A stream of consciousness repository for the random, deranged thoughts of a truly disturbed man...

I was watching a Civil War documentary on the history channel yesterday (yeah, I know, as if there is any other kind. I swear to god, they ought to change their name to the civil war channel) and I was surprised to hear that when supplies were low and the men were in the field for weeks at a time, they would often wear through there shoes and have to march (and even fight) barefoot. What a terrible thing! It's bad enough to be plucked away from your life, be taken hundreds of miles from your home, and made to kill and perhaps die for a purpose which is both far bigger than yourself and yet not worth the life of a single man -- namely, war. But to have to go through all of that with sore, cold, unprotected feet is just that much more hellish.
It made me think, though, that our modern, industrialized world, for all of its problems and injustice, is a pretty darn good place to live. Some people think that technology and industrialization have made life impersonal, unnatural, and maybe just a tad too comfortable -- not to even mention what it has done to the natural world and our environment (see pollution, extinction, etc.) And those people are very correct to point this out. But i really think they go wrong when they advocate a return to some kind of stripped down, primitive kind of world without modern conveniences and creature comforts. Sure, industrialization has from time to time has exploited people and resources. It has turned workers into wage slaves and carved a nice, big hole in the ozone. But it has also allowed certain things to be produced cheaply and efficiently and made them widely and inexpensively available. Things like shoes.
Before the advent of mass production, the assembly line, and other such things, shoes were made one at a time by cobblers and craftsmen, slowly, and expensively. Now, I'm not saying that shoes were some kind of luxury only to be enjoyed by the wealthy. That of course is not true, but they were hard to make and probably not so easily available, and if you were extremely poor or a constantly marching foot soldier, it wouldn't be uncommon for you to be forced to go without them.
Nowadays, however, footwear can be made quickly, easily and very inexpensively, and the whole world is one big Emelda Marcos closet. You may not be sporting a pair of Gucci's, but chances are you or anybody can afford a $5 pair of Walmart cheapies. And granted, the world still has it's share of barefoot people, but it doesn't really have to be that way anymore. The wheels of industry are more than capable of churning out enough affordable shoes to supply the entire planet. So, just think, for the first time in human history, every man, woman, and child at least 'could' be wearing shoes on their feet. i know it isn't much, but it's a nice start...
posted by Shakey Jake at 11:17 PM

Why I Hate Prince William
How come fortune has been so kind to Billy? Just whom did his pre-birth essence bribe to recieve such an ideal life? Of course, it hasn't always been so easy, like the time his "mum" made like her name and 'Di'ed. But just imagine all the sexual condolences and sympathy blowjobs he recieved from the fair, lissome ladies of the British realm; remember, not everybody gets to mourn the loss of a loved one while banging a Spice Girl.
Now color me jealous, but why are the gods so generous toward some but so miserly toward others? One guy is born a future monarch with movie-star looks, while the rest of us are destined to be a bunch of plain peasants. At least his father had to pay for his royal birthright by being so goofishly unattractive. But Billy gets to be as pretty as he is privileged. This is so unfair! I mean, isn't it enough that he's two heartbeats away from the English throne? [yes!] So why was he blessed with such enviable good looks too? Why does the heir apparent's heir apparent get to be a walking Tiger Beat cover? Take away his wealth and take away his power and this asshole would still get laid like floor-tiles!
posted by Shakey Jake at 2:40 AM

My sister will be getting married in a few weeks, and the other day she was remarking to me about how nervous the best man is about making his toast. And after a few joints, I started thinking to myself how frightening it would be to have to get up before a bunch of people and deliver one -- in front of friends and strangers trying to be witty, glib, and (as required by federal law) a tad sentimental. But instead, wedding toasts usually turn out to be uncomfortable, humiliating recitations of bad jokes, and gooey platitudes which leave the toasters lips -- sailing on his drunken breath -- and spew out into the reception hall as a big, tacky, maudlin mess, reeking of insincerrity and drip-drip-dripping with saccharine. These kinds of toasts turn out to be life-ruining embarresments; and the best men who give them turn up with self-inflicted gunshot wounds to the head the next morning.......then, I guess, a man and women are brought together over this tear-draining tragedy, fall in love, hastily plan a wedding, and ask some poor, doomed, sucker to be their best man, whom, by virtue of a temporary lapse in good jugement, agrees to do so, and eventually pays a fatal price for his foolishness....And thus, the vicious, macabre circle of death spirals on into infinity...But, to return to my orginial point, I would not want to be in the shoes of any man who was about to give a wedding toast. I cannot imagine what I would do. But as I watched my joint slowly burn the other night, I wondered what I would say if I were in that position. This is what I came up with:

"well, folks, here we are, celebrating [bride's name] and [groom's name]'s big day. today, like men and women for thousands of years before them, they entered into the sacred institution of marriage...even though, as we all know, marriage is a dark, soul-sucking, life-long hell. i mean, c'mon, we all know the story: a man and women stand up in a church, say "i do," and begin a happy, story-book life with each other. then one day, the wife is screwing the paper-boy, the husband is hittin' the bottle, and their kids are getting nose rings and tattoos...ahhh, maybe i'm just being too cynical. in fact, i'm sure i am. but either way, i know that if any two people can get together and make it work -- and not just survive, but actually beat the odds and find true happiness together -- it's [bride's name] and her husband [groom's name]. in fact, they already have. and, so you two, i'd wish you good luck, but i know you won't need it, 'cause everyone here knows that the two of you are going to be just fine...now, ladies and gentlemen, if you would please raise your glasses. here is to a sure thing..."
...Not bad, huh? I think it has just the right balance of derision and treacle.
posted by Shakey Jake at 12:35 AM

AN OPEN LETTER TO A DISHONEST DRUG-DEALER/COKE-HEAD
Dear Mr. Asshole,
I can tell that you are sick and tired of me hassling you, and I can't say that I blame you. So, the best thing you can do is just stop jerking me around, and tell me the truth: that you took my money with no intention of ever giving me my weed. You can keep the goddamn money, and you and I can forget that we ever knew each other -- that would be just fine with me --but as long as you keep me swimming in bullshit, telling me that you plan to make good any minute, hour, or day, I am going to continue to expect my weed!!! If you would just be honest with me, I could cut my losses and move on -- and leave you alone, once and for all. Just think, you'll be free: free from me, free to enjoy your coke (or whatever you spent my money on), and free to find your next sucker. Just remember, friend, the truth shall set you free!

Now I know this won't be easy for you. After all, you are a thouroughly dishonest person, and telling the truth goes against everything you stand for. So, take a few baby steps. Work your way up to it. Start slow by reciting simple true statements to yourself over and over again: "the sky is blue" "water is wet" "I am a crack-baby" -- things like that. Next, you might even try telling someone your real name. Well, before you know it, you'll be ready to tell me the truth about you and your little con-game. And, you don't even have to be polite about it. You can tell me what you really think of me; you can even tell me where i can go -- just as long as it is the truth.

Like magic words, your confession will make me disapear from your life, forever. Stronger, wiser, and an all-around better person, you will be able to return to your life of shame and debauchery to snort endless amounts of cocaine up your worthless, low-life nostrils. Not only that, but in those private, solitary moments, when you are strung-out after days and days of coke-binging, and you feel like killing yourself -- again -- you can warm your little, wounded heart with the knowledge that once, just once, in your pathetic, meanlingless life you actually told someone the truth. Heck, that might just be the sort of thing that pulls your comically mis-shapen head out of the oven, giving you the will to go on with life -- to live, to love, and to snort again. And, isn't that all you really want, anyway?

Now, I must confess, the rode ahead for you won't always be as easy as I make it out to be. This is because you are a vile, evil human being, and things are never easy for your kind. But, please take heart. Know that I believe in you. And remember, happiness (for you) is always just a powdered line away.

And don't forget to look for love wherever it may be. Of course, the odds of you ever finding it are quite slim, indeed, because you are a useless, despicable coke-head and nobody likes coke-heads. They are the rancid, stench-infested scum of the earth. But, do not be deterred. You MUST vigilintly embark upon a never ending quest for this elusive love no matter what the odds, for it is the only thing capable of sustaining you throughout your god-forsaken, nightmareish life to a ripe old age, or at least untill you overdose on that wretched poison, which you foolishly insist on sucking up your nose, and die, mercifully relieving the world of your unwanted presence.

In short, Mr. Asshole, you lead an empty, hallow, vacant, pointless, insignificant, soul-less, immoral, deceitful, coke-dusted existence -- one so low and miserable that I cannot even imagine what has kept you hanging in for so long already (probably, the coke). And though everyone hates you (including me), I know that somewhere, somehow you can find the strength and courage to forge on in life and prove to the world that you are not nearly the unholy, gutt-wrenching mistake-of-god that everyone plainly sees you to be...

BEST WISHES AND WARMEST REGARDS,
Jacob H.

posted by Shakey Jake at 4:55 PM

To Late Night: ...In the year 2000, my penis shall rise up and conquer all the nations of the world, intalling himself as World Emperor (Emperor Penis I). Sadly, his reign will end four days later when he is assasinated by his imperial guard. However, his son, Penis II, will succeed him as Emperor before he too meets a tragic death -- chocking on his royal cock-ring...
posted by Shakey Jake at 2:21 AM

Perhaps a small introduction is in order to the horror (and the glory) that is Jacob -- a personal abstract, if you will.
"But who is this intro for?" you ask. "No one cares about Jacob, or the horror that he is, and as yet, no one is reading his blog!"
Your point is well taken, inner critic. Since no one is listening, I have no one to address. Thus, I dedicate this introduction to the crickets, whose mellow chirping is the sound-track of isolation and unheard words:

Name: Jacob H.
Age: 22 (that's 154 in dog years)
Location: The barren deserts of New Mexico
Occupation: Full-time student; Part-time asshole.
School: The University of New Mexico -- fielding mediocre sports teams since 1889.
Major: Philosophy
Minor: Religious Studies
Dominant Personality Trait(s): Melancholy, aloofness, ambivelance, asshole-ness.
Life's Ambition: N/A
Biggest Fear(s): Death, boogie-man, violent loss of penis.
Hero: John Albert Elway -- winningest QB in NFL history.
...I hope this serves to better clarify and still further obscure my personality. Goodbye for now, my cricket friends.

posted by Shakey Jake at 9:23 PM

When planning this blog I spent a great deal of time (at least 45 seconds) considering the many things it could be about. But being the self-absorbed egomaniac that I am, I knew it could only be about myself (or Sweedish clog-dancing). I may come off as an unassuming, diffident young-lad, but don't let me fool you. Within my chest beats the heart of a truly self-centered, narcassistic man. So yes[!], this blog shall be all and only about me, and not just the basic, superficial aspects either. This is not to be a blog that merely skims the surface of my identity, but rather, one that also explores the murky, frightening depths of my consciousness. On this canvas I intend to paint a complete psychological self-portrait -- one which will include every haunting facet of my personality and my insanity. So watch your step. The tour begins!!
posted by Shakey Jake at 9:18 PM

I am the god of hell fire and cloudy days! Who can stand before me? I choke the seas and chase the stars from the sky. Great is my power! And with all the authority and might that I possess, I hereby claim this web page for myself and set it aside to be used and operated according to the dictates of my infallible, invincible will. Furthermore, I dedicate this site to, and fix its focus on, the unmittigated glory and replete splendor that is I...
posted by Shakey Jake at 9:10 PM