Yesterday, The Grass-cast debuted on the internet. Watch the first episode here:
Once upon a long ago, we had a writer signed up here at this rag who was supposed to write, ya know, like, what we do and shit. But he never posted a thing. He had told me once upon that long ago, that he was going to post something about fapping to some cutesy femboys on the internets and then questioning his actions. But his browser crashed. Go figure. He isn’t signed up anymore. Hasn’t been for a long time.
So this quarter-mast, zero stack (more on that here) was also a video game developer. Was. I saw a small build for an 16-bit game and recolored a sprite for him. I also made motion graphic shots for a trailer for a seemingly revolutionary concept for a game-ified online school program. None of these have gone anywhere. The bits of work I did were for free.
A while ago, like maybe a month at this point, Quarter-mast had a pathetically small meet-up at a friend’s coffee shop to discuss the potential for a UBI program in Oregon. He printed a commemorative “banner” on individual pieces of paper and stapled them together. Not only do I understand that at this point, there’s no practical way to support UBI, but I know that at the point where UBI must be necessitated due to automation, UBI could be outmoded by a conceptual Resource Allocation Metric. When nobody is earning money, do you need it, or the meritocratic allocation of resource allotments? Which is what currency is supposed to stand in place of.
If this chuckle-fuck had any balls or brains, he’d have used his game dev knowledge to create a game wherein the players earn cryptocurrency through their actions sort of like that new thing Crytek is doing but with the main goal of the player’s actions in the game entirely contributing to the mining of the currency. You couldn’t do that? You couldn’t talk to somebody about game-ifying some blockchain shit and an economist? You couldn’t do that? You who complained about living in Lake Oswego….
Hey Crytek, can I work for you? I’m an amateur writer, director, and graphic designer – so pretty all-around useless. But, seriously, “Crycash?” And if I’m being honest, I don’t know if you can earn Crycash by playing the game but I don’t really think it’s the sort of game that can hold my attention long enough to commit to such a task as earning money from it.
What if this is what Death Stranding is? What if, with the help of Sony, Kojima is gonna give us this transcendent experience and opportunity? One can only dream….
Merry Crushmush, and Happy New Year
I was high walking home from the store with a meager bag of groceries and a thought occurred to me:
I could totally just huck this into traffic and ruin someone’s day. I could do it, I could just- just give it a swing… swing it and send it right through someone’s windshield.
But then why would I do that? I wouldn’t, and not because it would be a shitty thing to do, but because that’s my goddamn food. Mine, not their’s. And it would be their’s because it would amount to being a source of entertainment for them. The entertainment is because I would essentially be severely disrupting whatever counts as the monotony of their lives.
They would have this story about how some fucker sent his food into their passenger seat and who they subsequently stopped the car for, got out, chased down, and beat the fuck out of.
Ultimately that is what they get. And what do I get?
Not my food.
And if you think it’s the beating I receive for doing something really shitty, it’s not – it’s the absence of my damn food. That’s because the consequential ass beating is utterly meaningless because my shitty food throwing was also equally meaningless.
I wanna eat, that’s why I spent money in the first place.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the most horrible way to rationalize not doing shitty things.
I was standing at the small Ben & Jerry’s stand in the zoo that I work at. It was a hot day and the sun forced me to squint angrily at every zoo patron as they walked past the point where the road curves around my post and I’m forced to make involuntary eye contact with the parents and grandparents of all those little tykes trying to reel them into my sales area. Parents who probably secretly loathe me and my ice cream stand for what they’ll have to endure from their children, whether they deny them their crack or they ultimately accede to their demands and suffer the consequences. I don’t blame them.
One kid in particular stood out to me when he made a very poignant declaration about my career goals and Ben & Jerry’s mission statement. As this small child made his approach hand-in-hand with his father, they began a dialogue with each other:
“Daddy, what is that?”
“That’s a Ben ‘n’ Jerry’s.”
“What’s it doing here?”
“They’re selling ice cream to people.”
At this point, I look over past the massive sun glare in front of me and see the child walking with his family. The child calls out, “You’re just trying to take our money!” When his face comes into view, I see that he has on it a look of complete astonishment and disgust. In the moment I had to reply, all I could do was give him a sly smile and nod my head in confirmation. Nice work, kid, you’ve dismantled this company’s specious attempts to appear charitable and revealed us for what we truly are.
One time, when I was very young, my mother told me about True Love. Someone out there, upon the vast and twisting surface of this earth, was destined to stumble into my life and click against my body like a puzzle piece. I asked her if she loved my father and she told me “yes.”
When my parent’s later became lost in the trenches of a particularly violent argument, I had to hide beneath the kitchen table with my baby brother. The police arrived and began to guide my father away, but he got to leave on his own because he wasn’t causing any physical harm. My neighbor guided us to the car because my mom was real scared and we drove miles out of town, to my grandmother’s place. When we arrived, my mother cried in her mother’s arms and we got to pull out the inflatable mattress with my grandfather. That night, sleeping on the floor, I thought about how one day I would get to have all of this. I would get to have True Love.
This morning, I put my left shoe on my right foot. I looked down for a bit, then left it that way for the rest of the day. It felt about time to write another gripe, so I made this.
Longer stories coming, soon-ish maybe.
I’m sick of hearing about your sentimental giraffe-loving bullshit. Get off your goddamn vegetarian high-horse because I can’t stand how fucking high and mighty you think you are for not killing a giraffe (or other animals) for food or sport. Like you’re fucking Jesus Christ because you don’t hunt and you think that it’s wrong.
Look, maybe you’re right. Maybe it is wrong to murder animals. It is in my opinion probably not a big deal, because I don’t think most animals have the capacity for societal remorse like we as humans do. I do also think that we should at least try not to let species go extinct for the sake of diversity and balance of the food chain, and maybe we will all eventually come to realize that it’s cold-blooded and wrong to hunt any living thing.
We don’t, though, so get the fuck over yourself.
P.S. On a lighter note, don’t knock it ’till you try it. You can get a smaller rifle (like a .22) and find somebody with a farm. They’ll most likely have a problem with rodents like gophers eating their produce and might just invite you to come out and shoot them. Trust me, these small animals won’t really understand or care when you gun down their families.
[UPDATE (4/24/15 1:15 AM) – Editor’s Addition: “The only fucking reason he gives a shit about goddamn giraffes is because they have long necks!”
-a quote from Monsieur Van Lobster]
[UPDATE (4/24/15 10:21 PM) – Editor’s Addition: So a little before 3:36 AM, Gervais shunted out a tweet that seemed a little, I dunno, directed at our smarmy asses. I shared it with my cohorts and we chortled amongst ourselves. Then he deleted it. The tweet read as follows: “People eat things. I get it. Some killing can be kind. I get that too [sic]. The thing I don’t get with TROPHY hunting is the inane morbid glee.” I was able to salvage that from the link description I shared. Want proof? I got it. Check these screencaps, yo:
Ricky’s just jealous because he hasn’t experienced the thrill of the hunt under the Blood Moon, nor has he been graced by the blessings of the Great Ones.]
It’s 5 in the morning and this got me all sorts of fired up:
Jeremiah True ended up being disrespectful and kind of an ass, but his initial thoughts/ideas were objective and absolutely necessary to bring up in, I don’t know, the thought-challenging environment that college is supposed to be. Who says only women can be raped? Who says men don’t ever get forced into unwanted sex? Who says rape is OK? I sincerely hope that it’s just a case of the negative people speaking the loudest, because it’s this kind of ignorance that is fucking us over. That and folks who don’t believe in vaccinating their kids. Go live on a remote island for a few hundred years and grow a shell and become old and lovable or something. You’re giving me forehead wrinkles.
In fact, I turned you into a Menkampf post. Congratulations; you’re all Nazis!
As a 1,000 max health Witch Doctor, I abhor you with every ounce of my being. I despise the fact that you will stalk me across the map and reveal yourself while I am amongst my team just to burst me down and then promptly be killed afterward. I loathe the way you brag about all of your kills, when all of them come from kamikaziing yourself onto me.
I hate your early-game.
I hate your mid-game.
I hate that late-game, you are supposed to fall off, but all you need to do to stay relevant is upgrade your Dagon and continue to kill me without issue.
The marking of time is a practical abstraction.
Classically ordered societies are easily set to benefit from a common standard of linear progression, with invented units to provide a measurement of change.
A few cultures take special appreciation in the passing of what are decided to be larger units of time.
It is a uniquely human characteristic to be so enraptured by an invisible creation which has no effect on the rhythms of the universe, but which merely provides a limited means of definition and confined measurement.
Though the measurement of time effects only our now narrow perception, its symbology can be powerful.
Indeed the marking of time in invented units is a symbol in and of itself, pure in intention and potentially profound.
As with all things, let us not be too taken and misled by a mistaken notion that our measurement of time is truth.
Let our understanding be well reasoned and implicately appreciated in honest conjunction to the perfection of our reality.
You analbag, you.
I can’t find the “Like” button.
Fuck this shit; I’m out.