To do list

Notes to comment on later:

Hillel, Flying dogs, and Jew Slime
Balrogs and Ringwraiths
Bollo's disruptive sexual urges
Unicorns, Fela, Gorillaz, and pandora.com
quotes from the Crimson (Cubans get two rolls of toilet paper a month-- just like us!)

Actually, the future is now. So let's take this point by point. First, and most pressingly: Dusty almost died yesterday. He was so wracked by convulsive laughter that he was unable to breath. The three of us (no Benny) had gone to Hillel, aka house of the Jews. (Benny Lava's absence is particularly regrettable given that Benny, despite being of South Asian descent, self-identifies as a Jew. Why, I don't know.)

Before I continue, a disclaimer: one of the most wonderful things about being a minority is that it gives you limited license to make fun of your respective minority in a public sphere. To be honest, I don't think this is such a good rule; minorities should be held to the same expectations that they hold others to. This is how it will be when I become dictator of the idyllic Pacific isle the Elders of Zion promised me. However, until then, I retain my rights to behave like Mel Gibson.

Anyhow, it was my first visit to Hillel, which has a very nice building. The food, although limited to sausage pasta, challah, and krugel, was also very good. Given the conditions of our meal, Dusty and Bollo (Chinese and Eastern Lowland, respectively) took a sudden interest in my Jewishness.

Suddenly, in the middle of the conversation, Bollo covered Dusty's right wrist with a napkin, covering up Dusty's watch, and whispered urgently "you need to hide that here, this place if filled with Jews!" Thankfully, we were towards the corner of the room.

Nor is this the first time that Bollo has offered such pearls. We were cleaning our room-- back when we used to do that sort of thing-- when I wrapped Bollo's floor rug around me like a shawl. Bollo accused me of "getting my Jew slime all over" his dirty floor rug. Classic.

Speaking of Bollo: if you don't follow the Mighty Boosh, Bollo is rather laconic gorilla who dejays on Thursdays. Our Bollo is an exact replica of the original, in more ways than you might expect. Not only does our Bollo also dejay on Thursday nights, he is as much of an animal as his namesake. For a while, a Ms. Bollo (affectionately nicknamed "Animal") kept his animal urges in check via frequent and vocal lovemaking. Dusty has noted that, since Bollo and Animal split, he has become more and more promiscuous towards us. Last night, in fact, he suddenly jumped, clamped his legs around my torso and began thrusting violently, bending my glasses in the process. I had thought that Bollo's increasing physicality was a natural product of the rising comfort between us, but Dusty perspicaciously noted that it is more likely a product of his rising sexual frustration, which we think will soon culminate in a "sexual eruption."

One final note, before the wick of my patience burns down: I had an incredible dream last night, which culminated in my heart-wrenchingly emotional reunification with my dog, a sweet white husky named Sierra. Sierra had turned into a falcon and flown north, from our Sardinian castle into the urban future (it's a dream, ok). After some setbacks involving high castle windows and malfunctioning parasails, I managed to find the box in the basement where we stored our wings. At my sisters' desperate urgings, despite the encroaching twilight, I set off across the bay in search of my lost dog. Passing over Ecuadorian highways, I finally arrived at the mountainside Southern Gothic shack that had once been our home. Under the porch, where Sierra had used to sleep, were mere cobwebs. I entered the decrepit house and begun commiserating with the remaining fragments of my pseudo-future family. After some indeterminate time, a trucker arrived with an old, forlorn-looking Sierra held, lamb-like, in his swarthy arms. Eleven year old Sierra was so happy to see us that she leapt about like a puppy and bathed my face with kisses of relief, lapping up my salty tears of joy. It was straight out of Odysseus.

I think my subconcious may be telling me that I miss my dog-- as if I didn't already know that. In fact, I miss Sierra so much that we are thinking of getting an illegal pet. Ferrets ([2], [3]), hedgehogs , and sifakas top the current list, but it is a matter of continuing and contentious debate...

Thoughts for the day:
1) My uncle, recounting his college days, said that they used to have intense philosophical discussions about the following dilemma: if you had to choose between cutting off your penis or cutting off both of your hands, which would you choose? (This mental experiment is primarily aimed at men, but we here at So Much Autism are welcoming of all genders.)

2) If someone were to win a Noble Prize for both chemistry and peace for one single achievement, not relating nuclear weapons or tragic diseases, I think it would be for creating a love potion.

3) Fela Kuti. Start from the 3rd biography paragraph if you have a short attention span.

P.S. Bollo wanted me to add that the footage of "a Jew" is taken from Shlomo and Shira's wedding, which we attended last weekend.

Addiction is a terrible thing

Football Manager Owns my Soul

Wikipedia on video game addiction
Another addict
Dopamine science,
...and explained in layman's terms

I'm completely drained from a 30 hour orgy of excess. You see, I returned to Football Manager. Football Manager is a soccer simulation game. Unlike in FIFA or Winning Eleven, you manage players rather than directly control them i.e. you watch dots move around on a 2-d field and respond with tactical tweaks, among other things. It's like glorified Pokemon, mixed with chess and crack, minus the visual appeal.

I last visited Football Manager back before Thanksgiving. On the night before I was going to fly home, I stayed up all night playing, just because I knew I wouldn't have to function during the second half of the next day. After literally hundreds, perhaps thousands of hours of playing over the previous half year, I decided that enough was enough and uninstalled it. When I told Dusty, he broke out into a shit-faced grin and gave me a massive double-handed high-five to celebrate the fact that I was reclaiming my life.

However, in a moment of absolute stupidy yesterday afternoon, around 3pm, I downloaded the demo version for Football Manager (FM) 2008. I should have known better-- it was originally a demo for FM 2006 that inspired me to enter my credit card number and cough up $30 bucks to unlock the full game.

Anyhow, the past 30 hours have unfolded much like they probably do for an ex-alcoholic who returns to the brew: my addicting returned with a post-latency, life-wrecking vengeance. Despite having slept for 4-5 hours the night before, I stayed up until 5am playing, then missed both my classes the next day (today). I also skipped everything else (eating included) up until a meeting at 7:30, after which I immediately returned to the game. This, despite the fact that I have an essay due tomorrow which I have not yet started, as well as a shit load of other work. Luckily for me, the demo cut me off about 30 minutes ago, and I returned with gut-wrenching severity into the blackness of the real world.

-FT (or Bogfoot, if Dusty has his way)

Psychological Tests

Dusty: I'm taking a psychological test/study tomorrow.
FT: I hope you pass
Dusty: But I thought in psychological tests everyone's a winner.
FT: That's not true. That's just what they tell you because they're fucking with your mind.

Prussian Beer

"One can no longer find a natural beer in the towns, but instead such a thick murky drink that one might think Satan had invented it to smother human reason and drive people deeper into sin and vice."

Boy, that's for sure.

Open Letter to Ms Suzanne Duke

Esteemed Ms. Duke [Resident Dean of Crimson Yard],

Unfortunately, I write to you with a significant problem. There exists some tension between [Dusty] (Class of 2011) and the other denizens of [censored], myself, Bollo, and Benny Lava. [Dusty] has questionable hygiene habits; he has defecated on multiple pieces of furniture within the room, and we suspect he also defected in the basement in the early months of school. I apologize for being blunt, but I feel like this is a serious issue and there is no way of skirting around it.

Admittedly, we have not actually witnessed [Dusty] defecating on the furniture, but all evidence points towards him as the perpetrator.

We shit you not. Please advise with all due haste; the room is beginning to smell very bad.

Thank you for your understanding,

[FT], Class of 2011

Jazz Trance

Skidmarks

Dusty: "My essay is such shit"
Bolo: "You know all about that, don't you [Dusty]"
Dusty: "It's like a took a shit, and then smeared it all over the paper."
--Dusty waxes poetic about his global politics paper (a "total piece of shit").

Hello world

"What's the goal of the blog?" Dusty simpers. Dusty shits on all our dreams.

"To chronicle our beautiful lives," Fuck Truck explicates.

Bolo is trying to write an essay. Benny Lava is M.I.A., as usual. That adds up to four of us, inhabiting one small suite at Harvard, mired in squalor. But our dreams and libido cannot be restrained by physical fetters. Except when Dusty shits on them (Dusty shits on everything, literal and figurative. We are trying to get him exorcised from the room).

Anyhow, we all have mountains of homework, because it is a Sunday night, meaning that we cannot, unfortunately, open up this blog with the explosive inaugural post it deserves. We can, however, promise a raunchy sex tape in the near future. Think "Sensual Seduction" mixed with pterodactyl porn, with a hint of "The Dreamers". Yes, it will be that good.

With overflowing love,
Fuck Truck (I did not pick my name)