Archive | March, 2009

Liveblogging My Life: Friday, March 27th

27 Mar

As many of you know, I’m a man of complete mystery. I’m more mysterious than even the Batman, and as all of you know, the only way to be more mysterious than Batman, who appears and disappears with equal amounts of mysteriousness, is to be so mysterious that even you yourself have no idea where you are. That sounds stupid. I’m like an idiot Batman that makes bad jokes on his blog.

Anyway, I decided to give everyone a peek into what makes me tick, what makes me uniquely “Kyle.” Mostly it’s drugs, but also, it’s the events of my day to day life. Let’s get started, eh gang?

Friday, March 27th, 8:20 am

Ah crap. I didn’t die last night. *sigh* Oh well. (Hits snooze four times.)

9:00

I guess it’s time to start the day. Oh, Jesus, thank you for this beautiful sunshine! Please help me make use of this fantastic world you’ve blessed me with! (falls asleep)

9:17 am

I just put my pants on and now I’m going to go to the kitchen to make some breakfast and some coffee. First, I have to remove all the razor blades my room mate Derek put in my cereal the night before. It’s no big deal, he just doesn’t know how to show his love. I open my coffee container to see that my coffee has been replaced with dirt, and there is a small note resting on the surface that reads “lol, dirt.” Oh, Derek. I sneak into Derek’s room and kiss him on the head for being so sweet and emotionally retarded.

9:34 am

I’m waiting at the bus stop. The guy next to me is smoking. He looks unhappy, angry even. I assume his anger is deeply rooted in his helplessness against nicotine addiction. So to save him, I knock the cigarette out of his mouth and, smiling from ear to ear, yell “Now you are free! God saw fit to put you in my l–” Right here, he punches me square in the mouth. I assume that, because of nicotine withdrawals, he can hardly control his own muscles, throwing his fists wildly in an attempt to give me a thank you hug. He’s sweeter than Derek. Please don’t tell Derek.

10:18 am

I’m in American Lit class. I took American Lit because I love freedom. One time I had to take a British literature class, and I spent the entire semester chanting “USA, USA” under my breath and covering my ears with cheese burgers. I would continually replace the teacher’s copy of the British Norton Anthology with a DVD of Rambo. I tried to remain anonymous, but my anonymity was always spoiled when I went to the professor after class asked for my copy of Rambo back. That was the first time I was ever dropped from a class involuntarily. My teacher asks me a question about the post-modernism, but I’m like so tired. So instead of answering, I just put my finger in my mouth, make a pop sound, and go to sleep at my desk.

12:38 pm

I just woke up and my American literature class has been over for about an hour and a half. The room is completely empty except for me and that guy who I always thought looked at me in a way that men don’t usually look at each other. When I open my eyes, he jerks in his seat and tries to act like he didn’t notice the time. “Oops! got caught up in the discussion!” he says as he puts his shirt on. He forgot his candles and his cat. I went ahead and took the candles. I put the cat in the trash. I’m late to my class, so I put the pedal to the metal and walk slightly faster than usual to the Language building.

12:43 pm

I walk into my second American lit class of the day. The professor turns, mid-sentence and says “I’m glad you could make it. I hope you have a good reason for your tardiness.”  “Sorry I’m late,” I decided to win over my professor, my excuse would have to be an academic one, “I was boning Jane Austen.” I then walked around the room holding out my fist for people to pound. That was the second time I was involuntarily dropped from a class.

12:53 pm

Just got off phone with mom. Told her about getting dropped. She’s very disappointed.

12:56 pm

Just got off phone with dad. Told him about getting dropped. Thought my joke was hilarious.

1:00 pm

Just got off phone with grandmother. Told her about getting dropped. Made terrible mistake of retelling joke, had to explain what “boning” was. I am no longer invited to Christmas.

2:27 pm

Hey every body, I’m actually blogging MID-DRIVE! This is so cool. I can give you turn by turn directions of my trip. Right now I’m turning on to thoiaeu;aofijalkjl;;;;;awsedbhyuinjk;;;;;;;;;;;;;

5:08 pm

Get released from hospital. Had to get a ride home from Wesley. Car’s totaled. We have to go to the junk yard to look at it or something dumb.

5:30 pm

Hey, there are police here. They seem annoyed that I’m carrying around and constantly typing on a lap top. I ask them if they want me to mention them in my blog, tell them they can get “mucho famoso” for being in it. They tell me to shut the computer right now or they’ll beat it with their night sticks. Be back soon. Must protect computer.

6:00 pm

Oh my. What a good laugh we had at the impound lot. While inspecting the car, police saw that the brakes had been cut, and by the hose, there was a note that said “lol, brakes.” I love Derek.

6:28 pm

Trying to stay fit. I’m at the rec. I’m lifting weights. I’m lifting curses. I’m lifting my spirits.

8:00 pm

I just got home from my workout and play Nazi Zombies with my room mate Wes. We play for hours, killing hundreds upon hundreds of undead fascists. I gotta admit, I get pretty worked up. So to calm down, I go for a walk. The night is beautiful. Oh! I think I just heard a frog! There’s a cool, misty breeze and the sun is just beginning to set. Crap, what was that? I think I just heard a groaning s…what?… oh god. OH GOD! ZOMBIE! SHIT! GOD ALMIGHTY! ;fsklajoreip4888888

8:13 pm

I killed a homeless person. Damn it. Oh, man… what am I gonna do? I’m putting him in the fetal position, head resting on folded hands. He’s going to look like he’s asleep…and bleeding heavily. I gotta dump this computer, though. Goodbye.

8:14 pm

I can’t leave you computer. I’m going into the woods. Wireless signal weakening (Network: Foresty Area Next to Dead Guy). I love you all. See you soon.

I survived. After awhile my feet started hurting and I ended up going home and forgetting about the whole thing.

JFK Conspiracy? Pff…More Like FUNspiracy!

25 Mar

On November 22, 1963 at 12:30pm President John F. Kennedy was assassinated by an unknown assailant(s). On March 25, 2009 Kyle Irion thought “I bet I could write some great jokes about that.”

Ever since JFK’s assassination, there has been a thick midst of controversy thicker than [joke]. There’s pretty much a conspiracy theory for every day of the week (if your week is roughly 187 days long). So, in order to bestow some perspective on the matter, I’ve presented you all with a few of the most intriguing JFK conspiracy theories.

The Cuban Theory

In the year 1960, the U.S. government began planning to aid anti-Castro exiles in an invasion of Cuba in order to overthrow the communist regime of Fidel Castro. This invasion was carried out in 1961, only three months after JFK took office. However, shortly before the planned invasion was carried out, JFK decided it was just an “eh” idea and pulled all U.S. support. Somewhere in all the fun, four to five thousand Cubans were killed or injured. OOPS! Anti-Kennedy sentiment throughout the Cuban exile community was so bad that the Kennedys commissioned Richard Helms, the CIA Director of Special Ops, to up the efforts to assassinate Fidel Castro. This was called Operation Mongoose–not to be confused with the other highly-touted military campaign involving an animal name known as Operation Dumbo Drop. Ray Liotta had nothing to do with Operation Mongoose, and it wasn’t nearly as hilarious or family-friendly.

Some of the Cuban suspects in the assassination of Kennedy were involved with Operation Mongoose. In fact, many of the exiles involved in Operation Mongoose were trained as assassins. This made them prime suspects according to the The House Select Committee on Assassination, which must be really BUSTLING right now, what with all the three assassinations in the history of the U.S.

Mysterious Limousine Theory

Investigator David S. Lifton theorized foul play by saying the casket carrying the President body from Air Force One to Andrews Air Force Base was empty. This lends credence to the theory that Kennedy faked his death in order to see who would come to the funeral, and what people would say. Scholars refer to this as the “Tom and Huck Supposition.” This theory garnered a lot of credibility when, at the funeral of fallen president John F. Kennedy, John F. Kennedy himself fell through the roof of the cathedral. He looked around, shocked and covered in debris, then put on a fake mustache and calmly left the room.


Organized Crime Theory

The Mafia’s connection to the assassination of JFK is one of the most researched and poured over theories. The Mafia had funneled thousands into Kennedy’s campaign through secret channels, helping to get him elected in hopes of having pull in the White House. This was done also as a favor to Joseph Kennedy, a former mafia bootlegger. However, in an act of what seemed like betrayal to the mob, Robert Kennedy hauled off and slammed the Mafia with the big, honkin’, diesel-fueled, beer-battered hammer of American justice. Robert Kennedy convicted 12 times the Mafioso than the previous (Eisenhower) administration. The Kennedy Administration also had roughly 100 times more presidential assassinations. That was crass. I just crassassinated this entire article. There already exist close to 16 conspiracy theories about this crassassination.

It’s never a good thing to get the Mafia upset. Just ask my father, Mike Irion, he upset the Mafia once. That’s right you can’t, because the Mafia killed him. The Mafiosi felt betrayed–no–hurt by the actions of Robert Kennedy. The Mafia hated Robert so much, leader Carlos Marcello is documented as threatening the life of JFK to punish Robert.

In the years preceding Kennedy’s assassination, the Mafia had been working closely with the CIA , aiding in anti-Castro actions in Cuba. Oh yea, they were also working with the anti-Castro Cuban exiles. The same anti-Castro exiles that were left out to hang by John F. Kennedy in the Bay of Pigs invasion. What? You forgot about the Cubans? Don’t worry, so did JFK.

In 2006, Carlos Marcello confessed on his death bed that he had in fact organized the murder of the President. He also farted a whole bunch and told the nurses where Jesus was buried, but of course they don’t write that stuff down.


The Kyle Irion Theory:

Ah, who am I kidding? Forget you ever saw this section.


Brain of JFK Theory:

There are also theorists who believe the body of the President had perhaps been tampered with in order to make it appear as though the bullet had entered from the rear. Lab Tech Paul Kelly O’Connor stated that the President’s body arrived in a body bag, not the sheet it was wrapped in at Parkland Hospital. Most of us would think it would make sense to put a body in a body bag. Just like it makes perfect sense to put our hands in hand bags, and our duffels in duffel bags.  Plus, Parkland Hospital really needed the sheets. O’Connor stated that the brain had been removed by the time it reached the autopsy table, and that only “half of a handful” of brain matter was left. What we can draw from this is is both horrifying and earth-shattering. The President was wounded by the gun shots but he was killed by zombies. You get it? You get it?

Closing Comments:

Well, I hope that helped. It sure helped me. It made me a better American, writer, man, and assassin. Check with me again on Saturday for more CYBER-HILARITY.

Weather Outlook: 100% Chance of Brain Storming

21 Mar

Sorry about that title.

So it’s Saturday–I have a headache. This makes me want to call today Sadderday.

Anyway, St. Patrick’s Day took a great emotional and physical toll on me. For the next several days I couldn’t write, eat, or breathe*. It hurt. I also ignored my hygiene; so instead of smelling like my usual (sawdust and cinnamon) I smelled like old corn and bowling alleys. What a nightmare. My mom told me to leave the house, to live in the “pool house” until my smell was gone. Thinking this would be a great idea, I went outside, hearing the door abruptly slammed behind me and the muffled sound of my mother’s laughter. We don’t have a pool house. I slept with the dogs that night.

I needed something new in my life. I needed to create.

That means it’s time to hurriedly scribble some more hilarity on the bathroom wall that is the internet. Much to my own chagrin, I couldn’t think of anything to write about. This simultaneously broke my heart, spirit, heart spirit, my soul, and my prostate. We all know what to do when we can’t figure out what to write about: BRAIN STORM**!

This ain’t your mama’s brain storming (laying in bed at night, thinking of ways to make your death look “accidental”). No, this is a process I go through which requires my entire being (including my butt), so that I can write real good for da peepol (Sometimes brainstorming negatively affects the language portions of my brain. Ironic, I know). Here’s my usual brain storming technique, complete and unabridged:

1. While making out my list of how to begin my brainstorming, I usually spend hours typing the “!” symbol, trying to find capital “1,” because regular “1” just isn’t big enough.

2. Next, I think of all the things I like. However, this can sometimes backfire, because on some days I can only think about how much I love brain storming. This sends me into a mental spiral a lesser man would never come out of…some people call this spiraling a “coma.” I call it a “cakewalk.”

3. The third step in my cerebral tempest is a process I like to call “Stealing from other writers.” I’m just kidding. What would I steal? Come on. You’re embarrassing yourself.

4. After the first three steps yield nothing of value, I toy with the idea of copy-and-pasting an old blog and giving it a new, snappier title.

5. 35 minutes of weeping.

6. I call this step the “sixy” step–because it’s so SIXY! (sixy sounds like sexy. omg)

7. Wait, what was the sixth step?

8. For the eighth step, I write down all my favorite words (“boobs,” “sandwich,” “turban”) and put the paper in my pocket. Then I go to the park. At the park, I find a large tree and take six (sex lol) branches of varying length. I then find a child with shoes on. The park is positively infested with these. I offer to buy said child’s shoelaces. When the child refuses (“But sir, I need those to keep muh shoes on”), I try to appeal to it with logic–or my fists.

9. Run from parents/local police

10. After I go to Wal-Mart and pay WAY TOO MUCH for shoe laces, I turn the list of words and the sticks into a primitive kite. (Did you know kites used to be used as weapons? GOOD GOD) The kite is ugly and doesn’t fly at all, so I just buy a Scooby-Doo kite and draw a wiener on it.

11. Whiskey

12. Whiskey

13. Fall asleep on desk.

14. Wake up hours later and just type whatever comes to mind. Perfect!

So there you go, my brainstorming process. That’s how I do business, that’s how I bring the magic of Kyle onto your computer screen, into your eyes, and then back into your brain, where I haunt you forever.

*poop

**masturbate

Hey, Hey, It’s St. Patrick’s Day…It’s Also Tuesday.

17 Mar

Hello, my name is Kyle McIrion. I love love love St. Patrick’s day. Every year I wake up at the crack of 11 o’clock and look out upon the fresh, brown grass that is my lawn [Editor’s note: You don’t have a lawn.] and breath in the crisp March air. Today was different however. I had a doctor’s appointment (because I’m what they refer to in the medical community as “dying.”). I had to get up extra early, before St. Patrick had put a lovely trail of beers leading up to my giant St. Patrick’s Day basket/keg. Things felt odd. I went to the Doctor’s office, and after the usual comic banter with my physician, I offered up a bit of the ol’ Irish advice.

“I don’t think a small allergic reaction merits a suppository…or a back rub.” I say.

My doctor was offended by this. After a brief pause, I asked him if he knew the origins of St. Patrick’s day. He said he had other patients to see and really didn’t have time to talk, so I started to tell him the “history” of St. Patrick’s day. I put “history” in quotation marks because I’ve always believed that history is a lot like jazz: much better when improvised.

St. Patrick was not born St. Patrick, much to contrary belief. To become a Saint in the Catholic church, one must first be canonized, which means shot out of a cannon over Vatican City. No, St. Patrick was born Maewyn Succat.

Maewyn (St. Patrick) was born Roman-British. At the age of sixteen, while enjoying a lovely afternoon in his native Wales, he was captured and subsequently enslaved by Irish rebels. He was enslaved for six years, spending much of that time slaughtering Irish vermin (Leprechauns…also rats). Maewyn (remember, St. Patrick’s real name) almost finished the job, pushing the vermin (Leprechauns/rats) to the brink of extinction, before they were rescued by a local chocolate maker and put to work in his factory. St. Patrick eventually escaped his enslavement and returned to his family in Wales.

After joining the Catholic church, St. Patrick returned to Ireland, mainly in the north and west, as a missionary (I’m almost at my comma limit there). Although it can be confirmed that St. Patrick did missionary work around 300 A.D., his writing contains no dates. There are also tons of contradictory, anachronistic accounts of his work. This either means that it’s difficult to chronologically pin down a man who lived almost 2,000 years ago, or that St. Patrick was a time traveler. Did I also mention that historians can’t say with 100% certainty where St. Patrick is buried? Yea. They can’t. One historian, T.F. O’Rahilly, put forth the theory that there were two Patricks. Kind of like how there were two McFly’s in Back to the Future 3…and 2…and 1.

Legend has it (this is not a joke) that St. Patrick, upon his arrival in Ireland, rid the island of its entire population of snakes. This is believed to be symbolic of his conversion of the Pagan and Druid sects living in Ireland at the time. Although his first attempt to convert the Druids was unsuccessful, being told by a Druid priest that “These aren’t the Druids you’re looking for.” St. Patrick promptly repeated “These aren’t the Druids I’m looking for” and walked away, dumbfounded. Eventually though, he fell out of this stupor and converted the crap out of everybody.

St. Patrick often used  the shamrock to illustrate the Holy Trinity. Many scholars (Wikipedia) believe this to be the for the prevalence of the color green…and shamrocks… in St. Patrick’s Day celebration. It could also be due to the fact that St. Patrick bled green because of a terrible incident involving Gamma Radiation. He was also a zombie.

“Well,” my doctor said. “That’s quite a tale. I can understand why you love St. Patrick’s day so much. I feel I should warn you however, your St. Patrick’s Day tradition…it isn’t healthy.” He’s referencing my tradition of not using the restroom for two or three days before St. Patrick’s Day, so that on the 17th I can pee “Patty Green” all day. I was also at the doctor for a bladder infection.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

The Job Interview

15 Mar

My eyes burn. They burn with passion for the words that I’m typing right now.

What an arrogant astute thing to say.

When I first became acquainted with the definition of the word “blog,” I began to imagine all the most terrible stereotypes about people who blog: plastic-rimmed glasses, sloppy hair, sweaters, Wilco; also, a firm hatred for all Sylvester Stallone movies and a great passion for the phrase “best___ever!”

But really, this blogging thing isn’t so bad. I figured it would afford me an excellent opportunity to practice informal writing for when I do this….for money. In all likelihood, I’ll look back on this moment five years from now and think of what a great decision it was to start up a blog. It will have afforded me great practice, a good creative outlet, and something to point at in job interviews and say….

“See? This is why you’re not paying me enough.”

“Mr. Irion, we aren’t paying you anything. This is an interview.”

“Yea, an interview in stupidity.” Here is where I lean back smugly and put my feet up on the desk, kicking some stuff over that I didn’t really mean to. I’m visibly embarrassed.

“Ok, that’s enough.” says the interviewer. He’s getting angry. I decide to lighten up the moment with a joke.

“Oh, come on now…” I pause, allowing him to prepare himself for the tidal wave of hilarity coming his way. He does so by blowing his nose. Gross. “I’m just having a good time.” I say. “I mean, why so serious?” Here I smile and make a scary growly face–that means I’m Heath Ledger.

“I…ok, thank you for your time. Please leave.”

I later get the job, and work there for several months before someone comes to my desk and notifies that I’m trespassing, and that the break room is not my office, and the break room table is not my desk. In an attempt to save my job, I make another joke.

“This company deserves a better class of employee, and I’m gonna give it to ’em.” I make my growly Heath Ledger face.

The employee looks at me in awe. The joke was too funny. It’s shut down his prefontal cortex.

“Ok, sir, I’m calling security.”

I try to fire this person.

“You can’t fire me, you’re not my boss. You’re not an employee here! You’re a vagrant!”

“A fragrant vagrant.” I say, winking and smiling smugly. I smell like a veterinarian’s office. I’ve been sleeping in the restroom on the diaper-change table.

I’m escorted from the premises.

I later blog about my experience at work.

Thirty-Eight Degrees and Rainy, Sounds Like Spring Break to Me!

13 Mar

I capitalized a lot there.

HOLY CRAP IT’S MARCH…wait, what day is this?

***checks calendar, realizes “calendar” is a blank dry erase board.

IT’S ___DAY!

I love this day. I love the promise of spring break. I love it when the University President promises to let me have spring break. This morning started like most other mornings, with me and my friend Wesley in Derek’s bedroom egging on one of his night terrors. After Derek hit his head on his desk, he woke up, and ruined everything. Now it’s time to get ready for school.

I make coffee every morning. At this point, I’ve ingested so much that it hardly has the once prominent “kick” I came to depend on. Still the same old stink breath, though. **covers mouth politely, half smiles, but you can’t see because my mouth is covered** I just drink it because it’s a part of my routine, like it’s a part of a carpenter’s routine to check for hanging nails, a writer’s routine to check for grammar and spelling errors, or the hilarious auto mechanic’s routine to put a banana in your exhaust before you leave his shop. Oh, Ralph. I do miss my dad, though.

So after doing my morning “thang,” I decide it’s time to get started living. I put on my jacket, pick up my back pack, water (pee on) Lanny’s plants and step out the door, into the bright Denton sun…but wait, there is no Golden Sun™ to greet me… It looks like the sun has died! I drop do my knees and begin to weep openly. It’s gross. When I cry I look like a pasty, curly-headed raisin. I’m really hoping that God/Obama is just trying to combine as many bad weather days (combining a rainy day, a cold day, and a windy day) as he can so we can have more sunny days later.

Is it gay to offer part of your umbrella to another man who doesn’t have an umbrella?

Is it rude to try to sell the unused space under your umbrella?

I’m tired of this. My hands are cold.

Textual Harrassment

13 Mar

Here is where I take all the cool stuff I put on my facebook notes and put it here.
But Kyle, can’t we just look at it on your facebook? Good question.
Fuck no.

Continue reading

%d bloggers like this: