The End

Hello Ubersapien Readers, no, this isn't Sven. It's Dave. I don't think he's coming back, you'd think I would be ecstatic. I'm not. He has saved us all. I say that in all seriousness. I sat in the same room as that man for six years and never once stepped back to appreciate his brilliance. I've disabled the rest of his contingency plan because I can't deal with his masterpiece fading away via posts of his sophomore years. Instead, I will give him a fitting sendoff. Here is the front page obituary of Sven Lyndon as printed in the Montpelier Times.

"If there ever was a primer for a failed conquest of the human race, TheUbersapien.blogspot.com would be it. Hollywood has mankind prevailing over aliens through disease, stolen technology, complicated treaties, and other fanciful dues ex machina. Reality truly is much stranger than fiction.

Species X, as our government named them, invaded our planet after decoding one piece of human culture. Passing over the launch codes to various nuclear arms and the location of any and all of our biological weapons, the aliens settled on The Ubersapien. Mr. Lyndon's uninformed and sociopathic ramblings were the first and only impression the aliens had of the human race. Armed to the teeth with it, they abducted Mr. Lyndon, and then attacked.

Their invasion began with a first wave, all disguised as humans. Using Mr. Lyndon's blog as a handbook for interaction, each died in a medley of horrible ways. Some poisoned themselves with barbershots, more than a dozen of them died while trying to run a mile with a keg and drinking partner over their heads. Several were turned into living bombs as the specifics of Mr. Lyndon's flashers (as worn by his friends and The Sack Artist) were not posted. The only instance of near assimilation was their use of "The Secret Manshake" at homosexual bars, but even this victory was short lived as all who found acceptance in gay bars through the Manshake were raped to death.

Then they hit us hard by attacking facebooks servers, which stirred up a fever pitch without actually damaging any of our defense infrastructure. Falsely believing every human was incapable of making new memories, they began their conquest by debriefing in front of the entire human race. With the American government knowing all of Species-X's playbook, the counterattack was merciless.

The insult to Species-X's mortal injury was the formation of the "Species-X Ex-patriots." This group was formed from a few invader's who had read the blog and saw the genius in Mr. Lyndon's writings. Filled with Mr. Lyndon's self-depriciating ire, they began systematically recruiting fringe members of thier own society, and to date, have killed over 300,000 of themselves.

What could have been the total anhilation of man kind wasn't, and it was thanks to the deeply flawed world views of what clinical psychologists would later diagnose as a deeply flawed individual."

Contingency Plan Phase One

Readers,

At this point I am still either dead or incapacitated. Having only been a week, not many of the reasons for my absence are out of the question. Hit by a car, fell off of a cruise ship, type 2 diabetes from a poorly planned attempt at an eating contest, or hell even anterograde amnesia, all of those are possibilities. I have excerpted several of my journal entries, together they tell one of my earlier tales.

April 22, 1999
Dear Journal,

Tomorrow is the 7th grade Montpelier Field trip. I have been looking forward to it since 5th grade. It may be the single greatest day in any students life, you miss school, get to ride on a coach bus for like three hours, wear regular clothes (not stupid uniforms), and of course: you are guaranteed a handjob on the bus ride back. I honestly cannot wait to feel the clammy hand of some mid-pubescent girl grabbing my genitals way too tightly. I imagine it to be euphoric.

Who will it be though? I have no idea, but ever since the trip has been going on, each guy and girl pair off for a squeezer during the ride back. It is like tradition or something. I am absolutely positive that whatever girl it is, her work on my dong will be 10 times better than my own. Tonight is like Christmas Eve and Handjob-Santa is about to wiggle his fat ass down my chimney. I honestly don't know how I'll get to sleep tonight.


April 23, 1999
Dear Journal

I guess getting a squeezer from a female classmate is perfectly acceptable, but, after finding yourself painfully alone on the bus ride back, making your own magic is some kind of taboo. This is bullshit. Every guy on that bus was getting a five finger jizzcount and I am left all by my lonesome. Lyndon Innovation demanded that I do something. I answered its call and was unfairly reprimanded... ...all the kids are calling me "Sir-Whacks-Alot".


April 28, 1999
Dear Journal,

This will all blow over, I'm sure of it. I will just wait it out. They can't remember to make fun of me forever. I'll just be the bigger man like my teacher says, and ignore them until they stop.


August 26, 1999
Dear Journal,

Today was the first day of class and guess who didn't get called "Sir-Whacks-Alot". Me... ...now they just call me "jerkoff". My grandfather was right when he told me that "being the bigger man only makes you a bigger target." I am letting Lyndon Innovation step in where modern anti-bully strategies have fallen short. With the beginning of another school year comes another woefully ineffective "Bully Prevention Week."

Instead of going through another week of useless strategies like ignoring bullying, not bullying, and tolerance, I have replaced the school's literature with some from the Lyndon household. It is called "Bully the Bully: A Bully Obliteration Program" here is a sumnation of its sections.

Chapter One: Bullies have crossed the line and no amount of good behavior will curb thier bad. It is time to make a decision
Chapter Two: Fight first, ask questions later. It is always best to assume someone is a Bully. Don't ever let the get to know you and feel you out with a couple "jab insults" before to deciding whether or not you will become their target. Action is faster and better than reaction. Better to act before getting bullied than react afterwards.
Chapter Three: Bullys are actually closeted gays so it is really important everyone get together and kick him in the nuts so he can't poke us with his boner.
Chapter Four: Bullying among females is a myth. Girls only use thier words to pick on each other, it is because they are weak and afraid to fight. Words can be ignored while fists can't. You have to give them credit for trying to imitate males, but nonetheless, female bullying does not exist.


September 10 1999
Dear Journal,

I have watched for weeks as my fellow classmates stay sharp for bullies, but nothing could compare to today. It began with indoor recess, the bully hunt had reached a fever pitch. Our teacher had slipped in a parking lot and our classroom was left unattended for about and hour. Before I knew it one student bumped into another, the student who was bumped attacked the first student (hoping to preemptively halt any bullying) and spent the rest of said hour being beat to death with multiple volumes of the Encyclopedia Brittanica. I spent the rest of the day with an understated smile on my face. Today I am a man.

Contingency Plan

May 15, 2009 To Whom it May Concern, Today is the day I begin a blog. The sun is shining, and I can smell summer in the air. I am simply thrilled to have a forum with which to share my a short lifetime of knowledge with the world. So without further adieu, I share with you my first bit of know-how: Foresight.

This is an automated post from Sven Lyndon. I wrote it some time ago when I first began the blog. Each week, I set it back another week, the idea being that should I not physically be able to post on the blog: the backup plan kicks in. If you are reading this, I am likely dead or at the very least: incapacitated. I would love to apologize for said incapacitation or death, but I won't because I am positive that it was in no way, shape, or form my fault. Sometimes you do your best and the world just shits all over it.

It is anyone's (except mine as I am either dead or incapacitated) guess how long it will be until I return to the helm of my surely magnificent blog. Odds are one of my many enemies got to me. Luckily for you, I don't believe on quitting anything regardless of the circumstances. Utilizing meticulous time management I still do every hobby, sport, or pastime I have ever started. Here is a quick rundown of my day (it is not shown on the list, but I do go to work, and it does not interfere with my activities):

5:30 am: Wake up to my "Learn Polish at Home" tapes so I can surprise my ex girlfriend who is of Polish ancestry
6:00 am: Shower as I study C++ computer programming
6:30 am: Roll sushi for breakfast
7:00 am: Trim the Banzai Tree
7:30 am: Write "BeetleBorgs" fan fiction
8:00 am: Unicycle to work
8:30 am: Update my America Online profile taking a thinly veiled jab at my ex-girlfriend whenever possible
9:00 am: Continue solving my Rubik's Cube WITHOUT instructions
9:30 am: Reorganize my pogs
10:00 am: Add "Sun In" to my hair
10:30 am: Practice my ex girlfriends favorite Nickelback song on guitar (another surprise)
11:00 am: Practice with my Yo-Yo
11:30 am: Practice walking on my hands
12:00 pm: Practice break dancing
12:30 pm: Practice beat boxing
1:00 pm: Study Japanese over lunch
1:30 pm: Whittle
2:00 pm: Leatherwork
2:30 pm: Continue brewing my own beer
3:00 pm: Continue work on my sailboat
3:30 pm: Fencing Practice
4:00 pm: Continue rehabbing a 1968 Ford Bronco
4:30 pm: Archery
5:00 pm: Continue a portrait of me and my ex girlfriend
5:30 pm: Harass people in AOL chatrooms
6:00 pm: Continue the application process for the Sega Dreamcast I won by clicking on the ad
6:30 pm: Phone Phreak a few payphones
7:00 pm: Band Practice
7:30 pm: Continue work on my Pokemon playing card deck
8:00 pm: Tend to my ex girlfriend's vegetable garden
8:30 pm: Practice Drums
9:00 pm: Listen to the cure
9:30 pm: Poke ex girlfriend on facebook
10:00 pm: Call up The Sack Artist for our nightly chat
10:30 pm: Private Time
11:00 pm: Key the shit out of the car parked outside of my Ex Girlfriends house
11:30 pm: Continue digging my fallout shelter
12:00 am: Attempt to eat 6 saltine crackers in under a minute
12:30 am: Tai Chi
1:00 am: Key that fucking car again
1:30 am: Split wood
2:00 am: Perform 20 max weight hang power cleans
2:30 am: Run 7 400 Yard Dashes
3:00 am - 5:30 am: Sleep

As you can see, I have quite a bit of free time in my schedule. But because I do not believe in quitting anything (whatever the reason, death and incapacitation included), I have transcribed my past journals. They are arranged in no specific order, but will automatically post themselves every Friday until I return (if I do return).

Incapacitatedly Your's,
Sven Lyndon

Sincerly, S.L.

I have "The Sack Artist is your best friend" tattooed on my forehead backwards. I think people find it off putting. Another just says "Stupid Fuck". I don't know if I can keep this up.

I have lost all of my RPS matches by forfeit. During the first, I forgot why I was standing in a circle facing another person. My opponent threw rock and I interpreted it as an attack. I strangled him with a microphone cord (a la The Wedding Singer). Every subsequent morning I awoke in a hotel room unaware of how I got there and wondering where Snarles and the Jetski where.

Every day that I didn't begin working on the blog, I would spend listening to The Cure, Joy Division, and Meatloaf while consuming as many as many Barbershots as Übersapienly possible. I went through 32 bottles of aftershave and mouthwash in a week. 53 dollars well spent. Because I was almost out of money, in my down time I devised a plan to make more. The world Championship of Rock, Paper, Scissors. A tournament of three throw RPS games. The plan seemed oddly familiar.

Losing my memory has been quite unsettling. Most days I would lay in bed staring at the ceiling. I would try to stay in bed all day, but would eventually get lured out by the pistol I had intended to kill myself with. After becoming fully aware of how much of a sackless pussy who can't pull a trigger I was, I would sit at my computer. Typing. Because, surprise: I can read and write, although I prefer the dragon speech software for a number of reasons:
1. I find the echo of my voice, which exists only on the very edge of perception, from the closet I work in to be soothing.
2. Freeing up my hands allows me to remove the filling from multiple Oreo cookies and store it for later consumption
3. I speak as I type and also tend to talk with my hands. It is often difficult to find a happy medium between nonverbal communication and effective keyboarding. All too often, I am midway through a phenomenal sentence when one or both of my hands floats off to gesture.

Working off of these notes it is really difficult to know what to type. Stuff is scrawled onto my arms, some of it is crudely tattooed with a pen. I'm not really sure how long has been going on.

I decided to pattern my anterograde amnesia after the movie "Memento". In it, the lead character, played flawlessly by Guy Pearce, witnesses the rape and murder of his wife. He is then subjected to blunt force trauma and is left unable to make new memories and goes on a merciless killing spree. Masterful. (The movie progresses from end to beginning in five minute segments as to simulate the main character's condition). Seeking my own personal spousal rape, murder, and blunt force trauma, I sought out my dog Snarles. He was initially hesitant as he had watched the past week's bender but after a long discussion and some pleading on my part he obliged. I sat him utop the jet ski and he drove it into my head.

Having read my last post, I am sure you as well as my other reader know that I have lost my job. I guess that Landmark College didn't want to know how easy it is to sneak weapons into the building. And I GUESS the "no guns" part of my contract is a blanket clause for "no hand grenades. Long story short: the fun police gave me the boot. Had I not pissed away the money from the carnival cruise (on jet skis and Evian spring water for the pool) I would have definitely pursue legal action. It sent me into a week long drinking spree. I was almost out of money, so in my down time I devised a plan to make more. The world Championship of Rock, Paper, Scissors. A tournament of three throw RPS games. But how does one win? Some would suggest "The Fist Full of Dollars" or in layman's terms: Rock, Paper, Paper. It always wins. Humans obsess over the best strategy. As it turns out though, there is a computer that defeats every human player. It exploits our one glaring weakness: predictability and adheres to random throws. Even at the subconscious level, humans adhere to patterns. They draw on past experience whether they want to or not. To be the best I would have to eliminate past experience. I would have to eliminate my memory.



Good evening listeners,

im drunk

so what landmark college fired me, shut happens. id dont care. tell her to stop to marrying me. somtimes i like to drnik. alright,


step one. stuff shit into destruction.

stepo two: realize she is lying to me

step three: realize my standards are that low.

step four: realize i am bored with my standards

step five: realize i am not too bored with my standards to drop my standards

step B: hit the bench press

stepL ten thousand: oh god kill me

step infinity no no kill sven.

Step infinity plus one: facebook people

step fsfut im pretty durnk astuddy

CollegePictureBook.com

With 2012 just a few years away, Armageddon is upon us. The modern world will end and a select few will survive to live in a post apocalyptic dystopia. Gasoline, Un-radiated food and water will be scarce, infrastructure will be non-existent. In this world, only the strong will survive. I am excited to meet it. While everyone is out and about attempting to scrape by on old cans of beans and canned fruit, I will keep the world civilized. But what defines a civilization? Is it its ability to function as a collective group and thrive. A collection of self aware individuals who more often than not work towards the common good? OR Is it the ability to keep tabs on your ex-girlfriend using a java based website? I think the answer is clear.

Q: But Sven, the internet is down, how will you keep the world civilized?
A: Lyndon Innovation

Enter CollegePictureBook.com. In a world without an internet, CollegePictureBook.com will have all the juicy details on the one that got away. But how does it function without internet? SIMPLE!

Step 1. Find whatever writing material you can and, using an ink made of your blood and soot, scrawl on it your personal information, relationship status, favorite bands, ect. Really, don't be shy. Include your home address, favorite foods, all that good stuff. Just because the apocalypse has come and gone doesn't mean we can't enjoy the simple privileges of anonymous narcissism.

Step 2. Find all of the pictures you want, tag some friends if you please. You might just have to skip scavenging for food but this is important. Food and water are going to have to sit on the back burner for a bit.

Step 3. Put all of this in an envelope and hang it on a hook in a clearing. One of "The Chosen" will ride by and, without stopping, grab the envelope. Do NOT attempt to talk to them.

Step 4. Should you watch to see who picks up your envelope, it will go a bit like this:
"And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts. And I looked and behold, a pale horse. And it's name it said on him was Death. And Hell followed with him"

Step 5. Sitting in a dank corner of a warehouse filled wall-to-wall with 3.5 inch floppy disks, I will take the personal information and begin typing it up on a Mac One. All pictures will be redrawn with the arrow keys in whatever imaging application the Mac One has. I will work night and day, the closest thing to sleep I will ever know will be using a home made flame thrower to hold off Lord Humungus and his general: Master Blaster. They want my floppies.

Step 6. I will copy your profile to floppy disks. If you've got twelve friends, I'll make twelve disks. If your a huge whore and have roughly 2,000 friends, most you don't even know personally, except for the time they were your beer pong partner and you gave them a squeezer in the bathroom at the end of the night, I'll make 2,000 disks. What would CollegePictureBook.com be without the sluts.

Step 7. The disks will then be placed in a bag and picked up by one of my many couriers. They will ride horses, or bikes, or motorcycles, one will have a gyro copter. They will race against the many gangs and remnants of the American government that populate the wasteland to deliver said disks. Many will die. As The Chosen distribute the disks they will likely expose your friend's positions to the enemy.

Step 8. You load the received profile onto your computer and enjoy.

Step 9. When you want to update your profile, simply start at step one.

Before you question the legitimacy of this program, arguing that my time is better spent finding food or making guns, I want you to count the number of times you went on Facebook yesterday. Mankind is in a new era of necessity, in short, we have evolved a fourth basic need. Food, water, shelter, Facebook. Facebook isn't some passing trend, it is the future. Fifty years from now, the presidential address will not be broadcast on ABC, NBC, Fox, or any news channel. It will take place on Facebook as a series of carefully planned status updates. Without Facebook we lose what separates us from the animals. It used to be that sapience, or awareness of your own existence, was what separated us from the animals. They have now given self awareness tests to dolphins, dogs, and elephants. They all passed. I have yet, however, to see any of those animals drunkenly "poke" the girl they like on a java based website.

By preserving anonymous social networking, I will preserve mankind.

-S.L.

Re: Your Wedding

Recently I was invited to Brett Stevenson's wedding. He's an old college chum of mine and I was flattered to be invited. I was instructed to send my RSVP to Bstevenson1957@hotmail.com. He told me he doesn't read the blog, so I sent this email: "Response at: TheUbersapien.blogspot.com -S.L." Well, here is the response:

Hello Brett,
It's Sven Lyndon. Sadly I cannot attend your holy matrimony. I work at the front desk of a learning center. Long story short: the girl who just started and could take my hours the weekend of your wedding is a lazy bitch with a huge growler and would rather sit on the couch eating bon-bons. You know what a growler is, that type of vagina that has just seen too much abuse. Hairy, and toothed. She honestly works about 12 hours a week, I just want to force feed her spaghetti until she explodes (like in Se7en, great movie). I want to do a "Saw" torture marathon: she faces every trap set by jigsaw in a 100 hour hell. Not just her either. Pretty much all women deserve this. They truly are the weakest sex. But since she can't fill in for me, I've gotta stick around and work.

You don't even know how bummed I am. We should definitely catch up at homecoming, I've got so many Asians to tell you about. Its like their genetics lend themselves to my abuse. There was one that I taught a bunch of fake American cultural customs. I modified another's vocabulary, replacing the word "please" with "shit." Lets just say this chick went from very polite to surly at the drop of a hat. It's like they will do anything if you have made an empty promise to marry them.

We should definitely catch up at homecoming. I just talked to Barry Sopinski. He's doing real well, hes been in the peace core for some time now. He said he'd be back as well. I can't wait to tell you guys in person about my competitive mysogeny. Abusing women (and Asians) has gone from casual to lifestyle. If I don't oppress one or both in a day, its like I don't exist. It defines me.

At this moment in time, I am recalling that your mother's name is Bertha and she was probably born around 1957. Why is this significant? Well it is quite likely that the email address (BStevenson1957@hotmail.com) supplied on that fruity invitation is that of your mother. If this is in fact the case:

Mrs. Stevenson I am so sorry for my language and opinions about women, Asians and your terrific wedding invitation. Please let me lend me sincerest apologies for the mix up. I don't even usually talk about women or Asians that way. Brett usually reprimands my behavior. You have a terrific son.

Sincerely,
Barry Sopinski

The Secret Manshake

My childhood was spent being submitted to constant testing and evaluation. I despised all of it, save one event. Boys Club. Once in a blue moon mother take leave of the compound. With the woman gone, our father would summon the boys and call to order another meeting of "The Boys Club." Each meeting began with a recital of the Seven Tenets of Manhood. They are ideals that every successful man lives his life by and are as follows:

1. Indiscriminate Anger: The ability to become enraged at the most unenrageable offense
2. Vengeance: Cleaning up where karma falls short
3. Womanizationfullness: Keeping those second class citizens in the third class
4. Physical Aggression: "The Sweet Science" of low blows, biting, and improvised weapons
5. Dogs: Guns don't kill people, my dog does
6. Deception: You look, I run/take/stab/ect.
7. Traps.

With the tenets recited, and lashings dealt out to those who could not remember the tenets, the meeting began. Challenges where made on the three levels of manliness.

The first level is physical. The challenge begins with the first substantial snowfall. Each contestant is issued one size 28 Warchol Swim Trunk. With a four inch inseam, legs are left unabashidly exposed. Everyone is then instructed to run to the yard and lay in the snow. The last man to leave the snow is the most manly and scores a point in his favor.

The second level is psychological. This challenge begins about halfway through the first level. The first candidate to psychologically manipulate another was the winner. Things that count as psychological manipulation are, but not limited to: talking a candidate into beliving there was no way he could win, convincing him the snow was colder than he belived, or talking him into abandoning life within the family entirely.

The third was backstabingness. The man who bould betray the first brother would win, and be let into the inner circle of Manhood. Backstabbing includes reversing the psychological manipulation you are being subected to by: convincing the brothers that your snow is actually warmer than they belive, psychlogically manipulating the others into beliving there is no way you can lose, and using reverse psychology to agree with a brother trying to talk you into leaving the family thereby getting him to leave the family.

Without explicitly being explained, all competions took place at the same time. A true triple threat. As we laid there dying in the snow, our physical, psychological, and backstabiness prowesses were being tested. Needless to say the only true loser of the challenge was the poor S.O.B. who tried in earnest to win the competition. He was subjected to a guantlet of psychological manipulation and back stabbing, ultimatley he died. I do however doubt that any Lyndon has acutally tried to win the competition in earnest. Each generation has wisely gravitated towards backstabbing or psychological manipulation. We know our strengths.

Having passed each level of challenge, we became privy to the most guarded Lyndon secret. The Secret Manshake. Father would take the successful candidate up to a secret room, and in it, he would teach them "The Shake". The Secret Manshake begins with two men running to a conceled location. Once in said location, both men drop trow, look each other dead in the eyes, and without saying a word, deliver three succinct shakes to the other man's penis. Why three shakes? Well two shakes means you are insecure and four would be just plain gay.

At every family gathering, we Lyndon men pair off and run to empty rooms to exchange manshakes with each other. We then return from the room, do a sort of pair swap, and continue the tradition. Once everyone has shooken everyone's penis, the family gathering can begin. When we return, the women are none the wiser. This is The Manshake. It is secret.

-S.L.

Tried and True Methods: Fighting Fire with Dog

A post or two back, I painted a portrait of forbidden love. A man separated from his jet ski by an incurable fear of open water. The ending was sweet, and love prevailed. Now my neighbors are ruining the whole thing. Apparently a man cannot enjoy the simple pleasure of a Jet Ski ride in his above ground pool whilst tethered to the garage without some jackass cutting the line sending me on a at first fun but soon awful trip into a fence. Its UnAmerican. Well this had been going on for some time, until I decided to fight back.

The Lyndon men have a long history of stormy relations with their neighbors and have won said relations almost universally with one proven method. Fight fire with fire? Yes that is a great idea, fire does a lot of things well. It consumes wholly, burns painfully, and looks magnificent in the process of doing both. I've been known to light abandoned (as far as I know) buildings on fire just to watch them burn. Sadly, my neighbors have already called dibs on fire. I know myself well enough to realize I cannot win in a fair fight, so my "fire" needs to be better. A living, breathing, eating, thinking, fire... ...a dog. The Lyndon men always choose dog.

Obtaining said dog, was a bit of a drawn out process. Whilst at the pound I interviewed quite a few candidates. Each one was brought to me and did its best to look cute, loyal, and house broken. Pathetic. I must have met at least twenty dogs that were crap. I was completely disappointed, until I saw him. Skulking in the corner, the darkness followed him and his shadow was out of sync with his own movements. This beautiful creature was a jet black German Sheppard. I inquired as to why he only had three legs:

"That... ...thing... ...was a police dog. On a routine drug bust they sent him in to get some fucking tweaker and the trailer blew. The dog lost a leg, but got the meth junkie. It lost a lot of blood, but never let go of the poor bastards throat even at the morgue. It clamped down on it, snarling throughout the entire autopsy. They had to cut the neck from the corpse because the dog just wouldn't let go. I think its still got the the throat somewhere. We've gassed him several times with no effect. I'd shoot the fucking thing if I could, its the most evil creature I have ever met." the little old lady politely explained.

I looked the dog in its eyes, and it stared right at my throat. This ranks as the second most terrifying moment of my life. I choked out the words: "I will take that dog"

The dog, was completely hostile towards me for almost two days. Finally I mustered the courage to approach him while he was making a sandwich for lunch. I had been thinking on a name for some time and decided to try it out. I suggested Snarles... ... Snarles Barkley. The dog looked to me from its sandwich, and I knew he liked the name because for the first time he did not eye my throat. He cut his sandwich in half to share with me and I began reveal his greater purpose. I told him of my neighbors and their hand rolled cigarettes. The way they wore flannel having never swung an axe in their life. There insistence on being barefoot, cuffed jeans, and overall dirtiness. "Fucking hipsters" I said and Snarles growled in concurrence.

I had my reservations about a three legged dog being able to successfully deter hipsters, but they were quickly dispelled. I began to ride my Jet Ski, and as suspected one of my neighbors made his move to cut the line. Just as his knife was about to touch the rope, I saw what I can only describe as a blur of hatred make its move. The hipster saw the blur as well, he turned to run, but the mere thought of running sent his body into a fit of caughing and wheezing. A lifetime of hand-rolled cigarrettes was the second to last nail in this hipsters coffin, Snarles was fit to be the last. In a mere 6.5 seconds, Snarles closed the 150 yard gap between himself and the future mauling victim. Pouncing on the hipster, Snarles dealt out an ass-chomping on par with any four or even five legged dog. You could say he cured the smokers cough.

In the four weeks I've had Snarles he has taken down hipsters, squirrels, possum, bunnies, cats, other dogs, coyote, a black bear, and the swat team that got sent after him. He is man's best friend.

-S.L.

The Sack Artist and Me

This weekend I had the distinct pleasure of attending a box social with none other than The Sack Artist (see his blog at TheSackArtist.blogspot.com). The party was at a mutual "friend's" house. It was a night filled with beer pong, rap music, and my own genius.

I have yet to discuss it in this blog, but I suffer from prosopagnosia or "Face Blindness". I can remember everything about you: age, weight, height, hobbies, address, bedtime, and favorite food that is easiest to poison. I cannot, however, distinguish between your face and a regulation size American football. It goes without saying that this could cripple my social life, but I've developed two systems to compensate.

The first, is simple: I fake it. When I see someone who recognizes me, I fight fire with fire and recognize them right back. You would be very, very surprised how well this works. If you stay general, nod along, and only volunteer the absolute minimum to the conversation, the person will never catch on to your complete absence from his/her interaction with you. Had I never developed prosopagnosia, I would still probably do this.

The second is simple: blinkers. I build a personal strobe light to be worn by the people I want to be able to identify. It is a one inch by one inch by one inch cube that flashes at an interval set by me. Each has its own flash pattern as I use the pattern to identify the person. Through some clever rewiring of the bulb and the use of KGB batteries, these puppies flash at a brightness that roughly triples that of our sun. To date I have only built eight, one for each of my brothers (that's seven). The final eighth model has had its proportions quadrupled. A larger model for a larger ally: The Sack Artist.

Sack is a mountain of a man, easily eight feet tall and tipping the scales at over 450 lbs. His face is unrecognizable to me, but I have it on good authority that it is bearded. Had I any grasp of what a beard is, I would insist his is the best. I had already been at the party for about an hour before he showed up, blinker already worn and activated. He would later tell me he wears it out on any occasion just in case he runs into me. Learning this could have brought me to tears had my tear ducts not been cauterized at age eight.

The combination of Sack's height, and the blinker's increased size had a rather interesting effect on the epileptics in the crowd. Lets just say the line for the beer pong table got much shorter. Capitalizing on the short line, Sack and I demanded the next open game. It was dominated largely by Sack as I failed to make a single cup. It ended with one of our opponents finding out that he did in fact have epilepsy. During his fall to the ground he knocked over three of his teams remaining cups, leaving one final cup teetering on the edge of the table. Thinking fast, I forsook trying to get my ball in the cup, and instead threw it directly at the cup. It fell from the table landing on top of our newly epileptic friend. His partner protested, and we all discovered that I am not as good at feigning remorse as I am familiarity. Everyone learned something during this game.

Post-game, it was becoming obvious that Sack and I were wearing out our welcome. We were receiving an ice cold shoulder, so we did what anyone would do. The bathrooms were both in use, so we had our sword fight in the master bedroom of the house. I touched all the produce in the fridge and dirtied the linens. Meanwhile Sack turned the thermostat up to 110 degrees, and stole the "Epilepsy Association of Chicago" sign. For the coup de gras, Sack threw me atop his shoulders, hoisted the keg over both of our heads, and began the 3.4 mile run to the nearest parking garage. Modern science will later describe this feat as: Wookie Strength. During our exodus, still sitting on his shoulders, keg still over both of our heads, he insisted I drink from it to lighten the load. Not one to question the logic of a man in the heat of Wookie Strength, I obliged.

Arriving at the parking garage, the immediate threat had been out run, but our hunger for beer pong remained. We were also missing a few key items as we had no cups, balls, table, or opponents. In the middle of lamenting our hopeless situation, the 62 ounces of beer I had guzzled whilst sitting atop another man's shoulders during a 3.4 mile run caught up to me. Sack's atrocious running form had shaken the beer in my stomach so much that the projectile vomit traveled over 12 feet, landing flush in a convertible. Without saying another word, I lept back to Sack's shoulders as he once again hoisted the keg over his head. He began to run laps around the parking garage. After I had chugged the requisite 62 ounces of beer, and he had run 12 laps around the garage, we found another convertible, took aim, and fired. Our night was saved. Later we developed a rough way of keeping score, imaginary opponents, and a name for this marvelous sport. I blacked out all of this information, but I can assure you that it was all very good stuff. I fully expect this game to become the next big thing. Completely replacing beer pong on college campuses.

Two days and three hours later, we both awoke at the exact same time. For a moment we assessed our environment, established eye contact , shared one succinct nod, and then both went our separate ways. I still believe he is out there partying it up, blinker in tow. It is worth noting that during our two day three hour hibernation in a parking garage, we were the stars of not one but three You Tube police brutality videos. Until next time Sack Artist.

-S.L.

Sven Lyndon: Guest post

Listeners,

This week I'm doing something a little different. I asked my crony Dave to write a guest post for the blog. So without further adieu I turn the reigns over to him:

"I'm not into putting myself out there on the web like Sven is. Two days ago he asked me to write a guest post for his blog. Initially I was pretty hesitant, but after realizing how oblivious he is to the world around him, I agreed. I doubt he even read this over before it was posted.

Sven and I work the front desk at a learning center run through Landmark College. It specializes in helping kids ages 6 to 12 with school work. I probably don't need to say this, but I can't stand the guy. Here is a run down of a day with Sven.

8:00 a.m.- I arrive at work.
9:20 a.m.- Sven arrives over an hour late and greets me with purple murple
9:27 a.m.- Ogles a mom loud enough for her to hear
9:35 a.m.- Ogles a student in the same fashion
9:36 a.m.- Its back to the mom
9:37 a.m.- True to form, he finishes things off by ogling both at once.
9:38 a.m.- He insists that I ogle the students as well
(The minutes of 9:20 to 9:39 were in front of no less than 12 students and a mother.)
9:39 a.m.- ::vulgar gestures::
9:40 a.m.- ::vulgar gestures::
9:41 a.m.- ::vulgar gestures::
9:42 a.m.- ::vulgar gestures::
9:43 a.m.- ::awkward silence::
9:44 a.m.- ::awkward silence::
9:45 a.m.- ::awkward silence::
9:46 a.m.- ::awkward silence::

-leaves-

10:19 a.m.- Returns
10:20 a.m.- He begins talking about his glory days playing high school baseball, he claims he hit bombs. I have it on very good authority that he had a .157 batting average in high school, but hit very well during practice. That's what kept him on the lineup.
10:22 a.m.- I respond "I was only good in batting practice" he doesn't pick up the thinly veiled shot I have just taken at him.
10:35 a.m.- He invites me to play basketball with him tomorrow morning
12:27 p.m.- Leaves, but not before promising to return again

12:45 p.m.- Returns
1:00 p.m. - Begins talking about John Cena's movie "The Marine." He insists that the negative reviews it got were "totally political" and part of an elaborate plot to keep John Cena from "making Paul Newman, Bobby Deniro, Ben Kingsley, and John Malkovich look like fucking amateurs." He blames "The Illuminati" and the Catholic Church, the ninja they sent after him because they were on to him is a clear indication of guilt. And I quote: "The Marine is the Citizen Kane of our time."
3:08 p.m.- Movie talk ends

The rest of the day with him was completely unbearable. He is completely illiterate, and not because he isn't smart. He constantly brags about how he faked having several learning disabilities all through his childhood. By combining it with a "generally affable disposition" his teachers almost always gave him passing marks out of pity. It started in kindergarten where he, as a lot of children do, developed a taste for glue. Unlike the other children, he noticed that while the mainstream children were busy working for their good grades, he sat at the special table and got the same passing marks. At age 4 he had already began manipulating people. High school was the genesis of his scheme. He would do things like show up to class late complaining that his watch was broken. He would then show it to the teacher only to reveal that he was wearing it upside down. Not realizing that Sven had done this as part of a deliberate ploy, the teacher would forgive Sven. He gloats about the time he brought his Spanish teacher to tears. On the first day of class, she passed out a contact list. Sven deliberately misspelled his name on the sheet. Upon seeing the discrepancy, the teacher asked Sven if the registrar had made a mistake on her sheet, and if she should contact them to get it fixed. Sven's response was something along the lines of "But I did spell my name righ... ...oh wait." This immediately brought the teacher to tears. Sven passed her class with flying colors.

Sven had been talking about starting a blog for quite some time. He asked me on several occasions to type for him because he had never learned to read or write. Two months ago the learning center got a grant to purchase Dragon Speech Recognition Software. The software comes with a microphone, it allows you to say whatever you want, and it will come up on the computer. It was supposed to be used by the special needs kids, but he took it. He insisted he had some undiagnosed form of Tourette's Syndrome, then used the software to start his blog. Now instead of working he sits in an unlit closet with a computer and the microphone working on the blog. I would say that this is an improvement over him bugging the crap out of me, but muffled voices coming from a closet ten feet away has become pretty unnerving. This is just the tip of his dementia iceberg.

The way he lives is life is ridiculous. Every girl we work with is terrified of him. He developed a crush on a girl from upstairs: Jen. I had stopped by her house to borrow a season of "Lost". I didn't even go in the door, but ever since I've been finding a dead rodent in my mailbox every Friday. Then, during the week I took off to watch my father die, he told the office I was a sex addict and had relapsed. I believe the term he used was: "masturbation marathon."

He is constantly bragging about "Lyndon Innovation." As far as I can tell, all "Lyndon Innovation" has done is made life miserable for everyone he knows. Here are a few examples:

"Lyndon Innovation" is responsible for his jetski and pool combo which has been systematically waterlogging his neighbor's lawn for the past month. "Lyndon Innovation" put an undersized retarded kid on the gridiron in the 1930's. "Lyndon Innovation" is the reason he chose Landmark College. Landmark College is a two year college designed for students with severe learning disabilities. Sven has no diagnosed learning disability. He enrolled because he wanted to get an easy 4.0 GPA and as he puts it "...learn the guarded secrets of retard strength." "Lyndon Innovation" is also responsible for his plans to tell off a high school, start a hobo fight ring, ski on mountains of cocaine, use babies to pull a sled in the Iditarod, get a brother and sister to fornicate, traumatize a woman into loving him, and only God knows what else. I hope none of these plans ever come to fruition. Finally, "Lyndon Innovation" bootlegged "Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen." I guess I am sort of on board with this one, the movie wasn't worth my money, and his bootleg is nothing short of amazing in quality. I always ask him how he did it, but he won't give me a straight answer. He just runs off to make himself a Barbershot, then returns and smiles creepily while sipping the drink.

What is a Barbershot? Its his own concoction, half mouthwash, half cheap aftershave. Both of the ingredients have alcohol in them, but its denatured/undrinkable. He uses them anyway because, and I quote; "they use denatured alcohol to get around the tax laws, not because they don't want you to drink it." As far as I can tell he spends his weekends drunk on Barbershots. How he keeps the stuff down is a mystery to me, he should be hospitalized after drinking just six ounces of the stuff. I don't know how he hasn't gone blind, started bleeding internally, or poisoned himself to death. The man is half human half cockroach.

I used to hate my job because it was a dull, meaningless, dead end. I always wanted to be a teacher not some peon behind a desk. That's how I felt about it before Sven worked here. Now that Sven is here I don't just hate my dull, meaningless, dead end job. I hate my life too."

Sven Lyndon: Personal Watercraft Enthusiast

I'd like to take some time to let the world know how I feel about personal watercraft. Specifically: Jet Skis. I love them.

A jet ski has all the great features of a boat without the frills. Things like: life jacket storage, cup holders, and extra seating (as I am terribly alone in this world). It is rudderless so you can only steer when you are hittin the throttle, definitely not for the indecisive. It is dangerous, as falling from it can put any of your orifices at the mercy of a 140 hp jet engine, not for the meek. These loud, proud puppies used to sit comfortably at the top of the gas guzzler food chain and put every Hummer owner to shame. Since the late nineties, however, they have been de-clawed by a bunch of congress know-it-alls (and possibly the catholic church).

Jet ski infatuation struck at an early age. Though video games where strictly forbidden throughout my childhood, I had found a scrap of a Wave Race 64 box in a dumpster. On it four fun loving humans all riding Jet Skis in midair. I cherished this box and every evening after my goodnight flogging, I would hold it close thinking of the joys PWC ownership held. I took the scrap everywhere and guarded it with my life. When my parents found it, they took it from me, burned it as a heretic, and increased my daily allowance of floggings. I knew from that day forward I was destined to own a jet ski.

Of all the obstacles I've overcome on my path to Jet Ski ownership (floggings, heresy accusations, scrap theft and destruction) the one that almost derailed me is my absolute fear of open water. At first I attempted to beat it with classic behavior modification. Specifically: Flooding. Flooding is when you expose someone to an abundance of whatever stimulus elicits a fear response. There are two possible outcomes. The first: overexposure to a stimuli that elicits a fear response negates the fear response. The second: overexposure to stimuli that elicits a fear response is too much and leaves the subject in shambles. Think of the guy whose love-of-his-life-prom-date slept with his best friend at the after party, multiply that by 20. That's almost where a failed attempt at flooding is. A few examples of flooding:

Problem: Sally is afraid of spiders
Solution: Chastise her weakness, then throw her in a pit of spiders

Problem: Bill is afraid of dogs
Solution: Mock Bill, and then throw him in a pit of dogs

Problem: Kevin is afraid of darkness
Solution: Ask him if he wets the bed too, then throw him in a pit of darkness.

Having lightly researched the risky procedure, I booked a Carnival Cruise for the next available departure. With no luggage to check in I was first on the boat and had nothing to do. To kill time, I went to the diner where I had a slice of apple pie with American cheese melted on top. I think it was a good choice. Next, I calmly waited until the ship was about 30 nautical miles offshore and made my move. Leaping from the back of the boat I landed in the icy waters of the Atlantic Ocean. Two things happened the second I hit the water. The fear crippled me, and the shock of the 40 degree water crippled me again for good measure. It was the kind of teamwork you seldom see out of mankind, but constantly see out of deadly forces of nature. I respect that.

During the helicopter ride back to the mainland, a paramedic told me that I had cheated death. Each night I wake from reliving those long moments I spent in the water, being consumed by the confluent effects of absolute terror and rapid hypothermia, I feel that death had cheated me.

Undeterred, I used the settlement money from Carnival Cruise to purchase my jet ski. The attempt at flooding, had backfired: re-enforcing my fear of open water, and creating a small aversion open spaces. I had to go back to the streets and use the only tool I had left: Lyndon Innovation. Before I continue my tale, I would like to review some great instances of Lyndon Innovation (excluding the Lyndon Line as it has been covered in a previous post):

October 3 2007: After somehow getting a girl to return to my dormitory, necking ensued. I was fit to give her the time but she insisted we use a prophylactic. Leaving the scene, every condom box was empty, but on the floor, a lone wet nap. Returning to my room, the wet nap's 1.25 square inch (identical in size and texture to that of your basic Trojan brand prophylactic) wrapper and an abundance of darkness combined to create the illusion of protected sex. This was actually two birds with one stone, the first: betray the trust of a woman( a "bird" I simply cannot pass up). The second bird: start my army.

June 24 2009: Hoping to be the first internet personality to obtain a bootleg of "Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen", but having been put on a "watch list" by the movie industry (I leaked Xmen: Origins Wolverine), I needed to find a loophole in their "No Camera" rule. Their friskings where quite thorough. I found the requisite loophole in the Sharp J-SH04, the worlds first camera phone. Launched in 2000, and subsequently forgotten, these puppies hold a whopping 42 seconds of video. With the movies run time sitting at a hearty 150 minutes, I needed to procure 215 phones. A daunting task until you remember that every technophile who bought one of these, threw it out for the next fad phone, which he threw out for the Razer, which he threw out for the I-Phone, which he in turn threw out for every slightly better I-Phone. A trip to the local dump confirmed my assertion, it took a mere 57 hours to find 215 working Sharp JH04 camera phones. I won't go into how I charged 215 phones over the course of 12 hours, but lets just say my neighbors may notice a very, very small spike in their power bills. With the charging completed, I headed to the local cinema, sack of camera phones in tow. Each 42 seconds, a new phone took over. Later that night, piecing the movie together was particularly painstaking because I had neglected to organize the camera phones after recording on them. The results however are nothing short of professional, if Michael Bay were to call me asking how I'd done it, I wouldn't even be surprised. I would coolly tell him how I did it, probably sipping some kind of booze. Sly as hell.

Back to present reality, I am a jet ski enthusiast whose attempt at curing his fear of open water by jumping off a boat failed miserably. I need a jet ski in my life, but can't bring myself within a mile of a large body of water. Thinking fast, I used the rest of the settlement money on a above ground pool, and a length of very strong rope. Let's just say I didn't hang myself above an above ground pool. Although that would be a magnificent way to go, what with the pool standing in for a shallow grave, which would leave a bloated corpse for the neighbors children to find and then talk to a therapist about for the next twenty years. No, no, no. I tether the jet ski to my garage with the rope, and drive it in the pool. The fun is endless.

I start each day at 4:45 am with my morning ride, its so refreshing. By about 6:00 am, the ride ends because the jet ski has emptied my pool onto my neighbors lawn. Each night at 7:00 pm, the pool has just finished refilling (courtesy of the fire hydrant outside of my house), and it is time for my evening ride. This, listeners, is my own little slice of paradise.

-S.L.

Sven Lyndon's No Nonsense Guide to Dating

Listeners,

There is no doubt that I am absolutely chock full with game. Read.

Women love nothing more than to be the center of attention, so what better way to seduce them than to make them the complete center of *your* attention. I have a little motto that goes like this: "If I've got time to eat, sleep, and poop; I've got time to watch you from the bushes (which you have so generously neglected to trim) outside of your house during your most intimate moments." Careful surveillance is a victimless crime as long as you never get caught, so to all the amateurs out there: leave the watching to the professionals.

You had better believe I Facebook. Its the stalking of the future. Instead of manually watching from the overgrown bushes, the girls do all the work. I have several accounts all for watching different types of girls.

One is "Bad Boy" Sven Lyndon, what with me drinking and smoking all the time. Sexy as hell. If there is one thing women love more than being the center of attention, it is being miserable. That is why they flock to "Bad Boy" Sven Lyndon. They know he can take them out, hit on other women, forget birthdays, and leave his wallet at home like no one else can. This profile consists mainly of bad ass quotes from the band Avenged Sevenfold and pictures of me passed out drunk. Wait did I wet my pants in that last pic? Better tag it more than once. Women to flock to this one because they had fathers who skipped the dance recital to watch their son's football game. The lack of a scheduling conflict between the two events is a moot point.

Another profile is "Hipster, I've got good taste in music" Sven Lyndon. He only listens to unsigned bands like Her Space Holiday, Say Hi, The Secret Handshake and Playradioplay!. What a hopelessly romantic pussy. On this profile, I have also mastered the "I-Like Challenge." For those of you who don't know: the "I-Like Challenge" is a test of musical knowledge. You are played a sample of a song, and then must identify the name, band, producer, ect. A correct response nets you one point. I have amassed more than 15,000 points, thanks to countless hours spent playing because my true musical knowledge/interest is minimal. Not only does the score confirm how into music I am, it puts me on a leader board that they look at every time they log into the I-Like Challenge. SO their typical day goes a little something like this:

"Oh man, I am so hot and bored. Perhaps I should test my musical knowledge. Holy cow Sven is at the top of the list he must know so much about music, I guess I will look at his profile too. Oh MY! look at all these bands that I have never heard of, they must be good if they are endorsed by a man with over 15,000 I-Like Challenge points."

Needless to say this account gets the least action for reasons addressed in the previous paragraph, mostly the ones about women loving bad asses.

The final profile is "Not really down with Facebook but still on Facebook" Sven Lyndon. Yes he has a Facebook account. But is there any information in it? No. This is the one who is too damn cool for school. Does he immediately confirm friend requests? HELL NO! He's too cool to be on Facebook any more than once or twice a fortnight. The advent of the Facebook chat feature has nearly crippled this account. Now I cannot log on until the absolute dead time that occurs between 4 am to 5 am. Any sooner, and my potential honeys will see I am on Facebook and therefore not too cool for it, ruining any chances of fornication.

Now you may be wondering: "Sven, how do I get these beautiful women to 'Friend' me?"

And I answer: "Friendo, we live in a world where date rape has become so common and prevalent that it is seldom reported. Most women have been lulled into such a deep, false sense of security they will 'Friend' anyone. This is symptomatic of a pervasive fear of offending the guy they blacked out meeting the previous night, and thereby passing up potential male attention. The catalyst in this magnificent reaction is none other than her father's parenting strategy of consummate absenteeism."

Now that you know all the basics: favorite music, favorite movies, bed time, job, route to work, potential distractions (any and all other men), and how closely she watches her drinks; it is time to move. But not so fast, read on Listener.

T is for Tasteful Digression: You can't lead off a conversation with your target by saying something like "Oh, I noticed you usually get into bed at about 10:30pm on the weekdays." Also NEVER and I mean NEVER mention anything regarding her keeping the company of other men. All sluts hate it when you call them a slut. Both of those moves are the calling cards of a hopeless amateur. Instead guide the conversation gently by mentioning the the opposite of something she likes making a point to verbalize your distaste for said something. An example:

Polly has a Facebook profile dominated by Red Sox clubs.

You say: "Man, I hate the Yankees. What a bunch of phonies. I hope they get into a plane crash in the mountains where the survivors are forced to eat their teammates until they are rescued. But the rescue team never comes."

Polly says: "OMG like totally! I LOVE the Red Sox"

At this point in the conversation, any and all of your views on baseball are to be forsaken. You agree that the Red Sox are great. They did not have horrible seasons between 1947 and 1959 because they were the last team to racially integrate. While Manny Ramirez was on on the team and David "Big Papi" Ortiz could hit: their two most sharply criticized players were definitely not people of color. Any small nugget of information you can throw into the conversation will only get you further into bed with her. Might I suggest talking about Big Papi.

What is important to take note of is that NO WHERE in the conversation did you bring up anything found in her Facebook profile. Through simple obfuscation of information, you guided her, and she volunteered to tell you about her love of the Red Sox. This is KEY. Yes you already knew she loved the Red Sox, but you need to launder the facebook information: make it legitimate in the real world. Again, yes in a perfect world we would have our mates chosen by a computer. An efficient process that would eliminate the unnecessary parts of the mating process which include but are not limited to: talking, dating, kissing on the lips, not referring to sex as "intercourse", and taking my socks off during intercourse. Women are driven by emotion and need to feel like they have something in common with their potential man so you need to lie and pretend you do.

As stated in the former paragraph: women are driven by emotion. Now it is up to you to take the wheel. Women, while being driven by emotion, constantly make the jump between two unrelated emotions. It happens every day for reasons that span the gambit of a death in the family to a light breeze. Keeping this in mind, we will make a move similar to the "Red Sox Case Study" above. You simply start her off with any one emotion, and then switch it with love. Simple. A case study:

The emotion I have found most effective to kick things off with is fear. Most girls are scared of a lot of shit, so it is easy enough to get some of that going. I go to her house at night, while she is asleep. I have already procured 200 vampire bats. No the vampire bats will not harm her, they hardly prey on humans as it is, and given the frenzied state they are about to be in, preying on humans will be on the bottom of their to-do list. SO, the bats have already been dosed with chloroform and put into ten sacks of twenty. I easily bypass the single tumbler lock on her back door and spread the bats throughout the residence. With the bats spread about, I wait 10 to 20 minutes for the chemicals to wear off. I want them bright eyed and bushy-tailed for the next step. I need to generate enough noise to wake her up and simultaneously startle the bats. I use a fire horn, it is the horn from a fire truck, cost effective and close to 190 decibels (enough to make an airplane landing seem like a baby's yawn). Triggering the horn wakes her and begins the hell storm of vampire bats, for a moment she will think she is having a nightmare. After a foolish attempt to wake up, she will wish it was a nightmare, and then for death. Left with no other recourse, she will run into the arms of her savior. That's me. Sly as hell. In the front yard, far away from the fire horn, I don't want her to put two and two together.

At this point all I have to do is enjoy the ride. I saved her from the bats. But wait how did the bats get there? When the police check out the crime scene they will realize that they were vampire bats and put out an A.P.B. (all points bulletin) for Dracula.

-S.L

The Lyndon Line: A Retrospective

Having never played the game, it is obvious why I am so interested in American Football and desire to coach it. My only criticism of the sport is its relative predictability. "Holy crap Antwaan Randal-El threw a forward pass" or "OMG The Bears kicked on a third down!" or "The Vick family: they fight dogs and try to injure other players after the play is over." Actually the ladder most statement is not that surprising, the introduction is finished and now I present my method of madness:

Training:
Traditional coaching practicum dictates that games are won in the off season. This is the ONE time I will not break with tradition. Every great team needs to train like a great team and my team will be no different in that very general aspect. The actual training, however, will be an entire Milena ahead of its time.

Each player will be fitted with an ankle bracelet similar to the ones worn by today's celebrities. Instead of detecting the presence of alcohol, these bracelets will detect a depletion of ATP (asenosine-5'-triphosphate). ATP is muscle fuel, any muscular exertion lasting less that thirty seconds utilizes this form of bodily energy. The bracelets will be set to beep at completely random intervals throughout a 24 hour day. After a beep, the player will have five minutes to get warm and perform a set of three one rep max power cleans. After the workout, the bracelet will detect the depletion of ATP and the athlete will not receive a near lethal shock.

To accommodate these workouts each athletes classroom, home, and place(s) of leisure will be outfitted with one Olympic bar loaded with no less that 135 lbs. The bracelets will be worn year round and exceptions will not be made for sleep, bathing, or during practices and games (plays included). Current lifting gurus are embracing muscle confusion as the next step in the evolution of physical fitness, I don't think this is enough. I call my method something along the lines of "Muscle Shock and Awe" combined with "Muscle Slash and Burn" combined with "Muscle Scorched Earth Strategy" so lets just shorten it to "Slash, Awe, Burn, Shock, Muscle, Earth, and Scorch," or Sabsmes for short.

As a brief aside: Sabsmes is the closest thing to Christmas we Lydon boys have ever known. During Sabsmes, our parents would intensify our daily calesthenics not letting us stop until we reached what modern kinesiology calls rhabomylosis. Our bloodstreams would be poisoned by muscle tissue and lactic acid. We would all enter semi lucid states and have a "Sabsmes Vision". We were then allowed a full eight hours of sleep to recover, a true Sabsmes miracle.

Strategy:
Offense will utilize the seldom used and highly controversial "Lyndon Line." The Lyndon Line has been passed down through the numerous and fertile generations of Lyndon men. It was born out of necessity during my great-great-grandfather's games of neighborhood football. My great-great-grandfather, Hans Lyndon, had been born to a relatively small family of ten, leaving the brothers one short of a full team. Necessity demanded innovation and the Lyndon boys did not shy away. They developed an offense that floored the other neighborhood kids. Later when Jyalmer Lyndon, who had reabsorbed his twin brother in the womb, underwent surgery to remove his brother; the team became a true powerhouse. Utilizing eleven players but staying true to the "Lyndon Line" the eleventh man, who was a mere two feet three inches tall and possessed the intellect of a 9 month old, served as "The Wildcard".

The "Lyndon Line" only puts four men on the offensive line, so one athlete will need to be essentially two linemen. To facilitate this, he will be put on a life threatening regimen of workouts, psychological manipulation, and anabolic steroids. This frees up one man to serve as the aforementioned "Wildcard". He is the real star of the offense. This player is to have no formal knowledge of the game and in order to preserve the wild instinct I expect him to play on; he will be excluded from the huddle. During plays, he will create magnificent chaos for both teams.

Defense will have no strategy except for a single incentive. Any player who makes an interception, makes a stop on a fourth down, blocks a kick, or seriously injures an opposing player earns himself an hour without their workout bracelet. I expect that my conditioning coupled with a VERY desirable incentive will build synergy between teammates and contribute to one of the state's best defense.

Coaching Style:
I believe that the job of a coach is to stay as removed from his players as possible. I will act as a puppeteer, quietly pulling the strings and encouraging physical aggression. In-game plays will not be decided by me, Fate will be my assistant coach. With the toss of a die, plays will be decided and the team will blindly oblige. Fate is also the de-facto conditioning coach as workouts are also scheduled via a random number generator.

Transportation:
Because my program may look expensive, I have included some cost cutting measures to make it more economical. The flagship measure is our transportation. We will NEVER use buses. The distance to any opposing school is slightly less that what the average man runs during the Boston Marathon. My football players are much more than average so they will run as a pack to each game. Fallen players will be left behind, and subsequently cut from the team.

This sums up my coaching methodology. Four sides of a square coming together to be something much more that the sum of their parts. Coach Probst is a fucking amateur.

-S.L.

Congratultions Class of 2009

With the end of another academic year, I thought it only appropriate that I be the keynote speaker at Keene High School's 2009 graduation. Unfortunately, the powers that be of New Hampshire School Administrative Unit No. 29, felt differently. This is Keene High's loss, but I won't let it be the world's loss. Here is the final transcript of the speech in it's entirety:
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::Principal Alan Chmiel finishes his opening remarks with::

"...and now allow me to turn the stage over to one of the world's most prolific bloggers, a man of character, wit, charm, and culture. Sven Lyndon."

::Vapid Applause::

Sven Lyndon: "Graduating Cla..."

::Applause continues for another seven minutes eventually the audience members pass out from exhaustion, a few seconds later most wake up::

Sven Lyndon: "Graduating class of 2009, I cannot say that I am surprised to be chosen to deliver the keynote speech for this ceremony, nor is it shocking in the least bit that it is being televised by NBC, ABC, FOX, CBS, and ESPNs one through five. Completing High School should be as forgettable as losing your first tooth, learning to write, or sexual abuse at the hands of a close relative. In spite of this most of you will likely attend lavish parties complete with extravagant gifts and underage drinking. Had I buried or cremated the corpse of my father, he would be rolling in his grave or spinning in his urn; respectively. Today Keene High, today, you will get everything; and part of everything is the truth. I bring the truth.


::robust cheering::

To all the Good Girls out there, you know who you are. The ones who never drank or slept around. All I have to say is this: prepare for the worst. You have foolishly confused virtue, of which you have none, with strict parenting. Fast forward four months and seven shots of raspberry vodka, and you'll be awkwardly giving it up to the first college senior you can get your hands on. Later he will talk about it with his friends earning him some much needed respect as you are still in High School shape, a full four weight classes down from the whale with whom he closed out last semester. You will spend the rest of the semester getting way too drunk and sleeping with the first guy who can stomach kissing a chick who just threw up seventeen ounces of liquor mixed with a large helping of tater tots. Returning home for winter break, you will run into "Slutty Jenny" and have and have an epiphany. She got finger blasted by a whole seven guys over the duration of four years of high school and that's not really that slutty. You, on the other hand, have had more pipe laid than the New York City Transit Authority. To add insult to injury, she kept it together during her first semester and is in a relationship with a "pretty legit" guy. Learning this will send you into an exponentially worse tailspin second semester. Blame it all on your father.

::gasps from sluts::

To all the laid back, Chill Girls out there I can only reprimand your future actions. You spent high school participating in activities, getting good grades, and hell; even drinking a little beer on the weekends. You have a nice spot carved out for yourself, not too much, not too little. This summer you will meet a guy and the relationship will take off. Everything will seem perfect and there is no reason to think this will not continue through college. Prepare to put your boyfriend through a living hell. At college your small comfort zone of close friends, activities, and good grades will be laid to waste by excessive partying. With every one of your social outlets fueled by alcohol you will be left unable to carve out a nice spot at college. This will devastate you. When you get back then next summer you will play mind games with your boyfriend for a month, even though to him it seems like ten life times. After futility trying to make it work, he will reluctantly bite the bullet and break it off. In your wake of psychological abuse will be an emotionally crippled shell of a man, unable to form meaningful relationships with women for at least seven years. But who's counting?

::the crowd begins to turn::

To all the Male Athletes out there attending state schools with plans of playing club sports, because "they are as competitive as DIII Varsity sports": Get Real. You will show up to the first practice of your glorified drinking club and be the only one wearing cleats instead of flip flops. You will immediately cave to the peer pressure and begin doing keg stands from 4:00 pm to 7:00 pm on Mondays and Thursdays. These pre-parties will lead to all night benders where you will get just smashed enough to hook up with a girl who just threw up a half gallon of booze complimented by a few chunks that you can still recognize as tater tots. Thankfully,when you see all your friends during winter break, your tremendous weight gain will overshadow the fact that you are dating the town bicycle .

::A lone crowd member interrupts to exclaim::

"HEY FUCK YOU SVEN!"

::Without batting an eye Sven continues::

"To all the Nerds out there all I have to say is this. You will not change. Your bodys will remain pear shaped, your interactions with women: awkward. You will never come back to your hometown as the cool kid. The high school bully will always be stronger, more popular, and inside of the girl you have a huge crush on. There is no cheese at the end of the high school maze. These are all very VERY moot points though. With the advances pornography is making these days, sex with real women will be rendered obsolete just in time for your college graduation. During your first day at your extremely well paying job, you will hover over to Best Buy on your lunch break and pick up your own personalized sex-bot. If you think the nudity patches for "The Sims", "Elder Scrolls", or "Tomb Raider" are something; just wait until you see these puppies. The second they are readily available at an affordable cost they will outnumber people two to one. I see the human race going extinct within the next two generations of the product's launch. Which brings me to my closing statement.

A day honoring your birth isn't special enough, so you have an even more special one the 16th time, and presents during winter why not? Then we honor you for making it through your twelfth year of compulsory schooling. You show up, expect the world, and your parents oblige. It burns my biscuits that the way I live, I will be long dead before you get your comeuppance and the sex-bots are developed. Enjoy spending the next three fourths of your lives with your sex-bots."

::The crowd finally losses it, the graduates bum rush the stage from the field as the parents simultaneously bum rush from the bleachers. Always prepared, Sven calmly grasps rope that has just dropped from a helicopter. As he makes his daring escape, he looks back just long enough to proclaim::

"See you in hell Keene High"



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I might add that the school district flat out rejected me from speaking without even reading the final version of the speech. Later in the week I approached the superintendent to offer a read through and he upgraded my rejection to a full out restraining order.

-S.L.

My Fair Share

In case you don't know, I am in complete favor of triggering an earthquake along the San Andreas fault and sending that malignant tumor of a state California off into the ocean. Eat your heart our Curt Gentry. California is the freeloading capital of the world. It sits on America's couch and only gets up to go to "the goddamn refrigerator. Eatin' up all the food. All the chitlins... All the pig's feet... All the collard greens... All the hog maws. I wanna eat them chitlins... I like pigs feet. I want some chicken, I want some pigs feet." It's the slacker perfect storm of Spicoli, Craig Jones, and most characters portrayed by Jack Black. California, is in debt largely because of their generous social security system which is a slackers wet dream. Their debt is at 24 billion and climbing (try balancing the books with this game http://www.latimes.com/news/local/la-statebudget-fl%2C0%2C95571.htmlstory). California's debt will likely default to the federal government. My tax dollars (and yours) will ultimately pay the tab.

Captaining Team Hippie-Freeloader is Nadya Suleman AKA Octomom. Long story short, Octomom was born on an unknown date in 1975. She hurt her back working as a Psychiatric Tech, filled out a form, and has received $167,000 in benefits so far. Starting in 2001 she began having a series of artificial insemination operations which resulted in six children, a set of octuplets, and a nickname worthy of a Spiderman villain. The grand total comes to fourteen children costing $105,952 annually. That figure assumes that they never attend college and stay six months old for the rest of their lives. Octomom is now seeking her nineth artificial insemination. The future is here, I am paying for some chick to get knocked up by a robot.

Octomom currently has no means to support a family. Her father has gone back to the Middle East and is working as a taxi driver in an attempt to provide fiscal support. Her dad went back to the Middle East. The Middle East, how bad does it have to get before you decide: "We'll shoot, its back off to Iran for me." I am a little more than fed up because, as far as you know, I am an American taxpayer. Since we are so graciously treating her to yet another roll in the hay with some kind of robotic Jude Law man-hooker, I think we should get some say in the goings on of these robo-bastard children. So I present to you a few options, because fourteen tube babies could be great to have science with. Here are my ideas for the fruit of Octomom's womb:

1. It may take some training, but I think and outstanding option is entering the children as a mush team in the Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race. This 1,161 mile gauntlet is the truest test of animal endurance. Heading up the dog sled as musher will be none other than Ramy Brooks. For those of you who don't know, when some of his dogs refused to leave a checkpoint, "Ragin Ramy" punched, kicked, and hit them with a ski pole. Not one to half ass anything, one of the dogs died and the whole "incident" happened in front of several children. He was subsequently suspended by some uncompetitive losers who felt his actions were inappropriate.

They say that sled dogs have three times the aerobic capacity of an Olympic marathoner, so Ramy Brooks has his work cut out for him. He is the only man alive who can push these children to the limit. This year he will be fresh off of his suspension and I know he has the fire to go the distance. I would also like to see Mike Vick involved with this project

2. Baby Fight Club.

3. Ten of the children are men. Let's spurge and have octomom bear another male child. Then we hire Archie Manning to step in as father to these children. We will keep Ramy Brooks on as a baby sitter because I like his style. There is no doubt in my mind that eleven boys growing under Archie Manning's roof will result in anything less than the first professional football team comprised exclusively of siblings. Naturally they will play for the Raiders and become the second team in the league to go completely defeated. In spite of this being a clear publicity stunt masterminded by Al Davis; Fox, ABC, NBC, and ESPN will all bite and cover the team frequently. Al Davis dies a richer man.

4. Calyssa Arielle Solomon and Caleb Kai Solomon are the fraternal twins of the bunch. They will be immediately separated. The boy will be sent to live with foster parents on a farm. He will grow up strong, but constantly sense a deeper purpose in his life. The girl will be placed in a wealthy family. One that values education, arts, architecture, poetry, the performing arts, and diplomacy. Her formative years will be spent in student government, learning politics first hand from her senator foster father. The boy's parents will be killed by stormtroopers, setting into action a series of events that will finally resolve the "Luke and Leia Hookup Debate."

5. Send them back from whence they came.

Those babies belong to the people. This woman sans-husband, sans-job, sans-money, has brought fourteen lives into this world. There is NO WAY they will not end up deranged. They owe it to the people to let us decide *how* they become deranged. We pay, they play.

Burn in Hell,

Sven Lyndon

Sven Lyndon: A Portrait

Most of you probably sit at you computer thinking: "Man this Sven guy has some opinions I definitely agree with, and is probably very attractive." It is true, I do have opinions you agree with. Unfortunately I am not attractive. My dating life is little more than a series of restraining orders or awkward exchanges with chicks who aren't turned on by the smell of beer on my shirt and an erection they can feel through my pants. My opinions are what matters.

I thank you for the support of my opinions, but what follows are fact. Just a little more information about "Mien Blogger".

I was born on April 28 1986, within the Zone of Alienation, just two days after the Chernobyl accident. The shock of the radiation sent my mother into a violent labor during her second trimester. Had it not been for our families proud Czechoslovakian heritage we would have left the Zone of Alienation for a capable, unradiated hospital. In hell would my parents disgrace the Czechs.

Before I continue my tale, there is a short aside that is worth mention. I have seven brothers who I share a birthday with. Coincidence? Serendipity? No, you are foolish and offend me for thinking fate could accomplish a feat this amazing. While Fate was sitting on a couch eating bon-bons, the world's most special holiday was "doin work". Breeding day.

Every September (sans my conception as I was born a full trimester early) my parents would lock my siblings and me in a ten by ten foot shed. We were allotted two gallons of chocolate milk and an unsliced pound of Oscar Meyer bologna. While we learned the pitfalls of inadequate resource management, our parents would get down to business. With a little bit of planning, and a huge amount of determination they would conceive a child within that day.

Six Breeding Days came and six Breeding Days passed. Each without an increase in rations or shack size despite our increasing numbers. A childhood of bland existence, seasoned with a dozen or so moderately-outstanding events, most not even worth mention in this post. There is, however, one exception. The highlight of my abysmal yet efficient childhood. Conception Day.

In keeping with the Catholic Church's beliefs the Lyndon family believes that life begins at the moment of conception. Celebrating one's birthday only serves to reinforce the left wing's notion that abortion isn't murder. Not that I am anti-murder by any means, I frequently celebrate and exercise our constitutional rights to end a man's life. A birthday is a complete obfuscation of ones true age. Birthdays are as real as leprechauns, Santa, and the female orgasm.

Through the marvels of science my parents had pinpointed the exact moment each of us were conceived. Each of us was then assigned our conception hour. During our conception hour, our parents would put a hiatus on their usual regimen of psychological challenges and calisthenics in order to asses whether or not our year was well spent.

Evaluations of our Strength, Perception, Endurance, Charisma, Intelligence, Agility, and Luck were made. My strength was consistently low, clocking in at a 4 out of 10. I did partially compensate for this at level 12 by selecting the "Strong Back" perk which increased my "carry weight" by 100 lbs. The low rating in strength was a constant challenge and it was not until I had obtained a set of Power Armour (which adds 3 to strength) that I was able to wield energy weapons.

Most of my early life was spent piggybacking off of my high marks in Luck and Charisma. With it I had a higher chance of critical hits, better random encounters, and things just seemed to go my way. Without luck there is no WAY I would have found the Solar Scorcher, the games most powerful weapon.

I am not sure exactly where this post was going, long story short I was born pre-maturely after a 3 day labor. In keeping with Czechoslovakian traditions I chewed through my own umbilical cord (each Lyndon to date has been born with a full set of teeth) and crawled from the birthing table to the crib ten feet away. This first test of fortitude is what every Lyndon has endured. It is more or less how I spent the first ten hours of my life.

A Modest Request

As nine Landmark College students graduate with thier respective Associates Degrees, the collective voice of the Alumnus grows stronger, deeper, and more threatening. It used to sound like Morgan Freedman, but now its James Earl Jones. Not "Sandlot" James Earl Jones either. This is Lord of the Sith, red light saber, choke you with my mind, man in black, Darth Vader; James Earl Jones. We were ignored for 22 horrible years, and then in 2007, we were appeased by the 22nd anniversary of the founding of Landmark College. A glorious event, ask Barry Sopinski about it, I am sure he remembers it. I, Sven Lyndon, now step forward, as the booming voice of Lord Vader himself, to ask a question that has been on every alumnus's mind for the past two years:

WHEN THE F*** IS THE 24th!!???!

I'd prefer something a little nicer than Joy Wah Chinese Restaurant this year, unless that babe Lindsay Jacobellis is there again. I mean Putney, Vt is nice but spending more than the couple minutes there starts to make my cousins look good, and it makes matters even worse that all the good sheep are taken. I'm thinking private jets. Emphasis on the "S". Multiple jets. One for each alumnus, another for their date, and a third flying empty just for good measure. The jetS will take off from Burlington International Airport in Burlington, Vt (after we are shuttled there via robotic horse and carriage, not horse-less carriage, robotic horse and carriage) and then we will fly around the circumference of the globe to New York NY. Taking the scenic route as I like to say, in hell will I fly over New Hampshire or as I also like to say: "The Garbage State".

Most will touch down in New York, NY. My jet will stop in Asia and I will not be heard from for many, many years. The powers that be will have already purchased 30 Rockefeller Plaza, demolished it, and erected a ginormous ivory Landmark, the schools eponymous mascot, in its place (embellished with only the finest blood diamonds... ...and blood ivory I suppose). Each man will be given 10 sack lunches. The Landmark will then rise into the air revealing a gladiator styled pit. The pit will supply a constant feed of homeless, jobless vagrants (supplied so generously by the NY PD and our abysmal economy, thank you Barrack Hussein Obama). You will all stand around the pit, far removed from harms way, taking turns throwing lunches for the bums to fight over. As inspiration, the bums families will be not far away so they can throw a few scraps to them.

After the bums are all slaughtered by the firing squad, its back on to the jetS and off to Aspen, CO. Once in Colorado you will literally ski on mountains of powdered cocaine. That is how baller Landmark College is. All the rappers and wanna-bes like Master-P, Kanye West, and E-40 use "snow" as a word for cocaine. Street slang if you will. We will flip the G.D. tables on them and use cocaine as snow. HELL YES!

Three weeks later when we are all leaving the hospital for massive cocaine overdoses and subsequent rehabilitation, the party WILL NOT stop. At this point it CAN NOT stop. Its back on the jetS, which will no doubt still be in our possession as Boeing will have donated them to us to secure a tax break and avoid bankruptcy (thanks again economy!), and off for a friendly game of "Jet Tag". Most will die during "Jet Tag". The few survivors will crash land in Asia and wake up many years later, where I, Asia's "God-King", will rescue them. You will be rebuilt using all of Sony's technology. One exception applies to Stephen Chai, I will use Nintendo's technology and his body to build the first Wii with a soul. Implanted in everyone else's brains will be a chip where I can change their sexual orientations at a whim and the push of a button. I will not remind you of this, you have been warned. For the next 100 plus years I will rule the world Hannibal style. Attacking anything I want with elephants, some of your brains will be put into elephants as your bodies were unsalvageable and we ran out of robot stuff.

This, Landmark College, is my humble request. I put in two hardworking years, each costing $52,738, with the Landmark College and walked at graduation. A little appreciation is all I ask.

Sincerely,
Sven Lyndon AKA "The Ubersapien"