Below are the 19 most recent journal entries recorded in strudeldorfen's LiveJournal:

Sunday, August 28th, 2005
8:30 pm	Goodbye, Livejournal! Hello everyone. Sorry it took me so long to update this thing. I am just writing to say that I am no longer going to write on this blog. This is because I now write humor for the UCB newspaper, the Daily Cal, and posting humor here just seems superfluous (plus, someone else goes to the trouble of posting my work for me, which is pretty friggin' sweet). You can check out my work at dailycal.org. Fare thee well, everyone. Thank you for reading. Best, Fred (4 Comments |Comment on this)
Tuesday, March 22nd, 2005
11:48 pm	Supreme Court Justice League! Most people think that the Supreme Court is just a bunch of old white dudes who sit around reading all day and occasionally get up to write an opinion or have a heart attack. This is pretty much true. However, what most people didn't know is that the Supreme Court doles out justice not only in the courtroom, but also in the streets. Behold the Supreme Court Justice League, a superhero band of all-time great Supreme Court Justices who are not afraid to thrust the lance of righteousness straight into the backside of evil! The Supreme Court Justice League plans to infiltrate the secluded mountain lair of the villainous criminal ring known as the Iron Fist! Superman: Okay, here's the plan. Spiderman, you take care of the guards with your web-spinning ability and general acrobatic skills. Spiderman: I’m on it. Superman: I’ll use my heat vision to cut a path to the inner sanctum, and my super-strength to pry the vault door open. And you, Supreme Court Justice Sutherland. . . Justice Sutherland: I’ll use my cognitive and interpretive skills, finely honed by a liberal arts education, to. . .to. . . Spiderman: (snickers) Justice Sutherland: (sighs) Fuck it. I’ll just hit baddies with the Gavel of Justice, like I always do. Superman: That’s my boy. Justice Sutherland has a deadly brush with danger when his secret identity is nearly discovered! Teenager 1: Hey, who's that naked old dude in the phone booth? Justice Sutherland: (changing into Robes of Justice in a phone booth) Oh shit! Shit! Teenager 2: He looks familiar. I think that's Supreme Court Justice Sutherland, famous for his defense of the right to an attorney in the Powell v. Alabama case! Justice Sutherland: Zounds! Teenagers are not as stupid and uninformed as I have heard. There’s only one way to handle this. I must use my rhetorical powers to drive them off, thus preserving my secret identity! Teenager 1: What the hell? Now he's yelling at us. Justice Sutherland: Dammit. Well, there's always the Gavel of Justice. (wallops teenagers over the head with the Gavel and drags their bodies away) The Supreme Court Justice League finds that one of their number has betrayed them, and is trying to steal that most vital of treasures: the constitutional rights of the American citizen! Evil Justice Roberts: Mwahaha! With my constitutionally mandated powers, I shall strip all Americans of the right to an attorney, thus redefining American federalism . . . FOREVER! Justice Thomas: Not so fast, Roberts! You didn’t count on the Supreme Court Justice League’s secret weapon! Justice Roberts: Fool! You’re too late! The court decision is already being implemented at the state and county level! Mwahaha! Justice Thomas: Oh, I beg to respectfully dissent. You see, I know your one weakness. Justice Roberts: And what is that? Justice Thomas: Like most Supreme Court Justices, you're old. Justice Roberts: Curse you, Supreme Court Justice League! (dies of heart failure) Things get sticky when our heroes encounter an old nemesis, who has given up humanity for cybernetic implants: Alexander Hamilton! Alexander Hamilton: So! It’s the weakest branch, here to stop my nefarious plan for world domination! Justice Ginsburg: That’s right, Alexander Hamilton. We’ve defeated all of your poorly-trained henchman and now nothing stands between us and you. So what are you going to do now? Hamilton: (transforms into Alexander Hamil-Tron) Become a giant robot. Justice Ginsburg: Well, shit. Justice Scalia is injured in the line of duty, and he is fading fast! On death’s door he receives consolation and a message of hope from a long-dead friend. . . Justice Scalia: Vision. . .fading. . .tell my wife I love her. . . Ghost of Supreme Court Justice John Marshall: Don't give up, my child. You still have work to do on this earth. . . Justice Scalia: Whoa! John Marshall, the most famous justice ever! You’re right, I must live! Say, what’s heaven like? Justice Marshall: Imagine the most awesome thing ever, and then multiply it times a jillion. And then, add more to that. Justice Scalia: You're not really helping me choose life, you know. Justice Marshall: My bad. Anyway, I’m going to go play pool with St. Peter. Peace. After a long day of crime-fighting, our heroes retreat to their top-secret base of operations-a run-down, seedy bar in the city of Washington, DC! Justice Frankfurter: So yesh, shweet lady. (hic) I. . .I like fighting crime, itsh. . . itsh shatisfying, you know? Shay, maybe you and I should (hic) get to know each other over shome coffee shometime, hmm? (hic) Woman at bar: Get away from me, you drunk-ass pervert! Justice Frankfurter: Aww, you’re (hic) no fun. I’m gonna go. . . talk to that cute lady with the blindfold and the scales. Justice Scalia: Should I tell him, or should you? Justice Thomas: Nah, let’s watch him hit on a statue. It’ll be fun. The League encounters villains with a score to settle: Christian Fundamentalists! Fundamentalists: The jig is up, Injustice League! You’ll never succeed with your evil plan to kill babies using the Roe v. Wade decision! Justice Thomas: That’s where you’re wrong! As Supreme Court Justices, we have the Constitutional duty to kill babies! Fundamentalist: Oh, I didn’t want it to have to come to this. . . but I’m afraid you leave me no choice. Justice Thomas: What are you guys going to do? Throw Bibles at me? Fundamentalist: (summons the Lord Jesus Christ) Jesus (rolls up sleeves): Oh, now it’s on. (5 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, February 21st, 2005
4:32 pm	Vikings Are The Shit The Adventures of Sven Bjolnir, Viking High School Student by Fred Taylor-Hochberg Girls Thor (grinning, surrounded by giggling wenches, showing off gleaming warhammer): Yeah, I made this sweet little hunk of steel. Smithed her from the fire of a thousand stars. Oh, and did I mention that I killed the evil serpent Jormungand with this baby? Girls: Ooh! Your hammer is so. . .big! Sven, eating leg of mutton nearby: Bullshit. Thor’s only popular because of that stupid hammer. Sven’s friend Bjorn: So why don’t you get one of your own? Sven: Well, it helps that my DADDY doesn’t own a mystical iron forge in Valhalla! Bjorn: Point taken. Drinking Sven’s Father: Son, you reek of mead. Were you drinking at Loki’s party? Sven (evasively): I, uh, don’t know what you’re talking about, Dad. Loki’s parents were home and everything. Sven’s Father: You lie. I know for a fact that Laufey and Farbauti are off fighting The Frost Giants in Northern Midgard. Sven: Wait, Dad, I can explain. . . Sven’s Father: There is no explaining to do. As punishment, you are not to longboat to anywhere except school for the next month. Drugs Bjorn: Hey Sven, we're going to go smoke a bowl on the hill. Want to join us? Sven: Well, despite being a Viking and not knowing what that expression could possibly mean, okay. (Twenty minutes and a few hits later. . .) Bjorn: Dude, have you ever really looked at the Northern Lights? I mean, really looked at them? It’s like, magic, or something. Sven: No dude, I uh. . .uh I think it has to do, with like, Science, and stuff. Bjorn: Science? Sven: Oh, Science is the god of light and space. Dating Bjorn: So, Sven, how was your date with Hilda the Valkyrie last night? She’s hot as Hel! Sven, grinning: Let’s just say it went well. Bjorn: Oh yeah? (winks knowingly) Sven, unable to contain himself: I totally raped her, dude! And then I sacked her thatched hut! Bjorn: (high-fiving Sven) Way to go, man! Shop Class Shop Teacher Mr. Skragg: Sven, how’s your final project coming? Sven (working furiously at lathe): Um, it’s okay, Mr. Skragg. This longboat’s nearly finished. Mr. Skragg: Sven, we, er, need to talk (points to gigantic pile of unfinished longboats) I think you may want to, er, start smaller. Sven: Never! I call upon the Allfather Odin! May he give me the strength to finish this final project for Viking shop class! Odin, a few desks over: I’m right here, dude. No need to shout. Viking Road Trip Sven, excitedly: Dude, exploring Norway, I mean the mystical land of Midgard, is going to be so tight! Bjorn: Hell yeah, I can’t wait to see all the famous Norwegian landmarks. Ice Mountain, Snow Valley, Really Cold Gorge. . .but first we need some wheels. Did your dad say we could borrow his longcar? Sven: No, man. It’s still in the longshop. Bjorn: Longdammit! (6 Comments |Comment on this)
Tuesday, December 7th, 2004
11:04 pm	The Facebook! Dear Mark Zuckerberg, Maker of the Facebook, Let me begin this letter with lavish praise of the current Facebook. Its easy access to personal information, photos, political stances, interests, and oh-so-insightful quotes make for excellent timekilling. As a professional stalker, it is also of great help in doing my job. Why spend the wee hours of the morning tracking down the address of a potential stalkee (as we call them in the industry) when I could simply look them up on Facebook instead, and in the process learn not only their address and phone number, but that they also enjoy the music of Iron and Wine, and that their divers and captivating interests include "having friends" and "eating?" No way! I would think, elated. I love eating too! We should totally hang out and eat together sometime! Ah, such, such are the joys of Facebook. But I still think, Mr. Zuckerberg-is it all right if I call you Zucky?-that the Facebook could be oh so much better. You see, Zucky, when you spend as much time staring bleary-eyed at your monitor in the wee hours of the morning with a box of tissues and hand sanitizer at the ready as I do, you start to notice a few flaws with your otherwise very well-done site. Therefore I submit this letter to you with the intention of helping you design the inevitable Facebook 2.0. I have a few humble requests for the next edition of Facebook- - Facebook users can post phone numbers and addresses on their profile for all to see. This is a good start, but as stalkers, we like to push the envelope. By "push" I mean "break," and by "the envelope" I mean "privacy laws." In other words, why stop there? Why not have fields so that people can enter their credit card information, social security, and PIN numbers? Just a suggestion. -Some people, as unreasonable as it may sound, are resistant to being stalked. You should search your database for these people and, at your earliest convenience, kill them. -The rules concerning group formation are far too strict. The First Amendment to our United States Constitution guarantees our right to assemble peacefully. And yet every time I try to start an "Appreciators of Young, Taut, and Nubile Female Flesh" Group, the administrator shuts me down, citing "excessive creepiness." What happened to democracy, Zucky? What happened? Do with these suggestions what you will. But remember, Zucky, that stalkers make up about 90% of the Facebook demographic, and you would be ill-advised to ignore us. Sincerely, Fred Taylor-Hochberg Current Mood: Kenny G Current Music: Kenny G's "Melodic Jazz Infusion" (4 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, November 12th, 2004
12:09 am	Mexico and Canada: Dangerous as Fuck The Case Against Mexico and Canada Now, I'm no politician. Lord knows that I possess neither the shrewdness nor the financial resources to worm my way into office. But I'd like to think that I'm a political "pundit" of sorts, in that I'm pretty smart, and tend to know things about stuff and talk about them. Take, for example, foreign policy. I consider myself pretty knowledgeable about that. I know vaguely where certain countries are, and I know who the president of Russia is (Vladimir Stalin), and I'm pretty good at Risk. So you'd think people would respect my opinions concerning other countries, considering that I am well-informed as hell. You'd think, but you'd be wrong, my misguided friend. Just the other day, I was talking to an acquaintance of mine. Somehow the conversation turned to politics, and we got into a little debate. At some point I made the following very reasonable assertion: "We should invade Mexico and Canada." Then the sparks started flying. She reacted with a mixture of shock, anger, and fleeing, and I haven't spoken to her since. I know I probably should have been more sensitive, considering that particular friend was Maria Guillermo de Quebecsmith, one of the rare immigrants with triple citizenship in Mexico, Canada, and the United States. But back to my assertion that we should invade these two countries. Now before you say something like "what the balls?" or "you are completely fucking insane," let me make my argument, or "state my case," as they say in the Supreme Court. Canada and Mexico have long been the vise that holds the United States in its steely clutches. Any general will tell you that an outflanked army is an army in grave danger, and that is precisely our situation now. At least, this is what my numerous general friends, who regularly visit my house to drink scotch and plan battles, have told me. If we do not make a pre-emptive strike against our neighbors to the North and South, we will all be eating burritos dipped in maple syrup by 2032. First off, the case against Mexico. Mexico is, simply put, strategically located to attack California, the economic lynchpin of the Union. California's vast supplies of yuppie California Pizza Kitchen pizzas would be cut off, leaving our country in a state of financial devastation matched only by the catastrophic Great Yuppie Pizza Depression of 1912, in which hungry yuppies everywhere roamed the streets, seeking only their next hit of sweet, sweet Portobello mushroom pizza. Canada to the north is dangerously powerful, like a great grizzly bear on steroids that is also armed with a rocket launcher. Its military might, though long-ridiculed, is not to be underestimated. This massive giant of a country produces 500 percent of the world’s snow and polite people, and I don't think I need to remind the reader of the dangers of an avalanche, triggered by polite conversation that was just a little too noisy. At the risk of exaggeration, I assert that if we do not act now we shall be buried alive in million-foot high Canadian snow. These are the dangers facing our Great Union. As the brilliant and illustrious leader George Washington once said, "I really, really fucking hate Mexico and Canada." Today the words of this great man ring even truer then they did then. Heed the call, America. Defend thyself. Mexico and Canada must be destroyed. (5 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, September 27th, 2004
11:17 pm	Nader! WARNING: THE FOLLOWING PIECE CONTAINS LOTS AND LOTS OF SWEARS, BECAUSE IT TURNS OUT THAT SWEARS ARE FUNNY. IF YOU DON'T LIKE SWEARING, DON'T READ THIS PIECE. An Open Letter to America By Ralph Nader Dear America, Since my decision to run in the 2004 presidential election, I have been getting thousands of angry letters from Democrats, who believe that my candidacy will ruin John Kerry's chances of getting elected. Their writers make compelling arguments: among them, "Hey Ralph, you stupid fucker" and "didn't you learn your lesson last time, you fucking assfuck?" The natural course of action is for me to respond to these eloquent criticisms. What follows is a list of unfortunate myths that my detractors associate with my candidacy, and my responses to them. Read them, and you will be rewarded with both knowledge and some seriously amazing chronic, which my friend can totally hook you up with. Myth: My 2000 presidential candidacy cost Al Gore the election, and is therefore indirectly responsible for the war in Iraq and evil in general. Fact: This is nothing more than a weak attempt to cover up Gore's shortcomings as a candidate. For starters, Gore should have won the eleven electoral votes of Tennessee, his home state, but he dropped more balls there than a pubescent boy. Gore also alienated many potential voters with his wooden personality and weak stance on many issues important to Americans. What a lot of people don't realize is that I stand for issues that neither of those smelly mainstream candidates will dare to discuss. While Kerry and Bush mouth off about terrorism this or al-Qaeda that, they ignore the real problems in American society, like the rising poverty rate or the destruction of the environment. If you want to vote for one of them, that's fine-but just know that you're, like, a total corporate whore, man. Myth: I lack the experience, knowledge, and charisma to effectively lead the American people through a faltering economy and terrorist threats. Fact: I watch "The West Wing" regularly, bitches. I'm all over this government shit. Myth: I, as a third party candidate and smelly hippie, am incapable of having any effects at all on the current state of American politics. Fact: Third parties would have an excellent chance of winning the election if people just voted with their heart, and not with their common sense or basic knowledge of the American electoral system. Myth: The money for my presidential bid comes from the Republican Party-I am little more than their tool. My campaign donors are shadowy GOP organizations who dwell within the nether regions of the Earth, surfacing only to finance my campaign and murder adorable puppies. Fact: Pretty much, yeah. Myth: My campaign platform fails to outline a coherent health care proposal. Fact: I got this healthcare thing totally down. Under my presidency, the moon goddess Elwyna will bathe the American people in her everlasting and glorious light, granting them the strength of ten thousand horses and the health of ten thousand Jamba Juices. Myth: I am unqualified. Fact: I am a tireless consumer warrior-every day I take up arms against shoddy products and corporate evils. Here's a brief list of all the great things I've done for the American consumer. . . -Increased awareness of dangerous and overpriced products -Pushed for earth-friendly business practices -Singlehandedly installed every seat belt in every car ever made, with my own two damned hands -Totally fucking DESTROYED this guy at Street Fighter this one time If you're not convinced by now, you're obviously illiterate. Vote Nader, bitches! (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, August 12th, 2004
1:45 pm	Spelling Error Paragraph 5: "talklly o" should be "talked to." I have no idea how that came out like it did- that's just weird. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
1:22 pm	Of Cocktail Weenies and Dell Computers WARNING: EXTREME WEIRDNESS, 100 FEET AHEAD. I’ll admit it-I’m not a very good conversationalist. I’ll be at a social gathering of some sort, greedily hoarding cocktail weenies to add to my international collection of same, and I’ll be garnering strange looks from passersby. You’d think that they’d want to start a conversation about my weenie-hoarding hobby, or something, but most of them just give me a wide berth. I don’t get it. The reason that anyone goes into the hobby of weenie-collecting is for the chicks, man. Weenie collectors are supposed to be the rock stars of the food-hoarding world. Groupies are supposed to flock to us like hippies to a Green Party Convention. But somehow, the scent of pig intestines sends girls packing. Women are so strange. And don’t say, “Well Fred, you silly-billy! You’re just being a wallflower! Just try to start a conversation with some cute girl. One day you will find the woman who accepts you for who you are, and doesn’t complain about your vast, underground cavern filled with cocktail weenies, diligently sorted by size and nationality.” I would respond by hitting you in the face, first off, for using the words “silly-billy” in my presence. Then I would wait until your nose stopped bleeding, then politely explain to you that even if I did get up the courage to talk to a cute girl, I still can’t hold my own in a conversation. See, here’s an example. The other day I was at a party, and a pretty girl who I’ve seen, but never talklly o, walks up to me and says, “Hey, I’m Hailey. I don’t think we’ve talked before-I think I have third period Math with you. You’re Fred, right?” At this point I get really nervous. I start to stammer, and my fight or flight response kicks in-do I throw some cocktail weenies at her or do I run screaming from the room? But I suppress it, and try to make conversation. And it might be going OK for a while, sure. I manage to retain some control over the English language, and I successfully avoid some of the subjects girls hate, like sports or the fact that Ashlee Simpson has no right to exist. But after a little bit, I always manage to screw things up. She’ll ask something like, “What kind of music do you listen to?” And I’ll respond with, “I despise Steve, that kid from the Dell Computers commercials. I want to make his organs into cocktail weenies, and then display them like a trophy.” Uh oh. Strike one. She narrows her eyes and cocks her head to one side in an expression of disbelief. “I’m sorry. . .what was that? The music was a little loud.” Whew. . .close one. “Oh, nothing. No disembowelment at all.” I say. Well played, I think to myself. You see, dear reader, every profession has its Holy Grail, the one object or goal that all strive to attain. Baseball has the World Series. Soccer has the World Cup. Cycling has the Tour de France. And weenie collectors like myself have the Tour de Get the Organs from Steve, That Guy From the Dell Commercials, and Use Them To Make Cocktail Weenies. It all started when those stupid, obnoxious commercials for Dell Computers came out. The commercials starred that young, in-your-face punk named Steve. In the commercials, X-treme Steve would say things like, “Dude, you’re getting a Dell!” to prospective computer buyers, and they, no doubt won over by Steve’s compelling personality and dashing good looks, would be lead to the Dell store, like lambs to a slaughter. But these lambs wouldn’t be slaughtered with knives-no, Steve slaughters his customers with quality, service, and a two-year warranty. Now at first, these commercials were a trifling annoyance, a small trial to be endured while waiting for “The Simpsons” to come back on. But gradually, as I watched Steve more and more, I realized that something was not right about the commercials. With each viewing, Steve grew more smug, more self-satisfied, more obnoxious. And one day, when the cocktail weenie collectors around the world could take no more of Steve, they left their parents’ basements and declared war. Steve would be found, and his organs would be made into cocktail weenies, and the world would be saved from Steve and his sinister, Dell-related plans. However, Steve is not so easily, you know, made into food. He lives high atop Mount Steve, in a great castle of stone. Vicious pit bulls (aka “Nature’s Sniper Rifles”) patrol the courtyards at all times, hungry for intruder flesh. But the Weenie Collector’s Union is undaunted by these dangers. We will unite, and we will find Steve, and we will make this weenie into many weenies. (5 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, July 19th, 2004
7:58 pm	HP Fanfic Part 5 A while ago, I was plum out of ideas for the HP/LOTR crossover. So, on June 17, I submitted a humble request to anyone who would listen: “I have no idea where this Harry Potter/LOTR crossover is going, possibly because it makes NO SENSE AT ALL. If anyone has any suggestions, hit me with the comments, and I'll work them in somehow.” A certain kind soul offered to help: “Four words: robots, pirates, time travel. Solves everything.” And so, dear reader, I present to you part 5 of the Harry Potter saga, inspired by the above comment. To you, Mr. Commenter, I thank you for your contributions. They have breathed life into this hideously ugly bastard child of J.R.R. Tolkien and J.K. Rowling. Onward! *** "Dumbledore is the undisputed Lord of G-Funk. His powers are many, and his hoes are renowned for their freakiness and .45 marksmanship. He is not so easily trifled with, Hermione. Dumbledore lets his gat explode at the slightest provocation, and switches his mind back into freak mode as if it was nothing." "I am perfectly aware of that, Captain 100010- no one knows as well as I that Dumbledore is a powerful wizard, and that his flows are without equal, and that he drops more phat tracks before breakfast than most men do in their entire lives. I am aware of his lyrical power, his skill with the Glock, and his slow flows, so ice cold. You needn’t remind me of all this. But I believe that you have the power to defeat him, and I assure you that you will be compensated handsomely for helping me out. Also, Dumbledore's corpse ALONE will yield enough bling to put your robot kids through college. He's got ice like an Eskimo, and platinum chains like, um, some sort of chain person." Hermione and Space-Robot-Pirate (From the Future) Captain 100010 stood in the great hall, conversing quietly. The ceiling, which was magical for some stupid reason, displayed a sunset of serene, relaxing pinks and yellows, as if in retort to the gritty robot violence being planned below. "Why exactly do you require my services in eliminating this Dumbledore?" asked Captain 100010, leader of Future Space Pirate Robot Brigade 63-B. "Why does he deserve our steely brand of robot death?" "He's mean to the house-elves, Captain." said Hermione, as if that was that and no further explanation was needed. The Captain looked taken aback. "Avast," he said, adjusting his bionic metal eyepatch, "is that all? Do ye really believe that I should kill a man because he made Dobby know his place?" “Certainly, Captain.” she said crossly. “House-Elves are people too-well, to be more precise, smaller and whinier people, one of whom almost got Harry expelled in Book Three-but I am breaking the fourth wall, and you get the point. I believe that SPEW is doing the right thing-we are helping the downtrodden and making the world a better place. Plus it looks really good on a college application.” “I see. Well, Hermione, after several seconds of ultra-fast robotic thinking, I have decided that I will kill Dumbledore for you. Now let’s talk price.” “Well, Captain, what exactly do Robot Pirates need? Money? Cash? Cheddar? Bread? Greenbacks? Blood of the innocent?” “Oil for our robot joints, mostly. We need that to keep functioning properly. Preferably Pennzoil, the finest oil on the market.” “Pennzoil?” said Hermione, who was definitely not participating in one of Fred’s thinly-veiled product placements, which would definitely not net him millions of dollars and pricey Thai hookers, courtesy of the Pennzoil Corporation. “You mean the motor oil that combines quality, value, and great taste, all in one product?” “Why yes I do!” exclaimed Captain 10010, who was also definitely not participating in one of Fred’s thinly-veiled product placements, which would definitely not net him millions of dollars and pricey Thai hookers, courtesy of the Pennzoil Corporation. “Pennzoil - 9 out of 10 space robot pirates recommend it, and the one who doesn’t still wets the bed and lives with his mother. So buy Pennzoil, and support Fred’s insatiable love for foreign courtesans.” Man, those Thai hookers rule. You guys at Pennzoil-corp are great. Crap. I mean-Harry Potter. “Anything else?” asked Hermione. “We also need attractive young women. Even better, combine the two-Pennzoiled attractive young women.” “Hmm. Why women? You’re robots.” “Keep in mind that we are pirates, too, and our robot ships get lonely during long treks across the Milky Way. And arr, who doesn’t like a good oiled-up woman?” “True.” And so on that day a pact was sealed, and then double-sealed for freshness. Captain 100010 would kill Dumbledore, in exchange for oiled young women from Hermione, or, as my email inbox likes to call them, XXX BARELY LEGAL COEDS XXX. Hermione went to uphold her end of the bargain-and at first, procuring the women was a dangerous and time-consuming procedure. But after much thought and deliberation Hermione realized that the women needed to be oiled AFTER they were captured-this method yielded a lot more women, and a whole lot less shouts of “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING TO MY DAUGHTER I’M CALLING THE COPS!” from understandably frightened Muggle parents. Meanwhile, Captain 100010 prepared his robot crew to take on one of the most dangerous non-robots in the world- DUMBLEDORE. PENNZOIL. (6 Comments |Comment on this)
Tuesday, June 29th, 2004
7:15 am	George W. Bush's Rebuttal! Heh. Rebuttal. In the interest of equal time, Fred's Blog proudly presents a rebuttal to Moore's essay from famed My Little Pony fanfic writer and President of the United States: George W. Bush. Michael Moore is Smelly by President George W. Bush Now I don't really care that Mr. Moore's controversial film Fahrenheit 451 got a standing ovation at the Can Film Festival, nor that it received the prestigious Palm Door Award for Excellence in the Field of Whatever. First of all, the people at the Kubla Kannes Film Festival were foreigners-call me an old Texan fogey, but where I come from (that is to say, Texas, not the White House), the opinions of foreigners don't matter and are always wrong. Mr. Moore has made nothing short of slander with his new movie. He has accused me of frightening the American people into submission instead of actually working to solve the problem of terrorism. He has accused me of regular ping-pong games, pizza parties, and teatimes with various terrorist leaders. He has DARED to state that my "My Little Pony" fanfiction has "all the subtlety of a rocket launcher." As to that last accusation, that's just cold. I poor my heart and soul into those fanfics-apparently Mr. Moore has no qualms about hitting below the belt. A man's fanfiction is a sacred thing that should be respected, and I am afraid that Mr. Moore has crossed the line of common decency. All of the accusations leveled against me in Moore's movie are totally unfounded and completely untrue. He claims that I hired a band of thieves called The Hands of Shadow and used them to steal the election. Unless he is referring to that time when I hired a band of thieves called the Hands of Shadow to steal the movie "Election," starring Reese Witherspoon and Matthew Broderick, from a Dallas Blockbuster Video, he is sorely mistaken. I won fair and square-during my campaign I minimized mudslinging at my opponent, took no soft-money donations, and kept my thefts from Blockbuster Video well under three per week. And by the way, Youth of America, if you're reading this-I've cleaned up my videotape-stealing act, and today, I'm tough on petty theft. So the next time you're at Blockbuster and think you don't want to pay for "Weekend at Bernie's," think of this-is it really worth a 25-YEAR STAY IN FEDERAL PRISON????? In conclusion, Michael Moore is a smelly hippie. That is all I have to say. Now watch this drive. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, June 27th, 2004
9:31 pm	Brilliance! DustNo1: needs more li'l john though Strudeldorfen: true Strudeldorfen: however Strudeldorfen: Li'l John has sent me quite a few letters Strudeldorfen: forbidding me from using his name Strudeldorfen: I'm pretty sure he used a ghostwriter, as I know for a fact that his vocabulary consists of only 5 words DustNo1: Then make up a fictional character named L'il John DustNo1: which 5 words? Strudeldorfen: haha Strudeldorfen: let's see Strudeldorfen: skeet, yeah, okay, what, crunk Strudeldorfen: that's all DustNo1: I think he could have managed writing you an angry letter in just those 5 words. I'll try to concoct one now. Strudeldorfen: haha, this oughta be good DustNo1: What! Okay crunk, skeet skeet SKEET, yeah, what. Skeet what okay crunk, yeah (what-what!) crunk skeet crunk, yeah okay what. OKAY??!!!!!! Crunk skeet what okay what; skeet, skeet yeah yeah crunk what okay yeah. Yeah, okay, -Crunk Strudeldorfen: that's definitely going on the livejournal (Comment on this)
Friday, June 25th, 2004
8:53 pm	Guest Essayist-Michael Moore! Hello, everyone. I am feeling rather burnt out right about now-the Altadena lifestyle is a constant and rigorous test of mental and physical endurance, and it has finally taken its toll on me. There are only so many barns that I can raise before I can raise no more, and there is only so much butter I can churn before my arms grow fatigued. That said, I would like to take a little vacation from this whole blog business. In my stead, please enjoy this essay (a Strudeldorfen exclusive!) by famous documentary film-maker Michael Moore, who is here to talk about his hot new movie- "Fahrenheit 9/11." Enjoy! Why You Should See My New Movie by Michael Moore What does the American flag stand for, you ask? I'll tell you what it stands for. The red stands for the un-necessary bad blood between Bush and Iraq. Bush is bad. The white stands for the white-hot hatred of America's enemies, forged in the furnace of American hubris and unilateralism. I got that one from a political cartoon that I thought was pretty cool. I may be a plagiarist, but at least I'm not George W. Bush. The blue also stands for blood-because blood is blue before it touches oxygen. Isn't that wicked? I learned that in biology class, and checked it with my crack team of Black Ops New Yorker fact-checkers-the most deadly, efficient, and ruthless fact-checkers on the planet. They are like hunters, except instead of hunting animals, they hunt LIES. Bush is really, really bad, and this is what "Fahrenheit 9/11" is about. He is what would happen if you took Voldemort and Sauron and mixed them together in a blender, and put it on puree. I guess it would have to be a pretty big blender to fit Sauron, because he is, you know, a giant, all-seeing eye. Add in two scoops of vanilla ice cream and you get a milkshake that is poised to devour all that is good and just in the world. Did you know that since he came into office, Bush has devoured over ONE BAJILLION babies? Did you know that he opposes women, in general? Did you know that he leaves the toilet seat up and forgets to floss occasionally? Have you read his embarrassingly bad My Little Pony fan fiction, in which the subject is treated with all the subtlety of a rocket launcher? Well now you do. Again, I have plenty of evidence to substantiate these claims-the New Yorker fact-checkers have yet to fail me. Plus they work for the New Yorker, so they must be hella smart. But I digress. By seeing "Fahrenheit 9/11," you are striking a blow against the Bush administration and its unjust and unconscionable practices. By seeing "Fahrenheit 9/11," you are opening your eyes and experiencing the blinding light of truth. By seeing "Fahrenheit 9/11," you are spending like thirty bucks for tickets and snacks and stuff. What's the deal with those theaters, huh? Why do they charge so much? Do I have a big sign on me that says "Gouge me, please? These theaters must think that they can pull a Michael Jackson and take advantage of you! ***I apologize for this random tangent about movie theaters and the crude Michael Jackson joke. It seems that renegade comedian Dennis Miller has commandeered Mr. Moore's keyboard and is now filling my blog with his own brand of edgy, off-the-cuff humor. Mr. Miller has been subdued with several tranquilizers and the promise of money, and is currently residing in Ye Olde Altadena Hospital in stable condition. We now return to Michael Moore's regularly scheduled essay.*** As I was saying before a random comedian wandered into my home and started typing stuff on the essay I was writing, see my movie. It's really good, and it makes some good points about America and the world, and it makes Bush look like a doo-doo head, which is righteous. If you liked Bowling For Columbine, Roger and Me, or any of my lesser-known B-movies (including "She Wants Moore, Baby" and "Senate Hearings IV: Pleasure Island"), then head to your nearest theater and buy your ticket. But careful-your ticket only provides for a one-way flight to Knowledge Island-once you get there, there's no turning back. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Saturday, June 19th, 2004
10:45 am	HP Fanfic Part 4! The Titanic Battle between Li'l John and Dumbledore A huge purple plume of smoke appeared, and Dumbledore heard a terrific BANG. When the smoke cleared Dumbledore saw, to his horror, that the King of Crunk himself was standing there; the one, the only, LI'L JOHN! His gold teeth gleamed like a score of fiery stars. His natty dreadlocks were like a nest of snakes. His breath smelled of fire, brimstone and Cristal. "My God!" cried Dumbledore, breathing heavily in shock, looking aghast at Hermione. "Hermione, what have you done! You have consorted with the dark powers and brought Satan himself to earth!" After Dumbledore got over the initial shock, he became angry. This skirt Hermione was proving to be trouble, and, although he did not relish the possibility, he might have to bust a cap or two. He was all ready to prepare the Captius Busticus spell, but before he could lay the smackdown on this hoe, Hermione spoke again. "I warned you, Headmaster!" shouted Hermione. "You knew that I would take drastic measures if you refused to comply with the demands of S.P.E.W. You brought this upon yourself." "YEEEEEAH!" screamed Li'l John. "What's he gonna do to me?" asked Dumbledore. "Ooh, you summoned a rapper from the netherworld. Big deal. He's just a harmless Muggle-he can't even cast the simplest of charms. Hell, I even out-bling him - everyone knows that I am famous for my fly chains and ridiculous ice. How is this supposed to make me do what you want?" "I have a simple proposition for you, Headmaster." shouted Hermione. "You take on Li'l John in single combat. If you win, I will go away and never bitch about house-elf abuse ever again. However, if Li'l John wins, you must accept all of S.P.E.W.'s demands." Dumbledore laughed confidently. "I accept your challenge. I assume the standard duel rules apply?" Hermione snickered. "This is not a wizard's duel, Dumbledore. This is a battle of wits- I believe the Muggles call it a freestyle battle. Both of you will put your rhymes on the table and see how they stack up. Ron Weasley here will be the judge of the freshness of your flows (at this point she gestured to Ron, who was hucking Scabbers at passersby just for fun). Hagrid here (she pointed at Hagrid) will lay down phat beats. Are you ready, Headmaster?" "I was born ready, Hermione." "Let's begin, then!" Hagrid began doing what he did best- dropping tracks of the finest quality, spraying spittle everywhere as he beatboxed. Ron began to get his judge on and listened in order to find out who was the REAL competent emcee who could flow steadily and drop tracks of quality. Dumbledore went first: Like the River of Time I flow slow Chrono-logical Overcoming obstacles Which others find impossible Your rhymes are so trite And your rhythm is impossible Li'l John you ain't tight You outta ammo in this lyrical gunfight. You've gone soft While I stay hard Like galvanized titanium I rock the craniums Of crowds packed in the palladiums Any venue: arena, theater or stadium I'll take you on So now it's your turn, Li'l John. Dumbledore finished and prompted Li'l John to respond with a flow of his own. Li'l John, however, did not rap. You see, dear reader, Hermione was not familiar with Muggle music. If she had been, she would have known that Li'l John is not famous for his rapping ability, and thus was a poor contender in a freestyle battle. If Hermione had summoned Li'l John for use in a who-can-be-the-most-chauvinist battle or a who-can-drink-the-most-Cristal battle, perhaps the outcome would have been in her favor. Alas, this was not the case, and Hermione had chosen her MC poorly. Li'l John simply froze up, and his mic remained un-rocked. A few moments of awkward silence passed. With a frustrated yell, Li'l John disappeared in a cloud of purple crunk, never to be seen again. Dumbledore saw this, and laughed. Ron spoke. "I guess Da Headmasta is the winner by default." "Thank you, Ron. Hermione-I have bested your lyrical champion." Dumbledore said to the furious Hermione, making a raise-the-roof gesture. "Now never bother me again. It is my God-given right to shoot random fireballs at the servants, and I'll be damned if I let you take it from me." Hermione stamped off in an angry huff. "Fine, Headmaster. You won fair and square. But mark my words-I will return, and S.P.E.W. will have its revenge!" (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Friday, June 18th, 2004
7:58 am	Harry Potter Fanfic Three-A Titillating Continuation! Heh. Titillating. Dumbledore finished his Gandalf omlette and sat back with a contented sigh, his belly full and his mind at ease. His deluded arch-nemesis Gandalf had been defeated. No longer would the wizarding world suffer under the iron scourge of Gandalf's flying carpet and laser-shooting staff. Dumbledore reflected on the fact that an iron scourge would probably not be a good idea, as scourges, in general, tend to be made out of materials other than metal. Dumbledore thought on this for a few moments, but became bored and lit up a fatty. "Well, Gandalf the Gray," said Dumbledore to himself, rubbing his stomach and smiling slightly, "You were nothing if not delicious. In life you fought against all that was good and just in the world - in death you fight against my stomach acid." "Haha! Good one, sir!" said Dobby the house-elf, who was clearing the table. "Shut up, Dobby. I WILL bust your skull if you don't know your place." said Dumbledore, extinguishing his rather large fatty on the forehead of the hapless house elf. The poor elf yipped with pain and ran off. Dumbledore shot a few fireballs at the retreating house-elf just for kicks. Sometimes you just had to regulate. Dumbledore thought on this for a few seconds and began to hum Warren G's "Regulate," which was stuck in his head. But before he could get his groove sufficiently on, he heard a shrill, obnoxious female voice behind him. "STOP! I REPRESENT S.P.E.W. and your treatment of elvish workers is unacceptable. . ." DAMN. Stupid Hermione, thought Dumbledore. He ignored her. "Just hit the east side on the LBC. . ." Dumbledore started, attempting to drown out Hermione's rantings with the smooth flows of Warren G and the clear bass croon of Nate Dogg. "Are you listening to me? Headmaster, sir! This is an outrage! How could you treat. . ." "ON A MISSION TRYING TO FIND MISTER WARREN G." shouted Dumbledore. Damn. She couldn't take a hint. Finally Dumbledore gave up, turned around, and asked, "What do you want, Hermione?" "Sir, don't you believe that house-elves like Dobby deserve better treatment in the workplace? Keep in mind they cook the food that feeds you, and they make your bed." "Not really. Hey Hermoine," said Dumbledore. "I think Madame Pomfrey has a magical Band-Aid for your BLEEDING HEART." "Real mature, Headmaster." said Hermoine crossly, rolling her eyes. "Cause you're a FILTHY STINKIN' LIBERAL," said Dumbledore, just in case she didn't get it. "I got it, Headmaster. After all, I'm Hermoine Granger, I'm smart. You know I have the highest Magical GPA in the class. . ." Dumbledore, with a shout of "GPA this!" made a very rude gesture with the finger that was not his pinky, his ring, his index, or his thumb. Hermione angrily pulled out her wand. "Fine, Headmaster. I wish it didn't have to come to this." Hermione raised her wand, pointed it at the floor, and called out in the clearest and most confident of voices, "EXPECTO LI'L JOHNUS!" TO BE CONTINUED. . . (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, June 17th, 2004
12:37 am	Suggestions I have no idea where this Harry Potter/LOTR crossover is going, possibly because it makes NO SENSE AT ALL. If anyone has any suggestions, hit me with the comments, and I'll work them in somehow. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, June 16th, 2004
3:34 pm	Harry Potter Fanfic Part Two! Chapter Two: Confrontation "You should not have come here, Gandalf the Gray." said Dumbledore, his voice dripping with malice, his wand pointed at Gandalf. "You should not have come here." "You said that already." said Gandalf, gripping his staff and preparing for a fight. "I know. It was for emphasis. Dun dun DUUUUUN!" said Dumbledore. It was a dark and impenetrable midnight. The moon was gone, as if stolen by DEMENTORS. Clouds covered the sky like a thin film covers the top of delicious Jello pudding, a pudding made entirely of DEMENTORS. In the distance a wolf howled, singing a song of despair with words that only it knew, but mostly awoooo!!!!!!! awwoooo!!!!. The Whomping Willow's mighty living branches crushed tiny rodents and knocked down adorable children, because it was a bastard like that. Some say that its arcane and evil enchantments had been made by DEMENTORS, working with the most sinister of beings, the NAZGUL. Dumbledore and Gandalf stood on the Hogwarts castle grounds, each tense as a bowstring, each with their weapon ready. "What have you to gain by destroying me, Gandalf?" asked Dumbledore, his voice dripping with terrible angry anger. "How will my death save Middle-earth?" "Don't you see, old fool?!" snapped Gandalf. "Saruman has placed a terrible evil inside of you, Headmaster. Only by freeing your body of this evil can I purge you of the inky darkness, and the only way to free you is to KILL YOU!" "What the hell are you talking about?" "Eat laser!" Red bolts of justice from Gandalf's laser staff streamed towards the headmaster, who dodged them deftly. Before Gandalf could fire again Dumbledore smote the ground with his wand, and the bridge of Khazad-Dum cracked beneath their feet. With a final yell Gandalf, who was having his magic carpet cleaned and thus could not fly, plunged into the chasm below (this chasm and the Bridge of Khazad-Dum having been installed by the DEMENTORZGUL in Book 2, for the sole purpose of having children fall in and die). Dumbledore cautiously moved to the edge of the chasm, and saw that Gandalf had truly disappeared into the depths of oblivion. He was truly dead. Dumbledore wiped the sweat off of his brow and muttered, "Well, I suppose that's that. I wish I didn't have to kill him-but, as the old saying goes, sometimes you can't make an omlette without killing Gandalf." Dumbledore then went into the common room for breakfast. The house-elves had made a bang-up omlette out of Gandalf's entrails, which Dumbledore enjoyed immensely. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Tuesday, June 15th, 2004
10:21 pm	Harry Potter Fan Fiction! Part 1 Chapter One: The Chronicles of Sirius Black "Whee!" exclaimed Sirius Black, the wind blowing in his face as he rode Buckbeak through the clouds like some sort of flying steed. They soared through the skies, galloping along rainbows made entirely of lollipops and MAGIC. They had escaped from Hogwarts and were on their way to who knows where. They were driven only by a lust for ADVENTURE! The hippogriff, who had recently acquired the power of telepathy, said to Sirius, "I love you, Sirius. Let's run far away so that mean old Cornelius 'Poopy Head' Fudge can't catch us and put us back in Azkaban." "Yay!" said Sirius. "And maybe we can visit Hagrid later! I love Hagrid!" They flew onward through the sky, thinking about all the grand adventures they would have, and all the delicious Hogsmeade candy they would eat. Sirius was so happy that he didn't see nine dark shapes materializing on the horizon! And then, with a pang of fear, he saw them, but it was already too late. Nazgul! Their horrible screeches rang out like a whistle from hell. Their wings beat with a speed that can only be found in HELL, and the cloaked figures riding them wielded swords of the finest mithril, able to cut a hobbit in half with a single stroke. And Sirius was very scared and clung to Buckbeak, but Buckbeak was all like, "It's cool, Sirius. We'll be OK." "But how?" asked Sirius, anguished. "They look mean!" "Well they didn't count on my MAGIC QUAFFLE PATRONUS DIVINATION QUIDDITCH!" And Buckbeak faced the Nazgul head on-using the power of his MAGIC QUAFFLE PATRONUS DIVINATION QUIDDITCH, he was able to delay the dementors but not stop them. Just as the Nazgul were about to strike, and the tension was so thick you could cut it with that sword that Harry took out of the Sorting Hat in the Chamber of Secrets, they heard a voice. . . "YOU SHALL NOT PASS!" Gandalf, his robe shining a blinding white, his staff glowing with unearthly power, flew through the sky on a magic carpet, shooting laser beams from his staff. The Nazgul shrieked as hot laser justice buried itself into the flesh of its winged mount, and flew off to Hell, never to be seen again. "Thanks, Gandalf!" said Sirius. "Just doing my job," said Gandalf. "Come on, flying carpet! We've got a Middle-earth to save." Gandalf flew off into the sunset-and Sirius thought, there goes the greatest wizard of all time. Well. . .not as great as Dumbledore, but that's a story for another time. . . And, as luck would have it, Gandalf was actually thinking about Dumbledore. . .but not in a nice way at all. Rather, Gandalf knew that Middle-Earth could be saved by only one way. . .DESTROYING DUMBLEDORE! He knew that the wizarding world would hate him for killing the beloved headmaster. . .but he had no choice. He flew in the direction of Hogwarts, charging his staff and preparing to fight his most worthy adversary EVER. (5 Comments |Comment on this)
9:16 pm	Let us sing the praises of Li'l John Li'l John is probably the greatest artist and human being of our time. I am not the type of person that would carelessly throw a statement like this around-when I say something like this, I mean it. I cannot express in words how deeply this man's words touch my very soul, as Michael Jackson touches little boys. The English language is simply not equipped to deal with this man's greatness; our puny words cannot do justice to his lyrical prowess or the strong moral code by which he lives. Simply put, he makes all other art obsolete. Mozart, Botticelli, Beehtoven, Picasso, Kenny G. . .all are mere pawns in his crazy game of hip-hop chess, and he is the mighty King. I guess Ludacris would be like a bishop or something. And Snoop Dogg would be a knight. That would be pretty sweet. He could move in L-shapes. . .but I am very, very tired, and I digress. It is said that when Mother Theresa met Li'l John, she wept openly and bowed to him as one would bow before God, for she knew that she was staring holiness right in the face, and she was not worthy of his presence. He is the single standard by which all art-nay, all LIFE-should be judged. It is said that Li'l John was placed in the Ark of the Covenant-when the Ark was opened, the faces of thousands of Nazi soldiers melted off-for they were composed of the wax of EVIL, and could not bear the blinding heat lamp of RIGHTEOUSNESS. Above all, Li'l John respects women. Every song of his is high praise of the female body, the female spirit, and the female potential. But mostly the female body, which he finds nothing short of HOT. Li'l John is famous for his quote: "Men can be feminists too, and I would encourage them to be as such. In fact, I would say that male feminists are some of the only true men-for they are secure enough in their manhood and confident enough in their masculinity to acknowledge that women play a major role in the world. I believe that women are YALLL SKEET SKEET SKEET SKEET SKEET SKEET YALLL SKEET SKEET SKEET SKEET!" At this point Li'l John was overcome by the thoughts of women's greatness and inner strength, and began to do what he did best: say one word over and over and over, in a gravelly shout. It seems that his words become more compelling every day. He has been known to collaborate with other, lesser artists. . .these can be compared to his disciples, mere servants living in his shadow. They live only to serve their master, and perhaps rap. Do not let the above quote fool you-Li'l John is a man of few words. Anyone who has heard his divine melodies knows that he packs a few choice phrases chock full of meaning. "Okay!!!!!" he shouts, with a conviction found only in monks, Peace Corps workers, and rappers. "Yeeeeeah!" he bellows, his words cutting to the very core of human existence, slicing through thick layers of fallacy and lies. Let us now praise Li'l John, for he holds the key to our salvation. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
9:15 pm	testing test. . .test. . . (1 Comment |Comment on this)