A wise man once looked me in the eye and said: "I think the fat one is taken. But, I'm also pretty sure we could tag team the hot one."

That is all.

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Now, so to place these images, totalized and fitted to the limits of the human mind, as to elicit from, and to superinduce upon, the forms themselves the moral reflections to which they approximate, to make the external internal, the internal external, to make nature thought, and thought nature—this is the mystery of genius in the fine arts.

St00n

Copied from Wikipedia.com:

"In mathematics, a division is called a division by zero if the divisor is zero. Such a division can be formally expressed as a/0 where a is the dividend. Whether this expression can be assigned a well-defined value depends upon the mathematical setting. In ordinary (real number) arithmetic, the expression has no meaning.

In computer programming, integer division by zero may cause a program to terminate or, as in the case of floating point numbers, may result in a special not-a-number value (see below).

Historically, one of the earliest recorded references to the mathematical impossibility of assigning a value to a/0 is contained in Bishop Berkeley's criticism of infinitesimal calculus in The Analyst; see Ghosts of departed quantities."

So, yes division by zero is impossible, except in mathematical disciplines employed only by math nerds.

Eat it.

i would just like to fucking point out that the level of fucking filth, grime and general disregard for humanity on a whole that this site used to embody has fallen far FAR to the wayside.... i aim to change this.

first off a big FUCKING DIE DOUCHBAGS!!!! to soccer moms and old fucking faggots that have nothing to do but get coffee at 7am and drive like noone has anyware to be, like its fucking sunday or something!!! jeasus fucking christ get off the fucking road, or wait untill after rush hour to get your fucking coffee, stay in bed, masterbate, enjoy fucking life, god knows for you old people there isent much left. And soccer moms, oooo soccer moms, why dont you take that stick jammed so far up your eleitist, pertentious, prude christian ass and blow your husband when he gets up for work..... just imagin how much more money he can make for you to steal from him if hes going into work every morning with the pipes clean and a smile on his face, and itll make paying for your SUV and its gas so much more satisfying, come on ladies, earn that paycheck!!!!! and for christ sakes, swallow or take it on the face, be a team player!

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK

COCK ASS

i would also like to touch on the taint....grundle if you will.....here is a part of the body badly in need of a booster!!! have you ever had your grundle licked? let me tell you i have, and its awesome!!! dont be afraid of the taint, it wont bite you, or hurt you, its your freind, so stick that tounge out and give it a lick, your partner will thank you for it, and so will I!

*ATTENTION GIRLS*
Blow more cum bubbles! its hot, we like it and itll extend your life an average of 4 years!

mike you should bring back the autoposter for porn and comics.....definitly one of the better features missing these days!

948

Repeat after me.
One red hen.
Couple of Ducks.
Three Brown bears.
Four running Hares.
Five fat, fickle females feeling fine.
Six simple Salesman sitting on a stoop.
Seven Sinbad sailors, sailing the seven seas on a sleuth.
Eight egotistical egotists echoeing their egotistical ecstacies.
Nine nude nubians nibbling on nags, nuts, and nicotine.
Ten, I wish I was a fig plucker or a fig pluckers son, cause Id pluck figs till the fig plucker comes.

Last night, I got my computer running in my apartment, so I now have internet access from my home. I got phone service a couple of weeks ago, but I only recently got a monitor, which I needed to make the phone service of any use to me. When I called SBC to see whether my phone service was working or not (I didn't feel like going out and buying a telephone to test out the jacks), they told me that it was hooked up, but that there was something wrong on my end - the connection hadn't been made at our apartment's phone box, something the apartment manager is supposed to take care of. The apartment manager, a gay film producer named Armando, didn't understand what hooking up the phones involved, so I decided to try and do it myself last night. I spent about 15 minutes trying to figure out how the process worked by looking at the phone box before I noticed that my phone was, in fact, actually set up correctly (already).

Ah, anyways, it's odd having internet access in my apartment. Throughout college, it was such a necessary part of my daily life that I was surprised that I had got on fairly well without it over the last few months. Having it again feels like I've gone backwards or something.

I wonder why I've been so okay with not really owning anything - I'm sitting on a pillow right now, the monitor on the floor. I don't own much furniture, a bed (thanks Caniprokis), a couch, and a couple of tables. I bought the couch and the tables from a woman who was moving to Minnesota. She sold me the couch (old, nice quality, leather) for $30 and the two coffee tables for $40 (good quality, I guess). I still wonder how anyone could think that two coffee tables would be worth more than the couch in that situation. It felt odd paying more for the tables.

I don't know why, though, that I've been ok with not having anything up. I have a few posters rolled up in a tube, they've been sitting at the Harveyopolis offices for, what, a month, now.

Pappy and I went to IHOP on Christmas. I used to think that place was awesome, back in CT (mainly because it involved a trip to Hamden, I think, long distance). It's still good.

I got a book of poetry by Wallace Stevens today. Good stuff. This is one of his poems:

Tea at the Palaz of Hoon
Not less because in purple I descended
The western day through what you called
The loneliest air, not less was I myself.

What was the ointment sprinkled on my beard?
What were the hymns that buzzed beside my ears?
What was the sea whose tide swept through me there?

Out of my mind the golden ointment rained,
And my ears made the blowing hymns they heard.
I was myself the compass of that sea:

I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw
Or heard or felt came not but from myself;
And there I found myself more truly and more strange.

I'd like it if people started posting more. I'm interested in hearing what's been going on back home, maybe just what's been going on in your daily lives.

Stun

In my preparations to move and all, I'm cleaning and found an interesting little poem I cut from some book way back in high school. It's short and funny, and preferenced by the words:

CHILDREN (singing)

Three hundred million people
Livin' fast and livin' good
On burgers made from cats and dogs
And burgers made from wood,
And burgers made from oven mitts
And burgers made from glue
And burgers made from God-knows-what
And burgers made from you.

Just thought was silly and arbitrarily odd. Take care, everyone!

Knaa'mean?

Odd that we should have something in common. I'm a huge fan of X. Been reading it since roughly late 2000. It was actually one of Pappy's former roommates that showed me it. It is probably one of the best comics every created. I especially love how they portray X (just a big thumb in the sky with a great sense of humor) and X.

Some other great comics are Get Fuzzy and for the uber geeks out there Penny Arcade and Warbucket.

* A note from Insult.org: This post has been edited to remove references to a comic strip which, at the time, was boring and inconsequential. The creator of the strip has since turned into a horrible human being and uses the strip to spew hatred that even we won't be associated with.

Woo, it's the Super Bowl, the game the Patriots won last year!  There's no way this year's game will be anywhere as good as 2002's, of course, but I'm still looking forward to having a chance to see the evil, hated Raiders go down in the face of the Bucs' mighty defense.  Die, Raiders, Die.  I'm predicting a 20-17 victory for the Bucs, and I think it's going to be an exciting game.

Good to see more people posting on Insult.  This tends to happen in the Spring, I think.  Stuff is going fairly well here, mopping up the last few requirements standing in between me and a degree.  I've got two entertaining Math classes.  One's a Statistics class whose Professor is a zany-Yakov-Smirnov-level stereotypical Russian - he writes things like "What does Statistics?" and "Aspirin does it reduce risk of stroke/hart attacks?!!" on the board, which is remarkably entertaining if you're actually in the class.  He smokes a pipe and seems to wear the same loden-colored sweater every class.  Also a very good professor, makes the material interesting.  The other math class is called Mathematical Explorations, a Math for English Majors sort of thing, and it focuses on the idea of infinity, what it means, how it developed historically, how people contend with its existence, that sort of thing.  Exciting stuff...the class' professor is an elemental Math Professor, pure-Math-Professor-existence, makes sense I guess.

Hm...the cold here's been monumental.  We had about a week where I don't think the temperature (inc. wind chill) made it over zero degrees.   It's a balmy 16F outside right now, and when I walk out to grab some coffee today, that's going to feel like Spring's weather to me - the way things have been going, my face and feet not being numb justifies straw hats and parasol drinks.

Stone

Who needs the ability to erase posts, I can just make small posts about nothing.

I need a maid.

Here's a story:

Fresh from a few months in New York, Robert Benchley is sitting by the pool at the old Garden of Allah, up there on Sunset Boulevard, drinking gin and vermouth in just proportion with the usual crew. Humphrey Bogart, character actor Charlie Butterworth, George S. Kaufman, John McClain (the playboy/journalist who used to go out with Dorothy Parker, not the wiseass cop from Die Hard), a couple of starlets (including Natalie "Mrs. Thurston Howell" Schaefer) and a screenwriter or two. At some point, Errol Flynn comes out of his bungalow, dives into the pool, and starts methodically doing laps. This does not go unremarked by the Benchley crew. "Why don't you get out of that wet pool and into a dry Martini?" "What's wrong, tired of exercising indoors?" (Flynn was alwayswell, you know.) "What is that stuff you're swimming in?" Finally, Flynn takes the bait.

"All right, Benchley, you old soak. I'll tell you what. You swim across this pool once, just once, and I'll pay your bar tab for a month."

"The pool? Come on, Flynn, think big. How's this, old manI'll bet you a straight thousand dollars I can swim all the way to Catalina." Now, Benchley's a big man, but soft and paunchy and nobody's idea of an athlete. In other words, it's a bet. Everybody likes to take advantage of a drunk. In no time they round up a couple of cars, stir up some Martinis for the road, and head down to the ocean.

So there they are, standing around on a pier somewhere near Long Beach. Along the way, Flynn's picked up a cute little carhop. Somebody else has bought a case of beer. The Martinis are long gone. Benchley takes his jacket off. "That's it, out there?"

"That's right. 20 miles. You're sure you want to go through with it?"

"Flynn, when a Benchley gives his word, he gives his bond."

"But really, old shoe, fun is fun. Let's just drop it." Meanwhile, everybody's exchanging private little glances behind Flynn's back. Without a word, Benchley strips down to boxers and undershirt and pitches himself right in. There's a mighty splash, he swims about 12 feet and then, convulsed in laughter, calls for a rope. Everybody's furious, except for Bogart and Butterworth, who are laughing. Bogie, you see, had quietly pulled everyone aside and convinced them that Benchley was a powerful swimmer (his new York doctors had made him start, y'see, and he just took to it), and that paunch he was hiding under his shirt was in fact a cork life-vest. So when Butterworth started making a little book on the proceedings.

Stone

I've been getting a lot of spam recently, various media things, but I don't think I've received any other single offer that is nearly as significant as this one:

Audible.com, some sort of online book audio service that "CNET ranks among the Web's best" is going to allow me to BURN JOHN GRISHAM...FOR FREE!

As you know, there's only one way to cure bedside-table-thriller writers (and homosexuals): fire, and lots of it. Plus, despite my background in English literature, I'm not John Grisham's biggest fan, so, as you can guess, my heart leapt at the chance to burn someone of his stature, at any price, much less for free.

Some sort of limited time offer, I'd assume, I dunno how much burning he's going to be able to take.

Stun 3k

Happy birthday, Wilson, we'll celebrate properly in a couple of weeks.

To mark this momentous occasion, here are a few apt lines from Omar Khayaam, take them to heart:

And much as Wine has played the Infidel,
And robbed me of my Robe of Honour well,
I often wonder what the Vintners buy
One half so precious as the Goods they sell.

Hmm.

Stone

Love, oh Love
wash away my tears
Love, oh Love
follow me through the years
Love, oh Love
bring me happiness forever
Love, oh Love
fill my soul and never,
Leave me alone, for all my heart is yours
and ill fade away with you into the night leaving behind earthly wonderings...all except love

Like listening to a sad song, you can rip out my heart
And with a breath you can heal the deepest wound
More than a thousand times Ive called you mine
And now I wander the dark searching for an empty bottle
Wind wailing around balls of thunder under the red sky
Walking hand in hand with you thinking we could fly
But falling never ending into the deep
Sometimes even all I want is just one night of peaceful sleep
A raven stands watching our decent with lifeless black eyes
And now our lives become nothing more than an over used blanket of lies
I pray for an answer to all those burning questions
And more often than not all I can offer are humble suggestions
Southbound train always taking me away
Someday I promise ill be able to stay
Until then all I can do is ask that you listen to what I say
Something about the way the sun sets on a cold winter day
And something about all I can do is say
None of it ever matters
As long as you go when the ceiling shatters
Like listening to a sad song, you can rip out my heart
And with a breath you can heal the deepest wound
More than a thousand times Ive called you mine
And now I wander the dark searching for an empty bottle
Extravagant feasts filled with love and laughter
And sometimes I wonder what it is Im truly after
Skating across deep blue glass
Seeing stars that shine only when Im deep in your eyes
Flipping aimlessly through eternities book
I just want someone to stop for one second and look
But they all walk by
As if they were shy
And nothing matters anymore
So ill just drift off until I reach a new shore
A place I can be safe from what I fear the most
Someplace far away from Better Than Toast
Leftorium nations floundering through empty seas
But you can never get away from My BEES!!
Now some may say Im getting off point
But if you dont like it get the fuck out of my joint
Now back to some matters simply more deep
Like the feelings I get when I know you dont sleep
I can't help but wonder if Ill ever make a difference
In making you see all the beauty you given me
And not just of skin and makeup and hair
But the places you bring me and the roads weve traveled to get there
Never stopping to wonder that maybe it wont work

please dont steal my writing, it really means alot to me and if i see it somplace without my permission i will be very sad. thankyou

The grey air attaches itself to the green trees and takes hold of me
Time sighs to a halt and my mind wanders the vast reaches of itself
Time to light up a smoke and wish I could make music
Capture your imagination with my guitar until my fingers turn red
Then play a little more
Take you to where I've been, show you what I've done
Make you dream of pools in the sun
Or being here with me
Day turns to night, crazy dreams turn to dust
But I refuse to blow them away
I'd rather save them for another day

I was just sitting outside with Gunther and started thinking about all kinds of things, and decided to jot down a quick little poem to summarize the experience.

If you read this and you think this sounds like it could pertain to you, if you read this and you think it pertains to something you have recently done, then maybe you might want to be angry with yourself. Use your misdirected anger for some good and make a few changes in your character. Your anger will own you if you let it.

A Poem by GIRLNEXTDOOR: "TORN" copyright May2001 All Rights Reserved Plagiarists and Violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

Anger crushes, you live with it day to day
Wallowing in your pity and crying over your mishaps
Speaking as if you have no faults
I bet you think youre better than those you criticize
Cursing and breaking valued possessions
Disgracing your reputation to those who know you best
Pitiful display and you repress your thoughts
Talk is cheap and yet you cant afford to open your mouth
Leaving with hands clenched in rage
Calming yourself is not something you can attest too
Needing others to stop your inner violence
I watch you rip yourself to shreds
Even when you win the battle you have lost peace of mind

Anything that happens, happens. - Anything that, in happening, causes something else to happen, causes something else to happen. - Anything that, in happening, causes itself to happen again, happens again. - It doesn't necessarily do it in chronological order, though.

I'm not sure how many of you ever read the "Hitchhiker's Guide to Galaxy" series of books. In fact, I don't think any of you have. Either way, they were a great series of books by a man named Douglas Adams. An English chap, a brummy, whatever. And although I'm not especially fond of English humor, I found Adams' books hilarious and well-written.

He died Friday at the age of 49 from a heart attack. That's two really good authors in the same year. =(

It's all about the forty-two. Rest in peace, funny English dude.

This is going to be freakishly boring for most of you.

So, a few weeks ago I wrote a good essay for my Children's Literature class. About a week after I handed it in, the professor e-mailed me asking if I could come in to talk about my essay. I was worried, but when I actually met with him, he just asked me to clarify a few of the more complicated things (ie, everything other than "this book am good. this am feminist, this am coming of age"I) had written in the essay. The professor told me that he liked to have a few students come in from each class to talk to him, so he could get to know them better. That sounded like a lie, since the school year was ending in a day or two, but I shrugged it off.

Last Monday I handed in a really, really good essay for my 18th Century Lit class. It was on this novel, Rasselas, by Samuel Johnson, who was this big deal 18th century literary critic and writer. I like almost everything he's written, and I've read almost everything he's written. So, I was able to use all that knowledge to make a bunch of complex allusions and references to other Johnson stuff while commenting on the novel, and I figured that would just come across well. I didn't really care, though, because I knew I had written a bad-ass essay.

Last night, J and I were watching 'the Talented Mr. Ripley', when my 18th Century Lit TA called, asking me to meet him today (today today) so we could talk about my paper. This TA is great, smart, into the class, puts a ton of work into grading the papers.

I meet him, it's really hot out - we talk about the paper, and he asks me to clarify a few things in my paper that he says he didn't really understand. I was surprised he didn't understand them, because I was pretty sure he had read the other Johnson stuff, but, I did it, babbled on, waiting for the ball to drop. And, yes, after I spent about 20 minutes explaining the paper, he basically admitted that the stuff I had written was intelligent, blah blah, better than the rest of the class, so forth, and the allusions were really good and clear (not obtuse like I was lead to believe, at first) - the allusions were actually too clear and too pointed. He thought I'd plagiarized the paper at first, and wanted to test me to see if I knew what I meant, and after my long explanation he realized that I hadn't. Shit - he actually thought the writing itself was too good, and that was a symbol of an "internet paper" too. And, we talked, and had a good conversation, and what not.

But, I'm fucking angry at all of this. I know now that the Children's Literature professor was doing the same thing - seeing if I actually knew what I had written. My shitty papers get to fly by with A-'s. The papers I actually work on, and actually know things about, also get A-'s (for being overly ambitious or some shit), but I have to go in and spend a half-hour defending myself for being doing a better job than the bog standard average. It's pretty fucking anti-intellectual IMO - some of the English kids here are fucking retards that never got beyond an AP English level understanding of books. They don't read on their own, or if they do read, it's based on some cultural or political interest that has absolutely fuck all to do with literature. They don't have any sense of a 'literature' as a whole, they don't read stuff written before fucking 1801 (the school has to require English majors to take 3 pre-1800 literature classes). They don't read any criticism, so they don't have any idea about what criticism is - and yet that's what fucking English essays are. And - English classes are geared towards these fuckwits, and essays are supposed to look like regurgitations of everything the professor said in class combined with an incredibly cursory knowledge of whatever book we're reading. If the essays are anything beyond that, then of course, people are fucking plagiarizing.

And is everyone who does large amounts of plagiarizing (raping an entire essay, etc.) a fucking idiot? If I was to plagiarize something, I would flip through books so as to document the stolen paper as thoroughly as possible, and I wouldn't be confident that the writing would look like my own, so I would purposefully fuck up the syntax and structure until it looked like one of the shitty papers that gets handed in usually. Who the fuck actually hands in a paper that they wouldn't be able to defend if someone asked them about it?

And, this is what gets me - I really thought I was writing below standard for my English classes...that I was getting by because I said a couple of interesting things or whatever. But, bleh - I tossed this shit out Monday morning, and I get called out for it?

Fuck people who say that you don't have to understand literature to write English essays, fuck people who say that older authors are irrelevant, fuck people who say that all ideas are essentially as valid as any other idea, and fuck people who say that self-expression is more important than actually making conclusions in anything creative - prose, poetry, art, fucking cooking.

Stn 2000