Rhetoric

1) False Dilemma- "Either take this girl on a date or admit to being gay."

2) Argument from Ignorance- "Christianity is the one true religion."
"No it's not."
"Prove it."

3) Slippery Slope- "If you don't go to school everyday, then you'll fail out and have to work at McDonald's for the rest of your life."

4) Complex Question- "Do you support gay marriage and the eventual downfall of our society?"

Sentir

I wipe the layer of dirt, blood, and sweat from my eyes as I jam another clip into the M16 cradled between my biceps. Even as the excess sediment is cast away, a red film envelops everything in my sight. Charlie ambushed my unit 4 miles South of our target, but when I gaze through the scarlet haze into Charlie's eyes, all I sense is fear. All I see as my rifle sings its deadly song is fodder to satisfy my thirst. All I know as my left hand reaches for the bowie in the sheath on my right forearm is the joy that follows with a fallen foe. My body is a cult offering sacrifices to please the unquenchable god that is my appetite. I faintly hear Animal Mother scream my name but he sounds miles away. Momentarily I contemplate how he got so separated from the unit. That flicker of conciousness is cast aside and my standard issue Colt .45 finds itself clutched in my right hand. The red turns crimson, a dark blood-like taint that blankets my vision. Charlie screams and falls at my command. Fire bites into my side and chest as if Cerberus himself has acknowledged me a worthy adversary and accepted my challenge. The damp mud dampens my fall, it cushions my head as the crimson film drains away. I twist my lips into a small smile and gaze at the clear blue sky, prepared to make the treacherous climb to the great above.

Machine Gun Blogging

Bullet #1
The board is white. A vocabulary book occupies the lower left hand corner. The metal frame juts out along the bottom, holding the vocabulary book, 4 erasers, and 2 Expo markers.

Bullet #2
Wrapped in tin armor, armed with 2 markers, and wearing a wreath resembling that of Caesar's, the white board looms ahead. Its presence dominates the wall, an aegis against those who would seek to mar and vandalize the wall with instruments of communication.

Bullet #3
Its futile attempt to hide. An imperfect camouflage against a sea of white. Marker marks turned mere shadows haunt the otherwise ivory visage, revealing it for the wall it is not.

Bullet #4
A dream this board is not. A movie script written by a writer who sells out to his production company and agrees to change the heartwrenching and pivotal ending in order to make his movie more "Hollywood", this board is not. A post dot-com bubble world where the only new bubble is that of emo and post-punk modern rock bands this board is not. A fleeting glimpse of the feathery few remains of a phoenix as it combusts and attemps to reanimate what it once was, this board is not. The sensation that jolts through your body, poking and prodding ever nerve as you dip your toe into the ice cold waters of the Gulf of Mexico while vacationing in Destin with your friends, but all your friends are nowhere to be found as you bathe in the sensational ecstasy of that one moment, this board is not. The bruise above your right eye you collected while moshing with your team in an elevator, this board is not. The last few scenes of the end of a yet another season of yet another teenage soap meant to massacre brain cells of teenage kids in a clever attempt to ruin the chance of any functionable society in the future, you watch as Jeff Buckley sings in his ominously sad yet angelic voice, "Hallelujah", and you sit and weep for fear of never experiencing another event so beautiful, this board is not. An encapsulation, a destination, a blank canvas of ideas, the birthplace of all that could right what is wrong and straighten what is crooked, an eternal portal of knowledge, education, entertainment, and communication, the future, this board is.

ATTENTION

It has been decided by a council of peers that tomorrow (Oct. 12) will now be known as "National Cup-Check Day." Email me at tli08@athensacademy.org if you are interested in knowing how this came to be, or the details. I dare not post too much for fear of losing Mr. Connell his job.

*Insert logical fallacy here*

Modern rock music cannot possibly get any worse.

Rock music has slowly declined in its message, power, musical complexity, and originality, and it has crept dangerously close to the line that separates rock from its annoyingly bubbly little sister, pop. Pop has long been known for it's lack of originality and talent. Artists often curse themselves for being tricked, by photographers, into posing without clothing because they fear that it will brand them as a "pop star" or "teenybopper". Lately, modern rock has lost its credibility and rock stars now care more about fame and getting voted onto TRL then making good music. The easy listen has become more important than the quality one. This sentiment has caused rock musicians to narrow their musicianship to power chords and their lyrics to break-ups or obsessions, the signature of pop music. Therefore, modern rock music cannot possibly get any worse because then it would become pop and no longer rock.

What it means to be an American...

For suing whomever you please
For our Manifest Destiny
For acts of blind hypocrisy
The all black NAACP
For generation MTV
the troops of "non-conformity"
For being big boned, not obese
For fame with lack of privacy
For freedom of speech comedy
For the Chappelle Show on TV













For lack of responsibility
For 04's voter apathy
The death of Tupac and Biggie
All these define our country
The land of life and liberty
Of racism and poverty

For all those about to blog...

I salute you