Monthly Archives: February 2011

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February 7, 2011

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Short Stories

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Wherein I Apologize for My Actions

So, this is awkward.

I guess I’d better apologize for everything in chronological order. First off: Barton, I’m sorry for calling your girlfriend “a sub-mental troglodyte who advocates the sexual assault of women who hang around in bars.” I was really keyed up to see the Steelers lose, and she was the only person in the apartment wearing Steelers gear. Something in me snapped, and I’m not proud of it, so… well, sorry.

Sorry, Dana, that was really horrible of me. I’m sure you don’t support rape, since that would be absurd–even if you defended the Black-Eyed Peas, which we’ll get to later, I’m sure. Still, you are a troglodyte for watching Jersey Shore instead of, say, well, anything that takes half a brain to enjoy. Just calling the shots as I see ’em.

And, once again, sorry to Barton. Calling you “dickless” for not having buffalo wings at your party was a jerk thing to say. I’m sure you had a good reason for replacing the usual buffalo wings with a ball of cheddar cheese–cause hey, that was pretty good, even if it got awkward when Steph said she was lactose intolerant and we looked at each other because I dropped some cheese in her Coke, which she drank. (Sorry, Steph. My fault you spent the night in the hospital.) Referring to you for the rest of the night as Barton the Fairy might have been off-color as well.
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February 3, 2011

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Shameless Self Promotion

Though I’m sure the recent upsurge in hits is an anomaly and will shortly be rectified, with my daily pageviews hovering comfortably around two or three, it would be profoundly stupid not to leap upon this opportunity for self-promotion like Gene Simmons.

See, I do other things than lurk around here and post bullshit that a few people read and, surprisingly, don’t hit me with hate mail for one reason or another. (Although I’d welcome it; hate mail is hilarious.)

For instance: I run another blog that’s periodically updated. It’s a long-winded version of my year in England, and, about a year and a half after starting it, I’m not halfway done with it.

For another instance: I review stuff that’s distracting me.

For another instance: I deluge a friend with comic scripts. Sometimes he draws them. Regardless, he does great work, and his style is kinda like punk show posters, which is pretty friggen cool.

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February 2, 2011

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Essays/My Intriguing Thoughts

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On Risk, Pt. 1

aaronlewis.wordpress.comMy infatuation with this game started several years ago, when I was nought but a nerdling, convinced that the world only extended to the expansions of WarCraft 2 and Diablo 2. Every year, Brad’s family would rent out a couple of camp sites in a state park and a whole bunch of us would retreat into the woods for a weekend full of bacon, doughnuts, awkward moments, and thanking God we weren’t actually camping.

See, the camping we engaged in was camping in Easy mode. There were tents, there were sleeping bags and, from time to time, there were camp fires. But there were also showers with hot water, electrical outlets, trash pick-up by park rangers, and a playground on a hill just across from the sites. The usual things that go down in camping trips didn’t go down here, since we were all civilized people and appreciated the outdoors just enough to be slightly uncomfortable for a couple nights a year.

During the days, we’d all do whatever we could think to keep us from missing things like TV and the Internet. For the kids, we’d mess with the dogs or heave rocks into the lake and cheer like Neanderthals. The adults… I don’t know what they did. Something boring. Like reading or some shit.

But at night, we’d all come together for one, massive Hate Fest. There’s nothing like these things, and, chances are, you’ve experienced them yourselves. What corn-fed American family hasn’t played Monopoly, thinking it would be a great way to rip the kids away from the TV for a few hours and actually talk to their parents, only to find, after Rick Jr. keeps buying up all the fucking orange properties and not fucking trading them even though someone’s offering the goddamn green properties and Susie, for whatever reason, doesn’t grasp that it’s in her best interests to just buy her fucking way out of jail instead of rolling, and Dad, that shit head, keeps double-dipping in the bank like some investment banker, and Mom guilts you into not buying Park Place.

[clears throat] Sorry. Monopoly, as you’ve probably grasped by the above, is the perfect entry into American Hate. A baptism of resentment that won’t fully blossom until higher-level board games like Balderdash are played. But there’s one game that rules them all, and in the darkness binds them: Risk.

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