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.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
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 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.
Friday, July 17, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, July 10, 2009
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."
Friday, July 3, 2009
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.
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.
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