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I Mourn for Adonis and the other perils of fan fiction (which is still destroying America, by the way)

Not so long ago, I warned that fan fiction was destroying America.

I’ve been silent on the subject since then because of the vitriol-filled emails I got from five different fanfic authors.

Five of them. That’s what, seventy or eighty percent of the people who write fanfic, right?

Clearly, I touched a nerve.

Their impassioned death threats and photos of the front of my house left me with both a lot to think about and an extreme reluctance to go outside, let alone touch on the subject again.

Until now.

Their chief complaint, after the one about my continued existence in a living, non-tortured state, was that as someone who didn’t write fanfic, I wasn’t a special star and could therefore never know what I was talking about.

Au contraire! I have written fanfic. In fact, I can count on three fingers the number of fanfic works I’ve written:

Two Doctor Whos (one thirty years ago, one about ten years ago) and one Star Trek (about twenty-five years ago).

So I have not only fanfic writing experience, but the wisdom, when speaking of it, that comes with age.

I know, I know, you’re thinking, “Ian, you’ve written fanfic? Bullsh*t.”

I can sympathize with this assessment. If I didn’t know myself intimately (and believe me, I do), I would share that assessment.

Therefore, I offer proof.

The first Doctor Who fanfic is lost to history, so I cannot present it as evidence of my bona fides. And the second Doctor Who story was written for an audience of exactly two (myself and the Missus, who is the star of the tale), and is not meant to be shared.

Both stories are also so terrible that to read them threatens the very fabric of space-time, and as my hero, the Doctor, would never stand for that, they shall remain forever beyond your reach.

That leaves the Star Trek story. When I first hit upon the idea of using it as my rebuttal to the vile electronic hate-scrawls that filled my inbox after the first blog post, I despaired. For I believed it, too, to be lost forever.

I was dimly aware of a copy reproduced in my high school Science Fiction club newsletter, but remembering the name of and then tracking down the phone number and calling the president of the club seemed like far too much effort.

In addition, ever since the burning paper bags with copies of Star Trek: Voyager inside them started appearing on my porch, I’ve been less than enthused about the idea of interacting with the outside world.

You have no idea how difficult it is to remove melted plastic from concrete. Especially when you know what had been on that plastic.

I have looked through the translucent blue case and seen horrors beyond description.

This is the hardware responsible for proving a horrific truth. There should be a Star Trek episode where Kirk and Spock go back in time to prevent the device from ever being built. Hmm, I may have a story idea there…

Then I bought a used USB Zip drive (via mail order, of course), and started going through all the Zip disks I had stored in my garage.

It proved to be a treasure trove of old pictures, letters, school papers, and, yes, works of fiction by yours truly.

It is this recent development that now allows me to present to you, my discriminating readers, proof of two things:

1) That I have indeed partaken of the fan fiction fount, and can therefore trash talk it without consequence from the tiny but fanatic community that still perpetuates this literary crime against Humanity

2) Fanfic is, as I have always maintained, and as my story demonstrates beyond any doubt, a literary crime against Humanity

So I now present to you, mostly unedited (except for the Kirk/Spock/time-traveling Wesley Crusher threesome scene – propriety demanded I cut it), Star Trek: I Mourn For Adonis. I recommend donning Peril-Sensitive Sunglasses before reading any further.
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Posted by on 1 February 2013 in Conspiracies Out To Get Me, Fanfic

 

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Mon Dieu, ces films sont terrible! [Enjoy, pig-dog English-speaking viewers!]

French films are the only weapon the Federation has that continues to be effective against the Borg.

Why on Earth did I agree to show these French films on the main viewscreen? Unmake it so!

I was watching a French film the other day, and it finally dawned on my why French films are so (in?)famous for having…shall we say, adult content.

They’re boring.

And pretentious.

And just when you reach the point in the film where a sane viewer would say, “Good grief, this movie is boring! And pretentious! I am going to stop watching!” the first naked lady makes an appearance.

“Oh, hang on, this just got interesting,” you think to yourself if other people are in the room, or say aloud if you’re alone.

And if you’re all alone, sitting in a dark room while watching a French movie and talking to yourself, you’re a sick bastard. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.

Freak.

French film directors, realizing their propensity for using their movies to lecture you about topics ranging from existential nihilism to abstract pony-saddling techniques, and not being complete idiots, throw in some racy sexy bits right about the point where most intelligent film-goers (film-goers, because the French don’t make things as crass as movies) would leave the theater with a roll of the eye and a snort of disdain.

But a naked lady keeps us in our seats.

Often, just to be safe, these directors will throw in a second naked lady, and, on occasion, as a bone to female and homosexual film-goers, a third, naked, male participant.

Sadly, they almost always ruin what would be perfectly entertaining scenes by having the characters continue to talk.

I find this horribly distracting, especially if they’re talking about pony-saddling techniques while they go at it.

And being French films, muting the volume doesn’t help. Those damned, sanctimonious subtitles are still there, popping up at the bottom of the screen, their silent siren call irresistible to all but the most astigmatic of eyes.

So while there’s a lot of pink bobbing and bouncing on the top three-quarters of the screen, I find myself reading some arrogant dissertation on Man’s inhumanity to Man, and Holy Moly, is that kind of posture possible when non-gymnasts have sex?

So you stick around because the top three-quarters of the screen compels you to, even after the love/lust/orgy/what-the-hell-is-that-pony-doing-here scene has ended.

Because hey, there might be another one of those scenes soon.

There isn’t.

Not soon enough, anyway.

No, instead you have to watch the characters, who are nothing more than annoying, two-dimensional substitutes for metaphors, move around on the screen in such a dull manner that your eyes naturally drift down to read more pedantic crap about how small and insignificant individuals are in the universe. All of this surrounded by the cacophony that is known as the French language.

Give me Esperanto over French any day.

But these directors know their stuff. French film academies must have commissioned thousands of studies involving millions of people, to learn at just what point you need to stick another flagrantly naked people scene into a movie to prevent a mass audience exodus from the theater.

The French term for this type of scene is bébé scandaleusement nu de personnes oh ouais!

I just call it disgusting.

Very watchable disgusting.

Sadly, this hopscotching from one nucleus accumbens-loving scene to another has a terrible cost for the viewer. We think, with each well-framed gyration of bare skin, that we are one moment closer to an exciting filmatic climax, that the infuriatingly smug presentation of the central theme of the film is some form of crude foreplay that serves, in its inept, pleasure-killing manner, only to make us appreciate the naughty bits all that much more.

Much like, as my dad used to say, your lip feels so much better when you pull the needle out of it.

Turns out, that’s not true.

Not even remotely.

So just as your lip continues to hurt like hell after the needle extraction, these scenes are not all the more titillating because they are surrounded by the cinematic messaging equivalent of blunt force trauma. If they were, all French films would end with a bébé scandaleusement nu de personnes oh ouais!

But they don’t. The directors assume after the last sex scene that we are spent and limp in our chairs, unable to resist one final not-even-thinly-veiled homily about whatever idiotic point their movie is supposedly about.

Although watching a pony talk to me about different types of saddle bindings while both I and the pony are in a semi-conscious state is definitely a surreal experience.

Just not one I recommend.

So the directors take advantage of our near-somnambulistic state to hammer home their message. Usually via a drawn-out monologue voice-over while presenting us a car’s-eye-view of someone driving down a long and winding road, the destination unknown and unknowable, the driver of said car unknowing.

When the film gets to this point, I am left not knowing why I sat through the entire movie. I yearn for the ability to travel back in time, not to prevent myself from seeing the movie, but to kill myself before seeing the movie in order to create a paradox that destroys the entire universe, thus protecting alternate universes from this form of visual drivel.

It takes me a few days to get over this feeling and abandon my time-travel development efforts in the basement.

Which is probably in everyone’s self-interest.

I liken this French approach to ending films to a hard, swift kick in the man-globes right after a session of oh-so-fine-lovin’.

Like a French film, I go into it suspecting nothing so dire awaits me, and afterwards I always feel vaguely used, deeply unsatisfied, and in a tremendous amount of crotch pain.

Or as the French call it, douleur de fourche.

Des bâtards!

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Posted by on 15 December 2012 in Angst, Conspiracies Out To Get Me, Story

 

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Why is everything trying to kill me? Or at least deprive me of sleep?

Recently, my life has been struck by multiple tragedies.

Gas prices are well-positioned to break the sky diving altitude record.

I don’t get to sleep in anymore because my young kiddos are earlier risers.

I’m dying.

A fourth, potential tragedy, given my alleged children’s polar opposite behavior when it comes to mornings, is that they may not be mine.

(I’m not sure which I prefer – that I produced humans who enjoy being up before the sun, or that I didn’t produce the humans I am raising as my own. So far, it’s a toss-up.)

While being deprived of my morning ritual of not waking up is by far the most unendurable of these tragedies, the dying thing is a not-so-distant second.

And as someone recently forced by circumstances to buy a mini van, let me tell you, watching the dollars spent spin by while gassing that thing up is a special form of financial torture that makes you wish for death.

This has left me feeling a bit conflicted.

Yes, death offers a very tempting escape from the bankruptcy-inducing cost of keeping my toddler transport vehicle operational.

But only for me. Not so much for the surviving missus. Or my kids, for that matter.

So while expensive gas should make death seem like a viable option for me, it doesn’t.

It turns out this dying thing has got me kinda freaked out.

It’s not fair. I was plodding along in life, reasonably happy and utterly oblivious to my impending bankruptcy/mortality, when BOOM!

It happened.

An awakening event that revealed my horrible fate to me.

A birthday.

Actually, three birthdays in rapid succession.

The missus, a friend, and I all flipped our annual odometers this month.

And unlike cars, you can’t roll back your personal odometer.

Believe me, I tried. But turns out biological clocks are way more complicated than the cable and count rotation systems employed by automobile odometers, and can’t be reset no matter how much ether you drink or scalpels you employ.

(Pro tip: don’t try to operate on yourself while under the influence of ether. At best, you get some interesting scars. At best.)

This year, my birthday was one of those ‘landmark’ birthdays, the kind that greeting card publishers print special cards for. Like, an entire row in the store card section special cards.

This officially means I am old.

Not ancient like my parents, thankfully, but still, old.

And running up to that birthday, seeing it sitting there like a panther on a large boulder, licking its chops while waiting for me to get close enough to pounce, all I could think about was the fact that I’m old.

Getting old.

Getting older.

In other words, dying.

Yes, if this aging thing isn’t stopped, it will eventually kill me.

Don’t snort derisively. It’ll eventually kill you too.

Sadly, there’s no known cure at this time, though I’ve heard about some interesting treatments that can allegedly prolong your life:

  • Cryogenics, where they freeze you until a cure is found for aging. The only drawbacks I’ve come across so far in my research is that people with an intolerance for cold aren’t good candidates, and that Norwegians, used to intemperate climates, are immune to the process (and its benefits).Swedes and the Dutch, inexplicably, are not immune.
  • Organ replacement, where they replace your organs with those of young Chinese dissidents. If you have the money and the connections, I hear they can keep you going an extra forty, fifty years. Maybe enough time to find a proper cure.
  • A regular regimen of exercise and healthy eating. This strikes me as the least promising of the studies I’ve come across, but if I get desperate enough, I may try it.

For now, I’m watching the clock tick by as I listen to the news, waiting to hear about a mortality treatment breakthrough. And keeping an eye on my 401k, hoping it performs well enough to finance my organ replacement plans.

So far, it isn’t.

Which is a tragedy.

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Posted by on 23 October 2012 in Angst, Conspiracies Out To Get Me, Life

 

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Necrophilia: Yet another argument for cremation

Family-friendly vehicle, or corpse-smuggling automotive enabler?

It is a well-known fact that the Honda Odyssey is the preferred vehicle of necrophiliacs. It must be the smooth ride and impressive air conditioning.

I’m worried about what will happen to me after I die.

I’ve always been worried about dying, though more out my reluctance to leave a huge vacancy in the lives of my friends and family than due to my abject terror of shuffling off this oh-so-cursedly mortal coil.

But I’ve suddenly realized that something truly terrible could happen to me after I’ve died.

My corpse could fall into the hands of a necrophiliac.

Yes, I am now kept up late at night by worries of being violated in flagrante delicto mortum.

Not even my wife’s repeated assurances that I’d be lucky to get any while alive provide any comfort.

But she tries, and that’s why I love her. And my kids. I love my kids because despite looking nothing like me, they are clearly a part of the woman I love.

So what is one to do? How can one protect the sanctity of one’s body after death?

Who would want to have sex with a rotting corpse, especially one that looks like yours? is the most common response I get when I raise this question.

They’re necrophiliacs, people! Depraved misfits who get off on disgusting acts. Nothing is beneath them.

Save perhaps the occasional corpse.

So you can’t just blithely rule the possibility out.

You’re dead, you won’t care, now can I please leave? is another response I’ve been hearing a lot lately. Mostly from co-workers I’ve pigeon-holed in the smaller conference rooms at work. Their callous attitude makes me suspicious they have darker motives for convincing me to drop my guard.

Damned closeted necros.

Yes, if I’m dead, I might be oblivious to the trespass, but knowing it could happen then makes me care now.

Right now.

So what can I do?

Cremation seems like the perfect solution, until you think about it.

First off, what’s to stop someone desecrating your urn? Sure, ashes might not be the sexiest lubricant, but if the particles are fine enough…

No, I have not thought about this too much! You can never think about something this important too much!

But assuming you order the extra-coarse cremation option (and frankly, this ought to be an option, crematoriums), there’s still that period of vulnerability between the moment of death and the embrace of the furnace.

You could end up in the care of an unsavory cremation technician who’s been exposed just a little too long to the fumes of the crematorium furnace fuel.

Hell, if I was a necrophiliac, and I wanted a pool of perfect victims where there would be no unpleasant embalming fluids to deal with (I imagine formaldehyde would burn … sensitive areas) and you’re not just expected, but encouraged, to burn all the evidence, cremation technician would be the perfect job.

And that’s assuming your body is found right away. What if you have the bad luck to keel over while alone with a secret necrophiliac?

Or worse, killed by one? One who has meticulously planned your murder to minimize physical damage in order to stuff your naked body and keep it as a trophy in his (or her) underground dungeon, right next to the naked Blake Shelton Real Doll?

At least I hope that’s a Real Doll!

Or, worst case of all scenario, you’re murdered by a necrophiliac who abuses your poor corpse for years, and then the bastard dies of a heart attack, how else but in flagrante delicto mortum. And thus is your body discovered and photographed for evidence (and for the private collections of some pretty sick CSI techs), and then you are turned over to a cremation technician.

A cremation tech who enjoys huffing and just happens to like the cut of your jib, as it were.

Talk about a final indignity!

If you aren’t worried about this, you should be! No one is exempt from the perverted attractions felt by amorous necros. And lets face it, they probably aren’t getting a lot, so they’re gonna feel really, really amorous.

Like large quantities of alcohol, that’s only gonna lower their standards until no one dead is safe.

We need as many people working on a solution to this problem as possible because frankly, I haven’t slept a wink since this threat became known to me.

This means I’m really tired.

Combine that with my driving a mini van now, quite possibly on a road in your neighborhood, and I think you are properly incentivized.

And when you think about it, that’s clearly what’s really bothering me: I drive a mini van.

Which means I’m old.

Which means I’m closer to dying.

And falling into the clutches of a depraved cremation technician.

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Why I hate Blake Shelton

I’m depressed.

It could be because of the crippling lack of sleep I’ve been suffering due to that most perfect form of birth control, toddlers.

I didn’t mention this in my previous post on the evil of toddlers, but they also tend to scream a lot at random intervals between the hours 8pm and 8am.

And once awake, I am restless and can take as long as an hour to fall back asleep.

Or it could be my rapidly fading faith that Humanity has a future.

I’ve been mini van shopping, and how can you have hope for a species when you have a comparison site lauding the 15 cup holders in Brand X’s 8-seat vehicle over shameful Brand Y’s mere 10 cup holders in their 7-seat vehicle?

How many freakin’ drinks do 7 or 8 people need to lug around with them on trips?

“Oh, I can’t drink the beverage in this cup holder – it’s for holding my northbound cup, and we’re currently traveling north by northwest. Hand me the Tab in my NW holder, please. Ah, thank you.”

Yeah, the conclusion we are completely and utterly screwed (but most likely fully slaked when it comes to thirst) is inescapable.

It could be my complete and total inability to put on a believable fake Scottish accent.

You’d be surprised how desirable, if not downright important, that skill is in certain situations.

Look at that smug, evil, fully dressed bastard!

Look at this smug, evil, fully dressed bastard!

But I’ve narrowed it down to Blake Shelton. Which is why I hate him.

Oh, it’s not poor Blake Shelton’s fault. Don’t know him, his music (or his TV shows, or his art, or whatever it is he’s famous for).

It’s his fans.

In particular, the ones hell-bent on seeing him naked.

Or nekkid, nekked, and nude.

Which would seemingly lead right back to the whole “no faith in Humanity” jag, but that’s not where I’m going.

It leads right back to me.

Someone I follow on twitter mentioned adding a “Blake Shelton naked” tag to her blog. As a joke. And getting a huge spike in search hits.

So as a joke, I added this tag to a blog post that had nothing to do with Blakes, Sheltons, nakeds, nudes, nekkids, or nekkeds.

I thought it would be funny. All these Blake Shelton fans, hot and bothered about the nudie pics they were about to see, landing on my blog instead and becoming crushingly disappointed.

<insert evil laugh here>

And then, not long after that, I discovered the Site Stats feature on WordPress.

Now I don’t get a huge number of hits every day. Or a lot. Or even very many. Or, possibly, by some people’s standards, not even a few. And that’s pretty depressing in and of itself.

The hits I do get? Steadily, day after day, more than half who reach my site are using some combination of the following search terms:

Blake/Blak/Bake + Sheldon/Shelton + naked/nude/nekkid/nekked/huge throbbing/well-oiled/priest collar/vintage

And that’s depressing.

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Posted by on 28 March 2012 in Life

 

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