X
As I am a creatively logical man of numbers, X is THE MOST sublime title for this blog post, as it serves its purpose as being the most universal variable known to man, and thereby replaces every other possible well-fitting title that I otherwise would have titled this post. X represents exactly why, sometimes, it takes so long for me to write a new post, which stems from any of the most well-deserving titles that arise from my everyday interactions with other physical avatars of "people", inside jokes shared through a maniacal snicker in the hallway, and other random verbal lines that circle around my cerebral cortex throughout the course of each and every day of my life-dream. Those titles and their impetus-esque origins that made the cut [all at once] are as follows:
1.) “HIAWATHA!” – From Scary Movie 2 when Handsome continued to fornicate a roasted and personally-basted turkey…possibly my favorite movie quote.
2.) “Lu-Lu-Lu-Lu-Lu-Lu-Lu-Lu! Five dolla on pump six!” – Tinicia’s possibly-favorite quote from Lisa Lampanelli’s one stand-up special.
3.) “Four Numbers” – From the long-overdue blog entry about my feelings on the production, plot line, and entire concept of the film “The Number 23”. The producers of this film were, in an expansively-interpretive nutshell of strangeness, uncanniness, and exactitude, four numbers away from making the production the story of my life, thoughts, and entire being which is linked innately to the number 27. It includes, scarily, Jim Carry’s confession in the movie that “…the only real philosophy that matters is whether to commit suicide or not”, which anyone who really knows me can tell you that it is/was something I often contemplate/d.
The movie often made painful jabs at my ego and id when referencing Carry’s connections to 23, echoing the same type of my connections to 27, especially personal things such as my Social Security Number, name, birthday, relatives’ birthdays, anniversaries, and others. It frustrates me though as, from now on, anyone who has ever heard of the movie, directly after I explain to them my explicit connection to the number 27, will ask, “OH…yea…did you start looking after watching that movie, The Number 23?...?”, and then I will continue my inner fire-slicked battle with a distant Hollywood. Anyone who is reading this now, or who will read this in the future, knows exactly this feeling – they feel that, if they only have ONE thing in their lives that is distinctively theirs and distinctively defines them and DISTINCTLY differentiates them as a full-featured and fully-individualized human being and it is taken away from them, that it is more than a matter of politeness, that they hold the only possible mental copyright to this thing, that it is even LOGICAL that it is their mental copyright as it IS them, not just describing them or being related to them…as if someone stole your identity and YOU would forever be known as the fake clone of the real Zak Shellenberger.
The fact still remains, though, that I truly AM joined at the cerebellum to my number, 27, and not through some Hollywood fabrication, as it pervades my name and birthday, corresponding to both the numbers of letters and syllables, the fact that September 27th is the 270th day of the year, the fact that my SSN really DOES start with 207, that I will graduate in 2007, that the German girl who I happened to meet by chance online, met two times in Germany, and two times in America, happens to be born on May 27th, her cousin was born on September 27th, their grandparent’s anniversary is on a 27, as is my parents’, and the fact that my dad was born on a 27.
The numerology is also quite abject – subconsciously as a child, before I even discovered my whole 27-thing (which only occurred by chance about 2 years ago), my favorite number had always been 3, which I related to the letter “Z” and the color “green”, which all characterize those which were/are my favorites, and all, suspiciously rhymed. After I saw that Zachary Francis Shellenberger (me) was born on the September 27th (9th month, 27th day), and my name matched the month (9 syllables) and number of letters (27), I began to play: I discovered that 3^2=9, 3^3=27, and (much later, after much continued astonishment) that 3^3^3=19683, and 1+9+6+8+3=27. I even went as far as to analyze the etymology of the word “September”. I saw that the root “sept” meant seven, and then that, because of Julius and Augustus Caesar, it was moved 2 months back, to the 9th spot…that my month, number SEVEN, was moved TWO spaces back = 27. I saw that the cardinal direction that corresponded to my zodiac sign of Libra, east, was at the 270th degree from north, even though that is a little bit of a stretch.
Fuck…it just makes me angry that it happened to me so soon, and that it is something that has been (and continues to be) so personally Zaevodnik. Zaevodnik=27=Me, and Hollywood has no right to destroy my life.
4.) "Fatties and Taxes" – Also, a long-overdue topic, spawned from several years of hindrance by those who continue to eat their problems, bad luck, and, apparently, anything that comes in a grease-laden aluminum-clad bag…but first, let me define “Fattie”, for legal reasons, if not others. I define “Fattie” as being any person whose pubic mound is so grossly large that it covers the entire genitalia by a hanging boxing uvula of adipose tissue, skin, and an occasional Tastykake. Anyway, it is my firm belief that money rules the world, whether we slaves believe it or not, and that a tax hike laden upon those who are grossly obese would spur a dieting trend unrivaled by the cutest of Ethiopians.
Seriously, fatties really do ruin it for everyone. Think about it – they give America a bad name, they develop diabetes more frequently, which leads to more of our tax money streaming to hospitals and clinics to take care of and harbor their fat asses which can’t work or walk for a longer-than-ethically-benevolent time, and I’m sure their considerable weight has some effect on the sidewalks, just like the Amish buggy wheels do on the asphalt. Not to mention the pain they cause themselves, the anguish they cause staring onlookers, and the unreasonable space that their entire mass occupies in our physical Cartesian space.
You see, if I pay for a ticket for a seat in a comedy club, I assume that the ticket not only pays the comedian who is about to contort my stomach in fits of laughter, but also reserves a specific space in which my body is to occupy in a seat and area. If Harold’s fat roll, which developed over a course of eighteen years of fried Twinkies and Cheesy Poofs ingested during back episodes of The Simpsons sitting in a beanbag chair, happens to invade my aura and space which I paid MONEY for (that thing that people, unlike them, are able to WORK for and not just get by claimed disability)…that’s just ridiculous.
5.) "Rubber Boobs and Liquor" - …fuck, I really have no idea why this came to me today, but it’s been there, cycling up and down my frontal lobe on an annoying tricycle honking its juvenile clown’s horn for more than six hours, the bastard.
6.) “Assholus Superiosum (a.k.a. Tom McArthur)” - Comedy Night in Allenwood, Pennsylvania - The entire two-hour show basically boiled down to this: Tom bantering and pissing off everyone whose looks and geographic location directly corresponded and correlated to their hobbies, shoes, and distinctive NASCAR-influenced drawl in their slow retarded speech as he continued to make the other 299 of us reel in circuitous and resounding shock-fueled laughs. Tom’s vivid descriptions of one of the members of the audience, who sat back in his chair to hide his face as he knew he was about to become his next victim in the predatory game into which he paid to gain entry, included this man’s recoiling backward, folding into his own asshole to escape the comedian’s wrath.
Another attack occurred to my right – a man, in an annoyingly-solid red long-sleeved shirt, sat in the very front row, right in the line of fire, with his hands folded across his chest, legs in full spread. Tom asked the man if he could fetch the man a magazine, as it looked like he was taking a shit. We thought it was curt and funny. Other victims included the ambiguous art-teacher-bastard whose answers to the comedian’s simple questions were completely devoid of any axon-dendrite activity. Tom fired back after various “every; sometimes; maybe” answers like so – “What are you, the fucking Rainman? [does Robert DeNiro accent from the move “Rainman”] Yea…yea…back to Allenwood…yea…painted shit into my pants…yea…”
He also had fun with a retired U.S. Marshal, whose rate of spoken words rivaled the very finest abilities of the common mute parakeet. The man in the green and white Cat in the Hat, well…HAT, toward the back must have been born mute, as he wouldn’t respond when asked his name – I’m guessing it was something like Pompous Prick, but he was embarrassed because his wife likes to call him “PP”.
7.) “Apparently, they didn't get along.” – From the workings of the “Chinese Auction” that followed Comedy Night. Mom won the basket which contained several large heavy-duty kitchen spatulas, two half-ply kitchen towels, and some chip clips, all situated in a serving basket, suffocated in a large, obtrusive plastic bag, tied at the top by a scoff-deserving patriotic ribbon.
Dad, in his normally-taciturn mood, asked “Are you going to chop me up, put me in that bag, and beat me with the spatulas in the basement? Did you hear about that man’s wife who did that?”
Mom replied, somewhat taken aback, “No…why’d he do it?”
Dad said, his excitement, again, equally-uncontained, “…Apparently, they didn’t get along.” If that’s not the funniest thing I heard all night, then my name isn’t Captain Abu Dhabi and the Holocaust really did exist. KIDDING, KIDDING!!! – I make my own jokes too, you fuck.
1.) “HIAWATHA!” – From Scary Movie 2 when Handsome continued to fornicate a roasted and personally-basted turkey…possibly my favorite movie quote.
2.) “Lu-Lu-Lu-Lu-Lu-Lu-Lu-Lu! Five dolla on pump six!” – Tinicia’s possibly-favorite quote from Lisa Lampanelli’s one stand-up special.
3.) “Four Numbers” – From the long-overdue blog entry about my feelings on the production, plot line, and entire concept of the film “The Number 23”. The producers of this film were, in an expansively-interpretive nutshell of strangeness, uncanniness, and exactitude, four numbers away from making the production the story of my life, thoughts, and entire being which is linked innately to the number 27. It includes, scarily, Jim Carry’s confession in the movie that “…the only real philosophy that matters is whether to commit suicide or not”, which anyone who really knows me can tell you that it is/was something I often contemplate/d.
The movie often made painful jabs at my ego and id when referencing Carry’s connections to 23, echoing the same type of my connections to 27, especially personal things such as my Social Security Number, name, birthday, relatives’ birthdays, anniversaries, and others. It frustrates me though as, from now on, anyone who has ever heard of the movie, directly after I explain to them my explicit connection to the number 27, will ask, “OH…yea…did you start looking after watching that movie, The Number 23?...?”, and then I will continue my inner fire-slicked battle with a distant Hollywood. Anyone who is reading this now, or who will read this in the future, knows exactly this feeling – they feel that, if they only have ONE thing in their lives that is distinctively theirs and distinctively defines them and DISTINCTLY differentiates them as a full-featured and fully-individualized human being and it is taken away from them, that it is more than a matter of politeness, that they hold the only possible mental copyright to this thing, that it is even LOGICAL that it is their mental copyright as it IS them, not just describing them or being related to them…as if someone stole your identity and YOU would forever be known as the fake clone of the real Zak Shellenberger.
The fact still remains, though, that I truly AM joined at the cerebellum to my number, 27, and not through some Hollywood fabrication, as it pervades my name and birthday, corresponding to both the numbers of letters and syllables, the fact that September 27th is the 270th day of the year, the fact that my SSN really DOES start with 207, that I will graduate in 2007, that the German girl who I happened to meet by chance online, met two times in Germany, and two times in America, happens to be born on May 27th, her cousin was born on September 27th, their grandparent’s anniversary is on a 27, as is my parents’, and the fact that my dad was born on a 27.
The numerology is also quite abject – subconsciously as a child, before I even discovered my whole 27-thing (which only occurred by chance about 2 years ago), my favorite number had always been 3, which I related to the letter “Z” and the color “green”, which all characterize those which were/are my favorites, and all, suspiciously rhymed. After I saw that Zachary Francis Shellenberger (me) was born on the September 27th (9th month, 27th day), and my name matched the month (9 syllables) and number of letters (27), I began to play: I discovered that 3^2=9, 3^3=27, and (much later, after much continued astonishment) that 3^3^3=19683, and 1+9+6+8+3=27. I even went as far as to analyze the etymology of the word “September”. I saw that the root “sept” meant seven, and then that, because of Julius and Augustus Caesar, it was moved 2 months back, to the 9th spot…that my month, number SEVEN, was moved TWO spaces back = 27. I saw that the cardinal direction that corresponded to my zodiac sign of Libra, east, was at the 270th degree from north, even though that is a little bit of a stretch.
Fuck…it just makes me angry that it happened to me so soon, and that it is something that has been (and continues to be) so personally Zaevodnik. Zaevodnik=27=Me, and Hollywood has no right to destroy my life.
4.) "Fatties and Taxes" – Also, a long-overdue topic, spawned from several years of hindrance by those who continue to eat their problems, bad luck, and, apparently, anything that comes in a grease-laden aluminum-clad bag…but first, let me define “Fattie”, for legal reasons, if not others. I define “Fattie” as being any person whose pubic mound is so grossly large that it covers the entire genitalia by a hanging boxing uvula of adipose tissue, skin, and an occasional Tastykake. Anyway, it is my firm belief that money rules the world, whether we slaves believe it or not, and that a tax hike laden upon those who are grossly obese would spur a dieting trend unrivaled by the cutest of Ethiopians.
Seriously, fatties really do ruin it for everyone. Think about it – they give America a bad name, they develop diabetes more frequently, which leads to more of our tax money streaming to hospitals and clinics to take care of and harbor their fat asses which can’t work or walk for a longer-than-ethically-benevolent time, and I’m sure their considerable weight has some effect on the sidewalks, just like the Amish buggy wheels do on the asphalt. Not to mention the pain they cause themselves, the anguish they cause staring onlookers, and the unreasonable space that their entire mass occupies in our physical Cartesian space.
You see, if I pay for a ticket for a seat in a comedy club, I assume that the ticket not only pays the comedian who is about to contort my stomach in fits of laughter, but also reserves a specific space in which my body is to occupy in a seat and area. If Harold’s fat roll, which developed over a course of eighteen years of fried Twinkies and Cheesy Poofs ingested during back episodes of The Simpsons sitting in a beanbag chair, happens to invade my aura and space which I paid MONEY for (that thing that people, unlike them, are able to WORK for and not just get by claimed disability)…that’s just ridiculous.
5.) "Rubber Boobs and Liquor" - …fuck, I really have no idea why this came to me today, but it’s been there, cycling up and down my frontal lobe on an annoying tricycle honking its juvenile clown’s horn for more than six hours, the bastard.
6.) “Assholus Superiosum (a.k.a. Tom McArthur)” - Comedy Night in Allenwood, Pennsylvania - The entire two-hour show basically boiled down to this: Tom bantering and pissing off everyone whose looks and geographic location directly corresponded and correlated to their hobbies, shoes, and distinctive NASCAR-influenced drawl in their slow retarded speech as he continued to make the other 299 of us reel in circuitous and resounding shock-fueled laughs. Tom’s vivid descriptions of one of the members of the audience, who sat back in his chair to hide his face as he knew he was about to become his next victim in the predatory game into which he paid to gain entry, included this man’s recoiling backward, folding into his own asshole to escape the comedian’s wrath.
Another attack occurred to my right – a man, in an annoyingly-solid red long-sleeved shirt, sat in the very front row, right in the line of fire, with his hands folded across his chest, legs in full spread. Tom asked the man if he could fetch the man a magazine, as it looked like he was taking a shit. We thought it was curt and funny. Other victims included the ambiguous art-teacher-bastard whose answers to the comedian’s simple questions were completely devoid of any axon-dendrite activity. Tom fired back after various “every; sometimes; maybe” answers like so – “What are you, the fucking Rainman? [does Robert DeNiro accent from the move “Rainman”] Yea…yea…back to Allenwood…yea…painted shit into my pants…yea…”
He also had fun with a retired U.S. Marshal, whose rate of spoken words rivaled the very finest abilities of the common mute parakeet. The man in the green and white Cat in the Hat, well…HAT, toward the back must have been born mute, as he wouldn’t respond when asked his name – I’m guessing it was something like Pompous Prick, but he was embarrassed because his wife likes to call him “PP”.
7.) “Apparently, they didn't get along.” – From the workings of the “Chinese Auction” that followed Comedy Night. Mom won the basket which contained several large heavy-duty kitchen spatulas, two half-ply kitchen towels, and some chip clips, all situated in a serving basket, suffocated in a large, obtrusive plastic bag, tied at the top by a scoff-deserving patriotic ribbon.
Dad, in his normally-taciturn mood, asked “Are you going to chop me up, put me in that bag, and beat me with the spatulas in the basement? Did you hear about that man’s wife who did that?”
Mom replied, somewhat taken aback, “No…why’d he do it?”
Dad said, his excitement, again, equally-uncontained, “…Apparently, they didn’t get along.” If that’s not the funniest thing I heard all night, then my name isn’t Captain Abu Dhabi and the Holocaust really did exist. KIDDING, KIDDING!!! – I make my own jokes too, you fuck.
posted by Zaevodnik at
01:30
|
0 comments
