Dr. Boring: A Discourse on Language

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

Dr. Boring here!

Recently, I have become enamored with the intricacies and miracles inherent within the modern English language, especially in regards to modern colloquialisms. In order to demonstrate this fascination, I have selected one amazing phrase that never ceases to amaze me: "Head on over."

Alright. My thesis here is that this is the most inherently understood colloquialism that is also absolutely impossible to understand on any semantic level.

To begin, I need to point out that this phrase is clearly understood by virtually everyone who can rightfully claim fluency in English in this day and age. The words, "Head on over," communicate nothing other than a command for one to immediately travel to a specific location. No other interpretation is afforded, period.

Now, we must look at this phrase from a new perspective in order to fully appreciate its mind-blowing complexities. The perspective necessary here is one of complete ignorance of any and all colloquialisms, which views the English language purely by the strict semantics that govern it.

Let's start with the first word, "head." Already, we are hit by a huge dose of ambiguity. "Head" not only means two entirely unrelated things, but each falls into one of the two most important parts of speech: noun and verb. As the top of something, or as the brain-housing part of the body, "head" operates as a noun. As traveling from one place to another, "head" operates as a verb. The only way to know which this "head" could be is to infer from the context.

This brings us to our next roadblock: no context. None of the rest of the phrase contains either subject or predicate. In fact, the other words are both prepositions, and prepositional phrases can exist freely in either the subject or the predicate. If this was a complete sentence, one could infer the rule of "You (understood)," but this is in no way a complete sentence. For as much as a semantic-driven interpreter is concerned, this sentence is already pure gibberish.

Finally, we are hit by a double-dose of syntactical impossibility. The sentence ends in a preposition, something unforgivable in the rules of grammar. No preposition can exist without an object following it. Not only does the sentence end with this abject failure, but it is preceded by exactly the same offense. The incompleteness, when placed in front of an otherwise complete sentence, is comparable to saying, "He went to a the."

Thus, we have an ambiguous word operating as either subject or predicate (but not both), with two empty prepositions that fail to provide any context to clue in the unfortunately ignorant interpreter.

Somehow, the human mind learns language differently from the logical "from the ground on up" (catch the impossibilities of that one?) approach to learning. Otherwise, a phrase like this could not possibly exist. Instead, we somehow manage to communicate succinctly and definitively to each other after learning through what is essentially an immersive clusterfuck. That, my friends, is nothing short of miraculous.

This is Dr. Boring, reminding you to eat your veggies, and signing out.

An introduction: Dr. Boring

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

Often times I find myself searching for new ways to entertain and exercise my unmatched mental capacities. The latest has been the creation of an alter-ego who is bound to occasionally post on this infallible bulletin board of pure, unadulterated glory. This alter-ego's name is Dr. Boring.

Dr. Boring is a man who is fascinated by the mundane, but appropriately and brilliantly so. Essentially, he discusses things only a raging pothead would muse on that also happen to be genuinely brilliant. Only he does it sober. Never before has Boring been so Fucking Awesome.

In reality, this is just me performing mental masturbation by showing you all how amazing I am at noticing everything around me with profound brilliance. Prepare yourself for the most mundane causes of shitting one's own pants. Guiness, give me world records NOW.

Call yourself, "Emo" and get it over with, already

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

"Replaced Spittle"

You could never hope to understand me
Despite this work's existence as plea
I'll write about you to my wit's end
I'm the first girl to ever have a tough crush.

Oh, identify my awesome craft
Consistent rhythm would be too daft
I choose not to rhyme right here and now
I'm the first girl to ever have a tough crush.

My imagery is fine and the vocab ain't bad
But my use of device and convention is sad;
I don't understand what it takes to express
I'm the first girl to ever have a tough crush.

Words like "bereft" and "fecundity"
I can reproduce prolifically,
In the hopes you'll think I'm smart
I'm the first girl to ever have a tough crush.

Being direct would make too much sense
And what I feel is unprecedentedly immense
So I hope you read this translucent verse
I'm the first girl to ever have a tough crush.

Now it's time for me to end in despair
Making you want to writhe and tear
Your own flesh into complete oblivion
I'm the first girl to ever have a tough crush.

-Whine E. Bitch

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!

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)
Photo Credit: fasthack.com

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!
Photo Credit: americandigest.org

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

Photo Credit: thehive.modbee.com

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
Photo Credit: assumecrashpositions.files.wordpress.com

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.

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.
Photo Credit: flickr.com

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.
Photo Credit: superstock.com

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
Photo Credit: vgpop.com