You are sitting in an empty bar (in a town you’ve never before visited), drinking Barcardi with a soft-spoken acquaintance you barely know. After an hour, a third individual walks into the tavern and sits by himself, and you ask your acquaintance who the new man is. “Be careful of that guy,” you are told. “He is a man with a past.” A few minutes later, a fourth person enters the bar; he also sits alone. You ask your acquaintance who this new individual is. “Be careful of that guy, too,” he says. “He is a man with no past.”
Which of these two people do you trust less?
See that man to the right? What’s his name? No, not Clint Eastwood. I mean the character. What’s his name? Can’t remember, can you? Don’t worry, your brain isn’t melting from one too many acid trips. He doesn’t have a name. He’s the ManWithNo Name. He has no past, and therefore no name. No one knows from whence he came and for what he keeps on keepin’ on for. He just does. He just is. And if he walked into the bar, I would leave immediately because people are gonna straight up be killed.
But you see this guy, to the left there? He does have a name. It’s William “Bill” Munny. He has a name, and a past. In his past he killed everyone. And I mean everyone, including children. If he walked into a bar, I would also leave immediately and rush home to change my diaper. Yes, if I lived in the Old West, I’d wear a diaper. But mostly because outhouses are gross. Plus scorpions are known to hide out in outhouses. And really, who’s gonna suck out that poison? No one. That’s who. NO ONE.
So it seems like I don’t have much of a choice. A man with a past, and without, can be equally terrifying. But I’ll make a decision, no cop outs ’round here. I trust the man without a past less. A man with past has a reputation, and though it’s no guarantee, it’s better than knowing nothing. And I hate knowing nothing. What do you know about it anyway?
Someone builds an optical portal that allows you to see a vision of your own life in the future (it’s essentially a crystal ball that shows a randomly selected image of what your life will be like in twenty years). You can only see into this portal for thirty seconds. When you finally peer into the crystal, you see yourself in a living room, two decades older than you are today. You are watching a Canadian football game, and you are extremely happy. You are wearing a CFL jersey. Your chair is surrounded by books and magazines that promote the Canadian Football League, and there are CFL pennants covering your walls. You are alone in the room, but you are gleefully muttering about historical moments in Canadian football history. It becomes clear that—for some unknown reason—you have become obsessed with Canadian football. And this future is static and absolute; no matter what you do, this future will happen. The optical portal is never wrong. This destiny cannot be changed.
The next day, you are flipping through television channels and randomly come across a pre-season CFL game between the Toronto Argonauts and the Saskatchewan Roughriders. Knowing your inevitable future, do you now watch it?
I was gone. Now I’m here. Where I’ll be next? Well, lend me your ear. Here’s a riddle, see if you can figure it out.
I’ve gone many places, but nowhere I’ve been.
I’ve walked to and fro, but I’ve yet to become lean.
I’ve met many youths, but none know my name.
I’ve written many letters, but to the recipient they never came.
Question #14:
You have a brain tumor. Though there is no discomfort at the moment, this tumor would unquestionably kill you in six months. However, your life can (and will) be saved by an operation; the only downside is that there will be a brutal incision to your frontal lobe. After the surgery, you will be significantly less intelligent. You will still be a fully functioning adult, but you will be less logical, you will have a terrible memory, and you will have little ability to understand complex concepts or difficult ideas. The surgery is in two weeks. How do you spend the next fourteen days?
For reasons that cannot be explained, cats can suddenly read at a twelfth-grade level. They can’t talk and they can’t write, but they can read silently and understand the text. Many cats love this new skill, because they now have something to do all day while they lay around the house; however, a few cats become depressed, because reading forces them to realize the limitations of their existence (not to mention the utter frustration of being unable to express themselves). This being the case, do you think the average cat would enjoy Garfield, or would cats find this cartoon to be an insulting caricature? Continue reading…
My life is falling apart. Please, be my glue. Rubber cement preferably.
Question #12:
Every person you have ever slept with is invited to a banquet where you are the guest of honor. No one will be in attendance except you, the collection of your former lovers, and the catering service. After the meal, you are asked to give a fifteen-minute speech to the assembly. What do you talk about?
I’m not sure why’d I be the guest of HONOR? I’m pretty sure I’d be the guest of UN-HONOR. I fear it would be more like a roast. Not to mention there’d be like 5 people there, and that might be a lie. 15 minutes, huh? I guess I would talk mostly about myself, what I’m doing, what I plan to do, blah, blah. Then I’d probably perform karaoke. Most likely the wildly popular but completely inappropriate for this gathering, “Glory of Love” by Peter Cetera, or as I like to call, the Ex-Cetera. Which actually is perfect. I would then most likely try to get them all liquored up and suggest an orgy. What? I’ve already seen them naked.
Question #11:
You meet a wizard in downtown Chicago. The wizard tells you he can make you more attractive if you pay him money. When you ask how this process works, the wizard points to a random person on the street. You look at this random stranger. The wizard says, “I will now make them a dollar more attractive.” he waves his magic wand. Ostensibly, this person does not change at all; as far as you can tell nothing is different. But—somehow—this person is suddenly a little more appealing. The tangible difference is invisible to the naked eye, but you can’t deny that this person is vaguely sexier. This wizard has a weird rule, though—you can only pay him once. You can’t keep giving money until you’re satisfied. You can only pay him one lump sum up front. How much cash do you give the wizard?
I am poor. And already extremely good looking. I often get up in the morning and wonder, what can I do with my good looks? How can I make a living off of how extremely good looking I am? My girlfriend then punches me in the face and tells me to brush my teeth.
What is this wizard wearing? Does everybody else see him? Is he white? These are all important questions that will determine exactly how much money I would give him. It really comes down to two options: 1) Everything in my wallet, or 2) $2. Which on a normal day option 1 would be the same as option 2. Like I said above, I’m poor.
You know, I’m not even going to bother contemplating the other option of just giving him nothing and saying, “Nah. I feel good about who I am, I don’t need a wizard to make me feel better about myself or how I look.” Cause that’s kind of bullshit. We all need a wizard. Shit, I used to go to the bar and drink copious amounts of alcohol in order to make everyone else better looking. I might as well spend a little dough to make myself sexier, without the guilt of plastic surgery. So, I’d give him $5. The cost of a semi-quality tasty brew. Cheers.
And on my way to certain disaster, I’m trying to find my way to ubuntu. If you know the way feel free to take my hand.
Question #10:
You are watching a movie in a crowded theater. Though the plot is mediocre, you find yourself dazzled by the special effects. But with twenty minutes left in the film, you are struck with an undeniable feeling of doom: You are suddenly certain your mother has just died. There is no logical reason for this to be true, but you are certain of it. You are overtaken with the irrational metaphysical sense that—somewhere—your mom has just perished. But this is only an intuitive, amorphous feeling; there is no evidence for this, and your mother has not been ill. Would you immediately exit the theater, or would you finish watching the movie?
Historically, my feelings have gotten me nothing but trouble. My mother and I don’t really get along. Hold on, let me take that back. We get along fine. But we fake it. We’ll get along until the next time we fight. Until that day, we pretend, mostly for my father and brother. Or perhaps I fake it for her and she is faking it for me. Too much effort? Maybe. But I’ve been doing it for about 15 years now. I’ve gotten rather good at it.
I’d stay till the end of the movie. If it turned out it she was dead, 20 minutes wouldn’t make a difference. I would just have 20 less minutes to grieve and question my decisions of the past. My name is RustedJesus and I’ve never claimed to be saint.
I might have gone to see to a teenage romantic comedy by myself this week. But your sources haven’t been able to confirm it yet. I also need to have a conversation with myself regarding the fact that I now have 300 friends on Facebook and speak to nearly none of them. I think my life is in need of a serious re-evalution. But that’s not really here nor there. On to the question.
Question #9:
A novel titled Interior Mirror is released to mammoth commercial success (despite middling reviews). However, a curious social trend emerges: Though no one can prove a direct scientific link, it appears that almost 30 percent of the people who read this book immediately become homosexual. Many of these newfound homosexuals credit the book for helping them reach this conclusion about their orientation, despite the fact that Interior Mirror is ostensibly a crime novel with no homoerotic content (and was written by a straight man). Would this phenomenon increase (or decrease) the likelihood of you reading the book?
Well, first, I find it hard to believe that a crime novel has no over/undertones of homoeroticism. It should at least have some narcissism, which could possibly qualify as homoeroticism. I mean, Dick Tracy is homoerotic even though you can see Madonna’s nipple. But if I am to answer the question as written, I suppose I’ll do so.
I would actually like to believe that the phenomenon would neither increase nor decrease the likelihood of me reading the book. Because either notion is potentially dangerous. If the phenomenon decreases the likelihood of me reading the book, it would expose in me a belief that being gay is a bad thing. If it increases my likelihood of reading the book, it contributes to the cultural tendency to other and exoticize certain groups of people, gays in this case.
I am, by nature, curious. And while this curiosity has not led me to ‘experiment,’ I would find myself tempted to read such a book just to see what would happen. I was the kid who when the morning news warned us not to look at the eclipse because it would burn our corneas/retinas out of our heads, I went ahead and stared at the sun for about 20 seconds. Then I cried and cried because even though I could still see, I was certain I was going to wake up blind the next day.
I also think of it this way. I’ve had terrible luck with women for most of my life. What if I read this book, suddenly realized I was gay, and was significantly happier for the rest of my life. I know, I know, this is a ludicrous notion for many reasons. One, I probably actually haven’t had bad luck with women. I mean the fact that I’m nearly 29 years old and haven’t been able to remain in a relationship longer than 6-7 months means absolutely nothing, right? Two, if I became gay, that certainly wouldn’t solve these issues.
So, whatevs. I’d read it while listening to Elton John (not that gays listen to Elton John, it’s just that, well, I like Elton John, and he’s gay, and…whatever. It doesn’t matter.)
Florida is ridiculous for many reasons that I’m too depressed to get into now, perhaps later. But for now, do what ever you can to avoid this place. Please, please. I’m dying inside. Save yourselves.
Question #8:
You meet the perfect person. Romantically, this person is ideal: You find them physically attractive, intellectually stimulating, consistently funny, and deeply compassionate. However, they have one quirk: This individual is obsessed with Jim Henson’s gothic puppet fantasy The Dark Crystal. Beyond watching it on DVD at least once a month, he/she peppers casual conversation with Dark Crystal references, uses Dark Crystal analogies to explain everyday events, and occasionally likes to talk intensely about the film’s “deeper philosophy.” Would this be enough to stop you from marrying this individual?
Oh, man. Romance + Nerdery = Orgasm. At least in my book. You know, I’ve actually never watched The Dark Crystal. Perhaps I should. I’ve watched Labyrinth and it seems to me they are the same genre at least. Though I think I do prefer watching a creepy, but awesome, Bowie with a cod piece, making weird inappropriate passes at a 15-year-old Jennifer Connelly. Not because I enjoy wearing cod pieces and making inappropriate passes at 15 year olds, but just because the whole thing is ludicrous. Especially when you start to think of the movie outside of itself, as in imagining the production meetings when they are going over the kind of makeup and costume Bowie will be wearing, what the director is asking Bowie to do…That sort of thing. Of course it’s all conjecture. For all I know, Bowie just showed up on the set wearing that shit, possibly having been out partying the night before and not having time to shower and change, and the director and producer see him and say, “Genius, great costume Bowie.” And in a saucy British accent Bowie replies, “It’s not a costume. I was out last night with Elton, and well, let’s just say we had a breakthrough and we saw the world for what it really is. Elton and his obnoxiously big limo dropped me off here a moment ago. I have a funny taste in my mouth, do you have any mouth wash?”
ANYWAY, you know it’s hard to tell how I would feel about such a woman in the long term. I know for certain I would immediately overwhelmingly attracted to her. Nerdery is a prime component to my attraction to women. Why? Because I am one. See here’s the thing. Not only would I have to put up with her obsession with The Dark Crystal, but she would have to put with my obsession with The Lord of the Rings. The extent of my obsession you ask? Well I can’t speak Orc or Elvish, but I do read the books EVERY summer. And I periodically watch the extended versions of the movies as if they were a tv show (i.e. I watch them episodically). And I often randomly quote the books and/or movies (mostly movies, I’m an audio learner, but I guess I’m also visual, just not in a reading way, more pictorally). For instance, as I’m driving some lost fool will ask me, “Where are we going?” I respond completely inappropriately in a gruff voice, “Into the wild Master Gamgee.” Which is usually met with silence or rarely with a “Unhand him Longshanks or I’ll run you through,” in which case we have hearty generous laugh and make uncomfortable eye contact.
I guess in my ideal world I would marry this amazing woman who is obsessed with The Dark Crystal and we would have amazing fantasy sex all the time. I would usually be Aragorn of course. But on particularly generous days I would be a cunnilingus-doling dwarf named Gimli. And my wife, she would be Kira I suppose. I might be into that.
I guess, the question that remains is whether I ever “intensely talk about the film’s deeper meaning” in regards to LOTR. I think I do, never as a classic example of manichaeanism, because it is, which is actually a fault of it I believe, not to mention of its archaic use of black/primitive motifs for evil and white/ethical/moralistic motifs for good. But perhaps I would speak of its take on the definition of home (Frodo’s whole struggle with returning home and then leaving again because he realizes that the Shire was never really home for him, bringing into consideration the loss of his parents, lack of romantic interest [save for his homoerotic relationship with Samwise Gamgee], and apparently innate taste for travel and adventure). LOOK, I’m already starting to do it.
I’ll stop there, since you aren’t the love of my life and we have no chance of fantasy role playing coitus. Unless we do, and in that case, you know how to get a hold of me.
I’m not cut out for accomplishing things of worth. I’m really good at accomplishing things not of worth. So why fix what ain’t broke. Let’s go!
Question #7:
Defying all expectations, a group of Scottish marine biologists capture a live Loch Ness Monster. In an almost unbelievable coincidence, a bear hunter in the Pacific Northwest shoots a Sasquatch in the thigh, thereby allowing zoologists to take the furry monster into captivity. These events happen on the same afternoon. That evening, the president announces he may have thyroid cancer and will undergo a biopsy later that week. You are the front-page editor of The New York Times: What do you play as the biggest story?
Hmmm. This may be the most difficult question I have faced yet. Catching Nelly is quite an accomplishment. And quite a story. The idea is that Nelly is basically a dinosaur, right? This would have huge ramifications across the world, not only for science but for life in general. I mean, if it’s suddenly discovered that dinosaurs are still alive, it makes it more likely that they were alive a mere 4000 years ago. This would mean that potential VILP Palin is correct in her belief of literal messianic time/history. Her and McCain would most likely be elected, McCain would die on the eve of his swearing in while having wild sex with his MILF wifey. Palin would be president, we would invade Russia from her house, I would make an honest attempt to get her oldest daughter pregnant, and the polar ice caps would melt causing Florida to be lost to the ocean, which would mean I wouldn’t have to go to school anymore and Tim Tebow would hopefully be dead or stranded on a life raft in the Atlantic most likely to be eaten by sharks, meanwhile babies would be popping out of uteruses everywhere because of the banning of contraceptives, this would quickly deplete our food supply and we would have to resort to eating said babies and rely on dogsleds to get around since all the oil reserves would be unattainable due to a rebel alliance of nuke wielding greenpeace activists, which would eventually lead us to form clans or packs, much like wild dogs and we would roam the earth in search of trees (which were mostly burned down in the financial crisis riots that occurred soon after the election) to pee on. R. Kelly would crown himself king of a small enclave in Malibu and steal all underage girls and use them as toilets while training church choirs to sing his new National Anthem, “Real Talk,” disturbingly similar to the McCain/Palin slogan.
It seems to me that the catching of Nelly would be a truly world changing event. I don’t believe in Sasquatch, that’s ludicrous. And even if Sasquatch did exist, I think Walker, Texas Ranger already took care of him. Half the nation wants to elect a 76-year-old skin cancer patient for President, so a thyroid biopsy doesn’t seem like that big of a deal.
So, if I were the front page editor of The New York Times, I would have to say the finding of ol’ Nelly (the Loch Ness monster) would get play as the biggest story. A truly momentus occasion. Truly.
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See that man to the right? What’s his name? No, not Clint Eastwood. I mean the character. What’s his name? Can’t remember, can you? Don’t worry, your brain isn’t melting from one too many acid trips. He doesn’t have a name. He’s the Man With No Name. He has no past, and therefore no name. No one knows from whence he came and for what he keeps on keepin’ on for. He just does. He just is. And if he walked into the bar, I would leave immediately because people are gonna straight up be killed.
But you see this guy, to the left there? He does have a name. It’s William “Bill” Munny. He has a name, and a past. In his past he killed everyone. And I mean everyone, including children. If he walked into a bar, I would also leave immediately and rush home to change my diaper. Yes, if I lived in the Old West, I’d wear a diaper. But mostly because outhouses are gross. Plus scorpions are known to hide out in outhouses. And really, who’s gonna suck out that poison? No one. That’s who. NO ONE.
