Post @ 7/21:  Moribus antiquis res stat Americana virisque

Gregoreth's Weekly Post
     Confession

  Before I begin the lesson of the week, I must admit that I was indeed responsible for the death of Ken Lay, former CEO of Enron who was embroiled in scandal, convicted, and died last week of a "heart attack" while awaiting sentencing. He may or may not have been guilty of lies and number fudging in an attempt to hide the failure of his company from the public and stock holders, but this did not matter to me. I poisoned his gin martini with a drug that caused his cardiac arrest. Any more information about this event would be so secret and so astounding that it would melt the face of any reader. Because our readers are important, I must spare the juicy morsels. However, the celebration afterward was quite an event as I high-fived Rumsfeld and even drunkenly urinated on a bush with President Bush (neither were aware of my deed).

The Lesson of the Week: The Couch vs. Medicated Stupor

My psychology teacher is a psychoanalytic practitioner who does not medicate her clients. Instead, only after preparing the patient's mind for deep introspection, she uses "The Couch". When she says this, she offers it as if it were a sort of titanium and carbon composite weapon, streamlined with assorted lasers and light emitting diodes, but she is merely referring to getting the patient in a comfy position on the couch and using transference and dream interpretation as a means to naturally heal the crazy people. Albeit unpopular, I agree with her method of attack, especially in a country that eats 90% of the worlds ritalin. Not only are children drugged from infancy, but adults are also eating whatever drugs they can for any "disorder" that they think they have. "I feel tired in the morning." Take some dexedrine! "I don't feel tired at night" Here's an Rx for Ambien, call in six months to have your dosage increased. And, what is all this nonsense a bout restless leg syndrome?

Where am I going with this article? Maybe I need some adderal. No! I shall unplug my i-pod and think! Excelsior! Too many people are willing to bend over and allow doctors to insert any drug without a second thought. And now, due to incessant advertising by pharmaceutical companies, people are becomming the doctors and doctors are scribbling Rx's as fast as they can with one hand while they masturbate, until bloody, with the other (they are able to do this all day thanks to viagra). Why, because it is easier to swallow eight pills than it is to excercise and talk about our problems with our spouses, as opposed to beating them.

Perhaps some people are open to the idea that "drugs are not the best choice for therapy, but they are sometimes beneficial as they can calm a patient and prime the mind for treatment." OR, they could slow the brain functions of the patient, making them less perceptive to treatment while teaching them that drugs can solve their problems. "You don't have to confront your problems, Larry. You can take this cocktail of Xanax and Zoloft and feel a little better, while the fact that your uncle Dan raped you will haunt you until you kill your wife, kids, and then yourself. That'll be $200 bucks."

What's Up Homeostasis

Americans, who I adore, yet despise, are looking for the quickest way to achieve psychobiological attunement. I don't mean to rag on those who use drugs to treat their internal deregulation. I take drugs to avoid seizuring all over the place whilst driving down the road. I do mean to rag on those who enable these people who seek doctors for help and get drugged and raped instead (this is counter productive, as this may be the reason for the person seeking treatment in the first place). I also don't mean to posit that a man who is schizophrenic because his mom beat him with a spatula and made him eat her poop can sit on a couch and tell a shrink about it and instantly be cured. Drugs do provide immediate comfort for people in pain, but if we ever want to get to the root of our problems, as individuals and as a whole, we need to stop getting high and start attacking the problems that attack us. FUCK YOU UNCLE DAN!

Douglas Danger

Post @ 7/21:  Vous etes les victimes de ma puissance litteraire

Mattias' Weekly Post
        Hezbollah translates into English "Party of Ass"

  I hate Hezbollah.

For two days that was the best beginning I could do. I've erased four versions of this one article. Usually, I take about an hour and a half to write something complete, poetic and ultimately much better then anything else ever written.

But I just can't this time. I just can't.

So instead, I am going to take three main things that raised the viscosity of my blood:

The first is a quote from Hezbollah's leader Sheik Hassan Nasrallah apologizing for the killing of two children in Nazareth. "To the family that was hit in Nazareth -- on my behalf and my brothers', I apologize to this family," he elaborates further: "Some events like that happen. At any event, those who were killed in Nazareth, we consider them martyrs for Palestine and martyrs for the nation. I pay my condolences to them."

I would take this guy seriously, were it not that they, as in Hezbollah and other terrorists, purposely target non-military objects like civilians. You can't strangle someone and then apologize to their dead body to make it all better? I mean, I think you can't.

Maybe I should get that shovel and lime.

Post @ 7/5:  Moribus antiquis res stat Americana virisque

Gregoreth's Weekly Post
     Phinneas Fop Visits the Country

In my hometown of 3,400, it needs not be emphasized that the breeding pool is limited and thus the level of intelligence is sorely lacking. Concurrent with this is the Red Cedar Jubilee, a festival held during the last week of June when all the folk come together under a tent and drink beer from half-gallon jugs as they watch their friends and family crash into each other in rusty, primer colored Chevys and Buicks. There is also a demolition derby.

On the second night of the festivities, a fight erupted amidst the orgy of chugging contests and crop discussion. The crowd began to spontaneously orgasm as punch after punch was thrown and the police began to taze the offenders. Unfortunately, a portion of this demographic made its way to my house, per my roommate who really meant no harm but was still whipped with a boot lace for this offense on a later date.

Everything was fine for a while and I was tolerating the sight of reckless abuse of the English language well. I began to get nervous, as I tend to in certain situations, as a group of men entered the bathroom at the same time. My mind began to prove amongst terrible and disgusting ideas. Eventually I reassured myself that they were probably just doing drugs. How Gauche!

The "E tu Brute" came when one of these churls (or ceorl), a tall, yet ungainly white child of a pudgy stature, trod across a spot of freshly seeded grass, in a zig-zag line (perhaps his inebriation caused this, but I believe that the uncouth skew of his hat brim was the cause for his misalignment). In response to this I said, "Hey, don't walk there. I just planted grass." He replied, "I'm North-side N*gga," and he proceeded to stomp the young and defenseless grass, perhaps in a fit of repressed anger in response to all the times that his father sodomized him while his hairless mother watched in terror. All psychoanalysis aside, this behavior surely represented a very scary strain of individual. And here I stood, surrounded by a cluster of these defoliating bastards as they caroused and came nearer and nearer to reproducing with every sip and snort.

As I said, I get quite anxious in strange times like these. I can only imagine what a would happen if I accidentally passed gas in class (rhyme). What would that do to my blood pressure? This ordeal was no Chernobyl, but I certainly felt like sobbing, not only for the young grass that barely had a chance, but also for the young man who killed the grass with no remorse.

I knew that I had but two choices: 1. Mortally wound these savages and bury them in the swamp OR 2. Let them penetrate my girlfriend, ask to ride my new bike and never bring it back, give me a group wedgie, and finally, allow them to stand in a circle and urinate on what was left of my new grass as they exchanged high-fives and furtive glances at each other's genitals. This last idea made me cringe. I opted for the first option but, as I rose to retrieve my gun, I noticed that they were leaving, for the party had become "wack" and they were to return to the city for the weekly romp with an unlucky and underage urban girl with no self-esteem. YES!

Gregor the Seventh (thrice removed)

Post @ 7/4:  Vous etes les victimes de ma puissance litteraire

Mattias' Weekly Post
        The Super-Kamiokande and Me!

I had a family reunion this weekend. It was terrible.

I was in the library working on my final essay for Shakespeare this Friday. My paper dealt with how the endings of Hamlet  and Measure for Measure  "defy or modify our generic conventions of the genre." A near unbearable enthusiasm defined me. So, with my nightly work shift already excused, I quit my paper early and drove south from Marquette towards the Garden Peninsula --a small intrusion of land into Lake Michigan. This being where my nuclear family had gathered to stay for the reunion, as the event itself was held at  "The Farm," a rive-side cottage near Escanaba that, still being maintained, was once my grandmother's childhood home.

But, as it is, the reunion has nothing to do with this article, it was merely the reason I was driving late Friday evening down US 2. Driving this road, as I said; I chanced the radio, something not said, and came across a radio program that I believed to be a PSA about some scientific discovery. There was a slightly effeminate voice, his timbre that of a Brit., announcing what seemed like a recent discovery in the Solar Neutrino debate. Now I assume most people do not know what this is, you would only have to have had a lower-level college Astronomy course to have come across it, but even that rudimentary requirement is rare. Anyways, a brief moment to explain:

The Neutrino is a fundamental particle, one of many that make up the universe. It is electically neutral, hence neutrino, which is also Italian for "Little neutral one" and was discovered by Wolfgang Pauli (arguably the coolest name ever). Neutrino's apathetic charge renders electromagnetic forces mute, only being affected by "weak" sub-atomic forces over very short distances. Basically, because of their low reactivity potential, a neutrino could pass through the earth like, like...something quite palpable.

But this is where the Super-Kamiokande et al, comes in to play. The Japanese with their brilliant forsight and monopoly of boom-boxes, decided to build this massive detector to explain various anomaly, it being a 50,000 ton tank of water 1 km below the Earth's crust. The inside of the tank has 11,146 50-cm diameter cameras, basically. These "cameras" are so sensitive they can detect one photon, which is the rough equivalent of the light a candle would emit, as seen on Earth, from the moon! Oh my!

The light the PMT's gather is from a phenomenon called Cherenkov Radiation. Something that only occurs when charge particles swim in clear water at speeds greater than 75% of the speed of light. For more info go here. The whole point of this is that the sun, if it works in the way our current theories estimate, it should produce a certain number of neutrinos, but thus far the experiments are only finding about 1/3 or 1/2 of the theoretical calculations. Now, from what I've read, the Super-Kamiokande and friends, can only detect a certain type of neutrino. But it is known that all the sun's neutrinos are electron neutrinos, a kind detectable, so something must happen to them during their sojourn to Earth. And basically, in recent months, physicists have shown that this is most likely the answer. Simply that the detectors cannot detect all the possible type of neutrinos, and the ones coming from the sun are spontaneously changing to undetectable kinds.

You may be wondering when this article is going to reach its point, escpecially after reading the dreary boredom above. So...the radio program I was listening to, went on like I did above and explained a lot of basic minutia, for what I thought would be an academic discussion on some recent discovery. But oh boy was I let down. The program veered, suddenly, into the mind boggling absurd. The announcer said something like "Scientists that believe in evolution think so and so..." but "Scientists that don't are ready to admit they just don't know." I thought this odd...are there any scientists that don't believe in evolution? It's like saying, "Those that believe in gravity..." The thing is evolution is far from being proven in nice, gentle terms like we can prove that 2+2=4. And for that matter gravity's existence is just as unknown but we do believe in it. We can feel it.

So I started wondering why this radio host would preface some scientific statement with something so obscenely irrelevant, and then before I could think again I figured out that this was a Christian radio station. And having found some, thus far, unexplained phenomenon lingering in the scientific community they attacked. This was their off-hand way of saying "If one experiment fails to corroborate with a theory, this theory being that the sun must be billions of years old, then science has failed and the bible is correct." Forget that there is a plausible, albeit unproven (I think), explanation for the missing data, and that recent helio-seismology experiments agree with current theory. It's like, like...the gayest thing I've ever heard while driving alone on a Friday evening.

(I am losing what little touch I had.)

Post @ 6/21:  Moribus antiquis res stat Americana virisque

Gregoreth's Weekly Post
     The God of Revenge for the Cuckolded Ringeth...More Than Once

After quite a spell of writer's block, I began to practice self-denial in an attempt to clear my inopportune constipation. Not only did I fast for almost two days, but I also whipped myself with a meter long segment of orange extension cord whenever I found myself thinking about anything but my next article for frikinsweet.com. Eventually, I became encrusted in a layer of coagulated blood and decided that it would suit me to shower before my dad saw me and sent me to the stress unit at the local hospital.

While I was cleansing my wounds, I was overcome with a strange feeling of apprehension. Suddenly, a great light beamed from the shower head and filled mine eyes with a glorious, golden hue. Then, suddenly, an idea spewed forth from the clandestine regions of my brain and shot out of my ears, carrying with it the region of my brain that controls bowel function. As soon as I cleaned up the mess, I ran to the keys.

(OK, this was mostly a lie. However, I was in the shower washing a terrible sunburn with aloe when I remembered this awesome story, all of which is the verifiable truth)

The Tale of the Coy Strumpet

I came home on leave from the Air Force in December of 2002. Fresh out of Basic Training, I was an emotional mess and I wanted my mommy. It was late, and I was home. A party was being held in my honor. My old pal, who has before graced the pages of frikinsweet.com due to his skills of mack daddery, informed me that he had invited an old friend, more his than mine, for me to "hook up" with. I was a piece of doo when it came to women, so I quickly dismissed him and drank heavily. Besides, this girl was HOT by most standards and I would surely wet my pants in the face of this man-eater.

By the end of the night, she had me pinned against the wall and had her tongue wedged in between my epiglottis and the wall of my esophagus. We had sex a lot before I left a few days later for my new duty station in fabulous Dover, Delaware.

We maintained a long-distance relationship until my honorable discharge in May of 2003 for an idiopathic seizure disorder. When I returned home, everything was cool and we continued to have a lot of sex in her parents trailer park home, almost every night, for a few months. Then one day, she told me a naughty story. She was "confused" about this guy who she had known while I was in Dover. It went like this: (her words) "I love you, but I really like him. His mom is dead and his dad is a retard and he has nobody. I haven't "done" anything with him. I'm just confused."

Being a sucker, I agreed to stay with her while she sorted it all out, knowing that she would realize we were meant to be together forever, and eventually ask me to kill this master of cuckoldry. Nope. Turns out, this man was not only banging her, but was only days away from moving in with her and her parents in their trailer park home. And, it turns out that he was a stunning Portuguese hunk with dark skin and about five inches on me in more than one way (if you don't understand this, I mean to say that he was not only taller than me, but had a significantly larger penis than me as well...and I was sure that her vagina wasn't as tight as it used to be, but I ignored it like a dumbass...DAMMIT!). I was angry. But what could I do but take it and wait for The God of Revenge for the Cuckolded to right this travesty.

A month later, she called. Apparently, her new boyfriend was caught making out with a cashier at Wal-Mart, where he was employed in the tire section. This was delicious! And I was sure that she wanted revenge sex by the way she was suggestion we meet and talk. "I still wanna be friends," she said. HA! Fool me once, shame on you, and so on.

She said that she couldn't meet me because her boyfriend was using her car. I said, in an impolite way, "Well, call me again when you get your car back." Because I knew that she would not leave this man, for she was, indeed, being strung along in the same way that she did me, I was sure that I would never hear from her again. I never have.

I found out that she got pregnant by this guy and had a baby. She insisted on getting married because she didn't want to have a bastard child (I feel that her trailer park upbringing may have left her with feelings of inferiority, prompting her to marry, even though her boyfriend was unfaithful). I found out, through the same friend that initiated our hook up, that she is currently wading through diapers and divorce papers.

I saw her at the gas station recently. She looks much the same. But, I noticed, with guilty pleasure, that her rear had grown immensely and that she had to assume an oblique angle to squeeze into spaces that would have once offered her no guff ( for example, the gas station door). I was staring at my beautiful current girlfriend, enjoying a disgusting level of smugness, when I happened to notice an empty look of sadness on this girl's face. This is true; I was overcome with guilt and despair. "What an asshole," I thought of myself. She was really just a confused girl, who inadvertently hurt someone in an effort to bring balance to her own life. This lasted for about five seconds. Fuck her! She cheated on me. If she was innocent of crimes associated with this situation, the God of Revenge for the Cuckolded wouldn't have given her a philandering soon-to-be ex husband, a really fat ass, and an overall bum deal for the time being. However, she was given with a child, which in all earnestness is a blessing. I hope she named it Gregoreth.

Post @ 6/20:  Vous etes les victimes de ma puissance litteraire

Mattias' Weekly Post
        Do the Dixie Chicks suck?

The May 29th issue of TIME attempted to gloss over the gross ineptitude of the chick's players. This is how they began the article:

"As a high school senior in Lubbock, Texas, [Natalie Maines]'d skip a class a day in an attempt to prove that because she never got caught and some Mexican students did, the system was racist."

Or maybe she just sucked off the principal and the Mexican's didn't because they were all guys, who used the skipped day to tag Maines. Ok so wait, that's a bit harsh. But is it anymore realistic then Josh Tyrangiel's (the articles author) claim that she skipped "a class a day" for some retarded Mexican students? Puh-lease! That's like having a popular band, where you don't contribute in anyway to the music other than the playing of it, because some dude's with music degrees sit down with business guys and design the songs for a target audience, and then after they work out a succesful formula of which you are just the lucky person who becomes its public face, you become a fop ass that spews its inadequate views at every venue like some activist. Yea, like that ever happens.

But that's irrelevant to the whole issue, merely an aside to strengthen later arguments I shall make'eth. The big issue is Maine's comment a few years back in London. She said "Just so you know, we're ashamed the President of the United States is from Texas."

You may feel a slight sting of indignation to her comment; similiar to how you may feel in France, as an American, at a restaurant ordering and the waiter assumes you don't read French and makes some snide, semi-witty remark about your penis and then orders you a cheeseburger. It's like yea, I came all this way for a cheeseburger and like yea, I give a shit that you and the President are from Texas, and you're 'ashamed'.

Get real you stupid bitches. The only reason everyone now hates you, other than insanely spoiled idiot children, is because you're ignorant of your own part in the drama called life. The girls that make up the Chick's are merely faces to a record label. They don't contribute in any major way to any of the musical scores or lyrics, they just play them "They didn't write their hits, and the songs they did were mostly filler." So basically, it's like they won the musical lottery. Play this instrument, look sexy and shut the fuck up. Bush may have earned C's at Yale, but it's better than that yikem Kerry and especially those girls who managed to:

"Maquire was then at Southern Methodist University; Robison never finished an application to the Air Force Academy...Maines, a Berklee College of Music dropout...at the time, was attending her third college in three years."

The whole thing that angers me is people's overall irreverence for anything. MTV says Bush is not good, so a few million idiots run around thinking they're better than cannon fodder. Put Bush aside though, and think who would ever want to become president now when you suffer the criticisms and public ire of a million psuedo-intellectuals? For both parties: when Clinton was in office he was lambasted as bad from the right as the left now jabs Bush. A millions sucklers on the tit of infamy.

But even when you attack people with solid sense, like hey we all know that a true democracy does not work when the whole populace is allowed to vote so we should limit it to statistical representatives or change the figure head to a figure senate; people's head blow-off in frustration. Or you try and tell people, hey you're abusing you puplic image for your own political gain, which couldn't be proven as worth poopy to anyone but you and a few close syncophants; they attempt to murder you. Or people are like, hey I was against the war, even though we've been there for three years now and we would be out quicker if we all supported it, so I am going to make impossible claims on the current administration and make it hard for them, politically, to use more effective military tactics. Or God himself tries to say, hey you Chick's are stupid bitches so I am going to make you infertile; they reply invitro.

(I was going to make some references to Shakespeare's Richard the Second, some may understand immediately why, but I did not have time as of yet. I also wanted to clear up that I have my misgivings of those in power, but I feel that a bigger problem in America is people's unnatural desire to not understand that politics is a lose-lose situation. Unless you're gay, in fact I think gay or female leaders are best in peace time and hetero- men during war. It just makes sense.)

Gregoreth's Weekly Post
     Insomnia and Deep Introspection

I have real insomnia. Many people, especially college students, feel that they have this strange disorder, but these people may simply be stupid, or just too high from their $4.00 lattes to sleep. From what I've read, insomnia is not a disorder in and of itself, but rather the physical manifestation of some other disorder or malfeasance.

Who knows what one of my problems robs me of this delicious slumber, allocated in generous increments to many less deserving, that I cherish so. However, I have found that these moments, that I lay awake unable to sleep, are often inspirational periods of incredibly clear thought and pure introspection.

My Dad Killed Someone

Sometimes these soirees will venture towards the mundane, but on many occasions they focus on exotic and bizarre notions. For example, only a few nights ago, I remembered the story that my dad told me about the first person(s) he killed in Vietnam. Even though I was sure to have horrid dreams about small, but fierce, V.C. guerillas popping out of holes and blowing of both of my legs, I decided to devote my thoughts to this occasion.

He told me about marching through the deep jungle and thick heat for most of the morning. They stopped around midday to rest for a bit. He sat up against a tree with his rifle across his lap and had just closed his eyes when he became aware of a stir amongst the foliage (to avoid rude language, I will not quote my father here, but rather paraphrase). "I was nervous, very nervous," he said.

Before he could dismiss this commotion, he lifted he eyes to see a Vietnamese officer, accompanied by a soldier, who was drawing his pistol, surely with the ultimate goal of aiming it at my dad and smiting him. Their eyes met in a most uncomfortable panic, for they both realized that great pain and severed arteries, uncontrollably spewing crimson fluid, lingered in the vicinity. My dad raised his gun and kept pulling his trigger, instinctively, even after his clip was emptied and both of his opponents had fallen. Only after the rest of his platoon attacked the jungle with a most spectacular fusillade did he gather his mind and realize what had happened (unfortunately, the last of the rare Orgy Caterpillar, lepidopterus gangbangus, were killed in this barrage, as they were blown to bits while they lay in a tangled heap of insect love on a banana leaf). What a strange and unpleasant event for a young man who was raised on the tranquil shores of Lake Huron in Rogers City, Michigan. Here, in the jungles of Vietnam, he had rendered two men into bits of skin and goo with a several flicks of his index finger.

Surely did my dad go on to kill many more people in Vietnam. But I could not possibly imagine what it was like to be in his boots on that sweltering day in the jungle. But then I realized, "my dad has killed somebody." I became fearful, because I had lived in the midst of this killer for my entire life. However, I was reassured when I realized that he would have killed me by now if he had ever intended to do so. But still, what a strange and massive experience to have as a teen: kill or be killed. When I asked him, he reaffirmed my notions when he said the he was delighted that he wasn't shot and killed. To this day, he remains a relatively sane and undeniably productive member of society, despite his murderous past.

Conclusion

My dad is down with frikinsweet.com and he has the will to kill. Anybody who has a problem with us should remember this fact or face a massive and violent "break yo' self!"

Real Conclusion

Not many people realize what it is like to kill another person (however disagreeable and unsavory that he or she may be). I am glad, to say the least, to have been discharged, Honorably of course, from the military before I had a chance to be placed in my dad’s shoes. However, it gave me a new reverence for our troops. As long our troops are at war, we need to support their collective efforts, or they shall indubitably suffer a terrible peril. If you don't, my dad will kill you too. My dad can blow up your dad!

Gregor Shivago