The online home for all content and editorial from Strike Magazine.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
How Memes Will Ruin Your Life
by Brian Heissenbuttel
Memes. Not
everybody knows about them, but I feel sorry for those who do. If you don’t,
let me give you a brief introduction.
Memes are
internet comics running through the domains memebase.com and mainly
cheezburger.com. With a Z. Because some people don’t know how to spell. Anyway,
they are usually comic strips made with MS Paint that feature poorly drawn
stick figures partaking in idiotic escapades with no real point at the end. The
highlight of all memes is an appearance from one of the repeated faces: “Y U
No,” “Me Gusta,” “Trollface,” “Bitch Please,” and so on. And to make the
selection even more interesting, most of the comics feature a character
watching porn, masturbating, smoking weed, or on her period. No wonder all
these comic writers are “Forever Alone.”
At this
point, a lot of you may be thinking that this is just another useless website
on the internet. If you like memes, you’ll hate what I have to say next. I
don’t want to sound like a cheesy activist, but memes have a derogatory effect
on people and following them will ruin your life. If you look in-depth at the
“cheezburger family,” each and every subpage will contribute to your future job
as the chief fryer at Burger King.
The first
suggestion is “Memebase.” This page is full of comics about people fapping to
porn and not caring about life. Odds are, following this stream of eternally
useless comics will have you doing at least one of those three actions. The
second is called “This Is Photobomb.” Would you like to take a guess what goes
here? Photobombs. Every freaking time. If someone finds a picture on there that
is original, tell me and I will recommend that cheezburger member for the Nobel
Prize. The next is called “Very Demotivational,” because exactly what you want
after a long, hard day at school or work is a comic strip that will make you
even more depressed. “Graph Jam” is full of useless, unproven statistics.
“Señor GIF” should be renamed, “Señor you won’t find anything because this will
crash whatever browser you’re using.” Later in the page is “Go Cry Emo Kid” for
all you heartless sadists out there. I could go on and describe all 11 other
pages, but I’d hate to offend the no-life idiots who dreamt this whole website
up any more than I already have.
I’m not just
writing this to assert my rage against the whole cheezburger and memebase
network. The fact of the matter is that the website is full of stupid,
irrelevant comic strips that glorify the idea of a minimum-wage illegal-drug
filled lifestyle. If you want to see stupid irrelevant comic strips that exist
only to be stupid and irrelevant, check out “Cyanide & Happiness” on
explosm.net. It’ll give you a laugh once in awhile and won’t push you into the
gutters of society.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Expedition Journals #2
These are the expedition logs of Larson J. Pendelton Ross the III esquire, Archduke of Canterbury.
Transcribed into modern day English by Larson Ross, descendent of the Archduke.
He was traveling the arctic in search of the legendary Japanese Pandacorn, whose horn he was going to use to make a potent aphrodisiac, with his trusty team of explorer/servants. The most notable of the group, besides the archduke himself, was Jeremy, a ten year old lizard boy taken from the Amazon Rainforest.
September 11, 1885:
The tobacco for my pipe has run out; I have seldom smoked on this venture, so I suspect one of the crew has been stealing it. We’re gaining ground on the pandacorn, but I can’t shake the feeling that something is stalking us like a fat Belgian stalks the cart of a cake merchant, hoping for something to roll loose.September 12, 1885:
I awoke this morning, brushing off the various seal pups that had gathered around the crew at some point during the night; a few mewling in protest. As I stretched, I was shocked to see some specks of tobacco on Johnson’s jacket. The traitor! If he is willing to take my tobacco, who knows what else he is capable of? Talking back to me, perhaps? I shall not sleep soundly tonight, I’m as nervous as an upper class man taking a carriage through an upper-middle class part of town.
September 13, 1885:
Stephanie gave me an ultimatum today: Light a fire to warm us all, (and in the process keeping Jeremy alive, something I want less and less as time goes by.) or she would leave the expedition. She knew that I would soon go insane without her witty banter and willingness to engage in gentlemanly brawls, something that I refuse to record in these journals due to their feminine qualities, so I agreed. As a result, we now have no sled, and Jeremy remains frustratingly alive; I could almost taste that roast lizard-boy.
September 14, 1885:
We made little progress today, due to the lack of a sled. The thoughts of eating Jeremy are further from my mind now, as his lizard eyes give me those cute, cold-blooded gazes. His playful nature is reminding me why I brought him in the first place. Also, there is no way to roast him now, as we used all the wood from the sled. I, as the finest of gentry, would never consider consuming raw sentient creature! I would only eat one if it had been properly cooked in a civilized manner.
September 15, 1885:
The pandacorn is closer than ever, I can almost feel my mutton chops tingle. Despite our forthcoming victory, moral is low, because the jerky is finally gone. There were even more seal pups gathered around us this morning, and Johnson suggested eating one. As a counter offer, I suggested eating him; the group was silent after that. I am very curious as to why we have seen no adult seals.
September 16, 1885:
Our second foodless day began, and I can see Johnson eyeing the pups with the same gaze as a wolf stalking a fat German child. More of my tobacco has gone missing, and I am growing tired of Johnson’s petty theft. I would confront him, but surely an upper-class gentleman cannot be expected to chastise such a giant, muscular, armed middle-class individual. I shall get Jeremy to do it.
September 17, 1885:
I awoke to a horrid sight: Johnson holding the body of a seal pup, his face covered in blood. I struck the corpse from his hands, and yelled, “Johnson, you fool! You’ve doomed us all!”
“What? All I did was consumed this creature, we haven’t eaten in days, what else was I supposed to do?!” Johnson rebutted. Stephanie and Jeremy had been awakened by the commotion and were staring at us as the ice beneath our feet began to crack.
“What’s happening?!” Johnson screeched, in a tone not unlike a small girl protesting the loss of her favorite toy. Suddenly, a great, grey beast broke through the ice, and let out a guttural bark. We panicked and began to run as more and more of these creatures sprung up from below. I saw my opportunity; I threw my knife and it found its place firmly in Johnson’s leg. He fell, and the seals descended upon him. The rest of us ran as far as our legs could carry us from the scene.
September 18, 1885:
The seals are far behind us, and I shall sleep soundly knowing that my tobacco is secure.
September 19, 1885:
How embarrassing, I found in my pack this morning the meat of the yeti that I had skinned. I laughed and laughed at this oversight as Stephanie and Jeremy glared at me with cold, hard stares.
Monday, May 14, 2012
The Black Keys North American El Camino Tour is Here!
By Brett Stewart
 |
| The Keys will hit on a lot of Deep Tracks |
Having waited in line for about two hours, it felt amazing to rush the 1st Bank Center in Broomfield, Colorado, to try to get as close as possible to the stage; we had to claim our territory. Promptly at 7:30, a surprisingly sober Alex Turner graced the stage, opening with the Monkey’s “Brianstorm,” their famous song about really hating a guy named Brian. With good reason too, I mean, come on, he wears t-shirts and ties. Upon the first note of “Brianstorm”, it was clear this was going to be a rock concert to remember. Likely having little regard for the audience, the Monkeys insisted on as many strobes as the center could muster, so it was quite the experience as Turner bolted around the stage with his showman antics. The Arctic Monkeys were actually a highlight of the show for me, being a huge fan, they performed their hits beautifully. They made sure to touch on newer content from “Suck it and See,” but they also jammed to much of “Humbug” and songs like “Crying Lightning” and “Pretty Visitors” were pleasant surprises. To the crowd’s pleasure, the band also makes sure to touch on their mega-hits, “R U Mine” and “I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor.” The experience will be memorable for Arctic Monkeys fans.
An hour and a half later, The Black Keys entered behind a large white curtain, illuminated by halogen lights to display their shadows as they walked from behind the stage to their positions. Being a two person band, the Keys put Patrick’s drums parallel to Dan’s center stage setup, instead of the traditional back stage drum setup. Patrick is probably one of the best drummers you will see live. He’s mind blowing, I’m shocked he didn’t pass out half way through the concert.
The Keys will touch on most of “El Camino,” and much to my surprise, they actually eliminated popular songs like “Gold on the Ceiling” very early in the show. After “El Camino” they get into a lot of deep tracks. It’s probably fair to say that half of the concert is actually deep tracks, as Dan blasts out his blues riffs from one of many Fender Jaguars he seems to take to. It’s fantastic the Keys are actually getting into these tracks, they never got their time in the limelight like songs from “Brothers” and “El Camino” did.
An hour and a half after they took the stage, the Keys promptly hopped off. The next fifteen minutes were the longest and loudest encore call I’ve ever heard. This made the encore call for Paul McCartney seem like a busy grocery store. Eventually after fifteen minutes of chanting, and me half wishing I had worn earplugs like my friends had, the Keys finally got back onto the stage to finish with their two or three encore songs. Most notable was the final song, “Everlasting Light,” in which two giant disco balls come down from the rafters to shoot colored dots around the entire room. It was visually spectacular, and a phenomenal encore.
It’s amazing the Keys went from recording in a basement to filling stadiums within a decade. This tour is not something to miss, whether you be a Keys fan, Monkeys fan, or a blues rock fan. In fact, I can’t think of anything negative to say about the show, aside from the Monkeys maybe including major tracks like “Suck it and See” and “Fluorescent Adolescent” in favor for deep tracks. Regardless, that didn’t detract, both bands played their hearts out and the concert was a memorable experience. See this tour.
Blueberry Fever
by Brian Heissenbuttel
The
Nissan Juke, a.k.a. the “Blueberry,” is one of the best cars available for
purchase today. I mean, Nissan is practically the Lamborghini of Japan, meaning
you will never be embarrassed in a drag race against a skimpy Corvette.
In
comparison to several other vehicles, the Juke is one of the most fantastic
machines ever made by man. The fuel economy is staggering. 27 miles per gallon
doesn’t sound like much, but compare it to a M1 Abrams tank and you’ll go 36
times further on every gallon! What a bargain! And don’t think it ends there;
the Juke is insanely agile. The standard Nimitz class aircraft carrier has a
turning radius of one mile, almost 5240 feet larger than that of the Juke. Not
even a mouse could turn tighter! The final figure that should sway all readers
in favor of the Juke is the price. The base model, the Juke S, costs $19,990.
Sure, that may be a lot for a car, but any customer could buy 1,650 Jukes for
the price of one Wally118 yacht. I would rather have 1,650 Nissans. Customers
could still get 1,396 of the most expensive model with satellite navigation,
and … that’s about it. Huh.
Even
without comparison, the Nissan is one thoroughly brilliant automobile. The
mind-blowing 1.4 Litre Nissan HR inline-4 engine, combined with a brilliant and
not at all unnecessary turbocharger produces a fantastic 112 horsepower
maximum. Not even a Ferrari Enzo has that much horsepower! And that’s not a lie
at all! Okay, maybe it is, but you get my point.
The
Juke is also safe, and not in a satirical way. The Juke was an IIHS top safety
pick in 2011. This means that if you hit a tree REALLY hard, you won’t even get
a bloody nose! Why else would you have a seatbelt? Sadly, your car will be
totally trashed, and if you didn’t know that already then find a doctor.
Not
only that, it is also very roomy in there. It’s a high-riding vehicle, which
means there is a lot of headroom. It has five seats, so…yeah. Good car.
So
all you big wigs look away from the Porsches, Mercedes, and Audis. And all you
youthful drivers ignore the used dealerships that try to sell you anything
else. Go to your local Nissan dealership and get on the bandwagon with this
revolutionary line of automobiles.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Why I Hate Comcast
By Brett Stewart
For about two weeks now, every few hours my internet shuts down for a half hour or so, and it always shuts down at the worst possible times. When I call Comcast, I get directed to a voice message that says, “Hello, we are experiencing an outage at your address. We are aware of the issue and technicians will fix the issue in the next four hours. There is no need to call again, press one for a return call when this problem has been fixed.” Here’s what this message says to me as the consumer, “Yeah, we know your internet is down. We don’t really care, so please stop calling us.”
After listening to this message half a dozen times this week, I called Comcast to schedule an appointment for them to come out and fix the issue. Having clearly scheduled the appointment on Saturday, Comcast of course, showed up on Sunday. The clearly incompetent repair man then asked me questions like, “So, uh, what does your box do when your offline?” He then tells us the service in our area is from a cable running 200 feet down the line of houses I live in, and their solution is to replace this cable with a new one. Of course, this cable is a few days away, so they reset my box, forcing me to go through their annoying process of installing their bloatware onto my computer in order to get back on the internet, which is still crashing like clockwork, by the way.
Upon calling Comcast about the issue, I get connected to an outsourced call center where someone who’s name is obviously not “John” insists on telling me there is no problem that he is aware of. Keep in mind that being an outsourced call, I had to ask him to repeat things a multitude of times, and he almost accidentally signed me up for HBO. Finally, he tells me to check the outage information on Comcast.net.
....Really?
If Comcast didn’t monopolize my entire area, I would switch to anything in a heartbeat. I’m fairly certain using dial-up would be more reliable method of checking my emails than using Comcast, and I’m talking about the 1996 dial-up, the kind of dial-up where you get a complementary modem that sets on fire after a week and you have to triangulate six different phone numbers to your position to get it to work, so it comes with a map and a compass. That’s better than Comcast.
Now I just have to wait for my internet to come back online so I can post this.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Gamin: A Short Story
 |
| Augusta Savage was a Harlem Renaissance sculptor, depicting the struggles of the inner city gamin, or black poor boy. |
Gamin
Joe Redmond
Inspired by Augusta Savage
His brow hot and gleaming in the
sunlight, the boy hoisted himself up the tall chain-link fence. Behind him, the
faint twangs of the slick black buggies could be heard echoing across the wide,
draughted field. The links ratted in waves as he ascended the metal barrier.
The four-string banjo strapped to his back protested his violent movements. He
had a song, a song about the sweatshop from which he came. The song rattled
itself through his developing cranium, notes persisting as they collided with
the edges of his skull. He had to play. He just had to.
As he reached the top of the
fence, the energy to leap built from his toes through his thighs. Like a
bullfrog hopping to catch his prey, the boy flew through the air to the
yellowed grass below. Impact. Looking up from beneath his cap, his eyes
sprawled forth upon the open space before him. A slight breeze tussled the hair
that was the tall, dry grass stretching across. Wide steel train tracks branded
across the land, intersecting and diverging. A quaint tin shack was laid out
before him: home, possibly. Anything was better than where he came from.
The cool afternoon sun was
beginning the breach the smooth horizon, its beams warming the boy’s slick
coffee neck. He smoothed out his wrinkled shirt. It was his nicest one, too.
What a difference that had made. His tender hands re-formed the neat fold of
his unbuttoned collar. Collecting his composure, he straightened his back, and
fixed the strap of his banjo across his shoulder.
His banjo. In a sudden move of
panic, he moved to inspect his delicate instrument. The neck was cracked in his
hands; each of the four strings dangled limply from each end. It hadn’t
survived the impact of his violent jump.
The distant timbre of a train’s
horn sounded through his ears. The boy lifted his damp eyes from his forsaken
banjo. Away, he thought. He had to get away. He had to get home.
Silently, the boy set down his
banjo, his pride. He was always on the run. No matter how hard he tried to
impress and passers-by in the streets, they never appreciated his music. It
always sounded out of tune, they told him. But not to him. He heard it as
clearly as a waft of air after a long rain storm.
He needed food, shelter. No one
ever helped him. Mom and dad couldn’t. Maybe the train would. Maybe the train
would provide him shelter. Just maybe. Maybe he was delirious, but the train
seemed to slow down with his heart beat as it approached. Lethargically, the
train passed. His mind was brought back to the talkie he had seen once with his
grandmother just three days before. The reel sputtered and the frame flicked
across the screen as the people talking through the frame slowed down their
movements, their very liveliness. The screen, after that, went black and his
grandmother took him home.
Home.
He was on the train. The rickety
wooden floor of the box car welcomed him with subtle tremors increasing in
frequency. The sweat on his collar began to cool in the shade. The song still
rattled in his thoughts, but he was without his music. He tried to forget it. An
old, darkened man sat in the shadows. His scruffy voice projected from over his
grey beard:
“Keep runnin’, boy. Keep
runnin’. The path this train is on is a long one. It winds through plains and mountains,
forests and cities. Your home is somewhere on this track. Now, don’t you forget
when to get off. You shant miss it.”
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