I want to hunt a pig

Society has a lot of benefits. Government, the interstate highway system, the aqueducts, and so on and so forth. But don't you ever just wish that maybe, just maybe, society will crumble from the inside and we'll be forced to live in a postapocalyptic world, like Will Smith in I Am Legend minus the dark seekers and plus more people? I know I sure do.

I think that living in society dulls down our natural evolutionary traits. Did you know that I am genetically adapted to be able to hunt down a vicious, snarling warthog and roast it on a spittle? YEAH! What a thrill! What's so exciting about going to the grocery store and selecting the finest crop of chicken gizzards from the bunch! Hogswallop, I say.

Haven't you ever wanted to fashion a blade out of limestone? Maybe take on a mammoth in an effort to feed your whole tribe?

It doesn't hurt that back then, the chicks were like totally all about mating. Hey baby, it's for the good of our species. Bow chicka bow wow. Those were the days. Society has watered down our evolutionary instincts and this is my call for anarchy. Burn this mother down! To hell with institutions! SIC SEMPER TYRANNIS!!!

Garfield, Minus Garfield.

Howdy, partners. Got another link for you.

Garfield minus Garfield.

From the site's heading/synopsis:
"Garfield Minus Garfield is a site dedicated to removing Garfield from the Garfield comic strips in order to reveal the existential angst of a certain young Mr. Jon Arbuckle. It is a journey deep into the mind of an isolated young everyman as he fights a losing battle against loneliness and depression in a quiet American suburb."

Great Idea. Who would have known that Jon was such a sad, lonely man.

Cowbell

When Al Gore invented the internet, he opened the door to vast potential. Here was an invention capable of great things; it seemed the sky was truly the limit. However, in years that followed, practical applications worthy of the internet's upside were few and far between. For every YouTube, alas, there were thirty GeoCities sites devoted to Hillary Duff.

Indeed, as we float along the endless river of virtual fecal matter, we are occasionally able to pull ourselves up from the cesspool, clinging onto the hope that one day, the internet will be used as it rightly should. This blog, of course, is one of those glimmers of hope. But today, my friends, I have been shown another.

	Make your own at MoreCowbell.dj

What you see here embedded in this blog is a little miracle I have assembled using the site www.morecowbell.dj. Let it sink in. That's right. It's the Doug theme song with copious amounts of cowbell and Christopher Walken clips added to it. This website lets you upload any song from your computer, and gives it the Cowbell/Walken treatment. If you don't think that's the greatest idea of all time, you're reading the wrong blog. Play with it for a while. I think you'll agree with me.

Thank you Alex Romansky for showing me the light.

Letter to the Editor I sent the Daily Campus

On the surface, the 2008 school year started like the other three I have been privy to in my tenure here at UConn: Moving back in, seeing old friends, and readjusting to the grind of an academic workload. However, three things in particular have left me quite agitated. What am I talking about?

Let's address grievance number one in mystery novel fashion. I am sending this letter to the editor via Gmail. Why would I, a UConn student, disregard my Huskymail so? Maybe because it's terrible. It's so slow, in fact, that I have been interjecting tasks in between perusing my e-mail, so as to reduce down time. For example: Open inbox, make breakfast. Click on an e-mail, take a shower. Send a reply, solve the Riemann zeta-hypothesis. Huskymail is so slow, if I sent this e-mail from my student account, I could beat it to campus in a footrace. The whole new Students page is the same way. Slow, faulty, won't work in Bookworms, (haven't tried elsewhere on campus, but I'm not hopeful), you get the point.

Agitated by the futility of the Students page, I head to campus for my classes. I turn into W Lot, just as I have for the past two years. Only this year, I pull into the lot to find a scene reminiscent of all the cars trying to leave New York City in Independence Day. My bus comes and goes as I drive around in circles looking for a spot. I bite the bullet and park in the employee lot in the very back of W, operating under the assumption that being on time to class is somewhat important. Thus far, I have not been ticketed (thank you, UConn parking. I mean that). I already paid 86 dollars for my commuter pass, so 35 a pop for parking tickets does not appeal to me. Parking services informs me that the lot won't clear up until about the 25th, and that there are spots in F lot, behind Dunkin Donuts. No. I like W Lot. It's on the way, and it has buses that go where I'm going.

Dejected, I later take solace in the fact that I get to eat lunch. God bless America. I enter the dining hall only to find good ol' UConn has gone trayless. I do my best Ringling Bros. balancing act, which I will explain in detail. My silverware is in my pocket. My plate, full of food, now acts as my tray. I put a salad bowl on my plate, covering it in ketchup and other messy amenities later to end up on my shirt. A former two-drink diner, I hold my one drink in my hand as I pray that no one bumps me, starting an impromptu mid-90s kid's movie food fight. If this is the best we can do to go Green, I'm buying a H3.

I'll close by saying exactly what I said to my TV during the UConn/Temple football game. Come on UConn. You're better than that.

Pontus Pilates

If-This-Is-Not-Already-The-Name-Of-A-Business-It-Damn-Well-Should-Be #1:

Guacamole Doritos

In my younger and more vulnerable years, the wondrous corporation that we all know as Frito-Lay used to manufacture a glorious chip, one that conquered the masses and set entire countrysides aflame.

This chip, construed from the holy shroud of Turin, coated in the finest seasonings known to man, and baked in the hellfires of Valhalla, was then distributed by the friendly snack-food giant, mass-produced and placed on grocery store shelves nationwide. There it was, hiding in plain sight. The world's consumers, stupid peasants that they were, ignored the clandestine blessing until one day, it vanished. Like a shooting star across a cool summer's eve, the chosen snack known only as Guacamole Doritos had shuffled loose this mortal coil. They had gone quietly into the dark night. They were discontinued. Stupid.

These Doritos are a staple of my past. If not for these delicious treats, who knows what sort of triathlete I may have become. However, though they were my vice and part of me should rejoice having been freed from their bondage, even now I long for their blissful satisfaction. As lesser flavors of Doritos are allowed to continue, the one true champion of the snack line was cast aside like the runt of the litter.

Perhaps, in the many years since I last enjoyed destiny's corn chip, my mind has romanticized Guacamole Doritos to an unrealistic level. Perhaps they were simply average, and my longing for them is solely postmortem. Perhaps they will go down in history as another Orangina; that is to say, after trying them years after initially falling in love, they turn out to be just alright. Mediocrity in sublime packaging.

But perhaps, just perhaps...

Guacamole Doritos are The Chosen Ones.

Get Ready to die, Assholes!

"'Sup, bitches."

By guest contributor, Chad "Stabwound" Remington.

Yo, yo, yo, mothafuckaz. I hacked into dis shit to tell you one thang, and dat's dat you'z in big trouble. As you'z can tell by my gangsta ass picture over there, I bean bidness. I'm like a wild pitbull n' shit. You don' even know. I stole dis fuckin' gangsta ass suit from Party City, straight up. While I wuz at it, I copped me some red plates n' cups (like blood, bitch!), couple PushPops, and a fuckin' ballin' ass 90's mix CD. Gun's real, too. Took it from my pops while he wuz passed out on the couch. Fucker thinkz he can tell me what to do? I guess we gonna see when I blast his ass wif my sawed off double barrell shotgun. None of you bitches is safe! Get ready for da pain, mothafuckaz! EAST SIDE, WHAT!?

-Stabwound