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1:36 PM on 10.29.2014  

Dreamweaver inspired this blog.

Hello Dtoid. The charming zombie character I created is going to shut up for a minute because I need to spill some real talk. Some hot fire. Some mad education.

I feel confident saying most of you fit in one or more of the following categories: In your early or mid 20s. Male. American. Hating your job. Easily bored. Lacking motivation.

If you're not in those categories, cool. Run along and keep living out your dreams. Otherwise stick around, cuz I got stuff to say.

You don't have to let the world flash by. You don't have to sit in those lecture halls taking generals for a degree you're not sure you need. If you're in college and are studying something that's not a hard science with the guarantee of a job at the end of those four years, your degree is probably useless. College is merely a certificate of trainability. Most of the learning you do will occur outside of classes.

Parties, sex, breakups, hangovers, food poisoning, that's the real education. That's where you need to start, but since our society is based around you being a little worker bee who puts the cheese and pickles on the burger before passing it to your coworker who does the ketchup and mustard, all you've been taught is how to obey. How to learn dates and numbers and to raise your hand if you have something important to say.

Yes, I'm saying everything you learned is a lie. But that's okay. You can use that. It makes you stronger. Overcoming bullshit makes you stronger, and anybody who can overcome all the stupid bullshit that gets thrown at young people in 21st century America is going to be strong. A lot of people are going to drown in the bullshit river. Not everyone is going to make it across. I'm not across yet, but I think I can see the other side.

It's a big fucking river.

So you graduate high school having read stuff like the Call of the Wild. Then you get to college and read stuff like Gatsby and Othello. I'm not knocking that stuff, Gatsby is my favorite book, but your teachers and parents have failed you. They have failed you because they've not taught you the things you need to fucking know in order to go be an adult. They haven't even given you books or resources that will let you find the info on your own.

You need to know to put lube inside and outside of the condom. You need to know that sometimes the best way to handle aggressive douchebags is by sharing a drink with them (though not always). You need to know that bedbugs are a MOTHERFUCKER to get rid of. You need to know that Laphroaig Quarter Cask is some fantastic scotch. You need to know that eating a pot brownie will make you see the music, but you also need to know that psychedelics are not party drugs. You need to know that too much Coca Cola will likely give you kidney stones. You need to learn how to fight constructively with your significant other. You need to be scared for your fucking life. You need to swim a little too far out in the ocean and fight like a motherfucker to get back to shore.

If you're a bleeding heart like I was, you need to see that some people actively WANT to suffer. You can't help everyone. You can't change anybody's mind through your words unless they're already open to changing themselves.

And there are a million other things you still need to learn, and I probably need to learn more than you do. You're probably way ahead of me.

Maybe this blog belongs on r/circlejerk. Whatever. If it helps someone a tiny bit, that's great. Anyway, I've seen a lot of angst on Dtoid, likely because the majority of us are caught between doing what we want and doing what we think other people want us to do. Maybe you went to college because your parents want you to become a teacher like them. Maybe you're going to inherit the family vodka factory but you really want to have a tequila factory. I don't know. The point of this blog is the following. It's a list of names you need to get familiar with right fucking now.

Robert Greene. Steven Pressfield. Daniele Bolelli. Dan Savage. Joe Rogan. Amber Lyon. Aubrey Marcus. James Altucher.

Almost all of them have podcasts. Almost all of them have written fantastic books.

 

Tl;dr, buy Mastery by Robert Greene. Buy The War of Art by Steven Pressfield. Download every episode of the Drunken Taoist podcast. Do those three things right now. If you can delve into the works of all the above names, do it.

Quit college if it's not right for you. Do dangerous things. Kick your ass into gear. I'm [email protected] if you have specific questions that you don't want to discuss in public.

Love you, Dtoid.

And always remember not to molest the alligators.

  read


3:11 PM on 10.18.2014  

The most important thing on the internet.

Yes, yes. Lots of scandal. So many SadBoners.

 

In other news, here's a comedy:

That picture is more important than your shitty scandal-of-the-week.

 

Also that one.

 

 

Your leader,

Zombie Orwell

  read


2:34 PM on 05.24.2014  

10 things they don't want you to know about Jet Set Radio

Hey Dtoid. Let's face it: this website is obviously run by Illuminati Bilderberg New World Order Knights Templar Masons. I mean, c'mon; pretty obvious, right? Niero killed JFK by transforming himself into several bullets. What a maniac!

Well, apart from that, there are other things THEY don't want you to know. Hamza will never admit it, but his check is written out by Donald Rumsfeld. And he only gets paid if he eats one baby per news item on the front page.

There are also OTHER other things THEY don't want you to know. Those things are about Jet Set Radio.

1. It was made hundreds of years ago in Spain by people who said “let's make a videogame and also let's torture people who aren't Catholics.”

2. A million bumblebees die everyday from lack of opposable thumbs with which to play Jet Set Radio

3. The real reason all the Star Wars Expanded Universe stuff was made non canon was to place it in the Jet Set Radio universe.

4. Jet Set Radio fan fiction. Write some for me. Make it either hyperviolent or hypersexual. Or both. I want JSR erotica and JSR snuff books. Also, I want cigarettes and tequila branded with JSR. Do this now or I will devour everyone you love. Don't fucking test me.

5. The soundtrack was composed by angels being given the best orgasms of their lives.

6. JSR is the most popular videogame ever.

7. The Illuminati are actually controlled by the Bilderbergs, who once were controlled by the CIA, who once had an agent infiltrate (and subsequently recruit everyone in) the Knights Templar. Also, the Masons did all the terrorism. Building 7

8. That last one wasn't about JSR. But it actually was. THEY just don't want you to know that.

9. Here's a pic of a cow:

(I love clicking "insert" to put a photo in a blog. It's even more sexier when cows are involved)

10. Fellatio was invented by The-Latest-Media-Scapegoat-Who-Got-Caught-Being-Racist-In-Private.

11. GULF OF TONKIN!!!!

12. The cereal called Kellogg's was invented by a guy with that last name. He made it bland and shitty so people wouldn't masturbate. I say we must all fap in resistance. Even if we don't want to. We owe six faps per week to the poor assholes who came before us thinking that if they jerked it, god would piss on their graves.

Your leader,
Zombie Orwell


Go read some books:

Kilonova Complex: Episode 1
http://www.amazon.com/Kilonova-Complex-Episode-Brandon-Springer-ebook/dp/B00J6N7RDU

Kilonova Complex: Episode 2
http://www.amazon.com/Kilonova-Complex-Episode-Brandon-Springer-ebook/dp/B00JOPQBCI/

How To Write Naked
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00KFOZAJW

Sweet Hot American Trash
http://www.amazon.com/Sweet-American-Trash-Morgan-Stirling-ebook/dp/B00KFOZC7M/


Have a podcast:

Mexico: History and Resistance itunes page:
https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/mexico-history-resistance/id812719884?mt=2
direct feed: http://mexicohistorypodcast.libsyn.com/rss   read


10:56 PM on 05.10.2014  

Pictures of cows

This is where I introduce the blog.

Hello everybody. This is a special blog made spontaneously for the Dzord.

Lately there has been a lot of sadness and angst and hostility and other words on my favorite website. I'm not gonna take anyone to task for being a big meanie or a Social Justice Warrior or a Social Injustice Warrior or a Stupid Fat Woman Who Hates Men or a Big Old Baby Who Can't Find A Place To Put His Wiener Consensually.

I'm just gonna post some pictures of cows. Have you heard about cows? 



That's a cow. Lovely, isn't she?

Yes. Yes, she is. She is lovely.

Right now, as I write this, there's a big unsexy fight happening on a front page article about some shitty Sims game nobody gives even one flying fuck about. But people are SO ANGRY.

Me too. I'm angry, just like some of y'all. But ya know what?

COWS MOTHERFUCKERRRRRRRR


That's a woman ON A COW!!

Call me a SJW if you want, but I like women on cow action. More games need women on cow action. Come to think of it, so do books and movies and rap.

More women on cows, please.


HOLY FUCK LOOK AT THAT!!!

I did a quick google search for "women and cows." Super NSFW if you ask me. I got a question for you Stupid Fucking Dickheads:

Everyone loves women. Even The Gays. The Gays love women, too. Maybe you are A Gay. Maybe you don't like The Gays. Don't matter. Everybody likes women. Lesbians do. Straight guys do. Gay dudes love chicks. Women always talk about how much better they are than men.

Did you know cows are considered holy in all the places where they don't speak English? That's a fact, bitch. Look it up in the book.

Or better yet, don't bother. Just check out this pic of a cow:


HOLY COWSHIT! That's cool as hell. I wish I could be as awesome as a cow. But I can't. I'm just a stupid zombie. Fuck.

FUCK!

More cow:


Should I have put a NVGR tag in the title? Who cares. Cows are more important than title tags. 


That image saved itself as "cowweek3" in my folder titled "Cows." Yes. I have a folder titled "Cows."


Scantily clad woman and cow.

Ya know the coolest part about cows? Nobody gets mad that somebody said something about The Gays. Everybody is just so damn happy that cows have invaded.


That showed up in the "women and cows" search for some reason. Not sure why...


Have you seen that one? It's pretty good. I like cows.


What in god's name is that? 


Ok, so now it's just women and no cows... I guess that's cool too. Oh my god LOOK AT THOSE LEGS!!!


What's she lookin at? Is there a cow down there? I wanna see the cow!


Probably being chased by an angry cow.


Oh sweet jesus! I'm sorry, what were we talking about? 




One for the people who like dem boys

No man can live up to that standard.


And no woman can live up to that.


But cows. Cows are a gift from the universe. Uniters. Not dividers.

Now go fap.   read


11:15 PM on 04.03.2014  

Free things can be yours

My transcriptionist has completed work on Episode 1 of Kilonova Complex (available on Kobo and Amazon).  It's serial fiction in the sci fi (meaning Science Fience) genre. There's a description in the comments section below.

Episode 2 will be ready to conquer the world on April 16, 2014. That's 16 April, 2014 if you live outside the United States.

Haha. Joke.

Where was I? Yes, indeeds. Brandon (the transcriptionist) knows that you want it inside of you. 

But it is extremely expensive at .99 USD. And he understands that you need that extra dollar to get approximately .3 grams of psychoactive drugs. Yes, yes. We understand. So here's the deal.

You can receive Ep. 1 of Kilonova Complex for free. Here's how:

Comment below expressing your interest in writing an honest review on the book's Amazon or Kobo page. The author will email you a PDF, you will read it and shit happiness out of your bowels, you will review the book (preferably while high on your hallucinogens), and then we conquer the world.

Do this thing.

Your leader,
Zombie Orwell   read


6:52 PM on 04.01.2014  

Zombie Orwell's Backlog: Eminem. Plus, the return of dick wolf.

Destructoid, you've been very naughty. How dare you. You offend me.

JUST KIDDING!!! Haha. I like irreverent jokes designed for laughter. It is funny.

Here is more funny: Eminem. The humanist rapper has released a new group of 1s and 0s that, when converted to an mp3 format, contain musics. That. Is. HILARIOUS!!!!!!!!

Think about it for a minute. If he were smart, he would travel the nation knocking on doors and singing his lovely songs without the help of a computer. Instead, the unOrwellian idiot has released CDs, vinyl records, MP3s, and gramophones containing music. So, when you buy it you don't even get to talk to him and strap him to a chair in order to feed.

Fuck you, Eminem. I'm so god damned hungry.

Here's my review of the Slim Shady LP.

Putting aside the fact that I am unable to consume the flesh of the world's most famous white rapper, this album is almost like having the human in one's vicinity. You can hear his voice as he talks about Kurt Cobain, shish kabob, Lauren Hill, sore throats, wardrobes, orange robes, autographs, being absent-minded, doctors, herpes, Christmas, suicide, middle fingers, sell-out crowds, record release parties, gourds, hammers, Fords, sandwiches, picnic baskets, Excedrin, medicine cabinets, lettuce, cabbage, mummies, bitches, Detroit, the Beastie Boys, Kid Rock, the Loch Ness Monster, weed houses, lipstick, dipsticks, prank calls, rich rappers, and your mom. It is truly impressive.



But then there's the part where you can't eat him. This is a serious oversight on behalf of one of the most well-known musicians in history. You'd think someone on his production team would have pointed out this glaring omission. But no.

Admittedly, this record was made when he was much younger and less knowledgeable, so perhaps we owe him a little leniency. If this situation is rectified by future releases, I will let you know.

There's also a song where a girl eats too many mushrooms and dies. Though, in the narrative, the girl drinks Lysol. Many have tried to blame the mushrooms for her death, but the cause was clearly Lysol.

I give this record a good score out of 10 because Eminem paid me for a good review.

THAT IS THE END OF THE REVIEW YOU FILTHY PERVERT.

Now it is time for the return of Dick Wolf.



Remember The Devastation and Destruction of Destructoid? There's now a sexy pdf: http://zombieorwell.files.wordpress.com/2014/04/devdesdtoid.pdf

More sexy news: my transcriptionist, Brandon Springer, has produced the first episode of his magisterial Kilonova Complex. It's sci fi. It's short. It's a buck. It's here: http://www.amazon.com/Kilonova-Complex-Episode-Brandon-Springer-ebook/dp/B00J6N7RDU/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1396399817&sr=1-1

Tell your friends, tell your neighbors, tell Randy Gonzalez. I'm coming.
Your leader,
Zombie Orwell   read


10:27 AM on 02.17.2014  

The Devastation and Destruction of Destructoid: Coda

Coda

Let us rest not firmly

upon the mortal coil, for

such be the shattering remains

of decadence.

Instead, let us part

in somber reflection.

We raised the stakes and

razed the cities.


My love, I

am left with naught but weary eyes

and wild grief. My

heart, it hath not the tender flesh

nor the ruby wine, yet beat for you it ever does.

My fury, that with which

I burned and seared and boiled

bones and steel and glass and gold,

shall hold eternity. My time – is done.


Will you pray heavy upon my soul?

We made the intent

and perished,

but how lovely the terror we sowed.

Flying swiftly for small hours,

we knew the untoward finality:

necrosis

and metal

can

never be.


This is goodbye.
  read


1:42 PM on 02.16.2014  

The Devastation and Destruction of Destructoid: Chapter 17

Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Jim's glinty, glinty eyes surveyed the Valley of Godless Ruination. Four hours prior, the love of his life had met a bloody end. In happier times, Jim might have made a meta-joke about someone's bloody end, but these were not happy times. Jonathan, he thought. You sexy idiot. You sexy criminal.

Jim had no more tears left. Only rage, and an ache in his heart. He knelt and put his palm to the cool dirt. You belong to the earth now, my love. He saw a rock the size of an Xbox controller. What the fuck did we call it? The Duke?  He no longer had a taste for videogames. That part of him had perished the second Samit had placed his sword on Niero's neck.

“This is your devastation and your final hour.” the assassin had declared. “Only once you have been eradicated will our mission end.” Samit the Silent, he was called. Good Samit the Silent, tactical is he. Jim remembered the song they sang when their former brother had disappeared. They thought Samit had been kidnapped by the Polygonals. They were wrong, and their carelessness had cost Niero his head.

Tactical is he. Damn it! It says “tactical” in the bloody song. We should have known. He frowned the frown of a thousand collapsing stars. Then he remembered The Duke and frowned harder. Then…then he remembered the naming of Microsoft’s third game console and his frown became death itself. He picked up the rock and clenched it in his gloved hand, forcing it to absorb all of his pain; all of his rage. His grip tightened.

Damn you, Samit. Damn you, Niero. The stone began to glow. Damn you, Microsoft. Damn you for making us scramble to find ways to differentiate between the first Xbox and the Xbox One. The stone was red hot and steam was rising from it. His glove was melting. The pleather made popping and hissing sounds. He squeezed harder. And you, Jonathan. You sexy criminal. You left me here to finish this alone. You know I’m not strong enough without you. You KNOW!!

The rock exploded in his hand. Whether from the absorbed rage or the force of his grip, he couldn’t tell. His gaze returned to the Valley of Godless Ruination. He knew not what he would find there, but he knew blood would spill upon the dusty ground.

Mine?

To his left was an ancient corpse, behind him the wrecked Destructzord. The corpse was now merely a pile of bones. The feathered end of an arrow protruded from the dead man’s rib cage. A sword and a whetstone lay beside the fallen warrior. He was killed while sharpening that pitiful sword. Jim withdrew his own steel, thinking of the joke he might have made, long ago, about sliding a shining sword from its scabbard. His own sword was massive, and forged into the shape of a life-sized nude Matt Borealis. It glinted like Jim’s eyes.

He paused to enjoy the shape of the sword. Matt’s curves are as lovely as they are deadly. And Samit will know it, before long. He picked up the whetstone and continued sharpening Matt Borealis’ curves. He looked yet again at the village in the Valley of Godless Ruination and shrieked in fury.

His phone buzzed. Last Scion had sent him a six-second video. “This one admitted to killing the king,” he said, looking into the camera. Then he pointed the it at a dead body laying on the ground. Jim's phone buzzed again. Another video.

“A news report is saying the Destructzord has been razing cities worldwide. What have you done, Jim?” The video showed a TV with film of the zord burning a building to the ground. He put the phone in his pocket.

Vague, Orwellian images fizzed before his eyes. He saw fire and lasers. He saw buildings melting. He heard himself screaming and felt the Dzord lurch to one side.

Just then a moan came from behind him, causing the dusty ground and burning wreckage to pop back into existence. He turned around and saw a wretched figure shambling toward him.

“Coooooookkiiieeee,” it said. “Ooovvveeeeeeeeeeennn.”

Jim's stomach dropped and the air grew cold. No. The figure lurched forward, nearly falling. Jim's phone buzzed again. He looked at the screen.

“I have found the assassin,” Last Scion said. “It is probably a trap. Don't come. Will send message if I kill him. If not, I am dead and you are the last Dtoider.” The message looped. Jim dropped the phone and watched the dust swirl around it.

“Coookkiiiiiieeeeeeee...” The figure was nearly on Jim. This is the closest I've ever been to my crumbling cookie. It no longer looked like Jonathan. It moved as if half its bones had been broken. Its left cheek bone had been smashed in, leaving an enormous bruise over the flattened area. Take me, my love.

He felt teeth sink into his neck and he screamed with pleasure as Jonathan tore away a piece of flesh. He was ready to die , but as his soul-mate’s teeth clamped down again, Jim's hand grabbed the Borealis Blade. Before he could tell his hands to stop, they had knocked Jonathan to the ground and sent steel through the undeceased neck.

Jonathan's head rolled away from his body. Jim wailed and fell to his knees. It had all happened so quickly. His muse, his lover, his spirit animal had come back to life for him, but Jim's own body betrayed them both. He stared at the ground in disbelief. His world faded to black.




Last Scion had the crosshairs on Samit's head. The assassin was addressing a crowd of perhaps a hundred men, women, and children. They stood amid smoldering ruins. Their city appeared to have been recently leveled, and if the news reports could be believed, Jim was the cause.

The entire world will be on Samit's side now, he thought. Jim has left craters in a thousand cities. But none of that mattered anymore. He would kill the assassin and then Jim would allow Last Scion to escape the realm of the living and finally join the Pantheon of the Warriors.

He pulled the trigger and watched Samit's head snap back. It should not have been so easy. The body crumpled and fell. Last Scion's phone was recording video the incident, which he sent to Jim. The crowd ran screaming but a few people were gesturing in his direction. I must quit this place.



Jim's eyes snapped open. He stood up. In his hand he saw a gleaming object. Humans were nearby; he could smell them. A screaming hunger grew more intense with every second. His body carried him toward the flesh.



Last Scion dropped the Dragunov he had lifted off a body. The dusty, dusty, dusty, dusty, dusty, dusty, dusty, dusty, dusty ground threw up wisps of thin brown smoke. He pushed open the door and drew his dagger. He preferred the heft of a sword, but was deadly enough with steel of any length.

The air outside smelled of anger, sadness, and drought. He walked past another television showing news footage of the Destructzord razing several cities. The assassin must have a copy of the zord, he thought but that is our wreckage on the hill. It didn't matter. He would leave this broken city and implore Jim to take his life. If Jim refused, Last Scion would have to report his failure to the Council. They would decide what punishment to levy.

Jim had not responded in at least two minutes, even though the 3G signal here was strong. Something foul has befallen the large one. Angry voices drifted toward him from behind. He could barely see the ion smoke in the distance.

He ran up the gentle slope. The voices grew excited and the buildings drifted steadily past him. He heard a crack and felt the air snap by his head. He veered into an alley. Up on a hill, roughly a kilometer away, was the crash site. He was nearly on the outskirts of the smashed and smoking village.

Last Scion let the dagger fall. They will not catch me. Jim must take my life. His hands were shaking. The voices grew louder. Last Scion turned left between two buildings and felt his shoulder explode with pain. Then a gloved hand was around his throat. The pain was easy enough to ignore.

He saw a nude, shining man streaked with red. The fat one has lost himself. Jim dragged him to the nearest building and slammed him into the wall. The lion had already determined not to struggle. He looked at the rising sun and felt teeth on his neck. I die as a warrior. It was a better fate than he deserved, having failed in his duty, but he had already imprinted himself upon The Histories.

The sun burned his eyes, the teeth tore at his neck, and he shot his soul skyward to commune with the gods and elders.



Narrator X - 3rd person omniscient.

Blood rolled down Jim's face. The Last Scion's body had been completely devoured. (Contrary to popular belief, zombies do not hunger for brains. Their goal is always flesh.) A group of villagers found Jim not long after he had finished eating. They put him down easily, as the Borealis Blade was a perfectly crafted instrument of death and arousal. A man named Gamaliel found it and used it to slice Jim's head neatly off.

Local police arrived shortly thereafter and, having been bribed by DRECK representatives to the amount of  roughly $50 USD, declared the case closed. The crashed Destructzord, they said, was the same that destroyed a thousand other cities in mere hours. The corpses in the alley had killed each other, and Dtoid entered the history books as a villain to rival Francisco Franco.

Gaming was, of course, thoroughly destroyed. It quickly became a wasteland of free-to-play games, overpriced DLC, microtransactions, and horse armor. No more single player games were ever released, not even Skyrim VS Angry Birds.

Nobody in the village ever told any outsiders about the Blade, though they would go on to use it in a series of events that would stir the world and ignite long-dormant liberation struggles.

There were no happy endings for anyone related to the gaming industry. Except, of course, for Zombie Orwell. He had managed to infect both Jonathan Holmes and Jim Sterling, thereby leading to their deaths. The Last Scion's death was a happy accident for which he claimed full credit.

As a result of his masterful hacking of the Dzord cockpit, thousands of world cities burned to the pavement, or to the dust. Millions of lives were snuffed out. He managed to sow all this chaos and doom despite dying the very day Niero was kidnapped. If ever a more impressive feat of post-mortem devastation has been caused in the world of High Literature, this author has not yet encountered it.

Zombie Orwell is dead. Long live Zombie Orwell.   read


11:53 PM on 02.15.2014  

A heartfelt, out-of-character moment.

Hey Dtoid. Right now I don't have any Zombie Orwell in me. This is the guy behind the voice. What I'm gonna do goes against the unwritten rules of the character I've created, but I've reached an interesting and terrifying and exhilarating place in life; a place that demands I drop the character for a minute and... spit real talk.

Let's start with introductions. I'm Brandon. I live in Oaxaca, Mexico. Why Mexico? Because I've been desperate to visit the country since I started taking Spanish lessons 13 years ago. I came in November 2012 and I don't plan on going back to the homeland (USA). Why Oaxaca (Wa-Hawk-Ah), specifically? Cuz I met a lovely young lady from here and I think she might say yes if I ask the right question.

The food, the drink, the climate, the mangoes, the avocados, the mangoes, the history, the architecture, the mangoes... Life is good.

But I'm in trouble. I work for thieves. Since I'm basically an illegal immigrant, I have few options when they try to screw me over, and my employers know it. Even if I were a citizen, I'm in a country where the phrase “workers' rights” is not in the vocabulary.

My Situation

I teach English. My school gives me an envelope with cash every two weeks, and until recently, my salary has been just enough to pay the rent and buy food. (No complaints, though, because I use my extra time to build side projects and create yummy internet content.) But now they're robbing my hours. For the last two pay periods they've payed me exactly half of what they owe me, and they say “oh, sorry. We don't know your schedule. We'll pay the rest next time.”

But we all know "next time" ain't coming. Next time was supposed to be today.

And earlier today they decided it would be super cool to prorate my salary because I didn't attend a workshop that they failed to inform me about. “You didn't come, so we have to cut your pay.” I left more pissed off than I've been in a loooooooong time, almost panicking, wondering what I was gonna do. But then I started thinking.



My Plan And My Content

I've been here on Dtoid for a couple years, writing absurd things and having a great time. Some of the absurd things I write even get a warm reception, which never ceases to amaze me and fill my cold, black heart with fuzzy tinglies. Lately I've been working my ass off to produce a Mexico History Podcast (in between classes and visa runs to Guatemala so I can keep living in Mexico semi-legally).

I wrote a book (Devastation and Destruction of Destructoid) where Mr. Andy Dixon gets drowned by metal dildos, where Dale North gets killed in mysterious circumstances (as does Hamza's stripper girlfriend), and where Jonathan Holmes is a mob boss. Other things happen, too. And there's a dance number. The final chapter will be up Monday.

I've also recorded a few chapters of DDD, to be released as a disturbing audiobook.

I have a dark sci-fi book in the works. And did I tell you about the Mexico History Podcast? Your ears want it. If I told you how many hours I've poured into it since the beginning, you wouldn't believe me. But I do it because I love it. This is the kind of stuff I want to do full time (or as full time as monetarily possible).



My Plea

I can't keep working for the same school, and there's a high likelihood that things will devolve into the same situation in almost any school that employs me. Things have been... interesting for the last couple months. So I'm reaching out to Dtoid.

Here's the thing, I'm not asking for charity. I'm not asking for handouts. I'm asking for you to check out the stuff I've already created. Check out my Dtoid content. Check out my Mexico history podcast. Check out the Zombie Orwell wordpress. If you like what I've produced, if you think it's valuable, or if you want to see more content more often from Zombie Orwell and the guy behind him, send a little donation via Paypal. On the top you'll see my personal email address ([email protected]). Feel free to send me a message. I'm yours, baby!

If you don't have any money to spare, that's totally cool. Maybe you can just point a friend in the direction of one of my outlets (the Mexico podcast, the Dtoid backlog, etc). Or send me a question for the Mexico thing I keep talking about. I'll do listener feedback episodes. [email protected]

All My Stuff
http://mexicohistorypodcast.wordpress.com/
http://mexicohistorypodcast.libsyn.com/rss
http://www.destructoid.com/blogs/Zombie+Orwell/the-devastation-and-destruction-of-destructoid-prologue-262589.phtml
http://www.destructoid.com/blogs/Zombie+Orwell/
http://zombieorwell.wordpress.com/

This is where I usually end with "Your Leader, Zombie Orwell" but honestly, I want you to be my boss. I want to be accountable to real people, not shady thieves.

Also, cocks.   read


7:37 PM on 01.10.2014  

I need your Nottoid questions. Put them inside me.

Give me questions while I ingest "foodstuffs" in preparation for podcasting.

BTW, have you followed me on Twitter and checked my wordpress site? If not, I will kill you from the tree outside your bedroom window.

Do these things in remembrance of me.

From the mountains of southern Mexico:
Your leader,
Zombie Orwell   read


10:00 PM on 01.03.2014  

Give me NotToid questions or prepare for death.

NotToid records right NOW. Do questions.   read


4:44 PM on 12.31.2013  

The Devastation and Destruction of Destructoid: Chapter 16

Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Narrator X – Things recede and I shall die.


ON BOARD THE DESTRUCTZORD

His head turned slowly to the left. The cockpit was sliding forward. He looked at Jim, who was sliding with it. Now the doorway was moving past him. A stack of books floated in air as their shelf kept the same slow, forward motion as the cockpit.

An eternity passed while Last Scion hung motionless. Things recede. The meeting with the assassin had been out of Last Scion's control from the moment they had landed at Poly HQ, and now his friend Elsa was receding along with all the Destructoid members who had come with and met their ends in time with Samit's grand orchestra.

He thought of Occam's final brave seconds, leaping to action in order to protect Jonathan. Last Scion felt the rancor's metal fist smash into Occam.

He thought of Dale and felt something on his back. Its touch grew stronger. The wall. Last Scion had floated through the anteroom and was slowly pushing up against the wall. It was comforting at first, but the comfort soon turned to oppression, then to pain, then agony. The wall ground relentlessly into his back.

Now it was touching his head. He felt a sharp pain in his skull and his eyes grew heavy. He could not resist. His body was being crushed, but his brain was forcing him to sleep. His eyes closed and he fell into unconsciousness.

He awoke to flames and fumes. The smell of burning ion fuel scorched his airway down to the bottom of his lungs. What foul dream is this?  Nearby he heard a rhythmic scraping sound. He stood up, though his body screamed in protest. I do not surrender to pain. Pain surrenders to me. But it did not surrender when he walked forward. Instead, his leg gave out and he fell in a heap.

“NO!” he roared. The scraping stopped.

“Last Scion, is that you?”

The British one, he thought. “Yes, where are we?”

“Bloody blazing British ballsacks, I thought you had died.” Jim ran to him. “Are you okay?”

“I am a warrior,” Last Scion answered. “Tell me what happened. The last moment I remember was a peaceful dream in which I floated backward through the zord.” Though it ended as a nightmare.

“We crashed. I'm not sure what happened, but I think Zombie Orwell did something to the control panel. I think he hacked my brain.” Jim looked pale and weak, like he might die of exhaustion at any moment.

“What have you been doing all this time? You look as death itself.”

“The blade,” he said. “I've been sharpening the blade.”

“Damn it, Jim,” Last Scion snarled, “House Dixon has suffered enough shame. You should not pile on by 'sharpening your blade' for hours on end. Go and find Samit. Kill him.”

“No, look.” Jim held aloft a massive, finely crafted sword. It had been shaped into a life-size steel representation of Matt Borealis. He stood nude, hands behind his head, posing suggestively.

Last Scion averted his eyes. It is unbecoming for a warrior to gaze with lust upon such well-made erotica. But the artwork – the craftsmanship.

“My god, Jim,” he said. “Are those...”

“Yes. Droplets of water.”

“You are a true artisan.”

Jim frowned. “The beauty of my art is a result of the anguish in my soul. The only man I ever loved spurned me. He died in the gnashing teeth of a monster made of sex toys. My brain was violated by a long-dead pusher of pens. And now I come crashing to Earth with nothing left.”

He slid the Borealis Blade into its scabbard. “Art is anguish and the ground is dust.”

“Yes,” agreed Last Scion. “Artists were made to suffer. Nobody understands the world like a poet.”

“Or dancer.”

“Or artisan.”

“Or purveyor of fine literature.”

“Truly.” Together they gazed up at the stars. “Yet we are infinitely insignificant.”

“Life is pain.”

“Art is life.”

“Therefore art is pain.” Their two souls communed among the smoking wreckage of the Destructzord. Several hours passed while they discussed things too profound and true to ever set to paper. And their souls communed.

Their souls communed.


Narrator X – After the communion

“Let us find Dale and set about our separate paths,” said Last Scion.

“Forget about Dale. He's gone.”

“Do not tell me this thing, Jim.” He stood up, his body still screaming in pain, but allowing him to move. “I must find Dale.”

He tumbled through the wreckage, shouting Dale's name, but only the fires gave answer. He picked up piles of steaming metal and flung them out of the way, hoping not to find Dale burnt and crackling beneath. His hands were burning, but he ignored the pain. Why do the fires still burn as though fresh?

The next piece of metal he picked up claimed most of the skin on one finger. He snarled in pain. Lions are warriors. Pain surrenders to me. He lifted up another large hunk of steel, but it slipped from his grasp and fell on the ground, kicking up a plume of ion-soaked dust. He choked and stumbled. His bloody bones and charred skin felt evil when he grabbed his throat. NO! This is not where you die, lion.

His body lurched forward a few more steps, but he struggled to see through the tears. A large, dark object came into view on his immediate left. He leaned against it, grateful for a bit of reprieve. Breathe, lion. Accept the oxygen. He took a breath. And another. And another. He stood there breathing and shaking for several minutes.

A scene from his boyhood raced through his brain: the initiation ritual his uncle, Temujin, had designed for his newly-formed army. The pain of those blows and bites and stings came rushing back, but he shook off the memory. He was a boy then, and boys feel pain; but now he was the veteran of 10,000 battles. Pain did not exist.

He looked at his hands. They had nearly burned away, but, with great difficulty, he could still move them.

In the distance he saw a small cuboid building with one corner dug into the ground. He walked to it, realizing, as he neared, that it was part of the Destructzord. He looked at the upside down sign.

MEDICAL PLACE

It appeared mostly undamaged. He walked to within inches of the wall and felt no heat. The doors were a few feet to his left. I will need to pry them open, but with what hands?  

The doors slid open as he neared. Luck had a perverse sense of humor. His eyes scanned the room. Everything had fallen into the corner that was stuck in the ground. He climbed in and began digging for gauze, as well as something to form a barrier between his hands and the burning steel outside that likely covered Dale's corpse. If he dies, the plans are sunk. I have failed him by not insisting on extra precautions during the meeting with the assassin.

He found a roll of gauze in one of the many first aid kits. As he tossed it outside and watched dust swirl up around it he struggled to think of a material resistant to ion flames.

The only thing that can stop a Destructzord is, of course, another Destructzord. Niero's final speech replayed itself in Last Scion's ears. He nodded to himself and started digging furiously for ion bandages. If Dale was dead, he could at least find the body and give the creature a proper burial.

He reached just under the surface of medical flotsam and his fingers closed around a hand. He nearly let go and jumped back in fear, but instead merely flinched and dug faster. He knew it was Dale. He knew the careful plans laid by Niero were now done.

Before long he was pulling a body from the pile of hospital equipment. Nietzsche had the right of it, he thought as he threw Dale over his shoulder and carried him out of the infirmary.

After placing him gently on the ground, he stepped back. Dale's body seemed intact. No bruises, no cuts. Last Scion dared not hope the corpse yet lived. He bent down and put his head just above Dale's face. He looked at the chest. No air passed the mouth nose. The chest was motionless. He had no fingers left with which to check the veins and arteries for a pulse.

Ignoring his extensive CPR and First Aid training, he rolled Dale onto his stomach. Then he saw it.

The Last Scion Of The House Of Blue Lions stood up and exhaled. He marched back to the sound of whetstone upon steel, a wild fury in his eyes. The fat one will squeal.

Jim never heard him coming. Last Scion picked him up by the hair and sent him rocketing into the sky. He launched himself up as well and slammed into the man who killed Dale North.

“Before I bring you crashing into the dusty Earth,” he shouted, “before I feed the ion flames with your considerable corpse, just tell my why you did it.”

“What the fuck, mate? What are you talking about?”

They hung in the air for an eternity, the planet growing smaller every second. Their souls had communed among the flames a few minutes ago and now their bodies did the same among the stars.

“You have ruined Niero's plans. You have caused me to break an oath to him and to my father. I shall grant you a quick and glorious death if you tell me why you killed Dale!  If you do not, your death shall last for nine horrible days and you shall squeal until your vocal chords bleed and break.”

“I didn't kill Dale. I haven't seen him since... oh shit!”

They were flying back toward Earth at twice the speed with which they had left it.

“You are imprudent, Jim!” They re-entered the atmosphere and caught fire instantly. Jim was screaming in pain while Last Scion enjoyed the weightlessness. Just when the heat started to become uncomfortable, they smashed into the ground.

The sound of mountains crumbling filled Last Scion's ears. He could see nothing, but knew their bodies were cratering through the planet near the crashed Dzord. He will roast nicely on the fires. His heart shall nourish me as I hunt the assassin. If Jim was still screaming, he couldn't tell.

The ground continued to part violently before them. Several minutes passed before they slowed to a halt. Last Scion breathed in the dust and prepared for the return journey.

They exploded to the surface. Last Scion dropped Jim next to one of the many still-burning ion fires and went to find the Borealis Blade. His own steel shall break him.

He treaded the dusty, dusty, dusty, dusty, dusty ground, looking for the boulder Jim sat upon to sharpen his sword. He looked left. Nothing. He looked right. Nothing. Then he looked straight ahead and saw it. Of course! It's so obvious. He ran to it and saw the sword.

He picked up the Borealis Blade and held it in his hands, feeling naked rage crawl up his arm. He felt hatred for regressive elements within the gaming industry. He felt annoyance at Michael Pachter. But most of all he felt a sweet ache in his nether regions. Jonathan, he thought. You sexy idiot... my god. Jim has poured all of his polygons into this fine steel. Then a dagger was at his throat.

“Drop Matt.”

Last Scion let the sword fall. “It is a lovely weapon.”

“It's Matt Borealis,” said Jim. “Of course it's lovely.” He forced Last Scion to his knees and picked up his blade.

“Kill me,” whispered Last Scion. “I've waited so long for this moment. I had always thought myself immortal, but now I know.” He looked at the steel-rendered water droplets on Matt's silver skin. “The blade.”

Gunfire crackled in the distance.

“I'm not going to kill you, lion. I didn't kill Dale and I won't kill you. I have never killed, but I will make exceptions for anyone who comes between me and Samit.” Shots continued to ring out in the distance.

“Please end my shame. I have failed. Do your duty. Any of my former generals would have me quartered for such a failure, and I would gladly have acquiesced. Genghis would have clawed my eyes out himself and fed me, still breathing, to his horses. Moctezuma would have sent me to the priests to be sacrificed. Phalaris would have locked me in his Brazen Bull. But I have never failed my leaders. Not until today. Now I know why. My purpose is to feed the Borealis Blade its first soul. My life force shall charge the steel that saves the gaming industry.”

“You're talking a load of shite.”

“If I find the assassin, will you do this thing for me?”

“I'll think about it. But if you ever touch Matt you will find yourself back on your knees, begging again for death.” The shots came quicker with every moment.

Last Scion stood up. “I will investigate the battle. Perhaps I will find the one who murdered the king.”

“Go then. Matt still needs more time with the whetstone. Email me your progress.”

“My 3G signal here is truly impressive.” He put his phone away and strode in the direction of the battle, his hands impatient to feel the life drain from the body of Dale's murderer.   read







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