Existentialistic Sunday

I was having an existentialistic Sunday. Most people would just call it a hangover, but I think that’s understating the revelations your state of mind and body produces as you’re shaking like a leaf, totally drained of energy, and – to your own amazement – carefully considering that scary something optimists like to call ‘your future’. What a frightful concept! There’s another tomorrow? Shit!

It introduces all kinds of new concepts you feel that you should have sorted out when people around you stated how mature you’d become all of a sudden, concepts like ‘responsibility’. I never got the hang of that one. The word itself is pretty harmless. Yes, even inresponsible thinking about how much shit that can lurk behind it. Like a troll behind your door. Sooner or later you’ll notice it, at least smell it. Following, you realize that more than half of what you’ve done in your life qualifies as ‘mistakes’.

That’s one way of introducing yourself to an existentialistic Sunday. Or a hangover on the couch. Slowly things are falling into place before you, like a mental jigsaw puzzle, but you don’t like the finished picture. Instead of a beautiful woman, like The Madonna for instance, it turns out to be a picture of a battered newt.
With a bracelet.

Women, yes. They’re like men without balls, instead they’ve got brains, which – in most cases – outweighs your balls by a ratio of 3 to 1. And, for some mysterious reasons, you want them. Women, that is. Not to compare balls and brains, no, it’s just something you perceive as being part of a state of happiness, having one. And they feed themselves. Heck, if you’re really lucky they even feed you! (Don’t count on it, though)

Still on the couch thinking about this, your what’s-it-called – comprehension – draws a line between earlier reasonings and you clearly see that most of your ‘mistakes’ are somewhat related to women. One or the other way. It can only be glancing at a red-haired lady with enormeous breasts across the street, for instance, forgetting to see where you’re going. Destiny sees to it that there’s an equally attractive, even more so, woman right in front of you enjoying a cup of soft ice cream. The latter is carefully, again by Destiny, smeared all over the victim’s unsuspecting breasts. And this is, by all means, just a really innocent example of what can happen when involved with that 48% of the world’s population. Against all earthly logic, however, you don’t improve. You still have this notion that you want a woman. Tough one.

Ignoring the matter, you move along to your Future. Unforlding in front of you, like an imaginary brochure, is your expectations in black and white, capital letters: "THE PERFECT LIFE. Your Future." Sounds relly great. You flip through the first three or four pages looking mostly at the pictures. Most of the contains either women, cars or briefcases stuffed with money, or combinations of the three. You get the hang of the idea, you even like it, and your wishful thinking works really hard trying to put yourself in that red sportscar, next to that blonde holding your briefcase full of thousand dollar bills. You almost make it, and it gives you a good feeling. Then you flip to the last two pages.

Text only.

Really small letters. Oh, well.

a) Behave
b) Study hard
c) Work nightshifts and save money for later mortages
d) Behave. When not, use condoms.
etc. etc. for two entire pages.

You mentally erase the brochure, back to the couch and the white ceiling above you, pretty damn depressed. Why? Because you know yourself. With a student’s loan on your account, five figures, you wouldn’t stand a chance not to waste some of it. Most of it, actually. Probably, even, all of it! Second, you wouldn’t behave more than a pig at a royal banquet, let alone work nightshifts. At night you’re sleeping off the alcohol, right?

Again, on the existentialistic side of the Sunday or your designated hangover, you ask yourself a question sounding more or less like this: Could I change?

You know you’ve lost the battle when you’re trying to answer the simple yes-or-no question with a percentage of yes. That’s called clutching to the last shred of hope you’re supposed to have. Still, there’s the unfamiliar voice of positivity somewhere deep inside you trying to break down your handcrafted framework of philosophical pessimism. You’re still got your health. Sure, not right now I haven’t, but –
And there’s always good money to make driving garbage. Oh yes.

At the end of your inner travel, your dive into Lake You, you’ve sorted out the following: a)You don’t have a future. b)You’ll keep making ‘mistakes’ since you’ll keep your eyes on women and not the current (and random, perhaps) path of direction. c)The only way to fulfill the brochure pictures is to "bend the rules" a little. I.e steal two million dollars, a red sportscar and persuade some light-headed, hitchikin’ gal to get into your car and just ignore the four heavily armed policepatrol cars chasing you. Doing this would kind of defeat the purpouse. I mean, it’s pretty hard to relax at some tropical island somewhere when the local authorities are taking shots at you all the time. It’s almost stressfull.

So, the perfect life is out.
The idea of a plain, down-to-regular life starts to seem both probable and attractive. It has got to. Or else you’ll soon find yourself lying on a couch somewhere going through the exact same procedure all over again.

Hey! I’ve never said I was mature. Someone made that up. Some stupid someone. And I really don’t care what stupid someones thinks about my level of maturity or lack thereof. Honestly. This is my fucking life, after all. Geez!

A new perspective on the History of the word fuck?

This is what bumped into my e-mail today:

Just so you’ll know:

The guy who does the audio on the "Fuck, The Word" (aka "The Word Fuck") track is NOT George Carlin, nor is it Monty Python, as is often credited.

It is the late Jack Wagner, the former ‘voice of Disneyland’.

I know, since I gave him the ORIGINAL copy on tape (before the internet) in 1989 during a time when we worked together. I have NO IDEA who did that version, but it was much shorter & the quality of the tape was quite poor. (Musicians, voiceover artists, engineers and other recording guys often traded tapes of rare & funny stuff. Unfortunately, quality was lost in generation after generations of copies.) Jack decided to re-do it, correcting some grammar and adding a few more examples of his own, then
backed the whole thing up with the Vivaldi music.

I know this – I had the original copy and heard it first. Later, I heard from other techies at the park that he was so proud of it that he’d share it with everyone. I had always worried it would get him into trouble, but if ANYONE at Disneyland had ‘job security’, it would be him!

Years later when I heard it on the internet (the world’s bulletin board or bathroom wall), I just had to snicker. But we need to give credit where credit is due. His family may wish to forget it – the ‘park’ certainly does!
– but he seemed to have been proud of it, so give him the creds.

(please refer to me only as that to protect my anonymity and hire ability).

P.S. Of all those comedy quotes from famous people that are listed, only ONE of them is thought of to be a true quote:

* General George A. Custer: "Did you ever see so many fucking Indians?"

Just FYI……..

Don’t know what he’s talking about? Check History of the word Fuck!
I’ve credited it to Monty Python, ’cause that’s what I’ve heard, but who knows? Maybe there’s really something in this? Maybe I actually should care? This is a dead man’s testament! His message to the world! Thanks for sharing this information. Now I can be even more proud when I stand up against you, clear my lungs and utter a majestical FUCK YOU! Thanks!

Link of the day: Norwegians and cold

Norwegians are the most antisocial population on the planet according to statistical research. There are numerous reasons for this. We’ve been under other nations’ reign for as long as anyone can remember. Norway wasn’t Norway until 1814, but then we were suddenly under Sweden. Then we had the nazi occupation. No one seems to forget that one.

So, we don’t welcome strangers with open arms.
Still, the main reason for us being antisocial is the weather. Without a doubt. I mean, you don’t get too eager to go on visiting neighbours when people are freezing to death in your neighbourhood. This is just a couple of examples to give you the general idea of our relation to cold: «Norwegians and cold»

Excellent. Tip from Fluxpod Information eXchange.

Poll #10: How often do you wash your hair?

This is the guy with the longest hair in the world:

Hairy shit

His name is Tran Van Hay, 67 year old from Vietnam, and fiercely proud of his mane. When I first saw that picture I noticed that his hair was pretty similar to sheep woll (do a google for ‘Shrek the sheep’), and I wondered at how much extent it would be possible to keep such a massive hair anything close to regular "hair-hygiene". This weekly poll question is simply a spin-off of that:
«How often do you wash your hair?»

Thanks for sharing your personal information:)

Pollresults on "My view on the smokeban is.."

Since I was hacked, the index page (this one) has been unavailable for editing, so I haven’t had the chance to update as usual. This affected the weekly poll, but now, at last, I’m here to give you the results. Thank you for participing!

The smokeban has been in effect since the first of June. And I can’t say that I haven’t avoided going out because of it. Human beings, like rats, are immensely adaptive to sudden changes in its environments. The recent change is that the air is cleaner indoors. In addition, all the people are standing outdoors. All the interesting people, at least:)

In Oslo, especially during the summer months if it’s hot enough, people tend to get aggressive when they’re going out. The smokeban forcing us to be outside tend to widen the possibility of getting whacked. Or at least get into trouble more frequently than before. A month ago, I would hide behind a wall of cigarette smoke like the octopus. Oh well. The results:

I love it, because I hate smokers: 5%
It’s good, because no one should work in smoke-filled environments: 12%
Cancer can kill you, so I think it’s good: 5%
People are starving! Using money on this is stupid: 30%
This is limiting individual freedom: 46%
I don’t know or don’t have an opinion: 0%

Number of votes: 39

Don't send me mails! I'm on vacation!

For those of you who haven’t noticed: I’m on vacation.

Or on leave, rather. Let’s not forget that in the eyes of Norwegian society I am a soldier. Yup. Soldier Sigg3, that’s me. I even got a number pinned to my ass. And a ugly photograph taken at 7:30 in the morning. A soldier’s life.. :D

So, I went to Tromsø, Paris of the North to tourists, and my building state of fever just got worse. It figures, in a way. When I’m all through the shit of applying for getting leave from my service a ten lousy days, I get ill. Not just that. I can’t hear shit. Because my throat and nose is clogged by slime (it’s a curse!!) my ears are isolated and irritated. Mostly I just hear myself breath and my heartbeat. Really cool. Especially when I just used a helluva lot of money on Tom Waits’ Swordfishtrombones and Radiohead’s Hail to the Thief (special edition).

Now I’m back in Oslo, however. The great city. The capital. And it’s raining.

So what am I doing, then? Since I ain’t got a working mind at the moment, I can’t read and write properly, so for the last two days I’ve been going through my complete collection of Spawn®™ dating from 1997 till 2002. This comic-book novel is really great. I mean, aside from Ennis and Dillon’s Preacher that I’ve just flipped through, Spawn is my favourite. What’s so great about it? I dunno. When I was younger I read the Norwegian translation of The Phantom. Ever since I quit I’ve had a great distaste for men (or superheroes, if you prefer,) in costumes running around thinking they’re something. Simmons (maincharacter), however, has got something different. He’s no hero. Sure, he has the wrath of hell, the heart of heaven and even the taste of revenge time has yet to see again, but there’s something else about him. He’s so goddamned confused. Even stupid.

As a reader you get stucked to cursin’ Cogliostro (another important character, naturally) for tellin’ Spawn/Simmons that he don’t know shit, that he must be patient, that he must learn, etc. etc. Well, that’s how it is, isn’t it? You rather pick the dumb, easy way out of things instead of actually waiting for stuff to fall into perspective and engage some of that morale you’re supposed to have.

The movie stinks, people. Don’t judge the comic-book from that!


Tomorrow I’ll get some necessary stuff for my kitchen.. Like food. Coffe. Eggs. n’ Bacon.
I’ll probably have to clean out some dust, as well.

Oh. And I’ve got this problem bugging me: a bug problem. Yup. These green, little, crawlin’ devils that are feeding from the rose bushes outside my window are jumping into my livingroom. They’re going for the bright light, that great ol’ end of the tunel. Geez. I don’t mind these creatures going biblical an’ all, but they would do best to stay the fuck away from my place. Here I am, almost sound asleep in my bed when ZZZZZZZZZOOOM!.. Splat! one of these annoying demons fly just across my field of vision and into the wall on my right. I throw a fit and use everything within reach as a weapon of mass destruction. When you finally get the bastard and you think it’s all over, tuck yourself into that warm bed and get ready for some lovely mulatta to bring you into dreams; you can’t sleep.

Not a chance. You lie there like some paranoid wreck with insomnia. Waiting for just the smallest indication of another one. I’m gonna get some insect poison tomorrow. Gonna take those bastards down even if it’ll be the last I do. Oh, yes, sir! They haven’t seen the last of mr. Sigg3. Oh, no.

Can’t wait to get all chemical warfare on their ass. Gotto hurt.