The hook.

As you're reading this, you're looking for an explanation of why you should bother to read any further. Well you can find a detailed list here. To put it simply, I write things and you read them and tell people how funny and insightful I am. Sometimes there are pictures too! In the event you actually do read what I have to offer, give me feedback. I love hearing great things about myself and scoffing demurely at criticism.
Enjoy. Or don't. I can't make you.

Tuesday, January 8, 2013

Some words

As these words are being written, deleted, rewritten and subsequently forsaken, a number of other things are simultaneously taking place. Spotify is teaching me that I don't actually like the artists I think I like, GIMP is downloading ever so slowly so that I may make more silly pictures without having to pirate Photoshop again, Dwarf Fortress is running unpaused in the background, which will inevitably result in fun. Outside the realm of my computer, even more things are happening. I haven't a clue what they are, but I feel confident in my assumption that they are indeed happening.

As these words are being read, ignored, reread, and subsequently forgotten, your interest is cursorily piqued by a distinct repetition. Your previous reading experiences have taught you that this is likely deliberate, and may indicate impending impartment of important information. You brush off an alliterative assault, with the expectation that at the third instance of repetition the author will get to the point and blow your mind. Or so you hope.

As these words are being transmitted, posted, reviewed, and subsequently damned, I alt tabbed and lost interest in writing any more.

Thursday, July 5, 2012

Oh, I didn't see you there.

I fear that I may be continuing my descent into madness as I address that which does not exist by any verified measure. Yet I maintain hope through the occasional glimpses I receive, which shroud this entity in even greater enigma. I do not understand its ways, nor what it wants from me. And so here I address it directly. The ethereal and mysterious presence of which I speak is obviously my reader base.

This blog is dead. I haven't posted anything in nearly a year. Google's interfaces and programs have been overhauled several times since I last published on this forum. Yet somehow, unthinkably, this page is still afloat.

I've gotten a considerably large quantity of views over the past year without putting a calorie of effort into this failed project. Pretty cool, right? Yeah, I thought so too. It also got me thinking about this blogs viability again.

Every once in a while I check in on my Blogger Stats tab, or Google Analytics page. For some reason, I get all excited about data, regardless of whether or not I understand it or it applies to me. So I look at all the graphs and charts and numbers and try to make something of it. Here's what I've gathered:


  • Somewhere around 1/3 of you people are from countries that: a) I don't know anything about and b) don't speak English as a native language. So I guess I'll write louder so you can understand me better. WELCOME. I AM FUNNY SOMETIMES. YOU READ MY BLOG. I GIVE YOU AMERICAN MONEY AND YOU TELL PEOPLE I AM VERY NICE. YES? COMPRENDE? COMPRENEZ-VOUS? VERSTEHEN SIE? Christ, we need an interpreter.
  • Many of the random visitors get here via Google searches for weird things. You'd be surprised how many people do an image search for "dog on meth" or some variant thereof. Well if you try it, my picture is one of the top results. I feel a little sorry for the large percentage of people who reach this page while searching for "ants in your pants game."  I'm also a little surprised, since the result you're actually looking for is invariably at the top of the page. I can't even find my own site from that search. But 50% of the people that get here via a Google search use that term. What does this mean for you? HIRE ME TO DO YOUR SEO (search engine optimization. If you own a company and don't know what that is, you really need to hire someone for it.)
  • While my shameless plugs on Reddit still hold their ranks atop the charts, the second contender for biggest traffic is due to someone sharing my page on StumbleUpon. To whomever did that, thanks, bro.
  • At least 16 people actually use Bing.
  • I have an average retention period of 15 seconds. Respect. That's longer than I could stand this thing if I hadn't been the one to write it. However, if you're reading this sentence, you've likely been here much longer than that. Bravo. If this is the case, send me an email or leave a comment, and I'll reward your bravery in some menial manner of your choice. Yeah, you choose.
  • Most of my traffic is unique visitors. Now, most sites love unique visitors, but for me that means few people come back.
  • Making money through blogging/ads is not as easy as people make it seem.
So that was pretty boring, I know. This whole post really is. Well not everything's about you, you selfish, entitled prick. Hold on a moment, my producer just informed me that that attitude is the exact opposite of what I need to have. Pending an investigation into when I got a producer and who the hell he is, I'll go along with it. So this actually is about you, the reader.

So here's the big picture. I know you're there. You can't hide from Google's data vacuums. So while you're here, for 15 seconds or so, I'd like to keep you entertained. As things stand, there's not much content, and some of it is stupid boring shit like this. That is my fault. I acknowledge it. I left this blog to die when I shipped back off to New Jersey last September, and now I feel bad about that. So I'm resolving to get back into it and crank out some more content. Hopefully a lot more content, but I won't speak on the behalf of my crippling laziness and addiction to League of Legends.

That being said, I really need your input. This project is a mess right now. There are both pictures and words, and that's messy. The most common advice I've received is that I need some order. Pick one type of content and stick with it. But I don't know which you people like better. So tell me. Pictures take more time (I'm bad with photoshop and don't have a tablet) so there would be less frequent content, but words take more effort on your part. So if you see ANYTHING you like, please take 30 seconds to let me know, so I can give you more similar content. Help me help you.

If you read this, I offer my innumerable thanks. If you skimmed it, you're still eligible for a sizable heap of thanks. If this is the first sentence you're reading, you probably aren't very good at reading on an academic level. If you never read this and a tree falls in the forest, crippling you under its trunk with no one around to hear you scream, your death likely will have no measurable impact on society on a local, national or global level. For more information on the subject, reference Douglas Adams' Total Perspective Vortex.

TL;DR I want to get this site going again. Take a little time to let me know what I'm doing right or wrong, and I'll crank out more content that's relevant to your interests.


Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Writing from prompts

Now that I'm back in the swing of things here on the internet, I wanted to come back into it guns blazing, spending 10 whole minutes in photoshop and pounding out a side splitting, eye watering, pants peeing, gut cramping, aneurysm inducing post. But it's not going to happen that way. Because I just feel like writing.

Now I'm not one to gasconade, but I'm a damn fine writer. I took a class and everything. Recently I've just been getting the itch to get back into it. So I've been reading articles and stories and trying to find some sort of inspiration. I just want it to come naturally. Anyone else who writes or draws or makes music knows it's hard to force a quality product out of a bullshit inspiration. Just kidding about the music part, though. As it turns out, nothing is really piquing my interest.

The good news is I'm not getting paid to do this, so I can churn out uninspired bullshit. Apparently this is what the writing community calls "Writing exercise." I call it Blogging. I found a subreddit (for you internet cretin, that's a page on Reddit) entirely devoted to prompts, and I'm just going to crank them out one by one until I strike gold, at which time I will publish, hold on to the rights for the first five years, then sell out to a major publisher.

And my high school counselor said I needed to plan better...

In today's prompt, write a dramatic scene where you insert humor to lighten the situation. This could be in the form of any of the characters telling a joke, or it could be situational, or it could be humorous simply because nothing that is going on is really that funny.
Have fun with it, and explore your lighter side!
     A Saturday like any other passed unnoticed in the Greene residence. Andrew sat and drank from eleven until he passed out, watching TV with the volume up loud enough to drown out the cries of his liver. Maria scurried around the house, fretting and whining about all the chores that needed to be done, without actually doing any of them. The baby slept, while his older brother plotted new ways to kill him.
     The earth continued to spin, and just like every Saturday, the sun went down without a single productive action taking place within the house. Maria put Charlie to bed, picked up the empty bottles around her snoring husband, and cried herself to sleep. A short time later, baby Will cried himself back awake. He carried on for twenty-six minutes before giving up and going back to sleep, hungry again. Just a normal Saturday.
     When the sun came back up, it was Sunday. This was in no way unusual, but the events the day had in store were. Maria woke up with a new kind of glimmer in her eye. Not the glimmer of tears, but rather the glimmer you might expect to see in the eye of a woman who had found a new driving force behind her pathetic life. It may be noted that the glimmer was also very similar to the kind you'd expect to see in the eye of a woman about to commit homicide.
     She took a luxuriously long and hot shower, daringly disregarding the water bill that would come, and dressed in her favorite Sunday attire: sweatpants and a pushup bra. As she descended the stairs, she was greeted with an even more unusual sensation.
The clatter of metal cookware came from the kitchen, presumably her hungover husband fumbling for the Aspirin. Yet as she rounded the corner, Maria heard the sound of something frying, and smelled the toast in the toaster. There stood Andrew, his omelet masterpiece almost complete on the stove, a waffle in the iron, places set at the table. He looked up for a moment and smiled. "Good morning, dear. Breakfast will be served shortly."
    A fascinating phenomenon took place in Maria's mind as she stood there agape. Part of her fractured sanity that had been weakening for more than a year, and had finally vacated the previous night, returned to her. Simultaneously, a formerly intact piece, the one governed by the stability and predictability of her life, packed its bags and fled. Her speech faculties were lost somewhere in the shuffle, and her motor skills had gone on a search for them, leaving Maria in a semi-vegetative state.
    When all that would return to her had done so, she stood up straight, looked straight at her husband and tensed her jaw, saying amicably, "Good morning, dear. Breakfast looks wonderful, and although I'm pleasantly surprised, I want a divorce."
Andrew looked up from the skillet only enough to view her standing in the door way. Eyebrows slightly raised he replied calmly, "That's nice, dear. Why don't we talk about it after breakfast? Would you get the juice, please?" Maria fought to keep her mind from scrambling around again, and in doing so found herself doing just as she was asked, pouring three glasses of juice and sitting at her place at the table.
    Once she had a handle on the situation, she stood up defiantly, but hadn't planned any further than that so she sat back down after a minute. Andrew waltzed over with the beautiful omelet and served it out onto the plates. He set down the skillet and started toward the stairs to wake his sons. Maria sprung up and grabbed his wrist, gazing at him with yet another kind of shine in her versatile eye. "No. We're going to talk about it now."
Andrew looked at the fire in her eyes, then toward the stairs, then back at her. "Fine," he sighed. "But the eggs will get cold."
     "I don't give a damn about your eggs!" Maria shrieked. "Just because you make breakfast for the third time since we've been married doesn't..." she paused, whether to find the right word or build up the force behind it no one can tell. "ABSOLVE you in any way from being a piece of shit every other day for the past four years!"
    "Nope. I guess it doesn't," he seethed, the tension and loathing building behind his snide words. "But I thought it would be an ironic setting to tell you I wanted a divorce. And, wow, it was even more ironic than I thought! You beat me to it!"
    Maria wailed and screamed, pummeling Andrew with her words, while he cut and stabbed at her with his, fueling her anger even more.
    Meanwhile, the shouts from below woke both the children. First baby Will, who instinctively began to cry the moment he was awoken. These cries were enough to pull his brother from the dreamworld. Charlie woke with the same glint in his eye as his mother had. Today he would finally kill his little brother, and rid himself of the pest that demanded so much attention from mommy. He walked over to the crib, and despite being only nine months and a week older than the child the crib contained, managed to undo the childproof latch.
    Will stopped crying immediately, and giggled at the sight of his brother coming to the rescue. The elder child took hold of his sibling, and dragged him from his cage. He then dragged him down the hall, down the stairs, the infant giggling every time his feet bounced on another stair.
    Maria and Andrew didn't even hear the thunderous arrival of their children.
    "I don't know why I put up with your two-minute excuse for sex enough to have two kids with you. You're just repulsive in every way."
    "Well your sister doesn't think so, and neither does my new attorney. She's even giving me a discounted rate for the divorce proceedings."
    "You fuck!"
    Charlie didn't really know what any of this meant, nor did he care. He led his chubby little brother into the kitchen where all the excitement was. No one noticed the two. No one noticed, either, when Charlie began to scale the cabinets, stepping on Will's head to get a boost. Still no one noticed when he stood tall on the counter, flexing and gazing down at his prey.
    The squabble between the parents had begun to wind down, as both realized that neither one really cared what the other had to say. There was no love, so the insults were empty and powerless. Now the storm had turned into a stale breeze, and the fires of rage died out, leaving only the ashes of regret. The once-couple both sat at the table, and ate their omelets in silence, not noticing that the eggs were, indeed, cold.
    Also unnoticed, Charlie sprung from the counter, as he had seen the wrestlers do so many times on daddy's shows, elbow leading, aiming straight for his pesky brother's neck. Unfortunately for Charlie, the wrestlers were much better acrobats, and trained many hours to make their body slams look as realistic and effortless as possible. Although his technique was acceptable, his aim was poor, and he crashed to the ground, bruising his elbow quite badly, but otherwise cushioned by the blubbery and uninjured infant. For the first time since Will was born, Charlie got all the attention he desired as both parents rushed to the rescue.

Leave of Absence

It appears I've fallen behind in my blogging duties. No surprise there. I suppose you, the avid reader, want to know why that has been the case.
Too bad.
You're not an avid reader anyway, and that's confidential information. But if you somehow managed to talk me into telling you by, say, getting me drunk and promising me all kinds of delightful things, like fellatio, a puppy, or a new gaming rig, this might be what you heard.


A month ago I worked in a small lumber mill outside of Topeka. The work was hard, the pay was shit, but the people... Let me tell you, the people were the absolute worst. I'll detail their sins some other time, for there is far too much to tell. Just know that it took considerable fortitude and zen not to throw Dave into the Pulper, or accidentally park the forklift on top of Virginia.

So there I was, carrying out my business, imagining that I was not working with a bunch of monkeys, that I was not working in a mill, that I was not working in Kansas when I was smacked in the face by a piece of reality. By reality I mean a birch 4x4. I recall thinking something incredibly profound as the floor rushed to meet my crippled face. But I forget now.

When I came to, I found myself in a hospital. But not really. More like a clinic. Like a clinic in Zimbabwe, but with less melanin. The point is, this place was a shithole. Once I had gathered what I could from my immediate surroundings, I tried to attract the attention of any of the dozen men and women in (once) white coats that were bustling around the place. I tried doing so by sitting up, and smiling nicely, with my hands folded patiently on my lap. When that didn't work, I tried clearing my throat, with those annoying little half coughs that people pull off so well in movies, but when you hear them in real life, you just want to hit the perpetrator with something heavy.

It was clear that I was of no importance to anyone there. So I got up, my head a little achy, but otherwise in fine shape, and found my belongings in a chest at the foot of the bed. I tentatively walked to the door, and turned around to see if anyone was going to stop me. They didn't.

I stepped outside into the parking lot, and took in the majestic mountain view. The thing is there aren't any mountains in Topeka. But there are a lot of mountains in Montana. How I ended up in Montana is still a mystery. I spent the next week getting back home. I'd blame my friends for pulling a prank on me, but I don't have any friends. Nor do I have a job, since I quit the day I made it back to Topeka. So all I have now is an ugly bruise, possibly a broken cheekbone, and a mediocre bar story.


So that's part of the reason why my pathetic blog has been stagnating. At least for the past month.
Also, you owe me a BJ, puppy, or computer.

Sunday, August 7, 2011

5 Things that Should Require a License That Don't

Law requires that you have a license to cut someone's hair for a living, or fish, or breed hedgehogs. It stands to reason that if these mundane and harmless acts require certification, so too should the following:
5) The Internet
See my post about why I hate the Internet to see a few examples of why this is a good idea. Just think how beautiful this place could be if we weeded out most of the blathering idiots that populate it. This is what the exam should look like.





4) Owning a Smart Phone
If this is what you use it for, you don't need it, nor should you be allowed to have it. You'll only piss people off by trying to explain why it's better than the competitor's product.
3) Form fitting clothes
The application process is simply submitting a picture of your figure, and must be renewed every five years. If you're skilled enough in Photoshop to fool the AMTA (Anti Muffin-Top Agency) you probably aren't the type of person to be wearing them anyway.
2) Drinking
Bear with me on this one. I fully support drinking, but special licences, specific to your drinking style, would make partying with you so much more enjoyable.
1) Reproduction
Call me what you will, as this is a form of genetic cleansing, but it's really for the good of mankind. Physical traits play no part in the application process, nor IQ, nor socioeconomic status. A babymaking license would simply ban people who are too life-retarded to take care of themselves from creating more little idiots.

Monday, August 1, 2011

My cat is possessed

I like cats. They're cute, and always seem like they're planning something evil, which I admire. Cat-evil is usually annoying, but cute. Normally they scheme about attacking your toes all night or sleeping exactly where you don't want them. People like cats for not giving a fuck. However, my cat doesn't seem to understand what it is to be a cat. He is everything a cat shouldn't be. To get in the right mindset, imagine a little dog. Take one of those unbearable little teacup-anythings that constantly look like they're about to go into a seizure. Now picture that dog on meth. Combine that with a little piece of Satan's soul and put it in the body of a cat. You're starting to get the idea.


He doesn't really have a name. Sometimes he's called "potato" or "spoon," but usually I refer to him "FUCKER!"  He's cute, and gray, and quite large for a house cat, which doesn't help.  When we first got him, he was a kitten, complete with kitten energy. He's now almost two years old and he only gets more energetic by the day.  The first sign that he's actually an unholy demon is that he NEVER SLEEPS. I have never seen him close his eyes for more than five seconds. He lays down on occasion, or rather, he flops. He'll be walking, and then suddenly not. It's like someone turned his legs off. But flop mode only lasts for a few minutes, and never results in sleep.


When on his feet, he is constantly running, jumping, climbing, attacking, chasing his tail, quantum tunneling, or contorting into impossible shapes. Constantly. The other day, I was sitting on my bed, and hear him thundering up the stairs. I turned around just in time to see him run down the hallway, bounce off a wall, come back and climb all the way up my door frame. From there he leapt down onto my lap, where my computer had rested moments ago, and bounced back into the hall and down the stairs. I've accepted this as part of my lifestyle.
He goes until he literally can't breathe anymore, and usually tries to keep going anyway. He'll run and jump until he's panting and coughing like a geriatric chain smoker climbing Mt. Everest. Even to a stupid cat, this would be indication to stop, and perhaps sleep for a week, but the little goon keeps on going. Once he loses his breath, he makes this bizarre and unsettling hoarse babbling noise as he runs around, kind of like a mix between an air-raid siren and a turkey.

As he is a kleptomaniac and frequently steals shoes (he has a particular fondness for flip-flops), sunglasses and USB cables, he is required to stay in his own semi-devilcat-proof room at nights and when unsupervised. This seems to be a problem for him. Once contained, no matter how many toys or how much food you provide, he will sit at the door and yell until someone releases him and gives him the love he feels he deserves. It continues all night, with occasional breaks to use his litter box, and eat the wallpaper. But, as a night's worth of hidden surveillance revealed, he doesn't sleep, and finds USB cameras to be great toys.
In spite of his evil nature, I have found several positive characteristics in my hell-cat. He is really good at catching flies midair, which is useful and fun to watch. He has made my fat cat lose weight, since she is so traumatized by his existence that she won't eat if he is on the same floor as her. That's about it, although I have a suspicion that he is immortal, and maybe someday I'll be able to sell him to scientists for lots of money. Until then, he'll remain an unbearable nuisance.

Friday, July 29, 2011

Classic novels make great video games

Why Classic Novels Should Be Made Into Video Games
  • They're violent, gory, filled with sex, and by no means politically correct.
  • Designers don't have to worry about their storyline sucking.
  • You'll have incentive to actually read.
  • No one runs and guns in Dickens' books.
  • Clopin Trouillefou and Don Quixote are both much more badass than Master Chief.

Battery life


Yeah, I like bad puns. Come at me, bro.

One fucking hyphen

I registered the domain for this site about ten minutes ago. The title of the thing is "Ants In Your Pants," so the url should match, of course. www.antsinyourpants.com? Taken. www.ants-in-your-pants.com? Taken. So what do I get to work with? One fucking hyphen. Awkwardly in the middle of everything.
Furthermore, when you go to www.antsinyourpants.com, you get 404'd. Yeah, that's right. I get the awkward hyphen because some asshole thought it would be a cute domain name, and then forgot about it. Well, Mr. Arschloch, I'll tell you what; it is a cute domain name, it's the title of my blogthing, it rhymes annoyingly with my name, and you're pissing me off.
I'll find you, antsinyourpants.com owner. And I'm going to put ants in your pants. Fire ants. Big ones. With aggressive psychological disorders. So watch yourself.
Same goes for you @antsinyourpants of Twitter. Your days are numbered.

5 Reasons I Hate the Internet

TOP 5 REASONS I HATE THE INTERNET


5) It doesn't count in real life.















4) It counts in real life.






3) The overarching and unwarranted hostility.






2) The destruction of the English language.
2.5) Facebook. (image shamelessly stolen from bigstupididiot.com)


1) When the powers of 2) and 3) unite: Youtubers.

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Hello world.

Truth be told, I hate blogs. But I read in a book that the first step to world domination is writing a blog. I believe everything I read. Especially on the internet.
When I hear the word, this is always the image that leaps to mind.
In my mind bloggers are middle aged fat men with beards that are either trying to be hip and cool and attract younger, more attractive women, or share their vacation pictures and personal technical reviews of their new gadgets. That or angsty teenagers proclaiming their woes to anyone who will listen, namely other angsty teenagers.
Aside from assuring you that I belong to neither of the aforementioned groups, there are other reasons why you should read this fledgling blog. The foremost reason is that I'm better than you at certain (and likely numerous) things, and you may learn something from me. If I'm not better than you, I'll pretend to be, and if you continue press the matter, I'll call you names and make you feel bad about yourself.
Rather than continuing a wall of text, I'll just make a succinct list of other reasons you should continue reading.
10 Reasons to Read This Blog
1) I'm better than you at something, if not most things.
2) Although I'm talented at writing (probably better than you), I am from the tl;dr culture and won't present you only with walls-o'-text. I like lists. And pictures. Which leads me to
3) I'm likely to post pictures. Pictures of kittens. And poor Photoshop/Illustrator drawings like the one above. And funny things. What else do you use the internet for?
4) I'm charming and handsome.
5) My ego is not over inflated, nor do I have an exceptionally high opinion of myself. I will never be condescending or sarcastic.
6) I'm opinionated, and almost always right.
7) I'll give Gold to those who frequent this blog and know when the narwhal bacons.
8) I'm pedantic for spelling and grammer.
9) I'm not affiliated with any terrorist organizations.
10) I like the same things you do.