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2001: The Viagra Years
Sunday February 4, 2001
I drove my beloved six-four down to Koko Marina so that I could purchase a 12-pack of cheap brewskis in anticipation of the arrival of my sister-in-law. As I was leaving Foodland, I noticed a balding idiot standing around in the parking lot and talking on his cell phone. I recognized the fool immediately. I looked around and saw the moron's Mercedes 180e parked just a few spaces away. The handmaiden was sitting inside that piece of [dung], trying very hard to look inconspicuous. This little game is moot. I'm certain that the handmaiden was afraid to run into me with her new boytoy. What is the big deal?
I was more concerned about the stupid bitch to whom I am related because of an even more stupid sibling. Moms is not able to see her game, but I see right through her like a plate of glass. I have no time for either the handmaiden or my sister-in-law. Each is a scandalous ho' of her own accord. However, I have more respect for the handmaiden because she quickly moved on when it was obvious that I was not financially viable. The putrid bitch who is married to my bro is another story. I really don't care about what this useless leech wants. I just don't want to see her trailer park ho' face around these parts until she is ready to cash in on her "inheritance."
I have nothing to do with babes anymore because I am on to their games. Malia called a couple of times yesterday but I have not responded. Why? Because I know that she has been untruthful in the past, although I cannot understand why. What is the reason for these female shenanigans? I don't know. Babes are certain that the Vienna Sausage will supersede any rational thinking, I suppose. I have no respect for babes who use da wild thing as a means to an end. I will proceed with my plans to exit society as soon as possible. I don't need this crap.
Too many cheap brewskis. Big headache. After a most uneventful weekend, I am due back at the salt mines tomorrow. The incident of last week has left me wondering. Who can I trust? Perhaps one of my students (most likely a potentially dangerous babe) misunderstood my course requirements and mentioned something to a desperate male faculty member. The moron probably thought that he could score a few points by using me as a scapegoat. When will these idiots learn? If they would zip up their pants, then they could think straight. Sheesh!
Monday February 5
I have identified at least three potentially dangerous babes in my classes. Could they be the likely suspects in the debacle of Friday? Who is to say? Sheesh! So far, I've had a lot of logistical problems in my classes at the university. One classroom has a multimedia projector that must cool down for an hour before it can be turned back on. If the prior class uses the projector and shuts it down, then I can do nothing. The multimedia stations for the classrooms are locked as well. Today, the library had no keys because other faculty have failed to return them. I have had to let my classes out early twice now because of the aforementioned stupidity. This does not help my case especially if I am called to the mat again by the Academic Coordinator.
I am surprised about how aware I am of my surroundings. Take, for example, my ability to spot the handmaiden yesterday. I am also able to keenly predict events, even though I often don't heed my own intuition (only to regret it later). It boils down to the characteristics so typical of the engineering personality. "Once an engineer, always an engineer," both my homeys Skip and Kevin (in LA) used to tell me. It's true. I've tried to mask the underlying engineering traits, but to no avail. A keen sense of observation is one of the key characteristics. Next in line is the need for constant analysis. The latter can be the engineer's undoing. The analysis is never done until the problem is solved. That's probably why engineers do not understand babes. No amount of mathematical equations can ever define them. What's even worse is when one tries to understand engineering babes. Take Clare, for instance. Clare, an engineer? Yep, the "car pool buddy" was a metallurgical engineer and an awesome gym babe as well. Boggles the mind, doesn't it?
I was a little cranky yesterday, most likely because I was droppin' back the cheap brewskis like water. Fire water, that is. Baha! Ha! Ha! Haaaa! I passed out and came to around dinner time. I was groggy and extremely perturbed. I could not sleep at all last night. In retrospect, I should have just unboxed my Bose Acoustic Wave and listened to the psychotic classical pieces on public radio.
Tuesday February 6
I was extremely fatigued today. I had a dream last night in which the ol' lavahead was doing da wild thing with one of the potentially dangerous babes in my classes. If only there was a way for me to flog myself and remove the foolishness from within. I have no idea why I have stooped to this level of debauchery.
I've been talking with Eric on the afternoon express bus for the last few days including last week. He has been telling me an interesting tale about he and his girlfriend. I often thought that all was well, but Eric has been weaving an entirely different tale of late. He feels that he can only escape the relationship by fleeing to the mainland. Otherwise, if he attempts to breakup with her, he is certain that she will stalk him. "I'm probably going to have to get a TRO (restraining order)," he confided. Today, he told me about his various attempts to terminate the relationship. In response, she attempted (or at least feigned) suicide. In recent times, his babe has become even more possessive and threatening. Sounds like "fatal attraction" to me.
I've been extremely busy. However, I managed to restore my monk haircut and also go to the gym this afternoon. I've been compiling my exams for the classes at the Asylum. I also have many administrative tasks to take care of at the university, although some other faculty (like the jackass who filed the complaint against me) may not believe that. I really have no commitment to what I do anymore. The latest incident has left an extremely bad taste in my mouth, if you know what I mean. Only three more years, I keep telling myself.
Wednesday February 7
The day was like a blur. The addition of a faculty meeting at the Asylum ate up my free time. In fact, all I could fit in was a 25-minute StairMaster workout at the gym before catching the express bus. I might as well be working a 40-hour week and making more dough. Sheesh! Off and on, I read a few of the more "scholarly" journals on education. I am surprised at how many of the contributors are still locked into some kind of idealistic bliss concerning the state of education. I surmise that much of this is part of the elaborate façade which was created in order to perpetuate the caste of the educational elite. These morons are either involved in an elaborate ruse or they have been living in a dream world. Education has been reduced to a diploma mill. There is but a small minority of students who believe in anything other than the end (a degree) justifying the means. Few really care about developing intellectual curiosity. I am a realist, and I am also customer-driven. I give these students exactly what they want in the most palatable form. They care little about the process of learning, so I accommodate their needs. Only the tenured elitists need not worry about suffering sanctions or reprisals from bad student evaluations or complaints lodged by disgruntled students and meddling faculty.
Yet, oddly enough, I believe that I am effective. I could be fooling myself. However, I do know that my style of pedagogy differs radically from anyone else. I push the envelope of pseudo-professorship and oftentimes tread on the sacred grounds of the elite. Any attempts to remove me from service for the sake of "academic integrity" is just a futile attempt to disguise their own fears of inadequacy. My advice to these idiots — get some Viagra already! Well, hey! These are the Viagra years!
For the most part, I look forward to the day when I exit this profession. I am tired of all of the fools who continue to keep their heads buried in the sand. At other times, I want to obtain my doctorate and remain in academia. I have noticed a big difference between my colleagues and I. They thrive on the idealism and that is what motivates them to stay in the system. I function knowing that my time is limited. This finality is the only factor that seems to keep me chugging along. It is with this gut feeling that I should determine my destiny, not by what is "politically correct" or "proper" as determined by our so-called "society."
Thursday February 8
The spare moments of my day were spent in catching up with a backlog of work. All of my comprehensive exams at the Asylum are scheduled for next week. I finally managed to compile the exams and the data disks containing the working files. I still must prepare more material for my curriculum at the university. I'm surprised that I'm able to do this given all the crap I've been through. Students can actually "test out" of my class with the textbook publisher's national exam. I've mentioned this to my classes. One student was going to take the exam, but today she told me that she is going to stay in the class because she enjoys the class.
Pseudo-professor Chad stopped to talk with me as I was standing at the bus stop this afternoon. I was waiting for the express bus and he was on his way to his class. He asked about my situation concerning the alleged complaint. I gave him a short synopsis. He was somewhat surprised to learn that other faculty were involved. He also shared his own observations about the changing student demographics. The growing consensus is that the situation has gotten out of hand, but the annoying trends have only become prevalent within the last six months. Forgot to mention that I saw "Dangerous" Jennifer yesterday. She still looks as dangerous as ever. Sheesh!
Friday February 9
The cops were at the House of Lolo twice last night. The ugly ho' and the young ho' both talked with the cops each time. The lolo was conspicuously absent. I overheard the cop mentioning something about a restraining order, so I assumed that someone has threatened them. This is not at all surprising given the sordid history of the House of Lolo. I'm only concerned that one of the loser boytoys of either ho' will erupt in violence in the immediate proximity. So far, my predictions have been gradually coming true.
I had to go to the State Capitol today as part of the entourage representing the Asylum. A high technology trade show was being held on the fourth floor. I asked my students if anyone was interested in going. Only one took me up on the offer. The others provided a barrage of excuses. Sad to say, this was a golden opportunity that they chose to forsake. Yet, the numbers of firms represented was dismally low, an indication that there really is no high technology industry presence in Hawai'i. I managed to speak with a number of people from the various companies. All in all, it was interesting although fatiguing.
Malia called while I was sitting in the faculty computer room along with Pseudo-professor Ralph. We talked for a while, although we didn't catch up on much. My afternoon classes went well at the university. I believe that I have established a good rapport with my students. Two of them were in Pseudo-professor John's class last semester, but they dropped the class. I inquired about what had transpired in the class. They gave me a description of a situation gone awry. I'm not sure what his motives were, but apparently Pseudo-professor John went out of his way to make condescending remarks about both the university and its students a number of times. He talked about himself and his accomplishments incessantly. I knew that he was frustrated but I now have come to see that he was projecting his own problems upon the unwitting students. He had also spent a lot of time "greasing the machine" to his own ends. Yet, he failed to realize that the squeaky wheel always gets the oil. The Dean and the Academic Coordinator turned against him once the complaints started pouring in. All this after Pseudo-professor John had invested much of his own time in developing the model for several classes and for the proposed distance learning component.
I went to the gym for a quick workout. When I returned to the faculty computer room, Pseudo-professor Robert was there. He has been feeling displaced ever since he was bumped of one class. "I am still a little ticked off at the Dean," he confided in me. "I feel as though I am on probation." I know the feeling all too well. After my meeting with the Academic Coordinator last week, I have noticed that the administrators in my department have been distant. My time is coming. I enjoyed my day nonetheless. I have discovered that the potentially dangerous babes in my classes are not all that dangerous. "Dangerous" Jennifer wasn't that dangerous either. They are a valuable resource in my classes because they are the most lively and the most entertaining of the bunch. That helps to keep my classes from drifting into the doldrums.
The weekend is finally here. I could really use a cheap brewski. Hark! What is that in the fridge? Three cans of cheap Natural Light brewskis! Sheesh! I noticed that my beloved cell phone had logged a call in the afternoon. The number was that of the handmaiden. Whassup wi' dat?
Saturday February 10
I'm on the downhill slide, as is usually the case during the weekends. First, I did some yardboy chores. Then, I bought a 12-pack of Keystone to keep me occupied for the rest of the day. Not much else to do. I uninstalled Eliza, the Pocket Psychologist from my Palm IIIe for no particular reason. I lapsed in and out of a coma for the rest of the day while sitting in my favorite chair. During my conscious moments, I once again contemplated the purpose of my Palm IIIe. Cheap brewskis and psychosis. What a combination! With over 98 percent of my Palm's memory free, I am even more baffled about its purpose. It is much easier to use the old scraps of paper that I was accustomed to prior to purchasing the device.
I'm on the verge of insanity. Continuously contemplating the usefulness of both the Palm IIIe and the Bose Acoustic Wave is taxing my fragile mental state. Yet, these stupid devices are merely symbolic of the real problem. I have purchased expensive devices because I considered them necessities. Instead, I betrayed my own common sense, and I am now constantly reminded of the uselessness of these devices by their presence. However, I can't seem to part with them. First of all, no one is interested in buying any of my useless devices. That should tell me something. Secondly, I am constantly trying to justify each device's utility. This contemplation now absorbs most of my free time.
As an engineer, I should have seen the folly of my error a long time ago. A quick analysis would have told me that most of the expensive toys out on the market are just pacifiers for a neurotic consumerist populace. These devices do not need to serve any useful purpose, because their only task is to provide justification to their owners that wage slavery does indeed pay. We can afford the luxury of a $200 device which takes the place of a 50-cent paper notepad. Therefore, we have separated ourselves from the cretins and peons who must, Heaven forbid, use a crude pen to jot notes down. Lord, have mercy on those poor troglodytes.
The real irony of my lifestyle comes, not with the ownership of the Bose Acoustic Wave, but rather with my beloved cell phone. No one ever calls the ol' lavahead on his cell phone because he intentionally never answers it. Neither does he return the calls logged on the device, provided that anyone (lately, only the handmaiden) calls at all. I have seen the myriad idiots walking around with their stupid phones clutched in their hands. I see them on the express bus doing the same. All are eagerly waiting for the stupid things to ring. When they finally exhaust their patience, they decide to make the call themselves. Any call. To anybody.
I have searched for hours in the past few days for a useful program for my Palm IIIe. Even a good game would have sufficed. I perform this ritual every month, only to be disappointed by lousy software and then launch into a dissertation about it in the journal. The bottom line is that I fell into the same trap that afflicts the poverty stricken. I have spent beyond my means to feel as though I am not poor. Imagine how long it took to earn the dough to purchase the Palm IIIe or the Bose Acoustic Wave at minimum wage. I have exchanged many hours of my life for junk that I have no use for. The Palm IIIe sits in front of me, as we speak. I habitually pick it up and turn it on, only to be faced with the same data-less applications. Each time I turn it on, I only reduce the life of the batteries.
Of course, I didn't consider that the devices themselves substitute for companionship, either friends or babes. I have neither. I have become a true loner like The Master. I just haven't sold out and bought a tube yet. Thank goodness for cheap brewskis! Loss of spirituality. No purpose. Poor and destitute. Friendless and alone. This is how I choose to live. At the fringe of what is already a borderline anarchy posing as society. What is the point? The irony is the paradox. The paradox is the joke. And, the joke is on a select few of us.
Sunday February 11
I found a few new applications to install on my beloved Palm IIIe. That's the beauty of the Palm devices — endless applications are available to install and uninstall. I'll probably download the Palm development tools so that I can design my own applications. I have never gotten around to coding the Java Chicken Choker. It's far too advanced for a simpleton like myself. Perhaps I can start with a simpler programming platform like the Palm OS. Sheesh! By the way, I have made a note in my Palm "To Do" list that I must clean out my desk at the university. I might as well beat 'em to the punch, eh?
The psychotic symptoms which I have been exhibiting lately are not unlike what I had experienced five years ago. I was losing my mind in my shoebox at the Roach Motel. The incessant pacing of the tenant living above me, known only as Loser, was driving me more insane as each laborious step translated into an annoying creaking sound emanating from the ceiling. I was pushed to the edge of sanity. Rather than give in to senseless violence, I projected my anger into the project which eventually gave birth on February 24th to LoserNet. It is as if I am reliving that time again, only under new circumstances. Nonetheless, psychosis is the common denominator. I would have given anything to have had the Bose Acoustic Wave back then. Instead, I had to settle for the K-Mart all-in-one entertainment center. If only I could have played my rap CDs on the Bose Acoustic Wave. Dogg Pound would have been jammin' at full volume! My computer back then was the pathetic Tandy Model T100 notebook, which was no more powerful than my Palm IIIe. However, at the $499 list price, it was a deal. How little things have changed.
LoserNet in book form was a project developed by Tim (email@example.com). The original Loser Living Upstairs and parts of the original journal are slated to be published in very limited numbers. It certainly will never be on the New York Times Best Seller's list, but this is far more than I would have expected. In recent times, LoserNet has all but disappeared into obscurity. Naturally, an auspicious event such as this call for a celebration. I am droppin' back a few cans of Keystone as we speak.
I return to the salt mines tomorrow. I had quite a few things to do in preparation for my classes. Instead, I have shirked them off. This past year has been a nightmare for me. I now have no support from the duffers at both the university and the Asylum. In fact, I feel as though they are looking real hard to find a reason to terminate me. I'm not alone. In the end, I believe that Pseudo-professor Ralph will be the only one out of our motley crew to make it into upper echelon of academia. The rest of us are going to be left hanging out to dry. All the more reason that I meet my financial goals within the next three years.
Monday February 12
I was comatose for most of the day. I have exams scheduled for the week at the Asylum. So far, it does not look too good. My students are ill-prepared to do anything as evidenced by how poorly they performed. That could be a bad reflection on my pedagogy, but I know better. We certainly don't have the qualified candidates to fill the positions of the companies whose representatives I spoke with at the State Capitol on Friday. I know exactly what the problem is, for it plagues me as well. There is something deeply rooted in the local culture. On the mainland, these traits are usually labeled "laziness," or "lack of initiative." I believe that it goes beyond superficial nomenclature. It is the laid back, local lifestyle that yearns for simplicity. The resistance to change has always been a part of that culture. Much of technology, for instance, is like sorcery. The locals are mystified, yet scared of the black magic of the haole. I am a quasi-local whose sole purpose is to dispel the mythical nature of magician's bag of tricks. I am here to break the chains of ignorance and to show them the true source of power — knowledge.
I have noticed that the dangerous babes are the ones who provide the covalent bonding for the whole class. Essentially, my classes would be very boring without them. This is not a matter of favoritism on my part. Nor do I have a hidden agenda. After all, I'm a monk. That reminds me, I ran into "Dangerous" Jennifer in the library. I was dropping off a key, and happened to run into her as she got off the elevator. She was dressed very dangerously today. I asked her if she was going to do some studying. Apparently, she lost her wallet and had to get a replacement student ID card. All of the dangerous babes have the same personality as "Dangerous" Jennifer. Interesting, isn't it?
The express bus came on time. Mark and a few other people walked down to the first stop (the one I'm usually at these days). The bus made its usual turn onto Queen Street but went straight instead of turning left onto Alakea. I told Mark and the passengers around me that the driver was taking us on the No. 6 route to Ward Avenue. I don't think anyone believed me until I mentioned it a few more times. I'm usually the guy who runs up to tell the driver if he missed a turn, but I just didn't want to do that today. Finally, someone told the driver. It took us about 20 minutes to turn back around because traffic on Ala Moana Boulevard was extremely heavy. After we finally turned onto Alakea, we picked up more of the express bus gang including the handmaiden's friend Anne and Eric. The ride home was fun because this was the first time that all of us have been on the bus at the same time.
I didn't make it to the gym today because I was inundated with questions after class. I am answering the same questions over and over again. Fortunately, I had a nice cold Keystone in the fridge, waiting for this moment. I'm droppin' it back right now. Professor Russell has tentatively invited me to his B-day dinner on Saturday. I'm sure that the motley crew of professors and pseudo-professors will be invited as well. It's time for me to relax because I'm sure that tomorrow will be another one of those days. Sheesh!
Tuesday February 13
My homey Rod called me early this morning from North Carolina. Unfortunately, there was bad news. Rod's father passed away at the end of January. Rod has been taking care of business there. I felt extremely bad because I could offer no real words of comfort.
I finally met with the handmaiden this afternoon, since my cell phone had recorded multiple calls from her. After discussing the possibility of working as a trainer for her friend's consulting firm in Oregon, we finally came around to the real topic of discussion. The handmaiden is getting married. I'm not exactly sure why I was privy to this information one day before V-Day. I won't try to look for any sinister implications. She asked me permission to give my old NEC notebook computer to her friend Anne. No problem. She also wanted to know what to do with Ray's push mower. Ray and his wife were the handmaiden's neighbors. They both passed away about a year ago. I'd be proud to inherit Ray's lawnmower. It needs a little work but I'm sure that I'll be able restore it to original specifications.
I could offer an analysis of the situation but I really don't care to. My time would be better spent in looking for a good Palm IIIe application to download. The sages said it all once before, and their predictions have been right on track. The cycle repeats itself every two to three years. I am fortunate to be out of that loop. I finally shared a bit of my own recent history including the ordeal with Toad and some of the shenanigans of my bro's family. The rest was small talk. We parted company at the intersection near the gym. I don't think I'll hear from the handmaiden for a long time. Perhaps this was her closure. The truth will set us free.
I wouldn't have even known that today was V-Day were it not for the handmaiden's friend Anne. She was standing at the bus stop yesterday when I walked up. The square box in the Long's paper sack that she was carrying was obviously a 12-pack of brewskis. Budweiser, to be exact.
"Too bad you didn't have that the other day when we were all on the bus," I said, referring to the brewskis.
"Well, it [the brewskis] helps when you have to sit at home alone on February 14th — Valentine's Day," Anne opined.
"Heck, I didn't even know that it was V-Day. The 14th of the month only means one thing to me," I said. "That's the auto-payment date for my loans."
Sheesh! Of course, that does make one wonder why the handmaiden chose this particular week to reveal her marriage plans. Twisting of the dagger maybe? Whatever the reason, I could care less. The ring on the handmaiden's finger was worth over $200,000 easily. She has gotten what she wanted.
I told this pathetic story to my classes at the university, as I always try to share personal anecdotes that are somewhat humorous. "Don't worry," one of the dangerous babes told me. "Cupid will strike again." I laughed, although I figured that it was more likely that some psycho stalker such as Toad will probably strike first with an Uzi. Well, another day, another dollar — short. There's a cheap brewski sitting in the freezer as we speak. It will be nice and cold when I'm ready to drop 'em back. A 40-dog of King Cobra would be even better. Well, hey! Don't let the smooth taste fool ya!
Thursday February 15
I neglected to mention that I talked with Pseudo-professor Robert yesterday in the faculty computer room. He told me about a date he went on recently. He took some babe to the Punaho'u carnival. Apparently, baby got bored within an hour and wanted to go home. "I'm fading fast," she told him. "Obviously," I said, "You haven't been paying much attention to the lyrics of your favorite rap songs." Babes don't want nice guys. He then broke into an LL Cool J number — "I'm da type a guy ..." Well, I think he's beginning to see the big picture.
I met with my evaluator at the Asylum. I really wasn't in the mood for that crap. I won't be getting a pay raise anyway since everyone believes that I'm dating a student. The rest of the day was uneventful. I managed to talk with Pseudo-professor Robert again in the faculty computer room. Monks, babes, politics, and religion were the topics of the day. We had a long discussion about babes. "Da wild thing is what causes all of the problems," I offered, defending my position as monk. That's what guys want, and they want it regularly. Babes know this for a fact, and use it as a means of extortion to get what they want. I really should restate that. Extortion implies forced compliance. Guys willingly give in to the demands of babes in anticipation of da wild thing. The requisite discipline to avoid such a snare can only be obtained by practicing the monk ways. The main testament of this journal has been that babes are not necessary for survival. Only our basic needs (e.g., food, water, etc.) and a steady dosage of spirituality are necessary. When the ol' lavahead had foolishly deviated from his proper course, he ended up in deep crap.
When I returned home, I found out that moms had been involved in a car accident. Apparently, the car that moms and her friends were passengers had hit another car from behind. Moms was in the back seat. The seat belts were not accessible. They were under the seat cover, if you can believe it. People are so worried about ruining the fabric of the seats, but will they be able to enjoy them when the car is destroyed or, worst yet, when they are maimed? Moms suffered only slight facial injuries, but I am still concerned.
Friday February 16
Pseudo-professor Robert was in the faculty computer room when I returned to the university from the Asylum. "I've been reflecting on what we discussed yesterday," he said. Apparently, he has been pondering whether the monk option was viable. Later, he showed me a copy of one the exams that must be taken to become an ordained minister. Could he be taking the plunge? Spirituality is the key to survival, but how can one separate from the weaknesses of the flesh? The real issue boils down to the matter of babes. I have long ago learned that happiness will not be derived from the companionship of babes. Needless to say, I made a hypocrite of myself before resuming my proper course. A humbling experience, at best.
"All a guy needs is a good computer," I continued. Pseudo-professor Robert then realized that it was he who had originally brought up the issue of hypergamy a while back. Hypergamy is the reason why many guys are losers insofar as babes are concerned. It may sound as if I am contradicting myself at this point. Recall that I had told Pseudo-professor Robert how a guy has to try really hard to remain single. Let me elaborate by saying that the latter is particularly true if one is looking for a certain kind of babe — so idealistic in concept such that she does not even exist. I wouldn't even venture into a relationship with a babe because the odds are stacked against guys. That's right. A guy must be satisfied with being a big dummy, the butt of male-bashing jokes, and the bearer of a host of other flaws attributed to Y-chromosome "inferiority." The worst part is that a guy must shut up and laugh along with the jokes. That is, unless, he wants to be "cut off." In other words, no wild thing. The Vienna Sausage will become a guy's own worst enemy and will also be the tool to ultimately aid in his emasculation. Personally, I need no part of this farce.
Oddly, I have also noticed a disproportionate amount of babes carrying so-called "luggage." Either every guy is an abusive jerk or only a few jerks get around and abuse a mind-boggling number of women. When I was an idiot, I bought into the latter. Now, I know better. Babes toy with a guy's mind. They attempt to reduce guys to eunuchs to get what they want. Little wonder why guys eventually lash out. They are just goofballs with an appendage. I make no excuse for domestic violence. However, I see how a babe uses a guy's Vienna Sausage to ensnare him (i.e., the allure of da wild thing) and to develop a dependence on her (i.e., do the nasty so often such that the unwitting fool becomes addicted). Then, it all gets turned around on the poor fool when his own Vienna Sausage is used to control and discipline him. Like a trained dog, he will do anything to get a dog biscuit.
Most guys are too stupid to see this. Hence, the constant lamentations at the Wailing Wall. The guys who really want and "need" a babe are perfect targets. Certain that they alone know how treat a babe like a Queen, they line themselves up like bulls heading to the slaughter. They are even more disarmed by the "baggage" carrying babes, the ones who feign to be victims of abusive morons. Little do they know that they will be the next alleged "abuser." To be lonely is a far better alternative to becoming a slave. As I move closer and closer to the status of a true eunuch, I realize that I can observe all of the nuances of babes. I can detect their treachery and their falsehoods. I must have my shades on to do so. Never look into a babe's eyes without the shades on. She will see a guy's soul and will adjust her personality to disarm him. Yet, in the end, a guy will always be betrayed by himself.
Saturday February 17
I spent all afternoon droppin' back cheap brewskis. That should have been an omen for the kind of day I would have. Professor Russell invited me to his B-Day dinner at the India House. I was very reluctant to go from the beginning. However, he was very insisting and I really like the guy. The India House restaurant is near the University of Hawai'i so parking is scarce. I drove to Professor Russell's place and caught a ride with him and Pseudo-professor Allison (his babe). I first stopped at Kahala Mall. I bought a House compilation CD (for myself) and a gift certificate at Barnes & Noble.
When everyone finally showed up at the India House, I noticed that there was a university administrator and his wife and another faculty member (whom I did not know) with his babe. Later, I came to find that the administrator's wife was a former student of the administrator, and the other faculty member's babe was a graduate student. Apparently, fraternization is acceptable in the higher rankings of academia. The dinner went well until the end, when the administrator decided that "we" would split the tab evenly and also pay for Professor Russell's dinner. The sad part is that a few of us had ordered the $10 budget dinners. The administrator and his wife, of course, ordered the most expensive item on the menu. Our "fair" share came to $28 each. Professor Lisa and I had to use our credit cards to pay our share because we had not anticipated this self-sacrificing decision by the fat slob administrator. Observing the administrator's equally rotund spouse suggested that they both eat well and can afford to. A truly honorable person of his rank would have offered to pay for Professor Russell's meal himself and certainly would not attempt to have others of lower rank end up subsidizing his meal as well.
After dinner, we managed to jettison the amorphous blob and his wife. The rest of us went to Magoo's Pizza across the street. Magoo's is mainly a college hangout. We had a round of beer there and hung out until about midnight. I suppose I got my money's worth in booze. Professor Brian had brought a bottle of the Hammer to the restaurant. The administrator had brought a bottle of champagne. Professor Russell offered to give me $10 back and apologized for the situation. Aside from Allison, I was the only pseudo-professor there (i.e., lowest paid peon). However, I didn't accept the dough. I have vowed to never go out to these types of functions again unless I know who the attendees will be. If any of these cheap [rectums] are to be there, then I'll decline immediately.
The only highlight of the day was when I discovered the Static Chicken application for my Palm IIIe. It is as close as I could imagine what the Java Chicken Choker could have been. Moms has been preparing all kinds of food again to cook in the kamado. So, I'll be treated to another wonderful visit by that bitch sister-in-law of mine tomorrow. Yet another pathetic story of subsidization and entitlement. The sleazebag proudly boasts that my nephew is going to private school and is also involved in soccer. This is the big fad with all of the affluent families, and it's obviously not fiscally sensible for poor people. So, moms concludes that the apprentice carpenter and the file clerk must be doing extremely well financially. They still live in a one-bedroom apartment, yet my bro bought a new truck. It is fairly obvious to me that they know exactly when they will be taking ownership of moms' house. Their presumptuous attitude and arrogance just irritates me to no end. The bottom line of today's story is this — when it comes to dinero, trust no one.
Sunday February 18
My sister-in-law threw a black eye in da game by not showing up. I was sedated with cheap brewskis in anticipation for no apparent reason, I suppose. So, it looks like the sleazebag will be here tomorrow to pick up all of the food that moms cooked. Just so you know — my sister-in-law can only cook one dish. It's some kind of greasy casserole with canned onion rings spread over the top. Yuck! Actually, she's also a pastry chef. The one and only pastry item that she bakes is a dinner roll that resembles cow dung in texture and is as hard as a rock. She usually brings some over for moms. Moms eats them and tells me how delicious they are. Perhaps it's time to post one of the many quotes which pop up in the Static Chicken application — "The only difference between me and a madman is that I am not mad." (Salvador Dali)
Yes, I can at least credit the handmaiden for moving on when it was obvious that the oil well was dry. The handmaiden will still be living in Hawai'i Kai in a posh, private waterfront community. No small change there. The marriage comes just in the nick of time because the handmaiden is expecting that the firm she works for will close its doors soon. Coincidence? Who is to say?
I unboxed my Bose Acoustic Wave so I could listen to the classical pieces on public radio. Today, the pieces were notably psychotic. Perfect ambiance for this pathetic situation, eh? I also listened to my House compilation CD called Motion. I'm thinking that I should start collecting House and Rap CDs again. That's only buying into consumerism, I know. Well, I'm just looking forward to listening to Hearts of Space tonight.
Monday February 19
Professor Lisa invited me to a barbecue this afternoon, but I declined for a number of reasons. The main reason is that I did not want to drive to Kailua from here. In retrospect, I should have gone. I did not do much except grade a few pathetic exams and drop back the remaining cheap brewskis in the fridge. I spent all day listening to the psychotic classical pieces on public radio. Tunes courtesy my Bose Acoustic Wave.
Moms packed several large grocery bags of food and sundries to take over to my bro's place. Moms may have to stay overnight again to watch my nephew tomorrow. Although my bro has the day off, he was too busy to come by and pick moms up. What's even more appalling is my discovery that moms must sleep on the floor when she stays there. So, in summary, moms must take the bus and carry several packages of food over to my bro's place. Then, she must sleep on the floor. Moms just turned seventy-nine this month. Is this any way to treat her? I offered to drive moms to my bro's place but she declined the offer. I don't think that she likes to ride in my beloved six-four.
As each day passes, I have less and less respect for my bro and his sleazebag wife. They are the lowest of scum. Low class trash. I have no idea why I even refer to them in a manner that suggests that they are even related. They are the Ninja Turds. Nothing more; nothing less. Their only concern is about when they will be able to move back into the home which has always "rightfully" been their property. I only pray that moms lives a long life and denies them that "right" for at least another decade. Some may feel that my opinions are tainted, but one need only look back and read in the journal about what was happening when I first moved back to Hawai'i a few years ago. Moms was a slave in her own home. A mere servant, as well as cook, gardener, janitor, and caretaker. The Ninja Turds' justification for this? I can't think of any reason except an assumed entitlement for producing the sole progeny of the family name.
I'll be enjoying a quiet evening with the more sedate classical pieces on public radio. I return to the salt mines tomorrow. As you may have guessed, I had a less than relaxing weekend. How much more of this can I endure before I snap? I don't even know. What a way to celebrate five long years of LoserNet! Sheesh!
Tuesday February 20
I heard a lot of commotion outside late last night. I looked out the window to see the young ho' with two guys. There appeared to be some kind of argument in progress. The high-pressure sodium light has been a good deterrent in keeping the punks from congregating near my bedroom window. However, they were extremely loud considering that they were standing in the driveway at the other end of the House of Lolo. There was a lot of cussing. "You [copulating] bitch!" Scott, the apparent boyfriend, kept yelling. Kimo, the other guy, sat on the edge of the sidewalk and silently smoked a cigarette. I thought of calling the cops but I decided to listen in on this public spectacle. Within minutes, Scott turned from a raging maniac to a whimpering idiot. Sobbing like a baby, he kept accusing the young ho' of treachery and deceit. "You did this to me," he cried.
The stunning part about it all was the discovery that the young ho' had cheated on Scott with the very clown sitting on the sidewalk. Yep, Kimo had screwed her several times, he said, breaking his silence. Scott pressed the young ho' for more information than he bargained for and discovered that she had lost her virginity a long time ago. Mind you, the young ho' is all of fourteen years of age. She is a real babe and she looks about twenty. The whole neighborhood was privy to these public revelations, by the way. Scott continued on about how his heart had been torn to shreds and stomped on by the vixen. In the end, the young ho' put her arms around Scott and kissed him passionately. Like a bull charging to the slaughter, he melted in her arms. It was easy to see that there was no remorse in her heart. She was merely playing the role and he bought it — hook, line, and sinker. There is no reason to shed a tear for Scott. He is no better as he admitted to cheating on the young ho' several times. "I did it to hurt you, just like you hurt me," he confessed, with a line so pathetic that it could have originated from a cheesy soap opera script.
In actuality, the whole script sounds familiar. It is repeated ad infinitum by young and old alike from time indefinite to time indefinite. As a monk, I need not concern myself with this crap anymore. I will not fall into that trap again, although it would be very easy to succumb to the wily ways of the babes. Many a guy have fallen and have returned as false prophets proclaiming the harmless nature of babes. Some have even joined their ranks, turning against their own brothers. There shouldn't be a war of the sexes, but there is. It wages on and continues to take its toll on society. The call of the Vienna Sausage will keep most guys at bay. There is too much to lose by boycotting this already absurd situation. So, the war will continue. On it will go, adulterating posterity until we no longer exist. The rot comes from within and slowly works its way outward. By the time we, as a society, see the outward signs, it will be far too late to do anything about it.
To be continued ... Go to V.04
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