Sunday, March 27, 2011

Video Games: Chances Are I've (Virtually) Killed You.

          "BOOM! HEADSHOT!" The immortal words of FPS Doug exemplify my adolescents...and beyond. Why did I play video games? Some people were blessed with photographic memories, the dedication to run more than 5 miles without getting bored, or the ability to eat vast amounts of ice cream without getting brain freeze. Not me, I was blessed with impeccable eye-hand coordination, so I figured I might as well use it. I was "pwning" in video games long before First Person Shooters were mainstream (so hipster-esque) or even  invented. Back in the day, I was able to beat Super Mario Brothers in under 10 minutes, finish Contra without using the Konami Code (Up Up Down Down Left Right Left Right B A Select Start...just in case you forgot), thoroughly embarrassed the the older kids in the nickel arcade at Street Fighter II and was a force to be reckoned with in Golden Eye.

(Pictured: Duel wielded nostalgia perforating pixelated Russians)

          Despite my grandiose and storied resume of video game accomplishments, I didn't realize my potential until I played a little game called Halo: Combat Evolved. The very first time I played this resplendent game was over a year after it's release. Needless to say there was a steep learning curve. At first I was being slaughtered by my friends. "This aggression will not stand, man." 

          At this point in my life, I didn't own an XBOX and I wasn't about to take a shellacking and injure my gamer's pride. I eventually had a roommate that owned an XBOX, played Halo and introduced me to the original XBOX Live...XBConnect. This mind blowing connection to the gaming world opened my eyes, I saw the light, and it was awesome. I started off in the "n00b" games. But swiftly I climbed the ranks through "n00b" and "l33t" all the way to "godz". At this level, unless you were able to hit two body shots and a head shot with the pistol 90% of the time, you wouldn't enjoy it.

          While climbing the ranks to the "godz" only platform, I decided to change my name. Being the immature person I was (and still am) I changed my name to AIDS. The reason being? Whenever you died in Halo multiplayer, text would appear on your screen stating: "You have been killed by <name>." So every time I killed anyone, it would read to them that they were killed by AIDS. I found great humor in this. By the time Halo 2 came out, I'm pretty sure I (virtually) killed more people than the AIDS epidemic had killed in it's entirety.

Bullet Injected AIDS, That's How I Rolled.

          Soon, my friends no longer wanted to play Halo with me unless I was on their team. After awhile, it actually wasn't even that fun obliterating the people you know and love. Eventually new games were released that drew my attention elsewhere. I reached the highest ranks in Halo 2 and 3. I dabbled in other genres and series like Soul Caliber, God of War and Devil May Cry. However, I was never as good at anything as I was at Halo: CE. 

          I still play video games, but I don't have the time or the dedication I used to have when I was virtually injecting the video gaming world with AIDS. I'm currently trifling with Call of Duty: Black Ops. WHORRENDOUS (spelt incorrectly on purpose) campaign, but the multiplayer makes the game worth purchasing (on discount). In the end, I will always be a gamer. But never again will I be at the apex I was at when playing the original Halo.

Monday, March 21, 2011

Modern Day Hipsters are no Beatniks

           I would like explain my complete and utter disdain for "hipsters". The term is a complete misnomer for this rag-tag group of indie, counter-culture, progressive douches who deem themselves cool (now they say "deck" because the term "cool" has become too mainstream). These non-conformists, who ironically happen to all dress in similar fashion, can be spotted in any urban environment, wearing skinny jeans, horn rimmed glasses, riding a ten speed road bike, listening to a band you've probably never heard of (because if you have it wouldn't be "deck") while displaying additional "vintage" clothing recently bought at American Apparel or Urban Outfitters. Apparently their goal is to look like they spent $7 on their outfit at Goodwill when in reality they shelled out $217 at some corporate store. The men and women of this subculture group tend to have the same unkempt, asymmetric hair styles. While the men usually don some form of ironic mustache to accent their already halfwitted attire, the women who can't grow mustaches usually just grow hair in other places, like their arm pits. And if they aren't drinking a Pabst Blue Ribbion out of the can, they haven't fully conformed to hipsterdom quite yet.  Oh, and they're all professional "photographers".

“This might just be the gross beer talking, but I want my muttonchops to have a baby with your mustache.”             Look at this fucking love connection.
(Pictured: Conformity)

          This effortless cool bohemian look these "forward thinkers" is anything but effortless. I'm guessing it takes the guys 20 minutes to fit into women's jeans. And I intentionally place the phrase "forward thinkers" in quotation marks to make a point: forward thinking doesn't come from the past. An entire generation actually did spawn a counter-culture, anti-materialistic literary movement with Jack Kerouac as it's personification. The real difference between the Beat Generation and these adulterated clones called "hipsters" is that the Beats actually produced something to define their generation. The words of Kerouac, Ginsberg, Burroughs and Cassady created windows into the minds of these bohemian hedonists that exemplified their era. The Beats had principles and they stuck by them. Oh, and some of them actually were professional photographers, like Robert Frank.

(Pictured: What "cool" actually looks like)

          Hipsters on the other hand, are the definition of ironic. Anti-materialistic group of trust-fund babies who shop at corporate clothing stores? Non-conformists who all look the same? Not understanding and misusing the term irony? Their entire existence is one big oxymoron. I'm not saying I agree with every viewpoint of the Beat generation, but I do have to respect their beatific integrity. I cannot say the same about hipsters.

“Cockring? I thought you said earring!”          Side Note: A very hipster thing to do is to put in ear gauges or ear tunnels. The purpose, or rather the effect, is that the ear lobe is stretched to fit larger and larger gauges or tunnels. And no, these hipsters were not "forward thinking" when they decided to adopt this form of body modification. Body modification, such a lip plating, has been around as far back as 8700 BC and is still practiced by a few indigenous tribes in Africa. Anyway, my personal opinion is that modern day adaptation of this practice by apathetic and short-sighted hipsters is exceptionally moronic and will inevitably lead to only one thing: regret. I have a plan set forth that will make one unlucky hipster rue the day he decided to get ear tunnels. To do this, the hipster must have tunnels, Like this guy pictured above ^

1st: Obtain a high-security padlock, preferably one that cannot be cut with conventional tools.

2nd: Find an unsuspecting hipster with ear tunnels.

3rd: Lock the high-security padlock to the hipster's ear via the ear tunnel.

4th: Run away laughing hysterically.

5th: Go make yourself a Beer Float (previous post) in celebration of your courageous feat.



- LazyTheKid

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

An Ingenious Idea (That Is In No Way Original)

          There is a saying (obviously I'm too lazy to look it up...hence my name) which states that innovation is the product of necessity (or some BS like that). Tonight I experienced this first hand. Saint Patrick's day is fast approaching which means that I am in possession of an abundance of stout beer. Personally, I prefer Murphy's Irish Stout, but Costco was selling Guinness on the cheap so I went with that.  In order to adequately prepare my liver for the gloriousness that is St. Patty's day, I decided to get a jump start on the holiday and drink some beer. Additionally I was hungry and despite the fact that I did make a recent trip to Costco, I seemingly had nothing to eat...or rather nothing I felt like eating at the time.

          To make a long story short, I reinvented (very loose interpretation of reinvention) a drink/dessert: Beer Float. To create this delicious drink you will need 2 ingredients: some vanilla ice cream and 3 Guinnesseseses (or whatever's free).

Step 1: Congratulate yourself for reinventing such an adult-themed nostalgic beverage and drink a beer, you've earned it.

Step 2: Place a couple of scoops of ice cream in your now empty pint glass. Remember not to be stingy with the goods, it's you who'll be eating it (unless you're diabetic, then you should probably think twice).

Step 3: Over the ice-cream filled glass, pour a beer. There will be some left over beer in the can (depending on how much ice cream you used). The remaining beer is a gift to you so drink it, you've earned it for all the hard work you've done so far.

Step 4: With a combination of drinking and spoon feeding, consume that delicious dessert-drink you've just made. Fall into blissful reminiscence and ponder how much better your childhood would have been had you used Guinness instead of Root Beer when you were 6.

Step 5: Congratulate yourself for finishing your home-made masterpiece with another beer.

            Stout and ice cream is the new peanut butter and chocolate. It's a dessert match made in heaven...or if you're not religious, Iowa (don't ask, it's the first state I thought of. I may or may not have drank a couple extra celebratory beverages). Remember to value the little beer. Because it's the little things that make us happy in the end. I will be enjoying a lot of "the little things" come Thursday. Happy day before Saint Patrick's day internet.

- LazyTheKid

Sunday, March 13, 2011

I blew up my kitchen...sort of (Senior Prank)

         It was my senior year of high school, the time when cheating in order to graduate is acceptable and students expel the same effort in devising a plan to prank the school as they do studying for finals. My friends and I, aptly named the GBC (Gameboy Crew...we named ourselves that in order to simultaneously make it known that we were self-proclaimed nerds while additionally lampooning other groups at our school that made serious "crew" names for themselves) decided to make our mark in high school history. Our "senior prank" was two-fold and had the complexity of a simpleton.

          Phase 1 was to "T.P." the campus' trees with beer cans. In order to complete this mental-midget of a feat, we drank cases of beer every day after school and tied sets of two cans together so the string would get caught on the branches. We spared no expense and only bought the best...literally:

Drinking the Beast in high school was smart and I'll tell you why: When a twelver only costs $3.98 its much easier to hide the purchases from your parents. So a semester and a half of us playing beer pong in my buddy's garage while his mom was at work paid off when we had about 10 large garbage bags full of empty beer cans. Phase 1 of our operation was all set and on standby.

          Phase 2 was a little more complex. The "thing to do" at our high school was to throw eggs into the quad (the large open area in the center of campus where all of the students gathered during breaks). Problem was, we had a campus narc and a campus police officer. In order to evade capture people either threw from a distance, donned masks and ran at a proper speed necessary to outmaneuver the enemy (more like a brisk walk), or they just didn't give a crap and threw the eggs in broad daylight. My idea included a way to throw eggs in broad daylight yet still remain mostly undetectable. I was going to build multiple smoke bombs (recipe via the Jolly Roger Cookbook) and strategically place them around the quad to create both a distraction and a smoke curtain. In order to make my cloudy concoction, I visited the local nursery (before you think of something stupidly clever to say, it's the kind for trees...not babies) to pick up some tree-stump remover. That, mixed with everyday sugar and some heat produces a very effective smoke-bomb. DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME. <------ = my disclaimer.  


          Cooking the ingredients into a finished product seemed easy enough: add ingredients together, heat, stir. There was NO way I could mess this up...Apparently when the Jolly Roger Cookbook said "use low heat" it actually meant "use low heat". Patience is not one of my well-renown attributes so I was unable (rather unwilling) to see the risk in using medium low heat to speed things along. I will never forget what happened next. I was stirring the mixture in the pot on my parent's brand new Viking Range stovetop with the family dog (the most awesomest, yet mildly overweight, yellow lab ever) aiding in my endeavor...or she thought I was cooking food and was waiting for an opportunity to eat something. Whatever, same difference. Anyway, as I was stirring the ingredients, which were still in solid form, I noticed large air bubbles forming below the surface. All of the sudden chinese new year was happening in my kitchen: the air bubbles exploded, ignited, and turned the once powderish mixture into globs of flaming napalm that showered the kitchen. I somehow managed to turn off the heat, grabbed my fat dog and ran. Thick whitish-grey smoke filled every square inch of the house and was billowing out of the open windows and the front door. Neighbors that were meanwhile washing their cars, mowing their lawns, or doing whatever gated-community neighbors do on their weekends, blissfully ignored my predicament and continued their abstention from my seemingly emergency situation. When I realized I was on my own and deemed it safe, I returned to ground zero to assess the damages. I felt like a scumbag when I saw the aftermath.

          After the smoke finally cleared, the first thing I noticed was that the cabinets next to the range top were charred. Bad? Yes, but a failed cooking story could make for an adequate extenuation. Then I saw the floor. Remember those flaming globs of napalm? On a 10 foot by 3 foot rectangular plot of hardwood flooring there were a couple dozen inch-wide and half-inch deep holes created by caramelized regret. Needless to say I was f**ked because I could not think of a single excuse that would explain that away. Following this incident, an ironic summer of working in a warehouse loading and unloading Viking Range household equipment on and off trucks paid for the deductible on my parent's homeowners insurance. Yes, insurance covered this epic disaster despite my mother reiterating to the insurance agent that "my son was building a bomb" (she clearly didn't want me escaping full punishment).

          The silver lining in this story, outside the story itself, was that I escaped a bombardment of molten smoke-bomb mixture with only a few unnoticeable burns on my left arm and the knowledge that the smoke bomb definitely worked. Oh, and we littered the sh*t out of the campus foliage with a copious amount of beer cans that same night. GBC4life.

- LazyTheKid

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Mardi Gras aka Taco Tuesday on Steroids (with Boobs)

           Oh Mardi Gras, how you epitomize the continuing notion that the world is still run by men. The time of the year where it is completely acceptable for a woman to sacrifice her dignity for 3 cents worth of plastic beads. While enjoying a Mardi Gras celebration at my local watering hole, Sneak Joint in Mission Beach, I literally saw women's equality set back about 9 decades when a female patron lifted her shirt to show her fun-bags as a means to acquire the plastic beads around my neck. To be fair, she had a separate goal: $100 to the woman with the most beads by the end of the night (SPOILER: This girl lost). Now, I gave up my beads because, well, I couldn't say no. Also, I was wearing this T-Shirt at the time:

(Pictured: My greatest $15 investment, ever.) 

          Giving away beads on Mardi Gras is a form of a unilateral contract: Men offer beads and the only way that offer can be accepted is by women flashing their baby feeders. In essence, I was obligated to give up some beads. But this begs the question of how I received my beads. Free. I received them for free. They were passed out earlier in the night. There may not be such thing as a free lunch but free "shows" do exist and I was a witness to one (or 6 since I kept surplus beads in my back pocket until the ones around my neck ran out).

- LazyTheKid