Holy shit, Maddox… doesn’t suck?

I wrote a ways back on how Maddox sucks. In case you don’t know, Maddox is the Armenian that encourages date rape, lynching gays, and hating America. You should have seen his article “String up the faggots”, in which he discussed stringing up faggots, and his later work “I think circumcision should be mandatory, just a total circumcision where they cut off the entire dick so you fuckheaded Americans can’t produce any more cunt droppings you pieces of ALALALALA JIHAD JIHAD JIHAD.”

Ah, typical Maddox, you cockskin hater, you. Anyway, Maddox recently posted his latest article, “I hope I get swine flu“, in which he opines that he wants to get swine flu so he can show us how manly he is and how big his balls are and that the swine flu is actually pretty much the same as regular flu.

This article should be on CNN Headline News, but isn’t because all the CNN news anchors are out with swine flu. The headline: “Maddox publishes first readable article in two years”. Maddox, you have my respect for this article. It didn’t suck.

Also, speaking of circumcision and it being mandatory on Americans, fuck you, Americans. Only in America do they cut off their children’s foreskins in the name of Jesus so their children don’t get STDs from fucking French hookers. I’ll have the whole story in my statement on circumcision later this week. Oh yeah, and you Americans can’t wash under your baby boys’ dick skin because you’re all fundamentalist Christian zealots, so they get infections and you have circumcise them anyway. This is because you’re all retarded. All of you. And you too, Canadians. All of you are a bunch of slack-jawed yokels with no mental capacity, no taste in music, food, architecture, cars, or sports, and New Mexico is the worst of all. Remember, it developed the atomic bomb, murdering hundreds of thousands of Japanese. New Mexico is the most violent, despicable, depraved, destructive state in the dumbest country on Earth. Fuck you, New Mexico.

And peace out from Vrillon of the Ashtar Galactic Command.

Nihao from the Village that Time Forgot, Namely, Corrales, New Mexico

Beyond the hills of Jemez, down to the heights of the Sandia valleys, just south of Bernalillo, New Mexico, United States of America, lies the famed Village that Time Forgot. Here is the vortex which stops and reverses time, depriving all others of their ability to achieve progress, the pinnacle of Farcical Astrophysics. And out of this vortex shoots only one substance of importance for the people of Spaceship Earth, namely: Speeding tickets.

The land that time forgot.

Corrales: The land that time forgot. Hey, I didn't say it was all bad.

Here, time stands still. While many cities have such things as running water, sewer systems, a working electrical system, stoplights, and rainy days when the air is not filled with the smell of horse manure, the people of Corrales have elected for a town atmosphere that can be most succinctly described as “colonial Spanish village, with Internet access.” Many residents in this tiny region still live on dirt roads, by their own choice, because they want to ride horses while simultaneously allowing their cars to jiggle over rocks like Jell-O in an earthquake. Here is the city which was told that traffic would be so bad on its main road that it would need a traffic light at a certain intersection, but refused to build it because it said a traffic light would make the intersection more dangerous. However, they did remove stop signs at another of their busiest intersections because they wanted people to use it more than the main road, and as such experienced a rash of traffic accidents; and refused to take down a stop sign at another point on the same road they wanted people to use because they were afraid it would create more school bus accidents, and because, of course, the Mayor lived on that street, and you can’t have the Exalted, Mighty Leader of the Village of Corrales, Established Nineteen Seventy-Something, having to watch out for plebians racing past at thirty miles an hour in their Toyota Corollas, unless they opposed the thirty-mile-per-hour speed limit when it was enacted, in which case they will be driving past at twenty-miles an hour for the entire stretch of the road, less if you’re in a hurry to get to work on time, just because they wish to watch you squirm.

To the extent of my knowledge, Corrales has also added fences to keep people from coming in from other cities next door, and has had its government reject skate parks, a Krispy Kreme donut shop, and various other things. Apparently, Krispy Kreme didn’t want to build in a town that didn’t have a water or sewage system, and Corrales didn’t want a place that used newfangled electronics technology like lightbulbs and telephones to distract from its “special flavor.” Corrales people, it should be mentioned, call themselves “Corraleños”, pronounced “COH-Rahl-Yehnyohs”, like you would talk if you were a drunken Spanish person who was inventing Spanish words as part of a surreal bar bet (“Hey, Lopez, let’s come up with a word to describe retarded people!”).

As you might have guessed by now, Corrales is one of those snoot-ass pretentious little flowers where everybody lives right next to a major metropolitan area but wants to pretend like they live in colonial Massachusetts or whatever the hell they think New Mexico is.

These towns are always right next to a Whole Foods market or a similar hippie-food supermarket, because the vast majority of the towns’ citizens are hippies or “flower children” who require special nutrition, such as tofu, which most people would not use for dog food. In Corrales’ case, the supermarket is named “Sunflower Market”. However, because Sunflower Market is the only place in Albuquerque that still offers custard-filled Long John donuts, which I should not have to state is awesome, Sunflower Market gets a free pass.

Regardless of “special flavor”, I don’t understand why my hometown has to act like this. For one thing, these people seem to be against making Corrales feel big and modern, as if somehow things like stoplights and buses would make Corrales a major metropolis overnight. I don’t get it. Forgive me if I’m wrong, but I’ve never seen stoplights and paved roads as what makes living in cities terrible. Y’know, I always kinda thought it had more to do with the fact that cities are festering hellholes of corruption and crime and violence that are overpopulated and beset with pollution and noise. And, ironically enough, the one thing that has kept Corrales from becoming overpopulated–its lack of a water and sewer system, which means that each house must have at least one acre surrounding it–is under attack from the same merchants and shopkeepers that want to keep Corrales rural. Apparently, stoplights make a city modern, but sewers and a municipal water system do not.

Or at least that’s my understanding. Since we got excluded from a vote to decide what we would do with our own road, my family has kept out of Corrales politics. My neighborhood road was a dirt road, with houses on only the south side of the street. A developer wanted to build new houses on the opposite side of the street.

Here’s the thing; each person on our street owns the portion of the road directly in front of their house. This meant that the incoming neighbors would share our road. The developer offered to pave the road for free in exchange for our giving up the portion of our property we used for a road, as well as creating a neighborhood association with the new neighbors.

People on our side of the road–everybody on our side of the road, except my family and a couple of hardy holdouts who supported the developer because they didn’t want to live on a dirt road for the rest of their lives–disliked this plan. They had several reasons:

  1. They wanted to ride their horses up and down the road, and paved roads hurt horses’ feet.
  2. The developer was an asshole.
  3. The new people coming in would be snooty Damn Rich White People–a sensible concern for anybody, as they might be driving Subaru Bajas, Toyota Prii, or those little ugly “Smart” cars that look like a Mini Cooper got in a fight with a can-crushing machine and lost.
  4. They would have to give up something.
  5. NEENER NEENER NEENER YOU DING-DONGS

When it came time to meet to decide what was to be done with our road, those who supported letting the developer pave the road were not informed, and thus the road would remain unpaved.

The developer, at this point apparently figuring that the residents of our road were beyond reasoning, wisely decided to give up, and build a paved road right next to the dirt one. However, as I already said, he was an asshole, and thus whenever people on our side of the road began using the new, paved road, he installed fences so that nobody on our side of the street could use the road.

Thus, in my neighborhood, we have two roads; one, made of dirt, which the Village of Corrales will not pave because it assigns the task of paving roads to housing developers; and another, right next to the dirt one, which is fenced off with barbed wire so that the people who own the land on the dirt road can’t use it either. If we were to pave our road, at a tremendous cost, they would have a four-lane road, made of two two-lane roads, both paved, one paved at the expense of its residents, with a brick wall in between so neither side of our street can use the road the other side made. Our side–I swear I am not making any of this up–now wants to turn our dirt road into a road for riding horses on. They are trying to get an injunction by the Village of Corrales to force our new neighbors into sharing their paved road with us, which the new neighbors helped pay for by buying the new houses their developer built the new road for.

I have no hatred of Corrales. I want to make this quite clear. It is nice to live in a place where you generally do not have to worry about meth labs, noise, violent criminals, or inept police officers, except for when our neighbor next door operated a meth lab out of his house and operated semi trucks at three in the morning and invited crack addicts to his house and shot off guns in the middle of the night and the police refused to intervene because Corrales is a rural community. Corrales also has a large population of coyotes, which kill off annoying dogs who would otherwise yap loudly into the night; and a large population of rabbits, which my dog used to eat and get tapeworms from.

Nevermind. Truly, I don’t hate Corrales. For all its problems, it’s no different than any other city. But, then, that’s exactly my point. The reason I wrote this article is to illustrate that every person’s community in the United States of America is, ahem, unique*. If you live in a major city, you can be certain that your community is unique*. And if you live in a small village, well, it’s probably like Corrales and that means that your community is unique* in its own special way, too. And if you live in a normal town, well, that splits the difference between what makes a village and a city unique*, so your town is unique* too. And my community is unique*, and my cousin’s town recently got hit by a hurricane, and my other cousin’s town is a festering hellhole of violence and crime and stupidity. Don’t worry, your community is as unique* as mine is, and so is your neighbor’s, your brother’s, your cousin’s, and my cousin’s. Isn’t that what makes America great? United we are unique*, divided we are unique*, but united we are unique* together. And I can think of no greater thing on earth than that.

And so, as I finish writing this, I think to myself about one truth, separated from all the other truths I have discussed with you, and, as I mull over the merits and the truthiness of this truth, I come to but one conclusion: Hey, all that money that went into building a new paved road for the rich white kids going to the new private school north of here could easily have covered paving my road! And then some! And I think that truth describes Corrales most succinctly.

*Stupid approaching mildly retarded.

Texas Part I: “Shrimporee”, Satan-Killing Sticks, and Throwing Beer Bottles at Stop Signs

So you’re going to Texas, eh? That’s fine by me. I know while I was there, I was all a hankerin’ for a swell time, sweller even than the buffalos get when they get a big ol’ lick of that there salt lick, ya follow me pardner? Y’see, goin’ down to the coast, likes them thar in Corpus Christi, gives ya a long, long time ta relax, to take yer mind off of yer problems. Just gets ya a big ol’ American pickup truck, drive out to the beach and relax. Then ya can partake of an ol’ time shrimp roastin’ before you get back on the trail to drive them cattle up down near ta’ ol’ Johnson’s barn and get back to cursing at furriner’s and people drivin’ Japanese cars before sundown. Yee-Haw!

All right, sorry. It’s just that, having been in a state like Texas, with humidity so high that you can see the individual droplets of water in the air, I have taken to speaking in Traditional Southern Drawl, and thinking Traditional Redneck Thoughts. You know the drawl I’m talking about. It’s the kind of drawl you get after having a stroke that paralyzes the entire left side of your body. It’s the kind of drawl you get because it’s so damn hot that you would rather die than use the requisite energy to reach for the suntan lotion. It’s the kind of drawl Texans use for obvious reasons.

So anyway, sorry if I sound a little odd in this post, because I’ve spent an entire week in Texas, where it is hot and humid rather than hot and bone-achingly dry. As a New Mexican, being in Texas this long was also difficult because I kept on wanting to refer to the state as Dumbfuckistan. This is not necessarily because I think all Texans are dumbfucks, but because whenever Texas does something really cool and fun, like adding rest stops on their highways so my bladder doesn’t explode, I, as a New Mexican, must insult and belittle them to make up the difference. For example, here’s a sample conversation I once had with my mother:

My Mother: Wow, it’s real nice that they have rest stops every few miles here, huh?

Me: Yeah, but that’s only because all Texans are full of shit and they have to shit every few hours to stop from exploding from all the shit that is pent up in their bodies.

You can only imagine our stories about San Antonio.

So anyway, on my trip to Texas I saw many things of beauty, such as rest stops; places to eat, like a truckstop where I got sick off of an apparently nuclear radiation-emitting chicken-fried steak (the waitress felt the effects especially bad); and really hot places, like Ingleside, Texas, where I went to see my cousin Jamie escape from the penitentiary known as small town high-school.

I noticed some important differences between Ingleside, Texas and Albuquerque, New Mexico. For example:

  • In Albuquerque, they have a great many poisonous centipedes that make you wish they were dead, and a few cockroaches that people don’t really care about. In Ingleside, they have a few centipedes nobody cares about, and a great many cockroaches that make people react as if Satan created cockroaches to interfere with the mechanisms of the universe as we know it.
  • In Albuquerque, the dry air and hot sun makes your skin burn and peel during the summer. In Texas you are simply covered with a thin disgusting film of saltwater and God alone knows what else year round.
  • In Albuquerque, there are mountains and balloons: In Texas they have water and shrimp.
  • Did I mention they have shrimp?

As you might expect, I went to Shrimporee, one of the largest and most important shrimp celebrations in America. Let’s be honest, this is the most important thing that happened to me on the entire trip. Jamie’s graduation, for example, went fine, but it wasn’t particularly unique, except that Jamie chose to wear humongous white boots that made her instantly noticeable by anybody watching the graduation that day, including aliens in space. And I did in fact go fishing, and did not die in the attempt in spite of my companions having caught fish that were large enough to be used as weapons. But shrimp, well, they’re on a different level of concern for me. Shrimp gumbo, shrimp scampi, fried shrimp; it didn’t matter to me. I just wanted something, well, shrimply amazing.

And so we traveled to Shrimporee. Shrimporee is exemplary of everything that is Texan. It is filled with many important Texan themes. Among the many I noticed:

Of course, these were not the prevailing themes. The prevailing theme was quite clearly shrimp, oftentimes tied to the other important themes. For example, they had a massive papier-mache shrimp attached to the back of a Ford F-250 Super-Duper-Duty 2500 SuperCrewMax Doublecab Deluxe.

More commonly, however, they simply had fried shrimp to eat, priced a dollar per piece, which I was told was overpriced.

I wound up getting lost at Shrimporee, in spite of the fact that the festival is only held on maybe a few dozen acres of land. I would make some kind of snide comment, such as that it was because all the fat Texan asses at the festival made it difficult to find my integral family units, but I will instead contribute it primarily to the fact that I was taking pictures of the rides so that I could make fun of them later in this post.

The people at this event purchased many items, but judging by the most common item on the shuttle we took to get home, I’d say the most popular item at Shrimporee was wooden sticks for $5 at Dick’s Stick Shoppe. Apparently, these were simply wooden rods, the proceeds of which went to a local church which said the sticks would help people walk with Jesus. I do in fact know that they would probably help kill Satan, but this is beside the point. Texans were a’purchasin’ sticks by the bushel and I couldn’t blame them. Hey, it’s Jesus, people. He’s awesome, and generally doesn’t make fun of small town festivals like I have throughout this post.

Don’t get me wrong, Shrimporee was cool, in the same way that the Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta is cool, and I thank the respective family members that took time out of their busy days roasting in seaside Texas’s sweltering heat to take me to the festival of shrimp. You go to the festival, eat the shrimp, check out the cars and such, ride the rides, and go home, which is very similar to the Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta except that at the balloon fiesta you go out at the crack of dawn without sleep and watch giant bags of hot gas rise into the air for entertainment purposes, whereas at Shrimporee you eat overpriced shrimp without tartar sauce. As one guy said:

“Really? No shrimp sauce?”

I think that summarizes Shrimporee. Go, check out the giant papier-mache shrimp, eat shrimp, ride rides, throw up, complain about the lack of tartar sauce, go home, set your house on fire, etcetera. It’s a great festival, that was the height of my trip to Texas, until I got to go to the beach to see sea-poo, jellyfish, pooping seagulls and sexy ladies with cute bellies. But that’s for another post, one that will probably be written by next week.

-TO BE CONTINUED-

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.