Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
And now for some random questions...
If a trumpet blows in the forest and no one's around to hear it, did the trumpet actually suck?
Why hasn't Brett Favre chosen to play in the TFL?
When a TA tells you that your marching sucks like something you actually like, do you no longer like that thing? Like, what if you liked Oreos, but then a TA says you march like bad Oreos, do you no longer like Oreos? Or do you just change it up and go for the Double Stuf Oreos because those are better anyway?
How do you feel about drapes?
Why don't more people do us all a service and eat a buckeye?
And finally...
Have you figured out who The Professional is?
Why hasn't Brett Favre chosen to play in the TFL?
When a TA tells you that your marching sucks like something you actually like, do you no longer like that thing? Like, what if you liked Oreos, but then a TA says you march like bad Oreos, do you no longer like Oreos? Or do you just change it up and go for the Double Stuf Oreos because those are better anyway?
How do you feel about drapes?
Why don't more people do us all a service and eat a buckeye?
And finally...
Have you figured out who The Professional is?
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Stupidity on a Saturday
Alright kids, The Professional does not like to reveal his or her own political beliefs, but there's a statement in Saturday's Chicago Tribune that cannot go without a comment. It should be no shock to any of you that the young people these days are wearing their pants lower than our economy, and some suburbs have taken action against the horror. Suburbs like Lynwood, for example, have passed ordinances that call for fines against any person exposing more than 3 inches of their underwear in public. Now, The Professional refuses to say which side he or she thinks is right; however, The Professional takes great issue with a spokesperson for the ACLU that felt inclined to open his trap on the subject.
ACLU spokesperson Edwin Yohnka says, "One of our concerns is that we know who wears baggy pants; it appears these are efforts to have more police interaction with young men of color." While this statement is never backed up by evidence from Yohnka, it is his next sentence that pisses The Professional off.
"Let's see if they start pulling over plumbers for their pants."
So let's get something straight here. This Yohnka guy is part of an organization devoted to upholding the civil rights of Americans, yet he blatantly stereotypes and generalizes about two groups of people seconds within each other. Doesn't seem very fair at all to The Professional.
Apparently, only black teens and plumbers wear their pants way below their waistline. The Professional understands that Mr. Yohnka is directing his anger at police who tend to arrest blacks more often than whites, but he should not be allowed to make a somewhat understandable generalization and then put a ridiculous one about plumbers on top of that. The Professional would never want you defending my civil rights, sir. Your logic has more holes in it than a line of old people playing Red Rover.
This is obvious.
ACLU spokesperson Edwin Yohnka says, "One of our concerns is that we know who wears baggy pants; it appears these are efforts to have more police interaction with young men of color." While this statement is never backed up by evidence from Yohnka, it is his next sentence that pisses The Professional off.
"Let's see if they start pulling over plumbers for their pants."
So let's get something straight here. This Yohnka guy is part of an organization devoted to upholding the civil rights of Americans, yet he blatantly stereotypes and generalizes about two groups of people seconds within each other. Doesn't seem very fair at all to The Professional.
Apparently, only black teens and plumbers wear their pants way below their waistline. The Professional understands that Mr. Yohnka is directing his anger at police who tend to arrest blacks more often than whites, but he should not be allowed to make a somewhat understandable generalization and then put a ridiculous one about plumbers on top of that. The Professional would never want you defending my civil rights, sir. Your logic has more holes in it than a line of old people playing Red Rover.
This is obvious.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
The Warren Commission Will Have A Field Day With This
Pardon the pun. (You'll soon see why).
This is a record I'll leave here, and hope someone reads it. Though it really doesn't matter, you don't know me, and I won't ever be able to tell anyone in person - which, is a shame, considering my job has led me to do some very influential things. Horrible, yes, but influential. You've probably seen my work. Below lies an account of the most (in)famous job I've done yet. I hope someone knows what to do with it.
14 October, 2003 ---
A half-burned cigarette hung from my mouth, as I stared out into the crowd, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. I scanned faces, read lips; it's easy to figure out so much about a person just by looking at them walk, talk, even stand for a few minutes. I wait.
I've spent years preparing for moments such as this. I've staked out this spot based on countless hours pouring over reconnaissance photos, studying angles, calculating probabilities, anticipating the unexpected. Thousands of preparatory hours drain like sand into a few seconds of action.
I am ready; I'm a face in a crowd, blended into this throng of people, identifiable only by a name which isn't even mine. With luck, they won't even remember I was here. Conversation surrounds me like a comfortable blanket. The sheep protect the wolf when they think he's one of them.
I hear my signal, a crack that echos across the buildings. It sounds agreeably like a starter's pistol, spurring me to use the stairs I waited on as starter's blocks, propelling me towards my goal. I see my target now, spiraling towards me, our collision quickly becoming a conclusory exercise in physics. Now, mid-flight, I plan the second act: the escape.
My exit strategy focuses upon the man sitting in Aisle 4, Row 8, Seat 113. Unassuming, wearing headphones, a face in the crowd who will be soon much more than that. He's the closest one to where I'll need to be, and for this sole reason, he becomes my patsy.
The ball falls down from its lofty heights, the outfielder moves in to catch it, and in this moment, I act. I move with my mark, mimicking his actions at first, then extending outwards to intercept the ball before it reaches the safe confines of the outfielder's glove. He doesn't notice, no one notices, and I slink away, a shadow, a void. It's amazing what the human mind will do when a gap of information occurs. You knew he was the one that did it, right? He thought he did it too.
That's not the only job I've done, nor is it the last. In the established structures in our society, there are always hidden conduits where information is shared and the structures are subtly altered. I'm just one of those conduits.
This is obvious.
This is a record I'll leave here, and hope someone reads it. Though it really doesn't matter, you don't know me, and I won't ever be able to tell anyone in person - which, is a shame, considering my job has led me to do some very influential things. Horrible, yes, but influential. You've probably seen my work. Below lies an account of the most (in)famous job I've done yet. I hope someone knows what to do with it.
14 October, 2003 ---
A half-burned cigarette hung from my mouth, as I stared out into the crowd, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. I scanned faces, read lips; it's easy to figure out so much about a person just by looking at them walk, talk, even stand for a few minutes. I wait.
I've spent years preparing for moments such as this. I've staked out this spot based on countless hours pouring over reconnaissance photos, studying angles, calculating probabilities, anticipating the unexpected. Thousands of preparatory hours drain like sand into a few seconds of action.
I am ready; I'm a face in a crowd, blended into this throng of people, identifiable only by a name which isn't even mine. With luck, they won't even remember I was here. Conversation surrounds me like a comfortable blanket. The sheep protect the wolf when they think he's one of them.
I hear my signal, a crack that echos across the buildings. It sounds agreeably like a starter's pistol, spurring me to use the stairs I waited on as starter's blocks, propelling me towards my goal. I see my target now, spiraling towards me, our collision quickly becoming a conclusory exercise in physics. Now, mid-flight, I plan the second act: the escape.
My exit strategy focuses upon the man sitting in Aisle 4, Row 8, Seat 113. Unassuming, wearing headphones, a face in the crowd who will be soon much more than that. He's the closest one to where I'll need to be, and for this sole reason, he becomes my patsy.
The ball falls down from its lofty heights, the outfielder moves in to catch it, and in this moment, I act. I move with my mark, mimicking his actions at first, then extending outwards to intercept the ball before it reaches the safe confines of the outfielder's glove. He doesn't notice, no one notices, and I slink away, a shadow, a void. It's amazing what the human mind will do when a gap of information occurs. You knew he was the one that did it, right? He thought he did it too.
That's not the only job I've done, nor is it the last. In the established structures in our society, there are always hidden conduits where information is shared and the structures are subtly altered. I'm just one of those conduits.
This is obvious.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Thursday, July 10, 2008
One Small Step for Man, One Giant Leap for Complete and Utter Absurdity
It's going to be an exciting year for the Marching Illini this year as director Peter Griffin has announced the road trip for the 2008 season will be to the moon.
"First, I believe that this nation should commit itself to achieving the goal, before this decade is out, of landing a band on the Moon and returning them safely to the Earth. No single space project in this period will be more impressive to mankind, or more important in the long-range exploration of space; and none will be so difficult or expensive to accomplish. We choose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard, because that goal will serve to organize and measure the best of our energies and skills, because that challenge is one that we are willing to accept, one we are unwilling to postpone, and one which we intend to win, and the others, too. Give em a little more!"
At this point in the interview, Peter Griffin broke the nose of a passing 92 year old woman who had been out buying groceries as he violently thrust the palm of his hand in her direction. He had to be escorted from the premises.
Several questions must be raised in response to such a bold move by the University of Illinois.
Firstly: Who is paying for all of this?
Secondly: What will the band bring to the moon? Especially if attending a picnic?
Thirdly: Can actual marching occur in a next to zero gravity environment?
Fourthly: How are the TAs going to get the equipment truck to the moon?
There are several more questions that need to get asked, but I am obviously just wasting my time even typing them up because I can in no way except a legitimate answer from any of you.
This is you- "Oh, what would I bring to a picnic on the moon? I would bring air. Tee hee (inaudible giggles)."
I can only imagine that IFund will be fronting the bill for the multi-billion dollar space trip.
As Dr. Griffin was being led away by security officers he could be heard ranting, "It'll be great, band! We're going to march in three dimensions! Imagine! False rotations vertically!"
NASA refuses to send 350 college students to the moon though the scientific principles behind the physics of a pong game were intriguing. The Russian Federal Space Agency, however, is completely on board with the idea. General Director Anatoly Perminov has offered to let the band fly up in their space craft. "Hell," the head of the Russian space program said, "let them go up from Russia... We need the money."
The sousaphones have never been more excited.
But why the moon? It's going to cost a fortune especially with gas being at around $4.00 a gallon. Imagine what rocket fuel costs. The moon is about 250,000 miles away. Sure, not much fuel is spent once the vehicle is in space, but the bulk of that fuel is used getting off the ground. They should just take us to Happy Valley. It wouldn't be nearly as far or costly.
This is obvious.
"First, I believe that this nation should commit itself to achieving the goal, before this decade is out, of landing a band on the Moon and returning them safely to the Earth. No single space project in this period will be more impressive to mankind, or more important in the long-range exploration of space; and none will be so difficult or expensive to accomplish. We choose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard, because that goal will serve to organize and measure the best of our energies and skills, because that challenge is one that we are willing to accept, one we are unwilling to postpone, and one which we intend to win, and the others, too. Give em a little more!"
At this point in the interview, Peter Griffin broke the nose of a passing 92 year old woman who had been out buying groceries as he violently thrust the palm of his hand in her direction. He had to be escorted from the premises.
Several questions must be raised in response to such a bold move by the University of Illinois.
Firstly: Who is paying for all of this?
Secondly: What will the band bring to the moon? Especially if attending a picnic?
Thirdly: Can actual marching occur in a next to zero gravity environment?
Fourthly: How are the TAs going to get the equipment truck to the moon?
There are several more questions that need to get asked, but I am obviously just wasting my time even typing them up because I can in no way except a legitimate answer from any of you.
This is you- "Oh, what would I bring to a picnic on the moon? I would bring air. Tee hee (inaudible giggles)."
I can only imagine that IFund will be fronting the bill for the multi-billion dollar space trip.
As Dr. Griffin was being led away by security officers he could be heard ranting, "It'll be great, band! We're going to march in three dimensions! Imagine! False rotations vertically!"
NASA refuses to send 350 college students to the moon though the scientific principles behind the physics of a pong game were intriguing. The Russian Federal Space Agency, however, is completely on board with the idea. General Director Anatoly Perminov has offered to let the band fly up in their space craft. "Hell," the head of the Russian space program said, "let them go up from Russia... We need the money."
The sousaphones have never been more excited.
But why the moon? It's going to cost a fortune especially with gas being at around $4.00 a gallon. Imagine what rocket fuel costs. The moon is about 250,000 miles away. Sure, not much fuel is spent once the vehicle is in space, but the bulk of that fuel is used getting off the ground. They should just take us to Happy Valley. It wouldn't be nearly as far or costly.
This is obvious.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Trying to Buy Bagels Shouldn't Lead to an Existential Meltdown
I've got advice for those of you interested in acquiring freshly baked goods for reasonable supermarket prices, be prepared to seriously question your belief system, tear it down completely, and then reinvent it all within the span of 5 minutes, 34 seconds.
Do your best to picture this scenario with your already scoffing minds: I'm in the grocery store and just starting to come off of the high produced by having a cool blast of freshness invade my face as I walk in. My cart has the usual front right wheel that wants to turn left except when you back up, at which point it wants to just stop moving. I walk past the turning rotisserie chickens and thing, "If those chickens were any more golden, they'd be a Badger fan at a cheese castle." Anyway, just down the line from the display of rotating, glistening meat is the greatest sight for my sore eyes--the bagel bins.
I love the bagel bins! Maybe it's because they look just like the bins at a candy store. You know, the kind with the magnets just above the door that are harder to get away from than a toddler you didn't give enough Juicy Juice to. So I try to decide what kind of bagel to get first, and it's just too hard. Do I go for the egg? Chocolate Chip? Asiago? Onion? Or do I stay plain? So I pass out and wake up when the linoleum gets too cold for my face. Sure enough, nobody's around me because nobody recognizes anyone else when you're food shopping. You're there with one thought on your mind--"I'm freaking starving and I'm gonna get some food before I kill somebody!" I choose to go for the chocolate chip bagels first because they're a party in my mouth. But you just can't take chocolate chip bagels out of the bin. Hell no! You gotta get a bag first! So after I burn 25 calories trying to tear a plastic bag off the huge roll of plastic bags, I'm ready to grab a "sanitary 'grab food with this or you'll throw up'" tissue and get my bagels.
Holy crap! There's only three left! Better get 'em all. So I grab the first two, no problem. The third one sends me into a complete cluster****. What if somebody really really really needs this last chocolate chip bagel? What if their freaking life depended on it? Meanwhile, here I come along and grab this last bagel, but who knows the kind of death and destruction I could be starting? Let's say that a depressed housewife of 26 comes to the store looking for chocolate chip bagels. But then she gets there and sees there are none left. Couple this unfortunate disaster with her cheating husband, and you've got the perfect storm. She goes home, starts the divorce proceedings, takes all his money, and leaves the kids. The dad goes freaking ape and the kids grow up to be juvenile delinquents who laugh and throw eggs at cars as they leave the Delta Sonic--just to prove a point. So that means my careless bagel-hogging ended a marriage, sent a person into manic depression, and put a short end to the joy of motorists investing in a $12.99 Super Clean-Super Wash.
I know what you're thinking. "Geez, what a prick." Well, don't worry. I didn't take the last bagel. Hell, I'm not going to be responsible for becoming the next Tila Tequila. Instead, I did the professional thing and made sure to touch that last bagel with my BARE HANDS! That's right! No tissue!
Serves that next idiot right for trying to take that last bagel.
Do your best to picture this scenario with your already scoffing minds: I'm in the grocery store and just starting to come off of the high produced by having a cool blast of freshness invade my face as I walk in. My cart has the usual front right wheel that wants to turn left except when you back up, at which point it wants to just stop moving. I walk past the turning rotisserie chickens and thing, "If those chickens were any more golden, they'd be a Badger fan at a cheese castle." Anyway, just down the line from the display of rotating, glistening meat is the greatest sight for my sore eyes--the bagel bins.
I love the bagel bins! Maybe it's because they look just like the bins at a candy store. You know, the kind with the magnets just above the door that are harder to get away from than a toddler you didn't give enough Juicy Juice to. So I try to decide what kind of bagel to get first, and it's just too hard. Do I go for the egg? Chocolate Chip? Asiago? Onion? Or do I stay plain? So I pass out and wake up when the linoleum gets too cold for my face. Sure enough, nobody's around me because nobody recognizes anyone else when you're food shopping. You're there with one thought on your mind--"I'm freaking starving and I'm gonna get some food before I kill somebody!" I choose to go for the chocolate chip bagels first because they're a party in my mouth. But you just can't take chocolate chip bagels out of the bin. Hell no! You gotta get a bag first! So after I burn 25 calories trying to tear a plastic bag off the huge roll of plastic bags, I'm ready to grab a "sanitary 'grab food with this or you'll throw up'" tissue and get my bagels.
Holy crap! There's only three left! Better get 'em all. So I grab the first two, no problem. The third one sends me into a complete cluster****. What if somebody really really really needs this last chocolate chip bagel? What if their freaking life depended on it? Meanwhile, here I come along and grab this last bagel, but who knows the kind of death and destruction I could be starting? Let's say that a depressed housewife of 26 comes to the store looking for chocolate chip bagels. But then she gets there and sees there are none left. Couple this unfortunate disaster with her cheating husband, and you've got the perfect storm. She goes home, starts the divorce proceedings, takes all his money, and leaves the kids. The dad goes freaking ape and the kids grow up to be juvenile delinquents who laugh and throw eggs at cars as they leave the Delta Sonic--just to prove a point. So that means my careless bagel-hogging ended a marriage, sent a person into manic depression, and put a short end to the joy of motorists investing in a $12.99 Super Clean-Super Wash.
I know what you're thinking. "Geez, what a prick." Well, don't worry. I didn't take the last bagel. Hell, I'm not going to be responsible for becoming the next Tila Tequila. Instead, I did the professional thing and made sure to touch that last bagel with my BARE HANDS! That's right! No tissue!
Serves that next idiot right for trying to take that last bagel.
Sunday, July 06, 2008
A Rumination of the Soon-to-be Extinct Astroturf
(For those of you who are not in the know, Memorial Stadium is getting re-carpeted this fall with new Field Turf. We were contacted by the Astroturf, who wanted to record its thoughts on the situation for posterity - Eds.)
Imagine waking up one bright morning, going through your usual routine of shaking off the dew that accumulated on you from the past night and messing with the birds who inevitably poke into you because they think there's actually ground underneath your lush, perfectly coiffed blades of grass, when the head groundskeeper comes up and tells you that you're getting replaced.
After years of uncomplaining service, you find out that you're getting ripped out in favor of some new, flashy kid waving his credentials all around like a cop looking for a discount in a donut store. Sorry, AT, even though you have years of experience, you're being put out to pasture without so much as a good-bye party. I gave 110%, you know. I always drained without complaining and never divoted myself, no matter how many 300+ lb. linemen happened to be digging into my rubbery, pellety goodness. I always came to play, and yet this wasn't good enough. Ok, I'll admit, I had my downsides. I know I was hotter on sunny football Saturdays than Hillary Clinton at a store which was sold out of pantsuits. But is that enough to justify tearing me away from my life's work?
And, no one asked the Buried Bulldozer what he thought of the switch. Does no one care what the Bulldozer thinks? I mean, all sorts of stuff can happen if he's irked, given that he's underneath the field and all. This is obvious.
Well, I guess my rantings won't preclude the inevitable. So, goodbye everyone - I will miss your feet massaging my spongy body, the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat, and those wonderful lukewarm nachos from the concession stands. Just remember, those little black pellets are actually seeds which can bloom into your own Turf if you just remember to water them and give them a little love.
-AT
Imagine waking up one bright morning, going through your usual routine of shaking off the dew that accumulated on you from the past night and messing with the birds who inevitably poke into you because they think there's actually ground underneath your lush, perfectly coiffed blades of grass, when the head groundskeeper comes up and tells you that you're getting replaced.
After years of uncomplaining service, you find out that you're getting ripped out in favor of some new, flashy kid waving his credentials all around like a cop looking for a discount in a donut store. Sorry, AT, even though you have years of experience, you're being put out to pasture without so much as a good-bye party. I gave 110%, you know. I always drained without complaining and never divoted myself, no matter how many 300+ lb. linemen happened to be digging into my rubbery, pellety goodness. I always came to play, and yet this wasn't good enough. Ok, I'll admit, I had my downsides. I know I was hotter on sunny football Saturdays than Hillary Clinton at a store which was sold out of pantsuits. But is that enough to justify tearing me away from my life's work?
And, no one asked the Buried Bulldozer what he thought of the switch. Does no one care what the Bulldozer thinks? I mean, all sorts of stuff can happen if he's irked, given that he's underneath the field and all. This is obvious.
Well, I guess my rantings won't preclude the inevitable. So, goodbye everyone - I will miss your feet massaging my spongy body, the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat, and those wonderful lukewarm nachos from the concession stands. Just remember, those little black pellets are actually seeds which can bloom into your own Turf if you just remember to water them and give them a little love.
-AT
Saturday, July 05, 2008
If You Wake Up and the First Thing You See is Oreos, That's Bad
I'd just like to start and end this post by saying that Oreos suck and I hope they die.
This is obvious.
This is obvious.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
Posts
