Category: Writings

Awayken.com tearfully brings you this news.

Fr. Ray Otto has died of unknown causes this weekend.

I received this email from my sister :

Fr. Ray was the priest at St. Charles Parish in Big Stone City, SD. He was also a great guy and friend. We will miss him.

Let�s face the facts folks, cell phones are everywhere and will take over the world. I don�t mean to sound like Ted Kazinski or anything but our country has gone cell phone crazy; you�d think that people got a free �Beenie Baby� with each cell phone they bought.

New options have been given to cell phones quite recently to direct phone calls from your land line to your cell phone. Answering machine companies are in jeopardy. Personally, because of my roaring social life I�m rarely home so I need a great answering machine message to impress callers into leaving a message, please cell phones, don�t take that away from me, take my family, take my Beatles CD�s but leave my answering machine!

How crazy are cell phones today anyways? Cell phones perform a plethora of tasks: you can pick your choice of songs to play for your ring, you can play games and I�m not sure but I think it shovels your drive way and mows your lawn, too. What irritates me is people that can not get away from their cell phones for more than three minutes. When I see a potential �happenin’� dude or dudette in the hall and want to show them �props� it is impossible because they’re on the phone.

I guess I just have to move with the times and stick with my Tracfone because I don�t foresee the popularity of cell phones diminishing, but kids, if you love your cell phone so much, why don�t you marry them?

Some of you know me well. Some of you don’t know me at all. So, that’s why I am taking the time to write this: I hate driving. It’s a little known fact about me that I tell everyone.

Why do I hate driving? Driving is needless complication of things. Let’s face it: I’m not smooth. I tend to mess things up, especially when it means that someone might die. I have grandiose visions of fiery car wrecks where my little white car, Stallion, is responsible for shutting down two elementary schools, a nunnery, and a retard house. I didn’t mean “retard house”; I meant “fraternity”. Seriously, it’s like God is rooting for me, but Satan is beating me in the face with my own arms, saying, “Why are you hitting you hitting yourself? Don’t hit yourself.”

The other part is that I’m bad with directions. Ok, I’m horrible. Story One : My dad wanted me to drive out to Dakota Granite one day. Dakota Granite is in the country between Big Stone and Milbank. Did I say “country” ? I meant “flat, boring wilderness” instead. Anyway, he gives me the directions: drive out to the Legion, turn south, drive for about 5 miles, turn left at the ‘Dakota Granite’ sign, and go inside Gizzlebees, err, Dakota Granite.

Simple enough.

I get out to the Legion, check. I take a right, check. I drive for about 5 miles, check. I look for the ‘Dakota Granite’ sign. Nothing. I keep driving. The road comes to a junction. I turn left. I drive and drive and drive, and I go right past Mike and Lonie’s house. This doesn�t’ seem right, but I keep going. 20 minutes later I am in Wilmot.

I call my dad. I explain to him, almost in tears, that I was horribly lost and that I felt terrible about being such a retarded driver and that if I never saw him again, I was sorry and I loved him. He tells me to quit being a girl and to suck it up or he’ll use his belt. Then he tells me that South is left not right. One minor detail can make everything go wrong.

Story two : this weekend my cousin Dirk played at the Dome in Vermillion. I was quite impressed with how good a football player he is. Unfortunately, their team lost. Also unfortunate was that they decided to finally lose at 12 in the morning. Vermillion is quite a ways from Sioux Falls, which is only a little bit from Madison.

My family gets to Sioux Falls. This is where Bryce, Lindsey and Tony take their vehicle and drive to Madison, and Megan and I take my vehicle and drive to Madison. We say our tired, cranky goodbyes, and Megan and I take off. The nice thing about this was that Megan said she would drive. The bad thing is that neither of us knows Sioux Falls very well.

Being the navigator, I order her to drive south. The street numbers get bigger and bigger. My plan is to take us to 41st street, which is a big road that goes out to the Interstate. The problem with this plan is that my Aunt Karin’s house is in the part of town where big and bad 41st is a stupid little residential street. I hadn’t planned on that.

We try to take 41st around, but it gets bisected by something. So, we turn north. We go north for a while. Then I make us go west again. My process for deciding when to do this is that I watch the street names, and if I can picture my dad saying, “Take that road; it won’t get you lost”, then we take it. Otherwise we keep going.

The avenue numbers get smaller and smaller until Minnesota. Why not turn on Minnesota? Now we’re going north again. The street numbers get smaller and smaller again. I recognize things. This is excellent. We hit Russell (?) and normally one would turn west again and take that road to the interstate.

Russell is being worked on. Please use our horrible detour which doesn’t make sense. So, I did that. We go straight, on a half-gravel road. We travel forever until I recognize something else, the airport. This is great. I’m out of my element in a car. I probably could be cool and smart and logical if we were lost on bicycles. But we were not.

We get to a ‘T’ intersection. Our choices are right or left. Left says “I90” and right says “I29”. Megan says, “I think we should go left.” I say, “I think we should go right.” I try to pry my memory for which number my dad would say, but he could too easily say either one. He’s good with saying numbers. Since Megan’s driving, I say, “Let’s go left.” We drive for about 10 minutes and end up on the Interstate. This is just as planned, except when we see the turn off for Brandon, SD. It is about then that I think we went the wrong way.

No problem, we turn back around and drive and drive and drive. We make it onto I29, no problem, and begin the trek home. 20 more minutes driving, my mom calls. “Where are you guys AT?” At that point we were just outside of the Baltic exit, which is around 30 miles from Sioux Falls. “Baltic? You’ve been driving for over an hour and you’re only at Baltic?” I told her that we got a little lost and that I didn’t want to talk about it. I said that, instead, she should check my website in a couple of days and the whole story would be there.

We drive for endless amounts of time, and finally end up in Madison, where my brother, Lindsey, and Tony are already there, and have been for some time, even though they left first. It’s hard to explain the story without embarrassing myself, “You went down to 41st??”, and without giving people the wrong impression, “What were you doing in Baltic of a half an hour? Eh, eh??”

Bearing in mind that that happened Saturday night, let’s jump to Monday night. Megan and I decide to go for a car ride. I had no homework due on Tuesday, and she didn’t have any homework due on Tuesday, so we decided to cruise around the scenic Madison countryside… at night.

We have these great, long talks. We can discuss anything. It’s so great to just get lost in conversation. This is, however, a bad idea when you are driving. She would drive, get to an intersection, and ask me which way we should go. I pick at random, like I do in so many other things, and when you don’t remember what decisions you made, you get lost.

Very lost.

When we finally decided that we wanted to go home, we weren’t really sure where we were. It would have been easier getting back if we knew if we were north, south, east, or west of Madison, but they all look the same when there’s no sun or compass. So, we just drove. Then I would pick a direction at random, again, and we would drive some more. We drove and drove and found some city lights. “Let’s go toward that one. It looks big; it looks right.”

Madison is a city of 6,540 people. It covers a land area of 4.3 square miles. Wentworth is a city of 188 people. I felt like a big idiot when we drove into “Madison” to find “Wentworth” pasted all over the main street businesses. We were lost.

“Where is Wentworth?”

“I don’t know. Near Madison.”

“We are so lost! We’ll never get home…” Sobbing ensued. Once I composed myself, we started driving again. I picked another direction at random. Then Megan had a “eureka” moment. “I have a map in the glove box.”

We poured (because that is a great verb) over the map and discovered just how far away from Madison we actually were. Wentworth is about 10 miles away. Okay, it doesn’t sound that bad, but we were scared. Once I discovered what the numbers on the map meant, it was quick going. Then it was the process of finding a road with that number (which we never did) and then pretending like you found it and not telling her that you made it up until you’re outside of the ghetto Food Pride in Madison.

As we cruised the Madison streets, at midnight, heading slowly towards my house, I thought about all the losting I’ve been doing in my life. I think, despite all the tears and frustration, I’d rather be a loster than a finder. I think being lost, and getting found, is much more fun. In the words of Justin Timberlake, “You know, I used to dream about this when I was a little boy. I never thought it would end up this way. Drums.”

Yes, Justin. Drums, indeed.

I really did a good job picking a place to live. When we first moved in it seemed perfect. The houses were nice; people were friendly. The yards were well kept, animals only partially visible or heard, and there were hardly any children to get hit by cars backing out of driveways.

It was perfect.

Bit by bit that picture began to crumble. Our neighbors to the north are college kids like us. Our neighbors to the south hate us, compete with our yard, and call the cops on us. Across the street is one normal house, I assume, the broken home that we call “The Broken Home” and another broken home that is now “Chris’s House.” Dogs bark, kids run and scream, cops hang out, and it seems that the only trash to be taken out is alcohol related.

It sucks.

Our beautiful neighborhood has quickly gone to hell. I suppose it’s fitting, in a way. I tried hard not to believe it, but the second time the cops showed up across the street (for God knows what) I decided to quite pretending that we were fortunate with our streetmates.

There were things that I probably ignored up until that moment. I assume that this always happened, but I just ignored it because it was weird. I assume that they always did it, every Saturday, but I just pushed it away, back from my mind, to function with everything else that was going on.

Every Saturday night, for an unknown amount of time, the neighbors across the street, “The Broken Home”, turn on the disco light in their front porch. I am not making this up. It’s one of those crappy, small-town DJ disco lights. This is the kind of disco light that makes a junior high dance so much cooler. They have it hanging from the ceiling of their screen-in porch which faces the street (and thus our house).

I had never seen this before. What sort of ritual this is, I don’t know. Perhaps they do it for attention. Maybe it’s soothing. Either way, when I see that disco thing, I can’t look away. So there I was, last Saturday, staring and staring and staring at this thing. The harder I stare, the deeper into nothing I fall. Then I see something…

A person. There was someone standing outside of their house staring at ours. I freak out. “Jeff, did you see that??” With panick in our eyes, we pull the blinds shut. “He has a stick; oh my God. Shut the blinds!” We try and try. The blinds are stuck! We can’t get them down! Exclamation point! I peer outside for a brief second and, sure enough, there is the same person standing outside with a large stick (about 12 feet tall) at his right side. He holds it as a sensei would, sensing danger but feeling protected, waiting for the next kill.

It is in that moment – looking out – that I recognize the person as the 12 year old boy who lives next door. My heart sinks and my jaw drops. What does he want? Is he deranged? Is he unstable? Does he want to hurt me with his stick in ways I’ve only imagined myself seeing on TV? I hid behind the safety of our deep green blinds and tried to calm down. Jeff was on the floor making noises inbetween laughter and screaming.

I watched between the verde slits. The boy was walking backwards, but he was still looking at our house. He was walking back towards his house, staring at ours, in a peculiar way. He was trying to keep his eye on something and, at the same time, make his way toward something else. I can’t quite make out what he’s going for.

“What’s on that tripod?”

There are lots of things you can fit on a tripod. Including… Oh, no. “Get down!” I yell, and I toss my body to the ground. I could just about hear the whistle of the sniper bullets as they slice through the air, glass, and flesh. I just about feel the dull, cold punch of the slugs as they tear through the house.

“Oh, it’s a telescope.”

Right. Of course it was. There need not be any need to panick. Just a telescope. It didn’t matter though; we had to leave the house. It was too creepy, the things that had happened. We, all four of us, left the house to venture to the store. I made a quick call to Megan, “Do not come over. There is a crazy kid with a gun in the street. I’ll explain later.”, and we left the house.

“Boy, I sure hope Jerry doesn’t get lonely being the only person left inside our house… with his gun,” I tried to say loud enough for the scary-stick kid to hear. At the same time that I feared him, I felt sorry for him. That night was a Lunar Eclipse. You don’t often see those. Well, I don’t, because I’m pretty much oblivious to everything.

As we got into Brandon’s car (which picks up the most chicks per capita than any of the other cars at our house), I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the kid with the stick. He wasn’t just star-gazing. He was looking for a home that isn’t broken… in space. I, for one, hope he finds it. And I hope it’s warm.

Of MF

Ocean’s rhythm, like your breath,
make tired eyes close up with care
over all the grains that left
eternity for us to share.

Ocean’s scent, a salty spray,
graces vapours we inhale
over all the sands that lay
at, around, within our trail.

Ocean’s feel, lover’s hug,
naked as our bodies lie
over all the blankets snug,
making love while time walks by.

Ocean’s voice, your fluid tongue,
interprets feelings, thoughts, and motes
over all emotions wrung,
necessary tears we wrote.

Ocean’s all, our bless�d rest,
eternity for us the best.

Download it at deviantART.

There are certain events in ones life that bring to a crystal clear point the existence of God. These monumental occasions shine out as testaments to a higher being, one of all presence, all knowledge, and all sight. For some people, it’s having their first child. For others, it’s surviving a car accident. For me, it’s cribbage.

Last night, my brother and his girlfriend, Lindsey, came up for “Taming of the Shrew”. My father, too, came up for this theatrical evening. The play went “fantastic”, one eyewitness said, but who knows if she was telling the truth or not.

Afterwards, the four of us (Megan included), went to Taco John’s. Bryce and I got into a fight outside, and caused a lot of snow damage. A brutal clash of titans, to be sure. The womens got bored and went inside mid-rumble. It was very humid in Taco John’s. So humid, you couldn’t see because of all the vapour. It was practically raining inside, my soggy Quesadilla tasted like “anal”, and Bryce and I are going to star in our very own naked Rausch calender.

Once we got back to the house, only one thought consumed our beings, cribbage. Jeff got down his nice new board and his nice new deck and dealt for the four of us (Megan excluded). The cards were crisp, and luck was in the air.

It was Bryce and I versus Jeff and the Lindster. The first game was underway. Card by card, Bryce and I peg ourselves into the lead. 15 after 15 after 31 with runs, doubles, and sometimes a double or a run into a 15. It was beautiful, like a dance, how Bryce and I so totally trashed Jeff and Lindsey. The game ended with nearly a skunk, but Linds has a little luck on her side, and they were only a few points past.

The next game plays on in quite the same way. Most of our points came from pegging like Blackbeard (pirate humour – get it?). The second game, too, ended with almost a skunk. We were on fire.

The next game sucked. We lost. I forgot all the details because I didn’t much like that game. We were content that we had won two out of three, but we were not content that we had lost one out of three. Either way, there was one game left, and it was late.

Linds says, “We should make this last game worth two.” So we did. The person who won this one would win it all. There was actually nothing physical to win, but I knew in my heart that there was somewhere something. I just had to find it, with my heart.

Megan had since given up on me and my passion. I felt her lingering embrace as she abandoned me to my obsession. Would I ever see her again? Had I just lost her forever? These questions would not haunt me until I slept, fitful and weary. For now, however, we had to ‘bage.

The game went poorly. Bryce and I were far behind in our typical pegging skills. Jeff and Lindsey seemed to be doing way better than they should. Perhaps someone was asleep on God duty. As the game progressed it came down to the last hand. Then it came down to counting the hands.

They were 14 out, and we were 47 out. Bryce dealt, so Jeff counted first. He had a 6. They were now 8 out, and we were 47 out. I look at my hand. I had 7788; Bryce had cut a 6. If you do the math, that means that my hand was worth 24 points! Screams, joy. This is amazing, but we’re still 23 out, and they are 8 out. Lindsey counts her hand. She has 2. That’s right, just 2. They are 6 out, and we are 23 out. Bryce puts down his hand. He has 4456.

If you count that – that’s 24. Two 24 hands in one game? Both by players on the same team? With just enough points to give us a win by one point? That, my friends, is a miracle. That, my friends, is why I believe in God.

I apologize. I know I haven’t been writing much lately. You can blame one girl for all this. Sue Conover. That’s right. Yours truly (Miles Rausch) is once again involved with a theatrical production.

This time instead of putting on the apparel of a Jewish hat maker, I am donning the garb of a wealthy Italian gentleman off to college. DSU is doing its version of “The Taming of the Shrew”.

I play a character named “Lucentio” (pronounced loo-SENT-chee-oh). Lucentio is a wealthy college student. His father has sent him to Padua (pronounced PAJ-ooa), from Pisa (pronounced PEE-zuh), to attend university there. While reveling in the beauty of the countryside, he sees (and falls for) the lovely Bianca (pronounced bee-AWN-ku). Lucentio and his servant Tranio (pronounced TRAWN-ee-oh) learn that the fair Bianca cannot be courted and wed until her UberBeast of a Sister, Katherine (pronounced kath-uh-REEN-uh) is wed. They hatch a plan.

The Lucentio plot is that he pretends to be a Latin Teacher/Tennis Star, Cambio (pronounced CAM-bee-oh). Bianca’s daddy, Baptista (pronounced bap-TEEST-uh), allows Cambio to instruct her. Meanwhile, another Pisan gentlemen, Hortensio (pronounced whore-TENSE-see-oh), is pretending to be a guitarist named Litio (pronounced LEE-chee-oh) with the same scheme in mind.

Dmmt.

They battle for the girl, with Lucentio winning. The infamous Hortensio instead decides to wed a widow played by Quinn Swenson (pronounced quinn-swen-SON), while Lucentio and Bianca enjoy their wedding in the final scene. One other thing that happens is the taming of a person quite shrew-like, but that’s not important because none of those characters are I… me (pronounced MY-uhls).

My guitar, also, will be featured in this monumental mockery of Shakespearean stuff. If I can ever teach Rob how to tune it, it may even sound not too bad up there. He sings terribly, but my guitar sings wonderfully… unless you push down the high e string on the third fret. Ooo, God. That’s awful.

There is a dark side to this play, however. Missed lines, bawfled entrances and erroneous lights, sound, and set have plagued this production from day one. It is as if Shakespeare himself, by his ghostly proxy, is trying to sabotage this work of art. There is an awful lot of n00bs in this play. There is an awful lot of goofing off in this play.

How will the play do?
Will the group pull it off?
Are those the correct phonetic spellings?

Tune in next time; same Awayken.Com | Vistan time, same Awayken.Com | Vistan channel.

The DSU Fall Theatre Production of Taming of the Shrew by William Shakespeare will be presented on November 1,2,3,4 at 7:30 p.m. at the Dakota Prairie Playhouse.

DSU students have free admission with I.D.

General Admission–$7.00
Faculty/Staff/Senior Citizens/Kids–$4.00

Ladies and gents. I realize that I have said naught to you in a long while. Life has become a tad bit more hectic. I’d forgotten how much time it takes to keep a girlfriend happy. You’d think she’d be content just to know me, but alas. Now she wants “dates” and “alone time” and “friendship”. This takes up a lot of time that I used to spend crying. I mean, writing on my webpage.

Something else to take up my time is a handy new program. It’s been quite the buzz. The recent news on the interwebnet today is the recent swinger of both sides, iTunes.

Remember Apples? I do. I remember way way back grade school. (Everything I am writing after this point is based on zero research. It’s very possible I don’t know what I’m talking about.) The computer lab we had was row upon row of Apple IIe computers. There they sat, silent and dark, waiting for us to give them food. We would cautiously pick out a piece of software and sit in the cold plastic chairs, facing the monsters. Then one child would go to carefully insert the software when a loud shriek tears through the thin, chilly air in the room.

Apple IIe’s demand the blood of seven-year-olds.

If one were to make one mistake, one would perish like so many before one. I learned to type really well. I also learned that if, while on the Oregon Trail, you get cholera or syphillis, you should stop to rest. Otherwise you will die and have to come up with a witty tombstone saying. It wasn’t that I couldn’t come up with any. Given the family business, I’ve seen my share of witty grave markers, but I didn’t want to die in the game. If I could just hunt all day every day, that would have been a much better game.

Those of us who followed the rules that the mighty Apple hath created walked away with a different feeling. Sure we lost half of our class, but we gained a respect for something we couldn’t fight. That thing is Apple Computers.

Then Apples became Macintoshes (awww, isn’t that cute?) but by the time our families started getting computers, they were all PCs, and they were much nicer than the blood thirsty Apple IIe. Plus, Windows does not require blood to work, only hemoglobin. Hemoglobin 2.0, actually.

So we grew up safe in the comfort of our fallible personal computers. We relished the fact that, if one thing could be counted on, it was a crash, virus, or odd behaviorism. Meanwhile, the minority were building themselves an unstoppable empire. Clutched tightly between the man-hands of a small market share and the bosom of a highly creative work-force.

When they finally resurfaced, the world was introduced to OS X. Boy did people fall in love. Mac Geeks were spotted by the thousands as they all tried to marry their computers and enjoy semi-normal relationships with the new operating system. But Mac OS X is slow to give it up, and so they had to wait for the next two iterations to come.

OS X came with some proprietary music playing/cd burning/cd ripping/playlist creating/crazy image rendering software called iTunes. This is slick software. Apple has this way of making me feel really jealous that I didn’t think of that. I could go on and on about this stuff but you can always read news on the net.

What’s my point?? Just like Windows had done so long ago, Mac is taking control of a market. The way to a man’s heart used to be graphics and marketing. Now the way to a man’s heart is mp3 playing. Music is a huge industry. Everyone listens to music, even Hitler. In fact, Hitler loved music and so did Jesus and Santa.

Everyone needs a program to do play their songs. My program of choice was Winamp. I loved it because it was not forced on me; it was sleek and small and skinable and pluginable. Now I like iTunes. I use it on my main machine, but not on my tablet (because lord knows I only have so much memory to spare).

What two major features does iTunes lack? Skinnability and plugin support. Dmmt, Apple. You make a great product but you limit it. Think of how the PC community would come out of the wood work to support your product if only you had skinning and plugins! Curses! Curses!

Alright, I’m better. It’s not the end of the world. I can skin my winamp and use those plugins and then use iTunes to play my music. Perfect. At least it doesn’t require blood. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must go feed my addictor.

MARILYN MANSON‘s soul was prayed for yesterday (October 16) by dozens of Mexican evangelical Christians protesting against his scheduled concert in the city of MONTERREY (November 5).

Local government buildings in the centre of the city were swamped by around 100 people singing hymns and praying for the self-proclaimed ‘God of F**k’.

Demonstration organiser Arsenia Campos said: “We are praying for him so that he can know God and become transformed.”

According to Reuters the City Council was given a petition of 3,000 signatures by the protesters earlier in the week, pleading with Monterrey Mayor Felipe de Jesus Cantu, though on Wednesday (October 15) the mayor said that the gig would be allowed to take place as planned.

I’m writing this in Math class. Oh, but which one? Numerical Methods. So much math…

What is Numerical Methods? It is a class that illustrates and studies ways to solve things. Ok. You know your calculator? You know how you hit “cos(40)” and it gives you a number? Well, how did the calculator know what to give you? It uses Numerical Methods. Numerical Methods is all about finding the best mimic to whatever function you want to solve. What function can you make up that looks nothing like the real function but will give you a really close number?

There are so many different ways to do this. You learn one way. Then you learn an easier way to do it. Then you learn a better way. Then you learn an easier way to do that…. This goes on and on until class ends, or you shoot yourself. What bugs me about this class is that everything we are learning to do by hand can be done much more easily on computer or calculator (which is a type of computer, I guess).

The point is, this is old news. It’s like learning how to make babies when all you want to do is adopt. Adopting is less painful, and it gives a needy child a loving home. If you would like more information on adopting your own child, please click here.

I hate when Avery says, “And that’s it.” Then he lifts his arms and drops them at his side, and, lord knows, I have no idea what he just said. There’s different ideas, notations, variables, subs, i’s, n’s, x’s. Enough to drive a man insane.

I’m tired today. Math Modeling hates me. I think I’ve found a class that is my match. I’ve gone so long and so far without really feeling stupid. I have, with some degree of success, been able to master math class after math class. Modeling, however, is a nemesis to behold. There is something about it that I just don’t get. I feel so lost. There is no book, so I only have my notes. Maybe that’s it. Or maybe my math luck has finally run out. Or maybe I just don’t pay enough attention. Or maybe this stuff is hard and it’s not my fault. Or maybe it’s Megan’s fault. but its not

Avery, “Well, let’s do one.” YOU do one. I couldn’t care less what happens when you figure out a Cubic Spline Interpolation. We have 8 equations, 6 conditions and 4 variables to figure out for this problem. And all he wants to do is connect some lines. It seems like a lot of work for a crappy art side-project.

I think back to Math Modeling. Palmer had us physically endure an exponentially growing population. He just keeps dividing the room in half. Pretty soon you couldn’t tell if we were snakes in mating season or really scared of the other guy in the room who was not in our class. I swear Justin Luitjens touched my ass.

Avery, “Don’t be surprised if this shows up on your take home final. But it probably won’t be in this nice format we found today.” Thank you. I was worried that I would never see my Spline again. Spline crunching action. Spline – more puns. Whatever.

megan is great. she is my favoritest person ever. It’s amazing the things that show up when you leave your computer unattended. Shocked face. I had a train of thought, and I have no idea what I was heading towards. This is how the dangers inherent in a website become exploited through nonchalant lethargy. I call it “rambling”, and that is what I’m doing right now. I’m totally avoiding being funny and just talking to you guys.

Because I can.

Girls are a major topic of this site. An “AWAYKEN POWERED” search of the site, will garner quite the list of sites. I’m not sure how many, exactly, because I’m lazy(desert).

“AWAYKEN POWERED” does not mean “good” or “useful”.

Posts like Girls Are Evil

Girls Are Evil 2

En Terra Saunt Tay

I Love Heather, How Can You Not?

Step One : Sign

A Sophomoric Attitude on Blasphemy

and the unfortunate

I Shouldn|t Have To Post About This.

Why do I bring these painful, depression-laden posts back to the painful, hungover lime light? I have an announcement to make.

I have a girlfriend.

Her name is Megan Flynn and she has an awesome website. You might have noticed a slew of completely ambiguous comments from “megan” or “meggie.” That’s her. So far, the most she has had to say is “Way to go Miles” but she will soon learn the art of website commenting.

Ok. She’s a freshman here at DSU. She’s an English/Design major. I met her through tutoring. As in, I tutor Math 021, and she comes by to flirt with me. Her friend Jenny has also commented on the site. It’s so weird how many coincidences there are between me and Jenny and me and Megan. So weird, that, were I to post it here, all of you would claw your eyes from your faces.

Conclusions are for nerds.

It’s happened to all of us. There we are at our birthday party. As a treat to those gathered, we get up to perform a routine of some sort, one which we have done a thousand times before. We sing or dance or juggle or set fires (whatever we are good at) but then something goes horribly wrong. Next thing we know we are in the intensive care unit in a Las Vegas hospital fighting for life.

This was the story last Friday. While I was quietly sitting at home reading the bible, one of this countries most famous and loved duos of magic became almost an uno. I am talking about Siegfried and Roy. Yes, the very same ambiguous couple where one has a name you can spell and has tigers and the other has a name I have to look up every time I type it and does magic.

Siggy and Roy were performing at the Mirage Hotel in Las Vegas for Roy’s 59th birthday party. During the midst of the show, at approximately 8:10 pm, Roy, whose real name is Roy Horn, walked on stage announcing that his tiger Montecore was about to make his first performance. This, however, was a lie (as most things in life are) since Montecore, whose real name is Jeremy Malchert, was a veteran of the stage. But then something went horribly wrong.

The 600 pound tiger sauntered on stage, acting drunk and unruly as his stage show requires, and stopped just within sight lines. Roy, having no magical ability, pulled the tiger to the center of the stage. The tiger, as his stage show does not require, head butted the entertainer. Roy, displeased with Montecore’s digression from the script, tapped him with his microphone. But then something went horribly wrong.

An eyewitness to the show reported that, “Then the tiger went like mad nuts. He stood up on his hind feet and decked that German guy. Then the tiger turned to the crowd and was all like ‘Now I will eat his soul’ and he chomped on his neck and carried him off. I was like, ‘Whoa! This show is awesome’ because I was sitting there for 40 minutes waiting for naked chicks to come out, and I get to gay guys with accents doing magic on tigers? What’s up with that?” Awayken.com was not able to validate this rendition of events.

The commonly held believe is that after Roy hit his tiger with his microphone (probably not a good idea), the tiger bit him in the arm. Roy, probably in a panic, started to beat the tiger with his microphone. Over and over the crowd could only hear the *thump* *thump* of microphone on fur, and the panicked screams of a German entertainer about to die. Then the tiger snatched Roy around the neck and carried him off “like a rag doll.” But then something went horribly wrong.

It was reported (by that same stoner above) that Siggy then “ran on stage, right, and floated that other guy’s body out into his space shuttle. It was unreal.” In reality, Roy was rushed to a hospital where his condition was reported as “critical”, and doctors were reported as being “cautiously optimistic.” The tiger was sent to his room with no internet privileges, and, as of yet, no charges have been filed. Montecore could not be reached for comment.

To be honest, readers, when I read the actual article, I laughed ROFL style, as befits the bad person I am. Honestly. How beautifully ironic can you get? He didn’t even do magic. All Roy did was find tigers and put them on stage. He was an animal trainer and his boyfriend did all the work. Still he is loved. Still he is written about.

The recent events have sparked a waterfall of interest in the general public. Everywhere on the street the words “Hi” and “Hello” are being spoken. If you replace those with “Roy” and “Dead” then you know how hard it is to have a conversation with people nowadays. But then something went horribly wrong.

Even the teenagers are getting into it. Being wholly responsible for making English more confusing, pre-teen/teen/only-slightly-post-teen students around America are coining the phrase “pull a Montecore” and “to Roy.” To “pull a Montecore” means to attack a friend as a 600 pound tiger might attack a gay German half-magician. Inversely, “to Roy” is to bear such an attack. “To Roy” is an infinitive so you could say, “Hey, Mom, quit Roying” or “President Bush just Royed that poem!”

The rest of the population is taking a more reverent approach, watching TV. The internet, too, has gained slight popularity as television strives to keep the nation abreast growing developments. It may one day be said that this event is what “made the internet”, but it is too soon to tell.

Despite the ordeal, Roy has still managed to communicate with doctors and family gathered in his room by a system of blinks and thumbs ups. Earlier today, he released this statement. “I have worked with these tigers for years. Montecore, himself, is one of my stage favorites. What has happened is a testament to the danger inherent in the field of fooling wild animals into not eating me. I do have this to say, though. I totally didn’t see that coming.”

Neither did us, Roy. Neither did us.

Ordinary people become extraordinary through their deaths. Two years ago on September 11th, just such a thing happened. A horrible tragedy brought courageous firemen and police officers to the same level as epic heroes.

Some people are extraordinary even before death, and this makes their death all the more important to society. These people are legends as men, but they become deities as corpses. Dirty, rotting corpses.

I’m talking about Johnny Cash’s death. I’m also talking about John Ritter. He was a great blah blah blah. For his outstanding services to cinema and television, John Ritter was given only a small sentence in Purgatory. Given recent attempts by Jehovah’s Witnesses to make it in, certain restrictions have been put on an entrance to Heaven.

As a measure of precaution, whenever someone graduates purgatory, they are made to interview with God, who questions them on their life. The following is an entrance interview between God and John Ritter.

God : [getting up to shake his hand] Hi John. How are you?
JR : I would pun one of the titles of my movies, but I really can’t remember anything I acted in.
God : [laughs] Yeah, I do. How was your stay in Purgatory?
JR : Uneventful, mostly. I didn’t mind it so much.
God : Let’s start. [rustles pages] Let’s discuss your movie career.
JR : Oh, God.
God : What was that?
JR : Umm… Oh, wait. Okay, I get it. Right. Uh… My movie career.
God : Right. I saw Problem Child. I liked it.
JR : Thank you.
God : What the hell were you thinking with sequels?
JR : Well, I didn’t write them. I just acted in them.
God : Just because you didn’t kill the kitten, doesn’t mean you didn’t rip the arms off of a smaller kitten and use those to beat the kitten.
JR : Oh My… I can’t believe you said that. That’s horrible!
God : Hey, you did it. You, Mr. Sick-Face. So… Three’s Company.
JR : Yeah.
God : [silence]
JR : Ok. I guess that wasn’t HTVs highest rated sitcom.
God : Lowest.
JR : Really?
God : Ever.
JR : It was funny.
God : [silence] [shrugs] Yeah, it was. And that Chrissy…
JR : Oh, no.
God : What?
JR : Please don’t.
God : I think we should talk about Chrissy.
JR: I don’t think we should.
God : I am God. [pause] Why shouldn’t we talk about Chrissy?
JR : Because I would feel uncomfortable getting an erection in Heaven.
God : Yeah, I would, too.
JR : You can… ?
God : [laughs] No. What are you? Stupid?
JR : Can we get to the issue at hand?
God : Allright. So, it says here that you crashed a burning bus of orphan children into a convent while screaming the foulest obsenities known in any language.
JR : What?
God : [frowning] That’s not true?
JR : No! I died of aortic dissection on the set of my new show.
God : No school bus?
JR : Of course not!
God : Oh. Well… good for you.
JR : [starts crying] This isn’t going well, is it?
God : You know what wasn’t going well?
JR : Please don’t ridicule me anymore. I just died. I’m still adjusting to that. You know how hard it is to go from being the top of the world to being six feet under it?
God : Do you know what it’s like to bury your son? No. You don’t. I do.
JR : I … I’m sorry.
God : I am God. [pause] Okay. That raps up our interview.
JR: Great. So, am I in?
God: We’ll let you know in 3 to 6 weeks.
JR: 3 to 6 weeks? Johnny Cash got to walk right in.
God: [silence] [raises eyebrow]
JR: 3 to 6 weeks. Got it.