It's mah birfday...

[LMNO]

:action:

[Dimocritus]

*face-punch*

[Dimocritus]

Here's an essay for Fictionpuss. It's an observation exercise from my English 1010 (Composition 1) class portfolio.

Unlike Fictionpuss, my essay does not answer any questions, and, I don't expect anyone to actually read it.


                                                                Proof

   It was noisy when I arrived. For the most part, it was the kind of noise you would usually associate with a busy subway station: hundreds of shuffling feet, conversation, the occasional stranger yelling. Add to the already raucous audio assortment the sounds of people drinking; clinking glass, heavy bottom pint glasses slamming onto pressed particle board tables and laughter. You don't usually hear a lot of laughter waiting at the subway station. The people here are not waiting for a train but are waiting for something else to transport them, in an entirely different sense of the word. They are waiting to be elevated beyond their usual zone of comfort, beyond their bubble, where people keep to themselves and they recoil at the thought of interacting with strangers.
   Drunken people do drunken things through every dingy corner of the venue. Unnecessary shouting is accompanied by people talking too close to each other, laughing at jokes that they won't remember in the morning. They crowd the bar, like little piglets trying to wedge themselves in to suckle on the teat of whatever taps are still pouring sudsy I.P.A.s and frothy stouts. The crowd does nothing but grow in size and in volume. Just like anything else, if you try to fill something past it's capacity, it's sure to burst or explode.
   I am viewing this all from my own unique and specific vantage point. My vision, while filtered as if I were wearing a pair of thick, coke-bottle novelty glasses, is capable of looking into each person I see; from the over eager teenagers, whose anticipation makes them writhe like a burlap sack full of hyperactive puppies, to the somber looking table of older folk who, at the moment, seem unimpressed and uninspired, but will soon be participating in the melee. You can only feign disinterest for so long before your core reveals you.
   I had observed from the platform that in the midst of recent renovations, the staging area was now a bit larger than I remembered it being previously, with a new drum riser and its own entry door stage left. Most of the new woodwork was left unpainted and bare, either to be finished later, or to be forgotten about entirely. Someone must have been confused, however, because they had found it okay to have placed a rather large, expensive looking flat screen television on the stage, beside the riser.    
   "That will end up broken," I said to myself out loud.
   Five police officers invited themselves in, presumably, without paying the five dollar cover. Two of them must have thought they were ninjas, as they hid in the darkest corners, as the telltale red pinstripes and clean shining badges didn't give them away completely. I'm not sure why they came. They were either frightened that such a large group of people would be able to mobilize with a sense of solidarity so strong that they could overthrow the small town in a night (free speech is dangerous), or they really wanted to see the show.
   All the noise and activity, while booming and dynamic, was nothing but a warm-up for what was to come. The noise would soon grow past a mere din and the crowd will become akin to a small, scaled down, time-lapsed model of the universe; bodies in motion moving in small orbits, and then smashing into each other with extreme force. There  is no animosity in celestial bodies when they violently interact physically with each other; they all understand that that is just the way of the universe, and they accept it, as the people do here.
   
   The bright lights, while illuminating me and my fellow colleagues, also blind us to any one standing any further than arms length away. As the crowd reaches critical mass it becomes more and more volatile. Soon it becomes clear to us that, if we do not start soon, the rabble might be so inclined to provide themselves with their own entertainment, potentially at our expense. We toy with this, deliberately wasting time telling jokes and speaking benignly about whichever current events we find to be humorous or relevant, as to bring the audience to the brink of anticipation. I am signaled by my guitarist by a brief glance, unnoticed by the crowd, that the time is now. Unexpectedly, we initiate our sneak attack with a blitzkrieg of sound and fury.
   The next forty-five minutes are a blur. The air becomes hot and moist with sweat. The thickened air is difficult to breathe. The floor becomes slick and gritty with tracked in dirt and broken glass. The music is too loud to hear, but nobody cares. The miniature model of the universe has been set into motion. In a massive tidal wave of human forms I received a violent blow to the face. I felt the microphone's metal screening breach the integrity of my lip, releasing the red connective tissue that most of us like to keep inside of ourselves. The blood tasted like copper pennies. I didn't stop. I couldn't if I had wanted to. How could one stop an avalanche or a land slide once initiated? I was no longer in charge. I was no longer the focus. I was doing what I had set out to do; channel the chaotic spirit of the universe and instill it into the crowd. They may have not even been aware of it consciously, and even if they were aware, this was hardly the time to become analytical. The people are here to validate their own existence. The pain proves you are real; that you are still alive.

[Messier Undertree]

I was born in England

I'm pretty sure you can't get any less Scottish than that.

[Captain Utopia]

I was born in England

I'm pretty sure you can't get any less Scottish than that.

Tell me about it. But since I grew up and spent the worst 26 years of my life there, I consider myself from Scotland, but not Scottish. Thankfully.

[Messier Undertree]

I was born in England

I'm pretty sure you can't get any less Scottish than that.

Tell me about it. But since I grew up and spent the worst 26 years of my life there, I consider myself from Scotland, but not Scottish. Thankfully.

Well as long as you understand that as long as you were born in England, to us you're about as English as Vinnie Jones dressed as the Queen while morris dancing and drinking tea (other than Scottish Blend, obviously).

[Triple Zero]

Dimo- i didn't really get a chance to read anything. i'm always pressed for time. i was only pointing out a picture i thought was crap.
doesn't mean the rest of your site is crap, i wouldn't know, i didn't READ IT.

good to hear that Squid, cause really this thread had me thinking more than one time, why the fuck are you guys (in general) getting so worked up about one pic of a vandalized drunk driving ad? i mean its just one pic and he already said that he didnt really agree with it.

and then what really bugged me, and I wonder why no one jumped on that, is when Fiction Puss started comparing publishing a pic of a vandalized roadsign to publishing CHILD PORN

i mean

WTF

okay 000 so why didnt you post that earlier? cause i didnt have time. ok?

[Pariah]

Here's an essay for Fictionpuss. It's an observation exercise from my English 1010 (Composition 1) class portfolio.

Unlike Fictionpuss, my essay does not answer any questions, and, I don't expect anyone to actually read it.


                                                                Proof

   It was noisy when I arrived. For the most part, it was the kind of noise you would usually associate with a busy subway station: hundreds of shuffling feet, conversation, the occasional stranger yelling. Add to the already raucous audio assortment the sounds of people drinking; clinking glass, heavy bottom pint glasses slamming onto pressed particle board tables and laughter. You don't usually hear a lot of laughter waiting at the subway station. The people here are not waiting for a train but are waiting for something else to transport them, in an entirely different sense of the word. They are waiting to be elevated beyond their usual zone of comfort, beyond their bubble, where people keep to themselves and they recoil at the thought of interacting with strangers.
   Drunken people do drunken things through every dingy corner of the venue. Unnecessary shouting is accompanied by people talking too close to each other, laughing at jokes that they won't remember in the morning. They crowd the bar, like little piglets trying to wedge themselves in to suckle on the teat of whatever taps are still pouring sudsy I.P.A.s and frothy stouts. The crowd does nothing but grow in size and in volume. Just like anything else, if you try to fill something past it's capacity, it's sure to burst or explode.
   I am viewing this all from my own unique and specific vantage point. My vision, while filtered as if I were wearing a pair of thick, coke-bottle novelty glasses, is capable of looking into each person I see; from the over eager teenagers, whose anticipation makes them writhe like a burlap sack full of hyperactive puppies, to the somber looking table of older folk who, at the moment, seem unimpressed and uninspired, but will soon be participating in the melee. You can only feign disinterest for so long before your core reveals you.
   I had observed from the platform that in the midst of recent renovations, the staging area was now a bit larger than I remembered it being previously, with a new drum riser and its own entry door stage left. Most of the new woodwork was left unpainted and bare, either to be finished later, or to be forgotten about entirely. Someone must have been confused, however, because they had found it okay to have placed a rather large, expensive looking flat screen television on the stage, beside the riser.    
   "That will end up broken," I said to myself out loud.
   Five police officers invited themselves in, presumably, without paying the five dollar cover. Two of them must have thought they were ninjas, as they hid in the darkest corners, as the telltale red pinstripes and clean shining badges didn't give them away completely. I'm not sure why they came. They were either frightened that such a large group of people would be able to mobilize with a sense of solidarity so strong that they could overthrow the small town in a night (free speech is dangerous), or they really wanted to see the show.
   All the noise and activity, while booming and dynamic, was nothing but a warm-up for what was to come. The noise would soon grow past a mere din and the crowd will become akin to a small, scaled down, time-lapsed model of the universe; bodies in motion moving in small orbits, and then smashing into each other with extreme force. There  is no animosity in celestial bodies when they violently interact physically with each other; they all understand that that is just the way of the universe, and they accept it, as the people do here.
   
   The bright lights, while illuminating me and my fellow colleagues, also blind us to any one standing any further than arms length away. As the crowd reaches critical mass it becomes more and more volatile. Soon it becomes clear to us that, if we do not start soon, the rabble might be so inclined to provide themselves with their own entertainment, potentially at our expense. We toy with this, deliberately wasting time telling jokes and speaking benignly about whichever current events we find to be humorous or relevant, as to bring the audience to the brink of anticipation. I am signaled by my guitarist by a brief glance, unnoticed by the crowd, that the time is now. Unexpectedly, we initiate our sneak attack with a blitzkrieg of sound and fury.
   The next forty-five minutes are a blur. The air becomes hot and moist with sweat. The thickened air is difficult to breathe. The floor becomes slick and gritty with tracked in dirt and broken glass. The music is too loud to hear, but nobody cares. The miniature model of the universe has been set into motion. In a massive tidal wave of human forms I received a violent blow to the face. I felt the microphone's metal screening breach the integrity of my lip, releasing the red connective tissue that most of us like to keep inside of ourselves. The blood tasted like copper pennies. I didn't stop. I couldn't if I had wanted to. How could one stop an avalanche or a land slide once initiated? I was no longer in charge. I was no longer the focus. I was doing what I had set out to do; channel the chaotic spirit of the universe and instill it into the crowd. They may have not even been aware of it consciously, and even if they were aware, this was hardly the time to become analytical. The people are here to validate their own existence. The pain proves you are real; that you are still alive.

TL;DR
Perchance, Do you go by the name Dead Kennedy?

[Captain Utopia]

I was born in England

I'm pretty sure you can't get any less Scottish than that.

Tell me about it. But since I grew up and spent the worst 26 years of my life there, I consider myself from Scotland, but not Scottish. Thankfully.

Well as long as you understand that as long as you were born in England, to us you're about as English as Vinnie Jones dressed as the Queen while morris dancing and drinking tea (other than Scottish Blend, obviously).

Yeah - random punches to the face, death threats and a constant stream of bigotry and abuse are quite clear indications of this common belief. Never did find out what was so special about being Scottish, apart from a naturally violent inclination towards the English. The best parts of Scotland I ever found was in the countryside, but that's only because it was virtually empty as everyone else was down the pub getting pissed and telling jokes about how everything is the fault of The English.

And then you have Hogmanay, and the sugar sweet coating over the hundreds year old hatred.. and the "harmless fun" and the "not really meaning it" bullshit. Once you've lived it, it takes on shades of innocence similar to McCain singing "Bomb Bomb Iran" - you might or might not consciously wish any ill to people born south of the border, but by perpetuating the joke, you perpetuate the moronic hatred.

[Captain Utopia]

and then what really bugged me, and I wonder why no one jumped on that, is when Fiction Puss started comparing publishing a pic of a vandalized roadsign to publishing CHILD PORN

To be fair, I never did make a comparison like that. I'm not going to restate what I did say, since he was just an alt-troll and the clarification I was seeking was never going to exist anyway.

Sorry that it bugged you, but I think you must have been (understandably) skimming.

[Messier Undertree]

random punches to the face, death threats and a constant stream of bigotry and abuse are quite clear indications of this common belief

Exaggeration much? I know plenty of English people IRL who have never been randomly punched in the face (for that reason anyway).

Perhaps you're just a bit of a dick and instead of accepting that, you decided that people must hate you because you're English?

Once you've lived it, it takes on shades of innocence similar to McCain singing "Bomb Bomb Iran" - you might or might not consciously wish any ill to people born south of the border, but by perpetuating the joke, you perpetuate the moronic hatred.

You watched Roots and thought it was about you, didn't you?

[Triple Zero]

and then what really bugged me, and I wonder why no one jumped on that, is when Fiction Puss started comparing publishing a pic of a vandalized roadsign to publishing CHILD PORN

To be fair, I never did make a comparison like that. I'm not going to restate what I did say, since he was just an alt-troll and the clarification I was seeking was never going to exist anyway.

Sorry that it bugged you, but I think you must have been (understandably) skimming.

I dont care to look up the exact quotes right now, but afaicr you did it several times. So whatever.

[Captain Utopia]

random punches to the face, death threats and a constant stream of bigotry and abuse are quite clear indications of this common belief

Exaggeration much? I know plenty of English people IRL who have never been randomly punched in the face (for that reason anyway).

Did they grow up in Barrhead during the 80's?

Perhaps you're just a bit of a dick and instead of accepting that, you decided that people must hate you because you're English?

It's entirely possible that that's just an excuse they gave. Consistently. Upon first meeting me and hearing my accent.

It's just not very probable.

Once you've lived it, it takes on shades of innocence similar to McCain singing "Bomb Bomb Iran" - you might or might not consciously wish any ill to people born south of the border, but by perpetuating the joke, you perpetuate the moronic hatred.

You watched Roots and thought it was about you, didn't you?

I don't get the reference. This?

[Messier Undertree]

Did they grow up in Barrhead during the 80's?

At least one of them grew up in Easterhouse in the 90s. I'd say that's about close enough.

It's entirely possible that that's just an excuse they gave. Consistently. Upon first meeting me and hearing my accent.

I thought you moved to Scotland when you were six years old? How long did you keep your accent?

Or did some kid hit you in nursery class and you've been holding a grudge ever since?

I don't get the reference. This?

That's the one.

[Captain Utopia]

and then what really bugged me, and I wonder why no one jumped on that, is when Fiction Puss started comparing publishing a pic of a vandalized roadsign to publishing CHILD PORN

To be fair, I never did make a comparison like that. I'm not going to restate what I did say, since he was just an alt-troll and the clarification I was seeking was never going to exist anyway.

Sorry that it bugged you, but I think you must have been (understandably) skimming.

I dont care to look up the exact quotes right now, but afaicr you did it several times. So whatever.

So just a drive-by slur then?