The International Union of Shitly Speakers' Journal|
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|Thursday, April 21st, 2005|
|Thursday, March 3rd, 2005|
Everybody likes hearing about dreams.
Last night I had a very fun dream. It began, as far as I can recall, with my waiting in line to get into an underground rave. It was to be in some sort of drainage tunnel/cavern. After conversing with some of the ravers about world politics (mainly about the silly people that see China as a sleeping dragon. . . exciting, I know) I finally got to go down this very cool tunnel. It wouldn't be cool normally but I can remember the design so well. The cement was very smooth looking. Almost like a marble. After going through this tunnel I realized this was no rave, it was a secret underground indoor soccer (or football, for our uninformed and sadly unAmerican peoples) game. This did not interest me so much so I went back outside and began to wander around some nondescript metropolitan district. This part is somewhat hazy, something like I heard gunshots and screaming so I ducked into a somewhat spooky and fully condemned diner. Rotten wood and broken tables sort of thing. There were two armed individuals there, a woman and a man in his late fifties. And stray animal zombies. From there it turned into the basic plot to any zombie movie with us attempting to barricade ourselves in, needing to fall back to just the kitchen area while losing the old man and planning a run to some safer and more easily defendable area. I woke up before we could do that but I did get to shoot a lot of zombie people and their zombie pets. It was an extremely vivid dream. The textures of the doors, tables, walls, underground soccer plazas; the chipping paint in the diner, rotting faces of the zombies, everything was so realistic. I haven't had a dream like that in a long time. Surprisingly I haven't taken in any form of drugs in a week or two (no psychadelics in months) so I can't really attribute it to that.
Also, a few nights ago I had a dream that I was abruptly awaken by aliens coming into my living room--I was sleeping on the couch that night. I don't remember anything else, just being scared shitless and waking up in the morning with a sort of fear hangover. There must have been something on TV about aliens that night and something on last night about zombies. I liked the zombie dream bunches. The alien thing was too fucked up and scurry. Since I used about sixty words too many and probably mispelled or misused half of those I dedicate this Shitly.
|Friday, January 7th, 2005|
this community has catch phrases as an interest.. so ummmm
hello! my name is ben or trent or whatever,
and i have just started a new community on livejournal entitled catchphrases
the idea of it is to get people from all over to come together
and share the catchphrases that they find themselves using in their own lives.
membership is at an all time low, meaning just me as of this post...
but i have big plans and even bigger dreams for it!
so if this sounds interesting to you, please join
and post any catchphrases you regularly hear or say,
and maybe someday we can have, like, 10 members,
and then we can all get some new phrases in our lives.
thank you for your time.
|Wednesday, October 13th, 2004|
On the Mexican (and not Mexican-American) Food Service Industry
I've never been to an authentic Mexican restaurant and found my glassware, silverwear, and... uh, plateware(?) to be synchronously clean. Now, consider that I've been to very few authentic Mexican restaurants and it's easier to dismiss my clouded assertation that those people more closely tied to a more authentic Mexican (and by that I mean less Mexican-American--I don't say 'Latin' because I don't like that term, and, otherwise, it would reach to include peoples from varied cultures I've not had the pleasure of insulting/experiencing) culture tend to have none of the sterility hang-ups that have, in the last few hundred years, become more and more fused with cultures for mostly medical/scientific reasons. This is easily understood as an insult, I concede that. But beyond the categorical insult t'words Mexican restauranteurs and their loyal dishwash staff--
(I'll fork off for a moment here and inform those of you who are unaware that a great majority of the dishwashing done in this country today is done by Mexicans (or so us racists would like to believe)--well, maybe not a GREAT majority, but at least a significant amount. So that makes some wonder, why aren't a SIGNIFICANT AMOUNT of dishes dirty in a SIGNIFICANT AMOUNT of restaurants in this great land of milk and honey? To that I say, firstly, check your dishes more closely. Secondly, I don't wish to make you think that only Mexicans can improperly wash dishes because that's just stupid (and you'd be stupid if you thought I was getting at that). I believe that in many restaurants where Mexicans are paid poorly to wash dishes (among other things) and where their employer or some person in that chain of command, there is a mostly a lack of the cultural synergy that allows something like a glass with a tomatoe seed encrusted on the rim to reach my table. It still happens, I don't deny that. But I'm of the mind that, through my experience, such things happen MUCH more FREQUENTLY in establishments wholy ran by people with the aforementioned Cultural Synergy.
--whether the cleanliness of the dishes is any sign of the cleanliness of the practices and ingredients of the house chef, I do not think an assumption could so easily be made. But if one were to assume such, that a fork with a dried rice fragment might be an omen towards his bowels, he could hardly be blamed. I do think that the connection between dishes and food is somewhat less considering that it is more likely the chef is paid better in comparison to the dishwasher (assuming that one is not the other). My observations of the cultural aspect of cleanliness in the Mexican community is not solely limited to their cuisine (which I tend to disagree with, taste-wise) but can be observed at times through different mannerisms and choices of profession. I should state before I finish here that I myself am not an avid handwasher or spokesperson for sterility. Though I'm not a fan of the overly unclean I am generally unclean in appearance. And that's what I had to say that was so god cursed important.
[livejournal's spellcheck finds many, many things wrong with the above that I happen to disagree with, it's just too bad that there isn't a Usage check or a Parenthetical check or any other sort of check that would make the purpose of this club void]
|Monday, September 20th, 2004|
Keepin' the Jive Alive, 2004
My fellow Speakers of Shitly,
Next Thursday is the first US 'presidential debate'. I feel that we, as a collective, should create a hierarchy of valid and pressing issues that should be addressed at such an event. Following that, a list of subversive methods to dodge and whitewash these issues. Perhaps this List Two should be stripped of issues that won't even be considered for various political and legal reasons.
Consider this a sort of homework.
Concerning List One: exemptions are made to non-US citizens and anyone who doesn't really feel like doing it.
Concerning List Two: all are required to contribute in some way to the open-ended Debate-on-Debating-Tactics.
Later tonight I will create a skeleton for List One (and, by default, List Two) that may be twisted fattened or massaged at your pleasure. Or, I might not. Somebody surely will. Probably.
--Your True Leader
|Monday, August 16th, 2004|
I'm tired so Ill talk super shitly. Going to sleep is a negative. i cat stop.
emamio's avatar thing-a-ma-jigger owns.
And I'm spent.
|Monday, July 5th, 2004|
How I craft support request letters. Saved forever in the 'speakershitly symposium refractorum'
Dear Sir or Madam,
I've gone through the FAQ you've got on Java applets not loading and found that my problem isn't to be remedied that way. I used a Microsoft troubleshooting page (http://support.microsoft.com/default.aspx?scid=kb;en-us;q168806
) and found that all of their suggestions, quite similar to yours, have done nothing to fix my problem. According to their little test the 'scope' of my problem is site-specific though I'd not go so far as to say that but perhaps simply not an 'all web site' problem as the example they give seems to load fine while many other java applets (mainly yours) seem to fail. I don't even get the familiar grey square simple an empty image box with that triangle-circle-square icon (the cousin of the little red x). I know the problem is on my end but for the life of my I can't figure it out. Beyond the suggestions I've taken as mentioned above I am completely lost in the Java jungle. I don't know what to do. Any and all help (especially if it comes to some fruition) would be highly appreciated. Thank you.
I didn't sign it due to the fact that you never know where you enemies are, sitting in wait. A lesson I'm not attempting to go through again.
|Thursday, April 1st, 2004|
Hey I just joined and I must say that this is the perfect group for me. Ever since about 8th grade (5 years ago) I haven't been able to speak very well at all. To get my point across is next to impossible and I stutter and mumble all the time. Even when I just talk to friends. I'm sort of known as the one who cant talk. Anyways, I'm so glad I've found this community and I hope that'll pick up soon!
|Friday, March 12th, 2004|
OMA NO POSTS 4EVR
In the latest
SandwichJournal post I used our time tested Shitly method. It's been a while so it all came out a bit rusty. It's time to raise this deceased from ceasing to produce! Or something. I'll have to relearn proper spelling (or not!).
|Thursday, October 9th, 2003|
All I have to say to these couple of hooligan jokers.
To Whom It May Concern (c/o David and/or Goliath),
You can bash anything you want, Sir, but when you mess with Texas that's when I say Shame! Shame on you. Jesus could pick no better place to go up in a fiery standoff. God Bless Waco, TX. God Bless Las Vegas. And God Bless Ronald Reagan.
The Truth about my summer vacation that I took in October and every day the week before last.
Dir Sir or Madam in control of Customer Service for the United Nations International Breweries Commission,
I woke up this morning and what was waiting for me? Wham! Bag of dicks to the head. Defeated like another Jehova's Witness or the Cleveland Brown's Aaron Shea (defeated by a Bengal
no less). It's like the Flood of Noah is coming and you try to drown yourself in the bathroom sink of a gas station in a place where tumbleweeds scuff against the door and you wonder, "is somebody coming in--tapping at the metal? Will they see me supplicating the rust stains and bracing the cool slick porcelain? Maybe it's that Jehova's Witness. . ." But Noah's riding in on a surf board and the tumbleweeds are rounded up like WW2 Japanese and sold somewhere somehow. That never happens and you can't drown yourself in a sink that easily. Besides, who wants to be entombed in a gas station? Terrorists; sitting there facing east somehow and humming the bag of dick to the head blues while I try to look the other way and just drop my bomb with minimal 'plunk.' If a Neo-Nazi Group like the Japanese Diving Team can do it so can I. Let's just hope Zeron Flemister doesn't World Trade Center the Browns' GLORIOUS record or do worse by the Devil then Shea--we've got half a yard of Sheckles on this cocksucker down in the typing pool.
Love Peace and Soul,
XeiXei el-Emam ibn Quan;
The Mystical Hairabibi
cc: Butch Davis, Heir Trainerdirektor - Cleveland Browns
cc: Lord Brown, CEO British Petroleum Current Mood: not high enough
|Friday, September 26th, 2003|
a: Yeairemoudder's Coint.
a: oy! dars a foire plug.
Emamio8: ... WHAT
a: un da pictoire
Emamio8: there's a fine plug in the picture?
a: a foire plug
Emamio8: in the... picture?
a: doire ya go
a: oy! oy! OY!
Emamio8: This still means Nothing NOTHING.
Emamio8: Real. REAL
a: roile gut baer! oy!
Emamio8: Really good beer? YOU FUCKING DRUNK BASTARD SPEAK NONFUCKED ENGLISH
Emamio8: Cunning Linguist.
a: eineghliesh! oy?
a: da eineghliesh or foire plug? oy?
Emamio8: English ... english?
a: oy-oy. Ya'er'n it!
a: Reiden it, leist.
a: Trine reid it, leist!
Emamio8: Try and read it? Skullfuckery
a: OY OU LOU
Emamio8: Are you lou? you giant QUEER
a: Yoh motheri?
a: Oy, eir lott bouwer! oy-oy-oy
Emamio8: Yoh muthkkat?
a: Un muftah?
a: Aisehaere unyur chinn.
a: Aeten aise foire mournmeele.
Emamio8: There's naery a lahgur en muh chinn.
a: Unyer chinn, oy. Current Mood: oy, foiredah . . migh-weshiesse
a: The Senator's stalwart chockery on various reform bills has given him the reputation of a legislative brick wall.
|Friday, September 19th, 2003|
Sink your dink--when there's pie I can't think!
Emamio8: You there. You, Do you enjoy living.
a57176173: Some days.
a57176173: I enjoy life as I enjoy pie.
a57176173: When it's there--it's there and it's good.
a57176173: But when it's not I don't think about it too much.
Emamio8: I must applaud the metaphor.
a57176173: Thank you.
Emamio8: *aplause and other homosexual activities*
a57176173: I'm preparing it for shitly.
6 Years to the Day
I'd never seen an ocean.
Bastardised chameleon of the gentry, hierarchal form left my credibility vulnerable to the lowest...
In that historically
Proferred by the dismay
None at all, the rattle is evident and nullified. 20 years does much to dull the senses.
Of import of taste. Berated and conflicted in freedoms.
Comical of a name, Long Legs. A hummingbird float across the salmon confines, much maligned in his parting.
Violent parting. as his ancestry would dictate, miscegenied. Disastrously fibrous.
And there, before my very monocle, a trickle, a drip.
The ocean yielded.
He died. And she left the country without a word. Current Mood: sad
|Tuesday, August 5th, 2003|
|Saturday, July 12th, 2003|
"I mean that Innocent Smith is a man of business," sadi Moon with ponderous precision. "A plain, practical man; a man of affairs; a man of facts and the daylight. He has let down twenty ton of good building bricks suddenly on my head and I am glad to say they have woken me up. We went to sleep a little while ago on this very lawn, in this very sunlight. We have had a little nap for five years of so, but now we're going to be married, Rosamund, and I can't see why that cab. . . ."
"Really," said Rosamund stoutly, "I don't know what you mean."
"What a lie!" cried Michael, advancing on her with brightening eyes. "I'm all for lies in an ordinary way; but don't you see that to-noght they won't do? We've wandered into a world of facts, old girl. That grass growing, and that sun going down, and that cab at the door, are facts. You used to torment and excuse yourself by saying I was after your money, and didn't really love you. But if I stood here now, and told you I didn't love you--you wouldn't believe me. For truth is in this garden to-night."
"Really, Mr. Moon . . ." said Rosamund, rather more faintly.
He kept two big blue magnetic eyes fixed on her face. "Is my name Moon?" he asked. "Is your name Hunt? On my honour, they sound to me as quaint and distant as Red Indian names. It's as if your name was 'Swim,' and my name was 'Sunrise.' But our real names are Husband and Wife, as they were when we fell asleep."
"It is no good," said Rosamund, with no real tears in her eyes; "one can never go back."
"I can go where I damn please," said Michael, "and I can carry you on my shoulder."
"But really, Michael, really, you must stop and think!" cried the girl earnestly. "You could carry me off my feet I dar say, soul and body, but it may be bitter bad business for all that. These things done in that romantic rush, like Mr. Smith's, they--they do attract women, I don't deny it. As you say, we're all telling the truth to-night. They've attracted poor Mary, for one. They attract me, Michael. But the cold fact remains: imprudent marriages do lead to long unhappiness and disappointment--you've got used to your drinks and things--I shan't be pretty much longer--"
"Imprudent marriages!" roared Michael. "And pray where in earth or heaven are there any prudent marriages? Might as well talk about prudent suicides. You and I have dawdled round each other long enough, and are we any safer than Smith and Mary Gray who met last night? You never know a husband till you marry him. Unhappy! Of course you'll be unhappy! Who the devil are you that you shouldn't be unhappy, like the mother that bore you? Disappointed! Of course we'll be disappointed! I, for one, don't exptect till I die to be so good a man as I am at this minute, for just now I'm fifty thousand feet high, a tower with all the trumpets shouting."
"You see all this," said Rosamund, with a grand sincerity in her solid face, "and do you really want to marry me?"
"My darling, what else is there to do?" reasoned the Irishman. "What other occupation is there for an active man on this earth, except to marry you? What's the alternative to marriage, barring sleep? It's not liberty, Rosamund. Unless you marry God, as our nuns do in Ireland, you must marry Man; that is Me. The only third thing is to marry yourself--to live with yourself--yourself, yourself, yourself--the only companion that is never satisfied--and never satisfactory."
|Monday, June 23rd, 2003|
On a non-work release from the ghetto--Don't have to be back for another eleven hours.
This shot has been sitting here for twenty hours. I can hear taunts slithering out of its dry little throat. The blasphemy is in an Aramaic that I cannot understand but the intentions are clear: at least one of us will not continue drawing breaths by morning. The Tanqueray has done this before, yes. But so have I, fagmunchers. So have I.
Pump me up, Lemmy.
|Sunday, June 15th, 2003|
James Joyce should be our Shitly Guru.
All in favour, say "Aye".
|Monday, June 9th, 2003|