The Machinations of the Manifestation of My Giant Nintendo Game

As far as building things goes, I have never built anything quite like the giant squid. Frankly, I have never actually built a giant squid, so that goes without saying. Squids are dangerous, squishy, and gross, and they have giant eyeballs that follow you around, eyeing you suspiciously, lest you attempt to steal their giant treasure or reservoirs of ink. They know you. They know you have a huge report coming up, and you’ll be needing ink for your pen, and you’d like nothing more than to get your ink from a giant squid, so that you can stroll right up to the front of your class, in your flip-flops and Hawaiian shirt, and tell your teacher, “Here is my report, I got the ink from a giant squid”, and everybody will ooh and aah and marvel at Giant Squid Dude. And then you’ll get to date the head cheerleader.

So to Hell with the squid. It’s a bastard that won’t give up its ink. What I did build was a giant Nintendo game. I did not build it well, as far as general Nintendo game construction is concerned. But I did build it. I built it out of cardboard, and hot glue, and love, and blood, and sweat, and tears, and screaming and burning and cursing and smashing in walls with my fists in rage because the cardboard wouldn’t stay the hell together, but dammit, when you are asked to build a giant Nintendo game, by gum, you build it, and you smile, even when somebody else brings in a giant butane lighter that makes your Nintendo game look like last week’s solid waste products by comparison. And then you go home, and cry in your pillow.

This giant butane lighter put my Game Boy to shame.

As you might expect, I built this for my art studio class. There are very few other situations where it pays off to build a giant cardboard Nintendo game that you can’t play. There are very few job interviews, for example, where this is a plus:

Interviewer: Good morning, Mr. Jenkins, I see that you have all your paperwork with you, but something’s missing, I just can’t…

Jenkins: (pulls out a giant Nintendo game made out of cardboard.)

Interviewer: My God, that is BRILLIANT!

Jenkins: So does that mean I’m hired?

Interviewer: You can also have my daughter’s hand in marriage.

But of course, in an art studio class, as well as possibly applying to work at a cardboard box factory, cardboard construction–meaning “true high art, in corrugated form”–is extremely important. My teacher made sure to stress how important it is to know how to build objects out of only cardboard and hot glue. It’s apparently especially important in my chosen major, which happens to be architecture, a trade rivaled only by engineering in its pretentiousness. In architecture circles, I could build a pair of binoculars in front of a building and they would be considered fine art. Normal people, of course, would consider me to be mildly retarded. Many would stare.

But I am a pretentious asshole, and I view everyone else as being mildly retarded, so it all works out in the end, and everybody ends up equally right. My Nintendo game, however, is quite important to me. As a cardboard structure, it speaks to the power of weakness in large quantities, as my construction of the thing was weak, and the cardboard itself was weak, but if you combine them together, you get something that will still fall apart before I can get it home. It also speaks to love, as a child to his Nintendo game; and sadness, as when the screen of the game burns out, as it appears to have in my cardboard game.

Most importantly, though, my Nintendo game speaks to the human condition, which all too often manifests itself in the form of tiny objects with electrical parts in them. The Nintendo game is the most important manifestation of this manifestation. The creation of the Nintendo game is important in that it is a connection with the manifestation of life, which in itself is stationed in the direction of machinations with the imagination of the human condition, made real by the manifestation of more life created by the manifestation of the old life, which is now dead. This is very important to understanding my work. All of that last sentence? You need to understand all of it, in some fundamental way, to appreciate the unique directions I took in making a giant box out of cardboard.

Giant Game Boy battery cover.

So anyway, next time you’re playing a Game Boy, and you’re daydreaming, and thinking to yourself, and a flash comes to your mind, and you wonder what it would be like if they built one twenty-five times larger than the one currently in your hand, and you think this because you’ve been smoking marijuana, think of me and this work. Because art is nothing if it is not thought of. It’s a creation. And it requires manifestation. Naturally.

Christmas 2008: Waiting For Rockwell Wishes to Resurrect Abraham Lincoln

Christmas is a fascinating time to be alive right now. To begin with, America is crashing to the ground in flames, to be replaced as Heavyweight Champion of the World by China, which will enslave all of America’s men and use its women to create newer, stronger workers who can then use their collective force to obliterate the Universe as we know it.

But it’s also interesting if you’re afraid of having a heart attack. This is where I am, right now. Recently, at least two family members have died of heart attacks and loss of the ability to breathe and one more may well die soon from a heart surgery that didn’t work.

When everybody is dying around you and the world is coming to an abrupt end, and you are a pathetic furry faggot whose hobbies, like architecture and Lego design, are hated by God Himself, you begin to wonder when God is going to smite you. I have, of course, been on Smite Watch recently. Let me tell you why I am afraid that God is going to smite me:

  • Recently, I counted my heart rate and it was like 120 beats per minute or something, by my estimates.
  • My left arm is tingling.
  • I wrote this post, which is supposed to be lighthearted and funny but will crash to the ground harder even than the U.S. economy, and my family will be talking about it for years, just like the time I said that Republicans were on the level of shit-throwing apes and got a stern lecture from one of my Republican cousins.
  • Also, in spite of the fact that I am actually a Christian, it sounds like I’m making fun of Jesus in this article, which I am absolutely not, but God may not care that I’m just joking around, and although he loves the sinner he hates the sin, and thus he will smite me.
  • I feel dizzy.
  • I just had a massive heart attack.

And so on and so forth. Of course my fears are completely unjustified, and as usual I am a ridiculous hypochondriac for having spared them half a thought, but it is still tempting to think that God cares so much about the way that I act that He would knowingly give me a heart attack as punishment.

Note: God may still knowingly give me a heart attack as punishment for my obsessions with architecture and Lego design. He’s God. He can do that.

In addition to all that, of course, I am working on getting noise-reduction headphones for Christmas. You smart people out there probably already have these things. God help you if there’s ever a fire in your house while you’re wearing them. He’d probably give you a heart attack for your accounting hobby, or whatever it is you do when you’re not reading this horrible blog.

I also want a new external hard drive for my computer. Recently I bought a camera, and immediately after buying it I realized that its puny thirty-two million byte Card O’ Data was not enough for our rapidly-changing world. So I bought a new one for it, which can hold four billion bytes of pure imagey goodness, and therefore my digital camera can now record an entire episode of Dancing with the Stars, assuming you wish to use it to do such a heinous thing.

Anyway, with such power comes great responsibility, such as adding even more space for more data for my computer to keep track of. I’m thinking of buying a hard drive (SPOILER ALERT: It is hard) with two-hundred fifty billion byte storage capacity. That way I can have a full database of every single Dancing with the Stars episode ever recorded. Once I reach this pinnacle, no jury in the world would convict me of murder, especially if I murder the contestants themselves. Unless Johnnie Cochran represents the Prosecution. And since he’s a defense attorney, I’m totally safe.

But of course, I would never kill Dancing with the Stars contestants. Never. For serious.

Enough of my holiday wishes, though. Christmas, of course, is a time when we all remember Jesus’ birth. Jesus, in case you haven’t read the Bible, is a total pimping badass. He healed the sick and he gave sight to the deaf, and on occasion he was able to overcome his dyslexia and give hearing to the blind. He was awesome like that.

Jesus was also the son of God, and was a carpenter. A badass carpenter at that, but nevermind his woodworking skills. More important, of course, were his wordworking skills, at least back when he was giving out words. That was back before we nailed him to a cross. Note that we never nailed Richard Nixon to a cross. That’s just the kind of smart, sensible people humans are.

Jesus is said to work via mysterious ways. This is why Jack Chick tracts are so hard to understand. It’s important to remember that Jesus is still more understandable than normal people like me, as my latest article on the Detroit Three bailout will attest.

As a reminder of how great Jesus was, we celebrate his birth by erecting large Pagan trees in our houses and put all kinds of frilly objects on them and act rudely to relatives who come to our houses looking for food and presents. (My mother has assured me that our family does not do this.) It’s a vague reminder of what it is to be an American, because such scenes of tenderness and beauty were conveyed by visionaries like Norman Rockwell, who even today reminds Americans of Christmases long past that never really occurred but are nice to remember anyway.

lupe_rockwelllii

Let’s remember those Rockwell Christmases. Don’t forget: If we do, Abraham Lincoln will rise from the dead and give gay people the right to freely marry one another. Don’t ask why; remember, God works in mysterious ways. It will be a great time for America. People will dance around the Christmas tree, singing that “Dahoo Doorehs” song in the Grinch movie and play old Rankin/Bass Christmas movies that seemed to have appeared randomly as virtual particles from outer space. Iraqis will rejoice and spontaneously make love to one another on the sidewalk. And the Christmas Specials Wiki will continue to exist.

Yes, of course there’s a Christmas Specials wiki. It is accessible at http://christmas-specials.wikia.com/wiki/Christmas_Specials, and like the old Rankin/Bass movies it seems to have appeared out of nowhere. Suddenly, there’s a place where just anybody can write out information on Christmas TV shows and movies. Like Wikipedia, “The Pretend Encyclopedia that Anyone can Edit”, probably none of the information is useable for a college-level essay, which would offend me if I actually had to go to school, which thank God/Norman Rockwell I do not. I will ask my friend Dessie the Pagan lesbian Transformers slash fanfiction author, who also happens to be the cutest girl in the known Universe and is single, ladies, to write out an article for the site on any Transformers Christmas specials she knows of, including any pornographic ones. It will be a great day in American history. I would love to see it, but unfortunately I have a heart attack I’m waiting for.

Building A Moon-Building In the Anus of New Mexico: A Day in the Life of the Bat People

There’s just too much to do today.

I know that, wherever you are right now, you’re probably disagreeing with me. After all, you’re thinking, it’s Spring Break, and that means that you’re slacking your ass off like all of the other buffoons who don’t own massive LEGO cities like I do. You’re all wrong. There’s so much to do, what with building factories that don’t manufacture anything, houses that don’t house anybody, and City Halls that don’t govern anything, that I’ve been having trouble doing the modicum of homework my teachers gave to me so I wouldn’t forget about any of them, ever, throughout my entire Spring Break. In fact, I just got started on it yesterday. Those who say that procrastination is bad have obviously not seen my Cave House.

Cave House

Oh, yes. Cave houses are all the rage, especially in Afghanistan, and I felt that my Architecture class was desperately in need of one of these “houses of the cave”, so to speak. Not that it’s made of cave or anything, it’s just built in the mouth of Carlsbad Caverns:

Map of New Mexico

Basically, Carlsbad Caverns, a.k.a. “The Vagina Anus of New Mexico”, is cold and uninhabitable, which is similar to Hillary Clinton. Also like Hillary Clinton, Carlsbad Caverns is beloved by women. Unlike Hillary Clinton, however, men also like Carlsbad Caverns, not because it is sexually attractive, but because it is like a challenge, in which one false step could lead to your slipping off of the guardrailed path and being impaled on a stalagmite. Especially if you’re a midget.

Anyway, I designed my building either to be built at the mouth of the cave or inside the cave. I’m still debating which, because it would change the story. I can either make it so that a young boy decides to enter into the cave and winds up getting lost because of the “impenetrable darkness of the cavaginaanus, which will surely kill all those who attempt to penetrate.”  In this case, the young boy would find the cave not unlike Michael Jackson: terrifying,  similar to a forty-year-old woman in both looks and smell, and creepily quiet. When morning would come, light would come into the cave, and, like Michael Jackson’s latest plastic surgery, would make everything lighter and even creepier, because then he could see all the stalactites and stalagmites and it would appear that everything was about to fall right off of Jackson’s face.

This scenario sounds really cool in practice. It’s certainly cooler than my other idea, which is to inhabitate the cave with bat-people who can fly and eat mosquitos. In this scenario, nuclear war has killed or mutated the human race, and those left behind must live in caves to thwart the evil atomic fuminess. My building would be their home and worship place. They would worship the sun, which they would call “Swastika”, in respect of the Jews.

I am still waiting for my Friend-Who-Is-A-Girl to call me, because she is apparently sick and can’t talk or else she just hates me. In the meantime, I’d like to show you to our next place of the lulz:

Damn You Peter Gabriel

No, seriously, it’s more furry shit:

Moar Furry Shit

Recently, Luigiian Aerospace Command detected an increase in the level of furry hatred in several sectors, specifically, StumbleUpon [here], FurAffinity [here], and the website of noted incestual conservative Jay Naylor’s Better Days [here]. (Use StumbleUpon’s “Reviews of this Page” feature to see fur hate.) Furry hatred levels at David Hopkins’ Jack [here] remain high for March 2008. LAC detected an increase in the level of scientology hatred here and here, but declined to begin retaliatory measures because, frankly, scientology scares the shit out of Luigiian Aerospace Command.

Let it be known from here on out that this site neither applauds nor condemns the actions of those who either hate or love the fur. However, this site does like the lulz, and there is nothing funnier than indulging in an Internet flame war with retards. There are lots of places you can go to start massive trolling wars throughout the Internet for great justice. They are as follows:

  1. Encyclopedia Dramatica (the place for Internet drama): http://www.encyclopediadramatica.com 
  2. Fur Affinity (the place for furries): http://www.furaffinity.net
  3. Something Awful (the place for aspie furry haters): http://www.somethingawful.com

I can see the light and the heat, and I definitely want to touch the light I see in your eyes, but not like Michael Jackson. So troll the fuck out of everybody on these sites, but only if you’re old enough to know what I’m talking about, and only if you’re serious about this. Otherwise, you’ll just look like a dumb pussy, and The Luigiian disowns all those who try to follow the lulzy way and fail. I will not take the fall for your screwups.

In the meantime, you know what to do. The resolution to a thousand endless searches, the doorway to a thousand churches, is in your eyes. Peter Gabriel sends you on this quest.

May the lulz be with you. And watch out for Michael Jackson.