A New Look!

just try and say that i'm not the sexiest centaur you've ever seen. go ahead, try it. you'd be wrong and we'd both know it.

emo-taur

Hey kids!
I know it’s been a long time and I apologize. The reason for my absence, aside from the regularly scheduled bout of unnecessary and unwarranted crippling depression (“crippling depression” is a rare form of depression that renders latino centaurs unable to perform even the most basic of functions), is that I’ve been busy juggling an overnight job with early and midafternoon classes. Yikes, a feat no learning disabled, emotionally crippled, and generally anxious latino, 1000lb, 601 year old, investment banking, big titted ghost co-habitating, t-shirt wearing centaur should attempt. Yet, here I am.

What’s new with you? Probably nothing I’m interested in. you see, I’ve decided to experiment with a species of narcissism bordering solipsism. As long as I avoid telling myself that I’m: getting fat; looking too old to be considered attractive; too stupid to accomplish the goals I’ve set for myself; deceiving myself in that I’m actually too cowardly to set for myself the very goals I’d like to accomplish; and, that I’m incapable of actually loving anyone - then my dalliance with narcissism is a rousing success!

Not much else is new. I’ve picked up a copy of Portnoy’s Complaint and have realized that it captures my foal-hood quite well. It’s depressing when someone else articulates affects you mistakenly took as idiosyncratic. It’s such a shame that you’re not the beautiful anomaly you’ve always assumed you were. Hah! We’re all just mass produced idiosyncratic t-shirts pilling up in the cosmological AbercrombieandFinch/AmericanEagleOutfitters/OldNavy/NameYourShittyClothingStore

I’ve just decided to start playing a new game. It’s called ‘lets act/think like a hormone addled teenager teetering on the brink of goth/emodom while pretending that our actions and thoughts are anything but the childish indulgences they are.” I think it’s gonna be a hit!

On the plus side, I’ve watched all three seasons of Arrested Development back to back ad nauseum for about the last three weeks and have fallen madly in love with all of the characters, Will Arnett (the actor), and Mitch Hurwitz. Mostly Mitch, but Will seems pretty cool on the audio commentary. The show has given me a new appreciation for how good acting can be and for how difficult good acting truly is. I developed the latter appreciation by trying to emulate my favorite scenes with the big titted ghost and Spinoza (my cat). Sadly, of the three of us, Spinoza’s the least rigid, the big titted ghost is the least transparent, and I’m the least talented.

Well, I guess that’s all for this today’s post. I’ve vowed to continue this blog despite my increasing inability to perform even the simplest of tasks because, well … no reason at all, I guess. Maybe I just need to write (poorly) because it helps this ole centaur clear his head in a way that delivering hoof kicks to innocent old ladies and war criminals alike just can’t.

Talk to you soon,
t-shirted centaur

ps. I mainly deliver hoof kicks to war criminals and only occasionally to innocent old ladies who are, for the most part, simply collateral damage.

Pps. Watch the easter bunny video! Watch it! It’s more than great; it’s Great! if zeus were to take on the form of video he would be this video.

Ppps. Listen to The Honorary Title’s Everything I Once Had, most notably the second signer at about 2:40 – that guy’s voice kills me (in the good way). I would do anything to convey that kind of emotion through the power of my voice – think of the chicks! Man, I’d probably have to start fucking guys just to break up the monotony of so much pussy.

The Easter Bunny Hates You

quite possibly the only thing keeping me alive. this video allowed me to love again.

Experts Easily Reverse Diebold Results & No One Would Know

yikes. if you weren't cynical before...

chinchilla: the battle monger

oh, horror of all horrors! who knew? who could've guessed? who would've suspected? madre de dios! sure their hair is thrity times softer than a humans, but they're also thirty times as violent. cute my ass.

Beyond the sea...

I hate myself for loving this. a bit self-congratulatory? sure, but what the fuck, they've got a camera...
ps. is it wrong to love that girl? yes. is it wrong to imagine that she could fall in love with a t-shirt wearing centaur at her boyfriend's funeral? probably.

fucking roomates

I've been forced out of my place due to the enforcement of some obscure and archaic law - something about shitting in freight elevators; i'm not really sure what they were talking about. i've spent the last couple of days looking for an apartment and, i'm happy to report, i just recently found a great loft apartment! it's beautiful, it's in a great part of the city, it's huge, and it's cheap. unfortunately, it's also haunted.

There i was, enjoying my new shower - i really was. my place used to be a slaughter house, so my shower is actually a huge hose that swings over the entire expanse of the killing floor, a.k.a. my shower. it's like a shower made just for a 1000lb, 601 yr old, too-mother-fucking-big-to-fit-in-even-the-kirstie-alleyiest-of-showers, t-shirt wearing centaur - when i heard the sound of dishes crashing. i wrapped a towel around my waist (i don't know why i do this) and went to investigate.

i clip-clop over to the kitchen, dripping water everywhere, and am hard pressed to find any strange happenings a transpiring. I'm about to return to the shower, as i'm confident that my spiderman fine china is safely confined to my cupboards, when it appears: an apparition. now, as a 601 year old centaur, it's safe to say that i've seen my fair share of craziness, but this, a ghost in my own lair, was a first. What does one do in such a situation? Me? i popped an erection of the greatest magnitude ever seen on this blue/green earth. was she a ghost? yes. was i afraid? yes. did she have the unholiest of massive ghostly racks? yes! there she was, in my very home, a big tited ghost. honestly, i was torn. not wanting to be rude, i decide initiate a dialogue.

TSC - hi, can i help you?

BTG - ooohhhhoooo! leave this place.

TSC - you must be joking! i love this place. i've already moved in my straw pile; i'm here to stay sister.

BTG - ooohhh... ah, fuck it. fine, whatever, i don't even care anymore.

TSC - oh, hey, look, come on now! what's the matter?

BTG - you wouldn't understand. look at you, all proud with your four horse legs and magnificent latino half body. you don't know what it's like to be... ah, forget it.

TSC - hey, hey, hey, being a t-shirted centaur in the big city is not all it's cracked up to be. i know what's it like to be ostracized, to be alienated, to take a dump in teh park. i know what it's like to be an outsider.

BTG - an outsider? what the hell are you talking about? I'm a big titted ghost! all i want to do is scare someone senseless, maybe to death, maybe even cause chronic incontinence. do you know what i get? guys masturbating. no matter where i go, what i do, these guys can't get over the fact that i've got a huge rack! i pulled my face off once, the guy didn't notice! he just kept pumping away, it was embarrassing - for him, not me. as a ghost, i'm *sob* a failure.

TSC - hey, hey... you're not a failure [making a concerted effort to not stare at that unearthly rack] we're, they're the failures. if they can't see how scary you are, that's their problem. look at this mess [gesturing to the wet floor] i wet myself when i saw you. you're frightening!

BTG - nice try centaur. first, your hair is wet - you obviously just got out of the shower - and that towel around your waist does nothing to hide the fact that you've got a massive horse cock erection. why the hell are you wearing a towel?

TSC - yeah, i don't know. it's convention, i guess. i don't know. fine. look, you've got crazy huge ghost guns, it happens, but you can't let that one insignificant fact ruin your entire afterlife! get over it, work with it, work around it, i don't know. do anything but mope around and half-ass haunt. come on! you've got so much to offer the nether world.

BTG - thanks centaur. you're ok i guess, but if i catch you jerking off to me, i'm gonna make sure you wake up in a pool of blood. I’ll make ‘the shinning’ look like ‘rv’ if you catch my drift.

TSC - you mean, you're gonna stay here?

BTG - well, yeah.

TSC – sweet ... so, i can still jerk off to other things right?

BTG - as long as it's not me, i don't care.

TSC – sweet ... can you read thoughts?

BTG - no.

TSC - sweet.







* yes, i'm very ashamed of this post. however, as is my custom, i post what comes to me regardless of how inappropriate, cheesy, and down right devoid of artistic merit it may be.

i warned you about those cats

http://whatjeffkilled.com/index.html

opti-who? opti-wha?

I was going to post about how boring and predicatable mortals are but, well, i can't do that anymore because i've been inspired. I will now attempt an optimistic piece, a piece full of ... [desperately thinking of optimistic words]... op...ti..mism? well, whatever, i'm trying ok?

who or what inspired me? fuck, you're a nosy bastard! it doesn't matter to whom or to what i owe this optimism, suffice to say that this ole self-professed cynic and misanthrope, is learning a great deal about the nature of tragedy and the power of the human spirit. (yes, when i read this, i did throw up just a little bit)

no, this is not a reference to that family that was attacked by that wolf (an incredibly rare event precipitated, no doubt, by humans encroaching on wolf territory; seeing as how wolves virtually NEVER attack humans). although, i'm a big fan of both the youngest victime and her quote: "when i was on the beach going to the water, a wolf bit my arm, and then i cried." awesome, simply awesome. that little girl is most assuredly a little trooper, but not my inspiration.

Is it that girl that was held captive in a basement dungeon for 10 years, only to escape while her captive was on teh phone with his mother? no, but that chick is gang busters in my book.

is it the candian soldiers that have died overseas? no, but my heart goes out to thier families and and to the families of anyone on either side of any conflict that is experieincing a loss.

is it... Look, it doesn't matter, who or what is inspiring me. what does matter is that i know of a place or person where courage, strength, and a sense of humour are overpowering even the direst of circumstances (places can, and often do, have excellent sense of humour). I've encountered something great and am puzzled by its excellence.

i know alot about sefl-depricating, self-hating, self-loathing, and falling into bouts of unabashed self-pitying, and i've always assumed this to be the norm. the excellence of which i speak is encouraging me in all sorts of ways. do i stil freak out about little things like spelling mistakes and grammatical errors? yes, but i feel alot guiltier about it. i'm also still composing my posts/emails at lightening speed and dispatching them without checking them (at least compulsively).

in any case, i'm trying to be a better centaur and i think you should too. well, not a centaur per se, but a better sentient creature. don't dwell on the fact that paris hilton is probably happier than you (oh, a crime, what a crime), think about how cute that little bird was as it took a dump on my hat that fateful orientation day.

ps. a bird shit on me during orientation. it was, at the time, hilarious but didn't bode well for the only 601 year old, 1000 lb, forgot-to-wear-deodourant-that-day, investment banking, t-shirt wearing centaur in the crowd.

pps. i have already performed about two rudimentary edits since posting this. i'm so very ashamed.

pamplemousse

i smell like clean dishes today; i forgot to buy soap.

why do dishes need grapefruit aroma therapy? their lives aren't that stressful. i guess that's due primarily to the fact that they're inanimate objects.

that is all.

why i am like god but with a penis and two less legs

a bold statement? perhaps, but an empirically verifiable, irrefutable, utter lack of disconfirming instances truth. how, t-shirted centaur, can you be like god but with a penis and two less legs? and, for that matter, why doesn't god have a penis and why does it need six legs? my poor ignorant and naive friend, let me enumerate the ways i am like god while simultaneosly answering your adorably ridiculous questions.

one
my spirit, much like god's, is omnipresent and is the very force compelling and complicating life as we know it.

two
i, like god, am matter and my spirit, like gods, is merely the orchestrating principle of said matter.

three
i love the pussy (pussy being the technical, theological term used to explain the manner in which the many modes of matter, compelled by my spirit, encounter one another and, in so doing, extend their duration).

four
i love sleeping in on sundays

five
i am not a self in as much as i am a microcosm of The Set of all that is.

six
my parents only pretend to believe in me



i guess that about covers it. maybe this has been enlightening, even a soul changing (p.s. you have no soul) event? in either case, merry t-shirtedcentaur daay! in honour of today, you are to strip down to nothing but some spiderman or wolverine kids pajamas (they have to be a pant/shirt combo), play your favorite music really loudly, do something you love, watch the big lebowski, squeal with glee at least once, and ask at least one ontological or epistemological question. if you do not do these things, you will go to hell; hell being an unexamined and unenjoyed life.

merry t-shirted centaur day, mother fuckers! (the official greeting of t-shirtedcentaur day).

I love kids (they're delicious)

So i'm at one of these fancy chain grocery stores - xiosong's store was hit by a meteorite and is closed temporarily - trying to find some 1000 yr old duck eggs when some little kid starts following me around. well, ok, i was following this kid's mom around the store trying desperately to think of something to say, when he noticed me and started making faces at me.

granted, i'm 601 but that doesn't mean i'm gonna be this 6 year old's bitch! i'm like a hundred times older than him, show some mother fucking respect (probably not the best turn of phrase given my intentions). full of the anger and rage that defined the bulk of my ancestors, i devised a fiendishly clever plan ... well, actually, i turned to my copy of '36 strategies' and got to studying. after about 15 minutes of studying this wonderful chinese text, i found my battle plan: deceive teh sky to cross the ocean.

"Moving about in the darkness and shadows, occupying isolated places, or hiding behind screens will only attract suspicious attention. To lower an enemy's guard you must act in the open and hide your true intentions under the guise of common every day activities."

Perfect! i was already doing an everyday activity - i was pretending to drop huge bags of kitty litter onto the ground so i could relieve myself - but soon decided that this particular everyday activity may be a bit, hmm, high profile. so, i decided to start picking up large cans of pasta sauce and made a show of inspecting their ingredients - this would buy me time.

deceive the sky to cross the ocean was working like a prayer(it made me feel better but didn't get me any closer to attaining my objective - the complete and utter destruction of that upstart punk), so i decided to once more consult 36 strategies. after an additional 15 minutes, and a brief but intense exchange with the guy sweeping up the cat litter aisle, i found the perfect stratagem: plum tree sacrifices for the peach tree. it was brilliant, it was subtle, it was crafty, it was everything i could have asked for in regards to an ancient chinese combat strategy that would guarantee a 1,000lb, 601 year old, investment banking, 1,000 year old duck egg searching, t-shirt wearing centaur victory over a 6 year old child. after consulting the book one more time, weighing my options, wiping my ass with a cosmo, and taking into account all of the variables, i devised a plan so tortuous it made quantum physics look like child play. all my planning, all of my sacrifices came down to this moment. it was time.

i approached gingerly, clip cloping nonchalantly so as not to arouse suspicion, and as i was reading the ingredients on what can only be described as a crime against humanity in a can (legal issues preclude me from revealing both the brand name and product), i launched my military masterpiece into action: i threw the can at the kid's head and ran like a mother fucker.

mixed blessings

mixed blessings. if i could sum up this weekend in one phrase, it would be "mixed blessings."
my parents came to town and then one of them decided that speaking to anyone during thier stay would probably be a bad idea. great. fine. thanks for coming up.
why would anyone drive eight hours to get to this god forsaken bland and then decide to impose an oath of silence and general bitchiness/babiness upon themselves? anyone?

some good things happened. i met an incredibly cool, incredibly bright woman who doesn't seem to mind the fact that i'm a t-shirt wearing centaur. odd. She's got a philosophy m.a. from the school across town (the good one) and likes frege. frege, eh? i've dabbled but i'm not a big fan. however, despite the fact that we've only exchanged emails, i've already resigned myself to the fact that it will never work - i'm a 601 (boo) year old, 1,000 lb, investment banking, t-shirt wearing centaur for god's sake! sure, we'll talk deleuze then i'll have to ask her to scrape crud out of my hind hooves - nothing starts a party like crud scrapping.

i also discovered that my short comings are not my fault; they're no one's fault. sure, i've finally realized how badly my parents fucked me up, but whose parents haven't fucked up their kids? that's right! all parents have fucked up their kids - to varying degrees of course, but the point remains - which means that i can't blame my parents for fucking me up because their parents fucked them up, and their parents before them, and so on ad infinitum. sure, my psychological stability is on par with that of nick nolte's if he were trapped in the middle of meth tornado, but at least i've got four stable legs, two human arms, and a face that only frightens school children, the infirm, the sighted, the blind with an acute sense of smell, and the recently deceased. i mean what more can i ask for?

sure, sure, i could have money, an incredibly high iq, a promising career, or skills of some sort, but then i'd be lame by virtue of how content and ordinary i'd be. i'd much rather be maladjusted, socially awkward, and so afraid of interpersonal communication that i don't answer my phone, don't answer email, and all and any writing i do gives me the nervous sweats. who could want a better life? not this ole nag! besides, if everyone were fully functional members of society, who'd we watch on reality tv?

Bin Whinerybaby. Crybaby Bin Whinerybaby

Huzzah, Huzzah! The t-shirtedcentaur turns 601 today! You know, I was, initially, really bummed out about it. See, I recently found out that a friend of mine is off to Rutgers to start his phd while I’m further entrenching myself in this white bread, white collar, all nine levels of dante’s hell wrapped up in tasty granola shell, fucking government town doing a whole lot of nothing.

Wow. He’s just another in a long of friends that is going on / has gone on to bigger and better things (in and around the world of academia). I would love to say “I’m pursuing my phd at Harvard/Yale/Rutgers/Brown/MIT/Oxford/Cambridge/etc.,” but I’d hate virtually every other aspect of the whole endeavor. I love the idea of being a graduate student, I just hate the reality of graduate school/graduate students.

You see, your beloved t-shirtedcentaur – aside from his exploits as an investment banker – is currently enjoying a leave of absence from a philosophy ma. Yes, that’s right, someone is stupid enough to pursue philosophy at the graduate level in a Canadian university! Did I forget in was the 21^st century? Didn’t I realize that money would, at some point, become an important commodity? No and no, respectively. I guess that makes the ole t-shirtedcentaur a bit of a paradox: smart enough to understand Hegel, but too stupid to realize i need money to live.

I valorized grad school to such a degree that I, oh-so mistakenly, believed that once I got in, my life would be perfect, that everything would take its course. Wrong, wrong, watching your mom flirt with the bag boy wrong. Yes, that’s exactly how incredibly wrong, a young t-shirted centaur was. You know what I learned as a philosophy graduate student? I hate academics. I hate the whole pretentious machine that is academia. It’s such a bullshit enterprise. Look, there are some genuine academics out there – the kids that really believe in what they’re doing, but academics are, for the most part (at least in the arts), a bunch of pretentious assholes incapable of recognizing the application – or lack thereof – of the theories/systems they’ve waxed on about for YEARS in their everday lives! They are sad, sad, little people, taking pleasure in minutiae of system whose very import they negate in so doing. I believe it was Foucault (please forgive the name drop – especially this name drop) that rallied against the “Egyptologists” in philosophy; those that would kill thought/ideas in order to study them (dated, i know but come on, it's 3 in the fucking morning).

The worst part of it all, is that even if my program, if my school, if academia were more to my liking, I don’t think I’d pursue it. See, I went to my office today – to clean it out – only to discover that they had moved its contents to storage. Thankfully, Sandra (aka Sandy: the best and coolest office administrator in the world) spotted me wandering the halls oh-so woefully and brought me to room in which my wares were being stored. While surveying the box containing the remnants of my office, Sandy explained that she threw some items away but kept those she was sure I’d want. Here’s where it gets interesting. See, I went through the box and found a variety of books, some scholarly articles, and a can of bean salad; none of which I cared the least about. What I really wanted, what I was so desperately hoping was there, was a critique I wrote in response to a colleague’s impromptu art piece (he took a butter tart tin, folded it in half, and named it tinfoil smile No17). I can’t recall the critique but James loved it and, being the genius he is, he’s hard to please. I loved that critique. It was witty, it was urbane, it was …hilarious and it was the only thing I wanted from that office; a joke. Sadly I recall is that I signed it “D. Dilemma – Hobo Times” (not the suave part).

Two years, two years (in a two year program) and all I cared about was a joke I’d written in fifteen seconds. Maybe I can comb a clue out of this event as to why I hated school so much that I essentially went the last year without reading a goddamned thing (I still did alright, albeit pathetic by grad school standards). Look, I’m definitely not the best writer, granted, but I believe that’s, at least, in part due to the fact I just can’t seem to give a shit. All I want to do is laugh and make other people laugh.

ARGHHH! Existential crisis!! I don’t…. arghhhh! I’m an angsty clichéd baby. “Oh, I could’ve gone to an ivy league. Oh, I could’ve been in the entertainment industry. Oh, I could’ve fucked *** ********!” Boo hoo, hoo. Maybe you could’ve. Maybe you could’ve, but you didn’t. Now I feel to old to do anything which is patently false and the quitters way out, but I’m a crybaby bitch. Arghhh! Such a goddamned cry baby. Get it together centaur, get it fucking together. As if I think I’m that fucking special! The nerve, the hubris, the unmitigated narcissism.

Please, I’m begging someone to come find me, put a nice warm bottle of milk in my mouth, then shoot my whiny horse ass. Maybe a near death experience will get my sorry ass in gear (note: any psychopaths who may read this and know who I am, do not, I repeat, DO NOT attempt to shoot me!).

Here it is, 3:00 fucking am and I’m writing a blog that I can’t even post because I don’t have internet (I figured the internet would fold, like acid wash jeans)! Arghh! How can a grown man not have internet! I don’t even have access to porn; I have to watch those phone sex commercials and French t.v. after midnight (thank you blue nuit). So, sooo sad.

Uggghh! This post is making me ill. I guess it’s a pro/con type of thing. Pro: I’m actually pretty well rested and am relatively coherent while writing this entry. Con: I’m coherent enough to want to edit this and realize that I’m the whiniest of whiny babies. I will not edit, I will not edit, because that’s part of this whole goddamn blog experiment- sure, I’ve edit some blatant errors but fuck it, it’s a goddamn anonymous blog and I’ve really got to let go of my bizarre insecurity concerning all things grammatical. I’ve got a hilarious story detailing my literary insecurity that includes an earlier attempt to riff without editing, a famous actress, and noam Chomsky. Since it will only appeal to philosophers and linguists, not to mention the fact that it is way to embarrassing to ever recount, I will not post it but I will reveal that the hilarity hinges on my insane belief that my intellectual superiors are forever trying to ensnare me in subtle yet Byzantine word games that are meant only to demonstrate our respective places in the intellectual economy - them on top, me on the bottom. This of course, is rarely, if ever, the case and I end up acting like a blithering idiot. It’s a phobia borne out of the kind of neurosis and insecurity that would make woody allen blush. urpose of making me look like an idiot, which I invariably do all by myself.

BLAH! Happy fucking birthday. By the by, I refuse to grow older. I will, and this I swear, remain 18 forever. I will not age, I will not mature, I will not die, I will only grow better, stronger, faster – like the six million dollar man but five million, nine hundred and ninety nine dollars less.