Thursday, April 23, 2009

I don't care if you don't care. Thus, I win.

Here begins the newest, most amazing musing from The Loudest Fan. Bow appropriately:

It has come to my attention that several among my vast multitude of friends (being the rightfully popular man I am) have taken issue with a certain practice of mine: facebook updating.

Apparently, I update more frequently than most. One facebook friend claims to have gone so far as to bake himself a cake called a "status-cake," which he will only eat from when his page is not cluttered by updates from yours truly. I've been told he's had to consistently cheat. I relish in the fact that the enjoyment of some pansy-ass cake is utterly dependent upon a pathetic attention to my daily life.

Some would argue that my frequent updating is an indication of a lack of life. I retort with a triumphant flip of the ol' bird. I honestly don't have to prove how much more gratifying my life is than those of my detractors, because the enjoyment I receive from it is the only standard by which to judge my own life.

Should I post less frequently? Absolutely not! Why is that idea even considerable?

In agreeing to be my friend on any social networking site, one enters a contract to suffer through every little thing I feel so possessed to post, and entirely at one's own risk. The site even offers filters for my inferiors to soften the awesome which I spew from my fingers throughout the tubes of the internet! Even without the filters, are they required to read anything I write? NO! I'm not even spamming them with messages, nor notifications!

Social networking sites, especially those of the same ilk as facebook, are set up specifically as tools of exhibition and voyeurism. I expose my infinite wisdom to a world of passive listeners freely and without hesitation. I utilize facebook to its full potential. It is of no consequence to me if nobody reads what I have to say. If somebody chooses to ignore me, it is his own folly to which he answers. When I do care for a specific audience, I use the site's many more direct means, including commenting, messaging and tagging. I have yet to receive any complaint as to my activities in this direct realm of the site.

Conclusion? If you don't want to read what I have to say, DON'T. Filter me out, for all I care. Hell, if I really bother you so much, delete me! Exercise your right to control your own goddamned home screen, because you absolutely have said right. Don't make me the scapegoat for your inability to stifle your innate desire to feed off every tidbit I throw out. I realize most people don't possess the strength of will power of a man like me, but come on! Get that sand out of your vagina and grow a pair!

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

The More You Know...

Here begins the newest, most amazing musing from The Loudest Fan. Bow appropriately:

Yes, this is one of THOSE kinds of posts... This is probably a topic better suited for a discussion board, except for the fact that my opinions are absolute, universal fact. Ok, here goes:

If you don't like Lost, YOU ARE WRONG.

Islands? Awesome. Plane crash? Intense. Death and destruction? Sweet. Polar bears? Badassss. Smoke monster? Socially aware (don't smoke, kiddies!). Time Travel? Recipe for great success. People named after super-sweet philosophers? Offer your womb unconditionally to them. "Racer X" from the greatest visual experience known to man? Sweet nectar of the entertainment gods!
Pure essence of manhood (no artificial ingredients)
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If you can't bring yourself to appreciate one of the most impressively woven and compelling narratives ever conceived, as well as the cleverest, most ambitious approach to time travel ever, then kindly remove yourself from society with a quick, double-barreled blow to the face.
Great against polar bears, uppity newcomers to the island and your own, ignorant face!
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Finally, my favorite aspect: Lost offers one of the greatest supervillains of all time. Benjamin Linus is the scariest, coldest nerd ever (certainly gives that pussy in Die Hard 4 a run for his money), everybody knows it, and he STILL manages to get the good guys to do whatever the hell he wants. The dude sat next to and, amused, watched his own father dying! That's some hardcore, cold and heartless shit!
Benjamin Linus makes this guy piss his wussy-pants
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On top of being the coldest villain in the history of narrative, the show manages to give Ben pounds of sympathetic backstory. From being shot as a naive kid to mourning his beloved (albeit kidnapped into adoption) daughter, we get to care about this sicko's feelings. Only a show greater than life itself could produce such an extreme evil that also manages to get you to care deeply about it.

Conclusion: I am better than you, so I watch Lost.
He sees you when you're sleeping... then he shoots your family until you do what he wants
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Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Get over your prepubescent self

Here begins the newest, most amazing musing from The Loudest Fan. Bow appropriately:

I am a university student with an age befitting such a place in life. While I have not experienced even half of half of my expected life (173 years of pure awesome), I believe it's safe to say that I am an unerring authority on life itself.

Thus, meet one of my many annoyances: people who hype their middle school years. Now, I'm not talking about people who are proud of one or two accomplishments during these few years of life. What I am talking about are those who share more life stories from that time than any other. It simply makes no sense.

Middle school is childhood's middle child (the least-appreciated, though not under-appreciated, child of every family). It replaces the cuteness of elementary school ignorance with wannabe high school awkwardness, and it replaces high school's journey of social- and self-discovery with even more youthful meaninglessness. The worst of both worlds.

What must possess somebody to hype this insignificant period of schooling more than any other? Answer: lack of brain and/or personality. Every personal statement involving an event or accomplishment from that time must be succeeded by, "Oh, but that was back in middle school, so we all know that it therefore doesn't count for shit, really."

So, next time you think about telling some anecdote from your bitch-years, consider spacing it out at least a year or two from telling some other story from that time. Mentioning middle school two or more separate times in the same day, let alone in the same conversation, is unacceptable, and should be punishable by time (minimum 60 years) spent in some new, groundbreaking prison for the incurably pathetic.

Now, if you have the genuine misfortune of being such an individual who consistently perpetrates this kind of speaking, follow these 3 simple steps:

1. Every morning when you wake up, and every night before you go to sleep, spend 20 minutes looking yourself in the eye in the mirror, chanting, "NOBODY CARES" repeatedly the entire time.

2. Don't talk to people. Trust me, the awkwardness of being "The Quiet, Uncontributing One" is much better than being clinically pathetic.

3. Pretend as if the other parts of your life, especially WHERE AND WHEN YOU ARE NOW, are interesting. MAKE UP new backstory! Watch various movies and television programs dealing with these other times as research.

Isn't it odd that there are no series or movies devoted to middle school years that aren't solely marketed to the unfortunate kids who are currently experiencing that time? NO, IT'S NOT ODD. Programming for everyone else has run the gamut of subject matter from high school life to geriatric life, as well as younger childhood, and justifiably so. Every time in every person's life is better than middle school. Without exception.

You're welcome.

Monday, April 13, 2009

A new, FUN game!

Here begins the newest, most amazing musing from The Loudest Fan. Bow appropriately:

Yesterday (as in two hours ago) was Easter. You can thank me for this revelation later. Now, as a less-than-practicing Catholic, I attended mass Easter morning with my family. My brother and I sat next to each other (perfect recipe for immature shenanigans), so we naturally began to entertain each other.

A few rows ahead of our pew contained a mother with a baby. My brother leaned over to me and suggested, "Stare at that baby." I thought it brilliant! I finally had the opportunity to stare at a human being, and without feeling any of the awkwardness!

So, realizing the immense potential for shenaniganny fun-times, I shot the baby a glance oozing with suspicion and disappointment.
The baby must have felt nothing but shame.

I found it refreshingly easy to maintain a straight-as-an-arrow face, given that the baby clearly had an inability to communicate, "You make me feel awkward."
Ok, that comes close.
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I refused to break my gaze and wore that baby down!
I see you, baby.

Soon enough, my efforts paid off. The child began to weep.
Pure terror.
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As the mother took her bawling bundle of joy out of the church, I made a quick estimation. "One down, 16 to go," I told my brother, scouting out the rest of the packed church.

Will I go to Hell for psychologically torturing the innocent in God's very own house? Probably. Was it sadistically entertaining? Absolutely.
My kind of Santa
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