50-48 #46: LIFE SUCKS, THEN YOU DIE, BUT DEATH DOESN’T COME SOON ENOUGH
The intricate system of breath and neuro-synapse fire that constitutes the base fact of existence is, it turns out, when weighed by the great blind lady, also a system of credits and debits. And we as participants in those dual systems can also serve as evaluators—can add up the plusses and minuses to create a positive or negative evaluation of the great meaningless game. Let’s try that.
DEBIT: The Arkansas Razorbacks embarrassed themselves and the state by getting the ever-living shit kicked out of them by The Great Texas Satan this weekend.
CREDIT: The Longhorns still lose in the long run, because after the game, the Hogs got to go back to Fayetteville, while the Burnt Orange Illiterate Criminal Parade had to keep living in Austin.
DEBIT: Yeah, but at least they won.
CREDIT: (silence)
DEBIT: Leprechauns do not exist.
CREDIT: Unicorns do.
DEBIT: Miraculous fortune saved Hootie from obvious end-of-the-first-half game mismanagement and provided his team with a signature win on the road against Florida, despite his obvious idiocy.
CREDIT: Obsessively doing the Gator Chomp in my apartment really worked my lateral delts.
DEBIT: It’s going to take a lot more than a few Gator Chomps to fix your lateral delts.
CREDIT: I don’t care.
DEBIT: But you do care about Hootie beating the by-god Florida Gators while your team got monumentally ass-fucked by Texas.
CREDIT: (silence)
DEBIT: Texas has not been nuked off the face of the earth, nor has it been sold back to Mexico.
CREDIT: If you ignore something long enough, it will eventually go away, or so they say.
DEBIT: “They” are probably lying. And besides, it is impossible to ignore the things that you hate. Such is the nature of hatred.
CREDIT: (silence)
DEBIT: You simply don’t have the fortitude or joy to write anymore this week.
CREDIT: This is 50-48 #46, and 50, 48, and 46 make a nice, tidy two-number declension.
DEBIT: Cancer.
CREDIT: Bit-O-Honey.
DEBIT: You are alone in a dark, cold world in which everything is positioned to belittle you and make you feel bad.
CREDIT: I’d like to go back and change all of my credit answers to Bit-O-Honey.
DEBIT: No changing answers.
CREDIT: (silence)
So! What have we learned? There is no god. Life is unfair and horrible and we are forced to suffer through it until the sweet release of death comes and saves us from the long pressing nightmare. A world where Hootie and Texas win is a world in which any moral human being should not want to live. The 50-48 Mass Suicide Desk is giggling like a maniac right now…
50-48
Fuck Texas
WPS
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
50-48 #45: HOW TO RESURRECT CATS FROM THE DEAD
50-48 #45: HOW TO RESURRECT CATS FROM THE DEAD, OR, NOTES ON THE MONUMENTAL ASS-THUMPING WE RECEIVED FROM THE UNIVERSITY OF ALABAMA
In 1935, Albert Einstein and others began cooing about quantum superposition. A system—say, a football season or an intensive program of self-medication because you can’t deal with the brutal solipsism metastasizing all around you—will simultaneously exist in all possible states of being until the precise moment of quantum measurement, until the state of decoherence is eliminated. “Subatomic particles,” Einstein said (or, perhaps, might have said), “exist in all places and forms. They don’t exist in a position. They exist in all positions—a superposition! It only collapses out of that superposition when someone has the balls to pull out his fucking ruler.”
Then he said (or might have said) this: “Decoherence, shmecoherence.”
Uppity German bastard.
We here at 50-48 like to call quantum superposition “A Formula for Hope.” For example, fellas: Under the doctrine of quantum superposition, all boobs you haven’t seen can be huge and perfect and exactly symmetrical to the one resting beside it. And ladies, until you start actually asking questions, the fella standing next to you is not—we repeat, NOT—staring at your boobs.
More pertinent to our principal topic, the 50-48 Particle Physics Desk would like to point out that under the doctrine of quantum superposition, the Razorback football team still has the potential to be a one-loss conference champion. Formula for hope, indeed!
But, alas. Along came Erwin Schrodinger, who we here at 50-48 like to call “The Great Cosmic Buzzkill.” Were Schrodinger alive today, watching the Alabama game this weekend with a plate of nachos and a tall glass of sweet iced tea, he (like you) would have found no hope whatsoever in that padded and helmeted fiasco. He would have gone straight to Einstein’s grave, dug up his corpse, and punched it in the face.
Schrodinger responded to the doctrine of quantum superposition by proposing an experiment where a cat is placed in a box with a vial of poison. A Geiger counter would wait patiently for any sign of radiation, and when it found some, the vial would break, release the poison, and kill the cat. But the box is shielding all that pesky quantum decoherence, so nobody knows what’s happening inside. There isn’t a measurement. So the cat, according to quantum mechanical principles, is, at some point, both alive and dead at the same time. A Jesus cat. A zombie cat. Until a custodian comes in, opens the box, and pronounces an official death.
Still, when seen without the piss and vinegar, Schroginer’s cat can also provide us a measure of hope. Sure, Alabama’s two pick-sixes, their 300 yards of rushing, and our complete all-facets meltdown probably registered with any available football Geiger counter, thus breaking the vial, releasing the poison, and destroying the sweet kitty of our season. BUT! The fundamental unknowableness of our future provides all the decoherence we need. And until we get to the end, until we open the monstrous box that is this 2008 season, our cat is both alive and dead at the same time.
A Jesus cat. A zombie cat.
And so, according to the dictates of quantum mechanics, we are a team of ravenous zombies. And according to the dictates of zombiology, we must go feed on human brains to survive. Also, we need to watch out for this bitch. She does not like zombies. Here’s a montage of what she’s capable of doing to us.
Thus the gameplan this week is to practice hard, self-actualize, and be on the lookout for heavily-armed, beautiful supermodels. Oh, and START TYLER WILSON!!!!!! Seriously: If we aren’t really zombies (and we here at 50-48 are not conceding that point), then we have only one more win this season. (Even if we aren’t the walking undead, the power of my hatred alone will allow us to defeat Hootie. If we don’t beat Hootie, I will kill myself and fucking webcast it for all of you to see.) But other than Ole Miss, there are no more wins on that schedule. And so, with a free year of practice without expectation, why not give next year’s backup nine games of real-game experience? He’s obviously more talented than Casey Dick. Casey’s numbers were inflated by bad teams and a brilliant offensive mind. Imagine what that mind could produce with a legitimate quarterback sticking his hands under Jonathan Luigs’ ass. We’ll still have the hell beaten out of us, but at least we’ll score points.
But if we ARE zombies, born like dead cats in a box from the sick mind of Erwin Schrodinger, then infinite possibility is still possible. (No tautology left unturned.) That being the case, we need to start eating a steady diet of brains. We here at 50-48 suggest starting with the UofA freshman class. Statistics show that less than half of them will graduate from college anyway, and an even smaller number will graduate from Arkansas. Why not make them food for the bloodlust of our zombie-cat football team?
This would be the equivalent of swinging the heavy bat before entering the batter’s box. Because the brains we’ll be feasting on this weekend will be incredibly less filling. As you all know, the Hogs enter The Source Of All Evil In the World this week. Without Austin, Texas, puppies would never die. Africans would never starve. And cheerleaders would never get VD. We must muster all of the brain-eating power within us to thwart the Longhorns. They are, without question, the scum of the fucking universe.
Or, perhaps we would benefit from taking a different approach. Instead of seeing the cat as simultaneously alive and dead, we could choose instead to side with Einstein. Our season still simultaneously exists in all possible states of being until the precise moment of quantum measurement, until the state of decoherence is eliminated. The state of uncertainty in college football dictates that we choose to recognize possibility in the face of obvious disaster. We must, like a fat non-zombie cat, stare Schrodinger in the eyes and say, “Fizicks, I defiez dem.”
Suck it, Einstein. Suck it, Schrodinger. WE MUST DEFEAT THE DEGENERATE COLLECTION OF HUMAN FUCKING GARBAGE THAT IS THE UNIVERSITY OF TEXAS. We must stare down all three, look them in the face, and say, “Decoherence, shmecoherence.”
Fizicks, we defiez dem.
Or, we could just eat their brains.
50-48
Fuck Texas
WPS
PS: Remember, if you aren’t already on the email alert list, you can send your email address to fiftyfortyeight@gmail.com to receive notification of every new 50-48 installment. Welcome to hell.
In 1935, Albert Einstein and others began cooing about quantum superposition. A system—say, a football season or an intensive program of self-medication because you can’t deal with the brutal solipsism metastasizing all around you—will simultaneously exist in all possible states of being until the precise moment of quantum measurement, until the state of decoherence is eliminated. “Subatomic particles,” Einstein said (or, perhaps, might have said), “exist in all places and forms. They don’t exist in a position. They exist in all positions—a superposition! It only collapses out of that superposition when someone has the balls to pull out his fucking ruler.”
Then he said (or might have said) this: “Decoherence, shmecoherence.”
Uppity German bastard.
We here at 50-48 like to call quantum superposition “A Formula for Hope.” For example, fellas: Under the doctrine of quantum superposition, all boobs you haven’t seen can be huge and perfect and exactly symmetrical to the one resting beside it. And ladies, until you start actually asking questions, the fella standing next to you is not—we repeat, NOT—staring at your boobs.
More pertinent to our principal topic, the 50-48 Particle Physics Desk would like to point out that under the doctrine of quantum superposition, the Razorback football team still has the potential to be a one-loss conference champion. Formula for hope, indeed!
But, alas. Along came Erwin Schrodinger, who we here at 50-48 like to call “The Great Cosmic Buzzkill.” Were Schrodinger alive today, watching the Alabama game this weekend with a plate of nachos and a tall glass of sweet iced tea, he (like you) would have found no hope whatsoever in that padded and helmeted fiasco. He would have gone straight to Einstein’s grave, dug up his corpse, and punched it in the face.
Schrodinger responded to the doctrine of quantum superposition by proposing an experiment where a cat is placed in a box with a vial of poison. A Geiger counter would wait patiently for any sign of radiation, and when it found some, the vial would break, release the poison, and kill the cat. But the box is shielding all that pesky quantum decoherence, so nobody knows what’s happening inside. There isn’t a measurement. So the cat, according to quantum mechanical principles, is, at some point, both alive and dead at the same time. A Jesus cat. A zombie cat. Until a custodian comes in, opens the box, and pronounces an official death.
Still, when seen without the piss and vinegar, Schroginer’s cat can also provide us a measure of hope. Sure, Alabama’s two pick-sixes, their 300 yards of rushing, and our complete all-facets meltdown probably registered with any available football Geiger counter, thus breaking the vial, releasing the poison, and destroying the sweet kitty of our season. BUT! The fundamental unknowableness of our future provides all the decoherence we need. And until we get to the end, until we open the monstrous box that is this 2008 season, our cat is both alive and dead at the same time.
A Jesus cat. A zombie cat.
And so, according to the dictates of quantum mechanics, we are a team of ravenous zombies. And according to the dictates of zombiology, we must go feed on human brains to survive. Also, we need to watch out for this bitch. She does not like zombies. Here’s a montage of what she’s capable of doing to us.
Thus the gameplan this week is to practice hard, self-actualize, and be on the lookout for heavily-armed, beautiful supermodels. Oh, and START TYLER WILSON!!!!!! Seriously: If we aren’t really zombies (and we here at 50-48 are not conceding that point), then we have only one more win this season. (Even if we aren’t the walking undead, the power of my hatred alone will allow us to defeat Hootie. If we don’t beat Hootie, I will kill myself and fucking webcast it for all of you to see.) But other than Ole Miss, there are no more wins on that schedule. And so, with a free year of practice without expectation, why not give next year’s backup nine games of real-game experience? He’s obviously more talented than Casey Dick. Casey’s numbers were inflated by bad teams and a brilliant offensive mind. Imagine what that mind could produce with a legitimate quarterback sticking his hands under Jonathan Luigs’ ass. We’ll still have the hell beaten out of us, but at least we’ll score points.
But if we ARE zombies, born like dead cats in a box from the sick mind of Erwin Schrodinger, then infinite possibility is still possible. (No tautology left unturned.) That being the case, we need to start eating a steady diet of brains. We here at 50-48 suggest starting with the UofA freshman class. Statistics show that less than half of them will graduate from college anyway, and an even smaller number will graduate from Arkansas. Why not make them food for the bloodlust of our zombie-cat football team?
This would be the equivalent of swinging the heavy bat before entering the batter’s box. Because the brains we’ll be feasting on this weekend will be incredibly less filling. As you all know, the Hogs enter The Source Of All Evil In the World this week. Without Austin, Texas, puppies would never die. Africans would never starve. And cheerleaders would never get VD. We must muster all of the brain-eating power within us to thwart the Longhorns. They are, without question, the scum of the fucking universe.
Or, perhaps we would benefit from taking a different approach. Instead of seeing the cat as simultaneously alive and dead, we could choose instead to side with Einstein. Our season still simultaneously exists in all possible states of being until the precise moment of quantum measurement, until the state of decoherence is eliminated. The state of uncertainty in college football dictates that we choose to recognize possibility in the face of obvious disaster. We must, like a fat non-zombie cat, stare Schrodinger in the eyes and say, “Fizicks, I defiez dem.”
Suck it, Einstein. Suck it, Schrodinger. WE MUST DEFEAT THE DEGENERATE COLLECTION OF HUMAN FUCKING GARBAGE THAT IS THE UNIVERSITY OF TEXAS. We must stare down all three, look them in the face, and say, “Decoherence, shmecoherence.”
Fizicks, we defiez dem.
Or, we could just eat their brains.
50-48
Fuck Texas
WPS
PS: Remember, if you aren’t already on the email alert list, you can send your email address to fiftyfortyeight@gmail.com to receive notification of every new 50-48 installment. Welcome to hell.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
50-48 #44: UNDEFEATED
50-48 #44: UNDEFEATED
So, honestly, who among you thought when the schedule appeared for this year’s football season, that the Hogs would be undefeated on the bright, shining morning of September 14? Well, you were wrong. 50-48 is proud to report that the Razorbacks football team is still without a loss on the season. Instead of crediting Hurricane Ike, however, it chooses to credit Hootie’s absence. 50-48 hates Hootie. And it loves being undefeated. Being undefeated puts a song in its heart. This song.
50-48 loves that song.
But alas, all is not perfume and roses at Fuck Texas Headquarters. From the Loneliness and Heartbreak Desk, 50-48 is sorry to report that its spirit has been cleft in twain. Yet again. Woe, woe, is us. Another in a near panoramic line of women has torn us asunder and left us for dead.
[NOTE FROM THE OFFICIAL 50-48 STALKING DESK, OP CIT THE CLAIM BY THE LONELINESS AND HEARTBREAK DESK CONCERNING THAT “TEARING ASUNDER” JIVE: Wait, wait, wait. 50-48 is nothing if not honest, and the Stalking Desk would like to clarify some points in the aforementioned statement on heartbreak. The claim “left us for dead” cannot be corroborated, as the woman in question never actually met us. College football bombshell Wendi Nix (pictured here with some shiteating cousin; here’s a smaller, but better picture) simply failed to return our letters of love and devotion, which, the Stalking Desk is loathe to admit, may have included some borderline inappropriate suggestions involving a monkey, a video camera, and some pvc pipe. When these facts are taken into consideration, her non-reply can be seen, if nothing else, as “good sense.” In the interest of full disclosure, 50-48 also sent an angry letter to ESPN, inquiring as to why Nix is always framed in a two-shot with her analyst partner, but the analyst partner (Jessie Palmer, Robert Smith, et al.) always gets a closeup. 50-48 referred to this injustice as “Mickey Mouse Bullshit.” As of this writing, no reply has been forthcoming.]
And then there was that other situation that we can’t even talk about, because it hurts too much.
[UGH. YET ANOTHER NOTE FROM THE OFFICIAL 50-48 STALKING DESK, OP CIT THE BUSINESS ABOUT “THAT OTHER SITUATION”: Molly Qerim isn’t going to answer your letters, either, dude. No one at ESPN ever will.]
[RETRIBUTIVE NOTE FROM THE LONELINESS AND HEARTBREAK DESK: You know, what? You guys at the Stalking Desk can suck it. We’re in real pain here. Nobody loves us. We are alone in a cold, dark world. We have this very real feeling of guttural emptiness that we cannot shake, no matter how many whiskey sours we pour down our gullets to try to fill it up. We love Wendi Nix with the pure devotion of a goddamned nun. And so, as an expression of that love, we suggested an innocent orgy with Molly Qerim, while Erin Andrews rode a pony around the sex pit that we dug (with love) especially for the occasion. Throughout the Middle East, they call that “wooing.”]
Still, we here at 50-48 are trying our best to keep our spirits up. We have been defeated, but we are still undefeated. (50-48 loves oxymorons.) And if that weren’t enough, the basketball schedule has surfaced, and it includes home games with Oklahoma and Texas! 50-48 hates Texas. And it loves being undefeated. Being undefeated puts a song in its heart. And hating Texas puts a song in its heart. This song.
50-48 loves that song.
50-48
Fuck Teas
WPS
So, honestly, who among you thought when the schedule appeared for this year’s football season, that the Hogs would be undefeated on the bright, shining morning of September 14? Well, you were wrong. 50-48 is proud to report that the Razorbacks football team is still without a loss on the season. Instead of crediting Hurricane Ike, however, it chooses to credit Hootie’s absence. 50-48 hates Hootie. And it loves being undefeated. Being undefeated puts a song in its heart. This song.
50-48 loves that song.
But alas, all is not perfume and roses at Fuck Texas Headquarters. From the Loneliness and Heartbreak Desk, 50-48 is sorry to report that its spirit has been cleft in twain. Yet again. Woe, woe, is us. Another in a near panoramic line of women has torn us asunder and left us for dead.
[NOTE FROM THE OFFICIAL 50-48 STALKING DESK, OP CIT THE CLAIM BY THE LONELINESS AND HEARTBREAK DESK CONCERNING THAT “TEARING ASUNDER” JIVE: Wait, wait, wait. 50-48 is nothing if not honest, and the Stalking Desk would like to clarify some points in the aforementioned statement on heartbreak. The claim “left us for dead” cannot be corroborated, as the woman in question never actually met us. College football bombshell Wendi Nix (pictured here with some shiteating cousin; here’s a smaller, but better picture) simply failed to return our letters of love and devotion, which, the Stalking Desk is loathe to admit, may have included some borderline inappropriate suggestions involving a monkey, a video camera, and some pvc pipe. When these facts are taken into consideration, her non-reply can be seen, if nothing else, as “good sense.” In the interest of full disclosure, 50-48 also sent an angry letter to ESPN, inquiring as to why Nix is always framed in a two-shot with her analyst partner, but the analyst partner (Jessie Palmer, Robert Smith, et al.) always gets a closeup. 50-48 referred to this injustice as “Mickey Mouse Bullshit.” As of this writing, no reply has been forthcoming.]
And then there was that other situation that we can’t even talk about, because it hurts too much.
[UGH. YET ANOTHER NOTE FROM THE OFFICIAL 50-48 STALKING DESK, OP CIT THE BUSINESS ABOUT “THAT OTHER SITUATION”: Molly Qerim isn’t going to answer your letters, either, dude. No one at ESPN ever will.]
[RETRIBUTIVE NOTE FROM THE LONELINESS AND HEARTBREAK DESK: You know, what? You guys at the Stalking Desk can suck it. We’re in real pain here. Nobody loves us. We are alone in a cold, dark world. We have this very real feeling of guttural emptiness that we cannot shake, no matter how many whiskey sours we pour down our gullets to try to fill it up. We love Wendi Nix with the pure devotion of a goddamned nun. And so, as an expression of that love, we suggested an innocent orgy with Molly Qerim, while Erin Andrews rode a pony around the sex pit that we dug (with love) especially for the occasion. Throughout the Middle East, they call that “wooing.”]
Still, we here at 50-48 are trying our best to keep our spirits up. We have been defeated, but we are still undefeated. (50-48 loves oxymorons.) And if that weren’t enough, the basketball schedule has surfaced, and it includes home games with Oklahoma and Texas! 50-48 hates Texas. And it loves being undefeated. Being undefeated puts a song in its heart. And hating Texas puts a song in its heart. This song.
50-48 loves that song.
50-48
Fuck Teas
WPS
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
50-48 #43: EMERGENCY UPDATE, OF OR RELATING TO THE PENULTIMATE PUSSYNESS OF THE UNIVERSITY OF TEXAS
50-48 #43: EMERGENCY UPDATE, OF OR RELATING TO THE PENULTIMATE PUSSYNESS OF THE UNIVERSITY OF TEXAS
The University of Texas, as were the Sodomites of long ago, are nervous that God is planning on punishing them for all the debauchery and ass-fucking that goes on there. They have, therefore, unlike the Sodomites of long ago, decided to postpone their game against the Great and Glorious University of Arkansas until September 27. (This is known as "learning from history." George Santayana is rolling over in his fucking grave.)
All the better. Two more weeks to iron out the "almost getting our asses handed to us by ULM" kinks.
Also: EMERGENCY FASHION UPDATE!
I will still be wearing my "Beat Texas" tee shirt to class on Friday. If I can't root for the Hogs to destroy Austin, I will happily root for Ike. I encourage you all to do the same. May everyone who makes the conscious choice to live there rot in everlasting hell.
[EDITOR'S NOTE: The above statement should not be construed as a wish for physical harm to any human being. 50-48 hopes the residents of Austin rot in everlasting hell after reasonably long lives. If any Texas fans were hurt in the storm, it would make our eventual decimation of the collection of illiterates and sex offenders they call a football team less meaningful. In the great cosmic contest between Ike and Arkansas to see who can do more to make the University of Texas suffer, 50-48 wishes to assure everyone that it roots for Arkansas.]
[EDITOR'S NOTE ABOUT THE EDITOR'S NOTE: Still, though. Fuck them.]
50-48
Fuck Texas
WPS
The University of Texas, as were the Sodomites of long ago, are nervous that God is planning on punishing them for all the debauchery and ass-fucking that goes on there. They have, therefore, unlike the Sodomites of long ago, decided to postpone their game against the Great and Glorious University of Arkansas until September 27. (This is known as "learning from history." George Santayana is rolling over in his fucking grave.)
All the better. Two more weeks to iron out the "almost getting our asses handed to us by ULM" kinks.
Also: EMERGENCY FASHION UPDATE!
I will still be wearing my "Beat Texas" tee shirt to class on Friday. If I can't root for the Hogs to destroy Austin, I will happily root for Ike. I encourage you all to do the same. May everyone who makes the conscious choice to live there rot in everlasting hell.
[EDITOR'S NOTE: The above statement should not be construed as a wish for physical harm to any human being. 50-48 hopes the residents of Austin rot in everlasting hell after reasonably long lives. If any Texas fans were hurt in the storm, it would make our eventual decimation of the collection of illiterates and sex offenders they call a football team less meaningful. In the great cosmic contest between Ike and Arkansas to see who can do more to make the University of Texas suffer, 50-48 wishes to assure everyone that it roots for Arkansas.]
[EDITOR'S NOTE ABOUT THE EDITOR'S NOTE: Still, though. Fuck them.]
50-48
Fuck Texas
WPS
Monday, September 8, 2008
50-48 #42: OMFG
50-48 #42: OMFG
OMFG! WTF?! I am sooo not ROTFLMAO! ULM?! ULM!! We might very well be SOL. It’s times like these when 50-48 is glad to have its BFFs.
I use the aforementioned kiddie-speak because forming real words hurts too much. As we all know by now, the Hogs squeaked out a one-point victory against the mighty Warhawks of Northeast Louisiana University on Saturday, leaving only slivers of hope, resting dangerously on the floor in front of us, for our game next week against The Evil Empire. Are we doomed?
No.
Against its better judgment, 50-48 would like to offer the following reminder that we have a chance:
Once upon a time, long, long ago, there lived a mild mannered, unassuming, otherwise unremarkable black kid. Like many similar black kids, he took up a trade. Black kids—particularly those of the mild mannered, unassuming, otherwise unremarkable variety—as you probably know, don’t really participate on an equal playing field, crushed down as they are by a white society that is too busy patting itself on the back for racial tolerance to wake up and recognize that black kids, for the most part, are left with far fewer options than their white counterparts. And so, as did so many comparable black kids before and after him, he went into construction.
So it goes.
As do many working-class stiffs with few options and no real cathartic outlet, this particular black kid turned in his time of trouble to God. Simple folks usually do. But this time God, wouldn’t you know it, talked back. God, it turns out, loves mild mannered, unassuming, otherwise unremarkable black kids. “Construction not really working out for you?” asked God. “Then why don’t you stop building things. Instead, go help the poor, and the sick, and the crippled, and the diseased. Don’t worry. The world can live without your crappy knick-knacks. I can count on one hand the number of times that a breakfast nook changed the world. But helping the poor, well…”
So it was that this particular black kid began traveling around, doing good deeds and arguing for the societal necessity of bettering the living conditions of society’s lower classes. On a couple of occasions, he jumped up on his high horse and claimed that he, too, was God. This made people laugh. And why not? He was, after all, a mild mannered, unassuming, otherwise unremarkable black kid.
The Evil Empire under which he lived, however, didn’t like the poor folks talk and the necessary rich-people-suck talk that went with it. They also weren’t too fond of the God stuff. They laughed, too. But it was more a maniacal laugh, like after Frankenstein finished his monster. And so they arrested him. Then they killed him.
So it goes.
Along the way, the former mild mannered, unassuming, otherwise unremarkable black kid had grown into an ornery, pompous, remarkable black man, and had—as ornery, pompous, remarkable black men are prone to do—developed a devoted following of twelve (probably gay) buddies. His homo friends responded to his execution thusly: “OMFG! WTF?! We are sooo not ROTFLMAO! We might very well be SOL. It’s times like these when we disciples are glad to have our BFFs.”
It seemed for all the world like the black man had lost to the Evil Empire. Like there was no hope. Like all was ultimately lost. But then, on Sunday, that ornery, pompous, remarkable black man rose from the dead, a legitimate, real-life zombie. Like all zombies, he was hungry for brains. So he went to the capital of the Evil Empire, and went on a petrifying killing spree, devouring the brains of everyone in the oppressive government, and thereby bringing the empire to its knees. Concerned that his unquenchable appetite for human brains might eventually encroach upon his BFF status with his homo buddies, he then mounted a spaceship cleverly disguised as a cloud, and rode off to a special zombie planet on the other side of the Milky Way, where, in one of the great ironies of galactic life, residents dine daily on the brains of mild mannered, unassuming, otherwise unremarkable white kids.
He still lives there. Christians call that zombie planet “Heaven.”
So it goes.
There is in the above tale a lesson for us all. The University of Texas at Austin Longhorns are the Evil Empire. We are the mild mannered, unassuming, otherwise unremarkable black kid. Sure, we have been laughed at and killed the last couple of weeks by an underperforming football team that seems preternaturally determined to give me a brain aneurism before the end of the month. But now is the time when we rise from the dead and become the brain-eating zombie that God wants us to be.
God loves zombies! He made an entire planet for them on the other side of the Milky Way! We must live out our religious destiny! We must feast on the brains of the living! And, in particular, the brains of those living in the concrete wasteland that is Austin, Texas! We don’t just want victory! We want unimaginable carnage! We want brains! And if that magical fairy story that Christians seem to like so much is any indication, then God has destined us to eat those brains! We are the undead! And we are going to the zombie planet when we’re done!
Everyone in Austin will be rendered helpless. They will say, “OMFG! WTF?! We are sooo not ROTFLMAO! We might very well be SOL. It’s times like these when we Longhorns are glad to have our BFFs. (And by BFFs, we mean the twelve-year-old boys we sodomize daily.)”*
Here endeth the lesson.
50-48
Fuck Texas
WPS
*[EDITOR’S NOTE: Every male in Austin, Texas is a pederast.]**
**[EDITOR’S NOTE ABOUT THE EDITOR’S NOTE: Did you know that Horatio Alger (the writer who created all those dime novels about poor boys picking themselves up by their bootstraps and becoming anything they wanted in America, thus giving rise to the phrase, "the Horatio Alger story") was once arrested in Cape Cod, Massachusetts for fucking mild mannered, unassuming, otherwise unremarkable white kids? Or, to wit: for "the abominable and revolting crime of gross familiarity with boys." Hmm. Bootstraps, indeed.]***
***[EDITOR’S NOTE TANGENTIALLY RELATED TO THAT LAST EDITOR’S NOTE: Speaking of pederasty and optimism, Hootie lost this week! It is a rare day, indeed, when anyone here at 50-48 roots against the SEC. But we were overjoyed to watch as the rough-and-tumble Demon Deacons of Wake Forest University (great advocates all of that magical fairy story that Christians seem to like so much) kicked a last second field goal to defeat the “University” of Mississippi Rebels. Hootie frowned. His dirty wife frowned. So, too, did a certain 300-lb bull dyke physical therapist in Little Rock. So it goes. I was, all the while, ROTFLMAO.]
OMFG! WTF?! I am sooo not ROTFLMAO! ULM?! ULM!! We might very well be SOL. It’s times like these when 50-48 is glad to have its BFFs.
I use the aforementioned kiddie-speak because forming real words hurts too much. As we all know by now, the Hogs squeaked out a one-point victory against the mighty Warhawks of Northeast Louisiana University on Saturday, leaving only slivers of hope, resting dangerously on the floor in front of us, for our game next week against The Evil Empire. Are we doomed?
No.
Against its better judgment, 50-48 would like to offer the following reminder that we have a chance:
Once upon a time, long, long ago, there lived a mild mannered, unassuming, otherwise unremarkable black kid. Like many similar black kids, he took up a trade. Black kids—particularly those of the mild mannered, unassuming, otherwise unremarkable variety—as you probably know, don’t really participate on an equal playing field, crushed down as they are by a white society that is too busy patting itself on the back for racial tolerance to wake up and recognize that black kids, for the most part, are left with far fewer options than their white counterparts. And so, as did so many comparable black kids before and after him, he went into construction.
So it goes.
As do many working-class stiffs with few options and no real cathartic outlet, this particular black kid turned in his time of trouble to God. Simple folks usually do. But this time God, wouldn’t you know it, talked back. God, it turns out, loves mild mannered, unassuming, otherwise unremarkable black kids. “Construction not really working out for you?” asked God. “Then why don’t you stop building things. Instead, go help the poor, and the sick, and the crippled, and the diseased. Don’t worry. The world can live without your crappy knick-knacks. I can count on one hand the number of times that a breakfast nook changed the world. But helping the poor, well…”
So it was that this particular black kid began traveling around, doing good deeds and arguing for the societal necessity of bettering the living conditions of society’s lower classes. On a couple of occasions, he jumped up on his high horse and claimed that he, too, was God. This made people laugh. And why not? He was, after all, a mild mannered, unassuming, otherwise unremarkable black kid.
The Evil Empire under which he lived, however, didn’t like the poor folks talk and the necessary rich-people-suck talk that went with it. They also weren’t too fond of the God stuff. They laughed, too. But it was more a maniacal laugh, like after Frankenstein finished his monster. And so they arrested him. Then they killed him.
So it goes.
Along the way, the former mild mannered, unassuming, otherwise unremarkable black kid had grown into an ornery, pompous, remarkable black man, and had—as ornery, pompous, remarkable black men are prone to do—developed a devoted following of twelve (probably gay) buddies. His homo friends responded to his execution thusly: “OMFG! WTF?! We are sooo not ROTFLMAO! We might very well be SOL. It’s times like these when we disciples are glad to have our BFFs.”
It seemed for all the world like the black man had lost to the Evil Empire. Like there was no hope. Like all was ultimately lost. But then, on Sunday, that ornery, pompous, remarkable black man rose from the dead, a legitimate, real-life zombie. Like all zombies, he was hungry for brains. So he went to the capital of the Evil Empire, and went on a petrifying killing spree, devouring the brains of everyone in the oppressive government, and thereby bringing the empire to its knees. Concerned that his unquenchable appetite for human brains might eventually encroach upon his BFF status with his homo buddies, he then mounted a spaceship cleverly disguised as a cloud, and rode off to a special zombie planet on the other side of the Milky Way, where, in one of the great ironies of galactic life, residents dine daily on the brains of mild mannered, unassuming, otherwise unremarkable white kids.
He still lives there. Christians call that zombie planet “Heaven.”
So it goes.
There is in the above tale a lesson for us all. The University of Texas at Austin Longhorns are the Evil Empire. We are the mild mannered, unassuming, otherwise unremarkable black kid. Sure, we have been laughed at and killed the last couple of weeks by an underperforming football team that seems preternaturally determined to give me a brain aneurism before the end of the month. But now is the time when we rise from the dead and become the brain-eating zombie that God wants us to be.
God loves zombies! He made an entire planet for them on the other side of the Milky Way! We must live out our religious destiny! We must feast on the brains of the living! And, in particular, the brains of those living in the concrete wasteland that is Austin, Texas! We don’t just want victory! We want unimaginable carnage! We want brains! And if that magical fairy story that Christians seem to like so much is any indication, then God has destined us to eat those brains! We are the undead! And we are going to the zombie planet when we’re done!
Everyone in Austin will be rendered helpless. They will say, “OMFG! WTF?! We are sooo not ROTFLMAO! We might very well be SOL. It’s times like these when we Longhorns are glad to have our BFFs. (And by BFFs, we mean the twelve-year-old boys we sodomize daily.)”*
Here endeth the lesson.
50-48
Fuck Texas
WPS
*[EDITOR’S NOTE: Every male in Austin, Texas is a pederast.]**
**[EDITOR’S NOTE ABOUT THE EDITOR’S NOTE: Did you know that Horatio Alger (the writer who created all those dime novels about poor boys picking themselves up by their bootstraps and becoming anything they wanted in America, thus giving rise to the phrase, "the Horatio Alger story") was once arrested in Cape Cod, Massachusetts for fucking mild mannered, unassuming, otherwise unremarkable white kids? Or, to wit: for "the abominable and revolting crime of gross familiarity with boys." Hmm. Bootstraps, indeed.]***
***[EDITOR’S NOTE TANGENTIALLY RELATED TO THAT LAST EDITOR’S NOTE: Speaking of pederasty and optimism, Hootie lost this week! It is a rare day, indeed, when anyone here at 50-48 roots against the SEC. But we were overjoyed to watch as the rough-and-tumble Demon Deacons of Wake Forest University (great advocates all of that magical fairy story that Christians seem to like so much) kicked a last second field goal to defeat the “University” of Mississippi Rebels. Hootie frowned. His dirty wife frowned. So, too, did a certain 300-lb bull dyke physical therapist in Little Rock. So it goes. I was, all the while, ROTFLMAO.]
Thursday, September 4, 2008
50-48 #41: IN THE MAGICAL UNIVERSE THERE ARE NO COINCIDENCES AND THERE ARE NO ACCIDENTS. NOTHING HAPPENS UNLESS SOMEONE WILLS IT TO HAPPEN
50-48 #41: IN THE MAGICAL UNIVERSE THERE ARE NO COINCIDENCES AND THERE ARE NO ACCIDENTS. NOTHING HAPPENS UNLESS SOMEONE WILLS IT TO HAPPEN
WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT FIRST GAME ALL ABOUT?!?!?!?!?
Wait. Don’t type angry. Never type angry. Remember your therapy. Take the blue pill. No, no. The darker blue. There, that’s better. Doesn’t that feel good? It’s like a million little centipedes crawling all over you. You see? Every time you touch the keys they light up like the sidewalk in the Billie Jean video. Wait, wait, wait. You’ve gone too far, pal. Stop making out with the light switch. Take a red pill. Maintain. Stay cool. Drink this. Okay, okay. IT BURNS! I know, I know. It’s okay. Tell yourself it’s fruit punch. 90% of life is telling yourself shit that isn’t true. While you’re at it, tell yourself that Salma Hayek loves you. She does you know. She totally loves you. And that time off the Mariana coast, she totally meant everything she said. Wait, wait, wait. Man! Put your clothes back on. Here, take the green pill. Stay within yourself. Be the ball. What cannot happen right now is that your typewriter somehow magically turns into a bug. CANNOT HAPPEN. Take this pink pill here. Isn’t that better? Nice healthy level. Nice healthy level.
Okay, so: (whisper) what the fuck was that first game all about?
There. That’s better.
Three turnovers?!?! The defense allows 157 rushing yards?!?! And 24 points?!?! We have to be bailed out by Casey Dick in the fourth quarter?!?! Against a 1-AA opponent?!?! You can find the complete depressing statistics HERE. We here at 50-48 recommend not clicking that link unless you ate uncooked chicken. It’s fucking sickening.
But alas, that is only part of the problem. The new Razorvision, nee Razorzone, completely botched the audio, leaving those of us out of earshot from an Arkansas radio station begging for information after the middle of the third quarter. The tireless members of the 50-48 Football Desk kept refreshing the ESPN gametracker every five seconds hoping and praying that a miracle would happen.
And, to their semi-chagrin, it did. Casey Dick actually played well. He showed poise in the fourth quarter, leading his team to a comeback victory, leading one to the conclusion that Casey is in much better hands with the Petrinos fondling his brainstem every day in practice. Still, when you shake the team’s performance in the great cosmic colander that is modern punditry, you’re left with the fact that the comeback, as stirring as it was, and the passing yards, as joyful as they may have made you, came against a 1-AA opponent. Meanwhile, LSU was thrashing a MUCH BETTER 1-AA opponent. Perspective’s a bitch. I’m going to take another pill.
Oh, hey there unicorns. Sure, I’ll come to candy mountain. That’s an awesome liopleurodon. Can I pet it? Oh, my god! It bit off my hand! No! Why didn’t I heed the advice of my local paleontologist!? NEVER try to pet a carnivorous marine dinosaur from the Callovian stage of the Middle Jurassic Period! Damnit! Now how am I going to type the rest of this?!?!
Wait. It’s okay. It’s all in your head. Take one of these purple pills. There. That’s better. Both hands in tact.
As if the Razorbacks’ poor play and Razorvision’s duct-tape-and-paper-clip approach to modern internet audio weren’t bad enough in the vacuum that is the cloister of my disgusting hovel of an apartment, their combined shitty performance had far greater effects. The force of sucking emanating from Fayetteville last Saturday brought a giant hurricane from a trajectory that I can only assume was aimed at the large mound of dirt below Texas, and instead brought it right up Interstate 49 in Louisiana, slamming it into 50-48 headquarters and forcing said headquarters to be evacuated to safer climbs in the northeastern part of the state.
There stood 50-48, a refugee. (Or, as the kids say, a Fugee.) It was strumming its pain with its fingers, singing its life with its words. Meanwhile, the Razorbacks’ butthole play was killing it softly with the fumbles and the shitty defense and the almost-losing.
Still, 50-48 remained optimistic in the face of danger. [I know, ladies. I know. Try not to swoon too broadly. 50-48 will not be liable for any injuries its readers sustain from fainting at demonstrations of its fundamental bravery. (Also, 50-48 reserves the right to refuse service to anyone. Also, no shirt, no shoes, no service. Also, bridge may ice in cold weather. Also, don’t rile the monkeys.)] 50-48 now knows that when it sees war-torn masses flooding the border of some third world country from darkest Albania or something like that, it can nod contemplatively and say, "I've been there." Then the swooning will commence all over again.
All of this is to say that hurricane season isn’t over. And if the Hogs flub the shot against the mighty Warhawks of NLU this weekend, another hurricane is probably destined to come our way. Ergo, the football players at the University of Arkansas hold the fate of a state in their hands. They can choose to compete at a legitimate 1-A, SEC level and spare the lives of millions, or they can let innocent people die. It’s a Faustian bargain, to be sure. IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT FOOTBALL TEAM?!?!? DO YOU WANT THE ENTIRE COASTAL POPULATION OF SOUTH LOUISIANA TO DIE?!?!? PLAY BETTER!!!!!! SAVE LIVES!!!!!!!
Whoa. Hang on, pal. Almost done. Have one of these yellow pills. Oh, man, that’s nice. Remember what Dr. Robinson said. Self-actualize. Pretend you’re back on the Mariana coast. Oh, yeah. And there’s Salma! Hi, Salma! I told everybody you meant what you said. They didn’t believe me. Wait, Salma! Don’t go! I can’t…Where’s the coast? What am I?
Oh, back in the cloister of my disgusting hovel of an apartment. Darn. Allow me to offer this brief summation, a conclusion that restates the thesis of the above: If the Razorbacks don’t play better this Saturday against NLU, I am going to become a bonafide drug addict and two million people will die at the hands of an angry god. In their place, liopleurodons will regenerate and roam the marshlands that once passed for arable territory. The United States Army will try to eradicate the beasts from the area, but will inevitably fail. Their anger at the onslaught will lead to a massive liopleurodon takeover of the entire country, as American humanity is eliminated as so much fodder for the screaming beast that is a run of the mill liopleurodon appetite. Right before I die—the morning meal of a particularly nasty beast nicknamed “Pokey,” for one reason or another—Salma Hayek will take back all those nice things she said to me on the Mariana coast. And after Pokey eats me, she’ll start making out with him.
The stakes are high. They lead this commentator to one final question: what the fuck will this second game be all about?
Or, to wit: WHAT THE FUCK WILL THIS SECOND GAME BE ALL ABOUT?!?!?!
Wait, one more question: Why is my typewriter moving? What!? What IS that? OH MY GOD!
50-48
Fuck Texas
WPS
WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT FIRST GAME ALL ABOUT?!?!?!?!?
Wait. Don’t type angry. Never type angry. Remember your therapy. Take the blue pill. No, no. The darker blue. There, that’s better. Doesn’t that feel good? It’s like a million little centipedes crawling all over you. You see? Every time you touch the keys they light up like the sidewalk in the Billie Jean video. Wait, wait, wait. You’ve gone too far, pal. Stop making out with the light switch. Take a red pill. Maintain. Stay cool. Drink this. Okay, okay. IT BURNS! I know, I know. It’s okay. Tell yourself it’s fruit punch. 90% of life is telling yourself shit that isn’t true. While you’re at it, tell yourself that Salma Hayek loves you. She does you know. She totally loves you. And that time off the Mariana coast, she totally meant everything she said. Wait, wait, wait. Man! Put your clothes back on. Here, take the green pill. Stay within yourself. Be the ball. What cannot happen right now is that your typewriter somehow magically turns into a bug. CANNOT HAPPEN. Take this pink pill here. Isn’t that better? Nice healthy level. Nice healthy level.
Okay, so: (whisper) what the fuck was that first game all about?
There. That’s better.
Three turnovers?!?! The defense allows 157 rushing yards?!?! And 24 points?!?! We have to be bailed out by Casey Dick in the fourth quarter?!?! Against a 1-AA opponent?!?! You can find the complete depressing statistics HERE. We here at 50-48 recommend not clicking that link unless you ate uncooked chicken. It’s fucking sickening.
But alas, that is only part of the problem. The new Razorvision, nee Razorzone, completely botched the audio, leaving those of us out of earshot from an Arkansas radio station begging for information after the middle of the third quarter. The tireless members of the 50-48 Football Desk kept refreshing the ESPN gametracker every five seconds hoping and praying that a miracle would happen.
And, to their semi-chagrin, it did. Casey Dick actually played well. He showed poise in the fourth quarter, leading his team to a comeback victory, leading one to the conclusion that Casey is in much better hands with the Petrinos fondling his brainstem every day in practice. Still, when you shake the team’s performance in the great cosmic colander that is modern punditry, you’re left with the fact that the comeback, as stirring as it was, and the passing yards, as joyful as they may have made you, came against a 1-AA opponent. Meanwhile, LSU was thrashing a MUCH BETTER 1-AA opponent. Perspective’s a bitch. I’m going to take another pill.
Oh, hey there unicorns. Sure, I’ll come to candy mountain. That’s an awesome liopleurodon. Can I pet it? Oh, my god! It bit off my hand! No! Why didn’t I heed the advice of my local paleontologist!? NEVER try to pet a carnivorous marine dinosaur from the Callovian stage of the Middle Jurassic Period! Damnit! Now how am I going to type the rest of this?!?!
Wait. It’s okay. It’s all in your head. Take one of these purple pills. There. That’s better. Both hands in tact.
As if the Razorbacks’ poor play and Razorvision’s duct-tape-and-paper-clip approach to modern internet audio weren’t bad enough in the vacuum that is the cloister of my disgusting hovel of an apartment, their combined shitty performance had far greater effects. The force of sucking emanating from Fayetteville last Saturday brought a giant hurricane from a trajectory that I can only assume was aimed at the large mound of dirt below Texas, and instead brought it right up Interstate 49 in Louisiana, slamming it into 50-48 headquarters and forcing said headquarters to be evacuated to safer climbs in the northeastern part of the state.
There stood 50-48, a refugee. (Or, as the kids say, a Fugee.) It was strumming its pain with its fingers, singing its life with its words. Meanwhile, the Razorbacks’ butthole play was killing it softly with the fumbles and the shitty defense and the almost-losing.
Still, 50-48 remained optimistic in the face of danger. [I know, ladies. I know. Try not to swoon too broadly. 50-48 will not be liable for any injuries its readers sustain from fainting at demonstrations of its fundamental bravery. (Also, 50-48 reserves the right to refuse service to anyone. Also, no shirt, no shoes, no service. Also, bridge may ice in cold weather. Also, don’t rile the monkeys.)] 50-48 now knows that when it sees war-torn masses flooding the border of some third world country from darkest Albania or something like that, it can nod contemplatively and say, "I've been there." Then the swooning will commence all over again.
All of this is to say that hurricane season isn’t over. And if the Hogs flub the shot against the mighty Warhawks of NLU this weekend, another hurricane is probably destined to come our way. Ergo, the football players at the University of Arkansas hold the fate of a state in their hands. They can choose to compete at a legitimate 1-A, SEC level and spare the lives of millions, or they can let innocent people die. It’s a Faustian bargain, to be sure. IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT FOOTBALL TEAM?!?!? DO YOU WANT THE ENTIRE COASTAL POPULATION OF SOUTH LOUISIANA TO DIE?!?!? PLAY BETTER!!!!!! SAVE LIVES!!!!!!!
Whoa. Hang on, pal. Almost done. Have one of these yellow pills. Oh, man, that’s nice. Remember what Dr. Robinson said. Self-actualize. Pretend you’re back on the Mariana coast. Oh, yeah. And there’s Salma! Hi, Salma! I told everybody you meant what you said. They didn’t believe me. Wait, Salma! Don’t go! I can’t…Where’s the coast? What am I?
Oh, back in the cloister of my disgusting hovel of an apartment. Darn. Allow me to offer this brief summation, a conclusion that restates the thesis of the above: If the Razorbacks don’t play better this Saturday against NLU, I am going to become a bonafide drug addict and two million people will die at the hands of an angry god. In their place, liopleurodons will regenerate and roam the marshlands that once passed for arable territory. The United States Army will try to eradicate the beasts from the area, but will inevitably fail. Their anger at the onslaught will lead to a massive liopleurodon takeover of the entire country, as American humanity is eliminated as so much fodder for the screaming beast that is a run of the mill liopleurodon appetite. Right before I die—the morning meal of a particularly nasty beast nicknamed “Pokey,” for one reason or another—Salma Hayek will take back all those nice things she said to me on the Mariana coast. And after Pokey eats me, she’ll start making out with him.
The stakes are high. They lead this commentator to one final question: what the fuck will this second game be all about?
Or, to wit: WHAT THE FUCK WILL THIS SECOND GAME BE ALL ABOUT?!?!?!
Wait, one more question: Why is my typewriter moving? What!? What IS that? OH MY GOD!
50-48
Fuck Texas
WPS
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