Sunday, January 31, 2010

My Rap Song -- I'll Die When I'm Famous

Update: The MP3 shared with Google Docs stripped the .mp3 extension for some reason. If you downloaded that, simply rename the file with .mp3 and it should work. But I've uploaded it on a new site just to make sure. Re-download it here and it should be functional.

I went through a phase during college when I had got some royalty-free samples and music-creation software and just kinda went apeshit. Most of the songs were complete shit, but one of them, in particular, likely will become the one thing that I am remembered for -- for all time.

It was a rap song titled "I'll Die When I'm Famous."

It was almost exactly five years ago. I wrote and recorded it in one day. Inspiration hit me like a giant, gold, diamond-encrusted dollar-sign pendant, and creativity spattered from my fingers onto the computer screen like a fucking Jackson Pollock painting. I could tell I had something huge here -- massive. I threw together dozens of samples to compose a song that probably could cure AIDS if it were a biological compound. It came out more quickly and naturally than walking.

From there, I went on to listen to the backing music hundreds of times as I wrote accompanying lyrics. The lyrics tell the tale of a young, fledgling rapper who at first doesn't believe in himself, but he aspires to make a name for himself and prove his family wrong. (Like fools, they did not appreciate his genius.) The story ends in a hopeful tone -- indeed, one of the final lyrics, "I'll be livin' to the max," beautifully brings the listener to the realization that this optimistic fellow will not give up on his dreams. He will not die ... until he is famous.

I probably could expand the story in this song into a full-length novel/feature movie, but I need to let the song itself get legs first and make the journey it needs to make.

But at this point, you're surely curious to hear the final product. Well, I'll do you one better. I'll give you an MP3 of the final song so you can take a listen, and after you're done, you can listen again while reading the accompanying  lyrics, which have author notes in the margins for certain parts of the song. (Not hand-written notes, of course, because that's so 1980s. They're MS Word notes.) It is not often you have the chance to catch a glimpse of genius in progress.

Enjoy.

I'll Die When I'm Famous (MP3)

I'll Die When I'm Famous (Lyrics, JPG so all can read them with notes)

- SPG

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

Sorry For Being Creepy ... But It's Your Fault For Stretching

All right, so it’s no secret that men are creepy in the gym. To be fair, it’s hard for us. Take all of those stretches you girls do, for instance. You come to the gym in incredibly short shorts and a sports bra (only) and proceed to contort yourself into as many sexual positions as possible in an area of the gym surrounded by mirrors. And I’m pretty sure half of those stretches you girls do don’t actually stretch anything relevant and only serve to convert otherwise innocent men into creepy-as-fuck voyeurs.

Technically speaking, every machine in the gym is sexually infused if a gorgeous girl is using it (except for maybe when a girl is bench pressing more weight than I could -- which sadly encompasses pretty much any woman on a bench-press machine). And then there are devices like the Shake Weight, which is simply unfair to men:



What’s more, there’s a row of weight machines that I’m convinced were conceived by some perverted guy in his basement. An example of a machine in this row can be seen at Exhibit A, at right. With that machine, you basically face everyone in the gym while you slowly open and close your sweaty thighs. Uh huh. Not sexual at all, right? Have you ever seen a man on one of those machines? Wait, I should clarify: Have you ever seen a man on one of those machines who didn’t look lost and confused? No, of course not, because it’s called the Vagina Machine.

The sexuality of women who use that machine grows exponentially with each observed rep. If a merely OK girl sat down and did 10 reps as some guy watched, his opinion would slowly transform from “Meh,” to “Ya know, I think I'd like to have sex with that girl.” If a stunningly attractive girl sat down and did 40 reps, an observing guy is liable to sell his mother into slavery to buy the girl a lifetime membership to that gym.

But I did say that a girl’s sexuality grows exponentially, and this holds true even for horribly ugly women with repulsive (negative) sexuality. What happens when you multiply negatives, though? It’s still fucking negative -- just incredibly more so. If you accidentally catch a glimpse of the sweaty hams of Orca Woman as she tortures this beloved machine (seen at left), it is entirely possible that your whole family could die in the safety of your home miles away simply due to the sheer force of the negative energy being emitted from your brain as it tries to collapse upon itself to prevent your eyes from functioning any longer. In the very least, you’ll be all kinds of sad that you saw it.

One last point is that you girls usually have a special ladies-only gym within the gym if you don’t want to be ogled. Not that you should have to “resort” to that, but if you want to spend all day in skimpy clothing while wrapping your legs around your neck or arching your back to push your breasts out or doing 10,000 reps on each machine in Sex Row -- and you want to do all of that without attracting the attention of men -- use your special room. Whenever I pass by the women-only room, I usually see between zero and two women in there, and they’re almost always horribly ugly.

Ugly women do not need this room; they’re wasting it.

- SPG

Saturday, January 9, 2010

FML ... Mozart Wins.

I have a weird perspective on growing older. For me, the tragedy is not that I'm continuously getting closer to death, the real sorrow lies in the fact that every year that passes by is another year in which I can no longer one-up some asshole genius' accomplishments.

Take Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, for instance. By the age of five, he was already a composer. That's right, young asshat Mozart (shown at left looking like a five-year-old douche) was concocting symphonies at five years old. When I was five years old, I still wet the bed.

(No, I'm not kidding. Yes, I wish I were. My parents actually had to buy me an electric blanket to get me to stop wetting the bed. Not your normal electric blanket, but literally a blanket filled with electricity that'd fuckin' zap the shit out of me if it got wet. The thought of being electrocuted in my sleep tightened my bladder up right quick.)

So, to recap:

Five-Year-Old Mozart = Symphonies
Five-Year-Old SPG = Diapers

So how is Mozart a role model? Role models are people you're supposed to aspire to be like. Great, I'll look up to Mozart and aspire to be a composer by the age of five.

Oh, wait, I'm 26. Fuck my life -- Mozart wins.

Who cares if I compose a symphony at 26? Other people have done it by age five. Now I have no desire to do it. Meh. Thanks for being a role model Mozart -- you prick.

One area in which I can best Mozart, and in which he may serve as a role model for me, is not dying by the age of 35. Captain Fancypants got sick and died like a bitch in his mid-30s. When I'm 36, instead of a birthday party, I'm going to wear a powdered wig all day and celebrate "How's It Feel to be a Genius Now, Cockbag?" Day.

In a further attempt to make me feel like an unaccomplished, useless human being, Fox had a show called Our Little Genius that they planned to release in mid-January. The show featured six- to 12-year-olds answering Ph.D level questions versus people who actually have doctorates. From the sounds of it, though, a little bit of a scandal broke out regarding the show involving the little tykes having privileged "information" (the studio claims "information" does not mean answers) before the shows. So, they scrapped it for now and are deciding whether to re-shoot it or can it entirely.

(On a side-note, does that sounds like the movie Quiz Show to anyone else?)

If that show ever comes out (and the little fuckers actually are that smart and aren't memorizing answers), I'm going to stop trying to accomplish anything ever again -- what's the point?

When I was in high school -- and this is no joke -- I told myself that I needed to publish a novel before I turned 18. Why? Well, if I didn't, I'd just be some adult who published a book. Whoop-dee-fuckin-doo. At least if I got a published book under my belt before I was 18, I could say that I had done so when I was a kid. As soon as 18 came and went, I'd lost all drive to hurry and write a book. What was the rush now?

In conclusion, geniuses are anti-role models. They give us reasons not to feel good about ourselves.

-- SPG

Friday, January 1, 2010

NOTE: THIS ENTRY HAS MOVED. The Abridged, Reworded Story of Jesus

I've decided to create a blog specific to talking about atheism since I think any of my rants on that topic would severely detract from the spirit of this blog. This post is now at my blog The Atheist Apologist.

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