t-shirtedcentaur

2007-02-02T11:35:00.000-08:00

Death Pony

my cousins, raising hell.

father centaur

2007-01-17T19:41:00.000-08:00

i wrote some cautionary rhymes for young children.

Shelly used to show her belly
a wolf peeped her display
and, on the assumption she was filled with jelly
devoured her that very day

Halifa used to pick his nose
one fateful day, while knuckle deep
he missed the sawing off of his toes
by a saw wielding creep

there will be nary a belly nor booger in sight from now till the reckoning. you gotta love kids.

2007-01-16T17:09:00.000-08:00

He-Man Alternate Theme Song

because it's the smart thing to do

2007-01-16T00:24:00.000-08:00

'cause this is hip hop

if you thought you knew descartes...

2007-01-15T18:03:00.000-08:00

http://www.collegehumor.com/update:1707417

fuck apples.

2007-01-15T17:33:00.000-08:00

fuck apples. That's right, fuck apples!

"What'd apples ever do to you ma...man(?)...man-horse...guy?"

Apples killed my father, that's what! No, apples didn't kill my father. Hercules killed my father but a snake made eve take an apple; snakes are Hera's domain; Hera hated Hercules; baby Hercules killed two would-be assassin snakes and adolescent Hercules lost his virginity in an apple orchard. Apples orchestrated and underage deflowering! So, I reiterate, fuck apples!
Look, that sounds harsh, I know, but don't fall for the spin - That's exactly what the apple commission wants you do! Apples aren't all love and rainbows. Apples are lazy, duplicitious, and above all ungrateful little bastards. Oh, and they are a cocky breed, especially those "red delicious" bitches. red delicious? why not just name yourselves "all the other red apples are ass"?

fuck apples.

2007-01-09T19:19:00.000-08:00

Old Spice Commercial ft Bruce Campbell

this makes it all worth it.

2007-01-05T12:44:00.000-08:00

New York Subway Hero

you wake up with a raging headache, the shakes, and the sneaky suspicion that someone druged you and just when you've lost all hope in humanity, you watch this video. wow.

2007-01-04T10:44:00.000-08:00

It's Fun to Help Poor People, Franny Canada

if you don't like breakdancing, you're a terrible person

2007-01-04T01:26:00.000-08:00

Pirates and Emporers

say what you will, it's catchy as fuck. .

nub love

2007-01-04T00:46:00.000-08:00

wow, one day i'll learn to track time mortal style but, for now, i remain incapable of navigating your mortal currents. i feel clumsy and awkward in your spaces and am hopelessly out of synch with your schedules. why are you all so commited to this "daytime/nighttime" dyad? come on kids, develop a sleep substitue pill already!

sheesh! i'm sorry, i'm just a bit grumpy. i've recently signed on with Alexandro Constantinez-Cabral-Nuevos-O'Malley - the famous Irish bongo player - and he's been ruthless with his criticism. i mean, he keeps saying " put your hips into it. your hips will find the rythm" but my hips are built differently! everytime i put my hips into it, my tail starts swaying to a completely different, and unheard, rythm. if i really want my bongo career to take off, i might... oh zeus! i feel sick even saying it. i... i might have to get a ... tailectomy!

what would my mother say? she'd be appalled, for sure, but even more than that, she'd be ashamed. i mean, i remember when ol' Aggs (Agamemnon Crete, not the other one) got his t.e. we all laughed and called him nubs. then we started the 'snub nubs' campain. wow, it's sad what a bunch of teenage centaurs can do. you can't blame us, we were so young then; barely 200. wow, were we ever so young and naive?

even the elders ragged on Aggs. all that talk about how t.e.'ers are rejecting their centaurness and how the t.e. symbolizes all sorts of internalized anti-centite beliefs. some said he did it because he contracted a rare form of tail mange. i don't know if that's the case and i don't pretend to know how he felt when we burned him in effigy... well, he probably felt hot.

see, well, Onny (Onan Onapopapoplopapopalopalus) was susposed bring the effigy and he shows up empty and sticky handed - no fucking effigy. well, we had lighter fluid and matches, not to mention the fact that people were reallly looking forward to that effigy burining, so we doused a blanket, lit it, and threw it on poor ol aggy. sure, he bolted and we managed to do nothing more than singe his coat but, wow, the pain lingers.

well, ol aggy fled the city and i heard he hooked up with a mare out in the country and had a slew of little ones. now, here i am, contemplating the very same act of self mutilation that we condemned poor aggy for commiting. weird. life is weird. anyhow, if any of you see old aggy, please tell him that i'm sorry for my part in teh whole 'snub the nub' campain.

Ketchup, catsup, or catch up?

2007-01-01T23:11:00.000-08:00

hello, my bipedal friends! wow, it's been so long! look at your hair! it looks great! have you lost weight? is it the pilates? really? no, i didn't realize there were whole body kegel excercises. really? wow, that's really... please, stop. that's gross. but, look at this! oh - my - god! i've never seen a tatoo of a topless lizard woman riding a t-rex with an erection before. well, i've never seen one placed there before. the thing about big breasted lizard women is, well, breasts are mamary glands, they're for nursing offspring and are characteristic of mamals and marsupials, so, well, a lizard woman would have little to no use for such {ahem} ample breasts. just a thought. but the colours are amazing!

what? oh, well, you know the old chestnut: a 401 year old, 1000lb, former investment banking, t-shirt wearing, feynman clone and big titted ghost cohabitating, anxiety suffering centaur has a quarter life crises and decides to devote his life to the world wide bongo circuit only to discover that he's stinking up the scene. i mean, i don't want to be an investment banker anymore but i'm no good at bongo playing! i feel like i'm all out of options. i mean, what's left?

i don't want to talk about that, i'd rather talk about you. what have you been doing? oh. oh! oh, well, they say time heals all wounds...no, well, yeah, i guess you're right. time definetly does not cure cancer. you don't have cancer do you? see, so the time... well, i guess. you're right, time wouldn't heal an inverted penis. again, do you have an invert... i see. are you sure you're not talking about a vagina? i see. no, i wouldn't like to see... i'm speaking figuratively. well, yes we are talking about your figure... no...please put your pants back on ... look i don't want to... wow! that is most definetly an inverted penis. how do you like that? no, that what figurative speech again. yeah, we covered that. on the plus side, you'll never loose a chapstick again.

anyway, i guess i should be on my way. don't despair, i've just acquired a real internet connection so i'm planning on staying in touch. cool. great. yes. yeah. ok. look, i've really got to get going, i've got a hoof cleaning. i will. right. ciao.

2006-12-19T12:40:00.000-08:00

Bigfoot Opera

this one's for B. i've been out of the loop for a couple of months, but things are getting back on track.

Corrections

2006-10-22T10:50:00.000-07:00

Some of you have noted that my pilot is no centaur. the plane is indeed my new ride, but i am incapable of flying it. the grinning mortal is merely my pilot, Ed. it's a well known fact that centaurs are incapable of flying fighter jets. With a few m odifications, however, a fighter jet can comfortably trasport a pilot and centaur passenger. thanks to feynie for coming up with the design and for providing us with the hook up.

2006-10-14T12:26:00.000-07:00

Paxilback - Gray Kid parody of Justin Timberlake's Sexyback

2006-10-13T12:02:00.001-07:00

canon rock 2 (new version)

play all three at the same time

2006-10-13T12:02:00.000-07:00

canon rock 2 (new version)

play all three at the same time

2006-10-13T12:01:00.000-07:00

funtwo - Canon Rock (Re-Synched)

the kid that started the whole deal

2006-10-13T12:00:00.000-07:00

The NEW Canon rock!!! (not a cover)

one of my favorite youtube 'conversations'

bongoing on a world wide tour OR moving to happyville (a subsidiary of Joyless-tech)

2006-10-12T15:55:00.000-07:00

Hello mes amis! Didn’t know the ole t-shirted centaur knew French did ya? Well, he don’t. he barely knows English. I’ve been feeling really shitty about my half-assed posts. They’re so half assed, they’re half human assed, which is substantially less than a half horse assed. Wow … [staring off into space, thinking “really? Did I write that? Saad. So sad]

Anywho, I’ve been busy. I’ve decided to quit the firm. It’s a big step, I know, but I’m tired of being their token centaur. Plus, it’d be nice to wear an informal t-shirt for a change. Did you know that your standard centaur business t-shirt requires thrice as much starch as a human business t-shirt? I’m not sure if this true because I’ve never actually seen a human business t-shirt. Your people are so backwards.

Feynie whole heartedly supports my decision and we’re thinking of embarking on a world wide bongo playing tour. Feynie’s huge in the international bongo playing scene and after a night of interdimensional travel (courtesy of Feynie’s new interdimensional travel machine), a couple of quualudes, and a mind meld with the fine people of ^*&HBHF f (whom you poor 3-dimensional travelers have neither met nor heard off – I mean, you poor saps are still going forward in time for pete’s sake, let alone traveled the multiverse), I’ve become quite adept at it.

The big-titted ghost, however, has not been very supportive. She’s all like, “t-shirted centaur, who, in their right mind, is going to want to date a 1,000lb, 601 year old, 100 year old duck egg eating, big-titted ghost and Richard Feynman clone co-habitating, world wide bongo playing touring, unemployed, and informal t-shirt wearing centaur?” I guess she’s got a point. But, I’d feel like a fraud being a semi-professional world wide bongo tour playing, non-investment banking, formal t-shirt wearing centaur.

Ah well, the hearts want what they want. Although, I’ve gotten into some trouble for following my horse heart (the kids who were at the Kentucky derby that day will never be the same). Still, I believe the multiverse is holding onto something wonderful for me and it’s got nothing to do with investment banking. I mean, sure, I’ll still investment bank as a hobby, but my professional aspirations have changed. it’s scary but that’s what life’s all about I guess: being afraid.

2006-10-11T02:39:00.000-07:00

Carlson and Coulter take on Canada

wow!

2006-10-11T02:01:00.000-07:00

A Night with Ann Coulter

Bwahahah! Ann Coulter is evil.

2006-10-09T20:45:00.000-07:00

Kitty cat DAnce

i'm in serious need of some help.

2006-10-09T13:14:00.000-07:00

Punk - Eugene Mirman

me too, me too...

2006-10-06T13:34:00.000-07:00

?

now i've seen everything.

2006-10-06T13:31:00.000-07:00

2006-10-05T10:33:00.000-07:00

boo! it's your ole pal, t-shirted centaur here. what's going on? what kind of doings are a transpiring? any shenanigans to speak of? if not, then i've got a story for you.

i'm sitting at the park, enjoying one hell of a bachio gelatto, when all of sudden, who should appear but Anubis himself! Anubis. wow, that takes me back. See, Anubis and I were co-heads of our high school drama club. man, we had some great times: the time anubis stuffed the principal, the time anubis stuffed old mrs. winklebottom, the time anubis stuffed his sister's dog! oh, that crazy anubis! we were quite the pair, me with a horse's body and he with a jackal's head - what friends we were!

ANyway, he seems agitated so i yell out, "hey lassie, there are leash laws you know!" and sure enough he whips around, teeth bared and snarling like all get out, when the light of recognition flashes over his face.

ANubis - t-shirted centaur? how the hell are you? wow, i haven't seen you since our prodution of equis! you look great. well, actually, looks like you're developing two mini-paunches!

tsc - hah, well done old man, well done. look at those grey hairs! are you a jackal or an arctic fox? how've ya been ya old scoundrel?

a- well, i've had better days, i'll tell you that much. i just got kicked out of a starbucks due to some antiquated "no pets" allowed rule. buch of bull shit! i mean, come on! so i've got a dogs head, get over it allready!

tsc - dude, i hear you. it's not easy for me, let me tell you. how's the missus?

a- wow, it has been a long time! sheila's dead.

tsc - oh man! i'm so sorry. what happened?

a- well, it's a fucked up story friend. why do danger signs look so much like instructions? fucking ikea, ruining lives.

tsc- yikes. i'm soory to hear that friend. how long ago?

a- about 100 years.

tsc - wow. so, still pretty fresh eh?

a- yeah, but i started dating this year.

tsc- that's great! she wou ld've wanted it that way.

a-hah! yeah right! you and i both know she'd want me to tear my ears off and bite through my wrists. in fact, that was in her will. you'd be amazed what a lawyer will omit for an extra 50$

tsc- harsh.

[i've got to get out of here but i'll finsih transcribing this conversation later]

2006-10-04T23:41:00.001-07:00

The Last Knit

This one's for Bewilderbeast

2006-10-04T23:41:00.000-07:00

Cat Head Theatre

This one's for me.

chicken's feet and fate

2006-10-04T02:53:00.000-07:00

quick post tonight. i'm hoofin it over to the kowoloon grocery store - on of the finest Chinese grocery stores in the district –to pick up some octopus and 1000 year old ducks eggs, when I have what can only be described as an epiphany. it was intense, it was life changing, it was…real, the realest emotion/thought/feeling that I’ve ever experienced. the feeling was so pure and overwhelming that I actually broke down and cried right there on sommerset. I’ve never been so moved and I’m ridiculously grateful to the cosmos for granting me this beautiful gift.

The epiphany: I've got to travel back in time, kill the man who invented the 'q-tip,' and claim the patent as my own. it's nice to have a purpose.

the world's a hologram? sez who? Feynie, that's who

2006-10-02T09:40:00.000-07:00

laazy, lazy, t-shirtwearing centaur.

It’s been hard to blog lately. There have been a few reasons: my roomate (the second of fifteen Richard Feynman clones created in 1985, not the big titted ghost) has suddenly decided to spend virtually ever moment in his room which precludes me from stealing his internet connection; the internet connection at work has been locked; and, last but not least, the time I have been spending on the ‘net’ is spent reading the blogs of wonderful people whose trials are wreaking havoc with my hypersensitive 601 year old soul (in centaur years, I’m pretty much still a teenager – all those hormones swirling around - I’m a fucking mess. But, here I am.

I’ve not much to talk about. I’m still obsessing over how poorly I understand grammar. It’s an obsession that’s coming perilously close to becoming the biggest non-issue to ever seriously affect a mythological, t-shirt wearing, 601 year old, bigtitted ghost and Richard Feynman clone cohabitating, investment banking, 1000lb centaur. So, so lame. So many beautiful people are fighting for their lives, engaging in real existential struggles, thinking deeply about their lives and the big questions. me? I’m trying to figure out how to Sandy from mergers and acquisitions to abandon her whole “I’ll never fuck a half-horse” pledge. Maybe I’m just superficial. Maybe I’m simply incapable of the kind of emotional depth that you mortals are capable of. I don’t know. I’m not sure I want to know.

On the plus side, Richard Feynman Clone #2, or “Feynie” as he likes to be called, and I are getting along famously! Oh the fun we’ve had. We spent last night getting high under a bridge and, when the freight trains would rumble through, we’d run towards them screaming and whipping rocks that would, upon contact with the train, explode in a shower of sparks. Oh, the pure unadulterated joy of it all! Then, just as the high was reaching its peak, Richard would launch into detailed, yet accessible, dissertation on why the universe is actually nothing more than interference (apparently a huge departure from ‘source’ Richard’s thought on the matter. I’ve got to rely on Feynie’s word seeing as I know next to nothing about physics or source Richard). In any case, we’re becoming quite the pair – a threesome when we’re at home seeing as how the big titted ghost is really starting to come out of her shell.

Well, I guess that’s enough for now. Talk to you soon.

Ps. Please contact your local chapter of the “Arrested Development” fan club and sign up. We must work together to kidnap the key players, including the writers, isolate them, and force them to perform new “episodes” until we grow tired of them and, eventually, re-release them into the wild.

A New Look!

2006-09-26T07:53:00.001-07:00

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

2006-09-26T07:47:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-09-20T23:15:00.000-07:00

The Easter Bunny Hates You

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

2006-09-15T12:18:00.000-07:00

Experts Easily Reverse Diebold Results & No One Would Know

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

chinchilla: the battle monger

2006-09-15T11:58:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-09-12T10:01:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-12T07:04:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-11T11:44:00.000-07:00

http://whatjeffkilled.com/index.html

opti-who? opti-wha?

2006-09-09T17:19:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-06T13:06:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-05T07:01:00.000-07:00

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)

2006-09-05T03:26:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-03T20:38:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-01T09:07:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-08-30T04:33:00.000-07:00

Kids in the Hall-I Speak No English

2006-08-30T04:32:00.001-07:00

The Kids In The Hall - The Pit Of Ultimate Darkness

2006-08-30T04:32:00.000-07:00

Kids in the Hall: Creative Possibilties

non-olypmpian gods

2006-08-30T04:13:00.000-07:00

Voltron Gets Served

2006-08-30T03:47:00.000-07:00

To nibble my kibble is to DIE!

he walks away now, but she knows where he sleeps

Joyous News!

2006-08-30T03:22:00.000-07:00

How could i forget? i'd like to say As-Salamu Alaikum to two of the best mortal humans i've ever met. Brend & Jazz, congratulations on your nuptials and I, as well as all of mt. olympia, wish you the all the best.
ps. Queens isn't that far from ottawa u (not so subtle invitation to nights of good-natured, well-mannered, help-an-old-lady-carry-her-parcels type of debauchery. oh yeah, old lady's parcels)

allworkandnosleepmaket-shirtedcentaurgo...

2006-08-30T02:37:00.000-07:00

proliferus was a tired old man. he wasn't particulary funny, he wasn't particularly clever, and he smelt terrible, but he was up at an odd hour and struggled valiantly to fill his time with something other than what he was being paid to do.

t-shirtedcentaur, t-shirted centaur, t-shirt wearing centaur,
you chest is no longer defined, your legs are whitered and weak
and an "F" precedes the "L" that, in turn, preceedes your abs

noble half-man, nobler half-horse
sagitarius aint' got shit on you
cause investment bankers rule

so tired, so, so tired.
i see things aren't there
and rabbits who do nothing but stare
but i'll be damned if
that revlon masacara don't add flare

Ode to Mr. Wiggums

2006-08-30T02:27:00.000-07:00

cats. yes, cats. they are cuddly, they are cute, and they are killers! your cat's face, the selfsame face you've kissed on so many occassions, is the snarling face of death that terrifed inumerable woodland type creatures and the odd sleep walking infant (oh, it happens!) in their last desperate moments. think of that cute wittle pink nose covered in the entrails of those it had bested in fierce battle; mr wiggums, indeed!

cat tenderizing baby

you'll find out the hard way that thier playfulness is subterfuge

Death's Sonic Harbinger

Fear the reaper's call

Middle Class Sunday (Or, When Your Existence Is a Crime)

2006-08-29T23:17:00.000-07:00

Indicators that you're in some kind of trouble:

- calculating how much fat was in that squeze tube of cake icing you just ate.
- looking up the list "famous suicides" on wikipedia
- watching mary kate/ashely olson on tv and thinkng "if only i had their lives"
- masturbating becomes a joyless chore - but you do it anyway
- you're on a date with a beautiful girl and she utters the following passage in a non-ironic, totally sincere, and absolutely earnest way:

"I just want a tall guy, with abs, a good job, blond hair, blue eyes, who'll buy me lots of nice things. We'll have a huge wedding, a honeymoon in hawaii, and i'll have 10 babies in the first 15 years of our glorious marriage.
he'll buy me a huge house with a white picket (sp?) fence in an exclusive [read: all white] neighborhood where i'll bake billions of brownies. my brownies will be the best in the pta because i'll have found a way to bake rainbows and sunshine into them and when the kids bite into them you'll hear nothing but thier [white] laughter and joy.
My husband will tell me stories of how he fired lazy workers [read: non whites] and we'll laugh because we know the bonus he'll get for firing them will buy all sorts of the lattest wonderfull toys for our 9 tall boys and our single beautiful girl.
Our children will be oh so smart - but not smart enough to sass Jesus's teachings and the Truth as dictated by the good book - and they'll excell at all sorts of sports, except the girl; she'll excell at ballet and will one day be prom queen.
Oh the world is a rosy and wonderfull place! "

--- the VILEST, most DESPICABLE, MONSTER to have ever sipped an iced cappuchino in an Ottawa Tim Hortons.

Being a centaur, I've dealt with evil creature before but this, this ... scary. if you come across this monster DO NOT APPROACH IT! Dispatch a minotaur as soon as possible and hopefully it will devour this abomination and eventually excrete it in foul smelling clumps - an infinite improvement over their previous form.

Mortal Humans are incapable of goodness. that's it, you're a pile of wretched, filthy little creatures, with no hope for ... no. I'm sorry. One shit head does not condemn an entire species. Please, i beg of you once more: be decent to one another and for Zeus's sake strive to better yourselves. Don't let this happen to you.

bitter sweet jesus i'm tired.

2006-08-27T08:52:00.000-07:00

hours in last four days = 96
hours i've slept in last four days=16.

16 motherfuckerless hours. they weren't even good hours, they were restless. resltess! why, sweet merciful god that most assuredly does not exist in this or any other plane, do you hate me so? is it the four horse legs? why, oh why, can't i sleep? is it a curse? has some fucking olympian freak put a curse on me, the friendliest of all centaurs?

do you know how nice i was to those zeusass kissing, sychophant, fuckers before i left? sweeter than dakota fanning drowning in a vat of aspartame that is itself being immersed into a larger vat of a previously unseen honey/molasses hybrid so sticky that even space and time cannot escape it thereby creating a vacuum so intense that existence as we know it is shred to ribbons leaving a strange quasi-portal to a new plane of existence replete with 860 dimensions and the mindware upload that enables us to perceive them. that is fucking sweet my friends. the only thing sweeter would be a dadaist universe bereft of all suffering (? - even i'm not sure where i'm going, gone, am, on this one - did i mention how tired i am?) , but i digress.

the point is that i'm a nice guy, i'm super friendly, i'm ultra considerate of the feelings of others, and am stupid enough to do all of hercules's labours 'cause i believed that he had actually broken his leg, but the gods still fuck with old t-shirtedcentaur just 'cause he's made some goddamn money in the investment banking scene! so i like mergers, sue me! (note: please don't sue. if you do peruse legal recourse against me, i suggest you speak with my lawyer Mr. Melvin A. Minotaur). so the centaur likes dough, get over it! throw me nutrigrain bar over here. i didn't leave 'cause i thought i was better than you, i left 'cause i was interested in the mortal world (oh, alright, i left to see human ankles - oh how i covet them so).

argghh. i'm so tired! so tired, too tired to sleep, to tired to eat, to tired to rub my rump up against a tree branch, too goddamn tired to live. i see these mortal fuckers downing red bull like it's going out of style - hey, didn't you notice that weird fact about red bull? you know the one. how it tastes like ass.

so deliriousl...

sleep is for the weak (i'm so tired)

2006-08-25T02:15:00.001-07:00

Here it is, 0515, 5:15 a.m., or as i like to call it five fucking fifteen in the goddamn morning. Why the fuck am I still awake! Oh sweet Zeus, why can't I fall asleep! [undecipherable crying noises]. Sure, it takes a bit longer to say, but it's five o'clock in the morning and i don't have cable; i've got time. so, here I am, typing away trying to use my time creatively instead of laying on my straw pile/Serta mattress combo weeping softly to my self. Huh? Oh, the straw pile/Serta mattress thing. Well, being a 1000 lbs puts a lot of pressure on a mattress so my horse body lays down on the straw pile while my torso lies down on the Serta single mattress that I’ve laid down beside it. it ain't pretty but it works.

I was checking some videos out on youtube - I love you youtube. You make procrastination so much fun - when I noticed a disturbing trend. Whenever someone disapproves of a video they often levy the "this is the gayest video on youtube" charge against it. The gayest video? What does that mean? None of the videos slammed as being the "the gayest video on youtube" were the slightest bit gay. As a 1000lb, 600 year old, investment banking, t-shirted centaur, I know a thing or two about prejudice and how much it hurts. So, in an attempt to enlighten the homophobes skulking about the youtube universe, while simultaneously trying to help those who may not understand the homophobic implications of their usage, I thought I’d offer this mini-tutorial.

Let’s begin:

Gay or Not Gay?

1^st VIDEO

A pre-teen Belgian boy singing about his (probably fictional) girlfriend while dancing (poorly)

Gay or Not gay?

Sad and hilarious but not gay.

2^nd VIDEO

A guy blowing another guy while listening to Elton John.

Potentially gay

3^rd VIDEO

A 17 yr old Australian girl rapping in response to someone named "lazydork"

Mildly amusing, probably not gay (didn’t listen to all the lyrics)

4^th VIDEO

Your dad kissing your uncle

Gay. I’m sorry you had to find out this way.
p.s. He's actually "uncle" Billy and don't worry, your mom's cool with it.

5^TH VIDEO

A young man filming his prowess with a golfclub/lightsaber for posterity

Ill-advised but not gay

I hope this helps. Mortal humans, please, I beg of you, be kind to one another. Don't let little things like sexual orientation, race, ethnicity, weight, height, or four horse legs define an individual or influence your opinion of them. Judge people by their actions, by their choices, not by their accidents*. Unless of course they're unicorns - fuck unicorns!

*in the philosophical sense, not in the "oops, i accidentally filmed myself having sex with your mom and left the tape in the vcr that i gave you for your birthday" sense. you can totally hate someone for that.

Honorific's don't excuse ignorance

2006-08-21T08:13:00.000-07:00

I'm at work and the old man's on a rampage so i've got to make this one short. normally, on a day like this, there's no way i'd risk getting caught blogging on my office computer but i had a run in with some street toughs today that has left me a bit shaken.

now, i know that i'm 1,000 lb centaur but that doesn't mean i can't feel vulnerable. People don't or can't seem to understand that. I woke up this morning feeling great. I spent last night eating pizza and watching the second season of arrested development which, for my hard earned investment banking money, is the best television show of all time - despite it's wanton lack of centaurs. suffice to say it was a raucus good time. so, when i woke up i was feeling great. the sun was shining, the air was crisp and clean, and i had visions of the bluths dancing in my head.

side bar: is it wrong to think maeby is hot? probably, i am approximately 583 yrs older than she is. of course, i'm also attracted to jessica walters and i'm still about 540yrs older than she is. of course, i'm also becoming attracted to tobias funke which is the development that's got me the most rattled - i think it's the blue skin.

anyway, i felt so great this morning that i decided to put on a new t-shirt! wow, was i in a good mood. i selected a brand spanking new sonic youth t-shirt (i'm ashamed to admit that it's not a concert t, but am proud to admit that it's an iron on of my own design). so there i am, taking the freight elevator down to the lobby of building, ipod blasting everything from hayden, cake, to the decemberists (i love these guys! although, for some strange reason i often refer to them as the decemberries. i don't know. i'm 600 yr old, 1000 lb, t-shirt wearing, investment banking centaur, it's bound to get a little weird in that brain of mine.). wow, was i feeling great.

i step out onto the street - well, back alley actually, my buildings management asks me to exit through the rear. something to do about hoof marks on the marble. i don't know - feeling like a million bucks. i get to the sidewalk, whcih is bustling, and start wondering if i've forgotten the rachael blake portfolio (not that rachael blake). i keep walking but turn my torso briefly to check my louis vuitton saddle bag to ensure that the portfolio is indeed there, when i accidentally brush up against someone. i immediately stop to apologize and ask if they're alright and i come face to face with Paris Hilton. wow. i'll admit, i dislike what i know of her. maybe she's a nice person but from what i've gathered through various forms of media i dislike her.

me - oh, my! i'm sorry ma'am! i should have been paying more attention to where i was walking.

paris hilton - you stupid...what the fuck are you?

me- oh, i'm a t-shirt wearing centaur.

paris hilton - gross. you got nag hair all over my purse. get him baby luv.

me - hey, look at you little kinkajou! shouldn't you be in a rainforest somewhere?

babyluv/alberto - holy shit! an honest to goodness t-shirt wearing centaur! my great-grand pa used to tell us stories about you fellas. nice to meet you. the name's alberto

me - nice to meet you. what's the deal here? you training her or something?

paris hilton - what the fuck are you talking about? listen, get your stanky nag ass away from me mr. ed.

alberto - sorry about that. this kid's not the brightest star in the sky but she's got an assload of money apparently. one day i fall asleep in the rainforest and the next thing i know this genius is trying to get me to sniff cocaine. i'm from south america for christ's sake! if i did want to do coke, i wouldn't do the stepped on shit she's getting. hell, from the looks of it, it was mostly ajax.

me - yikes. sorry to hear about that man. you could always bite her. they'd probably send you to some swanky zoo.

alberto - ughh! gag me! bite her?! you obviously don't know what i know.

me - dude. there are no human diseases that can affect you. you're on the lucky end of the cross-species resistance/transmission spectrum. you can give her all sorts of diseases and she can't give you squat!

alberto - seriously? i could kiss you bro! my great grand pa was right about you people - you're a sage and compassionate species.

me - thanks. i wish we could say the same about them [motioning to paris]

paris hilton - have you been sniffing the glue they made out of your mom? are you a fucknig lunatic horse of something?

alberto - my friend, allow me [bites paris]

paris hilton - OOOOWWWW!

alberto - [laughing] oh god! did that feel good! i don't care what happens, being confined to this knock off purse is a fate worse than death. a knock off! she's a fucking millionaire, you'd think she'd know the difference!

me - god speed friend. god speed.

alberto - thank you.

paris hilton - i've got to get to a doctor! bad baby luv. i'll call my publicist, he returns my calls. ughh, get the fuck out of the way stinky horse [pushing past me and walking into street]

alberto - think well of me, noble centaur!

me - [tearing up a bit] i will friend, i will

NOTE: centuars are fluent in every language. it's a thing we do.

another day, another heinous speciesist act. poor alberto. sure, she called me a nag, insulted my hygiene, insulted my mother, and called me mr. ed. but she had alberto abducted, renamed him babyluv, kept him in a bag, and tried to make him snort cocaine. i've been thinking about him all day and can only hope that if he's not returned to his homeland that he'll at least be sent to a zoo with a great enclosure and a hot kinkajoette.

Via con dios alberto, via con dios.

Give the Love Fuck a Chance

2006-08-20T16:41:00.000-07:00

- Zeus picking up

Blah! Blah, blah, bin Blahblah blala. That's where I'm at today. I finally bit the bullet and asked one of my co-workers out on a date. she turned me down flat. i couldn't beleive it. i was stunned, as we had been getting along so famously, and must have looked perplexed because she offered an explanation: "it's just that, well, you see, i don't date 600 year old, t-shirt wearing, investment banking centaurs." wow. in this day and age.

Unfuckingbelievable! Zeus, the king of mother fucking (often literally) gods, would assume the form of a goddamn goat and the hottest mortal women in attic greece would flock to him. But, this, this speciesist, won't date an incredibly handsome centaur with an immaculately pressed t-shirt. What the fuck? whatever happened to "t-shirted centaur, you're my best friend. there's no one i'd rather talk to"? Huh? I've given her rides home (on my back!), I've counselled her in times of grief, I've made her laugh, i've given her the support and understanding required to keep any psychologically complex being afloat in this unduly harsh realm and she has the audacity to reject me on the grounds that i've got four horse legs! Oh, there must be a centaur hating god in office 'cause this is FCUKING RIDICULOUS!

Come on! What kind of world is this were your professed best friend isn't good enough to be your "soulmate" by virtue of his enormous horse penis and cloven hooves? She says she's not into fur - technically it's hair! look, i don't know a lot of people that are into paraplegics but what kind of sick, superficial, sad excuse of a sentient creature would reject someone they've truly connected with simply becuase he or she can't use their legs? come on! i can't imagine this conversation: " look, i know i said you were my soulmate, but my i like my soulmate with two fully functional (mortal human) legs. so, i guess what i'm saying is, get the fuck out of my house and take that colostomy bag with you." Who the fuck would do that?! what the fuck? why are you fucking mortals blessed with the capacity to love when you're clearly unable to use it properly? is that your doing aphrodite? some sort of gag or is this the work of pan that rotund little fuck? lay off the deep dish you fucking pig.

Would sex be a bit different with me? yes. yes it would, but we'd make it work. you think i like fucking mortal women? Well I do, but it took some getting used to. Look, i'm not saying horse vagina is better, i'm just saying that it's much different than a mortal woman's vagina. But again, vaginas AREN'T the issue. The issue, my mortal friends, is that LOVE is SUPPOSED to be BLIND. That was supposed to be the beauty of internet dating, but now it's all about pictures, race, weight, height - fuck, don't forget to ask if they've got webbed feet or a third penis. Look mortals, find someone who'll respect the WHOLE you, the REAL you, AKA your MIND! arghhhh!

look, sex is great. i love sex and i understand the need/desire to fuck someone you're attracted to. fine, but your perception of the external world is mediated by your body and brain. the more you invest in someone, the more attractive they become to you.

fucking for fucking's sake is great but fucking for love and passion is better. And, if that's really not working for ya, then get into a polyamourous relationship. i remember this one time with a satyr and wood nymph... well, i guess that's a story for another day.
t-shirted centaur

one man's ass is another man's pet horse

2006-08-19T16:41:00.000-07:00

Arghhh! It’s unbelievable! Fucking unbelievable! Check this out, and then smack the cashier, ‘cause the following tale will most assuredly blow his mind.

I’m squatting behind a cluster of bushes that is flanked by two beautiful and aged oak trees in ******* park (a well worn park in the heart of my fair city) when a good looking middle aged guy locks eyes with me. He tilts his head as if to say “huh,” then scans to the left and spies my rear end performing its noble duties at the other end of my impromptu flora commode. Then, and this is the hilarious part, he says, “I hope you’ve got a plastic bag with which you will pick up your friend's, how do we say, substantial contribution to our park.” Embarrassed and slightly ashamed of myself, I respond with a humble and measured “unless you wanna be pulling shit tinged horse tail hairs out of your mouth for the rest of the day, you’d better quit staring at my asshole. Nosy fuck!” Inexplicably, he gets all offended and storms off in a huff muttering something about “fucking pet owners” and hunting down a park official. Confused and slightly dismayed, I finish my business, locate a nice patch of lichens to rub my hind quarters on, and resume my lovely walk through the park.

I really love walking through the park. See, I guess I feel closer to the flora and fauna of the park then to my mortal friends and business associates. No one here, judges me, tries to hop on my back, sneaks a peak at my package as I walk by. On the other hand, no one offers me apples, tries to brush me, or sneak a peak at my package as I walk by. The long and the short of it is that I feel at peace here. So, there I am, soaking it all in, listening the ‘clip, clop’ of my feet as stroll leisurely through one of the most beautiful areas this city has to offer when I hear the whir of a four-wheeler. I turn my torso and, sure enough, I spy an eager and over zealous park ranger speeding toward me.

“Hey!” he shouts as he skids to halt inches from my posterior. I know I’m in for some trouble. He’s about 6’, 120 lbs, and so young that I bet he still masturbates to the sears catalogue. He’s so excited about this confrontation that every atom in his body is exploding and the resulting emanations create, what I like to call, a douchebag aura that is actually quite lovely. Unfortunately, being in the presence of a douchebag aura is a mixed blessing. It’s kind of like watching someone dumping slag: while the resulting show can be described as strangely beautiful and enchantingly eerie, it’s still just a bunch of assholes dumping molten poison into the earth; and, just like a molten stew of mercury, lead, and high end steel, excessive levels of douchery are a major source of environmental devastation.

Park ranger – I’ve received a complaint about a man letting his pet horse defecate behind some bushes while he stood guard. What do you know about that?

Me- well, first, was the man standing guard, or was the horse standing guard while he defecated?

PR – no the man wasn't defecating, the horse was defecating

me - while he was standing guard?

Pr- no, the man was standing guard while his horse hide behind some bushes and defecated.

Me – oh. Well in that case, I don’t know anything about that. I did see a man defecating while a horse stood guard, but that’s it.

PR – hmm. Possibly a second infraction… wait a minute! What about you?

Me- well, I like jumping over things, I’m an investment banker, I enjoy rosemary and tyme – the tv show, not the spices, I …

Pr- you know what I mean! You’re him, them, the shitter.

Me- whoa, whoa, whoa! First, I’m a centaur, a man-horse, NOT a man AND a horse. Second, how dare you accuse me of shitting in the woods. I’m not an animal.

PR – you just said you were a horse.

ME- wha…! I’m a man-horse you idiot! Is that badge made of chocolate?

Pr- it’s not chocolate [note: he looked kind of nervous when he said that. I’m just saying.]

Me- well, then you are a disgrace to that delicious looking badge. Are you even a real ranger? Did you let go of the rope or something? should i be looking for your teacher?

Pr – hey, you’d better treat me with the respect this uniform deserves.

Me- I can’t, I already took a shit.

Pr – huh? Hey, you’re him! The shitter!

Me – listen, i’m going to break this down into an argument so simple, that even a Velcro-shoe wearing simpleton, such as yourself, could understand it.

a) you are looking for a man and a horse

b) I am a man-horse

c) Therefore, I am not who you are looking for.

It’s that simple deputy Doolittle. Get on your tricycle and get away from me before I call the real police.

Pr- listen, this is my jurisdiction and it’s an all-terrain vehicle.

Me- can you drive it in the snow?

PR- no.

Me- then I guess it’s a virtually all-terrain vehicle.

Pr-what? Don’t confuse me! Give me some i.d.

Me- my id? As in my primal desires. I don’t think you wanna see that.

PR – what?

Me – my id, my pleasure principle, come on man! make this interesting,

Pr – who are you?

Me- well, I’m 600 year old, investment banking, t-shirt wearing centaur who’s about ten seconds away from calling the cops and his lawyer on his very expensive cell phone [note: I don’t own a cellphone. They kind of creep me out]

Pr-all right, I guess you can go. But if you see the shitter you call me on your fancy cell phone

Me- what if I just see the guy?

Pr- then call me

Me-but I didn’t see them, so I don’t know what the guy looks like

Pr- arghh! Listen, if you see a man and a horse then you call me

Me- check. Keep up the good work, sergeant shitter.

I can’t lie to you, I derived a great deal of satisfaction as I watched constable colon walk away dejected and thouroughly defeated. however, i also felt a bit guilty, but then i remembered that he kinda of looked like a speciesist. FUCK speciesists.

after all the excitment, i trotted over to the empty ranger stations - lieutenant loose stoole was on the prowl for the shitters - and miterated upon it. then, just i was succumbing to the hypnotic sounds of my clip cloping, i spotted anna nicole smith fucking some homeless guy behind a gelato stand! can you believe it? the park added a gelato stand!

I hoofed it over there and ordered a bachio before i realized they had pistachio. PISTACHIO! i couldn't believe it, but it was too late as i had already ordered bacio. oh well, there's always tomorrow.

don't judge me. i judge you.

2006-08-18T17:58:00.000-07:00

What a weird day. I’m trotting home from work when I hear someone calling out to some guy named Dan. Now, I don’t know why, but I look towards the source of the call and answer “yeah?” Next thing I know, I’m talking to the exemplar of physical female human beauty. What’s a 600 year old, t-shirt wearing, investment banking centaur to do?

Girl – uh, I didn’t know you were a … horse-man?

Me – centaur, actually; a horseman would be a guy riding a horse or, possibly, a guy visiting plagues and death upon humanity along with three of his buddies.

Girl –oh. So, uh, you didn’t mention this on your profile.

Me – oh, really? Did you mention that you like to wear … what kind of shoes are those?

Girl – milano blahniks

Me - …milano blahniks?

Girl – what does that matter?

Me – exactly! By the way, what did I talk about in my profile?

Girl – well, you said you were a doctor, you like foreign films, you’re athletic, and you liked kids. We’ve been talking for a month.

Me – sure, sure. See, I talk to a lot of people in the course of a day so it all gets kind of muddled. But I remember now. I believe I actually said I was a doctor who fan, which explains the foreign film thing, and I love kids. They’re delicious!

I’m actually an investment banker.

Girl – [skeptical] investment banker?

Me – yeah, basically, I tell billionaires and corporations what to do with their money.

Girl – [ relieved/pleased] oh, that sounds cool.

Me – yeah, I make a butt load of money Mandy.

Girl – Jen.

Me – yeah, Jen, of course, of course. Mandy’s my…secre…personal assistant.

Girl – oooo! That sounds exciting.

Me – I’m not going to lie Sherry, it is fucking fantastic to be me.

Girl – Jen.

Me – right. Listen, what do you do?

Girl –I’m an accountant and aspiring model.

Me – that sounds cool. Do anything I might have seen?

Girl – I worked at Balancing the Books as a junior accountant and was in their tv commericial. I…

Me – cool, cool, what’s that like a juggling troupe for nerds?

Girl – uh, no. it’s an accounting firm specializing in commercial tax problems. I was there as a junior accountant.

Me – right, right, very good. Good for you Jessica.

Girl – Jen. Where’s your car?

Me – hah! Where’s my car? Very proletariat. You’re adorable babe. Don’t change Chrissy.

Girl – Jen

Me – what?

Girl – Jen.

Me – well, it’s a bit early for a drink, but ok. You got a flask or something?

Girl - ? Jen, not gin, Jen. that’s my name.

Me – right. Listen kid, cars are for the poor and the déclassé. Haven’t you heard that all the big players are eco-friendly and socially conscious now?

Girl – really?

Me – you poor kid. Probably have to work 90hr weeks just to stay afloat eh? Listen, I’ll put you in the know. See, my ex-girlfriend and her new husband just had their baby in Africa and kicked off an unprecedented wave of celebrity interest in social causes.

Girl – your ex? Really?

Me – susan, are getting any of what I’m telling you?

Girl – Jen.

Me – one track mind, eh? listen, you go ahead, but seriously, it's a bit early for me. The point, Belinda, is that if we get into a car, even a limo, I’m gonna be burning up all sorts of social capital. Do you wanna juggle books for the rest of your life or are you gonna let me take you to the top of the social ladder?

Girl – no, I, uh, I don’t juggle, I mean, uh, what? Yes. Yes! Ok, let’s go. Uh, where are we going?

Me – yikes. Kelly, seriously, we’re gonna have to work on you third eye. You’re killing me, but you’re adorable. Listen, there’s this little Chinese grocery store with an outdoor fruit and vegetable kiosk. So, we’ll pick up some apples and condoms on the way to the loft.

Girl – is that a club? wait a minute, condo...

Me – club? Do you grow potatoes? Are you wearing coveralls under that dress? Listen, if you want to some club and let some twenty something kid cream himself while he’s dry humping you on the dance floor, go ahead, ok. Seriously. Where do you want to go? A monster truck rally? A bottle eating competition? Come on girl! Listen, anyone who’s anyone knows that hanging out at your loft is where it’s at right now. God, you probably think celibacy is in. do you think celibacy is in?

Girl – oh, no. no, of course not.

Me – well, maybe there’s hope for you yet.

Hey, [smile politely] fuck you.

2006-08-18T14:45:00.000-07:00

Maybe it’s just me. Maybe it’s just the way the mind of a 600 year old, investment banking, t-shirt wearing, centaur works, but aren’t friends supposed to support one another? See, I’ve got a friend – a guy I thought was my friend – who’s been letting loose with the anti-horse legs propaganda when I’m around. The irony, apart from the fact that I’m constantly reassuring/bolstering his self-esteem, is that this guy’s a fucking satyr!

Look, I believe that all legged animals, be they bipeds, quadrupeds, or even millipedes, are brothers and sisters and thus should be looking out for one another. I don’t care if your feet have toes, are cloven, or consist of a series of villi-like tendrils; we’re all using them to propel ourselves across the same earth. That’s why it hurts when he tries to equate his shorter legs and corollary his shorter leg span, with those of mortal humans. See, it’s not just that he’s trying to deny his own difference by self-identifying with the smooth legged; it’s that he’s placed them on this pedestal which, de facto, places me in a subordinate position. Look, some of my best friends are smooth legged bipeds! I’ve got nothing against them, I don’t even begrudge their ability to climb trees, get into busses, and swing artistically around shiny brass poles. I love those things. I’m just saying there’s more to life than that.

Life is more than literature, than mathematics, than politics, it’s even more than the sum of those things. An individual, be it a centaur, a satyr, or a human, is far more than the collection of it’s parts, it’s the organization and harmony of its parts as they work in tandem with one another and the external world. A post-mortem reveals very little about a human being while offering a great deal of information in the way of how and of what a human being’s body operates and is composed of. Is your life restricted to your body’s mechanics?

See, there are great human beings, but humanity is what makes them great. Humanity is the spirit of exchange and interconnectedness. See, no individual would get anywhere in life if left to their own devices. From day one, an infant is cared for, not just by the human beings that are present but by all those that came before it. Humans are products of the sharing done by their ancestors; technology, behavioural tendencies, pedagogy, the knowledge accumulated up to a point is passed forward in the hopes that future generations will be able to expand them. Humans are where they are because they supported one another in the present and took pains to ensure that future generations would be supported.

What makes humanity great isn’t an advance in any single field. Humanity’s complication of life via the proliferation of all sorts of skill sets and/or epistemological frameworks, conjoined with the desire to pass them on for the benefit of future generations while, simultaneously, hoping that these gifts will be improved upon, is what makes humanity great. I guess, what it comes down to, is that humanity’s greatness is its dependence on social coherence, its desire to experience and explain the phenomenon of living in as rich a way as possible, and the practices it’s developed to ensure that its members stay connected. Humanity is more than belonging to the species homo-sapien, it’s about plugging in to life via an extended epistemological network (this includes the more qualitative aspects of life, ie. Emotions and all that jazz).

So I may not be able to tap dance – the saddest irony for all of those wearing horse shoes – but I am able to communicate with other sentient beings, I laugh, I empathize, I occasionally – like when someone dies or something – get a bit misty eyed. I am a sentient being with the same psychological complexity granted to the homo-sapiens, so don’t tread on me, man!

In sum,

you're not as fucking cool as you think you are. you're an evolving product of your place in an every expanding existential economy. You're a constellation of machinic connections subject to life's caprice. so fuck off with what you think you know, and start treating people with the respect and dignity they deserve.

shit head.

apostrophe mu'tha f'cka!

2006-08-17T09:12:00.000-07:00

s'up y'all! That's my contraction salutation, I like to make the apostrophe key feel like a valuable member of the keyboard community. i mean, c'mon, are we going to relegate it to quotations and the occassional possessive? no. fuck no! Welcome, little brother apostrophe, to the fold. i felt as though that needed saying.

fuck it

2006-08-14T02:07:00.000-07:00

i haven't posted for a while. i'm not sure why, but it may have something to do with a world wide conspiracy, a tainted batch of preparation H, and a kitten whose eyes are a little too shifty for my tastes. that story would take forever and i'm in the only internet cafe that allows centaurs, so i'll try to make this one quick.

i guess it all started one morning when, while brushing my teeth, i noticed that i had aged. i mean, all of a sudden, i realized that my body had aged, that it was breaking down, that i was on a crash course with lady death. the worst part about that realization was that i was using vanilla flavored toothpaste. do you know what vanilla flavored toothpaste tastes like? ass. it tastes like ass. perhaps an ass that rubbed up against a dirtier, sweater ass that had accidentally rubbed up against a third ass which smelled faintly of vanilla, but ass nonetheless.

so, there i am, contemplating my mortality and spitting into the sink when the phone rings. now, i don't pick up my phone, it's a thing, so there i am, sobbing like a cherub without a harp, vanilla ass flavored froth spewing out of my mouth, and trying to deal with the incessant ringing of the phone, while simultaneosly tending to the worst case of morning wood a t-shirted, investment banking centaur ever had to contend with, when it hits me: i'm not living to my full potential.
look, 99% of us aren't living to our full potential, but i'm not talking about that i'm watching the christian television network's call in show at 3 in the morning and the topic is "are you living up to your potential?" kind of failure. i mean, let's face it, if you're up at 3 in the goddamn morning and watching the christian television network's call in show, it's clear that you've fallen way short of your potential. that's an obvious and shallow representation of the kind of failure i'm talking about. i'm talking about we let them cancel arrested development kind of failure here people!

after coming to - there's a long byzantine chain of events occurring between the time i recognized my personal short comings and waking up covered in quail eggs and shaving cream but that's another story - i decided to hop in the shower. i'm having a good time, singing danzig's mother, when i hear a rap tap tapping coming from my commode door. stepping gingerly out of the tub, i prepare to confront whomever is out there by flexing my entire body and holding it while thinking of whistler's mother - i don't know why, but it arouses me. feeling flexed and confident that my semi would intimidate even the stoutest of men, i open the door to reveal noneother than my old friend roald dahl - the manticore, not the author. unbelievable!

it turns out that roald, who many consider the greatest mind chronicling the attic religions of korinithia especially in regards to his work on votive objects such as lamps, was offered a tenure track position at the local university. it turns out that they did not know that he was a manticore when they extended the offer. so this poor guy travels half way around the world, gets his visas, sells his belongings, etc, only to have some snotty, elbow patch wearing, mother fucker tell him that no lion with a man's head and scorpion's tail will ever teach at *********** university as long as he's the dean. can you imagine? the nerve! did roald eat a student? yes. in all fairness, it was an undergrad! he was on probation for christ's sake. did roald know that at the time? no. but, didn't kant demonstrate that intentions are devoid of moral worth? you can't lie to save someone's life and maybe, just maybe, you have to eat someone you've acidentally stung with your huge scorpion tail. if kant had a scorpion's tail who knows how the categorical imperative would have turned out.

anyway, distressed and unsure of himself, roald went down to china town and purchased a block of frozen octopus, some aloevera drink, and some lychee in the hopes that some non-pimply snacks might make him feel better. after purchasing his groceries and eating a small rat he headed over to my house where he proceeded to unveil his purchases. being a huge lychee lover i dove right in and discovered, much to my surprise, that these were the best lychee i'd ever had the pleasure of tasting!

i guess what i'm saying is, stay away from name brands and always shop at chinese grocery stores.

foot envy

2006-07-25T04:42:00.000-07:00

so there i am hoofin' it for the bus when i spot it - a nike ad. i've seen a million shoe advertisements, probably a billion, but for some reason this one hit me like an abusive father. i, no matter what i accomplish, will never be able to wear a pair of nike shoes. this fact seems inconsequential at best - especially since i son't endorse companines employing slave labour - but it's the corollary that floors me like a thirteen year old 'dancing' after her first mickey of rum: i'll never be a foot model, a shoe ad model, or be able to wear running shorts. no matter how much i moisturize, what kind of products i use, i will always have hooves, four hairy legs, and beautiful busy tail. i'm different, i'm in no way the examplar of what this society considers good looking.
how do i cope? what do i do? do i get down on myself for being different? No. Hell no. FUCK NO! i am a proud centaur, i'm a good person, an excellent listener, an amusing companion, and one hell of polo player. so fuck you nike and fuck the non-human torsoed horse you rode in on.
t-shirted centaur
p.s. you know whay i hate? guessing games. bwhaha. i'm fucking hilarious. that one's for you pan, you rambunctions nymph you.

from hating me to hating you: an investigation into why people suck

2006-07-21T09:17:00.000-07:00

you ever sit down, think about writing, stare at your computer screen, and start wondering about all of the things you could've done your life? yeah, me neither.

no. that was a lie. i'm doing it right now and... now. and ... now. and ... well, you get the point. look at me, i'm 600years old and i'm a fucking investment banker, a junior investment banker! my g.e.d. scores were phenomenal! i could have gone to Harvard; i should have at least applied. me? i went to a variety of shitty no-name universities and drank my face and horse's ass off. you always think, "i'm young, i've got time, i can always go back to school..."

Idiot! why didn't you listen to that nagging voice? why did you say, "mom, i know what i'm doing"? Idiot. now, she's grazing on olympus and i'm getting coffee for old man Higgins - who i'm actually older than by about 550 years - because he doesn't think the "horse-thing-guy" can handle the Jurichio account. FUCK! what did i do with my life?

i thought life would be easy. i was popular, i was funny, i was good looking, but i was kid. i wasn't prepared for mortal life, for life on earth, how could i be? i didn't know what real life was going to be like, i learned most of my social skills from television shows - mt. olympus gets great reception - and being a centaur in olympus isn't a big deal. gods, demi-gods, and mythical creatures of all stripes are a lot more accepting than mortals. mortals have, without a doubt, the most exclusionary tendencies i've ever had the misfortune to observe.

Mortals exclude or otherwise treat people poorly on the basis of one or a combination of the following: race, colour, religion, coutnry of origin, height, weight, sexual orientation, monetary net worth, occupation, aesthetic organization of one's face, addition of horse's body to human torso.

what the fuck is wrong with you people! that's not even a complete list. look, if someone treats you poorly, makes you feel shitty, or otherwise does their best to make your life miserable then, by all means, feel free to avoid that particular person. don't judge that person - you don't know any of the myriad of events that have conspired to create this individual - and don't project his/her negative qualities onto everyone that resembles him/her. no one wants to appear racist but it seems that the vast majority of human beings i've come into contact with carry aroung more prejudices than they'd like to admit. whether couched in the terms of "personal preference" arguments or within ubiquitious specious appeals to evolution (i believe in evolution, i'm just sick of everyone using it to bolster pathetic arguments), the attitude of exclusion looms large in everyday human interactions. and, at the risk of falling prey to it, i'm sick of you prejudiced human pricks.
at least i'm trying to keep an open mind. i'd fuck a human chick. I'd fuck an ugly, fat, short human chickif she made me laugh. hell, i'd fuck an ugly, web-footed, fat, toothless, short, bi-sexual, black, irish, garbage jucie sommelier, claw-handed transexual with a unicorn tatoo if s/he(?) made me feel like maybe life wasn't so bad after all.
t-shirted centaur

goddamn dirty bipeds

2006-07-20T17:21:00.000-07:00

look, my life isn't terrible. i'm not going hungry (i'm actually developing two mini paunches), i've got a job that i both enjoy and excell at, and i earn a pretty decent salary - so why am i so fucking miserable? long story short, i'm unhappy because i'm obsessed with television.

i'm a bit of an obsessive-compulsive type character and i've recently developed this fascination with actors; not with individual actors per se but with the art of acting. see, i want to be an actor, to be in a film, to make people laugh, to make them cry, in short i want to be part of the creative process. but in all my googleing i've yet to find one successful centaur actor. i don't know... it's just... hell, i don't know.

it's hard when you don't see anyone that looks like you represented on film. i haven't seen a centaur in a television show or movie since Hercules and Xena went off the air. even then, i'm pretty sure they were bipeds c.g.i.'d up to look like centaurs. sometimes, i'll be watching a show like the office and i'll be totally immersed in it when , all of a sudden, i become acutely aware of the fact that I am, in fact, not a part of thier world. Despite the fact that the the office is designed to mimic the world i do inhabit, it's a sanitized treatment of it; it's a world inhabited by actors, human actors with their perfect human legs and buttocks. every episode of the office is an exclusionary tome, reiterating my difference, reinforcing my alienation, and reminding me that i am not what society wants to see.
i'd love to be an actor. i'd love to create something that someone could relate to. i'd also like to get laid but the women on lavalife aren't interested in centaurs. "i'm looking for personality, blah, blah, blah." BULLSHIT! you're looking for guy that's 6" taller than you, has a rippling six-pack, and is ridiculously goodlooking. well, i'm a nice guy, i'm good looking, and unlike the tall stud in the spring break picture, i'm not a date rapist. i guess some traits are more important than others (read: human legs)
sorry about the bitter post
t-shirted centaur

re-inventing lives

2006-07-12T15:03:00.000-07:00

wow. i've read some pretty powerfull stuff today. it wasn't ondaatje, kierkegaard, or even cervantes saavedra. it wasn't even by an author with a double a'd surname (which is usually my sole criterion for determining what counts as powerful stuff).
it was, in fact, the work of our fellow bloggers. blogging is pretty cool because it's all about the nity gritty of people's lives. These bloggers grant us access to the nuts and bolts, to the weird orange shit that grows on the bottom of their shower curtains, to the piles of crusted up and mix-matched socks stashed behind thier beds ( figuratively speaking), of thier very lives. that's a huge honour.

people are reaching out, connecting us to their lives, asking us to acknowledge them as fully developed human beings. these bloggers aren't lab assistants, cooks, or students, they're people with fears, dreams, bizare pecadillos, and a love of toffuti. these are real people trying to make sense of their lives, to find a purpose, to find meaning. is blogging an excercise in metaphysical semantics? or, for that matter does "metaphysical semantics" even mean anything?

wow. i don't have the answers. i'm just a t-shirt wearing, investment banking centaur with a broadband connection and, with any luck, some new friends. i'm grateful for everyone who posts on eblogger - whether i agree with your point of view or not - because i feel that, essentially, we're all here for the same reasons. We're all here making sense of our lives, the world we find ourselves in, and to make some new friends.
t-shirted centaur

gov't mule (part II): enter deus ex machina

2006-07-11T11:15:00.000-07:00

so there i am, chained to a parking meter with a cop yelling things at me like: do you or don't you have the power to steal souls? was stealing the oranges essential to your plan to steal her soul? or were they for some other, more nefarious, endeavor? are you or are you not a minotaur?
my headache was at a fevered pitch andmy hind quarters ached something fierce so i asked the cop if i could reach into my saddle bag for some medication. Big mistake.

cop: medication eh? you think i'm gonna allow to reach in there and pull out a lightening bolt or some such mythical tool with which to dispatch me? i think not my four legged friend!

me: *?* lightening?... i'm just a t-shirted, investment banking centaur trying...

cop: whoa, whoa, whoa don't spin your web of lies and sould stealing magic on me buddy. keep your hands where i can see 'em and i'll just search your fancy horse purse...

me: it's a saddle bag!

cop: ... faggy mare's purse for contraband, weapons, or occult paraphanelia. [begins rummaging] weh-he-hell...what do we got here? [pulls out a perscription bottle] looks like illegal dope to me.

me: that's prescription! that's my doctor

cop: sez here they's horse tranquilizers...

me: i'm a centaur!

cop: well, mr. scent-or, this bottle doesn't say anything about minotaurs, centaurs, or faggy mare's purse carrying carrying creatures so i'm taking your smelly, good for nothing, orange soul, stealing hide in!

me: technically, shouldn't it be "orange and soul stealing?" i don't think soul's are coloured.

cop: is that a racist remark?

me: *?*

cop: on top of all this, you're a racist too!

me: i'm a latino half-man and a brown horse...

cop [reaching for tazer] say good night mr.ed [deploys tazer]

everything went black after that. the next thing i remember was that i was kneeling on my front legs, my head was throbbing, and i was incredibly groggy. i was vaguely aware that my saddle bag wasn't on properly when i noticed it was laying beside me. I struggling to comprehend what was on my back when i hear it...the quiet moaning. i shudder at the thought of it. Dr. Rosenthal has helped me alot but i've got a long way to go. anyway, i hear something to the effect of "ohhh yeahh, do you like bareback you dirty old nag? i bet you do" and i can feel my human arms being pulled behind my human back and handcuffed.

me: hey, what are you doing?

cop: never mind nag, i'm just up here to cuff you.

me: this is outrageous! i want my lawyer immediately!

cop: whoa, whoa, whoa! no need for that kind of talk philly. i'm just gonna take you to a nice field out in the country where you can graze and be put out to stud.

me: what?! what the hell are you talking about? i don't eat grass, i like california rolls! this farce has gone on long enough.

[enter Hulk Hogan]
HH: i agree

cop: Hulk Hogan!

HH: that's right little hulkamaniac and the Hulkster is very disappointed in you. see, i've got this whole distresssing episode on tape here and i'm damn sure going to court to ensure you lose you badge and my buddy here is released and compensated.

cop: *** what if i let him go ...with a warning and promise never to bother him again?

HH: what do you say friend?

me: what? no! you're going to jail you sadistic prick.

HH: you heard the t-shirt wearing centaur. bring it in boys [enter old school wrestler's from the 80's including Mr. T] the boys have been deputized and are now the front line and end of the line in terms of justice in this country. [Jake the snake Roberts, the Iron Shiek, and Mr. T rip off the cop's uniform, cuff him, and usher him into van from the "A-team"]. Mr. t-shirt wearing centaur, you have our apologies and our promise to carry out justice.

unsure if any of this was actually happening or if i'd o.d.'d on traquilizers, i smiled weakly, shook his hand, and posed for a picture with the "Wrestling Justince Wranglers." the next thing i remember was waking up in my bed, a little worse for wear and tired as hell. i guess, the one thing i've learned is that old people are fucking crazy with their insane sense of sidewalk entitlement and that from now on i will hoof-kick any old person that invades my personal space. i've also learned that horse tranquilizers and Jack danilels are not as complimentary as i've been led to believe. oh, and that hulk Hogan is a hell of a guy.
t-shirted centaur

gov't mule (part 1)

2006-07-08T19:57:00.000-07:00

i never thought i'd be bullied by a donkey let alone a mule. see, this is how it all went down:
it was a beautiful afternoon and i had had a particularly gruelling afternoon at UWIB. The old boys club at UWIB had taken it upon themselves to double my work load so that they could take ricky out to the links. "you don't mind do you t-shirted centaur? after all you know that Lily Ivory Links has a 'no cloven footed players' policy." it's the 21st century people! shouldn't we look past the shape, consistency, and constitution of one anothers feet! grow up. but what could i say; i want to head up the management consulting division and you don't get there by making waves.

my head aching, i decide to walk home in the hopes that the excercise - and that bottle of extra-strength tylenol that i chased with a 26 of jack daniels - would clear my mind and ease my troubled soul. and, do you know what? it was working. i threw on my ipod, cranked the decemberists, and let the healing begin. unfortunately, the universe had other plans for a poor and tired investment banking centaur (i think pan may have played a hand in this but i'm not sure. i'll ask dionysius if he knows anything when he gets back from cabo).

i'm walking down the street and i turn my head just long enough to grab a bottle of water from my Louis Vuitton saddle bag when some old lady bumbs into me and drops the bag she's carrying to the ground which, upon impact, sends what appears to be a thousand oranges off in all directions. i rip out my ear buds so i can ask her if she's okay but one of them hits her square in the eye and she starts screaming bloddy murder! my hind quarters kick up a bit - they always do that when i'm startled - and she then she starts screaming that a minotaur is trying to kill her. A MINOTAUR! are you fucking kidding me? read a book lady! better yet, try leaving your precious suburbs and check out the equine projects on the lower east side. you'll see plenty of centaurs you old bag. oh, oh, better still, check out any university library and i guarantee at least a 1/3 of the students there will be centaurs; we're an industrious and curious species. anyway, i swallow my pride and try to talk her down but she keeps screaming that she doesn't have any sugar cubes and for me not to look at her - i think she thought she would turn to stone. i never wanted to hoof-kick someone in the box more in my life but i maintained my cool.

sure enough, a cop bursts onto the scene and before i know it, one of my legs is cuffed to a parking meter! how embarrasing! the cop tells me to shut my "cud chewing" mouth (i don't chew cud! only ruminants do that and they have 4 stomachs! i only have two and one of those is stapled - once i started working all the sitting and snacking really took its toll). so, i just stood there, chained to the parking meter like some devilishly handsome rapid pitbull while this old bag spat out the most vitriolic and noxious slew of lies i've ever heard. long story short, the cop, who already hated my horse hide ass, now believes: that i had attempted to steal both the old bag's oranges and her soul and that i was behind both tupac's and biggie's murders. the cop didn't know who either man was so decided he was going to berate me for stealing oranges and suposed soul. as distressing as this incident was, i had no idea that the indignities that i had just endured would pale in the face of what was to come.

dreams of a sunburnt ass

2006-07-06T16:07:00.000-07:00

i spent a portion of today talking to my friend ricky (the resident whiz kid of mergers and acquisitions) about his trip the "cottage." now, ricky's a good friend of mine, i like him, we hang out, but the more i heard about the "amazing cottage, Julie's sweet rack, Jill's (Julie's younger, hotter identical twin) sweet(er) rack, and the incredible 75 custom maxi cruising yacht," the more i wanted to hoof-kick in his pretty boy face!
doesn't he know how hard it is for t-shirt wearing, investment banking centaur to get dates with identical twins? i've worked at Untimely Withdrawl Investments Bank for thriteen years and i've never been invited to stay at the "cottage." pretentious mother fuckers! what cottage has three floors, 50 rooms, 25 full bathrooms, an indoor pool, and several coke troughs for your snorting convenience?! fucks! i've never been out on the boat. i bring in tons of dough! i'm a client pleaser, a favorite even! hell, i even let the cfo of a major japanese corporation ride me around his office! i want what's comming to me!
you know what it is? the precious old boys club doesn't want an ole smelly t-shrited centaur hoofin' around the dump; wouldn't want mr.quadraped precipitating the depreciation of UWIB's fancy cottage. sure, the centaur's good enough to trot around for the curious but not good enough to set up with some big dollar corporate prostitutes! "you're too big" they say, "it's creepy" they say, well, you don't think i dream of having a nice human skinned ass? oh, i'd love to get sunburned on my legs and ass but i can't! i have a horses body! why can't people just accept me for who i am! although, don't get me wrong, i love my wang. it is truly a magnificient wang, but still...the biggest wang in the land isn't gonna make the ladies anymore comfortable with the tail. what's tshirted centaur to do? seriously, i have needs! i'm tired of jerking off to freaky friday and herby the love bug reloaded. plus, do you know how hard it is for a centaur to jerk off? do yoou know how flexible i have to be?

blah. nobody cares about the trials and tribulations of an old mytholgoical creature anymore - unless you're a fucking unicorn! then everybody's all fucking excited; from the ironic lovers of unicorns to the sincere (read: creepy) lovers of unicorns. put a man's body on a horse, you've got an undesirable investment banker but put a fucking horn on a regualr godamn horse and you've created a universally loved symbol. i fucking hate unicorns (in the sincerest possible way). Bunch of fucking racists, you never see a black unicorn do you? i wonder if i'd get more respect if my backside was white? could it be they just don't like a latino half-man attached to a black/brown horse? if i were a latino half-man attached to a white horse would i get more respect? who knows? i'll tell you one thing for sure, if i was a white half-man attached to a white horse with a white horn attached to my forehead, i'd be up at that fucking cottage guaranteed. fucking racist speciesist bastards.

in other news, i just heard that hilary swank is single. sweet. i've had a crush on her evers since i met her on the set of the power rangers (i had a bit role as scientist #1). i was saddened to hear about her ex's substance abuse problem; get better chad! you can do it buddy!
i've also heard that eating a loaf of zucchine bread a day can reduce the visible sings of ageing up to 90%! wow! so get out there and buy up as much zucchinni as you can folks!
anyway, i'd better get back to work. these mergers aren't going to conduct themselves.
t-shirted centaur

hooves all a flutter

2006-07-05T00:04:00.000-07:00

well, what can i say? i'm just happy to be indoors. see, as a centaur, my presence tends to attract ner-do-wells who plague me with questions like, "T-shirted centaur, are you really a t-shirted centaur? T-shirted centaur, would you rather fuck a unicorn or that girl from metric? t-shirted centaur, did you take a dump on my front lawn?" uggg! why can't you bipeds just leave me be?
It's not you, i'm sorry, it's just that you don't know what it's like being a t-shirted, mythological creature from attic grece. people always judging you, trying to feed you apples or sugar cubes - i'm a diabetic for christ's sake! I don't even try to buy shoes anymore. "oh, i'm sorry ... sir(?), newbalance doesn't make shoes for centaurs. maybe you could see a blacksmith or something." as if horse shoes and centaur shoes are the same thing (ok, they're exactly the same but it's the principle of the thing).
i don't even want a pair of runners per se, i just want to be granted entry into the mongolian grill restaurant - why do you think i'm wearing a t-shirt? "no shirt, no shoes, no service" might as well read "drity, smelly centaurs can go fuck themselves because they 'aint getting into this mongolian grill" I'm wearing a shirt! I'm wearing shoes! i guess my St.Croix Forge shoes aren't classy enough to watch a couple of pimply teenagers fry up some squid and bean sprouts on a huge hot-plate! the sign doesn't say shit about pants!
sorry, i tend to get carried away. it's hard, you know. it's almost impossible to meet women at bars because i spend more time trying to keep the drunks from riding me than i do running my game. i tried to pick up women at school but the only girls that are interested are the ones with an unhealthy affinity for peter schaffer's equis; i'm not going to debase myself, to allow someone to fetishize me. i'm a centaur, yes, but i'm also an avid stamp collector, r.c. boat enthusiast, and member of my church choir (best soprano we've got!).
well, i guess i'd better sign off. i've got a test tomorrow on nietzsche's beyond good and evil. i know the material but i think the prof's got something against centaurs. id didn't help matters much when he busted his wife checking out my package. look, i'm a centaur, it's gonna hang a little low. what can i do?
till next time
t-shirted centaur