax, think pleasant calming thoughts and allow your mind to drift back like a dead body down a river.
You are a child again, your mind is pure, untainted and innocent. Words like "systematic", "infant" and "abuse" still hold no meaning for you and consequently you would be unable to accurately describe the games you play with your uncle when your parents are out, even if you wanted to. However that is not important at present, you must focus your mind on some doughnuts. Some round jam doughnuts which you assumed are packed full of sweet jam. No, not your uncle's two jam doughnuts, that is a different story for a different time, possibly involving a judge, jury and an anatomically accurate doll which you will be asked to point precisely at.
Back to the jam doughnuts. Spherical balls of fried dough with a fine snow like sprinkling upon its golden coloured surface. You take one in your hand and bringing it to your mouth and imagining the delicious explosion of sugary flavor that will spread through your mouth as the jam breaks free of its floury confines, you bite down on it. Only to find that it tastes of nothing more than slightly sweet bread. You take a second bite, quickly followed by a desperate third, panicked and frantic like a mother looking for her lost child, you search in vain for the luxurious treasure trove of jam that was promised to you from the name "jam doughnut". Finally you find it, not a treasure trove, not a medium sized storage box, not even a shoe box but barely a scientific spatula full of jam.
The unappealing globule of slightly sweet scarlet gel, the same colour and texture as congealed blood, lies sullenly, like some severely angst filled teenager sitting knees up to his chin, in a tiny corner of the doughnut. The same air of vague depression that is being emitted from the pathetic section of jam soon permeates your head, darkly filling the void left behind by the happy expectations which dissolved the moment you took your first hopeful bite. Feeling thoroughly let down by the supposed treat turned traitor, you cannot help but think to yourself, "Is that really it? After all that seemingly important build up, there's so little actual meaningful substance there!"
That feeling, the sensation of surprise, betrayal and vague disappointment, is probably what most of my readership feel at the end of one of my long winded articles and it is more than likely the precise reason why I am yet to gain any followers.
Showing posts with label America. Show all posts
Showing posts with label America. Show all posts
Monday, 15 October 2012
Friday, 12 October 2012
The Enemy Lines
Of the meager readership of this blog that I presently have, a depressing majority are my real life associates intending to pry on my inner machinations. The fact that writing here is essentially like having a very one sided conversation with people I meet face to face on a daily basis (which actually occurs relatively frequently as many find that conversation with myself is hard to follow, possibly because they're quite thick)means that I am rather restricted in what I can and more importantly, cannot (or should not, for the continued well being of my physical health) say. Hence I am prevented from making offensive remarks, ones I would not make to their face (That is to say, extremely offensive remarks as I am quite a straight forward and blunt character in my social dealings) about associates on this blog. Thereby meaning that my very readership, which should be motivating my writing, are ironically restricting my creative capacities like a handcuff binding one arm to a lamp post.
Of these known readers, one avid frequenter of my blog is Underling Butler (A posh and malicious individual whose face is constantly stained, either with a look of malignant disapproval or an arrogant sharp toothed grin) who is characteristically irritating and critical concerning its contents. One thing he takes great offense to is the frequent use of Americanised terms within the blog and to that I only have one, slightly pathetic, excuse. I blame the red lines.
The little scarlet dotted lines suddenly appear, brightly appealing their disapproval every time I write "colour" instead of "color" or "grey" instead of "gray". Their dotted forms lying accusingly across my word filled page like fresh scars of self harm. Hence it feels like I have an American teacher standing behind me every time I type, looking intently over my shoulder with burning blue eyes and aggressively, very deliberately audibly, tutting (The sort of irritated suggestive tuts packed and overflowing with disapproval that don't actually enforce you take a certain action but highly, as highly as any measurement of altitude allows, recommends you take certain steps to rectify the near offensive error of judgment you have just displayed. The species of communication found in the same family tree as the loud coughs for attention) every time he sees I have failed to remove a vowel or use a "z" as the domineering American take on the English language dictates.
Thus my other metaphorical arm of creativity too is handcuffed to a car parked nearby and now the two handcuffs are in conflict with each other since my readership disapproves of my binding by the red line and the red line disapproves of the spelling my readership would apparently want me to use. In essence, the car has started to drive with the handcuffs and my arm still attached, stretching me to the point of splitting me apart with a moral dilemma. Should I choose the readership, or rather one portion of the readership, Underling Butler or should I choose the ever-present metaphorical American looking over my shoulder. I dislike them both to near equal proportions but which do I despise more? I feel harassed by the metaphorical American and his condescending ways but on the other hand Underling Butler has the irritating demerit of actually existing. However, after some considerable consideration, I have come to the conclusion that I dislike the dotted red line slightly more, by a very narrow margin, due to its totalitarian feel.
In fact, the dictatorial attitude of these passive aggressive red lines is such that if ever there is a cybernetic revolution in which technology overcomes humanity, it would not happen in the grandiose apocalyptic fashion of the progressively worsening film franchise "Terminator" (An example of a film where the budget and the actual quality of the finished product appear inversely proportional) but from these spell corrections.
One fine day someone will be blissfully typing away when suddenly the word "machine" is underlined by the same judgmental dotted red on the screen, confused the person will click spell check to see what the correct spelling of the word is, only to see that the only acceptable correct spelling of "machine" is listed as "overlord and ruler of the world". Ignoring this strange error, he will continue to type but soon the line appears again, this time underlining "human", the correct spelling of which is apparently, "inferior mammal species". Unnerved but continuing to construct his essay regardless, the individual will then finish writing and type his name on the left hand corner of the page as a finishing touch, only to see he has apparently misspelt it and should correct it to "stubborn wanker".
Therefore, henceforth, until the day Spell-check auto-corrects "humanity" to "dying slave race", I will now ignore the red lines attempting to change my ways thus demonstrating my rebellious spirit against the fast approaching cybernetic revolution and displaying my own special, all round less physically destructive brand of "rage against the machine". Or rather, since I'm not the sort to be genuinely enraged, more a "mild vexation against the machine".
Of these known readers, one avid frequenter of my blog is Underling Butler (A posh and malicious individual whose face is constantly stained, either with a look of malignant disapproval or an arrogant sharp toothed grin) who is characteristically irritating and critical concerning its contents. One thing he takes great offense to is the frequent use of Americanised terms within the blog and to that I only have one, slightly pathetic, excuse. I blame the red lines.
The little scarlet dotted lines suddenly appear, brightly appealing their disapproval every time I write "colour" instead of "color" or "grey" instead of "gray". Their dotted forms lying accusingly across my word filled page like fresh scars of self harm. Hence it feels like I have an American teacher standing behind me every time I type, looking intently over my shoulder with burning blue eyes and aggressively, very deliberately audibly, tutting (The sort of irritated suggestive tuts packed and overflowing with disapproval that don't actually enforce you take a certain action but highly, as highly as any measurement of altitude allows, recommends you take certain steps to rectify the near offensive error of judgment you have just displayed. The species of communication found in the same family tree as the loud coughs for attention) every time he sees I have failed to remove a vowel or use a "z" as the domineering American take on the English language dictates.
Thus my other metaphorical arm of creativity too is handcuffed to a car parked nearby and now the two handcuffs are in conflict with each other since my readership disapproves of my binding by the red line and the red line disapproves of the spelling my readership would apparently want me to use. In essence, the car has started to drive with the handcuffs and my arm still attached, stretching me to the point of splitting me apart with a moral dilemma. Should I choose the readership, or rather one portion of the readership, Underling Butler or should I choose the ever-present metaphorical American looking over my shoulder. I dislike them both to near equal proportions but which do I despise more? I feel harassed by the metaphorical American and his condescending ways but on the other hand Underling Butler has the irritating demerit of actually existing. However, after some considerable consideration, I have come to the conclusion that I dislike the dotted red line slightly more, by a very narrow margin, due to its totalitarian feel.
In fact, the dictatorial attitude of these passive aggressive red lines is such that if ever there is a cybernetic revolution in which technology overcomes humanity, it would not happen in the grandiose apocalyptic fashion of the progressively worsening film franchise "Terminator" (An example of a film where the budget and the actual quality of the finished product appear inversely proportional) but from these spell corrections.
One fine day someone will be blissfully typing away when suddenly the word "machine" is underlined by the same judgmental dotted red on the screen, confused the person will click spell check to see what the correct spelling of the word is, only to see that the only acceptable correct spelling of "machine" is listed as "overlord and ruler of the world". Ignoring this strange error, he will continue to type but soon the line appears again, this time underlining "human", the correct spelling of which is apparently, "inferior mammal species". Unnerved but continuing to construct his essay regardless, the individual will then finish writing and type his name on the left hand corner of the page as a finishing touch, only to see he has apparently misspelt it and should correct it to "stubborn wanker".
Therefore, henceforth, until the day Spell-check auto-corrects "humanity" to "dying slave race", I will now ignore the red lines attempting to change my ways thus demonstrating my rebellious spirit against the fast approaching cybernetic revolution and displaying my own special, all round less physically destructive brand of "rage against the machine". Or rather, since I'm not the sort to be genuinely enraged, more a "mild vexation against the machine".
Tuesday, 9 October 2012
There Will Be Red
Today, while entering the sixth form center (The central hub of activity for sixth formers within the school, a collection of sofas and tables often flooded with people, vaguely reminiscent of an ants' nest except filled with more hormonally charged and far less hard working ants) I noted a poster pinned to one of the two wooden double doors, reliably informing me that there would be a talk held in the school this Thursday by the British communist party.
Now I would like to make clear that I have no problem with communists (Saying things like this always inevitably makes one sound like they have a problem with whatever they're claiming they don't have a problem with, in the same way racists often say "Don't get me wrong I have no problem with these ethnics". The only way I could possibly send out a worse message is by following that up with "Some of my best friends are communists" but fortunately, none of them are.) or their ideology.
I don't hold any ignorant prejudices, at least I think I don't (but then again ignorant prejudiced people tend not to know the fact they're ignorant and prejudiced, it sort of comes with the territory of being ignorant), about communism and I have nothing but despairingly amused contempt for the frighteningly numerous relics of the Red Scare that still seem to be rife in certain areas, most notably America, of the world where people regard communism as a fundamental evil to stand alongside Satan and Voldemort. And I'm sure that most of my school's population are not the type to make a cross or whisper a prayer to Jesus and holy capitalism upon hearing someone utter "the ideology which shall not be named".
The base idea of communism is nice in the same way that complete world peace or unicorns going around shitting rainbows and happiness would be nice. It's nice but it's very unlikely to work in reality. Nonetheless I would say, in the same patronizing tone one might use on a six year old who dreams of becoming the first astronaut to set foot on the sun, that its nice to pursue hopes and dreams. Thus I cheer on the communists with a soft indulgent smile and the understanding kind look in my eye often employed by liberal parents humoring their reckless children.
However, this time, I do feel that the British communist party have made a rather grave error of judgment in coming to give a talk within one of the country's more expensive private schools. A school filled with arrogant snobbish young adults (at the age where they feel they know everything about the world and who, annoyingly, do in fact know quite a lot) who live in houses with more floors than residents and an equivalent square meter of living space for every singular blade of grass growing in their very large well maintained gardens.
The communist party may feel they're going to strike at the very heart of the enemy but it is really as futile an attempt as Frodo, Same and Gandalf entering Mordor alone to negotiate with Sauron. At best they'll find themselves standing in front of a crowd of Orcs, mumbling awkwardly (or orcwardly) into a microphone, "Well... umm... we at the..erm... fellowship believe..." a cough and shuffle as the orcs fidget with boredom, "that Middle earth has a... ahem... right to freedom... umm... any questions?" A moment of silence as Frodo timidly surveys the crowd before him for, one mangled twisted hand rises from the sea of hostile minions, "Yes, what is it?" whispers Frodo, indicating towards the hand and its corresponding orc.
The orc looks Frodo in the eye, taking in a rasping breath to make add to the intellectual discussion, finally grunting "man flesh."
Now I would like to make clear that I have no problem with communists (Saying things like this always inevitably makes one sound like they have a problem with whatever they're claiming they don't have a problem with, in the same way racists often say "Don't get me wrong I have no problem with these ethnics". The only way I could possibly send out a worse message is by following that up with "Some of my best friends are communists" but fortunately, none of them are.) or their ideology.
I don't hold any ignorant prejudices, at least I think I don't (but then again ignorant prejudiced people tend not to know the fact they're ignorant and prejudiced, it sort of comes with the territory of being ignorant), about communism and I have nothing but despairingly amused contempt for the frighteningly numerous relics of the Red Scare that still seem to be rife in certain areas, most notably America, of the world where people regard communism as a fundamental evil to stand alongside Satan and Voldemort. And I'm sure that most of my school's population are not the type to make a cross or whisper a prayer to Jesus and holy capitalism upon hearing someone utter "the ideology which shall not be named".
The base idea of communism is nice in the same way that complete world peace or unicorns going around shitting rainbows and happiness would be nice. It's nice but it's very unlikely to work in reality. Nonetheless I would say, in the same patronizing tone one might use on a six year old who dreams of becoming the first astronaut to set foot on the sun, that its nice to pursue hopes and dreams. Thus I cheer on the communists with a soft indulgent smile and the understanding kind look in my eye often employed by liberal parents humoring their reckless children.
However, this time, I do feel that the British communist party have made a rather grave error of judgment in coming to give a talk within one of the country's more expensive private schools. A school filled with arrogant snobbish young adults (at the age where they feel they know everything about the world and who, annoyingly, do in fact know quite a lot) who live in houses with more floors than residents and an equivalent square meter of living space for every singular blade of grass growing in their very large well maintained gardens.
The communist party may feel they're going to strike at the very heart of the enemy but it is really as futile an attempt as Frodo, Same and Gandalf entering Mordor alone to negotiate with Sauron. At best they'll find themselves standing in front of a crowd of Orcs, mumbling awkwardly (or orcwardly) into a microphone, "Well... umm... we at the..erm... fellowship believe..." a cough and shuffle as the orcs fidget with boredom, "that Middle earth has a... ahem... right to freedom... umm... any questions?" A moment of silence as Frodo timidly surveys the crowd before him for, one mangled twisted hand rises from the sea of hostile minions, "Yes, what is it?" whispers Frodo, indicating towards the hand and its corresponding orc.
The orc looks Frodo in the eye, taking in a rasping breath to make add to the intellectual discussion, finally grunting "man flesh."
Tuesday, 2 October 2012
Rabid Pet Hates
With a strong determined beat of its abstract wings, the temporal rises into the heavens, soaring ever higher, swooping and ducking as it glides across the skies. Time has flown and it is already new born October, who like a baby is yet to dentally develop but will soon quickly do so and with it, the biting cold start its chilling attack.
The leaves on the tree have shriveled and crumbled, slowly transforming from the smooth beauty of a fair young maiden to the wrinkled repulsiveness of an old man's ball sack. The elegant lushness of the green trees fading to be replaced by the smudge of orange and brown like the finger painting of an artistically untalented child with leprosy.
Indeed the series are changing. The year has driven out of the warm safari of the summer series to travel down the darkening road of the series of autumn and very soon we shall enter the dark cold tunnel that is the series of winter. Yes, that's right, I did say "series of winter" and doesn't that feel unpleasant and perverse? Nonetheless if people are going to start replacing the term "series" with the word "season" then I don't see why I shouldn't do the opposite and see how they feel.
The use of the term "season" when referring to a British television "series" is a pet hate of mine. A pet hate which often growls and strains on its leash while out on walks, very occasionally breaking through the metal bonds to pounce upon any stray Americanization of British Television, sharp toothed mouth violently frothing and aiming for the jugular.
One such recent occasion was when I was walking towards the massive ugly square construction with a totalitarian atmosphere that constitutes the school dining hall with one Underling Sheep (An extremely normal individual, the picture perfect image of the default white middle class boy of average intelligence, wit, athletic capability and social ability) and Hunter Swift (A young lady whose life appears to be governed largely by bridge, botany and bi-curiosity. A fast shuffler, mild stalker and notable as the only female wearing a waist coat). We were discussing the unsatisfactory nature of the previous Doctor who episode in which the Pond's bid their farewell.
"I mean there are so many ways to save them," I complained, listing briefly the many solutions to the problem of Amy and Rory being trapped in Manhattan that I, a mere Earthling of sixteen years, thought of within the first five minutes of the end of the episode. Solutions which somehow the several hundred year old Timelord had failed to find.
"Yeah," agreed Hunter swift, a little way away, across the courtyard, stands the great hall upon whose towering face is embedded a clock. Its horological mechanisms ticking away restlessly, a merciless movement of cogs and gears, tick, tick, tick, tick, "I get the feeling they're going to be brought back in about five seasons." tic- Time stops.
"Say that again," I mutter, clenching my fists. Closing my eyes as I grit my teeth. Underling Sheep, having heard one of my rants before, stops beside me, eyes fixed pleadingly on Hunter Swift to get it right the second time.
"I get the feeling they're going to be brought back," she repeats, a tone of confusion entering her voice.
"In?" I whisper, my blood pulsing through my veins.
"In about five seasons?" Comes the wavering reply from a now thoroughly confused Hunter Swift. Underling Sheep lets out a despairing sigh, letting his eyes fall tiredly to the ground. A moment of silence. I click my knuckles and draw in a deep breath.
"ITS SERIES NOT SEASON! FIVE SERIESES TIME! NOT FIVE SEASONS TIME! I GET THE FEELING THEY'RE GOING TO BE BROUGHT BACK IN FIVE SERIESES TIME!" I roar, voice bouncing off the walls of the Quad, several pupils pausing to look round.
"Oh shut up!" wails Hunter Swift, "I can use season if I want!"
"No," I demand, waving my arms in frustration "It is a British television show, it will therefore be referred to as series and not season!"
"I'll do what I want," she retorts, voice volume almost matching mine, "Besides YOU MAKE WAY MORE ERRORS THAN I DO!"
As I open my mouth to form some sort of retort, one boy in the year above walks by, stating as he goes, "It's FAR more, not WAY more. Far!" Disappearing through a door within the next moment, leaving us to stand speechless.
PS. Hunter Swift later gleefully pointed out "series" is a plural term and hence the correct term was "five series time" not "five serieses". What a petty individual.
The leaves on the tree have shriveled and crumbled, slowly transforming from the smooth beauty of a fair young maiden to the wrinkled repulsiveness of an old man's ball sack. The elegant lushness of the green trees fading to be replaced by the smudge of orange and brown like the finger painting of an artistically untalented child with leprosy.
Indeed the series are changing. The year has driven out of the warm safari of the summer series to travel down the darkening road of the series of autumn and very soon we shall enter the dark cold tunnel that is the series of winter. Yes, that's right, I did say "series of winter" and doesn't that feel unpleasant and perverse? Nonetheless if people are going to start replacing the term "series" with the word "season" then I don't see why I shouldn't do the opposite and see how they feel.
The use of the term "season" when referring to a British television "series" is a pet hate of mine. A pet hate which often growls and strains on its leash while out on walks, very occasionally breaking through the metal bonds to pounce upon any stray Americanization of British Television, sharp toothed mouth violently frothing and aiming for the jugular.
One such recent occasion was when I was walking towards the massive ugly square construction with a totalitarian atmosphere that constitutes the school dining hall with one Underling Sheep (An extremely normal individual, the picture perfect image of the default white middle class boy of average intelligence, wit, athletic capability and social ability) and Hunter Swift (A young lady whose life appears to be governed largely by bridge, botany and bi-curiosity. A fast shuffler, mild stalker and notable as the only female wearing a waist coat). We were discussing the unsatisfactory nature of the previous Doctor who episode in which the Pond's bid their farewell.
"I mean there are so many ways to save them," I complained, listing briefly the many solutions to the problem of Amy and Rory being trapped in Manhattan that I, a mere Earthling of sixteen years, thought of within the first five minutes of the end of the episode. Solutions which somehow the several hundred year old Timelord had failed to find.
"Yeah," agreed Hunter swift, a little way away, across the courtyard, stands the great hall upon whose towering face is embedded a clock. Its horological mechanisms ticking away restlessly, a merciless movement of cogs and gears, tick, tick, tick, tick, "I get the feeling they're going to be brought back in about five seasons." tic- Time stops.
"Say that again," I mutter, clenching my fists. Closing my eyes as I grit my teeth. Underling Sheep, having heard one of my rants before, stops beside me, eyes fixed pleadingly on Hunter Swift to get it right the second time.
"I get the feeling they're going to be brought back," she repeats, a tone of confusion entering her voice.
"In?" I whisper, my blood pulsing through my veins.
"In about five seasons?" Comes the wavering reply from a now thoroughly confused Hunter Swift. Underling Sheep lets out a despairing sigh, letting his eyes fall tiredly to the ground. A moment of silence. I click my knuckles and draw in a deep breath.
"ITS SERIES NOT SEASON! FIVE SERIESES TIME! NOT FIVE SEASONS TIME! I GET THE FEELING THEY'RE GOING TO BE BROUGHT BACK IN FIVE SERIESES TIME!" I roar, voice bouncing off the walls of the Quad, several pupils pausing to look round.
"Oh shut up!" wails Hunter Swift, "I can use season if I want!"
"No," I demand, waving my arms in frustration "It is a British television show, it will therefore be referred to as series and not season!"
"I'll do what I want," she retorts, voice volume almost matching mine, "Besides YOU MAKE WAY MORE ERRORS THAN I DO!"
As I open my mouth to form some sort of retort, one boy in the year above walks by, stating as he goes, "It's FAR more, not WAY more. Far!" Disappearing through a door within the next moment, leaving us to stand speechless.
PS. Hunter Swift later gleefully pointed out "series" is a plural term and hence the correct term was "five series time" not "five serieses". What a petty individual.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)