Articulated Vulgarities

What People Are Saying About Articulated Vulgarities!

I get a surprising amount of traffic on this blog.  I'm assuming much of it is because people searched for the word "fuck" in Google and assumed they were visiting a free porn site, but I'll take what I can get. 

Over the years, I've received quite a few comments and e-mails about my blog, and I'd like to share some with you now.  Think of this like pullquotes you see in movie ads - "Spectacular!  A triumph of the human spirit!" or "One of the best pictures of the year," that sort of thing.

"Overflowing with negativity and hatred."
-Chris Allor

"your gayfag"
-your_blog_sucks

"C L I C K H ere T0 g3t D I S C O NT Cialis!"
-Free Cialis

"Hi! I am very close to you. I am beautiful and very smart. Check out my pics. http://www.russian-teen-sex.ru"
-Lizalotta Bindle

"ur a fagit"
-your_blog_sucks

"Hello, I am a representative for Comcast Cable.  We kindly request that you take down your libellous statements about our company.  We are not 'tools of the devil,' as you have claimed, and I have only raped a dog once just to see what it felt like.  Can't a man put his ugly past behind him?  We do not 'crack open babies' skulls to drink the sweet nectar inside,' as you have claimed.  Our internet service is the fastest in the country and not, as you have claimed, 'the equivalent of two soup cans tied together by a raggedy string,' and our customer service is exemplary, despite your claims to the contrary that, 'being lobotomized is a requirement to work for Comcast.'

We're actually running some great deals with right if you're looking for a better internet experience.  I urge you to try our service again and see the improvements we've made.  Come back to us, Matthew.  ONE OF US!  ONE OF US!  ONE OF US!

Please remove the offending posts immediately or face further action.
Sincerely,
Jerry Beelzebub
Marketing Director/Lord of Flies and Corpses

P.S. - My last name is just a coincidence, and in no way proves that we are an inherently evil company."

"stop talking shit about Chris Brown just because he's awesome and ur not!"
-CbreezysLuvr

"Eh, fuck this."
-cynicalmatt

Hot Blog on Blog Action

Admit it: you clicked that link out of sheer, morbid curiosity, didn't you?  You are a victim of Rule 34: If it exists, there is porn of it.  I'm sure somewhere on the internet, there is an animated gif of the Blogger logo having sex with the WordPress logo, but that's not what you're going to see here.  This is a blog post about blogging.  I know, how very meta, right? 

I've been blogging for many years.  I suppose that's technically a bit misleading.  I've had blogs for many years.  How often I use them is another matter.  I'm from the old school days when LiveJournal was by invitation only.  Does anyone remember LiveJournal?  It was sort of the MySpace of blogging - the place where angsty kids went to moan about how their parents didn't understand them and how emo bands like My Broken Heart Bleeds Endlessly For You, Well of Pain, Dark Sorrow Mascara, and Castrated Emotions speak to them on a profoundly deep level.  I think those are all emo bands.  Then TypePad and WordPress and Blogger and a million other sites sprung up, and people started socially networking, and the long, drawn out, self-pitying blog posts became a constant, never-ending, mind-numbing stream of self-pitying status updates instead.  Viva progress!

Anyhow, the point is, blogging and I go way back.  I was blogging before it was cool.  I was part of a semi-exclusive club (that included the camgirl who gave me my invite).  Sometimes I'd write something moderately funny, but most times I was recounting the completely mundane.  There are only so many ways you can say you played video games all day, however, so eventually I dropped out of the game.  Besides, blogging had become too mainstream.  Hipster Matt is hipster.

When I met my friend Ashley, it was through her blog, which I had creepily stalked for several months before I made my first comment.  I recognized her from work, and her blog was the equivalent of me hiding in the bushes outside of her house, peering in at her family.  I soon realized we had many things in common (Maxinquaye FTW)and we became friends.  I also realized she was a much better writer than I was.  She could make the most mundane things hilarious and entertaining.  On the upside, I realized how much I missed blogging, so I returned - this time to this here TypePad blog - with a renewed focus.

Instead of a window into my boring life, I decided to try writing for an audience.  An audience I didn't have.  I'm under no delusions: Nobody is reading this.  You're off reading your Facebooks, and your Twitters, and watching the Tubes meant just for You, and checking out free porn.  No trip to the internet is complete with a visit to a porn site.  Er...so I've been told.  I would never look at that abominable stuff.  I am a fine, upstanding citizen. 

But in case you are actually reading this (and let's be honest, since I mentioned porn, you're thinking about it now even if you weren't before), I hope you are entertained.  Not sincerely, but I mean, I hope you at least recognize the humor.  Much like Facebook and Twitter, I find that recapping a day's events doesn't make for the most exciting content.  Who I am is not important, but what I have to say, well... That's not very important either.  But it might be funny if you have a twisted, warped, wholly inappropriate sense of humor!  If you like snarky, sarcastic, sharp wit, then I'm sure there are plenty of other blogs you could visit.  Hell, you could probably find something a lot funnier on YouTube.  Why are you here?  Who the hell are you people?!  Quit stalking me!

My blog (and likewise, my Twitter) is a vehicle for my rather strange, often offensive sense of humor - and I'm the driver.  My dirty little confession is that I have another blog - a secret blog hardly anybody knows about.  I felt like I wanted something new, as one does when they've been in a committed relationship for so long.  TypePad and I had our fun, but I felt like she had just become a gold-digger, asking for $8.95 a month for the privelege of using her.  Man, I could get all the words I needed for free over at WordPress!  My only competition for blogs is other blogs, so why not spread the love around and eventually start ignoring that one too?  One day, I will have an unused blog on every available service.  Because you gotta have goals.

The truth of the matter is that, for a while, I felt like I could not be myself on this blog.  Too many people knew about it, and I couldn't say what I wanted to say for fear of unintentionally offending someone.  Then I thought: fuck it.  Indeed, most of this blog post is an amalgamation of several posts from that other blog - as was my recent Facebook post, and my post about people who bring babies into the office, among others (because I am lazy and copy-pasting is easy).  The TypePad versions are actually longer and even more abrasive, so you're kind of getting the director's cut of those posts. 

As predicted, I stopped using that blog because I felt more uncomfortable censoring myself than I did just posting whatever I wanted here.  I pay for this blog, and I shouldn't feel obligated to write anything other than what I feel like. 

This is my blog, and very little of it is serious.  Rare exceptions aside, it's not a window into my life.  It's more like a crazed shut-in shouting obscenities at passersby through the mail slot of his front door.  If you take offense to anything on here, that's your problem, not mine.  Rest assured, I am not referring specifically to anyone.  If a post does offend you, don't bother telling me about it.  I can promise you I won't care.  If you want to pay the $9 a month for my TypePad subscription, then you can control the content.  Until that day, I'm going back to posting whatever I feel like without worrying about how it may be received. 

Nerrrrrrrrds!

I am a huge nerd.  It's something I wear like a badge of honor.  I didn't run to Hot Topic to buy ironic retro hipster t-shirts.  I don't own and frequently wear a Pac-Man shirt because I'm a poser who hopped on the nerd bandwagon.  I own a Pac-Man shirt because I fucking love Pac-Man!
 
I spent my youth in arcades and with my nose buried in fantasy books.  I played D&D, collected comic books, had elite access to BBSes before "the internet" was even a thing (or at least the thing we recognize as the internet today), and skipped school to see the Special Edition re-releases of Star Wars.  I know what THAC0 means, can tell you what the "TIE" in TIE Fighter stands for, still have the Konami Code memorized, and can tell you the significance of the blood code for the Sega Genesis version of Mortal Kombat.  I can tell you the names of the non-album b-sides to Prince's singles off-hand all the way up through The Gold Experience in 1995, and I once spent eight hours on a Saturday organizing all 600 unreleased tracks I have by year recorded.
 
I am a huge nerd, and I'm proud of it.
 
Over the course of the last decade, culture has changed so much that being a nerd is the new popular.  Think about it.  When you see a muscled-out, greasy-haired DudeBro with a tan who brags about how drunk he got the night before, what is your immediate thought.  Douchebag, right?  Those were the same kids that were popular in high school who ignored nerds like me at the best of times, and picked on them at the worst.  Now we instantly draw a line between them and the disease-ridden cast members of Jersey Shore. 
 
Being a nerd has become socially acceptable to the point where it's actually cool.  There are still extreme cases of the stereotypical anti-social basement-dwelling mole-people we used to associate the term with, but now being nerdy is so cool you have people proudly wearing Angry Birds clothing just as much as whatever designer label is fashionable this week. 
 
Some of them are just posers, to be sure, but I think it's fair to say that people have just realized that being a nerd isn't inherently derogatory and they're letting their nerd flag fly.  Guess what, if you watch football from morning until night every weekend, and you keep track of stats and teams, and especially if you play Fantasy Football - YOU ARE A FUCKING NERD!  I don't even do that shit.  Fantasy Football is D&D for guys with no imagination and little creativity.  You barely even have any say on the outcome, save what players you draft then play each week, and even that's basically just gambling.  You don't have to think out solutions to problems.  There are no swords, flails, bows, or magic spells.  There are no goblins, trolls, liches, and most importantly, there are no gelatinous cubes.  D&D has gelatinous cubes.  Advantage: D&D.  Fantasy sports players are glorified statisticians, and that makes you nerds.
 
What's that, Mr. Macho?  You're really into cars?  Congratulations, nerd!  You know what I know about cars?  Gas makes you go, brake makes you stop.  Gas goes in the little hole in the side of my car, I need to change my oil every 5,000 miles or so, make sure my tires have air in them, I know how to operate the wipers and the radio.  That's all I need to know.  If you start spewing facts about gear ratios and horsepower and filters and whatever else, you are a giant nerd and you may as well be speaking another language to me.
 
The point of this is not to degrade or insult those who are into sports, or cars, or music, or movies, or video games, or comic books, or traditional art like painting and sculpture, or anything else.  The point is that everybody is a nerd about something, bar none.  There is not a single person on this earth that doesn't have some obsessive passion for at least one thing.  Maybe you're really into maps and cartography.  Nerd.  Maybe you're a linguist and you love reading and writing.  Nerd.  Maybe you're a World War II history buff and you eat up every documentary, every movie, and every book about the subject.  NERRRRRRD!  Maybe you love building things.  Maybe you're so good with your hands and tools that you could build an entire house from the ground up if you wanted to.  I commend your skills, but you're still a nerd - you're just a nerd with power tools.  Oh, you play guitar?  Nerd.  I tried to play guitar, drums, and piano and failed at all of them because I didn't have the passion and dedication required to get good at them.  Anyone who invests that much time to learn, and especially master and instrument is a nerd.
 
I have had this argument with my brother and he has tried to spin it to tell me that his hobbies aren't as nerdy as mine.  I beg to differ.  He used to keep track of every Red Wings and Pistons game on looseleaf paper, with period-by-period breakdowns of scoring and penalties and even using different color ink to represent the two teams.  He collected hockey cards - including minor leagues - well into his 20s, organizing players by team and shuffling them around when traded, signed, or released.  I'm sorry, bro, I hate to break it to you, but you are a nerd and that behavior is no less nerdy than me playing video games just because it involves sports.  What I don't get is why you'd feel ashamed of the label.  Own it.  Revel in it, as I do.  If you're proud of who you are, other people can't use it against you.  If someone calls me a nerd, I smile and say, "thank you!"
 
There are most assuredly different types of nerds, and some people are nerdier than others.  I am more of what you'd consider the Traditional Nerd.  I'm an old schooler - an O.G., Original Geekster, if you will.  I'm a Nerd Prime.  Lesser nerds tremble before me and my obscure references to past Simpsons episodes.  They fear quoting movies around me, for they know I will correct even the slightest misquotation and bring shame upon their house, and they don't dare argue with me about video game history.  I will smite them with my army of BioShock figurines!  They stare at my shelf of DragonLance and other fantasy books as if it were the monolith from 2001: A Space Odyssey - both fascinating and terrifying all at the same time.
 
You get the idea. 
 
There are a lot of posers out there, but you know what?  Who cares.  Welcome to the party, enjoy your stay.  Some will leave for the next big party, but maybe some will be converted and acknowledge their inner-nerdiness forevermore, and I will welcome them to the flock with open arms. 
 
I'm proud to say I'm a nerd.  I've never tried to be anything else, and not many people can say that.  I've never worried about fitting in, and I'm lucky that I've met some like-minded people who've done the same and are equally proud of their nerdy heritage.  To the members of the Popular Crowd, beware.  We outnumber you, and while you may be stronger from years of working out every day (*cough*nerd*cough*) and eating healthy, we are armed with medieval weapons and plastic lightsabers.  You may run, but like a shambling horde of smelly zombies in sci-fi t-shirts, we will eventually corner you.  There's nowhere to run, nowhere to hide - especially because we're good with technology.  Nerd culture is here to stay, and if you're not afraid now, you will be.  YOU WILL BE...
 
(Yes, that was a Yoda reference.  Because I am a huge nerd.)

The Horror of Bacon Candy

"I have something for you," my friend texted me this morning.  "Can you come to my office in 5?" 

"Sure," I replied.  "Just give me the signal."

When I arrived in her office, she handed me a container that looked like your average Chinese takeout box.  I was momentarily excited because, as a fat man, I love Chinese food.  I was a little disheartened when she told me it wasn't a quart of fried rice, but what are you gonna do?  Instead, the box contained this:

No, your eyes do not deceive you.  That is bacon-flavored candy, appropriately called Bacon Candy.  She laughed and clapped with glee upon seeing my reaction, which could best be described as elation.  Two of my favorite things combined - sweet, delicious, sugary, fattening candy and salty, meaty, fattening bacon!  Twas a dream come true!

Returning to my desk, I shared the gift proudly with my coworker, informing him I would embark upon the Bacon Candy experience in short order.  But then the logical part of my brain kicked in.  What if Bacon Candy was terrible?  That couldn't be, could it?  Bacon and candy go together like peanut butter and jelly, chocolate and caramel, alcohol and fat girls!  God would never let that happen, for surely this was a gift from the heavens!  I am of the opinion that bacon makes everything better.  There was no way Bacon Candy could disappoint!

With some trepidation, I unwrapped the first of twelve individually wrapped, unassuming pieces.  They looked harmless enough, almost like a peppermint candy cane or those candies that have been stuck to the inside of grandma's candy bowl for an indeterminate amount of time and have coalesced into one giant sticky mess that lifts the bowl up with it when you try to grab one.  Popping it into my mouth, my beautiful dream turned into a horrible nightmare.

Bacon Candy is a misleading name for this product, because both words sound like something you would want to eat.  Despite the tin's claim of "Superior Bacon Flavor!" that was "Smoky!", "Sweet!", "Tasty!", and "Meaty!", Bacon Candy exhibited none of these traits.  After tasting it, I no longer believe in God.

My coworkers laughed at my pain as I struggled to keep the atrocity in my mouth for more than ten seconds before finally relenting and spitting it into my garbage can and downing a bottle of water in almost as many seconds in the hopes it would wash the vile taste out - a hope I quickly discovered was false.  Twenty minutes later and after eating a peppermint candy cane I CAN STILL TASTE IT!  I can even taste it in my NOSE when I breathe.  It's sort of like that horribly bitter taste that remains in your mouth after drinking coffee, but far, far worse.  I'm not sure how best to describe it, for there are no words in our language or any other that could accurately relay the horror.  It's like the Cthulhu of candies - unspeakably grotesque and evil beyond imaginging.  Lovecraft, on his best day, could not have written a story as frightful as my experience with Bacon Candy.

This is the most awful thing I've ever put into my mouth, and I've tried vegitarian bacon.  I didn't think it could get much worse than those flat strips of soy "painted" an odd reddish-purple hue in a misguided attempt to resemble real meat.  Vegitarian bacon is what I imagine it must be like to eat construction paper if you sprinkled salt on it.  It was so gross it actually stuck to the plate it was cooked on and had to be scraped off just to take a bite, yet somehow - almost inconceivably - Bacon Candy is worse.

I can only conclude that my friend hates me and was trying to kill me. 

The Power of Self-Doubt

Self-doubt is a powerful thing.  It's a powerful, horrible, and incredibly irritating thing.

I have a love/hate relationship with writing.  It has been a dream of mine to be a novelist for more than half my life, dating back to my love affair with fantasy novels and video games.  My early attempts were little more than derivative knockoffs of existing works or really bad adaptations of video game stories.  Over the years, my writing and my vocabulary have improved and matured, but what has not followed suit are my self-confidence and my motivation.

I never finish anything.  This stems from my innate ability to doubt myself, even under the best circumstances.  I could show my work to dozens of people and receive unanimous praise, but I still wouldn't be satisfied.  My self-doubt is so great, it's practically a superpower. 

Very few people have ever been privy to my attempts at serious writing.  In fact, I think the number currently sits at one.  She's someone I respect greatly and whose opinion I value, both as a friend and an exceptional writer herself, yet when she tells me I have "mad writing skillz" and that my work is great, I brush off her compliments and assume she's placating me.

Last night I was going through some of my half-finished works and I realized something: I was actually pleased with a lot of it.  As I re-read one particular story for the umpteenth time, it struck me that I was simply reading it.  Not editing it, apart from a few spelling and grammatical errors I noticed, or fixing minor plotholes, and not changing it drastically.  This is atypical when proofreading myself.  Like George Lucas, I am never happy with my work and am constantly changing it, and it could be debated whether it's for better or worse. 

While reading said story, a flood of ideas came to me and I found myself excited briefly, but there was one thing that kept nagging at me: It's not my idea. 

The story in question is based on a concept from David Bowie.

In 1995, Bowie released an album titled Outside.  Originally the first part of a planned trilogy, the album's initial critical and commercial failure ultimately led to the project apparently being abandoned (no mention of the follow ups, Contamination or Afrikaan, has been made since 2003, and Bowie has released several albums since). 

The album's liner notes contained a short story, written by Bowie himself, detailing the phenomenon of Art-Crime, an underground craze where murder and mutilation have become a somewhat legitimate form of art.  It was the lead character's job to determine what was categorized as legal and illegal. 

Seeing potential for a great story, I took this concept and ran with it, began to flesh it out.  My story deals with themes of xenophobia, censorship, loneliness and companionship, our primal urges, and the decline of society.  The depravity of Art-Crime has been accepted by a section of the populace, while others have begun to view all art - music, film, books, sculpture, painting, even culinary arts, etc. - as destestable.  It's a somewhat (OK, considerably) dark social commentary about where we could be headed wrapped up in a grim science fictiony story.

I do not write linearly.  I usually start with the ending, or at least a rough outline of one, so I know where I want the story to go, but then I jump around and write random sections, eventually piecing them all together in order.  As I was editing three sections together last night, surprisingly pleased with myself, I still found myself thinking, This will never get published.

My reasons for thinking this are numerous: 1. It's not my idea, and I have a feeling David Bowie isn't exactly easy to get ahold of; 2. It's good for me, but it's not good; 3. I'll never finish it as a direct result of items 1 and 2.

It's like a roundabout, in that it's an unending circle and it's stupid.  If Stephanie Meyer can get that garbage called Twilight published, anything should be possible, right?  But in the end, the story will most likely sit on my hard drive, doomed to the same fate as the other dozen or so that reside there and have for many, many years (in some cases, even being transferred from old computers to new ones).  Why?  Because I doubt myself, and nothing anybody says ever seems to change that. 

Fatman & Blobbin'

I'm fat.

That's right, I said it.  I'm a Fatty McFatFat.  I know it, and even though you're probably too polite to agree, you know it too.  And you know what?  I'm OK with that.

You see, I'm on the Happiness Diet.  I eat what I want, and I'm happy.  It may not do wonders for my cholesterol, but that's why Lipitor was invented!  Viva Lipitor! 

There are times, however, just little fleeting, temporary moments when I feel shame.  Usually, it's when other people point it out and I'm forced to hang my head like a scolded dog.  Then I roll my shame in caramel and powdered sugar and I eat that too.

It might surprise you to learn that I often skip eating lunch.  I'd like to tell you it's because I'm just not hungry, but we all know that would never, ever be true.  Sometimes it's because I don't want to spend the money, but most of the time it's because I'm simply too lazy to go anywhere.  If I vacate my premium, early-morning parking space, some asshole will inevitably take it, which just makes me have to walk my fat ass even farther when I re-enter the building and when I leave at the end of the day.  So you see, in a roundabout way, I don't eat because I'm fat and lazy.

One night Deborah and I went to Texas Roadhouse, which was one of her favorite restaurants.  I ordered my usual chicken critters, which are really just chicken tenders with a slightly off-putting name that suggests they're some sort of mutant chicken creature.  Typically, Texas Roadhouse's entrees are on the hefty side, but this was one of those days where I hadn't eaten lunch and I polished off my plate.  Stuffed and satisfied, the waitress returned to our table and offered this observation, "Wow!  I've never seen anyone eat the whole plate before!"  Which is the same as saying, "Wow, you ate the whole plate, fatass!"

Thanks, waitress!  Thanks for your candor!  That was awesome the way you took away my dignity like that, ha ha ha...  Let's see how much of your tip I take away in return!  One dollar, two dollars, three dollars...

Part of my problem is my lack of self-control.  And my love of bacon.  And cheese.  But mostly my lack of self-control.  I cannot resist certain things.  If there is chocolate involved, chances are 100% I will accept it.  You could offer me chocolate covered testicles and I'd be like, "But there is chocolate, right?"

So when a coworker's birthday rolled around, she brought in a cake to share with the office.  She went to everyone's desk and asked them if they wanted a piece.  She got to my desk and said, "You want a piece of cake, don't you, Matt?"  Note the assumption.  She saw a fat guy, trying to pretend he wasn't as excited as a kid at Christmas when he spotted cake coming his way, and essentially said, "You want this, don't you, fatty?"  Shame.  I was shamed.  Shamed and offended!

(I took the cake.  But I frowned while doing so.*)

(*I did not frown.  I was too busy eating cake.)

I used to be skinny.  At one time.  Many, many moons ago.  If you don't believe me, here is proof (blurry proof, but proof nonetheless):

 
Unfortunately, we had to say goodbye to the old Matt after he was eaten by the new Matt, along with the person whose arm is in the photo. 

This Weekend Only - Lolz, 2-for-1

I came to the realization that I am horribly out of shape.  How did I reach this conclusion?  I've been limping for two days as a result of the limited physical activity of this past weekend.

I'd like to tell you that I'm sore because I ran a marathon, or I played a bunch of basketball.  Maybe I went to the gym and worked out, or did something remarkably cool and masculine like wrestling a tiger.  But the truth of the matter is that I'm sore because I went bowling.  That's it.  Just bowling.   No, I wasn't running down the lanes, diving head first into the pins either.  The ball was just a regular ball, not made out of wrought iron or anything.  Strangely enough, it's my right thigh that hurts and not my arm or shoulder.

This seems like a sign that I should probably do more physical activity.  In case it's been a while for you, let me remind you that bowling requires little more than walking three or four steps and hurling a ball down a greased wooden lane.  You can weigh 350 pounds and still bowl, not to mention be good at it!  I'm about 5'10", weigh 220 pounds and I bowled less than 100 for 2 out of the 3 games, and now I'm hobbling around like a 4,000-year-old-man with arthritis.

As amusing as this may be to some of you (myself included), nothing can top the second half of the story.  You see, I was invited bowling by some friends, who invited some of their other friends as well.  One of these friends is a pretty cute female, who also just happens to live about a mile away from me.  She seemed like a sweet enough person, so I decided I'd send her a friend request on Facebook, which is normally harmless.

That is until two days later when I realized that I'd changed my profile picture on Facebook to this:

For those of you who don't watch The Tonight Show with Conan O'Brien, allow me to explain:
Conan took a trip to a celebrity wax museum where most of the sculptures bore only a passing resemblance to the celebrities they were supposed to be.  The two shown here are Henry Winkler as The Fonz, and Tom Cruise in an oversized suit with a creepy permanent grin.  Instead of placing The Fonz in his signature thumbs up "Heyyy" stance, the sculptor decided it would be easier to just have his hand hang in mid-air and Conan observed that it looked like he was finishing up at a urinal.  He purchased both statues and for several nights has had them reappear throughout the studio, always with Tom Cruise leering suggestively at The Fonz as he does his business.

So imagine, if you will, receiving a friend request from someone you barely know and whose profile picture appears to be a man watching another man urinate.  Something tells me my request is not going to be approved.

Go ahead and laugh.  It's funny.  In fact, when it occurred to me this morning I burst out laughing at a friend's desk, prompting them to look at me as though I were insane (which I may very well be since it did not occur to me BEFOREHAND to change my profile picture back to something more suitable).  I might almost be mad at myself if it weren't so Goddamn funny.

Like the Detroit Lions, I always find a way to screw up in the most hilarious way possible!

Update: It should be noted that after this post was typed, said female actually sent me a friend request, which has since been accepted.  Apparently, she did not get my request - which is probably a good thing in hindsight.  So I dodged a bullet, which is an incredible feat since I was attempting to shoot myself in the foot.